The Bike

I went back and was looking at some of my previous blog posts. I saw that in my first post I wanted to keep these short and readable. Well, sorry. As I also said, I hope for these to be less of a daily diary, summary of activities, but a reflection on events, how they relate to the world, and my mind. I’m realizing that in order to provide the reflection, I need to first summarize the events. Often there are multiple events, and it’s the co-incidence of these events that makes for the interesting reflection, like this multiple visits to the Café at Zoo Park, thus lengthy posts, not brief.

For instance, I bought a bike yesterday. I could just state that, describe its features and tell you that I went for a ride today. But that’s not so interesting as the events surrounding the purchase of the bike, for which I need to start several days ago, and explain a lengthy cast of characters. But seeing as how I now am sitting on this lovely porch area at my house, typing on my laptop, I’ll step back these few days and explain the cast. So, take your laptop onto your porch, get a cup of tea and lets enjoy together…

As I mentioned, there are several flats attached or nearby my house, all owned by my landlord. I think of all these people as “the people that live in my house”. Two of these people I think of as the “American bike guys”. They are two guys from the US who are here working with some bike NGO that refurbishes donated bikes from the US and turns them into bike ambulances or something. The one guy was an undergrad, here on some summer project and left Thursday. The other guy just finished undergrad and is here on a fellowship to travel around the world studying how people use bikes. He’s headed to Bangladesh, Vietnam and Tanzania after this. His name is Marcus. So, the night before the other guy left, he had a bbq. I went to it as I was quite excited to get to know my neighbors better. Martin was there. Martin lives in the house for free, because he’s the maintenance guy. He also gets paid for being the maintenance guy. He also is a student at the Polytechnic of Namibia, which works out quite well, as its about 2 blocks from here (if I had a password I could use their wifi from here). I met Victor at the bbq too. Victor is 19, just finished grade 12, but now needs to retake the examination for a few subjects that he didn’t do so well in, and hopes to go to University next year. In the meantime, he’s working at this bike NGO, and is some sort of a professional cyclist. He’s sponsored by the local bike shop. I have to admit I was a little surprised when I learned this about him. While I do see black people on bikes often, they usually look like they are on their bike for functional reasons. You know what I mean. They are often wearing regular clothes, and no helmet and look like they are trying to get from Point A to Point B. As opposed to a person on a bike for exercise, who has a fancy bike, a helmet, spandexy shirt, etc. So, I was impressed that Victor was such a serious biker and started thinking, “Cool, maybe the biking crowd in Namibia is more diverse than I had suspected.”

So, I had intended to buy a bike all along. For both functional and exercise reasons. It will come in handy for transportation sometimes, but it’s also a fun form of entertainment and exercise. So on Saturday I shopped around. I usually buy bikes second hand, but decided that I felt like getting a new one this time. I never seem to be able to adjust the gears quite right on the second hand ones, and just felt like getting something decent. I tried the cheap stores first. I could have bought a new bike for ~US$100 at Game (which is comparable to Target), but decided to blow the budget and get a decent one at the bike shop where they know bikes and provide service etc (see picture). Including accessories (helmet, pump, spare tube, etc.) it came to ~US$400. It was of course, a tough decision because the sales guys are always trying to convince me that the higher quality components of a more expensive bike are worth it, and its hard to know how much they are worth it for a Sunday rider, and not an extreme racer. But they talked me into it with the reliability factor. So they then handed my bike to the service guys who attached the pump, put air in my tires, etc. The service guys were black, everyone else working there was white. I was wondering how the service guys liked working there. I was wondering if they are like Victor and serious racers, so maybe this is a cool job. They get to work on bikes all day. But, this is the hardest part to explain, there is something in the way the sales guy spoke to them, that just makes me uncomfortable. Its no particular words, its just an overall sense. Its just this feeling that they are clearly the invisible menial staff. The tone implies no sense of recognition of the common humanity. I kept expecting the service guys to respond to the sales guy’s commands with a “yes baas”. The situation made me somewhat uncomfortable so I kept trying to smile at the service guys as they worked on my bike. I suppose its some sort of subconscious way of trying to say, “I see that you are a human there, working on my bike, and I’m so thankful that you are doing all of these things for me. Its quite helpful.” But I’m not sure the message was conveyed, or should be conveyed, or can be conveyed or needs to be conveyed. Its complicated.

So, I had taken a taxi to the bike shop, and intended to ride my bike home. But sometime around now, it started occurring to me that I had my purse with me. “Hmmm, it will certainly be awkward to ride a bike with a purse. But I suppose its manageable. Hmmm”, I thought. Moments later Victor walked in! I was so happy to see him. I asked what he thought of my purchase decision. He said that I got a good price on a good bike. I wish he had been there when I was making the decision, but at least he was kind enough to make me feel more comfortable about my decision after the fact. He then said that he was heading over to my house to visit Marcus and Martin. I noticed he had a backpack so I asked if he wouldn’t mind taking my purse. I love how things just work out like that sometimes! We chatted on the way back. He said that this bike shop was having there Spring Ride tomorrow morning at 9 am. He said it’s a fun ride, not a race, they have different distances to chose from, some for mountain bikes, some for road bikes. He strongly encouraged me to come. It sounded like a fun way to meet people so I decided to go. I confirmed the time and he said, “Oh, we are changing our clocks tonight, so its at 8 am not 9 am.” That evening I started to notice that my butt was a bit sore from the short ride from the bike shop to home (~2 miles, but a huge hill). I haven’t ridden a bike in a long time. I started thinking maybe I shouldn’t go to the fun ride. Maybe I should wait till I’m in better shape. But then I kept thinking how confident Victor was that it was a fun ride, and I would have fun, and I need not worry about how fast I am or anything and the fact that he said, “See you tomorrow” as we parted ways, made me feel like he was expecting me. But then it occurred to me that we are springing forward with our clocks. Why would the time be an hour earlier, when we are setting our clocks forward. That makes no sense. Hmmm. “Aaaah, whatever” I overrode all these misgivings and just decided to show up at 8 am and see what happens.

At 8am the white sales guy was there setting up tables and tents and things with the service guys. He tells me it starts at 9 am. Oh, I realize, Victor meant that it starts at 8 am if you forgot to reset your clock. But I didn’t forget to reset my clock. So I was there an hour early. So I had an hour to watch people show up. Everyone who showed up was either speaking Afrikaans or German. I sat idly by watching everyone. Nobody seemed particularly interested in meeting this new person, but to be honest I didn’t make an effort to meet anyone either. My favorite yoga instructor and her husband showed up, but even they didn’t seem interested in talking to me, other than to say hello. I noticed a colored guy also hanging out by himself on the edge of the crowd. I walked over towards him but he didn’t have a look like he cared to chat with anyone, so I walked away.

I did a lot of thinking. As I mentioned in my previous post, I am white, so why do I not feel comfortable hanging out with all these white people? Well, they are not speaking English is one reason. But they obviously do speak English, so that’s no reason. I had the urge to go hang out with the service guys as they set up tables, but they looked busy, and I’m not really sure they had any desire to hang out with me. So, why would I think I would be more comfortable with them, then all the white bikers? Is it because I spent 3 years primarily socializing with black Namibians, so it’s a societal group I’m more or less comfortable with, as opposed to white Namibians? But then I started thinking, maybe its more of a class issue. These white people are all wearing bike shoes that sound like tap shoes when you walk, spandexy shirts with pockets in the back, camel-backs, etc. I’m wearing my old tennies, and a T-shirt I’ve owned literally more than half of my life. I definitely feel like I identify more so with the proletariat than the bourgeoisie and white people in Namibia tend to be members of the bourgeoisie. I thought of things I had read about white life in pre-Apartheid South Africa. White people often felt completely disconnected from what was going on in the townships. As far as they were concerned, they could have been living in any US suburb. Now the sound system is set up and American 70’s rock is blasting for our entertainment. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how easy it would still be today to live in Windhoek and forget that Katutura is just over there. There was a nervous discussion recently before yoga class about a recent spate of men breaking the passenger window of cars driving through an extremely affluent suburb, reaching in and grabbing the purse off the seat. Part of me feels like screaming, “But don’t you see the insanity of living in a massive house with a pool and driving a BMW within miles of people living in tin shacks? How must your life look to someone in a tin shack?” But where do I fit in this picture, and do I have any right to call the pot black? While contemplating all of this, I thought of a conversation I had with Martin last night. I excitedly showed him my new bike and he was duly impressed. He said that he hopes to buy a bike soon too. He asked what I paid for mine, and I embarrassedly gave him a rough approximation that was a bit lower than reality. I told him that I justified it because it will save me money on taxis. He asked me where I take taxis. Again, I was embarrassed to tell him that I take taxis to yoga class. If I really needed to save taxi money, I wouldn’t be paying for yoga class. Later in the conversation and unrelated, it came up that he owes the Polytech ~$200. If he doesn’t pay it before the beginning of November, he can’t take the exams. He was apparently quite stressed about trying to figure out from where he is going to find $200 in two months. So while I may think of myself as a member of the proletariat, I spent twice on my bike what Martin needs to pay off for school. But then there’s my landlord, who decided not to buy the Hummer after all, but rather went for a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser. I’m definitely not in that economic class either. So where do I fit in a two class society? To a thief, I know what class they see me in. I may not have a BMW window to smash, and on most days they would probably be fairly disappointed if they ever stole my purse, but I resemble people who do have a lot, and while I sit here on my porch typing on my laptop, with a content post-lunch tummy, I recognize that I do have a lot of material wealth.

I need to clarify something here to ensure you reader is not generalizing, “So what Linda says is that black Namibians bike for transport and white Namibians bike for fun, with the exception of Victor.” No, that’s not it either. Its this event. It seems to have been advertised by word of mouth. The guys I bought my bike from didn’t even mention it to me. It wasn’t in the paper. Victor told me about it. So, who shows up to such an event? People in the owners’ social class. Its possible other black Namibians have shown up in the past and felt as or more unwelcome as I did. 6 weeks from today there is the big annual Namibian Cycle Classic. Its advertised in the papers. It’s a big event. I know several non-white Namibians who plan to attend. I just get the feeling the event I went to today was sort of designed to be separated. It was designed for white Namibians who want to forget that there are non-Whites in Namibia. Its an example of the subtle ways that apartheid is still very present in Namibian society.

Back to the bike story. So, finally, an hour is up and things are starting. Still no sign of Victor. “Geez I’m thinking, when I listen to my inner voice things always go smoothly (Victor showing up the day before to carry my purse. Getting this job. 1001 other examples I could give of my life working out wonderfully). But last night I ignored my inner voice, in fact I think I told it to shut up, and here I am with all these intense cyclists, a sore butt and no Victor. That’s it, when we start off, I’m going to just turn off quickly and go home. I shouldn’t have come, this is silly, I’m out of here.” Just then I see Marcus. I peddle over to him and ask about Victor. He’s waiting for him also. Everyone’s starting out so I ask Marcus how far he was planning to go. He says “not far”. I say, “Great, would you mind going together?” “No not at all.” So we head out. Suddenly Victor comes up behind us but he says he needs to talk to someone in front of us so he’ll talk to us on the way back. He flies past us. Marcus and I have a great time chatting, but it suddenly occurs to me that I was sitting there observing how all these people of other nationalities and economic classes hang together, and what do I end up doing? I’m riding with the other person from the US in an apparently comparable economic class! Anyway, we went a little ways, I got pooped, so we turned around and went home. Lesson learned.

So, I’m not writing all of this to depress you. I’m also not writing it so that I can show you how superior I am to white Namibians, and so that you as the reader might also feel superior. The point of all these stories, and one of the reasons I love living here, is that I’m not superior. As much as I observe racial interactions in Namibia, it opens my eyes to whats going on within my own head. (So far I’ve mostly written about race, but there are 5000 other things going on here that also help me to understand myself, which will come up in future posts.) The more I see other people doing things, the more I see the same things in myself. Maybe not always so explicit, or blatant, but these tendencies are there. And by making them conscious, I can work with them. I’m writing these things first because its therapeutic for me. I love the reflection process that arises from writing. Secondly, I’m writing in the event that my experiences help you to understand things going on inside you as well. I would love to have discussions with you about my posts, but some friends with blogs told me that they often got obscene comments in the comment section. So I didn’t feel like dealing with a comment section. So, feel free to email me and start a one on one discussion at least. I’m feeling like the only people reading this live at 18651. Which may be the case, which would be fine because as I said, I mostly write it for therapeutic reasons anyway.

Quick update on my previous post. I met up with one of my favorite learners a few days ago. He is also very economically secure because of being a tour guide. He’s saved enough money that he’s planning to go to study engineering in South Africa next year, and pay for it out of his savings. He updated me on several of my other learners. A few have become pastors, a couple are nurses, there are a few furthering their education. I think my principal was just feeling in a pessimistic mood or just doesn’t know about these other ones that are not in jail or looking after cattle.