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.

I’m going to see the Vagina Monologues tonight.  I was a bit worried that the tickets might sell out, because one of the actresses was Namibia’s recent contender in Survivor Africa, but there were plenty.

Anyway, that’s not the point of my story.  My point is that I was cycling to the box office to pick up the tickets, and I had to cycle down the stretch of road that borders President Pohamba’s residence – State House.  Sometimes this stretch of road is closed off, but today it was open, so I zoomed in through the gates with all the rest of the traffic, and started freewheeling down the hill.

Suddenly, a policeman is stepping out into the road, white gloved palm held up, stern expression on his face.  I couldn’t imagine for the life of me what I was doing wrong.  Cyclists in Namibia get away with all sorts of nonsense, and I was complying with the law and wearing my helmet, much to the amusement of several lorry drivers who leaned out of their cab windows specifically to laugh at me (told you, comedy gold).

Anyway, I came slowly to a halt, my front wheel resting in a pile of pink bougainvillea flowers that had been swept dustily into the gutter.

“Yes?”  I said.  “Why have you stopped me?”

“Hello, how are you?”  he replied politely.  Oops.

“I am fine, thank you, how are you?”

“Fine.

I waited.  He looked expectant, and then realized that he was going to have to explain.

“You cannot cycle here.  You must cycle on the other side of the road.”

I have often seen cyclists in Namibia cycling the wrong way down a main road, and it always strikes me as a foolhardy and dangerous thing to do, given the maniacs on the road, and so I said so.

“No, you must cycle on the pavement.”

I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on just how much bile is expended on cyclists who have the gall to cycle on the pavement in the UK.  For those who don’t know – it’s a lot.  There are whole websites dedicated to the elimination of cyclists who do this.  I have been conditioned over several years not to cycle on the pavement, EVER.  The very thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat, as I think of the ire that will be burning in my direction the minute I get up on the kerb.

Anyway, it turns out that actually, I only have to cycle on the pavement on the other side of the road when I’m cycling near the President.  The big red line apparently should tell me this, according to the policeman. I thought it meant no parking, but you live and learn.

It’s difficult, adjusting to new rules.

My belly full of sushi and beer, I hugged my friend goodbye and clambered on board my beloved purple bicycle for the journey home. It was late, and I was nervous – I don’t much like being out and about in Windhoek at night on my own. The streets are deserted and eerie. Everything is still, apart from the odd piece of rubbish blown by the breeze, which feels like the breath of old souls on your skin. Drunks occasionally lurch from the shadows into the bright puddle cast by a streetlamp. It’s like a ghost town; a menacing one that means you no good.

I came up the hill and around the roundabout by the barred up, darkened windows of the Pink Panther Videorama, hearing shouting and the grumbling of pool tables from the Casino gambling shop next door. A group of toothless girls, past their prime, sat outside on the steps, drinking whisky out of a plastic bottle and sharing their cigarettes with the Ausspanplatz amputee – a scarred and twisted man with one leg and half an arm, who drinks all day in the shade of the shop awnings, and never seems to sleep.

As I came around the corner, the nearest girl leaned off her perch, stretching the bit of her skirt that was trying to keep her arse in check to the limits. She was staring at me with her eyes squeezed half shut, as if this would help her to see me more clearly. She looked as if she had spotted a potential meal on the run. I almost expected her tongue to shoot out and grab me by the leg. Slowly, her arm came up. She pointed, mouth agape, at my approaching figure.

“Look! Look at that!” she shrieked in mirth as I cycled past. Her friends all fell about laughing. I advanced down Independence Avenue, their cackles swallowed up by the silence behind me.

Two minutes later, a car full of girls pulled up beside me at a stop light. It only took once glance, and they were instantly incapacitated by the hilarity of me.

I don’t know what was so funny. I even got off my bike to check the back of my skirt, to see if it was tucked into my knickers, but it all seemed fine. I came to the only conclusion I could: the essence of comedy runs through my veins. I am instantly amusing to everyone who sees me. This is quite a burden to have to bear, especially at this stage in my life, when I want to be taken a bit more seriously. Still, we all have our crosses.

I bet I’m worth a fortune on Ebay.

I meant to go out at lunchtime today and take pictures of all the gorgeous flowers that are out at the moment, so I can post them here, and make this blog look pretty.

Unfortunately, because my morning, and much of my afternoon has been spent knee deep in linked excel spreadsheets and numbers that defy gravity, I went out and bought a copy of Heat instead and read it in the garden with some leftover stir fry and a bar of chocolate.

I have spent most of the day with my shoulders up round my ears, muttering “mfff, if there’s 13, then that’s 14,905 divided by 13, which is mmmmm, hmmm, ok, times that by 3 and add it to…”, at which point someone will come in and say “Rachie, have you got the phone number for [someone I have never heard of, and will kill if I ever now meet]“. The fragile pile of post-it notes in my head then disintegrates like a pile of leaves that has been pounced on by a small kitten, and I have to start all over again. I don’t know what the rule is about swearing in the office, but I think I have probably broken it.

So I’ll try and do flowers tomorrow. In the meantime, my brain needs a bit of love, so I’m going to the cinema. And for a beer.