Wham, Bam, Screw You Nam!

He was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt over baggy jeans straight from my sister’s rave days and carrying a silver briefcase. Those are three things I wouldn’t trust when seen solo but when combined I knew I had to talk to that guy.
My chance came when I was enjoying an after dinner glass of wine with my friends Carroll-Anne and Shadow. (Shadow is a traveling name. Carroll-Anne hates her traveling name so I only use it when face to face to get a thrill from her death glare). This interesting adorned man, now wearing a Coat of Character, put said coat on a trembling Shadow in a gentlemanly gesture. As with most gentlemen and their gestures he failed to notice that Shadow was trembling from his creepiness and not her temperature. I took it upon myself to introduce myself and question the Coat of Character. A coat not unlike those adorning many homeless men walking the streets of a big city. A coat that says people have died while wearing me and their souls stitch my inseam. A coat when combined with Che Guevara t-shirt, rave jeans and non-descript briefcase alert ME that I will do everything to be That Guy’s friend so that when anthrax tainted ecstasy is released at the next labor union strike and He starts collecting body pieces (because what else would he put in a briefcase) then I would be safe and happy with own Coat of Character. And so, C.J. from Durban became a prominent figure in our Namibian vacation.
Up until this point vacation had been somewhat normal. I met up with 7 friends in Livingstone for Christmas. They all live in other parts of Zambia so it was fun for me to show them around TongaLand. We visited Victoria Falls and I can now say that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t. Because one by one they went bungee jumping and I cringed while videotaping. Of course this was partly because the day before I had assumed the Meryl Streep role in The River Wild and rafted the Zambezi River. Ive been rafting numerous times before and enjoyed the slight adrenaline rush coupled with laughing while bouncing along. This time there was no laughing. At my place in the front, alongside PCV Tim, we got a clear view of the rapids to come as the boat dipped down seconds before collision and I would inevitably utter a curse word. After a couple hours Tim couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at me over the crashing waves. “Seriously Britt, those could be the last words I hear!” So I switched to something more appropriate for his mid-western Catholic upbringing and started hailing Mary like baby Jesus at supper time. Our boat flipped twice. I was thrown out 2 more times. Once I slammed headfirst Crash Dummy style into the rocks on the river side when we were wildly spinning. And I took a paddle to the face. Now I know why they make you wear helmets. When we docked at the end I nearly kissed the shore and promised never to test fate again. Thus I was videotaping and feeling like an accomplice to more asinine actions.
Our one day stop in Windhoek was over the weekend when everyone was in transit to the beach town Swakopmund for New Years. It made the capital seem like a ghost town and mistakenly modern. For when Carroll-Anne and I sat down at a proper table with advertisements shouting off the wall we thought these were signs that we would actually get what we ordered. But when bowls of lettuce showed up and we were told that the ingredients were missing to make lettuce into the distinguishing salads we had ordered, I knew the amenities were a façade. “Can I say something? I want to say something.” No. You will sit there and eat your leaf and think menacing thoughts of this restaurant and this country and this continent. Just like me. “ok, Nana. You can say something.” Even though this is extremely crisp lettuce. And they even washed it!
Soon we were on our way to Swakopmund. The attractive, middle aged Afrikaner woman giving us a ride smiled as Gizmo commented on her music. “It’s my son’s cd.” As she slipped off her wedding ring. “Im going to meet my girlfriends for the holiday. What are your plans?” Gizmo’s WASP eyes lit up and I ordered 2012’s earth ending quakes and fires to ascend right now.
But then we found ourselves at the backpackers lodge and in company of permanent resident C.J. “Ive been here for 3 months but my country, they doesn’t know it. I have a doctor’s note.” Wink. A doctor’s note? What sickness keeps you out of your own country?
My friends and I breathed in the salt air and arrived at the open air club on the sand with the loudest music and 90% of Namibia’s high school student body. What? The place was swarming with acne, hair gel, neon sunglasses and Smirnoff Ice. Apparently we had stumbled on Southern Africa’s version of Spring Break Cancun. This scene would be repeated night after night until New Year’s Eve when it was crowned with sweaty bodies dancing around a bonfire. And this is where I blame the downfall of the rest of our trip.
Every year I have an anti-social tradition of staying in and reflecting on all the bad times of the year past while realizing Ive made it to another year with brand new horrors awaiting. Its not pessimistic. Its realistically slapping the world in the face before it pinches you back. But this year I get sucked into teenie bopper angst and what happens...
The Skeleton Coast Automobile Debacle. Why is it called the Skeleton Coast? Is it a graveyard? Of ships? Of animals? No. Of your pride? Of your checkbook? Of your bladder? Yes.
On New Years Day I walked all over the town with Carroll-Anne just to discover the rental car’s office was closed. Of course that turned out to be the wrong company and though we were a couple hours late to the proper company, our reservation and vehicle were gone due to a 10 minute wait policy. Apparently some things in Africa do operate within 10 mins. Things like greeting the woman selling bananas then buying bananas then thanking her and then sending greetings to her family. And things like American rental car companies.
Two days later we were on the road. But not in one large vehicle. The 8 of us were split into 2 tiny Nissans meant to be taxis. When me and the only other person knowledgeable and experienced with driving a standard realized we had left our licenses at PC HQ in Lusaka, the two with licenses started hyper-ventilating. We needed Carroll-Anne and Buck to drive us out of this teenaged hormone city and far away from C.J. with his suitcase and Coat of Character. I remembered how stressful it was for me to learn and how long it took to be comfortable. How I hated my mom for yelling “push in the clutch.” How I hated the car for having 3 pedals. How I hated every driver for honking when I stalled.
And now I and the other knowledgeable person were going to sit shotgun and teach and yell and be hated! So I looked at Carroll-Anne and did what any friend would “Im abandoning you. I’ll be in the other car coaching Buck. Your gonna do great.” Thumbs up!
What I forgot to factor in was the fact that my great state of California gives away licenses like Halloween candy. So most of my instructions weren’t “push in the clutch” but remember you have to steer and the brake is for stopping.
The worst place for car trouble is the desert. The majestic desolation steals hope of passer-bys due to the 360 degree view of the horizon which reminds you that urination will be in full view of God, the coastline and the other 7 people on this trip that you now hate because your teaching and ADD male how to drive and your best friend is mentally abusing herself while they all giggle and take pictures of NOTHING! Its sand. Get over it.
The Skeleton Coast was sand and water and a teeth stained dude wearing a Cowboy hat who sold us a tire for our FIRST flat. Lets just say Nissan taxis were not meant for canvassing the African bush.
Arriving back in Zambia has never felt so good. We don’t drive here. And when a vehicle we are in breaks, village ingenuity fixes it with spit and melted flip-flops. But now, due to the over charges with the vehicles, Im in debt to Carroll-Anne. Did I mention she is a great driver?!
Everyone has their theory of when the trip went wrong. Some don’t even think it went that wrong. I guess we all made it back safely so there is a surprise.
And of course, I can rest assure that I’ll have a heads up on the next house/trance dance Latin induced attack via briefcase so I can hide in my own Coat of Character. But if anyone wants my advice?
Stay the hell out of Nam.

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Description of Pictures in last blog posted by PCV Christa

1. Signpost leading to my village; Dimbwe
2. Standing in front of my house with my Bataata, Fellow
3. Pretending to help fix my bike, PCV Tim is on the right
4. Moses - the 2 year old brat
5. Forgot the kids name, he is in charge of the goats
6. Clyde – he is in charge of the cows
7. Choolwe
8. Castro
9. Sitting with my boys at my house
10. My bathing shelter that is currently occupied by a dog and her brand new 6 puppies
11. My latrine – should have a roof but it’s a work in progress
12. Cikuta – the kitchen the family cooks in, the dish rack on the right, the structure on left is used to store maize
13. View from my house. Garden and fields.
14. The well
15-pictures of the inside of my house