Living for Disco

I have a recurring conversation with David, the security guard next door. It happens when I ride my bike to work, or when I step outside to hail a cab.

“So! Why you not buying a car?”

“I would love to buy a car! I can’t afford one though.”

David, at this point, laughs at me, and pushes me away, as if I am jesting with him.

“Your friends, they have cars. So you can also buy one.”

I tell him that my friends had to save up a considerable amount of money to afford cars in Namibia, because they are so outrageously expensive.

“Yes, yes”, he says, shaking his head, obviously unable to understand how I, a white, employed, foreign young woman could possibly be in a position where I can’t afford to shell out N$50,000 (about 5,000 quid) for a banged up old piece of junk.

Then, yesterday, he approached me, his head squeezing through the fence, his voice carrying spookily through the bougainvillea.

“Ah Rachael! You are fine? It is cold, neh?”

I agree. It’s fucking freezing here at the moment. I’m sleeping under 2 duvets. I have new sheepskin slippers. I wear my fleece in the house. It is indeed cold.

“You go to see [some name I can’t make out]?”

“?”

“You know, Paloma. From When you are Mine. You watch When you are Mine?”

As previously mentioned, this dreadful Mexican soap opera is a national obsession. Everyone has to be home at 8.30 to watch the badly dubbed tribulations of Diego, the man with the squirrel on his head, and his evil family, as he tries desperately to win the love of Paloma, the beleagred manageress of a massive coffee cartel.

Very recently, it was advertised that Paloma and one of her co-stars will visit Namibia and you can buy tickets to see them. To see them do what is a mystery to me, but it’s caused mayhem. Forget Brad and Angelina – no self-respecting Namibian gives a toss about a pair of spoilt Hollywood brats. But when Paloma flies into town, boy, it’s a different story.

Not having a TV, I have missed most of this.

“Oh, I don’t have a TV”, I say.

“What? You don’t have a TV? Why?” It’s as if I’ve told him that I bash myself over the head with a brick on a nightly basis.

“I can’t afford one.” It’s true. The cheapest TV I’ve come across is about 180 quid, and on top of that if I wanted to watch anything half way decent, other than the NBC news in Oshiwambo, and When You are Mine, I’d have to invest in DSTV, which costs N$500 a month. Too much for me.

“But, no! No!” He laughs. “But it must be very boring for you. Why do you not just buy one?”

“I can’t afford it. It is too expensive.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. With any luck, though, I may have shut him up about the car.