Monday, September 28, 2009

Spending money is harder than you think

I am in Namibia. At least I was when I started typing this. On business but to be perfectly honest, a 10 hour day at the office won’t be the order of the day. It will be three days of work and then a weekend of waking up to the sound of the ocean instead of gunshots. I’m very excited.

I was even more excited when I realised that I will receive another stamp in my passport and more importantly, will have access to the greatest experience known to man – DUTY FREE SHOPPING. For weeks I have been pinching Rands where I can. Even foregoing the Kugel Poodle’s bi-weekly grooming trip to the Italian lady who so lovingly makes her tail poufy. My flight is at 06:00 so I need to be at the airport at 04:00. With great care and detail I calculate the checking in of my luggage and being allowed through passport control. This should take no more than 30-45 minutes which leaves me with a good hour of shopping before I need to board the plane. The plan is to complete my Christmas shopping in under an hour and at a bargain as well. For this sole reason I check in another suitcase, only partly filled with shoes and my supply of medication (seriously, drop me off in the middle of Africa and I can cure most people with what I’ve got in my suitcase – without a potato or clove of garlic in sight). I’ve therefore got more than enough space for goods purchased at a bargain.

Our great national carrier’s staff only arrives at 04:40 to open the check in counters. At this point, I already had breakfast in order to get me ready for my hour shopping marathon. Never shop on an empty stomach. Your blood sugar drops as the adrenalin kicks in and you are left depleted of much needed energy to complete your shopping mission. I’ve seen many a rookie shopper collapse and it isn’t pretty. Needless to say, I’m pacing up and down waiting for the check in process to start. I’ve already lost valuable minutes thanks to the (re)tardiness of some.

After another 15 minute delay, I finally make my way through passport control and am ready to shop. But I’m greeted with an eerie silence similar to a Leon Schuster movie screened to Souties from Sandton. About 2 seconds later the awful reality sets in. My Mecca is not open for business before 6am. And there I stand in the middle of the passage, forlorn and lost for words. The disappointment is written all over my face and I fear I may burst into tears. It’s only the Afrikaner blood pumping through my veins that saves me from a complete collapse in the middle of the duty free shopping area. With the same resolve which enabled my ancestors to make it barefoot over the Drakensberg, I pull myself together and make my way to the only establishment open at 05:15 – a coffee shop.

That was the start of my trip. Intense disappointment along with the bitter taste of a R20 cup of coffee. I suppose having not been able to shop at 05:15 in the morning, you may as well spend your thousands earmarked for duty free shopping on coffee.

Things did improve drastically from that point on. The flight to Windhoek was half full which left a seat open next to me. The irony – my shopping could’ve gone there. Nonetheless, the flight was pleasant and I arrived in Windhoek having recovered from the shock of being left stranded by the gods of retail. The 42km drive from the airport to Windhoek is pleasant with dramatic landscape accompanying you on your journey. Thanks to my trusty GPS (after only 18 months in Jo’burg I’ve transformed into a yuppie), I have no anxiety about arriving in a strange city (ok, large dorp) and can enjoy my surroundings. This led to me spotting one of the most interesting sights for the duration of my trips.

Upon entering Windhoek at the 3rd or 4th traffic light you’ll encounter, there was a metro policeman directing traffic. Nothing unusual there except that there were 15 men and women standing on the pavement carefully observing his every move. They wore vests which proudly displayed something to the effect of ‘traffic school’. And they were dutifully mimicking his gestures and movements with intense concentration. Here and there you could spot the few within the group who were destined for greatness. They were focused and from time to time would turn to a struggling team member and indicate that they were not gesturing as their leader in the intersection was doing. I had a good minute to observe them before I reluctantly had to move on. It was incredibly funny but endearing at the same time. Call me sentimental but public servants displaying dedication to this degree, make me misty eyed.

Driving around Windhoek is an absolute joy. After a few minutes I switched the GPS off and found my way with relative ease. No wonder one of the clients I went to see told me that you don’t need a fancy gadget to direct you around. You only need to use your head and ask a local to direct you to the next spot you need to be at. There’s parking everywhere and in most cases, you don’t need to pay. I never spotted any traffic police monitoring if people were adhering to the time limit allocated to certain bays and overall, I felt free. Safe and free. Windhoekers will warn you of the high crime rate and that you need to be on the lookout for all sorts of criminals prowling the streets. During the two days I was navigating around Windhoek, the worst criminal I spotted was a tourist wearing safari socks with his sandals. Hideous and a crime of fashion beyond any reasonable doubt. The streets are free of litter and the beer kept cold wherever you go. I couldn’t ask for more.

On to Swakopmund. I was staying on for the weekend at my own expense and therefore had to find a reasonable establishment at under N$300 a night. Easier said than done as Swakop draws huge tourist numbers. I finally found a small hotel called Prinzessin Ruprecht where I could find a room under N$300 per night. Perfect. The history of the hotel sounded fascinating to me. Built in 1902 as a military hospital, it served as an old age home as well before being turned into a hotel. There’s a beautiful garden and safe parking off street (remember, Namibia is a dangerous place full of sock and sandal clad criminals). What they somehow neglected to tell you is that the hotel also still serves as an old age home. Many of the rooms and smaller units are occupied by senior citizens. This in itself did not bother me; the place was as a result very quiet. But exiting my room in the morning onto the balcony overlooking the garden and courtyard, left me with a decidedly creepy feeling. For there would always be a few ladies out and about, slowing pushing their Zimmer trollies around the courtyard. It was like a scene from Cocoon and coupled with the realization that the place may be haunted given its past as a military hospital, sleep did not always come easy. But I survived and ended up having a great time amongst the elderly.

After 5 relaxing days with some business thrown into the mix (hopefully enough to keep the empire happy), I’m back at the airport. For some reason I’m upgraded to Business Class which leaves me dumbstruck but grateful. The tide seems to be turning and perhaps today is the day that things will work in my favour. I make my way through passport control. Oh joy, the shops are open and ready for business. I charge in with glee. My cup and basket is overflowing. Until I reach the cashier and she tells me that as a South African citizen, I’m not entitled to shop at duty free. Again, I find myself standing forlorn in the middle of the duty free shopping area wondering why the gods of retail have conspired against me. I half heartedly argued with her for a minute and then gave up. My only revenge was to leave her to go and unpack my basket and place everything back where it belongs. That should keep her busy for a good half hour. I only wish I added more to the basket. Irritated and disappointed I made my way to the business lounge. Having been upgraded I could at least spend the next two hours slightly more comfortable and access my e-mail. Think again. I had to pay to make use of the lounge as it’s privately owned and managed and my upgrade meant jack shyst to the unfriendly woman behind the counter. I paid the N$150 and asked her if I could at least access the Wi-Fi network to check my e-mail. The answer was of course a resounding ‘no’. You needed to pay and even if you were willing to do so (I was not), they had no Wi-Fi vouchers left.

So this is where I currently find myself. (By the time you read this I'll be back in Jo'burg.) Surrounded by khaki clad Bratwursts clutching bubble wrapped giraffes and elephants and hardly an English magazine or newspaper in sight. But the bar is open and one way or the other, I’m getting my N$150’s worth out of this ‘business lounge’. Even if I have to crawl onto the plane.

Prost!

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