One of my
favorite things about living in Namibia is my host mother.
I don’t,
however, spend a lot of time with her, or my host family… They’re forever
watching TV… and I’m forever reading… Or marking.. Or sleeping… Our schedules
clash, you see.
I woke up
last Saturday to shrieking and praying and cursing. In a combination I had not
heard since a snake invaded my bedroom and hid behind my jerry cans. I wandered
to the front of the house to find my host mother pointing a hose at the roof’s
overhang and thwacking the side of the house with a giant branch, still cursing
and shrieking and praying..
I get her to
cease watering the house, and make it out of the now drenched porch to discover
what has frightened her so.
A walking
stick. An ancient one, at that... At least, I assume so, considering it was
18-20cm long. The little beast had lived in relative peace until my host mother
gave herself, and the poor bugger, a near heart attack.
In her
tribe, she tells me, “… walking sticks mean death will come to your house.”
My reply
was, “In my tribe, walking sticks like this mean ‘go run and grab your camera.’
”
So I did.
And I carefully coaxed the gentle giant into a bowl and transplanted him to a tree
nearby. All the while my host mother is laughing at my brazen behaviour,
cavalierly picking up the insect, despite its ominous presence. At this point she
was watching from the sandy lane… A full twenty metres away…
Now playing:
Settle | Disclosure
(Thanks B—)