Tuesday, March 21, 2006
From Namibia to Botswana (Early March 2006)
On Monday morning, I set off with Mike to interview The Rainbow Project, an association for Namibia's lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people and Sean set off to address the growing problem of our car's pathetic and increasingly inaudible sound system. The interview went exceptionally well and The Rainbow Project totally impressed both Mike and I with the scope of its mission and the skill of its staff. Sean found a new radio for just over ten American dollars and a set of cheap tweeters; he then began "installing" them in the parking area of our hotel. His botched attempt to pimp our ride lasted for two days, necessitated the help of a passing electrician and resulted in the complete failure of our power window system-a major security problem considering that the driver’s side window was stuck down.
In truth, every time there was a further delay with the vehicle, on balance, I was pleased. Windhoek, its options, the atmosphere of our hotel, the growing number of friendships that we made there, the relative affordability of things and my growing sense of comfort enabled me to learn about Sean's electrical complications with a non-concern that bordered on contentment. Additionally, it always becomes easier for me to write and be productive after the hectic effects of rapid travel have been allowed to wear off-when I start to feel at home.
But as Thursday rolled around, I remembered that I have historically been the person who bears the unspoken responsibility of shoving our team out of ruts, of dislodging us from comfortable places-I also remembered that Mike, despite his dependability and strong work ethic, responds to agreeable circumstances by growing inert. It was not my pleasure to ruin a lovely morning by urging my teammates to roll their roots up and pack the car. Whenever their own attachment to Windhoek rendered them inactive or, in Tuuli's case, when an inability to believe that the rest of us would actually depart made her reluctant to begin packing, I felt a strong gravitational pull emanating from my bed. Our 10am appointment with an electrician named Alfie contributed the time pressure that made our departure possible.
The next morning, we were crawling out of drenched tents in a Botswana thorn patch, looking for proof that any "screaming animals" had been "near our tents." Evidence was lacking, obliterated by the heavy rains. We set out through the drab and unspectacular flatness of the grassy Kalahari for Botswana's capital, Gabarone. We stopped for lunch at a town called Kang. At the concrete "liquor restaurant" there were a handful of young teenage girls stumbling drunkenly to the amazingly loud music of the store's massive speakers-they knew every single word to every single song and mouthed them passionately.
The counter tender had to lower the music for each of our interchanges, which drew irritated looks from the men, drunk on the concrete benches. For less than five dollars we all ate fried chicken, Russians (sausages) and chips. We were all smiling. It felt obvious that we had returned to Africa. In hindsight, it seems that we were nearly bewitched by the shopping malls, chain restaurants and middle America feel of Namibia, that we were perhaps a few days away from being transformed into pigs. In our own ways, all of us expressed a gladness at returning to an environment that springs naturally from its black African inhabitants.
We continued driving and then snapped our alternator belt. This should not have happened to us twice in the last three thousand miles. The spare did not fit and without the alternator belt, the fan belt would not rotate. Our car began overheating within minutes. Thankfully, we were near a town: Mabutsane, into which we rolled looking for Stefan, who we were told to seek for assistance. He had three massive truck belts and a shop otherwise full of edible provisions; we were probably directed to him because he is white. That was Friday. It is Monday morning and I am still sitting in front of his shop, not unhappily.
On Monday morning, I set off with Mike to interview The Rainbow Project, an association for Namibia's lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people and Sean set off to address the growing problem of our car's pathetic and increasingly inaudible sound system. The interview went exceptionally well and The Rainbow Project totally impressed both Mike and I with the scope of its mission and the skill of its staff. Sean found a new radio for just over ten American dollars and a set of cheap tweeters; he then began "installing" them in the parking area of our hotel. His botched attempt to pimp our ride lasted for two days, necessitated the help of a passing electrician and resulted in the complete failure of our power window system-a major security problem considering that the driver’s side window was stuck down.
In truth, every time there was a further delay with the vehicle, on balance, I was pleased. Windhoek, its options, the atmosphere of our hotel, the growing number of friendships that we made there, the relative affordability of things and my growing sense of comfort enabled me to learn about Sean's electrical complications with a non-concern that bordered on contentment. Additionally, it always becomes easier for me to write and be productive after the hectic effects of rapid travel have been allowed to wear off-when I start to feel at home.
But as Thursday rolled around, I remembered that I have historically been the person who bears the unspoken responsibility of shoving our team out of ruts, of dislodging us from comfortable places-I also remembered that Mike, despite his dependability and strong work ethic, responds to agreeable circumstances by growing inert. It was not my pleasure to ruin a lovely morning by urging my teammates to roll their roots up and pack the car. Whenever their own attachment to Windhoek rendered them inactive or, in Tuuli's case, when an inability to believe that the rest of us would actually depart made her reluctant to begin packing, I felt a strong gravitational pull emanating from my bed. Our 10am appointment with an electrician named Alfie contributed the time pressure that made our departure possible.
The next morning, we were crawling out of drenched tents in a Botswana thorn patch, looking for proof that any "screaming animals" had been "near our tents." Evidence was lacking, obliterated by the heavy rains. We set out through the drab and unspectacular flatness of the grassy Kalahari for Botswana's capital, Gabarone. We stopped for lunch at a town called Kang. At the concrete "liquor restaurant" there were a handful of young teenage girls stumbling drunkenly to the amazingly loud music of the store's massive speakers-they knew every single word to every single song and mouthed them passionately.
The counter tender had to lower the music for each of our interchanges, which drew irritated looks from the men, drunk on the concrete benches. For less than five dollars we all ate fried chicken, Russians (sausages) and chips. We were all smiling. It felt obvious that we had returned to Africa. In hindsight, it seems that we were nearly bewitched by the shopping malls, chain restaurants and middle America feel of Namibia, that we were perhaps a few days away from being transformed into pigs. In our own ways, all of us expressed a gladness at returning to an environment that springs naturally from its black African inhabitants.
We continued driving and then snapped our alternator belt. This should not have happened to us twice in the last three thousand miles. The spare did not fit and without the alternator belt, the fan belt would not rotate. Our car began overheating within minutes. Thankfully, we were near a town: Mabutsane, into which we rolled looking for Stefan, who we were told to seek for assistance. He had three massive truck belts and a shop otherwise full of edible provisions; we were probably directed to him because he is white. That was Friday. It is Monday morning and I am still sitting in front of his shop, not unhappily.
1 Comments:
Son,
did you get the documents I sent for notary? will you have a contact number soon? we will need to set up rendezvous in joburg.
love, parson dad
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did you get the documents I sent for notary? will you have a contact number soon? we will need to set up rendezvous in joburg.
love, parson dad
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