Anyway, that’s not the point of my story.  My point is that I was cycling to the box office to pick up the tickets, and I had to cycle down the stretch of road that borders President Pohamba’s residence – State House.  Sometimes this stretch of road is closed off, but today it was open, so I zoomed in through the gates with all the rest of the traffic, and started freewheeling down the hill.

Suddenly, a policeman is stepping out into the road, white gloved palm held up, stern expression on his face.  I couldn’t imagine for the life of me what I was doing wrong.  Cyclists in Namibia get away with all sorts of nonsense, and I was complying with the law and wearing my helmet, much to the amusement of several lorry drivers who leaned out of their cab windows specifically to laugh at me (told you, comedy gold).

Anyway, I came slowly to a halt, my front wheel resting in a pile of pink bougainvillea flowers that had been swept dustily into the gutter.

“Yes?”  I said.  “Why have you stopped me?”

“Hello, how are you?”  he replied politely.  Oops.

“I am fine, thank you, how are you?”

“Fine.

I waited.  He looked expectant, and then realized that he was going to have to explain.

“You cannot cycle here.  You must cycle on the other side of the road.”

I have often seen cyclists in Namibia cycling the wrong way down a main road, and it always strikes me as a foolhardy and dangerous thing to do, given the maniacs on the road, and so I said so.

“No, you must cycle on the pavement.”

I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on just how much bile is expended on cyclists who have the gall to cycle on the pavement in the UK.  For those who don’t know – it’s a lot.  There are whole websites dedicated to the elimination of cyclists who do this.  I have been conditioned over several years not to cycle on the pavement, EVER.  The very thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat, as I think of the ire that will be burning in my direction the minute I get up on the kerb.

Anyway, it turns out that actually, I only have to cycle on the pavement on the other side of the road when I’m cycling near the President.  The big red line apparently should tell me this, according to the policeman. I thought it meant no parking, but you live and learn.

It’s difficult, adjusting to new rules.

I came up the hill and around the roundabout by the barred up, darkened windows of the Pink Panther Videorama, hearing shouting and the grumbling of pool tables from the Casino gambling shop next door. A group of toothless girls, past their prime, sat outside on the steps, drinking whisky out of a plastic bottle and sharing their cigarettes with the Ausspanplatz amputee – a scarred and twisted man with one leg and half an arm, who drinks all day in the shade of the shop awnings, and never seems to sleep.

As I came around the corner, the nearest girl leaned off her perch, stretching the bit of her skirt that was trying to keep her arse in check to the limits. She was staring at me with her eyes squeezed half shut, as if this would help her to see me more clearly. She looked as if she had spotted a potential meal on the run. I almost expected her tongue to shoot out and grab me by the leg. Slowly, her arm came up. She pointed, mouth agape, at my approaching figure.

“Look! Look at that!” she shrieked in mirth as I cycled past. Her friends all fell about laughing. I advanced down Independence Avenue, their cackles swallowed up by the silence behind me.

Two minutes later, a car full of girls pulled up beside me at a stop light. It only took once glance, and they were instantly incapacitated by the hilarity of me.

I don’t know what was so funny. I even got off my bike to check the back of my skirt, to see if it was tucked into my knickers, but it all seemed fine. I came to the only conclusion I could: the essence of comedy runs through my veins. I am instantly amusing to everyone who sees me. This is quite a burden to have to bear, especially at this stage in my life, when I want to be taken a bit more seriously. Still, we all have our crosses.

I bet I’m worth a fortune on Ebay.

In Windhoek, it’s surprisingly hard to tell when winter ends and spring begins.  For the last four months the sky has been a perfect vastness of blue, the only clouds the occasional grey smudge clinging to the horizon’s edge.  The trees have largely remained green; only a few lost their leaves.  The bougainvillea still splatters the city in scarlet and hot pink, as if the seasons never changed.  What reminds you is the sudden bitter cold when the sun sets, and in the mornings a cold nose and the horror of stepping on chill tiles in bare feet after the alarm has been set to snooze for the last possible time.

It’s strange to me that spring here feels just like spring at home, everything and everyone just beginning to crack a smile after the pinch of winter.  There’s something different about the way the birds sing in the morning, and how the breeze feels kind on my skin when I cycle through the city to work.  The light seems to glow in a different way.  In the early mornings a gauzy mist blurs the distant hills, and the air smells of creosote, fresh smoke and clean dust.

My cycle route takes me rushing through a neighbourhood packed with talent – Beethoven, Strauss and Mozart Strasse flash by on my way to work, and I labour up past Haydn, Wagner, Bach and Brahms on my return.  Church spires gleam clean and white in the sun, the smoke from small brush fires lingers above the jacarandas.

I pass a broad-pathed cemetery on my right, packed to bursting with new graves, the oldest ones crumbling by the roadside.  The road is lined with poplars in banks of pale baked grass that, for some reason, bring to mind the sunflower and corn fields of central Europe. I have a good view of the scrapyard to my left, men in blue overalls swarming over truckloads of rusty waste, shouts and clashing of metal leaking through my headphones.  Bakkies rush past me with blue clad labourers in the back, their heads no longer wrapped in enormous blanket turbans to keep out the merciless cold.  They point at me and laugh.

We have had no rain since April, and most of the rich grass is now yellow and brittle; but, thanks to the municipal sprinklers flouting the drought to come, an expanse of grass near where I work is still green.  Someone has taken advantage of this, and established a shabby red snack caravan, selling pies and chips, and Vienna sausages in a bun.  People come there during the day, lying with arms flung across faces, battered work boots turned to the sky, slumbering in the shade of stubby palms.

It seems that in the last few days, as the weather has started to become more generous, I have started to appreciate all over again how beautiful this city is.

Perfect spring cycling soundtrack:  Manu Chao.

Anyway, I shall be seeing much more wildlife over the next week, I should think, as I’m off up to Oshakati, in the hot and dusty north, for another week’s training with VSO. Whenever I say I’m going up there, people puff their cheeks out and look troubled, or just laugh as if to say “Rather you than me, mate”. Apparently last week it hit 40 degrees up there. I was talking to someone last night who bought some sweets from a trader from Oshakati a few days ago. He said they were so full of sand, they made him ill. I seriously can’t wait – I’m itching to get out and see some more of Namibia.

So, I have much to look forward to, apart from access to the interweb, so these pages shall be silent again, at least for a while.

I have ice hot needles inside my lungs. I had no idea that cycling in this climate would have such an immediate and catastrophic effect on my pulmonary system – I feel like I got up this morning and smoked forty fags. According to the man in the bike shop around the corner from my house, where I went to buy my helmet, the air is so dry, and so full of dust, that this kind of reaction is normal. He didn’t even crack a cynical smile as I staggered to the counter, gasping and flopping in the manner of a beached pilchard.

It’s the hills, man. The hills are going to be the death of me. The journey itself is quite short – the whole thing, including a 15 minute detour to the bike shop, took 45 minutes, and I walked some of it. What I’m worried about is that one day I will simply slow to a crawl on my way up an incline, and keel over by the side of the road to wait with gratitude for death to take me. Ach (as they say in these parts), at least I will be fit.

My bike, by the way, is a gem. It practically rides itself. It’s by far the best bike I’ve ever owned. And I do love cycling. My favourite part of the journey today was coming over the brow of a hill, and seeing Windhoek laid out in the valley below me. The town is completely surrounded by mountains that are covered in brush and empty of habitation. I don’t know how anyone ever chose it as a site to build a town, but it’s certainly spectacular.

The traffic is not a problem either. For most of my journey it’s very light – traffic in Windhoek isn’t exactly choking up the thoroughfares at the best of times. There are only 250,000 people here, most of them don’t have cars, and the roads are smooth and wide.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter that I feel absolutely battered – I’m free!!!! Wheeeee!!!

My flatmate took me to the Trade Centre on Friday in order to purchase my independence, and I came away with much less hair than I went in with, and a black cloud of doom floating over my head.

The Trade Centre is a bizarre place – it’s a vast warehouse, with bulk goods lining the aisles, most of which rise 20 feet up to the ceiling. They even have a giant polystyrene cow above the dairy section, which, if I was still a student, I would be determined to have in pride of place in my front room. If you ever want a lifetime’s supply of OMO washing powder, or a bag of biltong the size of a large pillow, the Trade Centre’s your best bet. They sell everything from cheese to pool tables, and it’s all very cheap.

The man at the bike department had originally told me that if I returned at the end of the week, I would be able to purchase one of the new deliveries of bike that have frames built for those of us who wear skirts. I arrived on Friday to be greeting with a blank countenance, and a distinct lack of available bikes. I kind of expected this however, and as he was quite friendly and sort of helpful, I decided to compromise, and buy a man’s bike.

The first one I tried had a severely wonky wheel. When I pointed it out, the salesman merely nodded, as if this was to be expected. I pointed to an almost identical bike, which happened to be $100 more expensive, and asked why there was a difference in the price.

Him: This one has the wrong price. It is $500, not $400.
Me: Why is it more expensive?
Him: I think it is better.
Me: Yes, but why? What has it got that this one hasn’t (apart from a straight front wheel?)
Him: Err, it is better, the quality, it is better.
Me: But they have the same number and quality of gears, they’re both steel frames, both exactly the same specifications, why is it more expensive?
Him: It is better. The quality is better. [pauses, and then points to the cheaper model] I think this one also is better. They are both better.

I have to confess to feeling sorry for the poor bastard. He obviously knew next to nothing about bikes, and wasn’t used to being asked questions, so I plumped for the more expensive one, and asked him to get me a new one. On closer inspection I noted that the tyres were completely flat. I decided to try out the pump to make sure it fit. It didn’t. He didn’t believe me, and spent 10 minutes unsuccessfully trying to force air into an entirely unresponsive inner tube.

Me: Well, could you have the tyres pumped up for me, at least?
Him: Ah, no. We cannot use the company’s pump. You must go to a service station.
Me: How am I supposed to get there on a bike with flat tyres?
Him: I don’t know.

And so I left, and went for a beer instead.

Today was a bit more successful. My new friend Marius and I were passed from pillar to post, eventually ending up in a warehouse where they fix bikes sent over from Europe, and sell them. My bike is great for three reasons. It’s purple, it’s cheap, and no-one will ever, ever steal it. It looks like a piece of crap. It’s a real, beat up, sit up and beg, pootle-round-Amsterdam-in-the-1960s bike. It’s even got an old dynamo. I love it. For some reason I can’t fathom, I got attached to it as soon as I saw it.

Now all I have to do is buy a helmet…

Half an hour later, her fingers raw with cold, and black with oil and road muck, she struggles bravely to lever the last bit of tyre into the wheel thingy. Panting with effort, she forces it into place, and sits back, smug, triumphant and complacent. Grabbing her pump, she begins jauntily to pump up the inner tube. But lo! What is this hissing sound? Why is the inner tube not filling with air?

As the truth dawns, she is filled with a terrible rage. Casting her tools from her in fury, she falls to her knees, and rents her clothes. Railing at the gods, she raises her hands to heaven and asks “Why? Why?” There is much wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and our heroine falls to weeping piteously amidst the debris of her failed endeavour. She notices her discarded spoons, one of which has a series of right-angled kinks in it that are so exact that she briefly considers a career in metalwork, before returning to the task in hand, and beating the ground with her fists. Such a scene has seldom been witnessed in the back yard of this terraced Victorian house. Even the birds are silenced.

In short, I had the mother of all tantrums. Then I took the Beast to the bike shop down the road, and had it fitted out with a Kevlar tyre. I’m bulletproof. Nothing’s getting through this baby.

It’s cold out there today, but beautifully brisk and clear. As I breezily cycled past Spitalfields market this morning, I sympathised with all the people outside ABN Amro who wait patiently for their daily caffeine intake from the mobile Mr Coffee (He’s so frothy – apparently). They all looked as if they had their heads in their own personal clouds.

I’m still churning inside. Yesterday all the waiting put me in such a state that at one point I managed to accidentally dribble down my front with no provocation whatsoever – not even a cup of tea or glass of water on hand to blame.

Here’s to a dribble free day, and an envelope for me sitting on my mat when I get home. Cross your fingers for me.

This year, I decided to get around the repetitive and pathetic cliché in which I spend the month of January. I didn’t make any. Not a single defined resolution passed my frontal lobes. This is possibly because I spent Christmas and New Year in a state not dissimilar to a chipolata sausage – immobile and wrapped in a duvet. (Well, the chipolata is actually wrapped in bacon, but you get my drift.)

So, it’s now the tenth of January and I have begun as I mean to go on. I am drinking bucketfuls of water every day. I got up at 7am this morning and did half an hour’s yoga in the living room (the woman over the road who leans out of the window for a fag every ten minutes has had some interesting views this morning, I can tell you). I cycled into work despite the fact that it’s blowing a force 9 gale outside, and the Beast and I were put in mortal peril while cycling through the park by flying newspapers and other airborne detritus, like trees, and dogs. I’ve bought my month’s shopping and have cooked up a load of stuff, which I’m now freezing for future use. I just had a carrot and some organic humus for lunch.

The question is, at what point will this health drive morph into a New Year’s Resolution without my knowledge? Because it’s starting to look suspiciously like one, and I know that once the transformation is complete I’ll be back eating chocolate like it’s going out of fashion, and throwing my yoga book to the wolves.

Anyway, when I was cycling home this evening I noticed a whole load of broken glass glinting in my headlights. Concerned for the Beast’s new inner tube, I began asking myself who is responsible for sweeping the detritus of car crime from our streets during the night. Whoever it is isn’t doing a very good job. It looked as if bicycle saboteurs had spent an industrious afternoon scattering little pieces of car window as comprehensively across the cycle bit of the road as possible.

Anyway, as I swerved yet again into the path of the car behind me in an effort to avoid another puncture incident, it occurred to me. The Buddhist Bicyle! Convenient for concerned puncture-victims, while also bringing peace of mind to confirmed Buddhists by sweeping insects and small mammals from your path, unharmed and free to live another day. I’m going to buy a broom and attach it to my handlebars. I will invent a mechanism which will use the movement of my legs to swish the broom from left to right, clearing my path, and ensuring that my puncture worries are no more.

Just you watch. In a couple of months time I will be ruling the world. It’s inevitable.