Living for Disco

My colleagues Lesly and Charmaine seem to be less than confident about my ability to find my way in and out of places. Over the last couple of days, many jokes have been made, along the lines of “If she goes in there, she will never find her way out, hahahahaha.”

Lesly asked me to take him to the location, where he is staying, promising to show me an easy way in and out.  I assured them that I have a remarkably good sense of direction, and would be fine, no matter how many twists and turns he wants to take getting home.  The way to the location was easy, but the place was crowded, largely with cheerful looking men in dark blue overalls.  Charmaine made a disapproving noise.  “Tsch, these Ovambos, they are everywhere”.

I was mystified.  “How can you tell they are Ovambos?” 

“Eish, because only those people work in the fisheries.  If you greet them, they will only greet you in Oshiwambo, they will say ‘ngapi tate’, to show you that they are Ovambo.” 

When I droped them off amidst the crowd of milling men, shouting women and gesticulating taxi drivers, Lesly shouted “Don’t get lost, Rachael” in farewell.  As if.  I am direction queen, and besides, the way was pretty much straight there and back.

Ten minutes later, I find myself in a twilight zone of low-rise pastel coloured housing.  There is not a single soul to be seen, and a clingy sea mist shrouds everything in ambiguity.  The place seems to have been designed by a team of architects with an abiding affection for twee portholes and ceiling-to-floor windows, and every house has a small family car and a 4×4 parked outside.  I have driven unwittingly in to a Barrett Homes nightmare – one of those places you see on tv, that feature lawns peopled with happy families in sports jackets and floral prints, whose children always look overly brushed and abnormally perky.  What you don’t see is the part where after they’ve moved in, the bright, perky children become dead-eyed and creepy, garden gnomes mysteriously move positions in the night, and when Mummy tries to drive her Toyota Hilux through the perpetual fog that leads to Town, she finds herself driving straight back in to suburbia again.  I am not driving a Hilux, but still I cannot find my way out.

I’m not sure how I could have become so completely lost. I am starting to become alarmed, and then I find a road that leads only into pale desert.  I can’t see much because of the swirling cloud rolling off the sea.  An eerie wind howls against the car. I decide not to drive that way because there might be giant flesh-eating worms down there.  You hear strange stories about the coastal section of the desert.

My only solution is to find the sea and drive along next to it until I reach a civilisation more suited to my taste - i.e. one with pubs in it, where I can also buy dinner, and be stared at by people.  Pink hair is somewhat of a trial in this department, but I’m consoling myself with the fact that this is what it must be like to be Angelina Jolie. 

I do eventually find the sea, and I am astounded to find that I have driven about 15 miles the wrong way.

I have decided that I shall not embarass Lesly and Charmaine tomorrow by letting them know that their directions were less than adequate. 

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 8th, 2006 at 5:05 pm and is filed under Lost, Under African Skies. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.