Chapter 11
I just didn't want to get on the bike today.
Really didn't.
Lying in bed with nothing else to do, it hit me like a sense of dread. And so I didn't; I've decided to stay here for the day.
I’m not crapping through a straw anymore, so that’s a plus.
I try my best to kill the day by looking at rectangles, just like I used to.
I head to a nearby fancy hotel and they’re happy for me to hang out and use their internet so long as I buy something from the restaurant.
We’re all slaves to our blood chemistry, and I’m simply a better person after coffee.
Enthusiasm, energy, smiles for everyone, and pleasant conversation seems to flow out of me from almost the moment I’ve put the cup down.
After a few hours of rectangle time – video calling the family, generally loitering around online – I decide I can’t do it anymore. It’s starting to make me feel greasy. How I used to look at a rectangle for eight hours a day, five days days a week, two hundred and forty days a year is beyond me. What was normal back then just seems an impossibly long time to me now.
And, while we’re on it, why is it ok to spend 1,920 hours a year, at least, looking at a rectangle when you’re an adult, but when I was a kid (and it’s all I ever wanted to do...) I was told it wasn’t good for you - your eyes will go square - and I'd be forced to play outside.
How come no one ever forced me to go play outside once I grew up?
What’s the difference?
Why is that not only acceptable for an adult, but expected. Normal. Successful, even...
Beats me.
I've had enough of this. I head back to the hotel.
I work on the Shrike. The nuts that clamp the exhaust pipe onto the motor are only finger tight. Not even that, in fact. No wonder it was running like a dog. I turn it over and it sounds like it always used to. No backfiring. Happy days.
I watch soccer, which I don’t even like, from my bed.
Luxury.
Day successfully killed.
I don’t want to leave.
It's not really that I don't want to leave, I just don't want to ride.
It’s just a bad feeling.
But I’m in Namibia now - there’s nothing to be worried about. This isn't a scary country. I’m safe. It’s all going to work out.
I don't have a choice. It’s got to be done.
I leave Ondangwa early enough to make good time, but late enough that I don’t freeze my arse off (yeah, it’s still bitterly cold in the morning).
Tsumeb, the next potential stop, is two hundred and fifty clicks away. Which isn’t massive, but it’s not short either.
Very quickly it becomes obvious that this is going to be another boring, braindead ride. The roads are straight, there’s fuck all to look at. Just miles and hours of nothing.
Suboptimal. But it could be worse.
Easy miles.
This is what I wanted, right?
I’m checking the oil level every now and again. The oil fairies are stealing the oil again. Either that or it’s not going well...
I don’t care anymore.
But, as I draw closer to Tsumeb, I can feel a rising desperation.
I want this ride done with. I want the day over.
I’m dying for it to be over.
I keep going.
I feel my throat seize up like someone’s throttling me. Choking up. I pull over the bike and I’m ready to bawl my eyes out. Like a bitch. For absolutely no reason.
I walk it off.
The air is sharp, biting dry. And although it’s not hot there’s a brutality to the sun bashing down on my helmetless face. It’s less of a feeling of heat and more like being invaded by radiation.
I get back on the bike.
I'm ok...
It gets worse and worse.
The length of time I can spend on the bike before having to get off and take a walk gets shorter and shorter, till I can’t even string together thirty clicks without having to take a break; the closer I get to the goal, the further away it feels.
This time a year ago I could run that far without taking a break. It feels pathetic.
I'm getting woozy and the whole situation is just crap.
All of it is only a problem between my ears, I’m sure of it; the external situation is actually fine. The road is good, the bike is rolling, the weather is fine, the traffic is low, it's all easy miles, and only a short ride; it's nothing.
But I'm ready to snap.
It's insane and irrational.
After all of the hardships, after all of the difficult places that I've been to and through, after all the challenges that I've passed, and now I'm on the verge of a breakdown in Namibia.
Seriously?
It doesn't make any sense.
I'm trying to rationalise it somehow.
On the road, I try to change my attitude from defeatist over to nihilist.
Nihilism: Life is meaningless.
Stirring quotes on the utter meaninglessness of life in a random universe abound from Marcus Aurelius and Tim Minchin, and I get a glimpse of the right attitude; small pockets where all the petty concerns melt away under the blowtorch of nihilism.
But then I sink back into the defeatist and just stay there.
I hate this.
I think it has less to do with the bike (we've been here before...) and more to do with my health.
Which isn't to say fitness, but my health.
Somethings wrong. That's clear.
And not being able to put a name on it is what concerns me the most...
I was hoping to hold off on seeing a quack till I got back home. But this country is westernised enough, which should mean that it has western medicine. I don’t think I can hold off any longer, it can't wait till I get home, or break...
Home, like Tsumeb, seems so close, yet impossibly out of reach.
Even the slowest train makes it to the station eventually.
I crawl into Tsumeb, feeling fucked up in the head.
There's a mall and a KFC here. Same same.
Surprisingly, my GPS has some options for "lodging" built into the map. Even more surprising; there are a few hostels about and even a “backpackers”.
We're definitely not it Kansas anymore.
After a couple of failed attempts at the hostels I head to the backpackers, which is a little further from the main drag than I'd usually like to stay.
The place, from the outside, looks modern and fantastic, with a nice garden and lots of lawn.
I can't get in through the big locked gate though, and ringing the bell and hollering through the grating is getting me nowhere.
So I sit on the floor and wait for someone to show up.
I inspect the backs of my hands. They're a raging rash. Red and inflamed and itching. I think it's the dryness.
A neighbour shows up. He's white, which still feels weird to me. He offers to call the owners for me.
They show up in a twinkling.
They're white too. White Namibians. It's weird.
They’re super friendly, happy to have me, and let me in.
The place is superb.
Absolutely spotless with brilliant facilities like hot showers and very comfortable dorm beds.
I'm the only one here.
Perfect. I'll take it.
While I’m unloading the Shrike a young British couple rocks up, after them a group of three German lads rock up in a campervan.
So many white people all in the one place.
What are they doing here?
It feels so weird to see travellers.
I welcome them like old friends. It’s great to have distracting company, diverting my head space as we have a chat and share war-stories. I’m still finding it hard to focus on conversation; my brain just won’t work like it normally would. It’s all fuzzy and I can’t pay attention for longer than a few minutes without losing the thread. It’s hard work.
KFC for dinner.
Horrendous greasy delicious shit.
Something makes a noise over my shoulder as I'm tucking in, and I swivel around to see what it was. Too fast. And I nearly black out and fall to the floor with a lump of chicken in my hand.
I stick the landing. My heart is racing.
My brain's a blur, my head boggles on the shoulders.
It all takes a few minutes to feel anything close to normal, like my body and brain are starting to behave again.
This is really getting too much.
Feeling the constant need to stave off a blackout is exhausting and terrifying.
I’m fucking sick of it.
I’m sitting, eating chicken for fucks sake, and with no rhyme or reason something craps out and I nearly pitch onto my fucking face.
What’s going wrong with me? Why is it worse??
Something I’ve been thinking about is that it’s some psychosomatic vicious cycle, where I'm stressed so I feel faint which stresses me out and makes me feel fainter etc...
But that doesn't make any sense. This is too real a reaction for stress; too physical.
The other is that it's just simple anaemia; I haven't been eating any foods that are high in iron lately, I think... And the symptoms of anaemia - being light headed and unfocused - seem to match well.
I keep thinking that if I throw lots of different food at it the body will eventually get what it needs and come good, but that hasn't been happening...
I head the long scary walk back to the backpackers on egg shells.
I make it back.
One look in the mirror and I look like absolute shit.
I'm terribly pale.
My skin is flaky.
The creases of my nose are all dried up and flaking off.
My lips are chapped and the all skin around them is flaking away as well.
My arms are pale and sickly.
My eyes are tired and hollow.
It's all gone to hell.
The travelling beard, well, that's never looked good, but on the fucked up cake that is my face it’s the cherry on top.
I’ve aged. Years. Decades, maybe.
It could be the worst I've looked in my life.
Having my teeth knocked out in Barcelona is the other obvious contender, but back then I just looked like someone who’d been in a bar fight. Now, I look crook.
I can’t look at myself anymore. I’m going to bed.
So, I’ve decided to test the anaemia theory.
I’ve bought two steaks and a shitload of spinach. If anything’s gonna help, it’ll be that.
Steak for lunch and steak for dinner.
I immediately feel better.
Too fast though. I reckon that’s just a big fat placebo; the body doesn’t make new red blood cells that quick. I don’t think...
Other than eating steak, I’m bored.
There’s nothing to do, and I wouldn't want to do anything even if there was something to do.
I've decided that I'll stay here till I'm back up to feeling good again; It's a nice place, it's affordable at 120 Namibian clams a night (12 bucks), and there's no rush.
Plus, I've been told that this is the worst time of the year to go to Cape Town due to the weather, so why bolt to South Africa only to be drenched? Of course, if I didn't feel like shit I would be tearing to Cape Town as fast as the Shrike could take me.
Health comes first.
In the last two days I’ve eaten four steaks.
The only thing it’s changed is my farts. It’s like something died... I reckon I could kill a small animal with these farts.
Rotting guts aside, I’m probably alright to move on, keep riding, but I’ve decided to err on the side of caution and stay another day.
The young British couple have come back from an overnight trip at the national park. They’ve drowned their ute in a bog and fucked the motor. They've rented new wheels while they wait to see how badly they've murdered their other rental car.
It all sounds very expensive.
They’re pretty gutted about it.
They want to know what I’ve been up to. They’re surprised when I say “nothing”.
I have to explain that I’ve been feeling a little crook lately and that I want to get better before hitting the road. I add in, as a joke, “you’re not doctor’s, are you?”
They are. Doctors.
Both of them.
I jokingly-but-not-really-jokingly ask them “any chance of a diagnosis? Ha-ha?”
Nothing doing. They’re obviously pretty sick of copping that from everyone they’ve ever known ever. Occupational hazard, I guess...
Fuck ‘em.
I could have really used someone telling me that I’m going to be ok, but I’m feeling better today anyway.
The British couple find out that their drowned car is basically fucked: water got in where water ain’t supposed to go. And now they’re in the shit.
Their itinerary demands that they crack on, but I daresay that having to do the rigmarole of sorting out a dead rental car that’s stranded in the middle of bumfuck nowhere is going to be a headache. Their plans are fucked.
I don’t feel that bad for them...
They peel off with their second rental, committed to the itinerary. I'm not sure if that's impressive or stupid.
So it's back to just me, again. Solo.
I head back to the dorms and keep chipping away at War and Peace.
My mind can’t help but drift; this book is too laborious not to.
I’m thinking of Cape Town.
Visualising how far away it is. How many days. How many riding days. How long those riding days are.
I wonder; will I lose my mind before then? Will my head make it in one piece?
I’m perfectly relaxed, lying in bed, but I can feel that drip of dread coming into my head, I feel the fizz, just under my skull.
Bang. Dump. Full blown, blind panic.
This is it. This is the moment.
I’m going insane.
I jump out of bed. Terrified, wild, but there’s nowhere to run to; there’s nowhere, no place I can go to escape, though the need to escape is thick. Palpable. Utterly urgent.
It’s all that matters.
I stride out to the lawn.
I can’t run from it, though I’m breathing like I’ve been sprinting.
Ragged.
I’m never going to be the same, never going to be ok, ever again.
I throw my shoes on and start walking.
Jaw, locked. Eyes, wild.
I’m losing it.
I walk in the direction of town. The pendulum swings to feeling fine.
100%.
Normal. ish... It swings all the way back and I swoon on the spot. My legs are crushingly tired and weak. I can't lift my arms. I can barely hold myself upright.
Right on the point of a total breakdown.
I can’t resist it anymore. All that’s been going wrong, and now this, and there’s nothing I can do.
Home is so far away.
What’s wrong??? Why am I going insane now? Everything, everything, is fine!
It makes no sense.
I always thought I was strong. Mentally strong. That’s how I’ve always thought of myself. But insanity has been right there. All the time.
I never knew how weak I was.
How close it was.
How easy that was.
Isolation. Is not good for me.
I’ve been able to handle it because things have been happening. Real things. Real problems. Keeping busy.
With no problems I’ve taken to inventing them.
For your first challenge: you’re insane now.
Good luck, with that.
The thing, that blackout thing, takes the chance to flog me while I’m down: The world spins and goes fuzzy and I nearly crumple...
But not quite.
I stumble into town. I don’t know what to do now that I’m here, so I walk back to the backpackers.
This blackout shit originates between the ears.
It sounds insane that my head is doing this, but I'm more and more convinced of it.
I'm the only one who can get it back under control.
Me.
About three or maybe four time's today I've felt on the edge of it, just that feeling of it, that it's coming, and I’ve had to haul myself back from the brink.
It scares the shit out of me. Every time.
The most bizarre thing is that I'm also a bit curious to see what would happen if I did have a mental breakdown.
It's all very Percy Cerutty; He had a nervous breakdown, and though he was told it would kill him he emerged stronger from it, and from middle age turned himself into a great man.
Maybe I could do the same.
I want to get into a car, have someone drive me to the Namibian capital, Windhoek, then get on a plane and go home.
After all this distance, and all this time, and all of the challenges, I’m ready to throw in the towel.
I have to remember that I've felt like this many times before; Lome, way back in Togo, is the one that springs straight to mind; and Matadi in the Congo, another.
I made it through that, I'll make it through this.
Where is my nihilistic point of view? Where’s all this “life is meaningless” and all that cal.
It's easy to be a nihilist when you’re winning.
It's when the chips are down that you have to earn your philosophy.
I've been disappointed so far with how I've handled it; I'm getting sucked into it, this bodily problem, this problem of the flesh.
I should be holding my mind aloof. What will be will be. Flow with the river. Go with it.
How puny, this human body in all the ocean of space and time. Why do I concern myself so heavily in it?
I feel like shit, and I'm scared, so what??
It's utterly out of keeping with my surroundings. This place is so tranquil and calm. It's the most civilised place that I've been to or stayed in for a long time.
There's no rush to be anywhere. I'm safe here.
Everything will be ok.
I’m up. Early.
Shit’s gonna change.
I need to snap myself out of this funk.
I put on my shoes, head out the front gate, and run.
First run since Morocco.
It shows.
I've fallen back all the way to square one. Maybe lower than that.
Running's like a game of snakes and ladders with no ladders.
I’m going slow. Real slow. And I’m still blowing up.
The slightest of inclines have me burning all over. Everything's screaming louder than it ever has to stop.
It feels good to push through and torture myself in a way that I know and understand.
Fuck me, I'm out of shape.
I can feel my arse jiggling, for fucks sake...
It’s a short jaunt, but it seems to be the thing I needed.
I spend the day reading War and Peace, snoozing, or staring blankly at a wall.
I don’t have any real episodes for the rest of the day.
Sometime, I feel absolutely, 100% fine, and wonder what all the fuss is about.
It's a short-lived but beautiful window of clarity into how I used to work. Lucid. There.
I soon feel drained and not myself and on the verge of catastrophe again.
After a long, empty day, a group of four travellers arrives, plus a British couple. A different one.
They're chatty, and we talk about Namibia and other shit and the conversation just naturally goes.
It's nice.
The husband half of the British couple tells us a story about how he was bitten on the scrotum by a dog in a park and had to go get a rabies shot into his ballsack.
Fuck me. I haven't laughed like that in a year.
I give the laughter it's reins, and laugh till I feel like my ribs are going to crack and I'm going to vomit. Then I laugh some more.
It's the first time I've cried on this trip. I needed it.
Then one of the four travellers comes into the kitchen - he's a biologist – and he mentions what rabies does: eats the brain and stuff like that, then he mentions that tapeworm also eats the brain.
It hits a little too close to home...
I commit, right there and then, to go to the doctors tomorrow.
What if something’s actually eating my fucking brain?? Right now...
Jesus!