Living for Disco

When my friend Heidi rings to ask me if I want to go to the braai I am fast asleep. It is 2.15pm, and although I didn’t drink that much last night, a combination of a late night and a very early morning has taken its toll. Nevertheless, I am actually quite excited; I like to feel that I am part of things, and if they break the record, I know I will feel proud. I really hope that they will manage it.

By the time we get to the stadium, I feel as if all the blood has drained from my head. There are hundreds of people milling about around the stadium: barefooted children, girls in heels in midriff tops, boys in baggy pants and gangster shirts, as well as dignified Herero ladies, and the odd tourist. The queues stretch off in many different directions, disorderly octopus tentacles sweltering listlessly in the afternoon heat. I forgot my hat, and I am starting to feel it, even before we get through the turnstiles.

The two men in front of me are turned away – their nails have been stained with purple marker to ensure no double counting. We pay our dollar, and go through the entrance, for which I am grateful. All I want is to sit down, and put my head between my knees. Alas, it is not to be. We are shunted through, the four of us, into a heaving mass of people who shuffle forward expectantly in a seemingly never ending line. I don’t like being crowded at the best of times, and especially not when I am feeling ropey, so I try to make some space around me by remarking loudly to Heidi that I am trying not to be sick. No-one appears either concerned or amused.

After an interminable amount of time, during which I am proud to say I manage not to vomit over the pregnant woman next to me, we reach the sausages. All my hard work is almost immediately undone. Despite the fact that my piece of sausage has been cut directly from the 8.3km length of boerwors specially made for the event, I cannot eat it. In fact, I can’t imagine eating anything, ever again.

I clear a space in the carpet of abandoned coke cups and attendance certificates – ‘have a braai-lliant day!’ - and lie on the grass watching people go by. Two girls stand aloof a small distance from me, attracting boys like wasps to candyfloss. I can’t help but admire their looks of utter disdain, as, one after another, the boys strut and crow around them. These girls have class.

Eventually, the cast of Egoli, a super-popular South African soapie arrive on stage. Everyone goes crazy. “Hello Namibia!” shrieks the first woman to get her hands on the mic. “Are you all tanning? I hope you’re wearing sunscreen!” I look at my friends in disbelief. As far as I can tell, we are the only white people here, apart from two girls I saw earlier in the queue in front of us. I can’t imagine the majority of attendees will be at all bothered about getting a tan, or that prohibitively expensive sunscreen is high on the list of things many people here spend their money on, but I am willing to accept that I could be wrong.

When it is time to leave, we meander towards the exit, with about a thousand other people who have all decided that enough is enough at the same time. The pushing and crushing is annoying, but seeing as they guys on the exit have to mark every single thumbnail with a purple pen, I can understand the delay.

However, the attendant on my side of the queue seems to have put the cap on his pen, and is leaning over the barrier, chatting to his friend. All of the thumbs around me remain unmarked. I wonder whether this will matter when it comes to verification of attendance. I also wonder whether to mention it here, as clearly so many people read this that eventually the scandal will reach the hallowed halls of Guinness, and I may find myself unwittingly putting a spanner in the works. I am not sure whether I will be able to live with this.

Having read the news this morning, however, I know it doesn’t matter. Namibia missed achieving the world record by only 152 people, when they had to close the gates at around sunset for safety reasons.

Even with any double counting that might have occurred, it was still an amazing effort, and I am disappointed that we didn’t make it. Tch.

Still, as they’re already talking about a second attempt, there’s always next time…