Living for Disco

Bike buying in Namibia seems to be quite a difficult task.

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…

Picture the scene. A young(ish) woman steps resolutely into the gathering dawn. It’s so cold that her breath gathers in clouds around her head, and small droplets of moisture accumulate on the end of her nose. However, she does not care; a set of tools in one hand, and a newly repaired inner tube over one shoulder, she is Rachie: Bike Mechanic.

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.

You know it’s a special day when you have to scrape the frost off your bicycle seat before you embark on your daily commute.

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.

It’s usually about this time of the year that I’ve managed to break every single one of my new year’s resolutions. Sadly, I know that this makes me the same as everyone else on the planet, bar a few exceptional people who will probably live to be rich and powerful, and will eventually die peacefully at the age of 150 surrounded by any surviving family members.

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.

I’ve had a revelation. And because I am in tonight, and I can’t help myself, I’m on here again, blogging away. I’m a bit worried that it’s becoming a consuming obsession, thinking of things to post, and it’s not healthy.

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.