Living for Disco

It’s the annual ‘do’ at the British High Commissioner’s residence this evening; an occasion for British people to gather on a fragrant lawn, drink gin and natter about the old days of the Empire.  As you might imagine, last year the lawn was strewn with old ladies in Laura Ashley making small talk about their dogs, besuited British businessmen, and slightly pissed VSO volunteers.  At least, they were slightly pissed when I left.  I hear that they soon moved on to very pissed, which may account for the curtailment of this year’s festivities to two hours instead of four and a half.

This time last year, I had just fallen headlong into a love affair with my ex-bloke, who, although a Kiwi, was invited along to the function.  Because I am clearly a disgraceful unwashed plebian, as the country director of a British NGO he felt that admitting that the two of us were an item would damage his reputation as a fine upstanding member of the commonwealth, thereby rendering him incapable of doing his job.  He arrived without acknowledging me, spent the afternoon flitting about being important, and then tried to sidle up to me unnoticed to whisper in my ear that he was about to leave, and could I leave it five minutes before following him out.  God knows why I put up with such ridiculous behaviour in hindsight.  Ah, love is blind.

This year no-one will be able to sidle up to me unnoticed.  I have made sure of this by dying my hair pink in a fit of barefaced stupidity at the weekend.  I don’t know what came over me – I think I just needed to do something I’ve always wanted to do at a time when it wouldn’t much matter.

I think I like it; most people I know like it (including, rather surprisingly, my boss) but the effect is rather startling.  I hope they let me in.  My identity crisis could do with a G&T right now.

We are standing in the biting cold, waiting for the Namdeb bus to take us into the mine at Elizabeth Bay.  We have all been up since 5 am, and are feeling frayed around the edges, but am quite excited to see what a diamond mind looks like.  When we get on, we are told what our little tour will include, and given a pep talk by the bear-like, bearded head of security, who goes by the fantastically appropriate name of Skulk.

“OK.  When we are in the area, you must not touch anything, you must not pick anything off the ground.  If you pick something off the ground, and put it in your pocket there is no excuse.  We will put you away for 20 years, or fine you N$1,000,000.”  I am instantly terrified, in case I forget, and see something I want to pick up, like litter, or something.  I am very conscientious you know.  Fortunately, I manage to restrain myself.

The mine is grey and very exciting in an industrial kind of way.  It is dwarfed by an enormous man-made dune, formed of the sifted and rejected sand.  We are not allowed off the bus, and it isn’t long before captivity palls, and we are taken to an old mining town that is disintegrating in the rough, salty air.  The first thing I see is a mural on a wall depicting idyllic palm tree fronded beaches, and soft Pacific surf.  Wishful thinking indeed – this is the Atlantic, and it’s harsh and cold; the only vegetation is sparse, and hugs the ground as if in fear of the wind.  Coconuts were never on the menu.

For some reason, I am fascinated by the doors in the houses, by the thought that almost 100 years ago, people opened and closed these doors, went through them, used them to get in and out of rooms where now there is nothing and nobody.  I can almost see them, those old German families, living on the edge of the earth, with only the sand and the rocks and the sea for company, and marvel at how much they were prepared put up with for the promise of untold riches, back when the diamonds were simply lying on the ground for anyone to pick up.

We arrive back in to chilly Luderitz with hours to spare for doing educational things like visiting the museum, and looking at Shark Island – an old prisoner of war camp where conditions were rank and people died in their hundreds.

Naturally, we decide to spend those hours in a coffee shop, eating cake.

A tar road stretches through the windscreen as far as the eye can see.  It winds through vast golden savannah that turns from burnt orange to canary yellow with the breeze.  In the very distant distance, hazy mountains of dusky pink and royal purple provide a backdrop that defies belief – it is as if it has been painted on canvas, through which the car could burst at any moment, scattering theatrical props and mowing down screaming stage hands.  It is jaw-droppingly beautiful, and we sit in the car, drinking it in.  As we pass by, thousands of small birds fling themselves from the roadside grass in alarm.

THUNK

As a tiny bird bounces off the windscreen at startling speed, all three women in the car cry out involuntarily in horror and disgust.  Something unpleasantly yellow has smeared the windscreen.  A small tuft of baby feathers flitters softly on the windscreen wiper.  Marie switches on the wiper and the feathers are gone.

A few more birds hurl themselves joyfully beneath the wheels of the car, and we endure grimly, and in hungover silence.

THUNK

Another corpse flies off the windscreen, three voices go “eeurgh”, three women wince.  You can’t avoid the stupid little bastards, and you can’t slow down, – there are too many, and they seem to be getting their kicks from playing a statistically uncompromising game of chicken.

THUNK-THUNK

Three voices go “Oh, jesus.”  There appears now to be a wing stuck in the wiper, without much else attached; it waves at us cheerily.  Something red and fleshy quivers on the windscreen.

“I don’t even want to know what that is”, says Marie.

We decide that we cannot go on with the remains of a dead sparrow wedged in the driver’s line of sight, and so we pull over.  As I lift the wing off the windscreen, it feels as if I am lifting air.

We continue to mow down sparrows on the long drive to Luderitz.  I hope the diamonds are worth the trail of carnage.

I’m off again; October’s turning into a scarily absent month. I was even away for this blog’s second birthday on 7 October, which I celebrated by myself with a fat cigar and some expensive brandy. In my dreams.

It’s Global Ed time again, where we VSOs gather together for an educational weekend, and a royal piss-up. Last time it was cheetahs, this time it’s diamonds.

So, I’m off down south - to Luderitz, to be exact, where diamonds litter the ground like very expensive confetti, or so I’m told. In some diamond mining areas, like Oranjemund, which is a closed town run by the diamond company, it is actually illegal to scratch the ground with your boots. I heard a story about a man who used to smuggle diamonds out of Oranjemund in the cavity behind his glass eye. Employees have routine x-rays whenever they leave the area, which is better than being fed laxatives and being directed via an inspection latrine on your way out the door. Imagine having a job where you have to search human shit for smuggled gems. You’d want to be paid in diamonds for that kind of suffering - but only once they’d been thoroughly rinsed.

Then we’re going to Kolmanskop, a dead town being slowly being digested by the desert.

I have agreed to organise the catering for the event, which lasts four days, and is being attended by 28 people. Every so often I hit myself over the head with a handy blunt object for being so monumentally stupid. So tomorrow I have to go and buy about 400 bags of lentils and a truckload of booze. I’m taking some cuppa-soup just in case.

So, talk amongst yourselves, and look forward to tales of diamond-related intrigue and mystery on my return.  Back Tuesday.

“I always work it out like this.  Take your age, and then subtract seven.  Never go out with anyone younger than that.”

My friend was trying to reassure me that having considered a fling with a man in his early twenties was not a sign of either desperation, or moral degeneracy on my part.

“But that means that my lower limit is somewhere between 25 and 26”, I said, taking a big gulp of gin and tonic.  “So he’s still too young.  Anyway, it was never going to happen.  He only wanted his toothpaste back.”

They demanded an explanation.  So I told them.

The man in question came to stay at my house with two other peace corps volunteers, in the company of a good friend of mine from up north.  He was tall; he was funny; he had big hands.  My three main sexy-man criteria ticked off all in one go.  It was all very nice, and when they left, I found a half-used up tube of toothpaste in the bathroom.  Bonus!  I thought.  No action, but at least I have free toothpaste for the next two weeks.  Cup half full, and all that.

When we arrived, hot and dusty, into Opuwo the next day, I received a text message.  It said “Hi Rachael.  It’s [what'shisname]. I believe I left my toothpaste at your house yesterday, unless I am going mad.  Thanks for letting us stay.”

Of course, I instantly jumped to the conclusion that he was a)  insane, or b) flirting with me (the two not being mutually exclusive).  I mean, why go to the trouble of getting my number just for the sake of a tube of toothpaste?  I know that peace corps volunteers are very, very poor, but even so.  Toothpaste?  It costs N$5.  It did occur to me that he might think I am a little too old, but then I think I am always a bit too worried about my age, so I disregarded it.  I will probably still be persuading myself that boys find me attractive when I am seventy and my boobs are round my knees.

Anyway, I was quite excited.  It’s been ages since I’ve flirted with anyone.  Even so, I still wasn’t entirely sure whether we were flirting, or actually arranging a time for me to return his toothpaste to him.  Usually, when I get to the point in the story where he suggests a day when he will be in town, to meet up for a toothpaste exchange, everyone choruses “But of course he was flirting with you!”

What they don’t  yet know is that when I said I was out of town on that particular day, the response that came back was “Well, perhaps we can try another method.  My friend Dan is always in Windhoek.  Maybe you can give the toothpaste to him?”