A Caffeinated Vignette

I’m sitting alone in a coffee shop in Swakopmund called Bojos. In the air there is the smell of sugary baked goods and fancy coffee, the kind that come on a saucer and have frothy designs steamed into the milky foam top. Through the speakers comes the melodic and gag-tastic smooth jazz version of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. Currently, a duo of saxophone and trumpet is whining out The Girl Is Mine. It reminds me of something that would play in the gift shop of a very sophisticated old folks home. I once again look down at my Bill Bryson novel and begin to read about his travels through Europe.

I like Bill Bryson. I like reading about other people’s asinine escapades through foreign countries. It makes me feel more normal. As I read about his inability to tell if a big, metal vessel on his restaurant table is indeed an ashtray or some kind of cyborg piece of abstract art, I smile at how many times this sort of situation has happened to me.

When you are travelling alone, there is no one to share a confused laugh with. No one to ask “Well, gee, what the shit is this for?” So, you end up doing some weird, compromising thing to avoid having to look like a complete tourist, which generally just makes you look more like a fool than usual.

I giggle.

The German woman at the table next to me looks over at me like I just asked her how to get to Sesame Street, but soon gets bored with me and starts proclaiming something about her food in guttural tones.

The waitress comes over and greets me in Afrikaans. I respond in kind and ask for a “koppie koffie,” or a cup of coffee, feeling very pleased with myself. She returns with my coffee and says something in rapid Afrikaans that I presume means “Is there anything else I can get you?” Uncertainly, I mumble, “nee, dankie,” or no thank you. She stares at me in a way that means that answer makes no sense in this situtation, and waits patiently for me to explain why I am an idiot. I fumble around in my brain for a smooth move. Sorry I think I’ve just had a brain aneurism and suddenly forget how to speak my native South African tongue. No. “Uhh…” I pause “Sorry, I don’t actually speak Afrikaans. I have no idea what you just said, but I figured I’d continue living this lie because I’m bored.”

Actually, I didn’t say the second part.

But I do this sometimes. I don’t really know why. I suppose I’m either apathetic toward informing people correctly about my nationality or feel that it would be embarrassing on one of our parts to correct them. In fact, there is a woman in Otjiwarongo who still thinks I am Megan from the UK.

Instead I finished the conversation in English and turned to read the philosophical quotes written on the back of my sugar packets. (I like this concept. You can find anything from Aristotle to Chinese proverbs. Like, I think I will have a Nietzsche flavored cup of coffee today.) I choose one by Eleanor Roosevelt and emptied it into my coffee.

“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

An apt quote for my life right now, with the frustrations of my kitchen project and my general unenthusiasm with the end of term. (Microsoft Word is telling me “unenthusiasm” is not a word, but I am choosing to disregard it.)

So thank you, Eleanor. I will. But right now I will drink my coffee and listen to Michael Jazzy Pants Jackson and amuse myself by thinking about the trivial confusions and awkwardness of this past year. As you may have witnessed in the entirety of this blog, there are many.

And, you know, if it suits my fancy, I’ll probably pretend to speak Mandarin or Swahili or something to pass the time.