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.

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.

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…