Living for Disco

I tend not to write about work or emotional stuff too much on here, because it’s easy enough to find out who I am. Blogging about work is a risky business as many bloggers know, and these days I don’t find it easy to share my innermost angst with the internet.  Anyway, saying that, this post is about both work, and my emotional health, shaky as it has been at times.  Just FYI.

It’s been a tough year for me (oh woe, drama etc. Wish list on the right, thanks.).  There have been days, often many consecutive ones, when I’ve lain in the bath for hours, unable to move, or to stop crying, completely incapable of either understanding or getting rid of the cloud of despair that hovered around my head all day, every day for about three months.

There have been a few reasons for this: my break up and subsequent attempt to be friends with my ex-bloke has been particularly tough, and although I hate to admit it, almost six months on I still ache about it from time to time, even though I wouldn’t have him back now if the deal involved a lifetime’s supply of jaffa cakes and a beach house in the Caribbean.

Work is another reason.  I’ve felt consistently that I’m not achieving what I set out to do here, that I’ve set myself too big a task, and that I am being sucked into the quicksand of permanent unemployability because in the face of the biggest challenge I have ever faced, I have been sinking.   To say it’s been a blow to my self-confidence is an understatement.

For a while, I was desperately homesick, and lonely, and confused about the future, despite my wonderful friends, and an experience that most people would kill for.

And to top it off, I have had to work in close proximity with one of the laziest, most irritating and deeply unpleasant individuals you could ever have the misfortune to meet.  Imagine coming into work every morning to be greeted by such gems as “Don’t you think it would be fun to pick a fight with a paraplegic?”, or “You look like a cross between a 12 year old and a 40 year old woman in those stupid clothes”.  That’s not to mention the unwanted physical attention, the hair stroking, the head-kissing; the other things about him that made me feel physically sick.

This blog has saved me in so many ways.  Without it, I wouldn’t have had the incentive to get up every morning, and to try and find something to laugh about.  I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of writing to fall back on.  I can’t express how much I enjoy it, even though often I’m stuck for words, and feel about as interesting as a plate of semolina. I know that it’s probably silly to invest so much in a something so small, but I honestly feel that without it, I would have been so lost.

It got to the point, about six weeks ago, when I was ready to throw in the towel and go home, tail between my legs.  An argument with my dickhead colleague about an email I’d sent my boss concerning his behaviour resulted in death threats and talk of revenge, and two days of blessed silence.  When it all began again I went to VSO for the first time since I got here.

I spent so many months thinking that I should be able to do this on my own, that by the time it was almost too late, I did what I should have done in the beginning.  I sat in their office, and I tried to talk about my problems in a rational, and controlled manner, as befitting the professional person that I strive to be.  But in the end I just sat and cried.

Now, after only the second sexual harassment case to be brought in Namibia, I am free of my nemesis.  The experience was deeply unpleasant, particularly the hearing, where I had to sit next to him and elaborate on the many demeaning and sickening comments he has consistently subjected me to over the last five months; where I had to endure the questions he asked me that were designed to humiliate and discredit me.  Fortunately I had nothing to hide, and I’m glad that I went through with it.  I hope it encourages others to do the same.

As far as work is concerned, I’ve managed to complete the task that scared me the most.  I might still have fucked it up, but at least it’s done.  From here on in, it can only get better.

And as for my personal life, the fact remains that there seem to be no eligible men whatsoever in Namibia.  The prospect of a year of celibacy doesn’t exactly fill me with joy, but I expect there are positive things I can take from it, not least that by the time I do eventually have sex again, I’ll be so completely delighted that it’s bound to be mind-blowing.

So, things are looking up.  I’m not going home, even though many of my friends are, and some have already left.  I will miss them, but not as much as I would miss Namibia if I left now, before I am ready.

‘There’ll be ups and downs’, VSO said, when we were preparing for a departure, eager and excited, and all convinced that our time abroad was going to be a bed of delightful smelling roses.  ‘It’s going to be tough sometimes’, they said, ‘but it will be worth it in the end.’

I had no idea how right they would be.

The phone rings.  I pick it up.
“Good afternoon, [my organisation]”
“Hello Meme*, I hope you can help me.  Someone just gave me a miss call from this number.”

My heart sinks.   I hate calls like this.  They are invariably fraught with confusion and frustration. My accent seems to be difficult for people to understand, particularly on the phone.  As a result, I have cracked, and now pronounce certain words differently - thirty, for example, is now “theti”.   It makes a big difference.
“Oh, I’m sorry, this is an office.  I don’t know who might have called you.  Who is speaking?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who are you?”

The caller says something that sounds like he is trying discreetly to spit a chunky wad of phlegm into a hankie.
“I’m sorry?”

“What?”

“Who is this?”

“Nadi.”

“Hello Nadi.”

“Hello Meme.  Who am I speaking to?”

“My name is Rachael.”

“Richard**.  OK.  How can I help you Meme?”

“Um, I didn’t call you.  I don’t know who called you.  When was the call made?”

“It was a miss call, from this number.  I want to know how I can help you.”

“I didn’t call you.  I don’t know who did. It could be any number of people. I’m sure if it’s important, they’ll call you back.”

There is a disatisfied silence.  Whoever it is on the end of the line wants closure.  I can tell that this call is going to be bugging him all day.

Finally he makes a few harumphing noises, and says “OK Meme, I will call back later.”

I can’t wait.

*Pronounced like mama, only with an e.

**During my entire five months in Egypt, I got called Richard consistently by everyone I worked with.  The same goes here.  In fact, my name is practically unpronouncable in every country I’ve ever been to.  If it’s not Richard, it’s Riju, Lychee, Leecher, or John.