Arise sir blogalot

So. There we have it. My time in Namibia is pretty much up and it has come just a mere six months (give or take) after my blogging life came to a slow grinding halt.

This is the thing. The problem with trying to write about different experiences when abroad is that if you experience them for long enough they stop being different. And hence stop being blogworthy. I have started writing quite a few times and just stopped again because I think they stopped carrying the conviction and surprise of my first experiences here.

However good news is on the horizon. Life is soon to take a new blog friendly twist and hopefully you will be the benefactors of this. After a slightly drunken conversation and an inability for either of us to pluck up the courage to step down and admit a terrible idea, myself and a fellow VSO volunteer, Rose, have decided to saunter our way back home (UK and Irelend respectively) and take public transport back up the West Coast of Africa. Roughly this way:



I do plan to go back and add more stories about life in Namibia as I think and reflect on them, but for now you can keep updated with our findings as we embark on the slow journey home.

The Culture Club

Before I came out to Namibia, I undertook a number of training sessions – organised by VSO – to help prepare for the new life which was to be brought upon us. In one of the courses we undertook a very clever little exercise giving descriptions of various exotic “cultural” scenarios and we all had to give our honest reactions as to how we felt or would feel presented with such a situation. I can’t quite remember them all (something to do with taking your clothes off springs to mind for some reason) but the one which I do remember described a type of edible delicacy enjoyed locally - albumen of bird, lightly cooked so that the juice still flows freely, eaten with pounded wheat mixed with water cooked over a flame and cut into pieces.

The thing was though, those little tinkers at VSO has called our bluff. Whilst we were there debating the merits of closing your eyes, holding your nose and anything aka “I’m a Celebrity…” food trials, it turns out all of the exotic scenarios were from no further afield than Blackpool or Peterborough. They were all perceptions by other people towards British cultural practices, you see. The delightful sounding recipe above is none other than soft boiled eggs with soldiers.

I bring this up now for two reasons, 1) It was interesting; 2) I want to talk about culture and it seemed a nice way of introducing it.

A while ago I helped out with the national immunisation campaign for children. Teams of people went to outreach posts with cool boxes containing vaccinations, a clipboard, paper and pen and packed lunches. It was actually a very impressive undertaking and something I should write about one of these days. However, it is the latter of these items which is the purpose for our cultural difference demonstration for today – my lunch. Most of it went without a hitch, but then came the orange. Now, for me, I’ve been brought up on football and rugby pitches eating my oranges in quarters, rinds still on and sucking the life out of that piece. So there I was, quartering away, lost in my own world, sucking away, when I became all too aware of an ominous silence. I looked up to see six African faces staring at me in a conjoined bewilderment. All I could do was muster an orange gum shield smile back.

I guess the point I’m getting at is that whilst I came out here expecting to be amazed, surprised, possibly a bit shocked by cultures, beliefs and practices here (and on many an occasion it has lived up to its bill), I’ve probably shocked and surprised more people by doing things which I consider perfectly normal. Of course, when you think about it logically it is to be expected – I’ve come away prepared for surprise, yet I’m undertaking bizarre behaviours on people’s own doorsteps here.

Jogging, for example. Namibians are on the whole very naturally fit – they cultivate their fields by hand, schoolchildren walk miles to school and back each day, girls pound the grain with giant metal or wood poles, boys herd cattle. When you do all this, why on earth would you undertake extra training? Whenever I go out for a run, people watch in astonishment, join in for the sheer uniqueness of it or just laugh and wave. I’m not offended or put off, its just that I realise they NEVER see anyone else doing anything like this. The concept of training only comes into the fore when it is associated with team sports. Silence and a look of bewilderment would proceed when I would tell somebody that I was running for the sheer sake of running rather than heading to play football or the like.

At the beginning of my second year, I was given a tortoise from a departiung volunteer to look after. The tortoise had been rescued from the cooking pot by said volunteer in exchange for 20 Namibian dollars (which I can only assume was subsequently spent on a KFC). Having a tortoise for a pet (granted, a somewhat exotic thing in the UK) was a source of shock and fear for my neighbours in Outapi. “Aren’t you worried it will eat you in the night?” said a good Namibian nursing colleague as we watched it slowly munch through a patch of grass. “No, no” I reassured, and proceeded to show her my photos of the chameleons I used to keep in England. She needed a ten minute sit down and a glass of water and if I’m honest hasn’t looked at me the same since.



The thing I have learned is that even though Namibians live amongst a truly incredible wide array of wildlife, they have almost no knowledge of any of them. It is quite astounding. Reptiles all fall into a ‘dangerous’ category where even the smallest gecko is highly venomous and capable of eating a whole human. Simple reason and logic goes out of the window. I remember in the hospital one time chatting with a couple of guys and noticed something small wriggling near my feet. On pointing it out, absolute panic ensued followed by a machete attack on said beast as I stood in slight incomprehension. “Its one of those dangerous ones – maybe black mamba.” Came the explanation. I’m pretty sure to this day it was a worm.

These are just two examples, but there are more. Many more. Little pecularities that I do that seem to surprise others. Perhaps it is just me?

Footnote: Have just read a book called “The Other Hand” by Chris Cleave which has some great examples of the weirdnesses in our culture as experienced by others. Recommended.

Hello. How are you?

Footnotes:

This is stage one of greeting. I’m at stage three. I don’t know how many stages there are.

This is for greeting in a morning only. Substitute “la la” for “uhala” in an afternoon and “tokelwa” in an evening.

Knowing who is a “tatekulu” and who is just a “tate” can be tricky. In general, tatekulus have beards and/or carry sticks.

Getting the Bit Between Your Teeth - a guide to food in Namibia

I bought a packet of green Mentos the other day and was surprised to find that they were “Chlorophylle” flavour. I must admit I can’t remember whether chlorophylle is the stuff they put on handkerchiefs to knock people out in spy movies, or something belonging in plant leaves. Either way, I’m pretty sure it’s not a first choice ingredient in chewable minty products in most places. But when it comes to food, Namibia isn’t like most places.



Actually, that last sentence is a lie. It just sounded good. I have to be honest and admit that my diet here is pretty similar to the one I enjoyed back in the UK. Today, for instance, I’ve enjoyed cornflakes for breakfast, followed by cheese on toast for lunch and I just made a pretty tasty sausage casserole for my dinner. Not exactly stuff which makes for the witty, original and wild musings to which you are accustomed from these blog pages (though I did add a bit too much Cayenne pepper to my casserole and I’m half expecting some pretty wild and exciting bowel action over the next 24 hours. I’ll keep you posted).

Fear not though, help is at hand. Whilst on the whole I eat a plain ordinary diet, I have partaken in the consumption of local foodstuffs here which have left me a mixture of disturbed, non-plussed and sometimes smitten.

Food seems to be a key ingredient, if you’ll excuse the pun, of any worldwide travel experience. I don’t think I can recall anyone who has returned from a distant (or not so distant) country not having at least one culinary related story to tell.

My first “story to write home about” was probably the mopane worms I ate in week 2. They call them worms, but actually they’re more like fat caterpillars in a cocoon. So that’s alright then. Not bad – a bit salty – apparently very good fried with peanut butter. Mine were served with extra salt.



A standard local northern Namibian meal will always consist of a number of certainties – oshithima, meat, oshikundu and sand. I’ll take each one in turn.

Oshithima is a porridge made from the flour of the local wheat grown here – Omahangu. It’s a little bit bitter, really rather sticky and an acquired taste. But I’ve acquired it and do enjoy a good plate of the stuff from time to time (though eating it as the sole ingredient for meals on end, as many people here do, may get a bit much. Then again so might strawberries). What really gets me about oshimthima though is the incredible process it takes to get a plate of it. To understand that, we have to go back to the beginning and to something which is happening about this time – cultivating the land. Mahangu is not bought in shops, you see, people grow it themselves. Lots of it. And then store it in giant baskets at their homes to sustain them for a year. In order to do that, many days of backbreaking (as a physio I can vouch for this – January is one of my busiest months) cultivation is performed – all by hand – to prepare the land for planting. Planting is then done followed by an agonising wait for the perfect rains – too much and the crop drowns, too little and not enough grows and is taken by birds. Eventually picking can be done – again by hand with machetes or pangas as they are known here. The seeds are pulled off manually and then need to be crushed into flour – you’ve guessed it, by hand again. To crush the seeds requires a thick wood or metal pole (I guess about 10-15 kg in weight) and two people who take turns in lifting said pole and pounding it into the seeds. For hours on end. The “pounders” are often children once they have finished school. That yields the flour and from there you’d think it was easy – add some water, boil it up and bish, bash, bosh. Alas no, this method doesn’t work. Believe me I’ve tried. The cooking process is a bit of a guarded secret but involves hot and cold water at the right times in the right amount and a LOT of elbow grease for the 20 minute stirring process. Then, and only, then can you put a large dollop of off-white porridge onto your plate and call it oshithima.

Meat is inherently Namibian. A country which has had such divisions over the years seems to have total harmony in their love for meat. In the North the choice is largely chicken (isn’t it everywhere?), goat or, on special occasions like weddings, beef. The chickens are about as free range as it gets which means they are lean, tough but highly flavoursome. Goat is like mutton and beef is like, errm, beef. The choice cuts for Namibians are the innards and I learned that the hard way. Interestingly though, whilst an Ovambo likes nothing more than gorging on tripe or stomach, when it comes to the classic meat pieces to which we are more accustomed, rare is not an option. I love a good bloody steak, but found that they are difficult to come by in local circles – you really have to do your own.



Oshikundu is a drink made from mahangu and sorghum and omulovu is its alcoholic brother. Thick in consistency with bits floating around (not too infrequently bugs), this is the “Slimfast™” of Namibia in that you can take it as a meal and it keeps you full all day. And it really does fill you up to. Namibian culture seems to dictate that any visitor to your home must be given refreshment and more often than not that refreshment comes in the form of oshikundu. And its great. Simple as that.

Sand is sand. And it really does get everywhere.

Only one other item is essential – a toothpick. Never go anywhere without it.

Oh My Law'd

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.