Day One

Well, I’m here. It’s my first morning in Namibia, and after two days of pretty intense travelling, I have landed and am in my first guest house, which I have until Wednesday. I’ve got a few important things to get on with in these first few days, the most pressing of which is to secure myself some transportation, which means buying a four-wheel drive that will serve my purposes as a main repository for my stuff as well as my transport for the next year. It’s quite daunting, and I’ll feel better once I have it.

My journey began with six hours on the high-speed train from Cologne to Munich Airport. All went without incident, and Munich airport is imposing and terrifying in equal measure, but feels very much like something from the future.DSCF0034

That is from just outside the check-in desk. The train turns up underground just underneath it, and in comparison to the airports I normally frequent (Edinburgh, Düsseldorf Weeze and, increasingly, Hosea Kutako International in Windhoek) it is staggeringly massive and modern. I had a long wait, nervous as I was I turned up far too many hours in advance, and had to wait for some time for the bag drop to open at all, even though it did so three hours before the plane departed. Fortunately, just opposite the desk was an airport pub, and I thought I would get myself a little last taste of Germany before I left, which made me realise I would indeed miss it when I was gone.

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I proceeded along my (increasingly) merry way, and slept through most of the ten-hour night flight to Johannesburg, which was nice. Security at German airports seems thoroughly relaxed in comparison to my homeland, and they were a bit surprised when I automatically took off my shoes, as I have yet to pass through Heathrow Terminal 5 without being asked to do so. I’m becoming somewhat good at not setting off the metal detectors, now.

Arriving blearily at Johannesburg, dehydrated, achey and dog-tired, I was greeted with the world’s longest queue, and was relieved that South African Airways had made my layover six hours. Apparently, O R Tambo Johannesburg thinks it is perfectly fine to have a flight from Frankfurt, and one from Munich, each containing about four hundred people, most of whom are tired and irritable Germans, arrive ten minutes apart. I really don’t think their international transfers section is designed to handle that. Having been briefed on Standard African time previously, I was patient, and two hours later I found somewhere to buy two litres of water and a quiet place to sit and drink all of it while reading National Geographic from cover to cover (there was something about the diets of hunter-gatherers in it, and a nice little bit about Nero). Thankfully, I did not fall asleep. I still had a few hours, and decided to browse some of the terminal shops, which are great if you want the skin of pretty much anything:

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Made into pretty much anything:

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Or you are just hungry:

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I wasn’t really hungry. The coffee was alright though, and at quarter past one I was on my final plane for what I hope to be a reasonably long time, and on the final leg of my journey to Namibia. They’ve got a brand new plane for the leg, too, and fortunately my checking in early got me a seat by the window just behind business class, where I slept for most of that flight as well.

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The view was nice, if hazy as it is the dry season and dust covers most of the land. I think that is Botswana below us at that point.

Normally, when you enter Namibia as a foreigner, you have to complete a landing card, which is pretty much the same as the visa form I filled in a few months ago, but with the added bonus that it is completed in hasty biro scribble while the cabin crew are telling you to put up your tray table as the plane is landing. However, this time, they had run out of them, and all we got to fill in was this:

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I cast a quick glance over the others in my row, and none of them seemed to have Ebola either, so I think we’re alright. We had to hand those to a lady who stood outside the terminal building, next to another lady who took the temperature of our necks with what looked like a police radar gun. Nobody was stopped, and I was reassured about this. All I can say is that I’m glad I slept with my head back rather than on my chest, with regard to the temperature of my neck. I’m pretty sure that there have been no cases of Ebola here in Namibia to date, but it’s nice to know they’re being careful. I note as well that South Africa didn’t ask for a form like that. I think the Namibian authorities just like forms a lot. It’s either their slightly socialist bent (no complaints from me) or maybe their German influence.

Then came the moment of truth. I’d applied for my work visa, I had the form all ready, I just needed to see if I was accepted into the country (at least until November, when I need it extended). I had butterflies, and all the documents that I needed to acquire the visa in the folder with the certificate, just in case. I stood at the counter for what seemed like forever, then the worst possible thing for my mental state happened. I was ushered, stampless, into a tiny office where I interrupted a very in-depth conversation in English between a well-dressed man and the customs official. They were talking about how it was illegal to bring “that much” Tanzanian currency into the country. You will forgive me, I’m sure, for not thinking I was in the best of company.

The official stopped the exchange with one wave of an authoritative hand, and motioned for me to hand him my form and passport. I duly did, quaking in my boots and not looking forward to the next flight back to Europe. It turns out that the regular passport checking desk didn’t have the work visa stamp, so it was done in a flash and he took my form, even taking the time to check I had nothing else important in the plastic wallet that I wanted to keep. I was in, and he presumably  resumed his conversation with the well-dressed man.

My next task after picking up my luggage was to find a taxi to take me the 50km to Windhoek. As I expected, I was inundated with taxi offers from the moment I exited arrivals, and took up the offer of a guy who waited for me to withdraw some local currency, and I left to enter Namibia proper.

We loaded up his car, and he mentioned that he was leaving to pay the parking fee. He left me standing beside the open car, and the first thing I noticed was that there was nothing on the car at all to indicate that it was in fact a taxi. I was pretty suspicious, and all the stories of kidnapped foreigners ran through my head at once, and the fact that he had left me beside the open car in full view of large numbers of Namibian police totally left my mind. I had visions of all sorts of awful things, and in the ten minutes he was gone I photographed his license plate and tax disk as well as checking the glove compartment for a weapon. Obviously, there was nothing there, and when we passed the police checkpoint on the way in he shook hands with the policeman, as he was a friend of his. It turns out my tiredness and leftover anxiety from getting stamped in the wee office was getting the better of me, and not only did he take the time on the drive in to teach me a phrase or two in Oshiwambo, but when I got to the guest house and had paid the extremely little he charged me for a 50km drive, he waited to make sure I got in alright before driving on, to ensure I wasn’t left on the street with nowhere to go. Needless to say, I took his card, and will call him again when I next need a ride. He just bought his car last week, and hasn’t got around to getting the taxi stickers yet. I tipped him extremely well, although he doesn’t know why, and was reminded why I felt so safe in Namibia so quickly the last time I was here.

Maybe I’m a bit cynical. Just maybe.

So today I’ve got some meetings to arrange, a guest house to call, and some dealerships to research. I feel more relaxed already.

Tschuß!

Here we go

So it turned out I could shave a good couple of hundred Euros off my flights if I booked ones for tomorrow (Saturday 13th) rather than today, so that is what I did. Thanks to the excellent German public transport network, I can fly from Munich. As the Germans are big on reducing folks’ carbon footprint, many airlines, South African Airways included, have signed up to the Rail-and-Fly program. This means the six-hour, normally €140 journey on the high-speed ICE train costs me nothing, and I get to sit in a special Lufthansa carriage all the way there, getting a nice view of the Bavarian scenery. One ticket, costing €750, will get me all the way from Köln Ehrenfeld station, about two hundred metres from my room where I now sit, to Hosea Kutako airport Windhoek. Incredible. My travel schedule, however, is a long one. Six hours on the train to Munich, a wait in the airport, a ten-hour flight to Johannesburg, another wait in the airport, then two hours flying to Windhoek. This is over about two days, and I will catch the train at about eleven tomorrow morning, arriving in Windhoek at twenty past three on Sunday afternoon. I’ve booked a guest house to check into at four.

It’s all sorted, everything is booked, and all I need to do now is check in to my flights this evening online, scrambling with everyone else on the flight to get myself a bulkhead seat for my unfeasibly long legs. I then need to find a printing shop on the way to the station to print off the boarding pass, which shouldn’t be too difficult.

Packing has been a bit of a chore, although thanks to the guy replacing me in my room being 1) a car owner and 2) absolutely brilliant, getting the stuff I’m not taking to Namibia to the office to live under my desk for a year was not too much trouble. Gretel is now safely stowed in another friend’s basement, and after what I think qualifies as an actual physical fight with my stuff, I’ve also packed my bags.

Here is the stuff I’m putting in the hold, which all fit into a 65L hiking rucksack (reluctantly) and weighs about nineteen kilos.

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Yes, that is an Irish tin whistle and accompanying book. As I’ve had to leave my guitar and mandolin in Cologne for the next year (although I plan to buy a cheap guitar there) I thought I might take the opportunity to learn some tunes on the whistle. I’ve always liked the idea of an instrument I can fit in my pocket, but the draw of the mandolin for fiddle tunes has, until now, proved too much. No choice now, so time to learn. The funny black thing in the bottom right corner is also an amazingly-compact giant solar panel, which I found in the office. Apparently there are perks to being on an anthropological project with a hefty budget. I’ve also had to pack a little strategically: Johannesburg airport has a bit of a theft problem, and I lost a mobile phone last time. I am preparing by topping off the side and lid pockets with my dirty socks from the days before. Heh heh heh.

Here is what I am taking with me on the plane:

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The Indy hat, I will admit, seems overkill, but it was invaluable last time against the terrifyingly powerful Namibian sun. The map of Namibia that has been on the wall for the last couple of months is also coming with me.

And here is the lot of it together:

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This is everything I will own in Namibia until I buy a car. I will then fill that car with camping equipment and live out of it for the next year. It should be good.

I’ve got a good couple of hours before I can check in online for my flight, and similar to my earlier blog post about Karneval, just before I left last time, I think that this one was probably a little frenetic. I certainly feel frenetic. Maybe I’ll wax my boots again. I sure as hell am not repacking the bloody rucksack.

See you in Africa, Tschuß!

Namibia Part Two: Into the North

So when I last wrote my supervisor and I had packed up the car after a few days in Windhoek and begun our journey to meet the Hai||om hunter-gatherers, and see if things at the farm where he had done his PhD fieldwork still bore much resemblance to the one he had left. We drove for about six hours from Windhoek to Tsumeb, a small mining town up in the North of the country, where we stopped briefly to resupply. It would, ideally, have been a briefer stop, but meeting a local business owner in Namibia involves the previously detailed temporal phenomenon known as Standard African Time, and we spent far longer in a petrol station Wimpy with terrible coffee in front of us that I think anyone would consider reasonable.

Much to the bewilderment of everyone else, I insisted on taking this picture:

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So for those of you not familiar with the peculiarities of the highlands of Scotland, that there is a Spar. I thought they were pretty much exclusive up there, a relic of the British past consigned to the most rural of rural areas simply because no other store could possibly imagine the benefit of opening one when the local population consists of two old guys, a herd of sheep and a black and white dog. Apparently not. They do a roaring trade in Namibia, and along with a serious moment of incongruity the mystery of how in the world they actually make money is solved. Explaining why I wanted a picture of it was quite fun, but it sounded a lot better in my head. At least three Namibians think I’m some sort of supermarket-spotter, which I imagine is several rungs below trainspotting in the hierarchy of sad, sad hobbies. Either that or I was taking part in the lamest industrial espionage ever conceived.

Nonetheless, our meeting went well, and we proceeded once again North. I was warned of bad roads, but alas the tarred road just continued on and on, much to my supervisor’s surprise, but not disappointment. We arrived at Tsinsabis (You’re probably going to have to Google Map these at some point, I still do) a few hours before nightfall, and finally got to test the camping equipment the project paid for us to hire, at a locally-run campsite known as Tree-Sleepers.

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If the last two pictures didn’t make it clear, it was really, really wet. Namibia is supposed to be the most arid country in Southern Africa, some places regularly going without rain for most of the year, and while the wet season was finishing up while we were there, I did not expect to be rained on like clockwork every single day. I cast my mind back to see if I had offended a wizard or something in the past, as my camping trips seem cursed. Either than or I’m the reincarnation of Douglas Adams’ Rain God. It finally felt like we were actually out there doing fieldwork, though, and it was brilliant. So in the mood was I that I decided to attempt a campfire, waving away the firelighters in an attempt to prove my bushcraft skills, learned as they were from my intense study of all the Ray Mears progammes. My confidence in my own abilities, much to my supervisor’s amusement, was somewhat misplaced. We had peanut butter sandwiches and droewors for dinner, and not for the last time.

The night brought, to nobody’s surprise, more rain, but in the morning we set off from Tsinsabis into what is called “the land of the soft sand” to drive to the resettlement farm where the Hai||om group we were going to see make their home.

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We started to be quite glad we’d hired a four-wheel-drive, and we made swift progress towards the farm. It is worth explaining at this point why a group of people known as hunter-gatherers would live on a farm, rather than being mobile in the bush. It’s a big question, and probably the main subject of my PhD, but in short the ownership of most of Namibia by comparatively few farmers has pushed the Hai||om to the margins. Etosha National Park, once the land of the Hai||om, is now one of the most famous game parks in Africa. When the park was established originally, the Hai||om were allowed to stay on, mostly because they were thought to be part of the wildlife. However, South African rule, and an increasing demand by the park’s mostly European visitors for a fictional “untamed wilderness” free of people (which, incidentally, means that they actually started to recognise the Hai||om as human rather than shooting them on sight) led to them being unceremoniously evicted in 1954. Most of the Hai||om today inhabit the farms around Etosha, where they were “resettled”. It’s about as nice as it sounds.

Transitioning from one form of social organisation (mobility and relative freedom from external restraints) to another (sedentary living and piecemeal, low-paid work as proletarianised farm workers) is tough. It is especially tough when you are at the sharp end of discriminatory policies that have relatively recently stopped classifying you as a member of the animal kingdom. All this is essential to understand at least some of why the Hai||om currently live as they do. Things are not all bad, however, and I remain consistently amazed at the ability of people to make the best out of what, in the understatement of the year, is a bad situation.

Incidentally, while the change to sedentary living started happening a long time ago, things are still a bit different for the Hai||om than they are for their traditionally agro-pastoralist neighbours. As I would later discover, traditional knowledge has a fair amount of resilience and is not simply a product of current living conditions. People keep a lot of what they remember, even if it changes form. At least, I think so. Ask me in three years when my PhD is published.

History and structural conditions aside for a moment (sorry Marxists) I was running all of this through my head as we approached the farm settlement, and wondering what to expect. I was excited to finally be in the field, and hoping I’d make a good impression with those who would hopefully become my field subjects.

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These guys.

The quick amongst you will notice that the houses are not necessarily the best for mobile living (well done by the way, have you considered anthropology?). They are in fact a fairly recent adoption for those Hai||om who have settled down on farms. However, two older ladies who lived next to our campsite would not sleep under anything other than the traditional Hai||om style of house, and I wanted to find an excuse to post just because they’re cool:

ImageYou’ll also probably notice how green everything is. The grass is lush and thick at the end of the rainy season, the insects are utterly deafening and the livestock are all encouragingly fat.

An unfortunate part of the reason that the insects were deafening is because some of them looked like this:

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AAAAAAHH! KILL IT WITH FIRE!

Now. I come from Northern Europe. Insects are roughly one centimetre in length here. That is normal. The demon hellspawn you see above, however, is not. Pulling one of those off your tent, car, clothes or anything else is tough. They are strong, and they make a hissing noise when angry. They are also everywhere. One more of those things I just have to get used to as I’ll be camping there for much of the rest of the year. Another of them is a spider that apparently is very poisonous, so the guy I was with decided to poke it with a stick. Natürlich.

I haven’t seen a Baboon Spider yet, but I am emphatically not looking forward to it.

Despite my encounters with insects and the odd snake (my life was saved by Hai||om travelling companions at least once), I knew I could not research traditional knowledge without taking a few trips into the bush myself. It turns out that even though the Hai||om at this settlement have been in one place for some years, there are still regular trips of groups of kids into the surrounding scrubland to gather bush potatoes (wild root vegetables), black beetles and other foods in addition to the firewood they come back with each day. I accompanied some of the young girls and boys from the village (all between about 8 and 15) as they went on one of these trips. I traipsed along after them for a good few kilometres, hoping that it was plants we were after rather than animals, as I was not being particularly stealthy. Patiently, I was shown the leaves of the |harusa, or bush potato, and instructed to help in the search. Quite quickly I managed to point one out, and was promptly handed the digging stick and it was clear that if I wanted that one I needed to dig it out myself. I made a terrible hash of it, but eventually liberated it from the earth. This done, I pocketed my prize and we wandered further away from the settlement deeper into the grazing land.

This, by the way, is a bush potato, taken from a later trip with one of the two Hai||om in the village who could speak English.

If you listen really closely you can hear my attempts at Khoekhoegowab. They are not great.

What is also worth mentioning at this point is that by the end of the rainy season, the bush has grown up so thick in the pastures around the Hai||om settlement that visibility is barely ten metres, and I recognise absolutely none of the plants you can see in a given glance. I might as well be on an alien planet where every plant has inch-long thorns and all the animals are both capable and willing to kill you. Each block of a couple of metres looks absolutely the same as the last one, and I was completely and utterly in the hands of my young guides. I had my uses, however. Being twice the size of all the youngsters with me made me the perfect candidate for party pack-mule when it came to firewood. No complaints from me, however. I like to think I reimbursed them for having to put up with a wheezing white guy brandishing a camera.

Even with me in tow, that particular gathering trip was reasonably successful, the only truly paltry haul of |harusa coming from me, but at least I had most of a forest under my right arm.

Later, I was introduced to my English-speaking friend, and a few days afterwards he decided to take me on another walk through the bush, explaining to me all the plants and animals we saw, as well as their uses. I learned a lot from him, and hopefully will in the future, but the highlight of our walk was definitely this chameleon:

Awesome. I did discover, however, that I am not in fact that great at being a hunter-gatherer, as when I make up half the team, this is what we come back with:

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I can’t even claim credit for the MASSIVE bush potato either. Damn.

It was great fun, I must say, although without a lifetime of experience backing me up I know I couldn’t live on it. Hopefully I might get better at finding the stuff in the 12 months I’m around. I’ll be somewhat useful, then. All I can say is that I can’t wait to go back.

Stay tuned for part three, folks, that’s all for now. Tschuß!

Namibia Part One: Windhoek

Well, hello everyone! It’s been a hell of a long time. Something like six weeks. my last post was while I was preparing to go, and I already knew then that the update when I came back was going to be a mammoth one, so I’ve decided to split it up. The old laptop decided it would die a death when I was two days into my trip, so updates along the way were out. Now I’ve got to remember it all. Luckily we took something like fifteen hundred pictures, and spending two hours last week browsing through them has brought back a great deal of what it felt like to be there.

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Windhoek at sunset.

Namibia is a phenomenal place. Just a month there and I started to feel at home, I’ve got contacts, people to work with, and more people speak English than in Germany. More than that though, there’s something about it I can’t put my finger on. Maybe it’s that it’s a young country bigger than the British Isles with only about two and a half million people in it, but Namibia feels more like a small town than a country. Windhoek, the country’s capital, can’t be that much bigger than Inverness, and most of the “towns” up in the north you’d call villages if you were anywhere else. We were supposed to meet one anthropologist working there, only to find that she would be late as she’s been called last-minute to appear on a panel of experts on Namibia’s national television station. I must say, the programme was fairly well-directed, and I only heard one of the crew’s mobile phones ring once.

Windhoek saw some meetings, and my first couple of days on the African continent, for which I didn’t really know how to prepare beforehand. It turns out I didn’t really have to. My previous anthropological work in India had prepared me for a similar culture shock and mental rollercoaster as I tried to navigate a new city, but I had no such feelings upon landing. It was, of course, partly due to the presence of my supervisor at that point, who has spent probably more years in Namibia than I have spent studying anthropology at all, but partly due to the fact that Namibia just doesn’t seem quite frenetic enough to cause the same shock that I had landing in Delhi.

There’s a phenomenon my fellow Africanists call “Standard African Time”. Things happen when they happen. It might be when you were told they would happen, it might be two hours later, it might be not at all. When they are happening, though, you are definitely sure that they are in fact happening. This is the only time you can be sure. Very Zen. Admittedly Standard African Time is somewhat frustrating when you have a fifty-minute connection in Johannesburg International, and one of the two people very slowly stamping passports for a plane’s worth of people decides that then is the best time to clock off for breakfast, but for most of the trip it is sort of something you get used to. I’m confident I will get used to it: I’m probably going to go there in August this year until August 2015.

The meetings we had were incredibly interesting. There’s a legal advocacy group based in Windhoek that are currently bringing a case to bear on behalf of some of Namibia’s indigenous minorities to attempt to secure them rights to land. It’s the first case of its kind in the world, and I was privileged enough to be able to sit in on their meetings while they decided the best direction in which to take it. More importantly for me, because of the focus that my PhD has on traditional knowledge and its relationship to the land, there is the possibility that my own work can in some way be involved in this case, which would mean that a beginner social scientist like me would actually have the chance to contribute. While up North, I helped run interviews for them with some of the older people in the Hai||om villages about their past their connection to their land, and it helped me work out my own interview techniques, as well as training me in the fine art of acquiring translators.

The other great thing about attending these meetings is that I’ve started to build myself a network in the country, which I am going to need to use every last part of when I go back this summer. I’ve got a year, and I need results. Fortunately, and largely thanks to being introduced to this legal advocacy network, I’m not going to be totally on my own.

Apart from the meetings, Thomas and I got to put in a little bit of central Windhoek sightseeing, finding a city looking increasingly like Pyongyang.

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 The new Independence Museum on Robert Mugabe Avenue. That statue out front is the former President.

It turns out this resemblance is more than coincidental. I knew about lots of building contracts in Africa going to China, but it turns out that also in on the deal are the North Koreans, who designed and build the monstrosity above. The inside is an exercise in Socialist Realism, which apparently both totally still exists and is a thing.

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             Bonus points for the creepy baby with the face of a man.

A short trip in my car outside the city limits brought me to a monument that forever quelled the nagging desire I had to go to former Soviet-bloc countries to find out if architecture really can look like this:

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           And Boy Howdy, can it.

But step back a few paces, and the illusion somewhat breaks:

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   Coke, Communism and Baboons. Killer combo.

I suppose you can forgive some of this nation-building stuff when a country is only six months older than I am, but it set an interesting context for the exploration of what indigenous Namibians actually experience, or, as it turns out, don’t experience of their government on a day-to-day basis. These are the trappings of a country that was colonized by the Germans in 1880, by the South Africans in 1915, and only practically began to self-determine in 1990 after a bloody civil war. It’s an odd place in some respects, and very much feels like I imagine the Midwest of America might have felt like a hundred and fifty years ago.

Everything revolves around land, and the property rights of those that own it are almost absolute. Land is what many Namibians, after successfully liberating themselves from apartheid, strive for. Land is also what makes German and South African white people still the richest and in some respects most powerful group in the country, despite being a minority. The lack of land is the root of the problems that the people I study face, and it is unavoidable.

Even while in Windhoek, the ideas that form the backbone of my research question were surfacing. I’d finally started on the path to doing actual anthropological research.

So, the scene appropriately set, and the right hands appropriately shaken, My supervisor and I prepared for our voyage North into the lands where the Hai||om people make their home. It was visiting old friends for him, but for me something of an adventure. More to come!

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Kölle Alaaf!

I’m writing from my bed in my Ehrenfeld room/cell (I am still yet to buy furniture) and surrounded by the stuff I am going to be taking to Namibia. Today. I’ve checked, double-checked and triple-checked my kit, my documents and everything else, and I think I should be good. I’m catching the train to Frankfurt in a couple of hours, and from then on to Johannesburg, and Windhoek. I’m pretty nervous, so this post may be a little frenetic.

But that isn’t what this post is about. As you may or may not be aware, Karneval happened recently. It’s Cologne’s Mardi Gras. To attempt to put this succinctly, the entire city goes off its rocker (to use my supervisor’s expression) for about a week, everyone gets drunk and wanders around in costumes. It’s a massive mashup of culture, a mix of Cologne’s Catholic tradition and the pagan past. Parades are everywhere, and there’s always a party. I don’t know whether it’s that Germany has some sort of wholesale cultural repression going on most of the time, but when they open the valve, it is wild. I’ll admit that when Thursday came around I had no idea what was about to hit. I’ve drunk more in the last week than I think I did in the last year, met some amazing people, and even managed to speak some German.

Costume-wise, I am eternally grateful to David, one of my old Scottish government colleagues, for getting me a joke present upon my departure. Karneval for those unfortunate enough to be out with me, looked like this:

Yes that is me. Yes it is terrifying.

Yes that is me. Yes it is terrifying.

To be honest, after so long, I am sick of the bloody sight of it. Goodness knows what my flatmates must think. I have temporarily retired it to being mounted on the clothes horse in the hall, until I shall call upon its services again. It was a good conversation starter, though.

The best costumes, of course, are the home-made ones, and there were some breathtaking outfits out there. Here’s what my colleague Felix looked like:

It’s not even a costume.

Magnificent. I only regret you can’t see his tail. I partied with sailors, pandas, Scotsmen (shouty drunk Germans in kilts are brilliant) and still others not definitively something or other, just using the excuse to wear the loudest, most garish outfit they could cobble together out of their wardrobe.

Most of Karneval’s many, many evenings were spent at what I am now sure is my favourite place in Cologne, a bar called Qlosterstüffje (I know, I can’t say it either), which was great because not only was it full of weirdos like me, but all the profits went to keine jeck es illejal (no one is illegal) a great and worthy cause supporting refugees in Germany. Never have so many drunk so much for such a good cause, I am sure. I even knew some of the songs they were playing, although it being Karneval it meant that there were about ten cheesy ones all on loop, and all of which I can probably hum right off the top of my head. Nobody minded, though, least of all me. The oddest moment had to be when the entire bar sung about kicking the bourgeoisie up the arse and establishing full communism, for no other reason than the DJ put the song on. I couldn’t stop laughing.

The anthem for the local football club (1 F.C. Köln) was also played liberally. It is rather bizarrely sung to the tune of Runrig’s Loch Lomond, so for a full evening I just thought the bar was making an effort to make me feel at home, while I brazenly sung the Scottish words as everyone else was singing about football. There is another traditional Kölsch song sung to the tune of Highland Cathedral, but I didn’t pay that much attention to it at the time because I simply assumed I was delerious.

Days in Cologne were punctuated by some amazing parades. Floats and marching bands walked through the streets in a gigantic procession lasting hours at a time, and there was one for every single district. Here’s a bit of the central one:

This city is mental.

Yes. Everything you’re thinking. It’s really like that.

What the guys in blue are doing is throwing large bars of chocolate, with surprising force, at a crowd of people with their arms up. All of the costumed Kölners below are shouting “Kamelle!” (“sweets” in the Kölsch dialect). This goes on for about three hours as the parade makes its way into town. When I say that, I mean that if you stand in one place the procession will take that long to pass you.

Even better, the Ehrenfeld parade passed right by our open window. My flatmates and I spent the afternoon in the first-floor flat downstairs shouting out the windows and dodging hefty chocolate bars as they threatened to brain us. All of this takes place in a slightly beery haze, mind you, so even when there’s a direct chocolate hit it doesn’t hurt too much.

So after all that, there was only one evening of Karneval left. The last night was a bit more subdued than the ones before. I’m not sure if it was Cologne’s collective hangover, or just mine, but I didn’t feel up to as much of a party on the final night. There was, however, a ritual burning of an effigy.

Once again finding myself in Qlosterstüffje, a torchlit procession made its way solemnly out the door. It was accompanied by a figure on a stretcher. We followed as it wound its way through the darkened alleyways to a platz beyond. There, the crowd laid the figure upon the stone, and we fell silent as sheets with collective chants were handed out.

It was dark, and I can’t pretend to know everything that was said, but a whispered translation from a friend gave me the gist of it. This figure represented all of our sins from the past year, the sins that Karneval was to see the end of.

The poem was read, and we chanted, whooping and hollering before the figure was set alight. As it burned, we leapt through the flames. I’m pretty sure I’m totally sin-free now. Or at least I was on Wednesday, when I woke up with a smoky jacket and the sort of hangover I might have called “bad” before Karneval.

Cologne feels different now. I’m not sure whether it has changed, or I have, but I certainly feel we’ve got to know each other better over the last couple of days. I might be nervous about heading to Africa for a month, but I’ve taken in so much culture here in Cologne that I’m pretty certain I could write a PhD just about the general weirdness that seems to overtake this part of Germany every now and then.

I love it here. See you in Namibia. Tschuß!