vicki, 14 Apr 2009 23:54 hours
Oshakati, Namibia Histrionics and Homecoming I am waiting at the car rental desk, and waiting and waiting. He’s serving everyone before me because the computer doesn’t like my number. Finally I crack.
‘Why do I have to go to the back of the queue, just because your computer doesn’t work,’ I whine. I’ve got to go to Oshakati today.’
‘How far is that,’ asks the French man who is kicking up a fuss because he booked a four wheel drive and they only have two wheel drives available.
‘About 8 hours,’ I say. I think about telling him that he doesn’t need a 4wd for the game park, but I’m too busy with the histrionics. The rental guy cracks when I start banging my hand on the desk, and fills out my paperwork long hand. The white madam has landed.
In the car and I’m driving round and round the airport car park. It’s only small, the car park, not the car. I can’t find my way out and I want to get to Oshakati before dark. Doris says the roads are bad after the flooding. I’m ready to scream with frustration and the car guy is running after me shouting that the jack is under the front seat (actually I must have a look and see if it is). I stop to ask him the way out and have to open the door because I can’t find the electric switch for the window. Finally I escape the maze and I’m on the road. First police check point and I cotton on that the reason i can’t find the window switch is because there isn’t one. I have to wind it down. ‘Where you going,’ asks the policeman. ‘Oshakati,’ I tell him. ‘My family, Oshakati,’ he says. We are both so pleased about this that we shake hands, the African way; interlock hands, interlock thumbs, interlock hands. I haven’t forgotten how.
On the road, this road I have travelled so many times. I want to cry, I’m so excited to be here. It’s Easter Saturday and deserted, everybody travelled yesterday. Deserted that is apart from the police. I am stopped 9 times and for most of those they are checking my passport as well as licence. The immigration police are on the case, the Zimbabweans don’t stand a chance. The huge orange sun drops below the horizon as I reach the first of the massive potholes. I am travelling at speed and narrowly avoiding rolling the car. After that I proceed with caution.
I head for a volunteer’s house and as I rattle up the road I catch a troupe of girls in the headlights. It’s Doris and Omaleshe. They’ve come to dance at the farewell party of some volunteers, and I have arrived at the same time as them. Within minutes I am standing in a circle holding aloft a candle and watching the girls dance the stories of Africa. The drum beat fills the darkness, the girls leap higher and pound the mahangu harder as the beat gets more insistent with each successive dance. Then it’s chaos as we sort out their bags, find missing jeans, and load them into cars, squashed in tight. Doris and I sit up talking until three, when I finally conk out. I have been travelling since 2pm of the day before and my ankles are the size of an elephant’s. But I’m back.
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