I have lied to you all.
I do not live IN the town of Swakopmund. I live in the Swakopmund area in a little town (more of a development, really) called Long Beach, about 15 kilometers to the south of Swakopmund. It is made up exclusively of housing, apartments, houses, hotels--not a shop or even an ATM in sight. Thus, if you want to purchase anything, eat food outside of the realm of your refrigerator, or utilize any services, you must get yourself to Swakopmund.
I currently have no vehicle. Yet, I go into town a few days a week. Which means the nice people of the Welwitschia Shuttle Service can now recognize me by voice when I call to request a ride into town. As a repeat (repeat, repeat...) customer, I even get a discount.
Whoa.
On this particular day, I am traveling with 2 suitcases full of clothes because it's Laundry Day. My ride drops me at the laundry service (complete with bar, which I think is a brilliant idea), but it appears to be closed. I ask the driver to instead let me off at my favored coffee shop, the one with the tried and tested fastest free wifi signal that I can find in this town. I'm sure about this. It took me 2 months to test all of the alternatives. I walk in looking like a homeless person with my 2 suitcases, but by this point everyone knows me there and, instead of questioning the look of struggle on my face, my waitress brings me a coffee and asks how the job hunt is going.
I'm feeling quite good about myself, feeling like a local. After finally dropping my bags off at a different, bar-less laundry mat, I begin my strut around town to do some errands. As I stop to read my to-do list, a man approaches me to chat. A man whose presence means you are not fully convincing as a legitimate resident. Bother.
My foreigner status returns in a flash.
Normally I am not a rude person. If a person on the street asks me to buy his sunglasses or other cheap item, I say "no, thank you," and continue walking. But there is one type of person I no longer bother to be nice to.
The nut men.
Don't let your mind wander too far on that one, as I am about to explain. There is a nut that grows on a tree called a Makalani tree. Thus, the nut is called a Makalani nut. I know, I'm blowing your mind. Anyway, budding entrepreneurs pick them off the trees, carve a hurried design into them, and try to sell them to tourists for 10 to 100 times what they should be. The nut men are everywhere, in every major town. They are resilient. They are annoying beyond belief. And the first rule of the street is don't talk to the nut men, especially do not tell them your name. Well, I mean, you shouldn't make a habit of telling your name to strange men anyway, but there's a bigger reason here.
They chat to you, all friendly-like. Oh, look, you are friends. But as they do, and while you are not paying attention to the deft movements of their hands, they slyly carve your name or any other personal details into the Nut of Death, and then guilt you into buying the item that they made "for you only," even if you have proclaimed multiple times that you do not want that, thank you kindly.
Many a Westerner have fallen prey to the Makalani nut.
I won't lie to you, I'm sure I have been seen walking down the street, Nut Man in tow trying his very persistent best to get my attention after I have ignored him for a good 4 minutes, as I yell things over my shoulder like "I don't want your damn nuts!" and other inappropriate exclamations.
In my fluctuating struggle to be seen as something other than a tourist and maintain some dignity on the streets of Swakopmund, I felt that I should impart some wisdom to those of you who are considering visiting this strange and wonderous place.
Consider yourself warned.
But If you can't beat them, join them. The next time the nut men come round, I will attempt to sell them a pet rock for, say...US$50. After all, a rock is nut's best friend.
...I'll let you know how it goes.
I do not live IN the town of Swakopmund. I live in the Swakopmund area in a little town (more of a development, really) called Long Beach, about 15 kilometers to the south of Swakopmund. It is made up exclusively of housing, apartments, houses, hotels--not a shop or even an ATM in sight. Thus, if you want to purchase anything, eat food outside of the realm of your refrigerator, or utilize any services, you must get yourself to Swakopmund.
I currently have no vehicle. Yet, I go into town a few days a week. Which means the nice people of the Welwitschia Shuttle Service can now recognize me by voice when I call to request a ride into town. As a repeat (repeat, repeat...) customer, I even get a discount.
Whoa.
On this particular day, I am traveling with 2 suitcases full of clothes because it's Laundry Day. My ride drops me at the laundry service (complete with bar, which I think is a brilliant idea), but it appears to be closed. I ask the driver to instead let me off at my favored coffee shop, the one with the tried and tested fastest free wifi signal that I can find in this town. I'm sure about this. It took me 2 months to test all of the alternatives. I walk in looking like a homeless person with my 2 suitcases, but by this point everyone knows me there and, instead of questioning the look of struggle on my face, my waitress brings me a coffee and asks how the job hunt is going.
I'm feeling quite good about myself, feeling like a local. After finally dropping my bags off at a different, bar-less laundry mat, I begin my strut around town to do some errands. As I stop to read my to-do list, a man approaches me to chat. A man whose presence means you are not fully convincing as a legitimate resident. Bother.
My foreigner status returns in a flash.
Normally I am not a rude person. If a person on the street asks me to buy his sunglasses or other cheap item, I say "no, thank you," and continue walking. But there is one type of person I no longer bother to be nice to.
The nut men.
Don't let your mind wander too far on that one, as I am about to explain. There is a nut that grows on a tree called a Makalani tree. Thus, the nut is called a Makalani nut. I know, I'm blowing your mind. Anyway, budding entrepreneurs pick them off the trees, carve a hurried design into them, and try to sell them to tourists for 10 to 100 times what they should be. The nut men are everywhere, in every major town. They are resilient. They are annoying beyond belief. And the first rule of the street is don't talk to the nut men, especially do not tell them your name. Well, I mean, you shouldn't make a habit of telling your name to strange men anyway, but there's a bigger reason here.
They chat to you, all friendly-like. Oh, look, you are friends. But as they do, and while you are not paying attention to the deft movements of their hands, they slyly carve your name or any other personal details into the Nut of Death, and then guilt you into buying the item that they made "for you only," even if you have proclaimed multiple times that you do not want that, thank you kindly.
Many a Westerner have fallen prey to the Makalani nut.
I won't lie to you, I'm sure I have been seen walking down the street, Nut Man in tow trying his very persistent best to get my attention after I have ignored him for a good 4 minutes, as I yell things over my shoulder like "I don't want your damn nuts!" and other inappropriate exclamations.
In my fluctuating struggle to be seen as something other than a tourist and maintain some dignity on the streets of Swakopmund, I felt that I should impart some wisdom to those of you who are considering visiting this strange and wonderous place.
Consider yourself warned.
But If you can't beat them, join them. The next time the nut men come round, I will attempt to sell them a pet rock for, say...US$50. After all, a rock is nut's best friend.
...I'll let you know how it goes.
There is a simply solution to the problem, Your name is no longer Mailin it's supercalifragilisticexpialidocious or like me Marmaduke Mbamba Gascoigne they give up on that 1 very quickly...
ReplyDeleteHaha why have I never thought of that. Also I'm astounded by your knack for creating such beautiful names.
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