Living for Disco

So, my holiday was wonderful, thank you. Mozambique is a beautiful country – the antithesis of Namibia in many ways. It’s deeply lush and green, for a start, with real rivers that are filled with water, and not dust. The landscape is thickly packed with palms that hurl coconuts to the ground in abundance, and mango trees that drip with fruit. The heat and humidity is extreme, but was quelled by the off-shore breezes that we enjoyed while lazily eating samosas bought from small boys on the beach, watching graceful dhows and men with fishing baskets from the comfort of our shady tree.

The sea was like a bath, particularly in the quiet, friendly town of Vilanculos; the water was warm, still and clear, unlike the coast at Swakopmund, where the Atlantic breezes make you wish you’d worn your thermal underwear, and why, oh why, did we decide to drink a beer outside? In the party-central that is Tofo, admittedly, it got a little rough, as the tail-end of a cyclone whipped the surf up just too much to make swimming enjoyable. However, sitting on the beach, drinking a beer and watching the surfers provided perfectly adequate entertainment. I have to say that I have never been in the presence of so many finely sculpted male torsos. I am considering moving to Cape Town, and becoming a professional letch (if I can control my drooling problem).

Maputo is alive and vibrant in a way that Windhoek just… isn’t. On the way in, we passed a heaving, shouting, lively muck-filled market, strewn with piles and piles of stinking rubbish, and through which a multitude of bashed up old cars tried to navigate. Amidst the mess were stalls selling a multitude of items: piles of soft charcoal; multicoloured mosquito nets, blowing in the breeze like so many giant condoms; plastic shoes, both new and used, and other clothing; mangoes, pineapples and small, sweet bananas; soft fresh Portuguese bread; sarongs in multi-coloured African prints, sporting pictures of teapots, of scissors, or of the Mozambique flag with its AK-47 emblem. The bus jittered through the pot-holed road onto the main tree-lined throrough-fare and we headed into the city, and to the haven of our hostel, where we found a balcony overlooking the bay and the waving palms.

One of the best things about Maputo is the fish market. You can’t really get much good fish in Namibia. Seafood isn’t a priority here – it’s meat or nothing. But in Maputo’s fish market, an abundance of marine bounty is on display. Blue and pink crayfish, the size of lobsters; buckets full of squirting clams; crabs; calamari and octopus, tentacles quivering; prawns of all sizes from prince to king and beyond; scarlet groupers with blue spots; enormous, grey shiny barracuda. We bought too much, and went out back, to where the restaurants will cook it up for you, expertly and deliciously, and sell you plenty of 2M beer to wash it down with.

I’m starting to understand what people mean when they say that Namibia is ‘not really Africa’. Please don’t misunderstand me – I in no way agree with them, and still think it’s a really bloody stupid thing to say. It’s just that if Mozambique is anything to go by, Namibia must sometimes seem extraordinary in its quietude and emptiness to people coming from the relatively densely populated countries like Malawi and Zambia. Where are the people? Where is the noise and the life and the energy? The truth is, really you have to look a little harder to find that in Namibia, but it’s there, in Katutura and Khomasdal, and further north in Opuwo and Oshakati and other towns - in other words, the places where tourists very rarely go.

It was quite odd, returning from an extremely hot country to another extremely hot country. I had forgotten that after holidays of this kind I’m used to landing at Heathrow and being smitten by unforgiving winter winds and thrust into a melee of people who look pale and discontented. I almost expected Namibia to be a cool relief, but no, it’s still too effing hot.

It was bliss to leave Namibia for a while; this is the first time I have done so since I arrived, well over a year ago. But now it’s good to be back, and to be reminded just how starkly beautiful it is here.

I had almost forgotten.

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!

I am having a beer with my friend Tariq when he casually mentions that the cost of a visa for Mozambique has been put up from 60 rand to 750 rand. This is approximately 65 shiny British pounds. I can barely afford my holiday as it is, and so this is a giant blow. I may have to sell a kidney.

I decide to phone the Mozambique High Commission to find out the truth, but however much I scour the phone book I can’t seem to find it. This is because, helpfully, there is no consulate for Mozambique in Namibia.

I steel myself for yet more financial pain, and call the office in Pretoria. As they confirm the awful news, I picture my Christmas beer money dribbling into airtight official coffers and begin silently to weep.

“Thank you,” I sigh. “And I can get it at the border, right?”

I don’t know what angel of light prompted me to ask this question, but…

“No, you must get it here.”

Oh. My. God. Now, I’m a pretty seasoned traveler if I do say so myself. I’ve traipsed without mishap over most of South East Asia and half the Middle East. I’ve skipped happily across India, and sunned myself silly in the Caribbean. You would think that it would occur to me to check out the visa situation before booking the bus tickets, yes? Ha haaaa! No! I am too clever for that! So clever, in fact, that I have made sure that the one day we have in Johannesburg is, in fact, a Sunday, when the consulate is shut.

During the remainder of the conversation I dribbled, and said ‘b…b…b…b…’ a lot, particularly when she told me to send my passport to Pretoria, where I could pick it up. I did point out that I would need it to get into South Africa, to which she said “Hmm” as if I was intentionally causing her unnecessary mental anguish.

Anyway, now the three of us must DHL our passports to Pretoria as soon as humanly possible, so that we get them back in time to travel. Because I was in a state of advanced brain-melt, the question of how to pay, what forms we must fill in and how long it will take did not occur to me at this time, resulting in a further three expensive phone calls to the consulate in Pretoria.

The situation is complicated by the fact that one of my traveling buddies is living in Opuwo. The post leaves Opuwo once a week, and frankly, I would trust Nampost as far ooh, say, the distance between me and my computer keyboard. Either they are a bunch of thieving bastards or there is a sucky vortex type portal to another dimension situated in the main sorting office. The only other option is to wait until someone is traveling down to Windhoek – there is no telling how long this might take. Sometimes, I miss the Royal Mail.

I call the high commission in Pretoria for the fourth time to ask them about the information they need to issue the visa.

“Oh,” she says vaguely. “just write down your name and address on a piece of paper”.

“Anything else? What about the dates we are traveling?”

“Oh, yes. Write those down too.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes. Oh, maybe you need to tell us how you are arriving.”

I’m feeling the fear.

My friend and I go into Trip Travel to buy our bus tickets for Mozambique. We are very excited. I envision the procedure – we go in, sit down, say “Hello! Three return tickets to Maputo please!”, and then minutes later, we walk out in to the sun, and go for a coffee to celebrate.

“Hello!” I say, sitting down at the desk. “Three return tickets to Maputo please!”

I remember to specify that we don’t want to add a million unnecessary miles on to our journey by going via Cape Town. This seems to cause a minor problem, and we now have to book each leg of our journey separately.

We begin laboriously to go through the options. After about 7 hours, we have decided on a schedule, which involves spending a night in Jo’burg, trying not to get mugged or murdered. I keep telling myself that thousands of Jo’burg residents manage this every day, but still I am nervous, perhaps because I recently had dinner with some VSOs who had been based there. One of them managed to get violently robbed twice before they’d even had their security briefing.

It takes about three hours to book all of this. Then we start on the mammoth return journey.

When it is all booked, I assume, laughably, that the process is almost over. But no! We have to put names on all the tickets. This takes a further 48 hours, and involves another three Trip Travel staff coming over to offer assistance.

By this time, my head has been on the table for some time, drool slowly seeping from the corner of my open mouth, glazed eyes staring unseeingly at the 18-30 brochures on the shelf.

Finally we get around to processing the invoices. Each ticket must have its own invoice. There are 18 tickets.

“Will it take long?”, my friend asks, anxiously?

“Hahaha! No. It is quite a process but it will not take long.”

For the first time in this narrative, I am not exaggerating – it takes them one and a half hours to process the invoices. From within my semi-coma I notice that there is some concerned muttering going on, although they assure me that nothing is wrong.

Then comes the inevitable ritual with the highlighter. We sit, and they highlight all the relevant points on the ticket – each and every ticket – with pink pen.

During this process it transpires that one of the tickets has been issued in the wrong name. They rectify this by crossing out the incorrect name, and putting the right one in. Having traveled on the Intercape before, I am not convinced that this will work when it comes to the pettiness of the jobsworth ticket inspectors, and I don’t really want my friend to be trapped in Maputo for the foreseeable future. I ask them to get the Intercape office to fax through the correction.

The man at the Intercape office regrets that he is unable to fax this through due to the rain. I begin rhythmically to bounce my head off the table.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I’ve been through this kind of thing before. I really would like a faxed confirmation of the name change before I pay for this ticket.”

They call back the man at the Intercape office, who reiterates that the rain is causing untold mayhem to South Africa’s fax machines. They give the phone to me. Instantly, the man at the Intercape office agrees to fax the confirmation, right away. I wait for some time, and then finally decide to give it up as a bad job. I will come back on Monday, I tell them.

I return on Monday. “My god!” says the ticket lady. “Are you going to Mozambique with hair like that?” She recommends that I wash it out before I go.

I pick up the ticket, with the faxed name change confirmation. I’m not sure how my friend will feel about having to change her surname from Flynn to Flyll. I suspect that that will be easier, however, than requesting another correction.

Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, I hear Maputo is a great city to live in.

June 1994.  I land at Subang Airport in Kuala Lumpur to begin a year of study.  I am carrying no guide book because my ex-boyfriend is coming to meet me at the airport, and so it has not crossed my mind that I may need one.  He knows K.L. well, and promised me that he’d look after me when I arrived.  I pick up my luggage and head towards the doors, looking out for him, expecting to see his face amid the throng, although there are so many people pressed against the glass, I wonder if I will see him. 

The doors open and I am hit for the first time by the heat and the smells of Asia.  Instantly, I am in love.  Bewildered and jetlagged, I take in the scarlet-flowering hibiscus and the palms towering against the blue.  I am breathing as if through a wet flannel, and sweat is trickling between my breasts already.  The heavy smell of durians mixes with petrol and kretek cigarettes.  I am spotted by a herd of taxi drivers, who gallop towards me, shouting, pushing, confusing.  I tell them, smiling confidently, that no, I am waiting for someone.  I do not need a taxi.  Terima Kasih.

For two hours I sit in the airport, watching the women in bright baju kurang sashay past.  I watch men in suits and kepis enter and leave the prayer room.  The day wears on.  I realize that he is not coming, but despite the fact that I know he is a total bastard, part of me refuses to believe that he would leave me here, half a world away from what is familiar.   

I’m a country girl; I am as green as the Welsh fields that I looked out on every morning as I grew up.  The biggest town I’ve ever lived in is Hull, for god’s sake, and that’s a metropolis as far as I am concerned, and one that smells a bit of fish when the wind blows west.  Now, here I am, hot and alone, with a bag of clothes, and a wilting orchid from the flight stuck in my stupid, impractical hat.  I’m surrounded by strangeness and strangers, unable to figure out what to do next.  I don’t know where to go.  I don’t know who to trust.  When I try to call my parents, the exchange inexplicably connects me to a family in Norway, who don’t appreciate being called at 2am by a tearful Englander.

I realize that I can either sit in the airport all day, and all night, and all week, waiting for someone to come and take care of me, or I can take care of myself.  So, cursing my errant ex, and wishing upon him a plague of boils (which I’m sure he managed to contract all by himself, shacked up in carnal bliss with a ladyboy on Koh Samui, while I waited disconsolately for him at the airport), I pick myself up, and wend my way taxi-wards.

Once they have finished fighting over me, and decided who will be the lucky beneficiary of my obvious gaucherie, I am ensconced in the back of a car and sucked into the city.  My taxi driver takes one look at my tear-stained face, and rips me off with aplomb.  He also does me the biggest service that anyone will do for me that year, and deposits me in the centre of KL’s red light district, palming me off onto a Chinese couple who run a busy brothel next to the 7-11, and speak no English. 

They instantly start to fuss over me, and install me in a cosy room, where I can smell frying noodles and storm drains.  The gentle click of mahjong tiles drifts up from the street, all but drowned out by the stink and blare of the distant traffic.  The tiny lift fits only one person, and smells perpetually of durians.  The balconies are full of ‘kupu kupu malam’, drifting around in flimsy dressing gowns, waiting for customers. 

Pathetically, I sit in my room and I cry.  Only my sense of impatience at my own fear spurs me to action.  I go next door, and buy some pak choi with garlic, some fried fish and a plate of rice, and am shouted at by the Cantonese waitress for speaking to her in Malay.  On the way back a man from Senegal speaks to me in French, asking me how to use the public phone.   I am reassured that at least someone in this town is as confused and as lost as me.

But, by the time my friend arrives two days later, I have explored the city by myself.  I eat on the street corner every morning, the rats and cockroaches running around my feet.  I know how to handle the taxi-drivers.  I have been pressed against sweating, groaning, groping humanity in the tiny pink busses that barrel around the city on endless circuits, canto-pop squawking from the speakers.  I have been horribly lost, but I have found my way home.

That night, both incandescent with excitement, we slip down to the 7-11 in our pajamas, to buy bottles of Anchor beer, which she opens with her teeth – a party trick that she has disappointingly since grown out of.  Then we get wildly drunk watching the World Cup, and listening to the unceasing babble and clamour of our new home.

In all my travels since then, I have never been able to recapture that feeling of life just beginning, and adventures beckoning, and trust me, I have tried.

Incidentally, my ex turned up some weeks after we arrived, looking like a lobster, and asking for money.  His friends all tried to warn me off him, knowing how he’d been employing his manhood while in Thailand.  There was no need.  He was, and remains, simply a festering piece of my life’s garbage, who, sadly, would continue to waft his foulness over my life for the rest of the year.  He’s a wretched and loathsome human being, for many, many reasons, but what he did went a long way to making me who I am, and so I suppose I could thank him.  I won’t though.

Where were you in ’94?