When you are leaving somewhere for a quite a long time (and even more so when you are going away forever I expect), you look at things through different eyes. I noticed that the trees in my garden were not quite in blossom and that the sky was a rich blue broken here and there by banks of fluffy cloud. The fields at the back of my home gave off a lush and verdant greenness and the daffodils in next doors paddock cut a startling line of golden yellow through the copse.
The taxi pulled up on time and as I dragged my cumbersome and weighty suitcases the 20 yards to the car across thick gravel, the driver watched me and then as I reached him apologised for not noticing I had bags. Obviously this was a taxi driver with incredibly bad eyesight which frankly didn’t auger well for the 5 mile drive to the station. But given that time was ticking and I didn’t have time to be haughty about it, I gave a pained smile and left him to lift them into the boot.
The journey to St Pancras passed smoothly taking me further away from home with each mile it travelled and I reminded myself that in less than 24 hours I would be on terra nuova. London was quiet, much more so than usual and the taxi driver reminded me that the G20 summit was in full swing. Many people had apparently decided to stay away or were working from home for the day. We drove down Pall Mall, through St James’s Mews and up the Mall with nery a hitch and as we swung by Buckingham Palace the driver put on the intercom and told me to look out of the left window. About 200 motorcyle police in hi-vi were parked up in a carpark outside some official looking building. Looking relaxed and appearing to be in no hurry to be going anywhere they strolled about amongst each other, exchanging conversation, shining bits of their bikes and just generally having what looked like a not very secret policeman’s ball. “You can never find a policeman when you need one” said the taxi driver, “but here you are, 200 in one go”. He muttered something about taxpayers money and waste of but I didn’t quite catch what he said. The sentiment though was clear enough.
The Gatwick Express pulled sedately out of Victoria and we crossed the Thames as the sun was setting, picking up speed once south of the river. We passed through Clapham Junction which I knew from my days at drama school when I lived in Wandworth Common and attended classes at the Royal Patriotic Buildings where the drama school was situated. For anyone that knows that part of London, the Royal Patriotic Buildings are a rather extraordinary site the first time you see them. A grand baronial style building with spires and turrets, it catches you by surprise as you pass it on the railway line especially since it is nestled in a cul de sac comprising of several high rise residential blocks. I look at it fondly as the train trundled by and continued on through suburbia, past Streatham Common to East Croydon with its tower blocks, concrete and glass and then through Earlswood where at last it started to feel like countryside with more trees and fields. We arrived at Gatwick on schedule after 30 minutes and with me wondering why travelling by public transport in the UK couldn’t always be as smooth and problem free as this journey had been. Already the queue at check-in was long and as I added myself onto the end of it I glanced around to see who my fellow passengers were. Mostly people looked outdoorsy, with comfortable walking type clothes and soft bags and rucksacks. Most of the people in the Club Class queue already looked tanned and in the main more well groomed and I expected that they were transitting on to Cape Town or some other more upmarket holiday destination and wouldn’t be seeing much of Namibia. But what caught my eye and held it was a large and vocal bunch of teenagers (I later found out they were a foundation school brass band from London. Their luggage was 200K overweight.) who were clearly in high spirits about their trip. My heart sank. Having travelled before in the presence of such a young and lively group, I knew what prospects lay ahead for the journey - no sleep, the sound of non-stop chatter, bodies constantly toing and froing up and down the aisles to the toilet and to chat to ech other and all in all a fairly miserale and disturbed ten hours. So, I did what any other forty something solvent women who needs her sleep might do. I upgraded. Oh, the joy of turning left on embarqing. The peace, the quiet, the hot towel and cold drink. I settled back in my seat, removed my boots, got out my book and then waited for another smooth and hitch free stage of my journey. I was getting used to all this. And as I sat there, smiling to myself and easing into the luxury of club class, the captain announced over the tannoy that the control tower had lost our flight plan. A collective groan went up from the cabin. It was already 10:30pm and all we were looking forward to was a quick meal, a glass or two of wine and then to settle down, seat fully reclined to a decent(ish) nights sleep. Instead we sat there, lights on, the temperature in the cabin rising (in more ways than one) until at a quarter to midnight a final announcement told us we were good to go.
Ten hours, 5204 miles later we landed in Windhoek which has the most gorgeous, compact and 1960s style airport you would ever expect to see. We stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac into 27 degrees and a sky the deepest and most perfect shade of blue. I stood for a moment before doing a 360 degree turn to fully take in my surroundings. Only six aeroplanes stood on the tarmac plus two military jets. I found out later that this ws the full complement of the Namibian airforce. Apparently they used to have four, but during some conflict or other in a neighbouring country they mobilised their whole wing command (i.e. four planes) to help. One crashed soon after take-off and was completely wrecked and another experienced technical difficulties and had to put down in Zambia . I don't believe they ever got it back. The Namibian Airforce are now left with only two aircraft and I don't believe any of their neighbours have asked them for assistance since.
Four other volunteers had also arrived on my flight. You could tell who they were because they looked bruised and battered like they'd had no sleep and had been constantly disturbed by kids running up and down the aisles all night. The journey to N/a a'n ke se camp (it means God is watching over us in Bushman) took about 30 minutes or so gave us our first taste of Namibia and the African landscape. A wide and far reaching plain scattered with shrubs and bushes gave way to high and impressive mountains in the distance. The earth was the characteristic red of Namibia caused I am told by a high level of iron oxide in the ground. After about 10 minutes on tarmac we turned onto a dirt road and the back end of the minibus swung away from us and shimmied around alarmiglyn. I exchanged nervous glances with a couple of the other passengers and noticed that those that weren’t wearing their seatbelts hastily clicked them into place. I checked out our driver and saw the hint of a 
smile playing around his lips. If he was going out of his way to make us nervous, then he was doing just fine. During my research into the country before we left I had checked out the kind of injuries I might deal with in the clinic. Trauma from car accident was number one on the list and I started to understand the reasons for that. Off the main highways driving in the middle of the road appears to be de rigor and heck, why not do it while you're driving round the bends too. It appeared that Namibians liked to live dangerously but I didn't want to become one of it's statistics quite so early on. Actually I didn't want to become one at all so I hung onto my seat ever more tightly. We turned off the dirt road onto a narrow and windy dirt track potted with holes and rubble and then five minutes after that we swung through a wire gate and into the entrance of the camp. My first view as we swung into the yard was a line of vehicles, several of which were up on blocks with obvious gaps where their wheels were supposed to be. I wondered for a moment if I had booked the wrong holiday by mistake and was in fact now arriving for five weeks on African Car Maintenance for Beginners. If so, I’d really packed the wrong kit.
We unloaded our luggage and stood for a moment in the fierce lunchtime sun, surrounded by dogs of various size and pedigree unsure of what we should do. Slowly, from different directions people came to join us and introduced themselves. Some were staff, many of whom had been volunteers previously and had come back to take up positions and some were volunteers who were part way through their stay or who were leaving that day. The ones who were leaving really didn't seem to want to go and were clearly very attached to the place. At first glance, being honest, I couldn't really work out what might be so beguilding. People chatted and exchanged pleasantries which you are inclined to do in these situations but we were tired and hot and really just wanted to be shown our rooms so we could crash for a few hours and wash away the grime of travelling. Dragging our bags along a dirt path we were directed to a building called the Lappa which we were told held our accommodation and housed the communal area where we would take our meals. Lunch had been prepared for us and was ready. Now tired as I was, if there is a coin to be flipped between food or sleep, food wins every time so I eagerly dumped my bag and tried not to be disconcerted by the very basic state of my room. The Lappa sits on the front of the accommodation block, has a corrugated iron roof and three sides which are more or less open to the fresh air. There is a large concrete topped workspace which is used for food prep and which also houses an electric oven and hob. A large circular raised fireplace sits in the centre and is used much like a large scale barbeque. Lunch was unidentifiable but welcome (we decided collectively it was a kind of fish patty) and I learned my first lesson of the holiday. Don't ask too many questions, just eat. Oh, and get used to flies. As the makeup streaked and my clothes started to crease so truely began my Namibian Adventure.
Thursday, April 9, 2009 at 10:29AM