Living for Disco

On Saturday some friends and I went to Daan Viljoen game reserve just outside Windhoek, for the weekend. We spent the afternoon walking in the hills, wandering past impassive wildebeest, and scattering kudu and klipspringer into the scrub. I was slightly nervous about leopards, but fortunately for all you lucky, lucky people, I did not get eaten on this occasion.

When it got dark, we all got fairly drunk. To my delight, and my friends’ bemusement, I discovered that if I put my hands up to the light, moths would land softly on my fingers, seemingly content to stay there while I looked into their tiny, disgruntled-kitten faces.

They were completely enchanting.

And apologies, I know I promised photos of moths, but there is only one… It’s pretty though. Out of curiosity - does anyone know what type of moth this is? They come in cream, too.

I’m sorry for the relative quiet.  I have nothing much to say at the moment, except for maybe ‘ugh’, or ‘pff’.

It’s difficult to understand how a person could get cabin fever in a place with skies as vast as they are in Namibia, but at the moment I just feel trapped.  It’s impossible to lose yourself in this place - it’s just too bloody small.  I find this distressing, and have mentally started to pace up and down my cage.
Work is a nightmare - we have no money, because none of our donors for this year have as yet been able to make the disbursements that will enable us to cover our January expenses.  Thus, we cannot pay our salaries, and it looks as if our phone and internet will be cut off until we get some money in mid-February.  They all seem vastly unconcerned by this, suggesting that we use the contract to try and secure an overdraft.  I’m sure that they are unaware of the administrative nightmare that this would unleash, not to mention the enormous costs.  I can’t help but feel that if my boss had not spent every penny of extra money on something that wasn’t even in the budget, we wouldn’t be in this situation.  I expect he feels that if I’d managed to raise a bit more money last year, then this wouldn’t be happening.  Hence ‘ugh’.

I won’t delve into my personal life, as that way madness lies. And the possibility of medication.  Hence ‘pff’.

So, I may be a little quiet for a while.  But don’t go away.  I’m sure I will be back soon, with my sense of humour firmly stitched up and ready for action.  Meanwhile, you could browse my back catalogue of erudite and amusing posts, if you can bear to.
Also coming soon:  pictures of moths.

I have been attending a VSO meeting over the last couple of days, one of the components of which was assessing gender in the context of HIV. Gender is a big buzz word these days in the development community. All sorts of people are now requesting that you have gender as a ‘cross-cutting issue’, and that it be taken into consideration in your programmes. I’m not sure all of them know exactly what they mean themselves. I mean, I can see the point in addressing gender issues in a country where 44% of men feel that it’s acceptable to beat their wives, but how to do it is the real challenge.

And who am I to try? I’m a white, middle-class English woman for God’s sake. Could I understand less about cultural mores in rural Namibia? I’m happy with the idea of training people - of developing concrete skills - or with challenging someone who’s views have an affect on me personally, but I’m uncomfortable with imposing my own cultural beliefs on other people. I believe more and more that that change can only come from within.

So, we spent a morning looking at common gender stereotypes. After identifying more of a few of these, e.g. men don’t cry, women should not tell men what to do, blah, blah blah, we debated them. As you can imagine, some of the women* were getting a little huffy about the more blatant ones.

Then we broke for lunch. Unconsciously, we segregated ourselves by sex, women on one table, men on another. The conversation on the women’s table proceeded thus:

“You don’t own an iron? I didn’t think anyone didn’t own an iron.”

“I just can’t bear ironing – I don’t see the point.”

“But in Zambia, every Sunday afternoon you’ll find women ironing everything, even the underpants. This is because of the flies. But I like ironing. I can iron for five hours in a row.”

“Me too! I find ironing very therapeutic.”

“But do you iron your sheets?”

“Of course I iron my sheets!”

“Well, I only iron certain things when I’m going out.”

Then we started talking about washing machines.

I still have no idea what the men on the other table were discussing. Probably stock market prices, or football.

*for ‘some of the women’, read ‘me’.

Since my phone and house keys were stolen on Friday night (I meet a fuckwit AND someone steals my bag, all in one night!) I haven’t been able to lock my bike up, so this morning, I leave it under the guardianship of the Herero lady who sells the Big Issue outside the supermarket. Because she swelters in this heat, dressed as she is in vast Victorian skirts and petticoats, I pay her for her services in Namibia’s universal currency – a cool drink.

I go in to see the doctor, who flirts with me every time I go in there; this makes me feel weirdly bashful. She comes into the room, all gung-ho, bearing a thermos flask of liquid nitrogen in one hand, and a fistful of q-tips in the other, sits me down, and with no further ado stabs me in the armpit with a cotton-bud that has a surface temperature of approximately -196 celcius. It fucking hurts, but I figure it’s better than skin cancer. I look at my armpit, and there is now a crater where my strange mole once was. It makes me faintly nauseous. She stabs me a couple more times, and attacks another completely random red patch ‘just in case’.

On my way back to the office I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to buy a pair of shoes. I saw them on Sunday. They have 3 inch heels, and they make my normally stumpy calves look incredible; I am in love with them. I put this uncharacteristic extravagance down to the fact that the pain of having bits of my armpit frozen off has addled my brain, and so I am now listening to myself when I say things like “But the exchange rate is so good right now, and it is your birthday tomorrow.”

I lug my wounded armpit back to the office. My new acquisitions don’t really go with my outfit, but no-one can see, because my feet are under my desk. I sit, quietly content, and tap my heels pleasingly on the tiled floor.

Why is everything in italics?  I didn’t do anything!  Help!  I don’t understaaaaaaaand….

Can someone suggest a solution?  Nothing has changed in my style sheet or anything.

Do you think it’s the same virus that has made all my google applications suddenly appear on my screen in cyrillic?  I can’t even change it back because I can’t read the Russian for ’settings’.

Ugh.  Can I go back on holiday now please?