An escape committee of one

My plans to escape for the weekend have failed. Having had one of the slowest and least satisfying weeks of my life for a very long time the thought of spending two days over the weekend in Epukiro at the volunteer house while the clinic was closed did not fill me with immediate delight. But nothing had been organised or overture made to find out what you might like to do (go into Ernies in Gobabis for lunch would have been a treat and wasn’t beyond the bounds of feasibility) and with the very limited amenities and services in the town there’s no prospect of getting transport anywhere. The prospect of sitting on the porch step listening to the sound of Australian football, rugby or Formula 1 which seems to be the staple background fodder on the TV, leaves me with feelings of the need for a jailbreak and bizarrley (sorry brain gone, can't spell that) I find myself pacing up and down the compound fence in front of locked gate and suddenly I know how the animals at the farm feel. This feeling of being restricted and having a lack of control over my own life is not one I warm to and in my desperation I call the airport in Windhoek to find out how much it would cost to have someone fly in by light aircraft to get me and take me to one of the game lodges in Etosha for the weekend. Not having the lat and long of the grass airstrip here makes things complicated and in the end they can only fly into Gobabis which isn’t really very useful and anyway they provide me with the kind of quote that makes me wonder if the zero key got stuck while they were typing it out. It’s at this moment that I realise that there is one big thing missing from this whole experience – the sense that you are seen as a ‘guest’ and client. Being a volunteer appears to mean you have to abdicate all expectations of any client service and are very much at the lowest pecking order in the place. This might be acceptable if you are 18 or 21, on your gap year and happy to waste away days doing little or nothing but as an adult, having paid good money and with restricted holidays, this lack of recognition that you are a customer is a markedly negative part of the experience. 

By 9 o’clock on Saturday morning I can bear it no longer. Watching little TV at home anyway, 90 minutes of the kind of rubbish you get fed in the mornings on the weekend finally drives me out of the house and camera in hand I hunt down the keys to the padlock on the gate and pitch out into the lane. The level of freedom and independence is minor but the taste is good and as I look at the road leading out of town I have a strong urge to run and not look back. The film Forest Gump comes to mind and I start to understand the kind of things that might have conspired to drive him to start and keep on running right the way across America. But I make a left rather than a right and decide I am going to live at least a bit dangerously and so head up to the wrong end of town in an effort to get a bit of adrenaline going to try and re-kickstart my enthusiasm for being here. The breeze block hair salon (I know it’s a hair salon as it has Salon daubed badly in brown paint several times on its exterior) is pumping music out and I can hear the sound of people inside shouting to each other over the top of it. I’d like to go in and have a look and maybe get my hair braided but the door is only slightly ajar and an old unlined curtain covers the window and so I pass by it not quite having the nerve to stick my head in. As I walk past it I notice out of the corner of my eye that I have picked up a ‘shadow’, a guy, probably in his 20s or so is on a trajectory to cross my path and keeps repeating something that I don’t understand. I acknowledge him and put my hand up in that way that says ‘go away, I am not interested’ but he still keeps coming and as he gets closer he is saying in bad English that he wants to talk to me and can I take a photo of him. I keep walking, say good morning and put my hand up again to make it clear I am not interested in a conversation and after another 20 or 30 yards he peels off and heads back to the house he has come from where he has a mate hanging on the fence waiting for him. I had asked if it was safe to walk around in the daytime and had been told it was OK so I don’t feel too worried but am just mindful that I need keep my wits around me generally while I am out here walking on my own. I take a couple of shots of the shabeen as I pass it and notice it is in full swing already and then a couple more shots of buildings that I hope are not houses as they look as if they are held together with no more than a string and a prayer. Looping back around the bend in reverse this time, boy, life is rocking here, I stroll on, and return the waves of the children playing in the gardens and their parents who are either sitting in the shade or sometimes working a bit on the garden. Town seems busier than usual but it is Saturday and perhaps people have come in to pick up some staples or just to pass the time. I walk past the two (not very general) stores and manage not to get accosted by the butchers small son who Kat and I are both convinced has ADSD and then for a change, turn left, and wander up to the small church that I have noticed out on the upper edge of the village. It’s very quiet up in this part of the village though, less people are around and I pass a couple of groups of guys on the way, one of which shouts something at me quite aggressively. Before I get to the church which doesn’t look open I decide to turn around and make a note to ask if services are still held there and if so at which time. I think it will be interesting to attend in the morning, one because I like to go to church anyway but two, because I am desperate to find things to pass the time. By this time I have really exhausted the options I have in my walk around town and so head back to the accommodation, asking if I might take shots of a Bushman family and their donkey trap on the way which they are very amenable to and like when I let them see themselves on the camera screen. A Herero man that has set up a stall selling a variety of goods on the side of the road is less friendly and tells me I can’t take a photograph but when he sees the Bushman family laughing at theirs, he calls me over and tells me I can take a picture after all. I take a moment to glance at the things he is selling. There is a pile of big fluffy blankets, a variety of caps set out on a small table (mostly for premier division football teams) and various gold coloured hoop earnings and bracelets. But my favourite things are a pair of black and white patent winkle-pickers that are placed with evident pride in the middle of the goods and as I look at them I wonder who on earth would buy them here. I make a note to look at the footwear of the younger dandies in the town over the next few days and see if any of them have been tempted or have the money to purchase a pair of shoes that make such a fashion statement.