Living for Disco

We all went through Friday saying “I can’t wait to get on that bus”.  We were fools, but we knew it not.  I expect that’s usual for foolishness, really.

We didn’t sleep.  Not even a wink.  At the end of the twenty-six hour journey, we four intrepid travellers had clocked up:

1 case of cystitis

1 case of D & V (Diarrhea and vomiting to those in the biz)

1 case of extreme nausea

1 case of pathological irritability, brought on by exhaustion

Of course, we recovered in style by going to a birthday party in Johannesburg.  We sat in a sunny garden, surrounded by interesting and friendly people, eating braaied chicken and drinking much wine.  Our bus left at 10 that night, and we were rat-arsed by the time we got on it.  I apparently offended many of our fellow travellers to Maputo by enquiring loudly as to just why people need to import so many fucking onions to Mozambique.  I am still curious, incidentally.  Do onions not grow here?  I am yet to find out.

By the time we arrived, finally, mercifully, in Maputo, ten hours later, we’d clocked up:

1 severe bladder infection

1 case of uncontrollable vomiting

1 case of impetigo

4 hangovers

God, we’re getting old.

The dawn border crossing was an experience.  We stood sweating in a rubbish strewn warehouse while a large fat man wrote excruciatingly slowly, and as I was later to realise, illegibly, into our passports.  Meanwhile, a stream of semi-literate travellers were sent away to refil visa forms that they hadn’t understood in the first place, by a man whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to utter the words “No. Go away and fill it out properly” to bewildered visa-seekers.

I have to tell you though, it was worth it.  Maputo is wonderful. 

The bus left late from Windhoek, and so we drove south into the dusk.  It was dark long before we reached Rehoboth, although I’d seen the smoke from a good way away. Once darkness fell, the eerie glow on the horizon looked like a doppelganger sunset - the sign of a bushfire raging somewhere ahead.

Namibia is extraordinarily dry, and starting a fire is the matter of a mere second of carelessness.  Carelessness like this costs millions of dollars worth of damage, destroys animal life and livelihoods, and causes untold devastation.  I’ve seen the aftermath of fires before - telegraph poles hanging footless in the air, straining at the wires; acres of smouldering, stinking ash; stumps of acacia trees sitting forlorn in the charred emptiness.

We smelt the devastation before we saw it;  a heavy, dry and smoky smell that filled the bus.  As we drew nearer we saw where the fire had been.  Embers glowed in the hollowed out carcass of a huge tree; the bottom three feet of a telegraph pole burned prettily in the blackness; small fires still soldiered on in the cinders of what yesterday was cattle farming land, looking like the lights of a strange and dancing city.

When we caught up to the fire, it was devouring the brittle, dry grass up to the road. Flames rose to heights of ten or twelve feet, encouraged by the wind to hurry onwards.  We passed within two feet of the edge of the blaze - fire out of control is strangely exciting, yet appalling to watch.  The sight stayed in my mind’s eye for days.

When we reached Rehoboth, we got off the bus to buy water.  A hot wind blew dust into our eyes and hair, and as I blinked and rubbed the gritty dust into the sweat on my face, I watched an old man, his beard stained with nicotine, strike a match into the bowl of his pipe and flick it, unheeded, onto the forecourt of the petrol station. 

I’m away!

I’m off on holiday until mid January – a very welcome break from sitting at work, dribbling in panic as the hours and minutes slip inexorably by, yielding little in the way of words on a page, numbers in a budget or relief from the screeching demons of under-achievement.

So I will love you and leave you for a while.  If I manage to find an internet café on the pristine beaches of Mozambique I will make you all jealous by updating you regularly on the spectacular snorkeling, delicious fresh seafood, and copious amounts of beer quaffed in the name of rest and relaxation.  If not, then I’m afraid, tragically, you’ll just have to wait until 12 January to hear all about the 25 hour bus journey to Johannesburg, and any other adventures I may have foisted upon me, up to and including muggings, malaria and dysentery.

I will also be spending much of the holiday preparing my liver for my 33^rd birthday.  Don’t ask me why, but 33 feels like a significant number in a way that 32 didn’t.  Last year I told no-one, and had a quiet dinner with my ex.  This year, I will do my usual – mention my birthday at least twice a day for the month preceding, in case anyone forgets and tries to organize something else on the evening of my party.  There will be no escape excuses.  So, if any of you will be in Namibia on the 19^th January, I will be having a BIG party, and you’re welcome to come, as long as you’re not a)psychotic by nature, b)crazed by too much sun, or c)too poor to buy me a drink.

Until then I will say goodbye, wish you a joyful festive season, and a wonderful new year.

Ta-ra!

Just a quickie to tell you about another story from The Namibian that I thought you might enjoy.

Imagine that you are a taxi driver.  You have been working hard all day in the terrible heat, and are just about to knock off when some arsehole punter grabs your takings from the handy ashtray in which you keep them, and legs it out of the car.

Would you:

a) Chase after him

b) Inform the police

c) Shoot him in the leg, retrieve the money, and then drive him to the nearest hospital.

In Namibia, apparently, option C is the preferred course of action.  I can just imagine it:

“Look mate, sorry about the bullet wound in the thigh and all that, but you did try and pinch my cash.  Listen, no hard feelings, alright?  Just get yourself back in, and I’ll drop you at the hospital, no charge.  Done?”

That’s the last time I argue with a taxi driver about the fare, I can assure you.

I read the instructions before I start, as instructed, and then proceed.

Making the paste is easy, but straining it is less so – I get the mixture all over the cramped work surface, and reflect ruefully that I should really have cleaned up the detritus of my breakfast before attempting this.  The mugs and bowls and the cornflakes packet are getting in the way, although admittedly not as much as the sewing machine, which I haven’t put away.  I mop up the mess and continue.

“Bring to the boil, stirring continuously” it tells me.  This I do.  It takes some time, and I feel rather like I belong in the 1950s, in my cut-off jeans and flip-flops, cheeky cigarette in hand.  I poke nervously at the mixture with a chopstick.  It bubbles, blackly.

Checking the instructions once more, I can’t suppress a childish snigger.   “Reduce temperature and simmer for 15 minutes”.  I use the chopsticks to poke at the pair of oil-stained shorts bubbling away on top of my counter top stove; the witch’s brew of fabric dye spills over the edge and hisses on the hot plate.

I can hear Bart Simpson’s voice in my head, and I can’t help wishing someone else was here so that I could serve up the finished article on a plate, and tell them to eat my shorts.  Unfortunately I am alone, and so the only person who is amused by my total hilariousness is me.

Plus ça change…