An interesting thing happened the other day which got me a pondering. Interesting things do not happen as often as you might think, so I made a mental note to myself to write about it in my blog. And so we find ourselves here (and I promised a story on food. Dammit. I should reread my own blog from time to time)
Anyway, the incident to which I refer was whilst I was travelling from A to B in a taxi. As per usual attempts to break the land speed record in a Toyota Corolla were well underway, when a police roadblock appeared in front. After deploying the parachutes and clunking to a halt, a check of the car and its occupants was made. Police roadblocks are not uncommon and seem to serve a number of purposes:
To check drivers actually have licences to drive
To deter overloading of taxis (1 person per seat – children don't count)
To check people are wearing seat belts
To prevent the landspeed record from actually being broken
Whilst we were being checked, a pick up truck (or bakkie as they are known here) pulled up with 15-20 people crammed in the open back and were ushered along their way by the policeman. This is perfectly legal – you cannot have more than one person per seat in a car in Namibia, rightly so, but there is no number limit for people in the open back of a truck. Putting aside the fact that this method of transportation is absolutely vital for many people to get to their homes in rural areas, this seems to me to be a slightly odd law.
This got me thinking about laws, and the odd ones I have encountered around the world. (Being an Englishman, I’m only too familiar that I hail from a country which still has some bizarre laws theoretically in effect, some from medieval times. In fact, I’ve been astounded when meeting other travellers about just how many other people are aware of the odds laws in my country. I forget how many conversations have erred around “bails of hay” and “London taxis”. I once met an American who thought Paris was a part of London, but if I had the chance to meet him again, I’m almost certain he could rattle of the fact that it is legal to shoot a Scotsman with a crossbow in York on a Sunday).
Another Namibian peculiarity is to do with the movement of meat. There is an imaginary line running across the country and about four fifths of the way up it. As I understand it, this line is for veterinary purposes - all meat reared below it can be used for industry and exported, all meat above the line is for public consumption or private sale only. Furthermore, meat in any form cannot be transported from North to South even for private use. Whilst in principle I understand this, in practice it lacks the thing which many stupid laws around the world no doubt lack - a bit of common sense. Even meat bought in a supermarket in the north – thereby being industrial and forced to comply with veterinary laws – cannot be moved South.
Namibia is not the place with the stupidest laws in the world which I have come across though. Not by a far stretch. For that, I’d have to turn to New Zealand.
Most of you who live or have been to New Zealand will, I’m sure, think I am referring to the “turning right” rule of driving: If you are driving along the road, perfectly minding your own business, perhaps whistling along to the eighties hit which is doubtless on the radio, you may well have somebody cut across immediately in front of you coming from the other direction, forcing you to spill your steak and cheese pie all down your lap. And they would be in the right. You see, cutting across oncoming traffic is your right of way in New Zealand. And that’s just odd.
But no. This is not the craziest. The craziest law in New Zealand relates to drinking and socializing on or around public holidays. I happened to be there on Good Friday in 2006 and, after a long day of travelling, decided to pop into a friendly looking bar for a drink. And was refused. I could only have a drink if I was getting food, and even the was restricted to two drinks and a two hour time out. I kid you not. If this wasn’t enough a big rugby match was due to play that evening. We were told that the match could be shown but without sound. “Why? Does Jesus get offended by the commentary?” was the rather amusing retort of an embittered local. What does make this story a bit more tolerable was not only the fact that the staff seemed genuinely as annoyed as we were about having to turn away custom but also their resourcefulness at rescuing something out of a crazy situation. At the stroke of midnight, thus ending the day of Good Friday, the bar opened again to one and all. I’d long got fed up and left by this point, but I do hope they had a great evening and made up for lost time.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Oh My Law'd
Sunday, December 02, 2007
What I do. Sorry It’s a Little Late
You see I’ve been learning to touch type and its taken me this long to finish one story. Arrrgh, who am I kidding? “My dog ate my laptop” would have been a better excuse. And feasible too – Kate, a good friend of mine who is a teacher in Okahao, actually observed a goat eating someone’s homework.
I genuinely am learning to touch type though. And I genuinely am sorry that once again it has taken so long to update this blog. The persistence of Simon must be lauded in the emergence of this story coming and I hope that it does him justice.
I went back to the UK in September for a short visit, and lost count of the number of times I was asked “So what are you actually doing out there?” I figure that perhaps now, after being here over a year, is a good time to answer that. The trouble is there are so many levels to this question it is difficult to know where to begin. I suppose that is why I’ve avoided it up until now. In honesty, it is best answered in three ways: the official answer, the practical answer and the real answer.
The official answer, which became a seamless response after a while, is that I’m helping to set up Rehabilitation services in a region of Namibia called Omusati. There are four hospitals here, but only one has any staff to provide any service like physical rehabilitation, hearing screening or mental health assistance. That one is Okahao and I’ve been working with the magical Padelia (for those who remember previous blogs) to enhance the way she was working. Padelia is ace, and has been legendary in the way she responded to my suggestions, changes in ways of working and attitude to learn. I couldn’t have asked for more from her.
I’ve now been able to move away from Okahao and leave Padelia continue her duties so that I can focus on the bigger picture. Since returning from the UK this has started in earnest. I’ve moved house (60km further north) and have a much bigger challenge on my hands for the next year. Which feels great.
The practical answer, is I guess what I do on a day to day basis. Well, although in theory my job is more managerial, I do a lot of hands-on physio work too. In an average week, I probably spend between half and three quarters of my time on the wards or in the rehab room doing practical work with patients with a whole variety of problems and complaints. It is a much wider scope of work than I ever did in the UK, and incorporates mental health, speech therapy, deafness and blindness and many other things with adults and children. The rest of the time at work is a mixture of report writing, planning, policy writing and yawn yawn yawn…
Work is, of course, only part of what I do and I spend a lot of time eating, sleeping, drinking watching (many) DVDs and avoiding writing blogs.
The real answer, is that every day I am learning. An incredible amount. About so many things I’ve never contemplated. I’m taking in far more, I’m afraid, than I give out. Ironic, given that the concept of “development work” is that we are passing on our skills. It feels like every day you learn something new and that becomes common place. Just thinking off the top of my head now I can tell you that the things imparted to me over the last year have included: How to fix a puncture with a bit of string, how to open a bottle with another bottle, how to hand wash clothes and not make them smell like a wet dog, how to make Indian food, how to slaughter and prepare a goat, how to assess someone with knee pain in Oshiwambo, how to rescue a tortoise. Clearly a list of vital lifeskills I hear you remark. On a more serious note, I can also put together a reasonable account of Namibian politics, talk with moderate confidence on the successes and failures of the HIV/AIDS crisis in Sub-Saharan Africa, tell you a bit about how the dunes need conserving or debate the issue of seal culling. This is not me trying to be big-headed or gloating in any way, shape or form. Many fellow volunteer colleagues here can do these as well (and no doubt much more efficiently than I). The point I think I’m trying to make is that being out here lends itself to learning where at home you perhaps have to go out looking for it that bit more.
I fear I’m getting all philosophical on you, so will draw to an end what can be termed my comeback blog. Next week: getting the bit between your teeth: A guide to eating in Namibia, which should be not nearly as difficult to digest (‘scuse the pun).
I genuinely am learning to touch type though. And I genuinely am sorry that once again it has taken so long to update this blog. The persistence of Simon must be lauded in the emergence of this story coming and I hope that it does him justice.
I went back to the UK in September for a short visit, and lost count of the number of times I was asked “So what are you actually doing out there?” I figure that perhaps now, after being here over a year, is a good time to answer that. The trouble is there are so many levels to this question it is difficult to know where to begin. I suppose that is why I’ve avoided it up until now. In honesty, it is best answered in three ways: the official answer, the practical answer and the real answer.
The official answer, which became a seamless response after a while, is that I’m helping to set up Rehabilitation services in a region of Namibia called Omusati. There are four hospitals here, but only one has any staff to provide any service like physical rehabilitation, hearing screening or mental health assistance. That one is Okahao and I’ve been working with the magical Padelia (for those who remember previous blogs) to enhance the way she was working. Padelia is ace, and has been legendary in the way she responded to my suggestions, changes in ways of working and attitude to learn. I couldn’t have asked for more from her.
I’ve now been able to move away from Okahao and leave Padelia continue her duties so that I can focus on the bigger picture. Since returning from the UK this has started in earnest. I’ve moved house (60km further north) and have a much bigger challenge on my hands for the next year. Which feels great.
The practical answer, is I guess what I do on a day to day basis. Well, although in theory my job is more managerial, I do a lot of hands-on physio work too. In an average week, I probably spend between half and three quarters of my time on the wards or in the rehab room doing practical work with patients with a whole variety of problems and complaints. It is a much wider scope of work than I ever did in the UK, and incorporates mental health, speech therapy, deafness and blindness and many other things with adults and children. The rest of the time at work is a mixture of report writing, planning, policy writing and yawn yawn yawn…
Work is, of course, only part of what I do and I spend a lot of time eating, sleeping, drinking watching (many) DVDs and avoiding writing blogs.
The real answer, is that every day I am learning. An incredible amount. About so many things I’ve never contemplated. I’m taking in far more, I’m afraid, than I give out. Ironic, given that the concept of “development work” is that we are passing on our skills. It feels like every day you learn something new and that becomes common place. Just thinking off the top of my head now I can tell you that the things imparted to me over the last year have included: How to fix a puncture with a bit of string, how to open a bottle with another bottle, how to hand wash clothes and not make them smell like a wet dog, how to make Indian food, how to slaughter and prepare a goat, how to assess someone with knee pain in Oshiwambo, how to rescue a tortoise. Clearly a list of vital lifeskills I hear you remark. On a more serious note, I can also put together a reasonable account of Namibian politics, talk with moderate confidence on the successes and failures of the HIV/AIDS crisis in Sub-Saharan Africa, tell you a bit about how the dunes need conserving or debate the issue of seal culling. This is not me trying to be big-headed or gloating in any way, shape or form. Many fellow volunteer colleagues here can do these as well (and no doubt much more efficiently than I). The point I think I’m trying to make is that being out here lends itself to learning where at home you perhaps have to go out looking for it that bit more.
I fear I’m getting all philosophical on you, so will draw to an end what can be termed my comeback blog. Next week: getting the bit between your teeth: A guide to eating in Namibia, which should be not nearly as difficult to digest (‘scuse the pun).
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Not for the faint hearted
I’ve been here for ten months now, and although my reason for coming is to work in a developing area, improve services for people with disabilities blah blah blah, it also seemed like a fantastic place to come to work on improving my pasty tan and pulling myself into shape a bit more. Unfortunately as you’ll see from the selection of hand picked photos, so far not everything is going to plan.
Granted, I could have chosen a slightly more pasty person than my friend Michael to pose for some pictures with, but even so I’m disappointed with my efforts. Look at this next one:
My arms are looking a good tanned shade, but clearly I’ve been wearing a few too many wife beater tops. Either that or my chest is now so white that it merely reflects the sun straight off it.
I unfortunately have to admit that these pics were taken a couple of months ago, and things have only gone downhill since then. At that point we were just coming out of summer, so was at my prime colour level. These harsh winter days have forced me indoors or at least donning clothing when out and about, My exercising routines has taken a bit of a dive since then too though now I’ve finally sorted my bicycle problems I’m getting on it again.
So all in all, those of you who have been expecting me to return a bronzed Adonis with Greek God’s body may be slightly disappointed. On the flip side, I’ve got to eat a fair amount of goat.
Granted, I could have chosen a slightly more pasty person than my friend Michael to pose for some pictures with, but even so I’m disappointed with my efforts. Look at this next one:
My arms are looking a good tanned shade, but clearly I’ve been wearing a few too many wife beater tops. Either that or my chest is now so white that it merely reflects the sun straight off it.
I unfortunately have to admit that these pics were taken a couple of months ago, and things have only gone downhill since then. At that point we were just coming out of summer, so was at my prime colour level. These harsh winter days have forced me indoors or at least donning clothing when out and about, My exercising routines has taken a bit of a dive since then too though now I’ve finally sorted my bicycle problems I’m getting on it again.
So all in all, those of you who have been expecting me to return a bronzed Adonis with Greek God’s body may be slightly disappointed. On the flip side, I’ve got to eat a fair amount of goat.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Good bye UUJ, Hello (Cherry 7) UP
A friend of mine, Deb, came out in March and brought with her one of the very few things I’ve been craving since being out here – Cherry 7up. Strange, I know. When she brought it, the car was imminently due to arrive in South Africa – meaning I was about to get my hands on it. We decided that I would keep the Cherry 7-up and drink it with the car once it was in my possession – surely only a matter of days…
Two long, painful (and quite thirsty) months of staring at that pink can in my fridge each day have finally ended. Hurrah. Man, it tasted nice.
So my car has arrived!! All 1510 kg of it. Cars are classified as up to 1500kg in Namibia, which means I actually officially own a truck (or at least it’s a truck when I leave the car loaded when I go to have it weighed. Doh). It means I have to pay slightly elevated prices for truck driving, but between you and me, I think its worthwhile just so I can say “I’m taking the truck out” to anyone who’ll listen. It makes me feel like a man in a world where at times I’m not feeling too manly. You see I’ve started to do yoga once a week with some of the female volunteers in Okahao. Bugger, did I say that out loud?
To tell the whole saga of bringing the car out may take longer than War and Peace and I think I’ll save it for another blog story, probably when I’ve stopped rocking in the corner. Its been a hassle and may or may not have lost two people their jobs (through no fault of my own), but its here and is thriving in the sort of terrain it was designed for. Lets face it, Cheltenham is for sporty saloons or school run 4x4’s. Namibia, with its three or so actual tar roads and the remainder gravel, sand or no road at all, is for my Jeep. I’ve just come back from a weekend in a town called Opuwo, about three hours away on one of these gravel tracks and I have to say both I and my car loved it. There is a whole network of off-road trails around there, and although I didn’t get a chance to do any this weekend, the thought of taking my camping gear and finding some wild desert elephants in the remote bush makes the whole saga of bringing it out here a lot more bearable. Anyone tempted to join me?
Whilst I don’t want to go all Jeremy Clarkson on you (and I’m not getting any commission from Jeep. Unfortunately) I’m discovering even more than when I had it in the UK how much I like this car. On top of the roof coming down, doors coming off and windscreen folding abilities – clearly a more important aspect of an car than other unnecessary things like fuel economy or safety (which aren’t too bad either by the way, just in case Mr Jeep is reading this page) - the fact that I can remove the back seats and convert them into a makeshift sofa in my room has been an unexpected bonus. The “open back” jeep as I’ve now coined it can fit at least five more people in the back after a party (as long as you have a non-drinking designated driver going to the party too). Or so I’ve heard. My dad put a few tools in the car too – a fire extinguisher, torch, battery charger and, errm, de-icer – which more than made up for the fact that they couldn’t ship the car with lots of goodies (I‘d requested a crate of Cherry 7-up).
The British plates have gone (hanging in my room) and have been replaced by the rather snappy reg of N 4011 UP, N being Namibia and UP being Uutapi – the town where it was registered (I could have chosen to register it in Oshakati – SH, Ondangwa – ND or Windhoek – a rather dull W). It would have been perfect if the number prior to UP had ended in a 7, but we can’t have everything can we?
So all in all I’m very happy. If anyone did fancy sending me a can of Cherry 7-up though I’d be most grateful. You might find one in a crate I’ve heard is knocking around Southampton harbour somewhere.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Fear and Loathing in Oshakati
A sudden thought struck me the other day. I’ve not written anything on my blog in ages and ages, I wonder if anyone is even checking it anymore. I then met up with Isabelle, another VSO out here (see link on right – nice plug), and she told me she kept checking and kept being disappointed not to have been reading my exhilarating stories anymore (or words to that effect which may not have been quite so flattering – “why aren’t you writing anymore you lazy arse” may be more accurate). Therefore I’ve decided to take the plunge, the bull by the horns and a deep breath and get back in the game again. So this blog is dedicated to her and anyone else who has continued to check my blog of late, but to no avail.
One of the reasons I’ve not written of late is the sudden and unfortunate loss of my best buddy out here, Mr Vaio. My laptop, you see, was cruelly snatched from me in Oshakati a couple of months back (May 22nd at 17.56. Not that I’m counting) and with it went my zest for life, my yearning to keep you informed with comings and goings, my passion for scribing. Actually I was just pissed off and couldn’t be bothered. I now feel it would be good therapy for me to open up again, so here we go. Apologies if its a bit rusty.
In fairness my laptop was getting way beyond its prime, the speakers didn’t work, headphone port was crackly, it would select at random if it wanted to play a DVD or not – usually not – and reserve the right to change its mind at any given point, but usually just as Jack Bauer is about to be shot (again) or some other crucial moment in a plot. I was down to one single USB port which could only be for a mouse as the ousepad gave up the ghost a long while ago. In short, we had our differences. But he was a good friend, and I miss him lots. This blog story is dedicated to him, therefore.
Correction: The next blog will be dedicated to my laptop. Someone already has dibs on this one.
I want to impart to you therefore, what not to do when stopping at a service station in your Jeep at 5 to 6 on a May evening in a slightly dodgy area of Oshakati with a laptop in a bag on your front seat. Valuable and relevant advice to you all I’m sure you’ll agree.
Firstly, why oh why do you need to take your laptop into Oshakati anyway? Come on, don’t be a fool man. Take a pad of paper and pen.
Secondly, never ever get out of your car to try to do something helpful like undo the petrol cap. No one else does. Let that be a warning.
Third, if a man who looks shifty and moves like he has ants in his pants approaches you. Don’t begin an open dialogue with him with your back turned away from your car. He’s bound to be up to no good. Or has ants in his pants.
Fourth, if you realise an accomplice of ants in pants man has jumped into your car and is running away with your bag and then you get into a streetfight with ants in pants man, let go of him once he starts biting hard into your hand.
Finally, and if all else fails, try to save face. Don’t fume around shouting at people saying “I’m just here to help you people” and by no means kick your car so hard that you are forced to limp away with your tail firmly between your legs.
So there you have it. A lesson learned for us all I feel. If anyone sees any good deals on a laptop, let me know.
One of the reasons I’ve not written of late is the sudden and unfortunate loss of my best buddy out here, Mr Vaio. My laptop, you see, was cruelly snatched from me in Oshakati a couple of months back (May 22nd at 17.56. Not that I’m counting) and with it went my zest for life, my yearning to keep you informed with comings and goings, my passion for scribing. Actually I was just pissed off and couldn’t be bothered. I now feel it would be good therapy for me to open up again, so here we go. Apologies if its a bit rusty.
In fairness my laptop was getting way beyond its prime, the speakers didn’t work, headphone port was crackly, it would select at random if it wanted to play a DVD or not – usually not – and reserve the right to change its mind at any given point, but usually just as Jack Bauer is about to be shot (again) or some other crucial moment in a plot. I was down to one single USB port which could only be for a mouse as the ousepad gave up the ghost a long while ago. In short, we had our differences. But he was a good friend, and I miss him lots. This blog story is dedicated to him, therefore.
Correction: The next blog will be dedicated to my laptop. Someone already has dibs on this one.
I want to impart to you therefore, what not to do when stopping at a service station in your Jeep at 5 to 6 on a May evening in a slightly dodgy area of Oshakati with a laptop in a bag on your front seat. Valuable and relevant advice to you all I’m sure you’ll agree.
Firstly, why oh why do you need to take your laptop into Oshakati anyway? Come on, don’t be a fool man. Take a pad of paper and pen.
Secondly, never ever get out of your car to try to do something helpful like undo the petrol cap. No one else does. Let that be a warning.
Third, if a man who looks shifty and moves like he has ants in his pants approaches you. Don’t begin an open dialogue with him with your back turned away from your car. He’s bound to be up to no good. Or has ants in his pants.
Fourth, if you realise an accomplice of ants in pants man has jumped into your car and is running away with your bag and then you get into a streetfight with ants in pants man, let go of him once he starts biting hard into your hand.
Finally, and if all else fails, try to save face. Don’t fume around shouting at people saying “I’m just here to help you people” and by no means kick your car so hard that you are forced to limp away with your tail firmly between your legs.
So there you have it. A lesson learned for us all I feel. If anyone sees any good deals on a laptop, let me know.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
A peculiar thing seems to be happening in the world of cycling.
When I say “world” I guess I’m really talking about my world of cycling rather than the world of cycling where peculiar things seem to frequently happen. Chasing a moped around a steeply inclined track, for instance. Or those long pointy speed helmets. Or drugs. Lots of drugs. Allegedly.
In my world of cycling, I have a mountain bike. In Okahao there is one two story building – a bar. On a clear day (i.e. every day) you can see for, oohh, say three thousand miles in each direction. Suffice to say that there are not too many mountains for my mountain bike to go up round these parts. That said, with the roads being made of gravel or sand (or, as I suspect, thorns with a thin layer of gravel/sand thrown over the top to hide them before they plunge into your tyre), a rufty tufty bike has been quite useful. I average a puncture a journey (hence the thorns), but can’t imagine how a racing road bike (the ones with the curly handles) would get on here. Actually I can. They won’t.
Anyway, I’m using my bike to commute to one of our clinics – Onemanya – every Tuesday. Its about a 25km round trip on gravel (thorn) road. Although I’m not going out to break any land speed records, I have been timing myself just to see if I’m getting any better. My time for one way averages around 40-45 mins, but interestingly my times are not improving in a nice sloping graph sort of way, but rather seem to be mimicking the mountainous zones which are so scarce here (perhaps trying to mock me?) As part of this process, however, an interesting observation has been developing – namely, the relationship between cycling times and music which I’m listening to on said journey.
Now I’m a great believer that the more pumping the music, the faster I must be going. That’s just logical surely? But this belief theory was thrown into absolute chaos about 2 months ago while listening to Leftfield, an artist you would expect to push for a reasonable time. Although I felt I was hitting a good rhythm to the pretty upbeat music, I came in with a dismal 52 minutes. My worst time to date.
And so it began. Since then I’ve been carefully observing the relationship between times and music. And here’s where the peculiarity has begun. The pre-season favourites, Fatboy Slim, Paul Oakenfold and Cream Anthems have slipped into mid table obscurity along with other big guns like U2 and The Stereophonics all between the 40-45 minute mark. Unexpected successes like Coldplay and Jack Johnson are high up there in the early 40s too. At the bottom of the pile, along with the previously mentioned Leftfield, we have Finley Quaye, Blur, The Beatles (they were never going to maintain their 1960s form) and, errm, Alanis Morrissette all involved in a relegation battle.
“So who’s at the top?” I hear you sitting at the edge of your seats wondering (hear?). Well, only Massive Attack have stuck to their title billing with a respectable 39 minutes 43 seconds to claim third spot thus far. Inching just ahead at 39 minutes 12 seconds coming from nowhere is Jools Holland. Howver, ladies and gentlemen, all records were smashed to pieces in a moment of musical-cycling-synchronised-perfection and we have a clear leader with an astonishing 35 minutes 32 seconds. And the source of this motivational master? James Blunt…
So there you have it. Definitive proof. I watched the Tour de France a couple of years ago and noticed that Lance Armstrong always had an earpiece in (supposedly to talk to his team). Tracey Chapman, maybe? Or Engelbert Humperdink?
Probably not Cheryl Crow.
In my world of cycling, I have a mountain bike. In Okahao there is one two story building – a bar. On a clear day (i.e. every day) you can see for, oohh, say three thousand miles in each direction. Suffice to say that there are not too many mountains for my mountain bike to go up round these parts. That said, with the roads being made of gravel or sand (or, as I suspect, thorns with a thin layer of gravel/sand thrown over the top to hide them before they plunge into your tyre), a rufty tufty bike has been quite useful. I average a puncture a journey (hence the thorns), but can’t imagine how a racing road bike (the ones with the curly handles) would get on here. Actually I can. They won’t.
Anyway, I’m using my bike to commute to one of our clinics – Onemanya – every Tuesday. Its about a 25km round trip on gravel (thorn) road. Although I’m not going out to break any land speed records, I have been timing myself just to see if I’m getting any better. My time for one way averages around 40-45 mins, but interestingly my times are not improving in a nice sloping graph sort of way, but rather seem to be mimicking the mountainous zones which are so scarce here (perhaps trying to mock me?) As part of this process, however, an interesting observation has been developing – namely, the relationship between cycling times and music which I’m listening to on said journey.
Now I’m a great believer that the more pumping the music, the faster I must be going. That’s just logical surely? But this belief theory was thrown into absolute chaos about 2 months ago while listening to Leftfield, an artist you would expect to push for a reasonable time. Although I felt I was hitting a good rhythm to the pretty upbeat music, I came in with a dismal 52 minutes. My worst time to date.
And so it began. Since then I’ve been carefully observing the relationship between times and music. And here’s where the peculiarity has begun. The pre-season favourites, Fatboy Slim, Paul Oakenfold and Cream Anthems have slipped into mid table obscurity along with other big guns like U2 and The Stereophonics all between the 40-45 minute mark. Unexpected successes like Coldplay and Jack Johnson are high up there in the early 40s too. At the bottom of the pile, along with the previously mentioned Leftfield, we have Finley Quaye, Blur, The Beatles (they were never going to maintain their 1960s form) and, errm, Alanis Morrissette all involved in a relegation battle.
“So who’s at the top?” I hear you sitting at the edge of your seats wondering (hear?). Well, only Massive Attack have stuck to their title billing with a respectable 39 minutes 43 seconds to claim third spot thus far. Inching just ahead at 39 minutes 12 seconds coming from nowhere is Jools Holland. Howver, ladies and gentlemen, all records were smashed to pieces in a moment of musical-cycling-synchronised-perfection and we have a clear leader with an astonishing 35 minutes 32 seconds. And the source of this motivational master? James Blunt…
So there you have it. Definitive proof. I watched the Tour de France a couple of years ago and noticed that Lance Armstrong always had an earpiece in (supposedly to talk to his team). Tracey Chapman, maybe? Or Engelbert Humperdink?
Probably not Cheryl Crow.
Monday, February 19, 2007
And just where do you think you’re going? (Part 2)
Me: “Would that be a brand new quad bike I noticed in the store just now? Where did that come from?”
Colleague: “Oh. It’s been there about four years”
“Four years? Who’s is it?”
“Ours. It got donated a few years ago for community visits into the bush.”
“You mean like the community visits I haven’t been able to go on because the car crashed and we can’t get any other transport?”
“Yeah. Kind of like those.”
“Hmmmmm.”
Long Pause
Me: “Say, I have an idea. Maybe I could use the quad bike to get to do my community visits”
“That’s a good idea. Only…”
“Yes?”
“It doesn’t have a licence”
“Ok. Well, one step at a time, how do we go about getting a licence?
“Oh. We need to apply to the Ministry. Only…”
“Yes?”
“You can’t apply for a licence without a Fuel Card. We don’t have a fuel card”
“Right. So how do we get the Fuel Card?”
“We need to apply for one in Windhoek. Should take a few weeks. Only…”
“Yes?”
“We can’t apply for a Fuel Card without a Roadworthiness Certificate.”
“Ah. And how do we get that?”
“From the vehicle registrations office.”
“Only….?”
“Hmmm. To get a Certificate, the vehicle needs to have a licence.”
“I see.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
Colleague: “Oh. It’s been there about four years”
“Four years? Who’s is it?”
“Ours. It got donated a few years ago for community visits into the bush.”
“You mean like the community visits I haven’t been able to go on because the car crashed and we can’t get any other transport?”
“Yeah. Kind of like those.”
“Hmmmmm.”
Long Pause
Me: “Say, I have an idea. Maybe I could use the quad bike to get to do my community visits”
“That’s a good idea. Only…”
“Yes?”
“It doesn’t have a licence”
“Ok. Well, one step at a time, how do we go about getting a licence?
“Oh. We need to apply to the Ministry. Only…”
“Yes?”
“You can’t apply for a licence without a Fuel Card. We don’t have a fuel card”
“Right. So how do we get the Fuel Card?”
“We need to apply for one in Windhoek. Should take a few weeks. Only…”
“Yes?”
“We can’t apply for a Fuel Card without a Roadworthiness Certificate.”
“Ah. And how do we get that?”
“From the vehicle registrations office.”
“Only….?”
“Hmmm. To get a Certificate, the vehicle needs to have a licence.”
“I see.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
Monday, February 12, 2007
And just where do you think you’re going? (Part 1)
I knew that transport was always going to be a problem out here. I knew that mainly because in my first week here the most common comment I got was “transport will be a problem”
Lets start at the beginning. Cars out here are ridiculously expensive. A 1986 VW golf with about 200,000 Km and ready for the scrapheap will still cost you between £1000-1500. Go for a 4x4 and you’re looking more at £4,000-6,000 for starters. Which is why my big red Jeep is soon to be on a ship and making its way to Africa. Oh yes.
So sorted then?
Not quite. Whilst the Jeep will be excellent for personal use, I still need to use work transport for, errm, work purposes. Schedules of Ministry of Health transport is a secret more closely guarded than nuclear codes of the US President. In fact, I think it’s that much of a secret, they’ve done away with a schedule and act on spontaneity. As I’m meant to be accessing far corners of the bush, I was due to getting rides with the hospital outreach car. The first two months, however, the car was being repaired in a garage. Celebrations occurred when the car eventually returned only for it to be driven for two days and meet its maker in the form of a donkey:
One regular transport is the daily ambulance which leaves for Oshakati (big town about 80km away) each day at one. Or so they say. If you arrive at one, it has usually gone ten minutes early. So it’s better to get there about quarter to. But of course on those days it leaves more like at two. You cannot win.
Public transport is available. Taxis have an interesting system throughout Namibia. You pay per person rather than for the taxi. If you are taking a taxi from Oshakati to Okahao, say, it costs N$ 21 for each person in the taxi. Which means the more people in, the more money for Ivor the Driver. My record stands at eight in a Toyota Corolla, but I’ve heard stories of more.
So may favoured method of transportation up until Tuesday was the bicycle. Its cheap, good for fitness, and reliable. Until Tuesday when brakes gears and tyres all decided to give up the ghost in one swift explosive moment. Arse. I think I can repair it, but not sure it will do me long term, especially now the rains are here and most places have turned into the Lake District rather then Savannah Desert.
So now back to square one. I guess the great thing about the whole complexity of transport is how it makes things so simple. No one really relies on transport; therefore no one is disappointed when you don’t arrive. It’s a bonus when you do. It’s quite nice when things get turned on their head like that.
That being said, I always welcome new solutions to my problems. So if anyone has a spare hovercraft or helicopter knocking around that they’re not using for a while, I’m game.
Lets start at the beginning. Cars out here are ridiculously expensive. A 1986 VW golf with about 200,000 Km and ready for the scrapheap will still cost you between £1000-1500. Go for a 4x4 and you’re looking more at £4,000-6,000 for starters. Which is why my big red Jeep is soon to be on a ship and making its way to Africa. Oh yes.
So sorted then?
Not quite. Whilst the Jeep will be excellent for personal use, I still need to use work transport for, errm, work purposes. Schedules of Ministry of Health transport is a secret more closely guarded than nuclear codes of the US President. In fact, I think it’s that much of a secret, they’ve done away with a schedule and act on spontaneity. As I’m meant to be accessing far corners of the bush, I was due to getting rides with the hospital outreach car. The first two months, however, the car was being repaired in a garage. Celebrations occurred when the car eventually returned only for it to be driven for two days and meet its maker in the form of a donkey:
One regular transport is the daily ambulance which leaves for Oshakati (big town about 80km away) each day at one. Or so they say. If you arrive at one, it has usually gone ten minutes early. So it’s better to get there about quarter to. But of course on those days it leaves more like at two. You cannot win.
Public transport is available. Taxis have an interesting system throughout Namibia. You pay per person rather than for the taxi. If you are taking a taxi from Oshakati to Okahao, say, it costs N$ 21 for each person in the taxi. Which means the more people in, the more money for Ivor the Driver. My record stands at eight in a Toyota Corolla, but I’ve heard stories of more.
So may favoured method of transportation up until Tuesday was the bicycle. Its cheap, good for fitness, and reliable. Until Tuesday when brakes gears and tyres all decided to give up the ghost in one swift explosive moment. Arse. I think I can repair it, but not sure it will do me long term, especially now the rains are here and most places have turned into the Lake District rather then Savannah Desert.
So now back to square one. I guess the great thing about the whole complexity of transport is how it makes things so simple. No one really relies on transport; therefore no one is disappointed when you don’t arrive. It’s a bonus when you do. It’s quite nice when things get turned on their head like that.
That being said, I always welcome new solutions to my problems. So if anyone has a spare hovercraft or helicopter knocking around that they’re not using for a while, I’m game.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
That's that one checked off the list
I’ve been thinking deep philosophical thoughts recently and since I’ve been in Namibia a few things that have happened have pushed me away from evolutionary theory and more to creationism. This is a bold statement and probably needs a bit more clarification. From what I’ve heard and read about Darwin’s Theory of Evolution (admittedly not a lot) - natural selection, survival of the fittest, fossil records and all that jazz it all seems perfect. What I’ve discovered since I’ve been here and what leads me to question this theory, however, is the existence of three animals, which I can’t for the life of me imagine what they could have evolved from. Hours (minutes) of deep pondryment have led me to the conclusion that these three creatures must surely have been created by someone’s imagination. Some genius with an excellent sense of humour or after a few too many drinks…
The Giraffe
Those of you who are regular and/or attentive to this blog will have seen comments made previously about a photo of a giraffe. No prizes for those who guessed that it would have ended on my final list. Don’t get me wrong, giraffes are cool – seeing them up close in the wild was awesome. But they really aren’t the most efficient of animals. I mean, come on, they were designed by someone with a few too many lego bricks spare. Watching a giraffe drinking is a moment of nature’s true genius. As they approach the water, they look shiftily around to check out their surroundings. People here would tell you that that is because when a giraffe lowers itself, it is at its most vulnerable for attack – exposing its neck and not exactly in the starters blocks for a quick getaway. That is wrong. They actually are looking around to make sure no one else is watching them, so embarrassed are they about how silly they look when they drink. It is a bit like going into a newsagent’s to get a top shelf magazine. Apparently. (Though if you were to compile a list of Top Ten Animals Designed to Retrieve a Top Shelf magazine, Giraffes may well be near the top. How ironic)
I’m right and you know it. Convinced?
The Giraffe
Those of you who are regular and/or attentive to this blog will have seen comments made previously about a photo of a giraffe. No prizes for those who guessed that it would have ended on my final list. Don’t get me wrong, giraffes are cool – seeing them up close in the wild was awesome. But they really aren’t the most efficient of animals. I mean, come on, they were designed by someone with a few too many lego bricks spare. Watching a giraffe drinking is a moment of nature’s true genius. As they approach the water, they look shiftily around to check out their surroundings. People here would tell you that that is because when a giraffe lowers itself, it is at its most vulnerable for attack – exposing its neck and not exactly in the starters blocks for a quick getaway. That is wrong. They actually are looking around to make sure no one else is watching them, so embarrassed are they about how silly they look when they drink. It is a bit like going into a newsagent’s to get a top shelf magazine. Apparently. (Though if you were to compile a list of Top Ten Animals Designed to Retrieve a Top Shelf magazine, Giraffes may well be near the top. How ironic)
The Flying Kamikaze Beetle
I don’t actually know what this insect is called, but I can tell you that I’ve studied it with awe and wonder as to how it has survived on our planet as long as it has (though I don’t know how long it has – maybe it only came in 2005 and will soon be moving on). As with most insects I know (Dave, Shane and Gladys), The Flying Kamikaze Beetle has an excessive and morbid fascination for lights. Rather than taking after its flying cousin The, errm, Fly, and flying around a light for most of an evening (before eventually bafflingly managing to find a secret trapdoor and get inside the light – how do they do that?) the Flying Kamikaze Beetle is only interested in flying at full speed, headfirst into the light. This usually results, as it would with most of us flying headfirst into a solid object, in rendering the beetle unconscious and it dropping a fairly hefty distance to the floor. There it remains for a good half hour or so before coming to and going through a thought process presumably along the lines of (groggily) “Bloody hell, where am I? And why is my head pounding? I wonder if I have any aspirin in my pocket…Nope, I’m a beetle. Hang on a second, oooohhh, what’s that? Aaaaahhhh it’s a bright light in the sky. Perhaps if I fly into it really fast it will take my headache away. Lets give it a shot…” And so it goes for the whole night until you eventually get bored and turn off the light to put it (and you) out of its misery for another 24 hours.
The Donkey
The irony that one of the more biblical animals is heading up my theory of the creationist theory of a comedy genius has not been lost on me. However, you will soon see that this is the only possible explanation of how the donkey has come to exist.
Donkeys are involved in more road accidents here than cars. That’s not strictly true, but they are involved in a lot. Obviously that doesn’t prove my theory until you consider the following:
- Namibia is huge. No seriously it is massive. On a scale you can’t even imagine (especially if you live in Britain. Or the Vatican – though I don’t think anyone reading this does). I think its second behind Mongolia on the fewest people to amount of land scale. There are vast areas of nothingness. Vast. And three roads. Which is where you find ALL the donkeys. Sometimes they stand on the side, but mostly they stand in the middle.
- Namibia is very sandy. And donkeys are the colour of sand. If they could evolve surely a nice fluorescent pink with maybe neon lights wouldn’t be too out of the question.
- Donkeys are the only animal whose eyes don’t reflect car headlights. I kid you not.
- Donkeys are VERY stubborn. I ain’t getting out the way for no-one. Fool.
Why why oh why would you evolve to be like this? Now I know purists amongst you are going to say “But evolution takes hundreds, nay, thousands of years, Ant, and cars have only been around for fifty”, but you know what I call that? Excuses, excuses.
I’m right and you know it. Convinced?
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