Monday Happy Monday

Now it’s lucky for me that several people have been following my blog (actually nearly a hundred people unbelievably, not even counting the local paper that are featuring it on their website) and it appears that I have some friends who are able to arrange things that global banks and international insurance companies seem wholly incapable of organising (shame on you Amex, Barclaycard, HSBC). My friend Sandy’s husband Phil (keep up) emailed me to say that they had read about my plight and he had checked with his South African PA who had said that all I needed to do was have money sent over to me by Moneygram. It could be sent and received on the same day and could be picked up from anywhere that used the Moneygram system. In my case this was Standard Bank, a whole 2 minutes walk away from my hotel. Now when I heard this and rang Phil just to make sure he wasn’t having a joke (I know he wouldn’t do that actually) but really just to check a couple of points it was all I could do to stop myself jumping up and down on my bed and shouting Alleluhia. I babbled away on the phone until I had calmed down and being a careful girl at heart said I would check it out with Standard Bank the following morning as I didn’t want to count my chickens. Once I got the money I intended to not only count my chickens but to also eat a whole one. Sandy and Phil are now officially my heroes.

An appointment with God

On one of my trips around town I had come across the Catholic church outside which was loitering a nun. She looked harmless enough and of some certain age but having been taught by nuns as a child I know better than to cross them. One step out of line and they’re capable of crushing your windpipe with a rolled up copy of The Catholic Times and all while smiling as if to say ‘it’s all for the good of your soul’. Not wanting to approach her from outside her direct line of vision and therefore increase the chance I’d surprise her and take a blow in the gut for my trouble I looped around until I was in front of her and kept a safe distance until I knew she had seen me. Approaching cautiously I asked her what time mass was held on a Sunday morning and she smiled at me sweetly and told me eight-thirty. Her face as she smiled folded into a thousand wrinkles and her eyes looked merry and blue but I was not to be fooled and I thanked her and retreated back across the road keeping my eyes on her until I was well out range. Nuns, you’ve just got to be so careful with them. Mass the following morning was well attended, by the standards of my village church anyway, and there were well over a hundred people though most as usual in their fifties and older. There was a whole flock of nuns either sitting in clusters or dotted here and there and even though the service was mostly in German I knew that as long as I followed their cue I’d be fine. There were two priests residing for some reason and I couldn’t quite work out if they were both happy with that or not. But what I did like was the sermon, which though delivered in German and so mostly beyond my understanding was delivered with passion and vigour and much pulpit banging (my favourite) and with what appeared to be no reference to notes. It seems to me that back home members of the clergy no longer deliver their sermons from the heart and as if they mean it but just read from ready prepared notes and its generally very dull and sometimes its very difficult to stop yourself from yawning. Me, I like a bit of fire and brimstone on a Sunday morning and though I couldn’t understand most of what this priest was saying I am catholic enough to know that he was promising hell and damnation if we didn’t Watch Ourselves and Become Better Souls so I went away from the service happy.

Later that same day

Sitting on my balcony eating my hotdog and sipping my wine (Elle 1, Pick & Pay nil) I turn over my card purse in my hand. When I’d got back to the hotel the mini bus company had dropped it off saying they’d found it on the bus after all. I was glad I’d got the cards back because the purse itself was expensive and it saved me having to buy another one but of course all the cards in it were by this point useless. But full of Bratwurst hotdog and two glasses of wine, I decided life could be worse and I would just have to do all the things in Swakop that were free. The sun was shining,, the sky was blue and the beach was beckoning and to enjoy these things didn’t cost me a bean. Carefully locking my bedroom door behind me and hiding anything that might remotely be considered valuable and with only my daily cash budget in my pocket (now reduced by the cost of a hotdog and 1/5 the cost of the wine) I decided to go and explore the town properly. Pension Rapmund is one of a handful of hotels built on a slight rise, maybe 25 feet or so above beach level which gives you a nice perspective and also means there are no buildings in front of you that obscure the view. It’s situated a few minutes walk from town one way and a few minutes walk from Palm Beach the other way and from my window I can see the Lighthouse, the tennis courts and the corner of the beachfront museum as well as the public gardens leading down to the beach. At the centre point of this upper esplanade there are a series of wide steps that lead down to an area at beach level that serves as a marketplace and every morning about 8 o’clock traders arrive and set out their wares. The stuff they sell is mainly wood or stone carvings and jewellery but they place it with care and attention and in a way that suggests that it holds some real value for them. All of them have feather dusters or something similar that they constantly use to keep the various statuettes, bowls, carvings and necklaces free of the fine red sand that gets whipped up by people walking by or cars passing. On the corner above the market is Café Anton where I have taken to going every morning to write. The café looks out over the steps down to the market below, out over the palm trees through which you can just see the beach beyond. I write for about three hours, drinking a couple of cups of coffee and eating a slice of the cheapest cake which is enough to justify my taking up a table in what is one of the most popular coffee houses in Swakop. Café Anton like everything else here exists somewhere in the period between 1975 and 1985. Laminate wood panelling extends half way up the wall, the furniture is covered in a kind of tapestry material with a weird concoction of colours which I think is supposed to suggest ‘modern’, at least 1980s modern, and net curtains edged with lace hang from the pelmets to about half way down the windows. It feels a little dated compared to coffee houses back home but the atmosphere is pleasant, it is bright and airy and there is the quiet murmur of conversation in the background. I get left alone in my corner to tap away writing about the trials and tribulations of my holiday and when I’ve finished as much as I want to do or I’m just seduced by the sunshine I pack my laptop into my bag, drop it at my hotel which is only two doors up and then walk five minutes into town to the internet café where I upload onto squarespace. It’s become a nice little routine.

There is a nice walk which I have taken to doing with some regularity once or twice a day. The walk runs along a path which follows the beach northwards starting at the museum and one end of Palm Beach and which ends at what looks like another resort 4 or 5 miles in the distance. Where the path starts is a children’s playground, a café, a bar and restaurant and the indoor swimming pool. It is a busy little area and the many brightly painted wooden benches are popular for just sitting and watching the world go by and for the short amble to the Italian ice-cream kiosk which whenever I pass it is doing brisk trade. On the left is the beach and sea, and on my right, once past the complex with the swimming pool are a variety of what look like holiday apartments designed in a modern tiered style and decorated with flashes of the kind of colours that only Germans would like. But none the less they are quite attractive and clean and tidy and have a lovely and unhindered view across the beach and out to sea. After about a quarter of a mile the holiday lets start to give way to what look like private residences and the further you go the larger and plusher they become. This is obviously where the money is. There are benches set out at various points and I sit down after I’ve been walking about 30 minutes or so and spend my time looking out to sea where apparently you see the odd dolphin (but so far I’ve seen only seagulls and cormorants) and then swinging round and gazing at the houses. It makes me think about my home and the various work I might like to do on it over the summer. When I’ve sat for a little and my bum is starting to go numb from the wooden slats I head back, diverting before I get to the swimming pool and walking behind the back of the lighthouse and Presidential residence (he’s not currently there and best avoided, apparently when he is) and head into town to look at some of the buildings from the Germanic period and which are well preserved albeit usually not open to the public and viewable only from the outside. It’s quite a strange experience to be walking through what feels just like a small German town when you know you are actually in Africa. Beyond these areas of traditional German style the rest of the town centre is 1970s concrete built like so many other places in that concoction of box like but unplanned and undesigned retail and office units and its not very pretty but I decide I like Swakop in many ways and overall it reminds of Brighton twenty or thirty years ago, but unfortunately minus the nudist beach. In my new status as a pauper I studiously note the cost of menus in cafes and restaurants and can tell you where to get the cheapest coffee or the best rates for internet access. It doesn’t bother me really, not having any money, and I know I can do the activities I’d originally planned either back home or on my next holiday. What is bothering me slightly is that though my hotel was pre-booked and paid for as is my transfer back to Windhoek and my final nights accommodation (though sadly that will have to remain back at the Chameleon guest house) I don’t actually have enough money to get back from the airport to home. But I figure that something will work out and even though I stopped a guy, a Brit, on the street and explained my plight, he told me I looked like a con-artist (well, really). But I truly believe in karma and so will let things run their course and see what happens.

In the evenings I have taken to watching the sunset from my balcony with a glass of wine. Namibia is on the west coast of Africa and so every night there are lovely sunsets. I sit with my feet propped up on the balcony surround and watch until the last vestiges of sunlight and colour disappear and it’s a lovely way to spend twenty minutes or half an hour. When at last it is dark, usually around 6 0’clock, I get ready for the evening. My choice of outfits is narrowing as my clothes become too grubby or smelly to wear and I can’t afford to get them laundered. There is a sign (what is it with Namibia and signs?) on the back of the door that says that under no circumstances must washing be done in the bathroom or clothes be hung to dry. So, there are certain items of clothing that are now borderline acceptable (mostly the whites) and I am starting to see how you can end up becoming a hobo. Certainly I wouldn’t sit next to me for too long in a café. I just hope to God that no-one decides to search my bags on the way back into the UK as they might get more than they bargained for and on the odd chance I do get searched I shall fully recommend they done a gas-mask and a pair of rubber gloves.. My restaurant of choice in the evenings is by the Lighthouse and is called The Lighthouse Restaurant (unsurprisingly) and it has a menu which has dishes ranging from very cheap to cheap, through moderate and then the occasional expensive dish which is usually seafood. Needless to say, I’ve become acquainted with the cheap and very cheap end of the spectrum and my gastronomic meals now constitute dishes like chicken burger and pizza. But my budget for dinner is N$100 which is about £7.20 and if I stick to the cheaper end then I get a meal and also a glass or two of wine and can even leave a small tip for the waitress. The Lighthouse Restaurant is very popular and so I arrive early so I can get a seat at one of the casual tables in the bar rather than in the more expensive restaurant and also by a light so that I can read my book. I wile away a few hours eating slowly, savouring my wine (no mean feat, it’s very cheap wine) and making notes from my book about things which I think will be helpful for my studies comes October. At about nine o’clock I wander back, check my messages to see if my Fairy Godmother has shown up (no) and then read a bit more before going to bed.

Saturday

After a somewhat restless night I woke early. I stretched one leg out of bed and grasping the curtain with my toes I pulled it open. Shuffling further down in my bed and lying on my side with one leg hanging out over the side of the bed I lay looking out of the window musing on my situation. I could just see the sea through the line of palm trees and houses on the edge of the beach about 100 metres away. Waves were breaking onto the shore and the water in the early flat light looked cold and uninviting. Welcome to Swakop I thought. I’d carefully checked my money situation the night before, laying out all my cash on the bed and including even the smallest denomination coins. I’d got a few dollars and a bit of sterling that I could also exchange but my Namibian cash had got quite low and I’d intended to find an ATM first thing on Saturday morning. All in I reckoned I had about 68 quid which equated to £11.41 a day over the remaining six days. Not a lot by any stretch of the imagination. After Amex had called me last night I had got back on the phone and spoken to every bank I held an account or credit card with plus my travel insurance company (also Amex) and had exhausted every possible route to get money out to me before I left. Namibia was turning out to be a banking black hole and I was slowly being sucked in. Not one to take things lying down I got up and dressed, making my way down to breakfast. Not wanting to splurge even a cent unnecessarily and deciding to skip lunch everyday so that I could afford dinner, I put one of everything on the breakfast table on my plate and went and sat by the window glumly chewing my way through it. I decided Namibia and I just didn’t get on. Whilst showering I’d considered some more options and made a plan to go into one of the banks in town to see if they could help me. Post breakfast, indigestion already kicking in from my eclectic menu combination, I consulted my map and headed off into the centre of Swakop, a five minute or so walk from my hotel. Town was busy, stonkingly busy and every bank appeared to have people queuing out of the door. I passed Bank Windhoek, Standard Bank and then went onto Neb Bank and all were the same, people were queuing from the counters, out through the door and down the street. It looked like every bank was having a run on it. Wanting to find an explanation for the unusual phenomena I stopped and asked someone in the queue what was happening. Its pay day she told me and a public holiday on Monday and the banks close today at 12. Not having much choice in the matter I chose Bank Windhoek and bypassing the queue went in to see if there was an information point. There were only four people at this queue so thinking things were looking up, I joined the end of it. Now I can only assume that the people in front of me were discussing important and far reaching banking requirements on an international scale because whatever they were talking about was taking a very long time. A very long time indeed because I stood in the queue for 45 minutes before my turn came at last. I settled myself into the seat in front of the girl who I hope would be able to help me just like the sign said and I explained simply and clearly what my needs were. Wrong queue she said, you need to speak to....and she gestured to her colleague sitting at the next desk. With a sigh and no argument (I worked for a bank for eleven years, I know there’s no point in arguing) I went and stood back at the front of the queue and waited for her colleague. Again, I settled myself into the seat and explained my problem. Sorry she said, my colleague should have told you, we can’t help. Back out on the street I tried the next option on my list. The guidebook on Namibia mentioned a woman who for ten years had run one of the tourist information offices in the town and who was seen as a tourism ambassador. Her name was Almuth Styles. Namib-I, which she runs was just down the street and I figured if she knew everyone she might be able to help. Pitching up at her shop and pressing the bell on the wrought iron gate at the entrance (visiting a country where everything has to have security, you can’t carry a handbag because you’ll get mugged and it’s recommended you wear shoes you can run in gets a trifle wearying after a while), I walked to the counter, introduced myself and explained the situation. Almuth was pleasant and sympathetic but the only option she could offer was for me to transfer some money into her business account, let it clear and then she could give me the cash. This was kind of her and might have been an option if Monday had not been a bank holiday and I was staying longer but it was really no different to what the banks were offering me. I thanked her and left, hearing another door clang closed behind me both in reality and metaphorically. By now my list of options was getting very short indeed, it was lunchtime and I was really very hungry. I’d retrieved the half eaten sandwich from the wastepaper bin earlier than morning – beggars can’t be choosers – and rewrapped it but in my fairly depressed state having to consume a day old partly eaten sandwich was just more than I could bear the prospect of and I decided I would spend some of the 150 dollars I now seemed destined to accept as my daily budget. At the end of the street was a supermarket called the Pick & Pay and this sounded like the cheap end of the market so I headed for it to see what I could find. It is an unfamiliar sensation to be walking around a supermarket having to look at the price of things and back in the UK I would be hard pressed to tell you the cost of a pint of milk or a loaf of bread but over the course of 20 minutes I became minutely attuned to price checking and if anyone had so desired to ask me I could have exhibited an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the cost of various commodities including wine and beer. The manager had noticed me perusing the (cheaper end) of the wine selection and he came over to tell me that they would stop selling alcohol at 1.30 and wouldn’t open the section again until Tuesday due to the public holiday. Buying from the supermarket was going to be cheaper than buying a drink in a bar so this somewhat focused my attention and I quickly made my selection – a 2L box of cheap SA white- and made my way to the till via the hot sausage stand where I chose a bratwurst in a roll with marinated cucumber, tomato ketchup and a touch of chilli sauce at 9 dollars (63p). A bargain which I decided could not be missed. With the smell of hotdog in my nostrils and a box of wine in my hand I made my way to the checkout already savouring the thought of sitting on my balcony consuming the hot dog and having a glass of wine. The wine would not be chilled granted, but I was starting to get a whole lot less fussy. As I placed my goods on the belt the checkout assistant took hold of the wine and told me that she couldn’t now sell it because it was past 1 o’clock. My eyes narrowed and retaining hold of the handle I told her the manager had expressly told me I had until half past one and it was now only one fifteen, that was a whole fifteen minutes earlier than the cut-off. No she assured me, the cut-off was 1 o’clock and I couldn’t have it and she had to take it off me. For a moment we played a little game of tug of war as she pulled the wine box away from me and I pulled it back. I had no intention of losing this game. Get the manager I told her through gritted teeth, he told me one thirty. The woman behind me in the queue, bless her, backed me up. The checkout assistant relinquished hold of the wine and I pulled it to me possessively. As she went off to find the manager I considered how close the exit was and how far I thought I would get if I ran for it. Judging by the number of security guards on duty not very far I decided and so I’d obviously have to rely on my powers of persuasion and if strictly necessary shouting a bit. But this was my wine and if I had to I was willing to fight for it. TO BE CONTINUED.

Everything going pearshaped....

Now I am incredibly careful when it comes to the security of my belongings to the point of being anal over always knowing where my bag, my purses, my camera and my phone are whenever I am travelling. I am systematic in my organisation, a trait I suppose of being a Virgo, so I couldn’t quite believe that my credit card purse wasn’t where it always was - in a pocket at the bottom of my bag, safe and secure. I emptied my bag out completely, laying everything out on the bed in front of me but still I kept peering inside willing the purse to appear but after ten minutes of looking meticulously in every place it could conceivably be I accepted at last that I just didn’t have it. I wracked my brains to think where I had last had it and was almost certain I had put both purses – my coin purse and my card purse in alternate pockets when I got out of the mini bus at the first stop to go to the loo. I thought about whether it might have fallen out of my trousers at that point but was almost certain it hadn’t and so I decided it had to be somewhere in the minibus. I remembered with a start I had let the bag out of my sight for about half a minute whilst I was on the phone at the guesthouse wrangling about the minibus and I started to doubt whether I had really had my purse on the bus and whether it was possible that it had been stolen instead. The more I thought about it, the more I started to doubt my memory and the more I became uncertain about when I had last seen it. Whatever had happened to it, I knew the last time I could say I had seen it with any conviction was more than four hours ago and as I paced up and down the room thinking about what to do I felt the last remaining hopes for my holiday being cruelly taken from me. I imagined thousands of pounds in Sky TV instalments and bookings for luxury holidays being made in my name as I was pacing up and down the room and decided a plan of action was called for. I called Town Hoppers first to see if they had found the purse on the bus but they told me their drivers always checked the bus after the final customer had been dropped and he had not rung to say he had found anything. I decided I had to assume my purse had been stolen by some ingenious thief who had either managed to get it out of my trousers (no mean feat without me noticing given how damn tight they’ve become) or out of the pocket at the bottom of my bag ignoring in the process my other more accessible coin purse, my lap top, my phone and my camera. Logic told me it didn’t seem likely but I wasn’t sure I could take the chance especially as the bus company told me they didn’t have it. I sat at the table in my room and made a list of all the cards I’d had with me and started to call the companies in the UK to cancel the cards. But I had nearly a week ahead of me and without my cards I was b******d so I needed to be able to get some money to supplement the small amount of cash I currently had and to pay for the many activities I intended to do. Getting me one thousand pounds on an emergency payment was straightforward I was told by both Amex and Barclaycard via Western Union. It would have to be Tuesday (now it was Friday evening, 9.30pm and Monday was a public holiday in Namibia just like in the UK) but it could be done. I felt slightly more relaxed. I could live on a thousand for the week easily, and still do all the activities I wanted. I’d just have to do them over Tuesday and Wednesday rather than over the weekend. I had the equivalent of sixty quid in cash on me which wasn’t a fortune certainly but could last me three days if I took it easy. I checked that the payment was really feasible and decided to let American Express sort it out while I cancelled the rest of my cards. It was late by the time I finished, nearly half past eleven and too late to go out for dinner. I’d hadn’t eaten all the food I’d bought at the supermarket earlier and so as I made the calls, I ate the ham salad sandwich and ate the bag of crisps I had left. It wasn’t exactly a gastronomic delight but tomorrow night I was booked into The Tug, the best seafood restaurant in town in a great location right on the jetty and I placated myself with the thought of eating a vast and expensive seafood platter washed down by some premier cru South African white wine. The sandwich wasn’t at it best anymore so I threw half of it away and as a final little treat opened the Ritter Sport Peppermint and ate a couple of squares. Ready for bed and somewhat reconciled to the position of losing my dinner and having to put my activities back a bit I didn’t expect the phone to ring just before Midnight. It was American Express ringing to tell that Western Union didn’t operate in Namibia and they earliest they could get money to me was five working days. Five working days meant the Monday after I’d already gone home. I sat with the phone up against my ear listening to what she was saying and feeling the colour drain out of my face. I’d cancelled all my cards, I had six days to go and I had sixty quid in funds.