Living for Disco

I’m off again; October’s turning into a scarily absent month. I was even away for this blog’s second birthday on 7 October, which I celebrated by myself with a fat cigar and some expensive brandy. In my dreams.

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.

I tend not to write about work or emotional stuff too much on here, because it’s easy enough to find out who I am. Blogging about work is a risky business as many bloggers know, and these days I don’t find it easy to share my innermost angst with the internet.  Anyway, saying that, this post is about both work, and my emotional health, shaky as it has been at times.  Just FYI.

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.

Well, I made it. I haven’t had a chance to get to the internet before now, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that people seem to be congenitally incapable of keeping appointments in this place. I’m not surprised; just boilingly frustrated. People have been promising to come at 8, at 12, at 2, before lunch, after lunch, before the end of the day, when hell freezes over and the camels come skating home…. On Wednesday someone did show up, but all he said was “Is it you I’m connecting to the network? Ah, right, good. That’s all I need to know. See you tomorrow.” He hasn’t been seen since. I’m using someone else’s PC.

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.

Ok, I know that technically I’m not actually there yet, but I did receive confirmation from VSO that my tickets are in the post, and that I have a visa, so will be allowed into the country without the little piece of paper confirming that I am not a criminal, and have never in any way been involved with nefarious activities. That they know of.

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.)

Oh my god. The last few days have been crazy. I had a party. Lots of people came. They all got drunk and watched me hurtle around in an insane parody of a social butterfly, except that I slopped more wine than an elegant society belle would do. And I may have had dirtier feet.

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.