Tui Snider

At dinner last night, our forgetful friend called his son. Nevermind that it was 3 am in Australia!

We took the opportunity to get his email and cell phone number before letting the poor fellow get some sleep.

Michael’s son also confirmed that he was the one who orchestrated his dad’s hotel and flight back to the ship after he went awol in South Africa.

We told him we would look after his dad today in Namibia, since he didn’t have a tour arranged with the ship.

Shortly after we ordered our meal, Michael called his son again. He forgot he’d just spoken to him.

We convinced Michael to put his phone away, but it took some cajoling. Finally, I pointed out some seals in the ocean, and this was enough of a distraction to get him out of the “I must call my son” mental loop.

By morning, of course, Michael had completely forgotten our plans to meet up and it was only by a stroke of luck that we found him.

We met up with our Romanian friends, too, and decided to share a taxi tour of the area. They were less than thrilled to have Michael join us, but we explained that we had promised his son to keep him safe today.

Larry is the master negotiator, so he dealt with that. The other half of the equation was keeping Michael from wandering off.

This was not as easy as it sounds.

Every 30 seconds or so, Michael would decide to walk off in one direction or another. Not only was this frustrating, but it was dangerous in an industrial port.

Michael’s mind followed two main tracks. The first involved wondering what we were doing:

“Why are we standing here? Why don’t we get a taxi? What country is this? Are we still in Africa? I’m gonna find a shuttle!”

The other track involved ogling women and making rude comments about people’s physiques:

“Good lord, what a fat ass! Ooh, she’s lovely. What a delectable bum on that one. Check out that heifer.”

As obnoxious as his crude comments are, at least he stays in one place while making them! (And such behavior is a symptom of cognitive decline.)

Eventually, Larry waved us over and told us the price for the five of us. Guess who had no cash? Michael, of course.

Unlike South Africa, very few places in Namibia accept plastic. This meant that the cash I’d brought ashore for souvenirs went towards Michael’s fare. And for the record, I was annoyed!

Namibia is our final stop in Africa, and I’ve been holding out. I’m not much of an impulse shopper. I like to mull things over before buying souvenirs and had finally decided on a couple things that would really sum up our time in Africa.

Oh, well.

I can’t really be mad at Michael, but I am pissed off at how things turned out.

As for the bait and switch: When the cab pulled up, the driver spoke excellent English. He was only a go between, however. He drove us a short distance and delivered us to a different cabbie, a guy who spoke very little English.

The extent of the information he gave us was to occasionally read a street sign and say, “This is Swakupmond,” or “This is Lagoon Street.” Stuff we could ascertain simply by reading the street signs ourselves.

When we switched cabs, Michael told me to sit in the very back, however, I put my foot down.

For one thing, I am quite claustrophobic, especially when the small space is hot and stuffy. For another, it’s impossible to take any photos out the back windows.

Normally, we put Larry up front in cabs because his legs are very long and he has circulation problems. Also, he makes sure that the cabbies stick to the agreed upon itinerary.

But we didn’t want to stuff our Romanian friends back there, either. After all, they wanted to take photos, too.

This time, Larry wound up sitting in the very back by himself. What a gentleman! He’s not claustrophobic, nor does he take photos.

Guess who sat up front in the very best seat? Michael, of course. And guess who immediately fell asleep, snoring loudly between each stop? Yup…

“Your old man, he is very tired,” our cabbie observed.

At least I was able to take some photos out the window as we drove along.

Each time we stopped, Michael would rouse himself and ask where we were and what we were doing.

At some stops, Michael would find a place to sit down. But if other people were around, he’d get distracted. That’s when we had to keep him from wandering off. Imagine a 78 year old toddler, basically!

When we stopped at the busy intersection in Swakupmond, Michael spied one of the young tour guides that he has a crush on. He calls her “the C girl,” because he can’t quite retain the fact that her name is Carla.

“There she is! The C girl! She’s gorgeous, but she’s got a boyfriend,” he exclaimed, while hobbling off in her direction.

Larry finally asked Carla if we could send Michael back on the ship’s tour bus, but she said that unfortunately there were no empty seats. Dang!

Then, as we attempted to walk over to a crafts market, Michael saw a restaurant on the opposite side of the street and began lurching towards it.

“Let’s see what’s for lunch,” he muttered. “I’m hungry.”

Despite all the frustrations, we had some fun moments with Michael during the tour. He really enjoyed the flamingos, for instance. And as abrasive as he can be, there’s also something rather sweet about him, as well.

When I put myself in his shoes, I would be so frightened. How scary it must be to feel your mind slipping.

Of course, our day of “babysitting” was a flashback to when my father in law lived with us, too.

After this trip, I really ought to edit the draft I have about our adventures with him!Leia mais