Melodrama and Other Strange Things

Friday June 12, 2009
I was watching Long Way Down recently with Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. It’s a really great documentary where the two actors drive from Scotland to Cape Town on motorcycles. It’s really fun to see places I’ve been, mostly because documentaries make everything look so African and I’ve been there! Anyway, somewhere in central Africa, Ewan was watching a donkey cart drive by and got really excited. He said:

“I’m going to have the first donkey cart in North London. I’m going totally green. Never mind your Toyota Prius, I’m going donkey power!”

I appreciated his reaction to the cart because I watch donkey carts drive by all the time and I think the same thing. Except I’m not famous, so it doesn’t sound as cool. And, obviously, I’m not from North London.

Anyway, at the end of school today, I was frantically running around trying to finish up some scholarship applications for three of our very bright learners. I’m hoping they’ll get money to go into a good secondary school. It’s been very rewarding to work with these three learners and their families on these applications.

It’s very obvious that the people who live around me are poor. In fact, they’ll even tell you they’re poor. Or they’ll tell you that their hair is falling out and that they desperately need your food to help them. Only one slice of your bread… your apple… your money… your tea… will save this person, this learner, this child who’s come to your door without another place to turn, a victim of a cruel world – at least that’s how it’s presented to you as your being solicited. And these people aren’t wrong. They’re poor.

In contrast though, we have these three learners I’ve been working with this week. These learners have been a joy to work with because they have nothing. I mean nothing. But I never noticed until this week when I was scrambling to accumulate their financial records for this scholarship. I was scrambling to get this information because it does not exist. None of these learners’ parents have an income. And yet, everyday, without fail, all three of these learners can be found in class with a fresh face and a good attitude. None of them have asked me for food (more than once) and all of them are deeply respectful to everyone around them. They have no reason to be hopeful and yet they are. They have no inspiration around them to work hard, but they do. These three learners see something in the future that’s better than they’re current tin-shack life. What’s better is that their parents see it too. These kids’ parents are all so proud of their learners. They’re willing to help in whatever way possible and they’re excited that an opportunity exists.

I’m also glad that a scholarship exists in Namibia. Even if my learners don’t receive it, it’s nice to know that there is a hope for bright learners in dull situations. We all worked hard on these applications and now it’s time to cross our fingers and hope for the best.

Luckily, today is the beginning of a four-day weekend. Tuesday the 16th is the Day of the African Child. Which means No School Monday and Tuesday! WooHoo! So now it’s time to wind down for a long weekend of crosswords, reading and a small jaunt to Windhoek for a visit with Peace Corps and some other business.

Speaking of Peace Corps, one of the things that I like about PC is also one of the things I detest about Peace Corps and it is this: They give you entirely too much information. They give you information about how to dress, how to talk, how to sleep, how to eat, how to greet people, how to take medicine, how to sit, how to teach, how to travel, how to cope with emotions, how to put on a band-aid… on and on and on. So, it should not surprise you that I’ve also been briefed on how to write a blog post. The motto is this: Write blog posts on good days. Write journal entries on bad days.

I’ve held pretty true to form and usually only write blog posts on good days. Sometimes I write blog posts on bad days and see if I can make them sound good. Other times bad days are just funny – getting peed on by a goat? Funny. But mostly, I write about good days. Amazingly, I think that’s there’s been a pretty good representation of my experience here (obviously, it’s hard to relate everything. And I’m sure my blog would quickly become dull if I tried). I feel that you get the full experience – sunburns, terrible car rides and lame come-ons from creepy guys. But, at the same time, you don’t despair because you also get to experience adorable children, fun food and successful cross-cultural experiences too!

The reason I tell you all that is because I wrote a blog post on a bad day and I’m going to post it anyway. I’m going to post it in the spirit of getting the full experience. And because it’s a big deal in my life and this blog is to keep you up to date with big things that happen over here. I’m really enjoying my experience as a Peace Corps volunteer but I have to tell you it’s not all laughs and giggles and adorable children and funny cross cultural experiences. It’s real life. Just in Africa.

The section below, from June 9th, is still very pertinent in my life now. And it will probably be for some time to come. I’ve never been good at writing serious things – I always feel so melodramatic. But here you go.

Tuesday June 9, 2009
When I woke up on Monday morning, the power was out. I lit all the candles in the house (all easily accessible because the power outages aren’t that strange) and I was going about my morning routine. The only problem was that it was so quiet everywhere. Quiet inside for the lack of fans and computers. Quiet outside for the lack of children. And it was so dark and so cold too. It’s winter here now. It’s come in its full glory – shorter days, longer nights, cold toes, and foggy breath. I was standing over the sink, in the glow of candlelight brushing my teeth with icy water and I had the most surreal feeling. I didn’t know what time it was. Was it nighttime? Morning time? And more importantly, I didn’t know where I was. Or who I was. Or what I was doing here. And as all these doubts and questions came simultaneously into my silent bathroom, I had to hold my breath. I was afraid that if I started breathing again my reality, as I know it, would shatter. It was like all the images floating in front of my eyes weren’t real and if I thought about them too much they would vanish and I would be left with nothing.

Do you ever have that feeling? It’s always a risk to share something like that because sometimes people know exactly what you’re talking about. But other times, you get funny, sympathetic head tilts that confirm your worst fear: you’re crazy.

I know it seems like that’s out of left field, but it’s not. My friend died.

His name was Barry Kautuara. He was a teacher at my school. And he was my neighbor. I don’t usually write names of teachers in my blog. But you can trust me, if you’ve been reading my blog before, you’ve read about Barry. He was at every school event. He was always kind to me. Even before it was cool to be kind to the American. He was always out in the hostel yard ready to talk. He was always helpful and he would always take the time to explain things to me. But then, he would always take the time to listen to me too.

Our first day back to school this term (term 2 of the 3 in a year) was Tuesday March 26. We had our regular staff meeting that morning and we also had our regular staff prayer. It’s not uncommon for the prayer to be Damara. I just respectfully bow my head and consider it to be an extra minute or two that I can shut my eyes before the chaos of the day. When the prayer was finished on this morning, there was complete silence in the staff room. One woman was crying. Another got up and left the room. Silence. Days and nights of silence.

Finally, the principal cleared his throat and attempted to speak. He began, his voice cracked and then he began again, “Dear colleagues, I am also hearing this news at the same time you are hearing this new. One of our colleagues… one of our friends has passed away…” By this time my heart is in my throat. My head was frantically scanning the possibilities. And I am ashamed to say that in this small fraction of a second I comfortably assumed the unfortunate colleague was our dear, old, old social studies teacher who retired last year – it just made sense.

The principal began speaking again, “Mr. Kautuara was in a car accident traveling back after the break. It is a terrible loss…” I can’t be certain what was said next because by that time my brain was completely and utterly confused. I was absolutely sure that my principal had misspoken… Maybe Barry was in a car accident and now he’s in the hospital and he’ll be back to school later… maybe he meant to say one of the hundreds of other K surnames in Namibia: Kaiseb, Kariseb, Khais, Kameseb… I must have heard the principal wrong.

I came back to the conversations when the principal said, “Someone strong must tell the learners. I am not a strong person.” At this point, I was thankful – the news was about to be repeated to the learners. Everything would be said again in English during the school-wide assembly. For sure, this terrible mess would be made clear.

I am sorry to say that the news was repeated at assembly and it was the same. There was no change. There was no mistake. It was the same. And that this would be the beginning of my in-depth observations about the ways that Namibians handle death and the way an American handles the death of their Namibian friend.

I spent a lot of the past two weeks either offended by learners’ lack of respect for their late teacher, becoming closer to my colleagues through our shared mourning, completely confused or just plain heartbroken. That’s not to say that all learners were completely disrespectful. It’s just that 12, 13 and 14 year old minds aren’t always the most equipped to deal with death of a role model and mentor (which I am sure Barry was to many of these learners). At first, I was inclined to believe that the learners were being flippant about Barry because death is commonplace and, therefore, considered less important in Africa. I could not have been more wrong. In fact, I’m even shocked that I would let my mind wander there. Sure, there’s an AIDS epidemic. Sure, rural medical care is substandard and transport to hospitals is almost nonexistent. Sure, life is harder and shorter here. But when does the death of a father, mother, son, daughter, friend, or grandparent cease to take a toll on those who remain? I say, never.

But. Life has to continue. And it does. It hurts to move forward and it’s tragic to hold school the next day. It’s the worst thing in the world to dig through Barry’s desk looking for paperwork. And it’s awkward to tell learners to go to Mr. Kautuara’s class. I have to avoid looking into his classroom everyday – full of learners and no teacher (he was proud of his classroom and liked to keep it very neat. The learners have torn it apart since then).

My parents were still visiting when I first learned about Barry’s death. But when they left, it was doubly miserable and I felt very alone. Worst of the effects is that I am more afraid of transport in Namibia. I didn’t think it would be possible to become even more safety conscious than I already am. But it is. The only problem is that you can’t predict car accidents. They’re the worst kind of surprise.

Barry was Herero. I spend a lot of time with Damara people so I can’t be sure of the Herero tradition. But as I understand it, Hereros don’t like to keep bodies for too long. They must hold the funeral as soon as possible. For this reason, Barry’s funeral was on the weekend of the 29th. It was held by his family in a village outside of Okakarara. Our teachers asked for transportation from the Ministry of Education but our request was denied. Because of the long distance, our school sent a couple teachers as representatives for the school. They also took cards and letters to the family. Many people were distraught and completely outraged about being unable to attend the service. A few teachers were in tears as the Ministry explained that it wasn’t able to provide transport. And we all sat around for many hours trying to concoct an idea that would allow us to all go and pay our respects. But in the end, we could only afford to send those few teachers and that would have to be enough.

Since then, life has been a little off kilter. I find myself thinking about life and death quite a bit – the meaning of each and the reality that they both hold. My mind spends a lot of time dedicated to thoughts about religion and heaven and hell. I also think about what constitutes a true friendship considering the difference in cultures between Americans and Namibians. Often, I get stuck debating in my head when a death is about the mourners and when a death is about the departed. It’s harder to be the one left behind - my mom used to tell me, as a military brat watching my friends’ families pack up and move away. Maybe it’s true of death too. One things for sure though – I miss Barry.