I can only imagine the look on the farmer’s face. It must have resembled the look on mine – incredulity shaken up with contempt, and a splash of disgust. Do people actually do any research before they interview people? Do they actually know anything about Africa?

It was really the cherry on the cake of a most annoying weekend. The volunteers were all great, apart from the guy who insisted on telling me in minute detail about the trials faced by the Papua New Guinean people, when all I wanted to do was drink my wine and gossip about stuff unrelated to third world development issues. It was the VSO employees running the gig that really annoyed me. I just don’t understand why they would organise a weekend designed to address the complex issues faced by returning volunteers and staff it with non-volunteers with a collection of caring faces, and a tendency to say “I can’t imagine what it must be like”.

Bits of it were good, like the feedback to the Chief Executive, who actually listened and responded. Generally, however, I felt I really could have done with a bit more of the sessions about coming home, and less of the ones about how to use a photograph to tell a story.

It was a relief to get home, and do normal things for the afternoon, really. Being at the weekend was alternately unsettling, confusing, upsetting and encouraging, with rather too little of the latter. Could do better, VSO.

I do think that VSO is amazing, and I would and do recommend it. It’s just that my experience was frustrating for many reasons, and it’s still very recent – although, frankly, the craziness of my current job is tinging my memories of my Namibian work with rosy gold. Ask me now! Ask me now!

Anyway, they seemed rather taken aback by my response and suggested a debrief, to take place at a returned volunteer weekend in Birmingham, this weekend. To whit, I will spend a weekend surrounded by people who have finally been let loose in an environment where they can say “When I was in Ethiopia/Ghana/India/Namibia…” until they are blue in the face, and no one will roll their eyes or glaze over.. Oh, the intoxication.

I received an email setting out the schedule for the first day, and it begins with a session entitled “Just one thing…” to which we are encouraged to wear our favourite outfit from our time overseas. I am now wishing that I had spent that vast amount of money on the Herero dress I saw in the window of a tourist shop in Windhoek. My favourite outfit from Namibia was a pair of cut off jeans, a khaki t-shirt from M&S, my Mr Price plastic flip-flops – now sadly defunct, and adrift somewhere in Malawi, and my Ray-Bans, which are so scratched I can no longer see out of them. I’m not sure I’m going to measure up. Perhaps I should take my red satin witch’s hat…

I’m alternately filled with horror and amusement at the idea of this session. I know what many VSOs are like, and they tend to go all gung-ho and dress in splashy African prints and styles that just look outlandish on middle-aged, middle class white women. Then I feel shame at being so bitter and twisted and not entering into the spirit of things as I should. It makes me feel like an errant schoolgirl. I expect I will sit there chewing gum, rolling my eyes, and flicking paper balls at the facilitator.

The scariest part of all is that when I go back to Harborne Hall, it will be over two years since I was last there, and it will feel like five minutes.

Just one thing… How did the time go by so fast?

“Eish, that is a long time.”

“Oh, it is September next year not this year?”

“Oh ok. [counts months off in his head; looks dismayed] Don’t forget it is my bike!”

Usually while he says these things, he’s clinging to the handlebars and admiring the bicycle’s fine lines and extraordinary streamlining. Well, he’s admiring something anyway. He absolutely cannot wait until I leave.

So, last week I came home on the bike, and he said “So, I am going away. I will be here tomorrow, and then the next day, and then I will be away in the north for two weeks. When I come back you will give me the bike? And also you must tell me that place where you get the bike mended and their number*, and I need everything. OK, I must go now, I must open the gate for these people!”

And he’s gone before I have a chance to argue. He’s trying to wrest the bike from my posession a full six weeks before I’m actually due to give it up – that’s how excited he is about it.

I feel a bit bad that I’m going to make him wait even longer for something that has been the object of his desire for almost two full years, but I reckon it’s character building. I mean, I’m going a bit frothy at the mouth waiting for my placement to be finished – it feels so close now, I just feel a bit limboish – but I’m going to have to learn to be patient. Some might say that if I haven’t learned how to be patient by now, I’m a lost cause, but it’s never too late in my opinion.

God, is it only 11.25? Sigh.

*It’s these people. They are wonderful, and have a really interesting bicycle ambulance project going on. You might want to give them some money. They’d really like it if you did.

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’.

So, I don’t know how many of you remember this post, about the rudeness and ineptitude of the customer service department of The Honours Student Loans Company. This is a continuation of that saga of pig-thickery.

Fortunately, I thought that after a series of approximately 25 emails exchanged with the Honours Student Loans Company last month, which wasted a vast amount of time I could have better spent picking my nose, or cleaning the dirt from beneath my fingernails, I had the whole thing sorted out. They led me to believe this by sending me this email (which, conspicuously, did not have the words ’sorry’, ‘apology’, or ‘fantastic incompetence’ in it at all):

“A deferment form was requested for you yesterday and I can confirm that a hold has been placed on your account until it has been deferred. Once the deferment is accepted we can backdate the deferment start date by a period of 3 months but on this occasion I will note the account that we will extend this period due to the fact mail was not sent to the address that you had specified.”

Lovely.

So, this morning, I receive an email from my friend, with this attached. It is from the Honours Student Loans Company:

I don’t know if you can read it, but the Honours Student Loans Company are telling me that my account is now 340 pounds overdue, and that if they have to send me any more letters, they will be charging me for them. And, mind-bogglingly, they have clocked that I am overseas, because this letter comes from the overseas collection department.

They obviously have not taken in the information that I earn approximately 210 shiny British pounds every month, and that I occasionally have sleepless nights because when I get back home, this experience will have plunged me even deeper into debt than I was before.

I have written to them, with the message that I expect an apology very shortly. I absolutely cannot wait to receive their first email this morning. I am hoping beyond hope that they get on their knees and offer to clean the ground beneath my feet with their tongues for the foreseeable future. I doubt it though, and right now, I’m in the mood for a fight. I have all my words lined up, ready to march into battle.

They are fuckers (the Honours Student Loans Company, that is, in case you hadn’t picked up on that).

It’s Global Ed time again, where we VSOs gather together for an educational weekend, and a royal piss-up. Last time it was cheetahs, this time it’s diamonds.

So, I’m off down south – to Luderitz, to be exact, where diamonds litter the ground like very expensive confetti, or so I’m told. In some diamond mining areas, like Oranjemund, which is a closed town run by the diamond company, it is actually illegal to scratch the ground with your boots. I heard a story about a man who used to smuggle diamonds out of Oranjemund in the cavity behind his glass eye. Employees have routine x-rays whenever they leave the area, which is better than being fed laxatives and being directed via an inspection latrine on your way out the door. Imagine having a job where you have to search human shit for smuggled gems. You’d want to be paid in diamonds for that kind of suffering – but only once they’d been thoroughly rinsed.

Then we’re going to Kolmanskop, a dead town being slowly being digested by the desert.

I have agreed to organise the catering for the event, which lasts four days, and is being attended by 28 people. Every so often I hit myself over the head with a handy blunt object for being so monumentally stupid. So tomorrow I have to go and buy about 400 bags of lentils and a truckload of booze. I’m taking some cuppa-soup just in case.

So, talk amongst yourselves, and look forward to tales of diamond-related intrigue and mystery on my return.  Back Tuesday.

It’s been a tough year for me (oh woe, drama etc. Wish list on the right, thanks.).  There have been days, often many consecutive ones, when I’ve lain in the bath for hours, unable to move, or to stop crying, completely incapable of either understanding or getting rid of the cloud of despair that hovered around my head all day, every day for about three months.

There have been a few reasons for this: my break up and subsequent attempt to be friends with my ex-bloke has been particularly tough, and although I hate to admit it, almost six months on I still ache about it from time to time, even though I wouldn’t have him back now if the deal involved a lifetime’s supply of jaffa cakes and a beach house in the Caribbean.

Work is another reason.  I’ve felt consistently that I’m not achieving what I set out to do here, that I’ve set myself too big a task, and that I am being sucked into the quicksand of permanent unemployability because in the face of the biggest challenge I have ever faced, I have been sinking.   To say it’s been a blow to my self-confidence is an understatement.

For a while, I was desperately homesick, and lonely, and confused about the future, despite my wonderful friends, and an experience that most people would kill for.

And to top it off, I have had to work in close proximity with one of the laziest, most irritating and deeply unpleasant individuals you could ever have the misfortune to meet.  Imagine coming into work every morning to be greeted by such gems as “Don’t you think it would be fun to pick a fight with a paraplegic?”, or “You look like a cross between a 12 year old and a 40 year old woman in those stupid clothes”.  That’s not to mention the unwanted physical attention, the hair stroking, the head-kissing; the other things about him that made me feel physically sick.

This blog has saved me in so many ways.  Without it, I wouldn’t have had the incentive to get up every morning, and to try and find something to laugh about.  I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of writing to fall back on.  I can’t express how much I enjoy it, even though often I’m stuck for words, and feel about as interesting as a plate of semolina. I know that it’s probably silly to invest so much in a something so small, but I honestly feel that without it, I would have been so lost.

It got to the point, about six weeks ago, when I was ready to throw in the towel and go home, tail between my legs.  An argument with my dickhead colleague about an email I’d sent my boss concerning his behaviour resulted in death threats and talk of revenge, and two days of blessed silence.  When it all began again I went to VSO for the first time since I got here.

I spent so many months thinking that I should be able to do this on my own, that by the time it was almost too late, I did what I should have done in the beginning.  I sat in their office, and I tried to talk about my problems in a rational, and controlled manner, as befitting the professional person that I strive to be.  But in the end I just sat and cried.

Now, after only the second sexual harassment case to be brought in Namibia, I am free of my nemesis.  The experience was deeply unpleasant, particularly the hearing, where I had to sit next to him and elaborate on the many demeaning and sickening comments he has consistently subjected me to over the last five months; where I had to endure the questions he asked me that were designed to humiliate and discredit me.  Fortunately I had nothing to hide, and I’m glad that I went through with it.  I hope it encourages others to do the same.

As far as work is concerned, I’ve managed to complete the task that scared me the most.  I might still have fucked it up, but at least it’s done.  From here on in, it can only get better.

And as for my personal life, the fact remains that there seem to be no eligible men whatsoever in Namibia.  The prospect of a year of celibacy doesn’t exactly fill me with joy, but I expect there are positive things I can take from it, not least that by the time I do eventually have sex again, I’ll be so completely delighted that it’s bound to be mind-blowing.

So, things are looking up.  I’m not going home, even though many of my friends are, and some have already left.  I will miss them, but not as much as I would miss Namibia if I left now, before I am ready.

‘There’ll be ups and downs’, VSO said, when we were preparing for a departure, eager and excited, and all convinced that our time abroad was going to be a bed of delightful smelling roses.  ‘It’s going to be tough sometimes’, they said, ‘but it will be worth it in the end.’

I had no idea how right they would be.

The other reason I haven’t been able to get to the internet is because I can’t really get out of my house unless accompanied by someone with a car, because it’s so far to anywhere useful. Neither can I leave my office without being accompanied, or driven. Two of my colleagues were robbed at knife point in the last month walking across the scrubby stretch of bushland to and from Maerua Mall – the nearest shopping centre. As a consequence, one of them is utterly paranoid about going anywhere, and puts the wind up me every time I even talk about going out, although we did venture to another small supermarket today. I’m even having to rely on the generosity of a colleague to get to and from work, because taxis are impossible to come by and very expensive, at both ends.

If I was any kind of naïf, I’d think that the traditional Windhoekian greeting conversation goes something like this:

THEM: “Welcome to Namibia! Are you planning on buying a car while you’re here?”
ME: “No, I can’t afford one. I’d have to sell a limb.”
THEM: “[sucks teeth] Oooh, difficult. Difficult.”

Windhoek is a strange place, and, initially, a nerve-wracking one. VSO managed to find me a shared apartment in a part of town called Ludwigsdorf. Anyone in the know will tell you that Ludwigsdorf is the Mayfair of Windhoek. Rent is extortionate, swimming pools compulsory, and each and every gigantic house is surrounded by electric wire, razor fencing, multiple alarm systems, electric gates and armed response signs. Our house even has two dogs, but one of them is too daft to bark, and the other one is only concerned with licking my feet. It must just love the taste of stale sweat. Sometimes we pick up other dogs. Every time I open the gate, some local mutt or other bounds joyously through, and starts yapping hectically with the other two. Yesterday it was a dachshund puppy with unfeasibly long ears.

My flatmate and I are ensconced in a little granny flat that I believe housed the domestic staff during the days of Apartheid. It’s very comfortable, but miles and miles away from anywhere, and as yet lacks any real cooking facilities. We’re using the two ring camping gas thing that VSO use for camping trips, and which welds all food irretrievably to the bottom of any pan you happen to be using. VSO provided us with some furniture, but in order to sleep, I have to sacrifice my supply of books – my bed only has three legs, so they’re they only things keeping me upright.

I’m a bit cheesed off with VSO, who said originally that I would be able to rely on public transport for all my needs. Taxis form the bulk of public transport in this city, and they act a little like buses, having designated routes and pickup points. If you travel along a designated route, it will cost you $6 (about 50p), but if you go outside that, they charge you at least double. I have to walk two miles from home to even find a taxi, because no one in Ludwigsdorf ever needs one, and if I walk to Maerua Mall from work, which is the only place I’d find one, I’m likely to be set upon by armed youths.

My flatmate is taking me to the Trade Centre tonight to buy a bike. Hopefully that will give me some modicum of independence. I’m trying not to think about the cycle to work every day, which is extremely pretty, and winds through groves of pleasant houses surrounded by the newly purpling jacaranda trees. Swallowtail butterflies drift flappily over head, and songbirds warble amongst the cacti. It does, however, involve riding up and down a series of large hills in blistering heat. I will be very fit at the very least. Actually, I’ll probably be moving closer to the centre of town at the end of October, which will make life a great deal easier.

It’s hot here. The sun begins to bake the dry earth as soon as it peeps over the mountains that ring the city. By midday it’s sweltering, the heat beating up from the tarmac, and crisping the yellow grass into sharp and crackling spikes. By four, all you want to do is hide in the shade, and rest your cheek against cool tiles. By six, it’s starting to cool, and I’ve been spending my early evenings sitting drinking ice cold gin and tonic and watching the lavender sunsets. The evening star is so bright here that it comes out far, far earlier than any other. It looks somewhat ethereal, burning up there while the sky is still darkening from lilac to deep blue.

It’s hot, and it’s going to get hotter. Apparently it’s only spring now – by December it gets so stifling that the entire city decamps to the seaside for a month. It’s dry too. So dry that you don’t even know you’re sweating. It evaporates immediately, offering not a speck of cool relief. My skin has reacted bizarrely, and I can tell already that my main expense here will be moisturiser – for my lips, my face, my body and my hair. I feel desiccated.

The altitude is another factor here – we’re at 4,500 feet, or thereabouts, which is the height of Ben Nevis. In my first week I woke up every morning with blood crusted to my teeth and tongue, and I immediately, being an inveterate hypochondriac, assumed that I had some terrible terminal disease. It is just nose-bleeds though, and they’ve more or less stopped now. Also on the plus side, the dryness does make for agreeably satisfying crusty bogeys.

Windhoek is a very pleasant place, despite the distances and transport problems. The streets are wide and almost empty of traffic, and there are numerous palm trees and jacarandas. Bougainvillea grows over everything, draping glorious oranges, reds, hot pinks and daffodil yellows across the whitewashed buildings. Everyone I’ve met has been wonderfully friendly and welcoming.

There’s plenty to do here too. Since I arrived I’ve been to the theatre, the cinema, a braai, spent a lazy Sunday at Katatura swimming pool, and last night’s crowning glory, the Putt Putt at Maerua Mall. Not the most inspired crazy golf pitch I’ve ever played on, but still, a pleasant diversion for a balmy Thursday evening. The Namibians seem to love it. The course was covered in couples and groups, shrieking and running about like maniacs. My burning ambition now is to reach the par, which is 36. Last night I scored 73, which I think is perfectly reasonable, even though we only allowed ourselves six shots per hole.

Another advantage is that although work starts early, it also finishes early(ish). I’m usually home by 5.15. Last night I managed to make a curry, hand-wash two weeks worth of laundry and eat a leisurely meal before heading off to the crazy golf. I know, I know. I’m going to be living such an exciting life! I’ll also have arms like Fatima Whitbread after two years of bucket laundry. Au revoir, bingo wings.

Life here, for me, will be very easy, and I’m sure, pleasant. Incredibly though, in a city so rich, there are an enormous amount people who have nothing to eat on a daily basis. Unemployment is a huge problem, as is HIV and AIDS. It makes me feel extraordinarily guilty, not that I can help that I am so lucky, or would if I could. At least I’m in a position where I can use my skills to make a difference, even if it is tiny.

Anyway, I’m sure that’s quite enough for now. Ciao.

I’m fully expecting to be on that plane tomorrow night, and I’m hoping that this will mean that we arrive safely in Windhoek at around lunchtime on Sunday. With these thoughts in mind, I have changed the blog to reflect my new status as ‘International Woman of Mystery’. Although I haven’t changed it much, that you’d notice.

This action will probably scupper everything. As my Namibia-bound friend Sue said the other day, we will probably all have to go to Torremolinos because we can’t come back from the airport after so many months of saying goodbye to people, and then running into them in Sainsburys’ and hearing the familiar cry of “Haven’t you gone yet?”.

Honestly, I feel as if I’ve been saying goodbye to people since January. Enough already, can we go now?

I haven’t yet said goodbye to the Beastette, who has been sadly neglected of late. It will be left, leaning forlornly against the balcony wall, until my flatmate can take her home to my mum. I’m not sure which is better – at least here it’s got a nice view of a churchyard. My mum’s garage has the largest collection of deadly spiders outside Australia. We don’t go in there any more. The cobwebs are too difficult to tackle without the help of a blowtorch.

I haven’t packed yet either, although my clothes are now piled up in little stacks (skirts, shirts, trousers, etc. – I am nothing if not methodical). The BF is coming over this afternoon to help me pack, which means that he will sit around holidng up vital items, saying “Do you really need this?”, and generally hindering my progress.

This will be my last post for a while, as I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to get to a computer next week. Please come back next weekend for an update (I expect the weather in Spain will be lovely.)

Then on Sunday we went punting.
This is why I love Cambridge. It’s stunningly beautiful, compact and easy to manage, has great pubs, and the most civilised form of Sunday afternoon entertainment on the planet.

Anyway, now I’m getting a bit panicky. I’ve got loads of work still left to do this week, and not much time to do it. The BF keeps telling me not to panic, and I keep trying to persuade him that the prospect of disappearing off to Namibia with a negative bank balance is not my idea of a good time. However, this might actually end up being the case, the way things are going at the moment.

Also, I have not yet had my Criminal Records Bureau check through, without which it is somewhat doubtful that I will be allowed past customs at Windhoek airport. Neither have I had any flight tickets, and my placement adviser seems utterly clueless as to what to do, and just keeps telling me not to panic.

So, five days to go. No packing. No visa. No tickets. No money. No sanity.

Oh well. Back to work.