road trip — a detour

day 6

I think I killed Ali.

I hadn’t, but sleeping in an unfamiliar place is difficult, and when you add the way a car accident jerks you about, it’s neigh impossible. A little past midnight, I found myself peering through the darkness to the adjacent bed for movement.

While we both escaped mostly with bruises and stiff muscles, Ali’s head had smacked against something, causing a lump. Guilt and discomfiture were keeping me awake.

Unbeknownst to me, Ali, was awake, too.  Finally, the wench batted something from the front of her face. Whew. Alive.

The next morning, Titus awoke us with Calvin (the gent who gave us the tour of the cats) and apprised us our Peace Corps driver, Jefda had called ahead – and that breakfast had been prepared for us.

Seriously, Hammerstein Lodge. You are amazing.

The drive out on that same stretch was a little tense, I admit it. We learned—after the incident—that another car, a 4x4 bakkie driven by someone who lived in the area, had overturned about 100 metres from where we had—the week before. Not comforting.

I spent most of the drive asleep, slumped over the backseat, clutching my seatbelt, drooling.

Two memorable moments with the Maltahohe police… After a while, I realized that the glassy eyed man in the cage was not some unkempt officer, but conspicuously drunk. A second, far more bedraggled inebriate joined the first wavering on his feet, and it clicked. A public shaming in the town square.

The other was, upon hearing where we lived, they started hollering for their ‘Kavango’ and ‘Herero’ speaking colleagues.

While the gentleman speaking Herero was able to communicate with Ali, the man who approached me was not speaking Rukwangali. My Ruk is, admittedly, terrible, but I know if you’re speaking it or not. Hell, I even usually know what’s being said. Unfortunately, he started off in one of the seven languages spoken in my region that are not Rukwangali, and while a native speaker could sort it out, I am no such thing.

Turns out, he’s speaking Nyemba, a language spoken in Northern Kavango, but primarily in Angola. He then enquired if I spoke Chokwe, another Angolan language. I’m afraid I was nothing more than a disappointment to them all, but Ali, as she had with the English to English translations, covered for me and rocked a conversation for about ten minutes.

See, not all Americans bungle languages – just me. Pffftt.

Eventually we made it to Windhoek, were x-rayed by astoundingly attractive radiology techs, after being checked out by the Peace Corps medical officers. Ali’s took too long (by about five minutes), leaving me to a pissing contest with the PCMO, Lyn. (Figuratively).

Lyn has been working with the Peace Corps for… 29 years? I think. She’s lived in, at least, 26 countries. During the course of my physical exam, it turned out I have minor hearing loss in my left(?) ear.^[1] The woman is in her sixties with perfect hearing. I had to trounce her on the eye exam just to show her up. Second to last line at twenty feet with my left eye. Beat that, woman.

^[1] Considering that I am struggling to remember details now, perhaps the memory loss should be at the forefront of my mind rather than the hearing…

day 7

Don’t you celebrate Ascension Day in your country? No?

While our x-rays showed no injuries—to our unpracticed eyes—other than the whopper on Ali’s skull… We had to be cleared by the radiologist at the Catholic hospital, whose MRI department was closed for the religious holiday. So. An extra day of medical hold. Joy. ^[2]

Prepared for the idle of holiday (and the eminent temporary closures of most businesses), we entertained ourselves by dying Ali’s hair. I’ve never made an assist apart from my mother’s hair, which, though she attempts to hide it, is shock white. You know if you’ve missed the roots. Not so, on a brunette punching up the colour to an auburn. Just another thing to be paranoid about, I guess.

^[2] So we never got to Sousessvlei, but at least I’d gotten a full night’s sleep.

Ali tells me I fell asleep mid-sentence.

day 8

Get me out of here.

The thought hounding my brain, for though while I’ve been idle with friends in the capital, and we’d been gorging on yummy Indian cuisine at Garnish, and sushi at Nice… the purgatory of medical hold is not an acceptable holiday alternative.

Made worse was someone had let it slip… (A— you’re the worst, I love you). And we had been on the receiving end of frantic enquiries as to our health.

They mention the rumor mill during your pre-service training.
It’s like high school. Equally un-formed, half-coherent tales abound about all manner of situations.

It’s easy to laugh off the idea of adults participating in a specious rumor mill, until a series of your acquaintances get fresh meat in their teeth.

By mid-morning, we were medically cleared and free to go.

My next move? Get to the hazy coast, and sunny Jacques, now, now, please.

For photos of this leg of the trip, check out my google+ album, here.

< day 5