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.

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)

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:

1. 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.


2. 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.


3. Donkeys are the only animal whose eyes don’t reflect car headlights. I kid you not.


4. 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?

We Live and Learn

So I made a mistake. Everyone here does it, but people here are just so laid back.

People at home warned me.

“Use protection” they said. “I will” I said.
“Be careful” they said. “I will” I said.

But I was foolish and now I’m paying the consequences. I can’t quite believe that it happened. I mean its Africa – you can’t say its not well known.

Yet here I am, paying the price. Sunburn is not a laughing matter – my thighs are red raw and I’m lacquering myself up with aftersun three times a day. I sat out for a couple of hours under the beating sun as if to say “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough”. And it did. And it won.

Bloody brits abroad.

On a lighter note Happy New Year, I'll strive to update my blog more regularly in 2007.

Pick a card. Any card

There is some sort of magic going on out here and, like all magic tricks I’ve seen before, I’m desperate to know how it is done. But deep down I know that after two years here I’ll be non-the-wiser.

I’m not referring to any illusions or parlour games or even witchcraft or tradition healing which is common here, but an uncanny ability of all Namibians to just know what is going on without anyone saying a word.

I’m sure this makes no sense so I shall try my best to explain.

One of the main parts of my job at the moment is working alongside a lady named Padelia who is a Medical Rehabilitaion Worker. This is Padelia:

When I get round to writing about work, Padelia will be a leading character, so this is the first of doubtless many introductions to her. For now though, I'm using her as my example to illustrate the "magic" abilities to which I am referring. I shall continue.


As I write this I am certain that Padelia knows I am writing about her. I am also certain that when I go to work tomorrow, Padelia will just drop into the conversation somewhere something subtle like “did you send your email?” or "that was a terrible photo of me" or, most likely "Did you enjoy your steak last night?", yet I’m here writing (and eating - its delicious) on my own. I can only think of two possible explanations of how she could know:
a) I took a photo of her yesterday and said I was going to put it in an email (and mentioned the steak come to think of it)
b) She is magic.

This is clearly not the best example, I'll try harder. In the hospital is when I’m most often amazed by how much she knows about what is going on. This morning we were sat in the office and I went to look for a colleague in her room. “She’s not there. She’s on ward 1”. And she was right. She was on ward 1. Yet I had been sat with Padelia in the same office for at least an hour. How could she possibly know someone’s exact whereabouts? Things like this happen at least three or four times a day – its incredible. She often fills me in on what I have done over the weekend when I forget.

I'm trying desperately not to make Padelia sound like a stalker - she certainly isn't - and its not just Padelia who possesses this all seeing ability as I've decided to call it. All Namibians seem to have this sixth sense of knowing what is happening or about to happen in a completely different part of the building, the village or the country.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a celebration day for people who work with disabilities. A traditional band came at the end of the day and everybody started to dance. It was all going great, people were eating, drinking, being merry. And then all of a sudden – and all in unison – everybody just left. The band were in the middle of a song (I didn’t offend with my dancing I promise), and everyone knew it was just time to go. That’s what I’m talking about. No messages had been passed around, no whispering in the crowd, yet they had all known (and forgotten to tell me I noticed as I continued to eat on my own).

Maybe its not magic at all, just that nobody tells me. It wouldn’t be the fist time.

I think I prefer to believe its magic.

The Centre Of The Universe

Its funny what perspective does to you. Having lived in the UK pretty much all my life, you just get used to being in populous areas.

Okahao is a pretty small village. Driving through it from the “welcome” sign to the “leaving” sign takes exactly one minute and thirty nine seconds. I’ve timed it. A friend is driving in tomorrow and she asked for directions to the hospital. “Drive into Okahao and turn left” I told her, “Then what?” she replied, “That’s it.”, “That’s it?”, “That’s it”. I’m confident she’ll find it.

Yet this is the thing. I live in the happening place around here. In fact, it’s the second biggest settlement in the whole of the region. Because it has the hospital, market, church and post office, people come from miles around to access the place you live. It is the big trip of the week. When you go out into the communities, as I’m starting to get to do, you realise how big a place this small settlement you live in actually is. It sort of gives me a warm buzz (in a self admittedly very sad way) because I’ve never lived in the hub of anywhere before.

I went for a visit to Windhoek last week. Windhoek, I should mention, is no giant, sprawling city either. By European standards it would be classed as a large town, I guess not too different to the size of Gloucester. Yet driving in I felt like I was entering a metropolis. I mean, as we’ve discussed I live in what I class now as a large town, so what the hell was this?

Its all just a trifle odd and I’ve only been here for two and a half months. My plan is to create a new reality TV show called “Shell shock” where contestants live in Okahao for two years and are then warped to a major world city, Tokyo, for instance, or Los Angeles. Their first few days of survival (or not) are aired to a gripped world audience. I reckon it’s a winner.

Now to work on that warping machine…

A Rip Roaring Success

So here you go. My first successful picture from Namibia. Oh hold on...

There's two more that have just popped up to say hello. Its like London buses. The top people are Kate, Caroline, Ndatala and myself in Etosha whilst above are a few animals I've encountered thusfar. More to come and I promise to try to keep my blog updated more regularly (whats a broken promise between friends?)

I don't believe we've met

I thought I may write a fairly sobering account of life in the hospital in my blog entry, but I’m in far too good a mood to get you all depressed about HIV statistics and other grim things that instead I’ll give you an insight into the eventful life that is Namibian meetings.

As a manager (depending on who you ask I’m a coordinator, advisor, manager or plain old physiotherapist) I’ve attended a few meeting up to this point. I want to attend more, yet strangely would rather be anywhere else during parts of them.

Now don’t get me wrong, I attended a few interesting meetings in the UK, but I can’t imagine being sat in a meeting when mid discussion somebody stands up and bursts into song. Actually thats a lie, I can imagine a few people doing that, but they would be ushered out quicker than the pigs trotters I ate last week passed through my system. But not here. In fact if soneone stands up and bursts into song, most other people stand up and join in. The person who was making the point before being rudely (but brilliantly) interrupted just has to wait, possibly wondering what words triggered the outburst. The song ends and the debate resumes as if nothing had ever occurred. A days workshop contains at least as many songs as it does information. Everyone gets issued with pad and pen as standard at the beginning of the workshop. These are used, without fail, to create new lyrics for the song you are about to sing and distribute them through the audience. I may try “On Ilkley Moor Baht’at” at my next meeting.

Then there is cellphones. It is perfectly normal, no expected, that you answer all calls during a meeting. This is not done in a subtle sneak out of the room apologetic manner, but answered aka Dom Jolie with at best a half hearted attempt to duck your head under the table whilst lifting your bottom high into the air. I recommend anyone to do it at their next board meeting. Yet nobody stops the meeting, it just goes on without a flinch. Last week I was at a meeting where a board from Windhoek was feeding back to our Chief about recommendations from their visit. Three times her phone went off, each answered with a few minutes of proceeding conversation. But here is the best bit. They continued to feed back to her. Minutes of really quite useful information about how the hospital could be improved was lost because they carried on talking whilst our chief was huddled under the desk pointing her bottom out towards us and, for all I know, discussing what to have for tea tonight.

But the voting processes outdo it all. If someone needs to be elected to perform a task/action etc, then the system becomes a quickdraw of who can nominate somebody else before you get nominated yourself. Its honestly like a fastest fingers round. Then you have to vote to confirm that the person/people nominated can undertake the task. But you have to nominate far more people than are needed just so that the voting process isn’t pointless and some people will be voted off proving their unpopularity (and the irony is the person voted off didn’t want to be nominated in the first place, so in fact wins).

Lost? Welcome to my world.

Taking out a small village

This is the first photo which I've managed to post. I hope that you like it, it is a lion I saw whilst walking to the shops last week.

Its not really. Its actually a lion I saw whilst I was in Etosha National Park a couple of weeks ago.

It was either at night or downloading photos has a knack I've yet to discover. I'll let you choose which.

Anyway, in order to upload this image for you all to download, it has taken a fair while and possibly drained a small village of what little electricity they were going to have for the evening.

Enjoy. I'm going to bed now to read. With a candle.

Oh and you'll notice a title change. Decided to go with my common given names out in Okahao - The doctor White Man. Kind of catchy I think. Any other temporary title names will be openly received.

If Language Is The Food Of Love...

Language is always an amusing source for a story or two, and though I’ve already alluded to it in a previous blog, I thought I’d test your patience with a bit of an update that none of you have asked for. It seems pertinent to do this today as I’ve just found out the language I’ve been being taught, by someone who doesn’t speak it herself is, in fact, not the one used in Okahao at all. Brace yourselves, this may get a bit confusing.

The catch-all language is called Oshiwambo which is a Bantu language (i.e. Southern African tribal language). Within this are I think about 7 to 10 dialects all subtly different enough to cause major confusion at, say, a multi-tribal tea party. I’ve been learning Oshindonga from my Rehab Worker who actually speaks Oshikwanjarme. But I found out today that I actually should be speaking Oshikandjera.

To try and explain this on terms you may understand, a simple analogy may be that of living in Liverpool, being taught Cockney by a Geordie. Got it?

Fortunately I’m an Oshilumbu (stupid white person – oddly the same word in whatever dialect you say) which means that people are awfully nice and smile and nod and pretend to understand what it is I’m trying to say. Either that or people speak Afrikaans presuming I’m a White Namibian. Think being an Oshilumbu is probably the better option.

Other than that slight technical hiccup it seems to be going moderately well on the old language front. I can count to a hundred, say the days of the week, quite a few body parts and, above all, apologise profusely.

The most confusing aspect is the number of languages I’ve found myself speaking in the past six weeks. There is a VSO schoolteacher here called Caroline who is French (teaching English – though not in Oshiwambo fortunately which would totally mess with your head) and, hence, has become excited at the prospect of being able to converse with someone in her mother tongue. So far she has found out “the monkey is in the tree” (“la sange est dans l’arbre”) and to “turn into the third street on the left just in front of the tourist office” (“prenez le troisieme rue a gauche juste au fond de l’office du tourisme”). They were both whilst stood in her kitchen, so took her quite by surprise. Actually, I’m doing a bit better than that and quite enjoying it. She’s lent me a couple of films in French to practice one of which, you’ll love the irony, is called Lost in Translation.
Then there are the Cuban Doctors at work whose English is pretty limited. So from time to time I loosen the lips and throw in the odd Spanish phrase or two.

So there you have it. Language in a nutshell. Easy.

No longer afraid...

I would like to extend a hearty thanks to those of you who contributed to my snake dilemma email. I had a wide variety of suggestions and feel now that my main problem is not the fear of being bitten, but choosing from the wide range of options that are seemingly available (actually, I'm still afraid of getting bitten by a black mamba - we had a few horror stories whilst doing "first aid for bites and stings" training last week. First Aid if you get bitten by a black mamba is the last rites it would seem. A second story involved 8 people admitted to hospital with multiple fractures having jumped from the back of a speeding truck when a black mamba got caught in the axle and was flung up into the open back with the passengers. Locals obviously felt to jump was far less risky to your health than to stay!).

The Lester Meister should have special mention for the ream of info she sent on serpents and their wiley ways and a prize may be winging its way to you (though it may not get there given stories of Namibian postal services). My favourite remedy, however, and first remedy of choice if feasible should a venomous creature sink its fangs into my flesh was a medival remedy for snakebite as follows:

"If one is bitten by a snake, one thing that one can do is to have sexual intercourse, as the force of an orgasm will drain all the poisonous substances from the body"

- Albert of Aachen, Historia Hierosolymitana 5.40, in Recueil des historiens des croisades, historiens occidentaux, 5 vols. in 6 (Paris: Imprimerie royale, 1844 -95) 4: 459.

Many thanks go to Angharad and especially Albert.