Living for Disco

I sat in the back of a taxi this morning, quietly reading – I’m half way through Heart of Darkness - while a loud Afrikaans radio station blared adverts for Steers Burgers Wacky Wednesday, and Cymot – for all your outdoor needs.  Suddenly the driver turned the radio down and said:

“Ach, stealing, stealing, stealing is all these people do.”

“Er”, I said, surprised.

“You know, they put these big things on the roofs, for the sun, for power, and these people, they come, and they take them! Big things!”

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and so I couldn’t really respond.  In fact, I was starting to become concerned that he was talking to an imaginary friend, and so I peered round to the front passenger seat to see if it was occupied.  There was no-one there.

“You know,” he said conversationally, looking at me in the rear view mirror.  “I read in the newspaper yesterday, one of these guys, he came in through the burglar bars, and pointed a gun and the man and wife in the bed.  He told the man, get under the bed, and then he made the wife come to the window where he raped her.  By the window! Eish.”

To be honest, at this point, I was getting a bit pissed off.  I didn’t know why this guy started this stupid conversation with me in the first place, and I certainly couldn’t imagine why he was suddenly telling me a story of rape and pillage at 8am on a sunny Friday morning.  I’d done nothing to invite it – normally I have conversations with taxi drivers about how hot it is, or whether it will rain.

“Oh. How awful,” I replied, meaning it.

“By the window!”  he repeated.  He seemed to think that the rape of the wife was particularly shocking because it was by a window.  I don’t know why.  I am still confused.

“Maybe,” he said, as if he’d just had an idea of shining brilliance, “maybe it was a low window, close to the ground.”  His hand hovered above the gear stick to indicate a point about a foot off the ground.  He then looked at it, clearly trying to work out if that was low enough.   He then raised his hand to just under the rear view mirror and examined that position too.  “If it was a tall window, eish, then it would have been impossible.”

He sat lost in thought for a couple of minutes.  I didn’t even want to think what kind of calculations and mental images were going through his slightly twisted mind.  I went back to my book, hurriedly, and pointedly, and buried myself in tales of darkness.

He turned the radio back up, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.

I’ve mentioned before in these pages about the President’s cavalcade. It is usually about five or six blacked-out limos strong, and is escorted by a phalanx of police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing. All traffic is stopped to allow them to travel unobstructed, usually at very high speeds. I often wonder if there is really any need for the Prez to be so ostentatious when zooming around the country. Surely if he didn’t draw attention to himself in such a manner, there would be no need for the bodyguards and police escort, and he could reduce his carbon footprint into the bargain. I don’t believe I’ve ever been held up on the M25 while the Queen whizzes past in a giant fleet of Roll Royces*.

Anyway, I don’t know if you know, but in effect Namibia is a country with two presidents. First up we have Namibia’s resident ego Comrade Dr Sam Nujoma, the official Founding Father of the Namibian Nation. He is still leader of the ruling political party, SWAPO, and he likes to use expressions like ‘foreign imperialists’ and ‘subversive elements’ to describe anyone who disagrees with him. He came to the end of his legal presidential term in 2004, and to everyone’s surprise gave way to President Hifikepunya Pohamba, who seems to be doing a pretty fine job.

On Tuesday the pair of them, each with their own cavalcade, clashed on the road from Oshakati. The President’s fleet of cars was forced to pull off the road and wait in the growing queue – something I can bet you has never happened to him before – while Sam Nujoma’s fleet sped by in all its glory. It all seems to have been a bit embarrassing for everyone – if anything can tell you who really has the status in this place, a limo showdown will do it every time.

I just would have liked to have seen it.

*The Queen probably has a helicopter, or a private jet, or her own underground train system, so she doesn’t inconvenience the populace in this inconsiderate fashion. Or so she doesn’t have to ‘travel’ on the M25.

Please do take some time to read this excellent article on the President’s Emergency Plan for Aids Relief (PEPFAR). Pepfar is the largest single fund available for international HIV initiatives, and it is also notorious for its hamfisted and blinkered approach to HIV prevention.

The baby of a President hero-worshiped by America’s Christian right, it focuses on abstinence and fidelity, and vilifies sex-workers - restrictions that demonstrate a horrifying lack of understanding of the complex social, cultural and environmental conditions that contribute to the spread of HIV in countries across the world.
This article clearly and concisely outlines some of the flaws in Pepfar, and highlights not only how damaging some of its policies are proving to be, but also that it is administratively inept, and corrupt.

Everyone should know about this.

I just popped over here to have a look at Wandering Lawman’s new blog. He’s in Sierra Leone, working on a war crimes case that is ongoing there at the moment.

The writing is great, and the content promises to be fascinating stuff. I recommend!

I feel the need for something stodgy for lunch, to soak up the booze still sloshing around my system. It is very hot, and I need to stop sweating liquid that smells like the inside of a mouldy wine cellar.

I flag down a cab and head into town. The taxi driver grunts at me, his teeth firmly clamped onto a piece of plastic. His hands are huge on the tiny rally style steering wheel that so many taxi drivers here seem to favour, even though the cars are usually lacking in door handles, or are held together with masking tape. The air is full of noisy kwaito music, and a glitter ball, attached with a rubber band to the rear view mirror, bounces shafts of sunlight around the inside of the car.

I get out on Independence Avenue, and walk the rest of the way to the cafe. On the way, I pass an office that I must have passed a hundred times - it belongs to a company called SWA Safaris. Today, something about it catches my eye.

There is a stuffed zebra in the shop window. A real zebra, its front legs reared up as if it is fighting an invisible assailant, and a wild look in its glassy eye. It’s huge and takes up the best part of the window display, which is otherwise uninspiring.

I stand and stare at it for a moment. I can’t imagine how I have managed never to notice this before. I close my eyes a few times, but it is still there whenever I open them. I keep looking around to see if anyone else has noticed it, so that I can point and waggle my eyebrows in amazement. No-one is taking any notice.

In the end, for lack of anything to do but stand and gawp halfwittedly, I leave the zebra, and wander off to find some food.