A Peace Corps Volunteer cries two times during service: when he gets to site at the beginning, and when he leaves site at the end.
This is not true.
What is true is that you cry several times when you get to site. At the beginning you cry because you miss your family and friends. You cry because no one but the drunks and crazy people will talk to you instead of about you. You cry because you’re so stressed out in such a unique way that you can’t even identify what you are feeling and so you cry.
What else is true is that you cry in the middle. You cry in the middle when your colleague and friend died in a car crash. You cry when an orphan brings you a piece of birthday cake. You cry when you find out that one of your friends is positive and they’ve been hiding it from you. You cry when your learners cry. And you cry in the middle because you’re so stressed out in such a unique way that you can’t even identify what you are feeling and so you cry.
It is true that you cry at the end also. You cry because everything is beautiful and simple and sunny and you are about to leave. You cry because some of the problems are so big and the only way to help is to be present, but you are about to leave. You cry because you are going to miss your new family - ti ouma, ti oa, ti ausi – and you cannot think of a time that you will ever see them again. And, of course, you cry because you are so stressed out in such a unique way that you can’t even identify what you are feeling and so you cry.
As you can tell, I’m about to leave and I’m getting overly sentimental. I thought a long time about what I wanted to write for my last blog and I couldn’t think of anything that would convey the significance of what leaving here will mean to me. I had a lot of trouble when I first got here – one minute I was so overjoyed I would be crying from laughter, then the next minute I would be fuming and too angry to even talk. I thought I was developing bi-polar tendencies… or some other serious problem. It took me awhile to realize that it’s actually Khorixas that is bi-polar. It’s hard but let me give a fictional example that could only be true in Khorixas:
It’s the middle of dry season and it’s so dry that your eyeballs might as well be raisins. You’re walking the 20 minutes from the town to your flat and the wind is blowing so hard that you may blow away at any minute (because everything green that protects you from the wind has died many months before). The sole ATM in Khorixas has been out of money for the past two weeks and lentils are the only thing in your cabinet to eat. Children have been screaming “WHITE LADY” at you the whole walk and a dog tried to bite you. You can’t take it anymore so you duck into the “tuck shop” to get a relief from the sandblasting wind and children… just then, the kindly shop keeper gives you free homemade cake and ice cream, gives you a hug and tells you that you are the most beautiful daughter she never had.
See? Bi-polar. It’s a magic that this place has. And as you get used to it, it affects you less and less. In fact, the annoying things become trite because you know that even as the slobbering drunk is following you and yelling obscenities, some Ouma (grandma) is waiting around the corner to rescue you and invite you in for dinner.
I tell you this because, in preparing to leave, I’ve recaptured the bi-polar spirit. I love this place and its people with all my heart. My heart will break and I will cry when I leave. But at the same time, it has worn me out mentally and physically, so thoroughly, that I could not spend another month here.
So, for my last blog, I’ve decided to be random and bi-polar. I want to tell you some of the things that never fit into the other blogs but still make up my life here. I want to tell you some sad things and also some happy things. Take them each with the grain of salt and please try to understand that it is all a part of the magic of Khorixas, the place I love and need to leave.
…
Every morning I wake up in Khorixas, I have a sore throat. The place is so dry and the fan is blowing all night. It feels like the worst cold for the first ten minutes of everyday. It’s gotten so bad that I don’t even need coffee every morning. I’ve simply reduced my standards to: Warm Beverage. It doesn’t matter what, just that it’s warm and liquid.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday we have a school assembly out front of our school. There’s no auditorium, there’s no roof, there’s no chairs. There’s just us, the sunshine and the flagpole. The learners line up according to grades: Grades 1 – 5 in the middle, Grades 6 and 7 as bookends at either side to be examples. The learners sing their magnificent harmonies. Then we pray. Then we raise the flag. There’s one 7th grade boy who raises the flag in the front of the learners everyday. Last year, it was Wynand. When he was finished he would turn from the flag, salute the teachers and then walk back to the 7th grade line. This year, his name is Sylvester. When Sylvester finishes raising the flag, he takes three steps, spins, stomps each foot once, salutes and then marches back to the 7th grade line. The 1st graders have become so enamored with this routine that they copy it every morning (with less coordination). Sylvester steps one, two, three. Sylvester’s army of first graders steps one, two, three. Sylvester spins and almost misses the one-eighty mark. Sylvester’s army of first graders spins and runs into each other. In unison, they all stomp, one, two. And lastly, the precise salute of Sylvester followed by the uncoordinated salute of a drunken sailor from Sylvester’s army of first graders. Watching this morning ritual used to be one of my favorite parts of Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But now, the teachers have started to crack down and the first grade army is kept still from many watchful eyes during the raising of the flag.
When I first moved into my flat at the school, there was a cockroach infestation. It was terrible. I kept the house so clean and still would find gigantic cockroach parties on my counter every morning. The apartments next to mine had the same problem. And the hostel. And most houses in Khorixas. I just couldn’t handle it. My solution, though, I’m so ashamed of… I asked for poison from America. Combat Platinum. I used the whole tube. No insect survived in the entire flat. Even a year later. Since then, we’ve only seen about 5 more cockroaches in the flat that promptly died after being there for more than 12 hours (or more quickly by Jill’s hand… or shoe, I should say). We’re probably getting cancer from living there. And the Namibian cockroach is evolving as we speak.
I really like spelling “organization” with and “s” instead of a “z”: Organisation. Also, when I speak, the words in my sentence don’t always come out in what most Americans would consider the correct order… or any order at all really. It’s like thought vomiting.
The Namibian Presidential elections were on November 27 and 28. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’m not allowed to express an opinion. My opinion, though, is that this is a very interesting time to be here.
When I first arrived at Eddie Bowe, there was no principal. My supervisor at the school was the Upper Primary Head of Department, Mrs. Xoagus. She is fantastic. Anytime I looked confused, she was by my side to explain. Anytime, I came to school looking homesick, she would give me a comforting hug. At school sporting events, when I looked thirsty, she would bring me a bottle of water. And when I suggested something, she listened. When I asked my girls’ club who they thought was a good role model for them, they said Mrs. Xoagus because she is in charge of the school, we respect her and she loves us. The Ministry of Education tried to appoint her as principal (a woman!) but she refused because she did not want to move from her job. Then the principal came at the beginning of this year. He is fantastic too, in different ways though. Throughout my second year, I needed Mrs. Xoagus less and less but she was still there whenever I did need her. In September, she was nominated to be in the parliament of Namibia if a certain political party wins a certain number of votes in the election. She accepted and had to retire her post at the school to campaign for the political party. It was sad to see her go but she was still around Khorixas, always wearing her party’s colors and smiling. Yesterday, I received news that she had an aneurism. She is currently in the ICU in Windhoek, slipping in and out of a comma. I had been saving a beautiful Oregon ornament to give to her as a Thank You gift. I sent it to the Windhoek hospital yesterday with her family. You shouldn’t save Thank You’s. If you pray, please pray. If you send out positive thoughts, please send out positive thoughts.
Mrs. Xoagus was named a Member of Parliament on December 2nd and on the night of December 3rd she passed away. She is deeply mourned by her friends and coworkers at Eddie Bowe and by me. I will miss her funeral but I can be sure that most of Khorixas will be there. She was a hardworking and dedicated teacher. She was a loving and caring mother to her sons. She was a fantastic boss and friend. She was a truly unique Damara woman.
When my mother and father were visiting, they rented a car. It’s tough to own a car in Namibia because you spend so much time wondering if it will be safe where you park it. For this reason, there are guards in most parking lots. You give them the thumbs up and they’ll watch your car for the small tip you give them when you leave. At one place we were parked there was no parking lot or parking lot guard. There was a man guarding the building though. I tried to ask the man if he would watch our car for us but he didn’t speak English (and we were in another region of Namibia where I couldn’t even fake knowing the local language). I attempted to mime “watch the car” and he said “yes” and we were golden. A perfectly normal exchange, or so I thought. Later, my mother was telling the story to a friend of mine and she said I was right up in the man’s face trying to communicate with him. I wasn’t invading his personal space. If he was American, I would’ve been though. This could be a problem. I apologize in advance.
My neighbor is also a teacher at my school. He smiles and laughs more than any other teacher at the school. He owns a dog that always threatens to bite strangers. It was uncomfortable when I was a stranger. My neighbor told me that until the dog became used to me, I just had to say the dog’s name over and over again to prevent it from biting. The dog’s name? Sorry. The dog is used to me now. But I can always tell when a stranger is in the area because I hear one of two things: 1) “Woof Woof woofwooofwooofwoof” and “AAAAaaaaauuuuggh” or 2) “Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorrysorrysorrysorry” and “phew”. I think this is my neighbor’s practical joke on the residents of Khorixas because I can hear him his house laughing.
My neighbor also has a tiny daughter named “Amai”, which is the Damara word for “Truth”. This leads to all sorts of strange sentences that make me sound profound: “Truth is being bad today”, “Truth looks beautiful” or “Truth is peeing on the sidewalk again”. One day my neighbor brought his daughter to the after-school study. He is also my neighbor at school because his classroom is directly next to the library. As I was working in the library, I heard Amai’s tiny voice mumbling in what I assumed to be Damara. Then her father would say, “what?” Then Amai’s tiny voice again. I took a peek to see that my neighbor was holding Amai in his arms and that as she mumbled she was pointing off in the distance, looking profoundly worried. Soon, my neighbor started to walk in the direction that Amai was pointing. Amai would then mumble something else and point in another direction. My neighbor would say “what?” and then wander in the other direction that Amai had pointed. Amai was only looking more and more worried and my neighbor was only wandering in circles. Soon, he saw me watching and confided in me: “I have NO idea what she is saying”. Oh, what a father will do for a daughter that he loves… After study, I found them on the other side of the school, Amai still fretfully mumbling and pointing, my neighbor still wandering in circles trying to appease her.
Last week, I shared some Swedish Fish that my brother brought from America with a colleague. She reacted as though I had given her gold.
My friend Erin visited in November. It was absolutely fantastic. During her visit, we went to the coast the see the giant sand dunes and some marine wildlife. We set sail early in the morning to see the sites with a few other tourists on an organised boat tour. The boat ride seemed magical right away. Just as we were leaving the dock, a seal jumped on our boat. And as we were cruising along the coast, giant pelicans were swooping alongside us. Our first mission of the morning was to find a pod of dolphins that had last been seen traveling north. We sped along for maybe half and hour enjoying the breeze and the birds and each other’s company. The skipper poured us some sherry (it was 9 in the morning. I love this country). Soon, we found the dolphins. They were almost on the beach, playing in the waves. Our boat got as close to them as possible. We could see them jumping clear out of the water. Then, we received the warning “Hold on!” We all peeled our eyes from the dolphins at the shore and looked out to the ocean. A giant wave (which only got more gigantic every time Erin and I told the story) was coming directly towards us. My first reaction was to put down my Sherry and assume the fetal position. Erin’s response was to hold onto the railing, kneel and grip her sherry tighter. Both of these responses were the correct response, as the boat soon dipped down under the wave and the water covered our heads. When we emerged from the water, I thought, “Shoot, I’m wet.” and “Wow, Erin didn’t spill her sherry.” Then, I found evidence of someone who’s response to a giant wave was not correct and it was this – continue holding your sherry with one hand, railing with the other and stand directly in the front of the boat. This was un-correct response because the man who assumed this position looked like he was in pain. Serious pain. And his shoe fell off… no wait, his shoe was still on and definitely pointing the wrong direction. Yes, that was a broken ankle. The man started wailing “Ouw, my fut!”(Translation, “Ow, my foot!”) while dramatically crawling up the bow of the boat (which only got more dramatic every time Erin and I told the story). Then Erin and I got to learn how fast a catamaran can actually get back to shore, how to set an ankle and that getting an ankle set in Africa is something I probably don’t ever want to experience. After all those life lessens and after the man was taken away to the Swakop hospital, we were taken back out to sea to spend some quality time with a Southern Right whale, while eating oysters and champagne (I still love this country)(but I am so safety conscious now).
At the end of every school term, the children leave about a week earlier than the teachers. Then, for the last week, the teachers finish marking their exams, putting together score reports and cleaning their classrooms. This week is usually my favorite and least favorite time of each term. It is my least favorite because I finish my work early (and this year, I even had less paper work than I did last year) and I get so bored. It is my favorite because without children around, the teachers turn into children. They yell and joke and fight and bring in hot plates to make food in the office. It’s like an End-of-Term we’re-All-Bored party. It’s fantastic. This year, in term three, because of elections (the schools were a polling stations for Khorixas) the school had to send the children home two weeks before the teachers would close the school. It’s almost the end of the two weeks now and the school has gone through many transformations of the boredom. Monday we were having a cookout and teaching Miss Jessica how to slaughter a donkey (gross). Wednesday the math teachers conspired to see how much work they could trick the two volunteer (me and my replacement) to do – they split the work in 4th and each took one-half and asked at separate times for me or my replacement to do a 4th of it. Of course, we fell for it and all the work was finished before tea break. Today, Mr. Aupindi, the grade 5 Science teacher, decided to raise the flag out front of the school. Since the children are gone, it lacked the flare that it normally has because of Sylvester’s marching and saluting and all of the children singing the national anthem. So, Mr. Aupindi, intent on recapturing the days of yore, took the flag from the principal’s office, saluted us all and marched outside to the flagpole. It only took a few seconds before we heard the tune “Namibia, land of the brave, freedom fight, we have won…” wafting in from the front yard. We looked out the window to see Mr. Aupindi alone, singing and raising the flag. Such pride. Such devotion. Such patriotism… Such silliness. I’m going to miss my friends.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
A Gangsta In Lace
2 November 2009
Two years ago today, I landed in Namibia. Woo hoo! Namiversary! Now though, most of Nam27 is looking forward instead of backwards. We’re all wondering where we’ll go next, if we’ll have a job, if we’ll get into graduate school, or if we’ll ever see our nam-homes again.
For the last part of October, I spent more time away from Khorixas than in it. I got called to Windhoek for the Peace Corps required Close of Service Medical. They basically just make sure we haven’t contracted some horrible disease in the past two years – which I haven’t… or at least they haven’t told me if I have. Same difference. Either way, it was nice to spend a week in Windhoek to finish a lot of things I needed to do on the internet. Unfortunately, I also spent the time going on Namibian-craft shopping sprees. My Peace Corps bank account is significantly smaller but I do have some beautiful new earrings and a shirt that says “Howzit?” so it was worth it.
After my COS medical, my brother came to visit Namibia. He rented a car and we drove to Swakopmund first. When I took my trip to Sossusvlei in August, I realized that I hate climbing sand dunes. I really love the view at the top of sand dunes but climbing them is one of my least favorite activities. So when my brother and I went to Swakop, I had a one sand dune limit. We climbed dune 7, took some picture and then went out to pizza. It was the perfect amount of sand climbing, if you ask me. The next day, we went out kayaking in the Atlantic to visit the seals and dolphins. It was really fun – we saw a lot of dolphin fins and played with a few seals. Afterwards, our guide drove up the broad side of a sand dune so that we could see the salt evaporation pools nearby to where we were kayaking (I bet if you google-earthed Walvis Bay you could see a pretty decent view of the same salt evaporation pools. The pools are pink because the salt-loving bacteria that live in them is also pink. Flamingos live nearby and eat the bacteria to get their pink color too. Interesting, huh?). After we took in the view at the top of the dune, our guide decided scare the bejeezes out of us and take the car down the not-so-broad side of the sand dune. Totally awesome! … after it was over :)
Later that same day, my brother and I took a self-guided tour of the desert. Outside of Swakop is an area called The Moonscape. It’s a really bizarre looking area that is completely beautiful (in a scarred-earth and complete-emptiness sort of way that Namibia really specializes in). Along the drive, I also got to see my first Welwitchia mirabilis!! A Welwitchia is a plant that some people call a living fossil because it grows for a thousand years or more. Khorixas actually used to be named “Welwitchia” because so many of the plants grow so close to the city – that’s why it’s strange that it took me two years to see one. They are specially adapted to live in the desert and are cone bearing plants. The plants grow only a few meters apart in patches in the desert. When you come across one of the patches, it looks like aliens with green tentacle are trying to break they’re way out of the sand. One of the last Welwitchias we saw on our drive is thought to be 1500 years old. In order to protect it, the Ministry of Tourism put up a fence around the plant and then built a viewing platform because it was so big!
After Swakop, we drove to Khorixas for some good ol’ Damara fun. The school choir gave us a nice long concert so that we could record their singing. After I go home, I’m going to miss hearing the learners sing so it is nice that I got most of their songs recorded. We also visited the squatters’ camp, almost got run over by a donkey cart (twice), and climbed the hill that that the cell phone tower is on top of. Visiting the orphanage with Jill was one of the most fun things we did. It’s hard not to have a good time when you’re hanging out with a group of kids that share and take care of each other and appreciate any small thing you do for them. We also had a lot of fun when the lady who does our wash came over with her kids (Tu-o and Emma and Katrina – all pictured numerous times in previous months). I wrote in a previous post about how Emma likes to make gang signs when she sees us on wash days. Emma is 7 and she is a tough cookie (who likes to wear ruffles) so my brother taught Emma to say “gangsta”. It’s probably the one of worst acts of cultural imperialism I’ve done in my time here but, at the same time, no one has ever said “gangsta” as cute as Emma does.
English: “Say ‘Gangsta’.”
Khoekhoegowab: “‘Gangsta’ mi re.”
Emma: “Gangsta!”
On Friday morning of my brother’s visit, we drove to Etosha Game Park. Before we even got to the first waterhole, there was an elephant directly on the side of the road just munching on a tree. Then, just a few more kilometers in, we saw a male lion taking a mid-morning nap by the side of the road. He got up long enough to move with the shade of the tree before he plopped down again to resume his laziness. However, in those few steps I think “OH MY GOSH” and “HOLY CRAP” were the only things said in the car. All in all, the trip to Etosha was very successful. We saw ostriches, oryx, kudu, giraffes, zebras, jackal, and thousands of springboks. Saturday morning we drove to the Cheetah Conservation Fund to see the work that they’re doing there. I’ve only been out to the CCF once before and all the cheetahs were lazy and hard to see. This time, I’m sure we saw every cheetah in the place. At one point in time, we joined up with another family and took a walking tour around some of the Cheetah enclosures. Cheetahs, like most cats, could generally care less if you are there or not. However, when we were taking this walking tour, the family that we were with had their small daughter with them. From across the enclosure, all the cheetahs focused in on this small girl and came running up to the fence at full speed. It was a bit creepy to have such a focused predator run at full speed directly towards us. Luckily there was a fence between predator and prey. One of the workers at the CCF explained that the cheetahs were so focused on the little girl because she was the same size as the prey they normally stalk in the wild. As we continued walking along the fence, the cheetahs kept pace with us, all the while staring at this little girl. The mother of the family finally put the little girl on top of her shoulders and the cheetahs lessened their intense stares. The little girl didn’t seem to be bothered too much by it but as a parent I don’t think I’d ever want to hear the phrase “the cheetahs are stalking your daughter”.
My brother flew out of Windhoek on Sunday morning and I hiked back to Khorixas. It was sad to see him go but I was glad that he got a good tour of Namibia in such a short amount of time. It was a payday weekend so everyone was crazy with money. There were hundreds of cars on the road but no one could seem to spare the time to stop and pick me up. I finally made it to Otjiwarongo late in the day but there wasn’t a taxi in the whole town going to Khorixas. I decided standing on the side of the road and looking helpless might score me a ride home. It didn’t. But luckily, as I was ease dropping on a conversation two people in parked cars were having, I heard “Khorixas” muttered. I was begging for a ride before I remember my dignity. Thankfully, they were really generous and allowed me to sit in the back of their bakkie the 200km to Khorixas for free. As it turns out, the driver is a good friend of the principal at my school so we’re all just one big happy family now. This stuff happens in America too, right?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Dry Dunes and Dry Faucets
27-9-09
We had a school holiday in August that I’m just recovering from now. It was a lot of fun. I spent a few days in Okakarara with Peace Corps friends, I finally traveled to Sossusvlei and then I went Peace Corps group 27’s COS conference. COS? Close Of Service. Scary, Huh?
Let’s start with Sossusvlei: It’s a giant sand dune a few hours south of Windhoek. It’s actually a whole park full of sand dunes. Two Peace Corps friends and I decided we needed to see the famous dunes before we left Namibia in December. The only problem was that getting into and out of Sossusvlei is challenging. It’s hard to hitchhike there because only tourists go that way. Peace Corps volunteers who have tried to hitchhike have gotten stuck on the side of the road in the desert for a few days. And, the other option, renting a car can be a bit risky because regular four door sedans don’t fair well on the rough roads (renting four wheel drive vehicles is a little out of a PCVs budget… and by little, I mean a lot). So, the three of us went with the only other option: an organized tour.
To reassure us that we made the right decision, about two hours after our tour left Windhoek the combi hit a large rock in the road, punctured the fuel tank and broke the gearshift box. Why was this the right decision? Let me tell you. Because, in all of this vehicle chaos I didn’t have to worry about a single thing except what kind of sandwich to make while enjoying the view. Ahhh, the life of tourists. After this initial hiccup in transport, we had two more incidents of vehicle trouble: first, the tour group had to band together to push the combi out of sand drifts… a couple times… but it was fun so I barely noticed it was supposed to be work. And, second, we blew a tire. I do believe there was a roadside dance party during that event, however, so it doesn’t really count as traumatic either.
We had a school holiday in August that I’m just recovering from now. It was a lot of fun. I spent a few days in Okakarara with Peace Corps friends, I finally traveled to Sossusvlei and then I went Peace Corps group 27’s COS conference. COS? Close Of Service. Scary, Huh?
Let’s start with Sossusvlei: It’s a giant sand dune a few hours south of Windhoek. It’s actually a whole park full of sand dunes. Two Peace Corps friends and I decided we needed to see the famous dunes before we left Namibia in December. The only problem was that getting into and out of Sossusvlei is challenging. It’s hard to hitchhike there because only tourists go that way. Peace Corps volunteers who have tried to hitchhike have gotten stuck on the side of the road in the desert for a few days. And, the other option, renting a car can be a bit risky because regular four door sedans don’t fair well on the rough roads (renting four wheel drive vehicles is a little out of a PCVs budget… and by little, I mean a lot). So, the three of us went with the only other option: an organized tour.
To reassure us that we made the right decision, about two hours after our tour left Windhoek the combi hit a large rock in the road, punctured the fuel tank and broke the gearshift box. Why was this the right decision? Let me tell you. Because, in all of this vehicle chaos I didn’t have to worry about a single thing except what kind of sandwich to make while enjoying the view. Ahhh, the life of tourists. After this initial hiccup in transport, we had two more incidents of vehicle trouble: first, the tour group had to band together to push the combi out of sand drifts… a couple times… but it was fun so I barely noticed it was supposed to be work. And, second, we blew a tire. I do believe there was a roadside dance party during that event, however, so it doesn’t really count as traumatic either.
our camp
Other than combi trouble, the rest of the tour went off without a hitch. We had an awesome tour group, the camp we stayed at was beautiful and our tour guide was nice. At sunrise, we all climbed Dune 45. Dune 45 is 150m high and, according to a tour book, is called “Dune 45” because it’s 45km from Sesriem canyon and 45 dunes from Sossusvlei dune (300m high). Then, we toured Dead Vlei – a very interesting dry pan with very old trees. It’s such a strangely beautiful and quiet place. So strange, in fact, one of my PC friends and I decided it was the time to catch our new Facebook profile pictures… Unfortunately, we failed to realize how sweating our faces off is really an unfavorable aspect of pictures in the desert. Oh, well. Next, we spent some time hiking around in Sesriem Canyon (literally translated from Afrikaans to mean “six” um, “riems”. Well, just know it’s the length of rope they used to need to get water from the bottom to the top of the canyon). It became exciting in the bottom of the canyon when we decided to rock climb around a small puddle… I’m not a rock climber. Hell, I’m not even a pebble climber. I’m more likely to stub my toe than successfully walk around. But, I survived and I’m a more adventurous person for it.
take number 23
Our tour was three days and two nights. We arrived back in Windhoek just in time for our COS conference. Peace Corps did us a favor and put Nam27 in a really nice hotel in Windhoek for our two-day conference. There was a pool, a nice double bed, a refrigerator in my room and an electrical outlet adapter built right into the wall. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice those because I was too busy noticing the free buffet. I’m so ashamed. Anyway, our conference was short and sweet and sad. We chose our final days in Namibia, were given medical and administrative instructions for leaving the country and said goodbye to a few volunteers in our group that we may not see before they leave for America. We took our final group photos and then left for our last three months at site.
Nam27 Group shot
When I got back to Khorixas, school had been in session for a week already. Four of my science fair learners had been in Windhoek for THE NATIONAL SCIENCE FAIR. I’m so proud. This year we only came home with participation certificates but it was one of the times in my life where I can honestly say I was just proud to be there. All I have to say is: never underestimate a kid because he lives in a tin shack! My learners are awesome.
I had approximately one day of quiet and then my replacement volunteer arrived. My school is so excited to have her here. It was just her site visit so she was only here for a week and then she’ll be back after her group’s Swearing In ceremony. The week got me thinking about my site visit in 2007. I looked up my blog posts from that week. It’s completely strange to read my posts from back then. Sometimes, when I think back on my thought processes from that time, I feel naïve and childish. I’ve learned so much.
Things I used to think were a big deal don’t really faze me anymore. For example, our water went out Tuesday in the nighttime and was out until Friday at 12pm. I didn’t feel like bathing on Tuesday night and figured I’d do it on Wednesday instead. So, when the water went out, I hadn’t bathed since Monday night. Jill had about 3 liters of drinking water and I had about 3 liters of drinking water and that was it. All this was only a minor problem until we remember that Wednesday was the national payday for all workers (except teachers, who get paid on the 20th of every month). Payday means that bills are due. This means that most people skip out on work sometime mid-morning to go get their money from the bank and pay their bills around town. As a result of it being payday, the Ministry of Works employees (who would have come to the school where I live to fix the water) were out on the town (hopefully) paying their bills and (probably not, because I have faith in them) getting drunk. Unfortunately, when we woke up on Wednesday morning, there was also no cell phone reception. This later affected the bank (though I’m unclear of how) and people were unable to get their money. So, Wednesday was a loss. Thursday, however, the bank and cell phones were back in working order. Woo! Unfortunately, this meant that the Ministry of Works employees were back out on the town (hopefully) paying their bills and (probably not, because I have faith in them) getting drunk.
So, there I was, on Thursday night, not having bathed since Monday, and I came to the very real possibility that I would not see water come out of my faucet until next Tuesday and this is why: Friday is basically a half day anyway and people would take off early from the Ministry of Works. Saturday and Sunday nobody works for the government. And Monday is a school holiday, so no one from the school would be around to call and bug the Ministry of Works guys to come out and fix the problem. Hence, Tuesday. This is where the differences between my 2007-self and my 2009-self came into play. I distinctly remember 2007-self having serious problems with water being out for 6 hours. And 2008-self complained bitterly every time the water went out. But 2009-self made it two days without really caring and only being mildly dehydrated. And then, 2009-self decided that 4 days without bathing was gross in this type of heat. So, as a perfectly normal solution, she paid some grade 6 boys in bouncy balls to go and fetch water for her. See, problem solved.
I could have made it till Tuesday. I really could have. There are more bouncy balls – I would’ve been fine. But as luck would have it, my neighbor went down the Ministry of Works and basically kidnapped a worker until he fixed the problem. So, Friday afternoon my clean 2009-self celebrated my faucet being turned back on. But, 2009-self doesn’t trust amenities anymore and she filled all her water bottles promptly.
All that is to say, nation-wide paydays are a bad decision. Oh, and two years is just enough time to make you a more patient and understanding person – even when it comes to the necessities of life, like water. Just chill out. It’s all going to happen sooner or later. Maybe ;)
Rubbish Again
For my last post, I had pictures. Unfortunately, the internet I was on was too slow to load them in the 30 minutes I bought. But today, I have all the time in the world (a.k.a. an hour). So here you go:
This is a picture of a side of the street in Khorixas. The sign says "No dumping of refuse", obviously, and behind all the refuse is my school's soccer field. My friend Heather took this picture.
This is the picture of the "Rubbish field" behind my house where the kids burn their trash. It may be my imagination... but I think the rubbish field is cleaner than the side of the street picture. Iiiiinteresting....
This is a picture of one of the many rubbish bins around Khorixas. This one is unique in that is is only half full and has a bottom.
This is a picture of a side of the street in Khorixas. The sign says "No dumping of refuse", obviously, and behind all the refuse is my school's soccer field. My friend Heather took this picture.
This is the picture of the "Rubbish field" behind my house where the kids burn their trash. It may be my imagination... but I think the rubbish field is cleaner than the side of the street picture. Iiiiinteresting....
This is a picture of one of the many rubbish bins around Khorixas. This one is unique in that is is only half full and has a bottom.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Its All Rubbish
August 26, 2009
Trashcans are an illusion in Khorixas. When I first moved here, I lived in town at the Ministry of Education volunteer house. For those of you loyal blog readers, you’ll remember what happened that ill-fated night in January 2008 when the volunteer house trashcan lost it’s life at the hands of a naïve young American with a tiny touch of pyromania. To this day, the deformed and twisted plastic remains can be found in Khorixas and, essentially, serve as a warning to new volunteers that they know nothing and probably shouldn’t assume they do.
But this story isn’t about that trashcan. It only begins there. I know I’ve described the difference between “Town” and “Location” in Namibia. But to summarize, town is, for the most part, nicer. For example, they have regular trash pick-up and the location does not. Last year, when I moved to the location, I did not know that the trash pick-up I had so quickly shunned in town and that trashcan I so quickly killed would be the only real trash-solutions I would see in Khorixas for the rest of my days here.
When I first moved to the school, I remember standing with a few of my teachers at the door of my new flat. We were talking about what would be the most beautiful way to decorate my windows, when it suddenly occurred to me: what will I do with my trash? So, I posed the questions. The hostel matron pretended she didn’t know English and just stared at me blankly (to this day, she still pretends she doesn’t know English. The ruse is up matron! I know you’re faking!). The first grade teacher giggled under her breath and said she’d let me borrow her curtains for my living room windows. And my supervisor said, “Weeellll, dear… I don’t know.”
She didn’t know. A Namibian didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my rubbish and here I was, trashcan shy after my last attempt at anonymous trash disposal, by means of fire, left to my own devises. My first attempt at disposing of my trash in the location was to take it out to the trashcan in the hostel yard. You see, all over Khorixas, there are brightly painted public trashcans. These trashcans stand on two legs that are planted into the dirt. Then the legs rise to the top of the trashcan, where there is a hinge that allows the can to swing back and forth. There is about foot or two of space under the swinging trashcan and one lone crossbar in that space that children can use as a way of climbing up to look inside. And as luck would have it, the hostel yard had one of these trashcans. It was a glimmer of hope. It was a solution to a smelly problem. It was something that just made sense, right? Wrong.
The first day I carried my little bag of trash out to that can, learners jumped eagerly by my side: What are you doing, Miss? What is that, Miss? Can we help, Miss? In the midst of chaos, I arrived at the trashcan to find it full of grass. Yes, dead yellow grass – like someone had mowed the field from heaven in “Gladiator” and stuck in our one trashcan. I don’t know why. There was grass everywhere; why should we cram our trashcan full of grass? Isn’t that something we can just leave on the ground? Or feed to the donkeys? Apparently not. So, what was I to do? I threw my trash on top of the pile. The trashcan swung lightly on its hinges, squeaking ever so slightly. It was one lone tied plastic bag sitting atop a mound of grass. It looked so forlorn, so lonely. It looked so… just then, the kids stole it and ran away!!! They stole my trash!
From afar, I cringed at the fun the kids were having with my rubbish. The running commentary in my head was more than I could bear: Eeew, don’t eat that!! Oh my gosh, is that my dental floss? Oh please, oh please, take that off your head!
It was too much; I went inside and decided something must be done immediately. For months after that I carried my trash to town when I did my shopping. In town, they had regular trash pickup. I would walk to town with a bag full of trash, dump it, and then, walk home with a bag full of groceries. Thankfully, Jill was understanding – what sort of weirdo carries their trash around? Her site-mate, that’s who. The worst was when I would forget to empty my bag before I went into the shop. Then, I would open my bag to put all the groceries in but it would already be full of rubbish. It all got to be too embarrassing. I needed a new solution.
It had been months and the hostel’s lone trashcan was still filled with grass. It was then that it occurred to me: the trashcan was just an illusion – no one was ever going to empty it. I considered this and decided I was ok with people going through my trash. The key was that they shouldn’t know it was mine. So began the short period of trash displacement. The plan was like this: I would walk trash to public rubbish bins that were less full than the hostel’s but still in a somewhat close vicinity. I would do this at odd hours of the day and night so that no one would follow me. Children could then pilfer through the small bags later taking the good things. And, finally, no one would be the wiser that the things had once belonged to me.
It worked well at first. The sun would just be glistening at the horizon, with me sneaking back to my flat in my pajamas empty handed. Sunday mornings were the best because everyone was at church. The closest, yet just distant enough, trashcan happened to be adjacent to a makeshift soccer field and was therefore dangerous at too many times each day. The next closest, yet distant enough for privacy, was missing it’s bottom. This was a problem because it felt like littering. I put the bag in the top. It fell out the bottom. What was the point? Then the next closest was just too far. I got lazy. It would be weeks between taking out the trash. Gross smells and cockroaches were the only things that could persuade me to take action. I needed a new plan.
The new plan was brought about by desperation. For, desperation was the only thing that could drive me back to the match. I was going to burn my trash again. I was shy at first. I used an old baking pan to burn the small plastic bags full of evidence that I had lived. I would burn them within the walls of my porch behind my house so that no one could see me. There were many months of this sort of secrecy. Then, one Saturday morning, I smelled fire from my house I looked out the window and there stood about 50 boys burning trash just beyond my back door. It was chore day for the boys and it was their responsibility to burn up their rubbish. Brilliant! Other burners! I was not alone.
Where the boys were burning there was, yet another, large mound of cut grass and just beyond that was a rocky field full of all sorts of rubbish that had been abandoned there. This was the perfect place to take my burning public. The rubbish field and I were happy for quite some time. I would take my trash there, to a small patch of dirt and burn it. It was gone and I didn’t have to go more than ten steps from my door. No learner would ever again wear my dental floss as a headdress or use hair from my brush as a ball. Mission accomplished.
Slowly at first, and then gaining in frequency and severity, the rubbish field and I started to have disputes. People would come by when I was trying to burn my trash and ask, “Jessica, what do you think you’re doing?” And I would say, “why, burning my rubbish, thank you.” To which they would say, “tsk.”
A seed of doubt grew in my mind. Was it unacceptable to burn here? Was I breaking some sort of unspoken rule about women burning trash in fields? I tried to forget it, but more and more people, while facing the self-explanatory flames, would ask, “Jessica, what do you think you are doing?” Couldn’t they see? Or was it a deeper problem?
Out of shame and self-doubt, my burnings became less frequent. I would only burn important things like letters, prescription information or address labels from boxes. The other trash, I would put in the rubbish field with the scattered rubbish left by other teachers who had not been burning. Milk boxes, chicken bones and carrot tops were ok to be left on the ground, I thought. It’s not littering, I reasoned, the goats will come and eat it, or children will come and take it to play with. My first year as a Peace Corps volunteer turned into my second as told myself still, it’s ok because other people are doing it.
But it wasn’t ok. I had let it continue too long. The burnings had dwindled to once a month or every other month. More and more rubbish was being left on the ground in the rubbish field. I left the rubbish atop the mound the boys used to burn their trash on chore day, but it just didn’t seem to atone for the sin like I hoped it would. I despaired. I couldn’t see the difference between a rubbish field and a regular street in Khorixas anymore. I fell deeper and deeper into a hole of loose garbage morals of my own making. Children would come to my door and offer to take my trash out… and I would let them! I could see them in the rubbish field taking the good parts and leaving the rest behind on the ground and I felt nothing buy apathy (and joy that my trash had been taken out). I couldn’t see the light from the bottom of the deep dark hole. Until, someone saved me.
This past weekend, I took my trash bag the ten steps to the rubbish field and started a back swing to launch it into the wasteland. Just before I let it fly into the air, a guard walked by. He was hired by the Ministry of Education to make sure the school is not broken into during the school holiday. He stopped and said, “Good morning.”
I let the trash hang by my side. “Good Morning,” I said.
“How are you?” the guard queried.
“Fine, thanks. And you?” I replied.
“Fine.”
Which wasn’t at all weird because every person you pass in Namibia, ever, must says some semblance of these things to you and every other person they pass. But then there was a pause. Then the guard raised his eyebrows and pointed. His accusatory finger was not pointing at me but it would have been much less painful if it had been. It was instead pointing at the one and only hostel yard rubbish bin, the one that had been full of grass for so long. He said simply, “There.”
“Oh,” I said quietly and hung my head in disgrace.
I was too ashamed to walk to the rubbish bin then, so I simply went inside. The next day, I had gathered enough courage to try a second time to take my trash out to the hostel’s lone trashcan. When I was approaching, I could see that the top no longer sported a huge mound of grass. I had been too blind, too apathetic, to see that the trashcan had been emptied! Trashcans were not an illusion! People were starting to care about what to do with their garbage! It was the beginning of a new era in Khorixas, where the streets would be clean. The Ministry of Works would pick up trash all throughout Khorixas – there would be no distinction between Town and Location, between rich or poor! All trash would be equal! This was momentous.
I reached the trashcan full of joy and hope and gracefully tossed my tied plastic bag in. I felt satisfaction. I felt accomplishment… I felt something on my foot. I looked down and it was my little bag of trash. How…? What…? I tipped the trashcan on its hinges and peered in. At the bottom of the can, I saw my toes peeking back at me. There was no bottom. That was it. Just a can. No bottom. A tube to accelerate littering on the ground. A laugh in the face to someone trying to clean up the chaos. A step backwards in the grand scheme of garbage.
You see, I tell you this cautionary tale so that you can see the plight of those who want privacy in a developing country. I tell you this so that you can look down into your own trashcans and consider what would actually make a good toy for a child who needs less to be entertained than an American child. I tell you this so that you can feel a small sense of joy when the garbage truck drives to your house and takes your trash away so that you never have to see it again.
No, but seriously, with three months left I still don’t have anything to do with my garbage.
Trashcans are an illusion in Khorixas. When I first moved here, I lived in town at the Ministry of Education volunteer house. For those of you loyal blog readers, you’ll remember what happened that ill-fated night in January 2008 when the volunteer house trashcan lost it’s life at the hands of a naïve young American with a tiny touch of pyromania. To this day, the deformed and twisted plastic remains can be found in Khorixas and, essentially, serve as a warning to new volunteers that they know nothing and probably shouldn’t assume they do.
But this story isn’t about that trashcan. It only begins there. I know I’ve described the difference between “Town” and “Location” in Namibia. But to summarize, town is, for the most part, nicer. For example, they have regular trash pick-up and the location does not. Last year, when I moved to the location, I did not know that the trash pick-up I had so quickly shunned in town and that trashcan I so quickly killed would be the only real trash-solutions I would see in Khorixas for the rest of my days here.
When I first moved to the school, I remember standing with a few of my teachers at the door of my new flat. We were talking about what would be the most beautiful way to decorate my windows, when it suddenly occurred to me: what will I do with my trash? So, I posed the questions. The hostel matron pretended she didn’t know English and just stared at me blankly (to this day, she still pretends she doesn’t know English. The ruse is up matron! I know you’re faking!). The first grade teacher giggled under her breath and said she’d let me borrow her curtains for my living room windows. And my supervisor said, “Weeellll, dear… I don’t know.”
She didn’t know. A Namibian didn’t know what I was supposed to do with my rubbish and here I was, trashcan shy after my last attempt at anonymous trash disposal, by means of fire, left to my own devises. My first attempt at disposing of my trash in the location was to take it out to the trashcan in the hostel yard. You see, all over Khorixas, there are brightly painted public trashcans. These trashcans stand on two legs that are planted into the dirt. Then the legs rise to the top of the trashcan, where there is a hinge that allows the can to swing back and forth. There is about foot or two of space under the swinging trashcan and one lone crossbar in that space that children can use as a way of climbing up to look inside. And as luck would have it, the hostel yard had one of these trashcans. It was a glimmer of hope. It was a solution to a smelly problem. It was something that just made sense, right? Wrong.
The first day I carried my little bag of trash out to that can, learners jumped eagerly by my side: What are you doing, Miss? What is that, Miss? Can we help, Miss? In the midst of chaos, I arrived at the trashcan to find it full of grass. Yes, dead yellow grass – like someone had mowed the field from heaven in “Gladiator” and stuck in our one trashcan. I don’t know why. There was grass everywhere; why should we cram our trashcan full of grass? Isn’t that something we can just leave on the ground? Or feed to the donkeys? Apparently not. So, what was I to do? I threw my trash on top of the pile. The trashcan swung lightly on its hinges, squeaking ever so slightly. It was one lone tied plastic bag sitting atop a mound of grass. It looked so forlorn, so lonely. It looked so… just then, the kids stole it and ran away!!! They stole my trash!
From afar, I cringed at the fun the kids were having with my rubbish. The running commentary in my head was more than I could bear: Eeew, don’t eat that!! Oh my gosh, is that my dental floss? Oh please, oh please, take that off your head!
It was too much; I went inside and decided something must be done immediately. For months after that I carried my trash to town when I did my shopping. In town, they had regular trash pickup. I would walk to town with a bag full of trash, dump it, and then, walk home with a bag full of groceries. Thankfully, Jill was understanding – what sort of weirdo carries their trash around? Her site-mate, that’s who. The worst was when I would forget to empty my bag before I went into the shop. Then, I would open my bag to put all the groceries in but it would already be full of rubbish. It all got to be too embarrassing. I needed a new solution.
It had been months and the hostel’s lone trashcan was still filled with grass. It was then that it occurred to me: the trashcan was just an illusion – no one was ever going to empty it. I considered this and decided I was ok with people going through my trash. The key was that they shouldn’t know it was mine. So began the short period of trash displacement. The plan was like this: I would walk trash to public rubbish bins that were less full than the hostel’s but still in a somewhat close vicinity. I would do this at odd hours of the day and night so that no one would follow me. Children could then pilfer through the small bags later taking the good things. And, finally, no one would be the wiser that the things had once belonged to me.
It worked well at first. The sun would just be glistening at the horizon, with me sneaking back to my flat in my pajamas empty handed. Sunday mornings were the best because everyone was at church. The closest, yet just distant enough, trashcan happened to be adjacent to a makeshift soccer field and was therefore dangerous at too many times each day. The next closest, yet distant enough for privacy, was missing it’s bottom. This was a problem because it felt like littering. I put the bag in the top. It fell out the bottom. What was the point? Then the next closest was just too far. I got lazy. It would be weeks between taking out the trash. Gross smells and cockroaches were the only things that could persuade me to take action. I needed a new plan.
The new plan was brought about by desperation. For, desperation was the only thing that could drive me back to the match. I was going to burn my trash again. I was shy at first. I used an old baking pan to burn the small plastic bags full of evidence that I had lived. I would burn them within the walls of my porch behind my house so that no one could see me. There were many months of this sort of secrecy. Then, one Saturday morning, I smelled fire from my house I looked out the window and there stood about 50 boys burning trash just beyond my back door. It was chore day for the boys and it was their responsibility to burn up their rubbish. Brilliant! Other burners! I was not alone.
Where the boys were burning there was, yet another, large mound of cut grass and just beyond that was a rocky field full of all sorts of rubbish that had been abandoned there. This was the perfect place to take my burning public. The rubbish field and I were happy for quite some time. I would take my trash there, to a small patch of dirt and burn it. It was gone and I didn’t have to go more than ten steps from my door. No learner would ever again wear my dental floss as a headdress or use hair from my brush as a ball. Mission accomplished.
Slowly at first, and then gaining in frequency and severity, the rubbish field and I started to have disputes. People would come by when I was trying to burn my trash and ask, “Jessica, what do you think you’re doing?” And I would say, “why, burning my rubbish, thank you.” To which they would say, “tsk.”
A seed of doubt grew in my mind. Was it unacceptable to burn here? Was I breaking some sort of unspoken rule about women burning trash in fields? I tried to forget it, but more and more people, while facing the self-explanatory flames, would ask, “Jessica, what do you think you are doing?” Couldn’t they see? Or was it a deeper problem?
Out of shame and self-doubt, my burnings became less frequent. I would only burn important things like letters, prescription information or address labels from boxes. The other trash, I would put in the rubbish field with the scattered rubbish left by other teachers who had not been burning. Milk boxes, chicken bones and carrot tops were ok to be left on the ground, I thought. It’s not littering, I reasoned, the goats will come and eat it, or children will come and take it to play with. My first year as a Peace Corps volunteer turned into my second as told myself still, it’s ok because other people are doing it.
But it wasn’t ok. I had let it continue too long. The burnings had dwindled to once a month or every other month. More and more rubbish was being left on the ground in the rubbish field. I left the rubbish atop the mound the boys used to burn their trash on chore day, but it just didn’t seem to atone for the sin like I hoped it would. I despaired. I couldn’t see the difference between a rubbish field and a regular street in Khorixas anymore. I fell deeper and deeper into a hole of loose garbage morals of my own making. Children would come to my door and offer to take my trash out… and I would let them! I could see them in the rubbish field taking the good parts and leaving the rest behind on the ground and I felt nothing buy apathy (and joy that my trash had been taken out). I couldn’t see the light from the bottom of the deep dark hole. Until, someone saved me.
This past weekend, I took my trash bag the ten steps to the rubbish field and started a back swing to launch it into the wasteland. Just before I let it fly into the air, a guard walked by. He was hired by the Ministry of Education to make sure the school is not broken into during the school holiday. He stopped and said, “Good morning.”
I let the trash hang by my side. “Good Morning,” I said.
“How are you?” the guard queried.
“Fine, thanks. And you?” I replied.
“Fine.”
Which wasn’t at all weird because every person you pass in Namibia, ever, must says some semblance of these things to you and every other person they pass. But then there was a pause. Then the guard raised his eyebrows and pointed. His accusatory finger was not pointing at me but it would have been much less painful if it had been. It was instead pointing at the one and only hostel yard rubbish bin, the one that had been full of grass for so long. He said simply, “There.”
“Oh,” I said quietly and hung my head in disgrace.
I was too ashamed to walk to the rubbish bin then, so I simply went inside. The next day, I had gathered enough courage to try a second time to take my trash out to the hostel’s lone trashcan. When I was approaching, I could see that the top no longer sported a huge mound of grass. I had been too blind, too apathetic, to see that the trashcan had been emptied! Trashcans were not an illusion! People were starting to care about what to do with their garbage! It was the beginning of a new era in Khorixas, where the streets would be clean. The Ministry of Works would pick up trash all throughout Khorixas – there would be no distinction between Town and Location, between rich or poor! All trash would be equal! This was momentous.
I reached the trashcan full of joy and hope and gracefully tossed my tied plastic bag in. I felt satisfaction. I felt accomplishment… I felt something on my foot. I looked down and it was my little bag of trash. How…? What…? I tipped the trashcan on its hinges and peered in. At the bottom of the can, I saw my toes peeking back at me. There was no bottom. That was it. Just a can. No bottom. A tube to accelerate littering on the ground. A laugh in the face to someone trying to clean up the chaos. A step backwards in the grand scheme of garbage.
You see, I tell you this cautionary tale so that you can see the plight of those who want privacy in a developing country. I tell you this so that you can look down into your own trashcans and consider what would actually make a good toy for a child who needs less to be entertained than an American child. I tell you this so that you can feel a small sense of joy when the garbage truck drives to your house and takes your trash away so that you never have to see it again.
No, but seriously, with three months left I still don’t have anything to do with my garbage.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
One Lazy Day
August 18, 2009
Here’s a secret about my job: Sometimes I go to work and I do absolutely nothing.
Now, don’t go out and join the Peace Corps right now. There are a lot of days that I’m so busy that I don’t sit down all day and my throat goes numb from yelling. But today was one of those days where I do absolutely nothing. The only thing I was supposed to do was get the kids ready for the National Science Fair at the beginning of term 3 in September. The Kunene region is short a couple projects and our grade 7 learners were runners up at the regional science fair. They may need to be prepared to go, but I’m not sure. Then, for the National Science Fair, there are special boards and special papers and this and that and what what what… but the man who is organizing the fair was out of the office today. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Just gone. So, I did nothing.
The kids are taking their end-of-term exams now. The whole school is on lockdown. We’re supposed to be concentrating and studying and wrapping up the term. Unfortunately, my term is wrapped up. I’m finished. So, I did nothing.
Today was nice though. Yesterday was really hot. The heat made some clouds overnight and today was really cold and cloudy. I can feel rainy season coming earlier this year. I bet that means it’s going to get hotter faster too. But this morning was nice while the cold lasted. I don’t know what it is about cold, but things get quieter. The roosters don’t crow. The kids go inside before they yell. Dogs don’t bark. It’s strange and calming. This morning was nice.
This afternoon, I read a little and then I took a walk to town. My first errand was to fax a letter to Windhoek. I had to go to the Telecom shop – which is just a phone company building. To fax my letter, they called me back to an empty room with one table that had a fax machine sitting on top of it. Nothing else. One window. The woman who worked there was dialing in the Windhoek fax number and a man was standing next to her. He was reading my letter. I waved my hand in front of his face and said, “Sorry, sir, it’s private.” His expression was like I had just slapped him. He took a step back. The woman who worked in the shop looked worried. She said, “Sorry, miss, I was just reading the fax number!” When the fax machine printed out the paper saying Windhoek had received the fax, she turned her head and felt around the machine until she could grab the paper and hand it to me without looking at it. Ha! It’s no wonder those of us with western attitudes get such a bad rap – all professional-like… what’s the big deal? Chances are neither of them cared what my letter said or what to make of the information.
The next errand was to buy a stamp to mail a letter to one of my best American pen pals (thanks to those who write)(really. You = mail box bliss). When I walked into the post office, it was completely empty. I’ve never seen it completely empty. Normally, I walk in and have to wait 20 minutes to 2 hours before I get to the window. Then, I try to keep my sentences short and fast to ward off any old people trying to push their way to the window to collect their pension from the government. Then, I walk off dejected because old people are really a lot stronger and pushier than you would think. Anyway, today it was empty and while I was still standing in the doorway (marveling at the emptiness), the post worker said, “Hello, Jess”. I felt so loved, so accepted, so welcomed. I love the post. Not only can they tell Jill and me apart but also I have a nickname. Mmm, good day. It was like post office heaven.
The next errand was to buy more Namibian pumpkin and some apples from the grocery store. Whenever you buy produce at the grocery store you have to get it weighed in the produce section before you take it to register. Granted, the produce section in Khorixas is about the size as a bathroom. I was about to pick up some apples to make applesauce when the produce-weigher grabbed my elbow and led me to a box around the corner that was filled with apples. Cheaper apples. Yay, secret weigher info! The pumpkin is pre-weighed. Don’t know why.
I decided an impulse buy was in order for the day. So I settled on buying some sweets. I wanted something chewy, like gummy bears. So I went to the sweets section. I grabbed the candy that looked closet to gummy bears and threw it in my basket. Then, I had to pull it back out to take a closer look: On the front it said “the unreal world of MANHATTAN”. Just below that it had a picture of a kangaroo with eye shadow and long eyelashes. Her name was Kylie Kangaroo, the bag told me. She had her pouch open and inside it was a picture of the candy I was about to consume: little “gum babies”. The rest of the package was decorated with these “gum babies” of all different colors (red and yellow, black and white… and green) floating around. The babies were posed like chubby mummies; legs stick straight and arms folded over the body. But, alas, each baby had a broad smile and chubby cheeks, obviously to encourage you to eat it. Finally, the back had a picture of a cow head and it said, “Cow-moo-nicate with us…” with an address and phone number, in case you are not satisfied with your babies, you can send them back. Tell me American packaging is this weird and I just haven’t noticed before… right? Oh, baby.
I took my babies, pumpkin and apples up to the register to pay, but I didn’t make it before a pack of Grade 5 girls, each one buying one item: oil, sweets, cookies, soda… it was a good day in the land of Grade 5 girls (except the girl with oil still confuses me). The first girl stood proudly at the register. Her total came to N$6.95. Unfortunately, she only had a 5-dollar coin. She scooped her sweets off the counter and back into the store to reevaluate her choice. The second girl nudged her oil across the counter. The checker looked up the price and told the girl. The small girl pulled a huge bag out of her dress pocket and dumped it on the counter. Hundreds of 5-cent pieces scattered everywhere. The checker gave the small girl a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look and then gave me a kind look and told me to go to my own cash register, opened specifically for my needs. Yup, it was a good day in the grocery store.
I wandered home at a pace of a Namibian person 50 years my senior, chewing my gum babies. The yellow gum babies are the best tasting. Plus, the yellow color makes it hard to see their creepy smile. Chewing my gum babies and surrounded by Khorixas–location chaos, I marveled that so much could be accomplished in Khorixas town. It was like an up and coming metropolis. I was rounding the corner to the school hostel when one of my grade 6 learners stopped me by standing in my path. She stood staring at me and smiling. I had the last red gum baby stuck in my tooth and the wind was blowing pretty badly (a symptom of dry season) which makes my nose run uncontrollably, so my learner had a lot to be staring and smiling at. She finally said, as I was picking baby out of my teeth, “Oh, miss, you are so Beeaaauuutiful today.” I paused for a second to remember that sarcasm doesn’t exist in Grade 6 Namibian English. So I said, “Oh, thank you!” and made a mental note to give her a few extra stickers for being oblivious.
I made it home no worse for wear and with all my errands accomplished. So you see, Khorixas was nice to me today. Tomorrow I may not be so lucky. Which goes to show, you can have your baby and eat it too!
Actually, no baby eating. That’s weird.
Here’s a secret about my job: Sometimes I go to work and I do absolutely nothing.
Now, don’t go out and join the Peace Corps right now. There are a lot of days that I’m so busy that I don’t sit down all day and my throat goes numb from yelling. But today was one of those days where I do absolutely nothing. The only thing I was supposed to do was get the kids ready for the National Science Fair at the beginning of term 3 in September. The Kunene region is short a couple projects and our grade 7 learners were runners up at the regional science fair. They may need to be prepared to go, but I’m not sure. Then, for the National Science Fair, there are special boards and special papers and this and that and what what what… but the man who is organizing the fair was out of the office today. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Just gone. So, I did nothing.
The kids are taking their end-of-term exams now. The whole school is on lockdown. We’re supposed to be concentrating and studying and wrapping up the term. Unfortunately, my term is wrapped up. I’m finished. So, I did nothing.
Today was nice though. Yesterday was really hot. The heat made some clouds overnight and today was really cold and cloudy. I can feel rainy season coming earlier this year. I bet that means it’s going to get hotter faster too. But this morning was nice while the cold lasted. I don’t know what it is about cold, but things get quieter. The roosters don’t crow. The kids go inside before they yell. Dogs don’t bark. It’s strange and calming. This morning was nice.
This afternoon, I read a little and then I took a walk to town. My first errand was to fax a letter to Windhoek. I had to go to the Telecom shop – which is just a phone company building. To fax my letter, they called me back to an empty room with one table that had a fax machine sitting on top of it. Nothing else. One window. The woman who worked there was dialing in the Windhoek fax number and a man was standing next to her. He was reading my letter. I waved my hand in front of his face and said, “Sorry, sir, it’s private.” His expression was like I had just slapped him. He took a step back. The woman who worked in the shop looked worried. She said, “Sorry, miss, I was just reading the fax number!” When the fax machine printed out the paper saying Windhoek had received the fax, she turned her head and felt around the machine until she could grab the paper and hand it to me without looking at it. Ha! It’s no wonder those of us with western attitudes get such a bad rap – all professional-like… what’s the big deal? Chances are neither of them cared what my letter said or what to make of the information.
The next errand was to buy a stamp to mail a letter to one of my best American pen pals (thanks to those who write)(really. You = mail box bliss). When I walked into the post office, it was completely empty. I’ve never seen it completely empty. Normally, I walk in and have to wait 20 minutes to 2 hours before I get to the window. Then, I try to keep my sentences short and fast to ward off any old people trying to push their way to the window to collect their pension from the government. Then, I walk off dejected because old people are really a lot stronger and pushier than you would think. Anyway, today it was empty and while I was still standing in the doorway (marveling at the emptiness), the post worker said, “Hello, Jess”. I felt so loved, so accepted, so welcomed. I love the post. Not only can they tell Jill and me apart but also I have a nickname. Mmm, good day. It was like post office heaven.
The next errand was to buy more Namibian pumpkin and some apples from the grocery store. Whenever you buy produce at the grocery store you have to get it weighed in the produce section before you take it to register. Granted, the produce section in Khorixas is about the size as a bathroom. I was about to pick up some apples to make applesauce when the produce-weigher grabbed my elbow and led me to a box around the corner that was filled with apples. Cheaper apples. Yay, secret weigher info! The pumpkin is pre-weighed. Don’t know why.
I decided an impulse buy was in order for the day. So I settled on buying some sweets. I wanted something chewy, like gummy bears. So I went to the sweets section. I grabbed the candy that looked closet to gummy bears and threw it in my basket. Then, I had to pull it back out to take a closer look: On the front it said “the unreal world of MANHATTAN”. Just below that it had a picture of a kangaroo with eye shadow and long eyelashes. Her name was Kylie Kangaroo, the bag told me. She had her pouch open and inside it was a picture of the candy I was about to consume: little “gum babies”. The rest of the package was decorated with these “gum babies” of all different colors (red and yellow, black and white… and green) floating around. The babies were posed like chubby mummies; legs stick straight and arms folded over the body. But, alas, each baby had a broad smile and chubby cheeks, obviously to encourage you to eat it. Finally, the back had a picture of a cow head and it said, “Cow-moo-nicate with us…” with an address and phone number, in case you are not satisfied with your babies, you can send them back. Tell me American packaging is this weird and I just haven’t noticed before… right? Oh, baby.
I took my babies, pumpkin and apples up to the register to pay, but I didn’t make it before a pack of Grade 5 girls, each one buying one item: oil, sweets, cookies, soda… it was a good day in the land of Grade 5 girls (except the girl with oil still confuses me). The first girl stood proudly at the register. Her total came to N$6.95. Unfortunately, she only had a 5-dollar coin. She scooped her sweets off the counter and back into the store to reevaluate her choice. The second girl nudged her oil across the counter. The checker looked up the price and told the girl. The small girl pulled a huge bag out of her dress pocket and dumped it on the counter. Hundreds of 5-cent pieces scattered everywhere. The checker gave the small girl a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look and then gave me a kind look and told me to go to my own cash register, opened specifically for my needs. Yup, it was a good day in the grocery store.
I wandered home at a pace of a Namibian person 50 years my senior, chewing my gum babies. The yellow gum babies are the best tasting. Plus, the yellow color makes it hard to see their creepy smile. Chewing my gum babies and surrounded by Khorixas–location chaos, I marveled that so much could be accomplished in Khorixas town. It was like an up and coming metropolis. I was rounding the corner to the school hostel when one of my grade 6 learners stopped me by standing in my path. She stood staring at me and smiling. I had the last red gum baby stuck in my tooth and the wind was blowing pretty badly (a symptom of dry season) which makes my nose run uncontrollably, so my learner had a lot to be staring and smiling at. She finally said, as I was picking baby out of my teeth, “Oh, miss, you are so Beeaaauuutiful today.” I paused for a second to remember that sarcasm doesn’t exist in Grade 6 Namibian English. So I said, “Oh, thank you!” and made a mental note to give her a few extra stickers for being oblivious.
I made it home no worse for wear and with all my errands accomplished. So you see, Khorixas was nice to me today. Tomorrow I may not be so lucky. Which goes to show, you can have your baby and eat it too!
Actually, no baby eating. That’s weird.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
COMPUTERS!!!
The computers came this weekend!!!!! It’s been so many months waiting for our two computers to make their way across the Atlantic and to our humble little school.If you don’t remember, when I was home for Christmas I raised money for my school to get computers. People gave money or bought crafts made by women in my community. It was super encouraging to be surrounded by such generosity! Then, at the beginning of this year, I ordered some computers from a donation company in Seattle. The money was used to refurbish the computers and ship them to Namibia (I got a great deal on shipping, by the way. Great deal!). And now, 8 months later, the computers are sitting in the office of Eddie Bowe Primary School. They could not have gone to a school that would appreciate them more. My colleagues are so excited to better their school and now they have the tools to do it.
Thank you for those of you who helped!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Leaving a Legacy
4 August 2009
I write about facebook a lot in my blog. We’re really lucky to have such good phone service in Namibia. Even though it can be maddening at time when things go all “Africa” on us, a majority of the time I’m connected. And it feels great.
In Peace Corps Namibia we have a publication called “Izit?”. The story behind Izit?’s name came from a popular saying in Namibia. It’s common to be telling a story and have all the listeners respond, “Is it?!?” In fact, “Is it?!?” ranks just below “Oooh-Kaaaay” and just above “Don’t say that!!!” in Namibian responses. I’ve adopted all of them in my normal speech.
Anyway, all that’s to tell you about our PCV publication Izit?. Nam27 (my group of PCVs) is the first group to really embrace mobile Internet on our cell phones. So, this year, when we took over Izit? a new section was added: “Facebook Statuses, Straight from Your Phone”. For those of you unfamiliar with facebook, statuses are a part of your profile page that you can update as often as you like. Most people tell what they’re doing at the moment or how they’re feeling. It is mandatory that the status starts with your name. So, if I updated my facebook status right now, I might say, “Jessica Royer is having a blast writing her blog after a two month hiatus.” The new Izit? facebook article included these gems from current PCVs in Namibia (names have been omitted just because having names would be weird):
[A PCV]’s youth center is planning to have a meeting to plan a planning meeting. Now now.
[A PCV] thinks a grilled cheese for breakfast as WELL as dinner makes for all the essential vitamins and nutrients.
[A PCV]: that’s right, it took us 5 hours to go 10k.
[A PCV] keeps getting faint whiffs of doody and can’t rule out that it might be his own clothes… Thank you peace corps for lowering my standards even further.
[A PCV] just printed 2 copies of a Valentine for a learner addressed to different girls. They both say “You are my one and only”
[A PCV] is amazed how things work out in Namibia. Yesterday I didn’t eat and had no money. Today I’m watching a plasma HD game of rugby and drinking wine in A/C. Wow.
It’s always to fun to read my PCV friends’ status updates. They can be so entertaining. They’re nice because they comment on the little nuances about Namibia that you wouldn’t notice unless you were working inside the system. Sometimes they’re negative and sometimes they’re positive but most of the time they represent two cultures coming together (and how rocky that experience actually is).
As the time before I leave Namibia gets shorter and shorter, I spend a lot of time thinking about how I can finish strongly. Coming closer to the end means a lot of reflections. What was this time here all about? Have I made a difference? How have I changed? For the rest of 2009, I want to tie up loose ends. I want to make sure that everything is finished and ready to be left on it’s own. Or maybe not so much on it’s own but in the hands of another…
Recently, I found out that I am being replaced with a new Peace Corps volunteer. This is great news! I am excited that another person will be investing in Eddie Bowe Primary School for another two years. I will meet the new volunteer in September. Everyone is so excited for the PCV to come. The new volunteer will be staying with a family in Khorixas. People are so excited about the new volunteer that there was a moment of great disappointment when they were told that not all of them could be chosen to host the volunteer in their homes. When we finally decided on a host family, the host mother told her little daughter that “Jessica’s sister will be coming” (the family requested a female volunteer, hence “sister”). The little girl was so excited that she’s been telling all her friends that the new white girl is going to come live at her house.
With great excitement also come great expectations. Only now, watching a school prepare for a volunteer can I see how devastating it would have been for me to leave early. Volunteers who leave Namibia before even spending a week at their site make a huge hole in their host organization. A place was prepared and then there is no one to fill it. Peace Corps volunteers are never held to the full two years. I could have left at any moment. But every day held just enough hope that I stuck around and I’m glad I did. I hope this new volunteers sees how much they’re needed and appreciated.
Since I started my two years, the program has changed a little bit. We arrived in country on November 2nd and we moved to our sites on January 9th. Everyone from the previous group had gone home by then. This year, Nam30 will arrive in August and will be at site by October. I get to spend my last two months with the new volunteer. Sometimes I get really excited about this. Other times I get really worried – what if they’re way cooler than me? I bet they’ll be able to speak Damara in a couple of days? What if they really like to bake and make a cake for the staff every week? Seriously, these are things to consider! I need to get my act together before October!
I write about facebook a lot in my blog. We’re really lucky to have such good phone service in Namibia. Even though it can be maddening at time when things go all “Africa” on us, a majority of the time I’m connected. And it feels great.
In Peace Corps Namibia we have a publication called “Izit?”. The story behind Izit?’s name came from a popular saying in Namibia. It’s common to be telling a story and have all the listeners respond, “Is it?!?” In fact, “Is it?!?” ranks just below “Oooh-Kaaaay” and just above “Don’t say that!!!” in Namibian responses. I’ve adopted all of them in my normal speech.
Anyway, all that’s to tell you about our PCV publication Izit?. Nam27 (my group of PCVs) is the first group to really embrace mobile Internet on our cell phones. So, this year, when we took over Izit? a new section was added: “Facebook Statuses, Straight from Your Phone”. For those of you unfamiliar with facebook, statuses are a part of your profile page that you can update as often as you like. Most people tell what they’re doing at the moment or how they’re feeling. It is mandatory that the status starts with your name. So, if I updated my facebook status right now, I might say, “Jessica Royer is having a blast writing her blog after a two month hiatus.” The new Izit? facebook article included these gems from current PCVs in Namibia (names have been omitted just because having names would be weird):
[A PCV]’s youth center is planning to have a meeting to plan a planning meeting. Now now.
[A PCV] thinks a grilled cheese for breakfast as WELL as dinner makes for all the essential vitamins and nutrients.
[A PCV]: that’s right, it took us 5 hours to go 10k.
[A PCV] keeps getting faint whiffs of doody and can’t rule out that it might be his own clothes… Thank you peace corps for lowering my standards even further.
[A PCV] just printed 2 copies of a Valentine for a learner addressed to different girls. They both say “You are my one and only”
[A PCV] is amazed how things work out in Namibia. Yesterday I didn’t eat and had no money. Today I’m watching a plasma HD game of rugby and drinking wine in A/C. Wow.
It’s always to fun to read my PCV friends’ status updates. They can be so entertaining. They’re nice because they comment on the little nuances about Namibia that you wouldn’t notice unless you were working inside the system. Sometimes they’re negative and sometimes they’re positive but most of the time they represent two cultures coming together (and how rocky that experience actually is).
As the time before I leave Namibia gets shorter and shorter, I spend a lot of time thinking about how I can finish strongly. Coming closer to the end means a lot of reflections. What was this time here all about? Have I made a difference? How have I changed? For the rest of 2009, I want to tie up loose ends. I want to make sure that everything is finished and ready to be left on it’s own. Or maybe not so much on it’s own but in the hands of another…
Recently, I found out that I am being replaced with a new Peace Corps volunteer. This is great news! I am excited that another person will be investing in Eddie Bowe Primary School for another two years. I will meet the new volunteer in September. Everyone is so excited for the PCV to come. The new volunteer will be staying with a family in Khorixas. People are so excited about the new volunteer that there was a moment of great disappointment when they were told that not all of them could be chosen to host the volunteer in their homes. When we finally decided on a host family, the host mother told her little daughter that “Jessica’s sister will be coming” (the family requested a female volunteer, hence “sister”). The little girl was so excited that she’s been telling all her friends that the new white girl is going to come live at her house.
With great excitement also come great expectations. Only now, watching a school prepare for a volunteer can I see how devastating it would have been for me to leave early. Volunteers who leave Namibia before even spending a week at their site make a huge hole in their host organization. A place was prepared and then there is no one to fill it. Peace Corps volunteers are never held to the full two years. I could have left at any moment. But every day held just enough hope that I stuck around and I’m glad I did. I hope this new volunteers sees how much they’re needed and appreciated.
Since I started my two years, the program has changed a little bit. We arrived in country on November 2nd and we moved to our sites on January 9th. Everyone from the previous group had gone home by then. This year, Nam30 will arrive in August and will be at site by October. I get to spend my last two months with the new volunteer. Sometimes I get really excited about this. Other times I get really worried – what if they’re way cooler than me? I bet they’ll be able to speak Damara in a couple of days? What if they really like to bake and make a cake for the staff every week? Seriously, these are things to consider! I need to get my act together before October!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Magic Bus Ride
I keep reading online about record-breaking temperatures in the states. Here, it still feels a bit like winter today. Lucky for me, I have my sleeping bag to keep me warm. You know, I think that sleeping bags have a magical power. If you are feeling sick, or insecure, or tired and you slide into your sleeping bag you instantly feel better. It may only be my sleeping bag (which is falling apart at the seams now) but I have a theory that it works with any sleeping bag.
Life at school has just settled down for me. Last week was the Kunene regional science fair. We had big expectations for this year, given last year’s huge success and put a lot of work into our projects the weeks before the fair. The fair was held in Opuwo this year, so getting there and back was quite an adventure.
This past Friday morning, the 24th, I walked out into the hostel yard in the dark morning hours. Everything was quiet and my 6 science fair kids were nowhere to be seen. This aggravated me because I had told them over and over again not to be late. And to make matters worse, the hostel matron had promised us food for our journey and she was MIA. Two minutes after 6 AM a huge bus rolled into the hostel yard and started honking it’s horn. True to Namibian form, hundreds of kids appeared for a chance at excitement, my 6 among them. Suddenly, at my side was the matron with a box crammed with sandwiches and sausages. The wave of children ushered us onto the bus and we were gone to the regional science fair.
From Khorixas, it’s about a 4-hour drive to Opuwo. This Friday, it took us 9 hours. The bus was full – 4 learners to a three person seat. Snacks and soda being tossed around. A couple of secondary school boys were thrown off the bus for drinking alcohol. Pit stops were always in the bush, girls on the left, boys on the right. Who needs toilets?
By the time me and the other chaperones disembarked from the bus in Opuwo we were frazzled and ready for a break. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the cards for us. A lot of the jobs I acquire in my life are because no one else wants them. I feel a bit of shame in this. But it’s become a repeating pattern in my life, so who am I to reject it now? Needless to say, the frazzled chaperones were gifted the jobs of science fair judge. Such power. Such influence. And no one else wanted the job.
There were about 9 altogether that got roped into the job of judge. We started our work almost immediately after stepping off the bus. A lot of the kids remembered me from judging last year. As it turned out, this year was much more fun than last year. I think it was because it was one of those few times I actually feel like I know what I’m doing here.
We stopped judging about 5 hours later and decided to finish the next morning. I spent the night at my fellow PCVs’ house (with a new and improved burglar bar door in place since the incident in March). And returned the next morning to finish judging. That morning, the last project I judged was on astronauts. The kids were really confident in all of their answers. Unfortunately, they were not correct in all their answers. For example, to the question, “Why do astronauts need space suits when they are in space?” they answered, “There are chemicals in space that will burn the person’s skin if they don’t have a suit.” To which I replied, “Are you sure? Is there another reason?” Answer, “Well, the chemicals and the strong winds will blow the astronaut away…” I could tell that my standards are lower because I was so impressed that they at least tried to answer the question. You see, the normal Nam-child response to a hard question is to stare and then cover your face with your hands until the questioning adult leaves. It’s so frustrating to have children shut down when you ask them a question. But the learners with the astronaut project were BSing! They were saying something! I gave them some points for confidence and finished up my tallies for the award ceremony that followed the fair.
This year, Eddie Bowe entered two grade 5 learners, Morris and Marimocha, who did a project about water purification. We entered two grade 6 learners, Losia and Kennedy, who won bronze in the National Science Fair last year in Windhoek. Their project was on plants. And we entered two grade seven learners, Sylvester and Mildredt, who did a fantastic project about gravity. I think grade 7’s project was my favorite – it was about air resistance and gravity. Losia and Kennedy, the two veterans, are great answering interviewing judges. They have confidence and they knew the answers to questions because they practiced, studied and prepared for the science fair. Grade 5 and grade 7, the four newbies, were very afraid to answer questions and were very timid and unsure while preparing in the weeks before the fair.
All the learners did great. However, confidence and experience prevailed and only two (Losia and Kennedy) out of six won an award. Losia and Kennedy got third place of all the primary school projects. They are going to National Science fair in Windhoek again this year! And I am proud of them.
After the award ceremony, I felt bad for the four Eddie Bowe learners who had expected so much and were walking away with nothing. They had tried. They spent a lot of time helping to make their board look beautiful but they were lacking in their ability to answer questions. More than once, I glanced over and saw my learners with their hands over their face and a judge impatiently waiting for a reply. Maybe next year they will have the skills to get further. It’s always a chance to get learn and grow.
The science fair and award ceremony were finished at 12:30 on Saturday afternoon. The kids were given a quick lunch and told to get on the bus. So, we got on the bus… Then, we did not make it back to Khorixas until 7pm on Sunday night. The only comfort in the complete tediousness of the bus was knowing that I will not have any problem reintegrating into American culture when I go home and this is why: I was so frustrated! Any American would be, right? But all of the other teachers on the bus didn’t seem to care that it took a day and a half to get home… there’s something to be said for a person who can integrate into another culture and make it their own… Unfortunately, I will never be that person. If only because I will never think it is ok for a 4-hour trip to take a day and a half… That’s all I’m saying :)
Life at school has just settled down for me. Last week was the Kunene regional science fair. We had big expectations for this year, given last year’s huge success and put a lot of work into our projects the weeks before the fair. The fair was held in Opuwo this year, so getting there and back was quite an adventure.
This past Friday morning, the 24th, I walked out into the hostel yard in the dark morning hours. Everything was quiet and my 6 science fair kids were nowhere to be seen. This aggravated me because I had told them over and over again not to be late. And to make matters worse, the hostel matron had promised us food for our journey and she was MIA. Two minutes after 6 AM a huge bus rolled into the hostel yard and started honking it’s horn. True to Namibian form, hundreds of kids appeared for a chance at excitement, my 6 among them. Suddenly, at my side was the matron with a box crammed with sandwiches and sausages. The wave of children ushered us onto the bus and we were gone to the regional science fair.
From Khorixas, it’s about a 4-hour drive to Opuwo. This Friday, it took us 9 hours. The bus was full – 4 learners to a three person seat. Snacks and soda being tossed around. A couple of secondary school boys were thrown off the bus for drinking alcohol. Pit stops were always in the bush, girls on the left, boys on the right. Who needs toilets?
By the time me and the other chaperones disembarked from the bus in Opuwo we were frazzled and ready for a break. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the cards for us. A lot of the jobs I acquire in my life are because no one else wants them. I feel a bit of shame in this. But it’s become a repeating pattern in my life, so who am I to reject it now? Needless to say, the frazzled chaperones were gifted the jobs of science fair judge. Such power. Such influence. And no one else wanted the job.
There were about 9 altogether that got roped into the job of judge. We started our work almost immediately after stepping off the bus. A lot of the kids remembered me from judging last year. As it turned out, this year was much more fun than last year. I think it was because it was one of those few times I actually feel like I know what I’m doing here.
We stopped judging about 5 hours later and decided to finish the next morning. I spent the night at my fellow PCVs’ house (with a new and improved burglar bar door in place since the incident in March). And returned the next morning to finish judging. That morning, the last project I judged was on astronauts. The kids were really confident in all of their answers. Unfortunately, they were not correct in all their answers. For example, to the question, “Why do astronauts need space suits when they are in space?” they answered, “There are chemicals in space that will burn the person’s skin if they don’t have a suit.” To which I replied, “Are you sure? Is there another reason?” Answer, “Well, the chemicals and the strong winds will blow the astronaut away…” I could tell that my standards are lower because I was so impressed that they at least tried to answer the question. You see, the normal Nam-child response to a hard question is to stare and then cover your face with your hands until the questioning adult leaves. It’s so frustrating to have children shut down when you ask them a question. But the learners with the astronaut project were BSing! They were saying something! I gave them some points for confidence and finished up my tallies for the award ceremony that followed the fair.
This year, Eddie Bowe entered two grade 5 learners, Morris and Marimocha, who did a project about water purification. We entered two grade 6 learners, Losia and Kennedy, who won bronze in the National Science Fair last year in Windhoek. Their project was on plants. And we entered two grade seven learners, Sylvester and Mildredt, who did a fantastic project about gravity. I think grade 7’s project was my favorite – it was about air resistance and gravity. Losia and Kennedy, the two veterans, are great answering interviewing judges. They have confidence and they knew the answers to questions because they practiced, studied and prepared for the science fair. Grade 5 and grade 7, the four newbies, were very afraid to answer questions and were very timid and unsure while preparing in the weeks before the fair.
All the learners did great. However, confidence and experience prevailed and only two (Losia and Kennedy) out of six won an award. Losia and Kennedy got third place of all the primary school projects. They are going to National Science fair in Windhoek again this year! And I am proud of them.
After the award ceremony, I felt bad for the four Eddie Bowe learners who had expected so much and were walking away with nothing. They had tried. They spent a lot of time helping to make their board look beautiful but they were lacking in their ability to answer questions. More than once, I glanced over and saw my learners with their hands over their face and a judge impatiently waiting for a reply. Maybe next year they will have the skills to get further. It’s always a chance to get learn and grow.
The science fair and award ceremony were finished at 12:30 on Saturday afternoon. The kids were given a quick lunch and told to get on the bus. So, we got on the bus… Then, we did not make it back to Khorixas until 7pm on Sunday night. The only comfort in the complete tediousness of the bus was knowing that I will not have any problem reintegrating into American culture when I go home and this is why: I was so frustrated! Any American would be, right? But all of the other teachers on the bus didn’t seem to care that it took a day and a half to get home… there’s something to be said for a person who can integrate into another culture and make it their own… Unfortunately, I will never be that person. If only because I will never think it is ok for a 4-hour trip to take a day and a half… That’s all I’m saying :)
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, May 29, 2009
My mom and dad just visited from the states. They arrived on May 9th in Cape Town, South Africa. And they left today, about 30 minutes ago, from Windhoek, Namibia. So much has happened in the past few weeks that my head is still spinning. But while my mom was here, I asked her to write about her visit so that I could post it on my blog. Isn't it nice to have a fresh point of view? So, what follows is her blog post for me. And, no, in case you're wondering, I did not pay her to write all those nice things.
May 27, 2009
Namibia is wonderful. Yes, the country is beautiful – majestic mountains, savannahs rich in color, deserts that go on forever, the ocean and coast line – truly, Namibia lives up to its name the Land of Contrasts.
But one of my core beliefs is that the people make the place and I can say without hesitation that the Namibian people are amazingly friendly, gracious, intelligent and accepting. They are such lovely people.
We rented a car in Windhoek, a VW Polo. Its nice, but the steering wheel is on the right and we are driving on the left side of the road which is a story for another blog post. Stopping at petrol stations is a treat. There are 4 to 6 attendants and when they see us turn into the stations, one will claim our car and start waving us to them. So much energy and great customer service – Oregon gas station attendants (well, attendant since there is usually only 1) can take notice. But, here’s a difference between cultures, Kent would say “fill up with regular” and the attendant would smile and say “good morning. How are you?” So Kent would have to stop and say “good morning. I am fine. How are you?” After the greeting, THEN we could get gasoline, along with all of the windows washed, the air in the tires checked, as well as fluid levels under the hood – now THAT is customer service. To be fair to Kent, this only happened once. He is a fast learner and now is a great greeter. And Kent has adapted quickly to driving on the left side of the road as well as negotiating check points and chatting with guards.
We have driven a long way in our short time here. We traveled the southern border to the northern border, then to the eastern border and into Zambia to see Victoria Falls, then all the way to the west coast. We’ve seen so much – animals, cultures, architecture, art, vistas. . . that it would do a disservice to try to explain it all in a single blog post. But there is one thing here in Namibia I will tell you about, the one major goal of my trip, and that was to be with Jessica. SHE is truly amazing. Her blog posts, as wonderful as they are (isn’t she a great writer?), don’t tell half of the story. Her strength and ingenuity, the way she communicates with the people here, the respect she has for herself, the culture, the school and the learners have left me in total awe. People ask me all of the time if I worry about her being in Africa. And, you know, I really don’t. I worried more about her driving up and down I-5 between home and school than I do here. And now that I’ve seen her here for myself, I’m even more sure and comfortable that she is in her element. She understands life and how to make wise choices and how to roll with the punches. AND, most importantly, she knows how to laugh.
Jessica and Jill decided to have a braai (BBQ) for us on Wednesday night – our last night in town. Jill’s parents just arrived in town. So Jessica and Jill bought a goat. Actually they arranged with Ginno to buy a goat for them. Well, Ginno bought the goat the day we arrived in Khorixas which is 4 days before the braai. What does one do with a goat for 4 days? We have no pin. It can’t stay IN the flat with us. We can’t have it bleating for 4 days. SO Gino and his brother decided to slaughter the goat for us. Okay, good plan. Oh wait, what does one do with a slaughtered goat for 4 days? Jessica is the most resourceful person I’ve ever met. There was a moment of “OMG! I own a goat!” Then she started laughing at the situation while unpacking the small freezer she owns hoping a slaughtered goat will fit into the small compartment (it did). The actually slaughtering of the goat was not my favorite part of this trip, but the skill that Ginno’s brother showed was amazing. He is about 14 or 15 and very strong and knows his way around a goat. The payment for slaughtering a goat for someone is the innards and the head. I guess those are the best parts. I was asked if I ever ate goat intestines before. Apparently they are delicious. You know, I can honestly say that I have never been asked that question before, and I can honestly say that now and for every time in the future that I’m asked that question, the answer will be no.
So lets jump forward to Tuesday when it is time for us to take the frozen goat to have it sectioned at the local butchery shop. We could not get the goat or the container it was in out of the freezer. . . both were stuck. Kent took a knife and chopped the ice away from the edges to break the goat and container free. We were laughing at our situation. Then we drove into town to have the butcher cut the goat for us. But the goat was frozen to the container and wouldn’t budge. I’m pretty sure everyone in the butcher shop was laughing at us, but, oh well. We brought the goat home and left it on the kitchen floor to thaw. Then the electricity went out and we ended up sitting in candlelight and cell phone light with a frozen goat.
Cute side note: when the lights came back on we could hear the children in the dorms cheering. It was so adorable! I really love the children here.
The braai went off without a hitch. The food, meat and porridge, was delicious, children dancing, a soccer game on the TV, lots of people – a fun, fun party!
Kent, Jessica and I spent part of our time in Khorixas working on the library, Jessica’s library at the school. It is a nice place and you can see Jessica’s handiwork throughout the room with the way she has organized the books, instructions she has posted, the card catalog with cards in her handwriting for each learner. However, the walls were peeling and the room just needed some brightening. So I picked out some bright paint colors – grass green, ocean blue and a sunny yellow, and we cleaned and painted the walls. It turned out very nice. We stenciled designs on the walls and hung curtains. The curtains we bought are shetangays – cut pieces of cloth that have multiple purposes from clothing, to wall coverings, to curtains, to whatever you need it to be. The shetangays we bought are red with green, yellow and blue star bursts. All of the colors we choose are colors from the Namibia flag and each color represents a part of Namibia. So even though we tried to make it bright and fun, we kept it educational and meaningful to the learners. It was awesome watching the learners and teachers come into the library seeing it for the first time. I sat with some kids looking at Ranger Rick magazines, showed some of the girls how I painted the flowers in the room, and spent time with a world map showing some of the boys where I live in relation to Khorixas. It was so fun.
It will be hard to go back to Oregon. I love the way I feel here. My shoulders are loose here, my brain actually turns off at night, I can drink coffee without getting a sour stomach, I can sit and watch people, chickens, donkeys, goats, and/or scenery without having to do something else. . . this is all really good for me, a person who is constantly on the move multi-tasking. I hope to take this part of Namibia home with me. Well, that and about another thousand hugs from Jessica.
Mom's Blog Post
May 27, 2009
Namibia is wonderful. Yes, the country is beautiful – majestic mountains, savannahs rich in color, deserts that go on forever, the ocean and coast line – truly, Namibia lives up to its name the Land of Contrasts.
But one of my core beliefs is that the people make the place and I can say without hesitation that the Namibian people are amazingly friendly, gracious, intelligent and accepting. They are such lovely people.
We rented a car in Windhoek, a VW Polo. Its nice, but the steering wheel is on the right and we are driving on the left side of the road which is a story for another blog post. Stopping at petrol stations is a treat. There are 4 to 6 attendants and when they see us turn into the stations, one will claim our car and start waving us to them. So much energy and great customer service – Oregon gas station attendants (well, attendant since there is usually only 1) can take notice. But, here’s a difference between cultures, Kent would say “fill up with regular” and the attendant would smile and say “good morning. How are you?” So Kent would have to stop and say “good morning. I am fine. How are you?” After the greeting, THEN we could get gasoline, along with all of the windows washed, the air in the tires checked, as well as fluid levels under the hood – now THAT is customer service. To be fair to Kent, this only happened once. He is a fast learner and now is a great greeter. And Kent has adapted quickly to driving on the left side of the road as well as negotiating check points and chatting with guards.
We have driven a long way in our short time here. We traveled the southern border to the northern border, then to the eastern border and into Zambia to see Victoria Falls, then all the way to the west coast. We’ve seen so much – animals, cultures, architecture, art, vistas. . . that it would do a disservice to try to explain it all in a single blog post. But there is one thing here in Namibia I will tell you about, the one major goal of my trip, and that was to be with Jessica. SHE is truly amazing. Her blog posts, as wonderful as they are (isn’t she a great writer?), don’t tell half of the story. Her strength and ingenuity, the way she communicates with the people here, the respect she has for herself, the culture, the school and the learners have left me in total awe. People ask me all of the time if I worry about her being in Africa. And, you know, I really don’t. I worried more about her driving up and down I-5 between home and school than I do here. And now that I’ve seen her here for myself, I’m even more sure and comfortable that she is in her element. She understands life and how to make wise choices and how to roll with the punches. AND, most importantly, she knows how to laugh.
Jessica and Jill decided to have a braai (BBQ) for us on Wednesday night – our last night in town. Jill’s parents just arrived in town. So Jessica and Jill bought a goat. Actually they arranged with Ginno to buy a goat for them. Well, Ginno bought the goat the day we arrived in Khorixas which is 4 days before the braai. What does one do with a goat for 4 days? We have no pin. It can’t stay IN the flat with us. We can’t have it bleating for 4 days. SO Gino and his brother decided to slaughter the goat for us. Okay, good plan. Oh wait, what does one do with a slaughtered goat for 4 days? Jessica is the most resourceful person I’ve ever met. There was a moment of “OMG! I own a goat!” Then she started laughing at the situation while unpacking the small freezer she owns hoping a slaughtered goat will fit into the small compartment (it did). The actually slaughtering of the goat was not my favorite part of this trip, but the skill that Ginno’s brother showed was amazing. He is about 14 or 15 and very strong and knows his way around a goat. The payment for slaughtering a goat for someone is the innards and the head. I guess those are the best parts. I was asked if I ever ate goat intestines before. Apparently they are delicious. You know, I can honestly say that I have never been asked that question before, and I can honestly say that now and for every time in the future that I’m asked that question, the answer will be no.
So lets jump forward to Tuesday when it is time for us to take the frozen goat to have it sectioned at the local butchery shop. We could not get the goat or the container it was in out of the freezer. . . both were stuck. Kent took a knife and chopped the ice away from the edges to break the goat and container free. We were laughing at our situation. Then we drove into town to have the butcher cut the goat for us. But the goat was frozen to the container and wouldn’t budge. I’m pretty sure everyone in the butcher shop was laughing at us, but, oh well. We brought the goat home and left it on the kitchen floor to thaw. Then the electricity went out and we ended up sitting in candlelight and cell phone light with a frozen goat.
Cute side note: when the lights came back on we could hear the children in the dorms cheering. It was so adorable! I really love the children here.
The braai went off without a hitch. The food, meat and porridge, was delicious, children dancing, a soccer game on the TV, lots of people – a fun, fun party!
Kent, Jessica and I spent part of our time in Khorixas working on the library, Jessica’s library at the school. It is a nice place and you can see Jessica’s handiwork throughout the room with the way she has organized the books, instructions she has posted, the card catalog with cards in her handwriting for each learner. However, the walls were peeling and the room just needed some brightening. So I picked out some bright paint colors – grass green, ocean blue and a sunny yellow, and we cleaned and painted the walls. It turned out very nice. We stenciled designs on the walls and hung curtains. The curtains we bought are shetangays – cut pieces of cloth that have multiple purposes from clothing, to wall coverings, to curtains, to whatever you need it to be. The shetangays we bought are red with green, yellow and blue star bursts. All of the colors we choose are colors from the Namibia flag and each color represents a part of Namibia. So even though we tried to make it bright and fun, we kept it educational and meaningful to the learners. It was awesome watching the learners and teachers come into the library seeing it for the first time. I sat with some kids looking at Ranger Rick magazines, showed some of the girls how I painted the flowers in the room, and spent time with a world map showing some of the boys where I live in relation to Khorixas. It was so fun.
It will be hard to go back to Oregon. I love the way I feel here. My shoulders are loose here, my brain actually turns off at night, I can drink coffee without getting a sour stomach, I can sit and watch people, chickens, donkeys, goats, and/or scenery without having to do something else. . . this is all really good for me, a person who is constantly on the move multi-tasking. I hope to take this part of Namibia home with me. Well, that and about another thousand hugs from Jessica.
Friday, April 24, 2009
PHOTOS!!!! And other less important things.
April 20, 2009
I invigilated an end-of-the-term exam today. I teach every single one of the upper primary (grade 5 through 7) learners at my school now. At the beginning of class, Namibian tradition dictates that I should ask that class, “How are you, learners?” To which they will invariably answer, “We are fine, Miss. And how are you-oooOO?!” (Progressively getting higher and higher in pitch with the “you” that they just sound silly).
I think this tradition is stupid. If we do it so that they can practice English greetings, they need to move on, advance. If we do it so that I can gauge the emotional state of my class, they are all lying anyway and in the end, I know nothing (except that Morris has a strange ability to hit very high notes still).
Instead, I have developed a very technical system. I walk into a class and don’t have to say anything, and I know how every learner is feeling. It’s called The Thumbs Up System.
In The Thumbs Up System, I started by asking the learners, “How are you feeling today?” If they are feeling well (not “goodly”), they get to give a thumbs-up. If they are feeling badly, they get to give a thumbs-down. If they are feeling “somehow” (Namlish for average, blah, apathetic, etc.), they get to give a straight thumb. In my more advanced classed we also have 45degree thumb angles to signify somehow-good and somehow-bad.
The Thumbs Up System is so successful that I do not even have to ask them how they are feeling anymore. If I walk into a classroom on accident or while looking for someone, the whole class will throw me some kind of thumb sign. Some kids like to give me a thumbs-down and a big frown, then when I ask them what is wrong they laugh and turn their thumb up. Tricky tricky.
I lied though. It’s not called The Thumbs Up System. It’s not called anything. At least you know the truth. And I know the truth from the learners now too. The learners do not have to lie anymore. If they are not fine, they do not have to say that they are just for the sake of unity. And if they do not care how I am, they do not have to ask. It’s freedom. Just how we like it.
So, I invigilated this exam today. When I walk into the room, everyone gives me the thumbs up. It is really encouraging. Everyone is happy. All these thumbs up make me feel like I am approved of. Like maybe I am the cool teacher. I divide the exams among the learners, ask for quiet, please, and take a seat at the teacher’s desk. I was thankful to have such a cooperative group of learners to look after. They are concentrating, moving their mouths while reading questions, scratching their foreheads, trying to remember. I am flying through GRE flashcards (only a few weeks from my own exam now). We are the most productive room in the whole school. In all of Khorixas, in that moment.
Then, there is a squeal of joy. What?! I looked up from my cards. Every eye in the classroom was angled upwards. Hands and pencils still poised in test-taking mode. Everyone is frozen, not sure what to do next. Above our heads is a small bird flying, flying in circles. We’re all getting dizzy watching it. We are happy just to watch it for a while. Then the thought slowly comes to my head, we need to do something. We need to fix this. But how?
I look at the learners and, “Ahem”. I point my eyes downward towards their tests and they all reluctantly start to work on their tests again. We can hear the bird flapping above our heads. It is going faster now. Soon I realize that I am still staring at the bird. It is futile to try to not stare at the bird. At first the bird appears magical and free. It flaps it wings for half of the classroom and then soars the rest of the circle. It does not dip close to any of our heads. It is just here to say hello, maybe to wish us luck. It is not threatening.
Some learners are trying so very hard to keep their eyes on their exams. They look down and put their pencil to the paper. Then slowly, their eyes, almost involuntarily, turn back upward. When their thoughts return to their absentminded heads, they quickly look down at their exam again. They are losing time. They may not finish if this keeps up. I realize this and start to make plans in my head: We could all stand up and urge to bird out of the open door. We could try to throw a sweatshirt over the bird and carry it outside unharmed. We could… just then, one of the learners shows the bird a big thumbs-up… or we could tell the bird how we’re feeling.
None of us are getting anything done. The bird, at first wonderful and exciting, is getting more and more difficult to watch. We cannot take our eyes from it. But, where at first it was gliding and smooth, now it is floundering. It’s circles, at first perfectly geometric, are now irregular and incomplete. The bird is so so tired. It is looking for a way out. The windows are wide open and it does not see them. The door is free and clear and it just passes it by. Each time the bird pauses at a window, the classroom tenses it’s muscles. Then the bird continues on its wearied path and our hopes are dashed. It seems like there is no end in sight. Maybe this bird will just fall from the air, dead with exhaustion. Maybe it will free itself before anything drastic happens. Maybe… The bird lands on the chalkboard and readjusts itself so that it can stare at us all. It’s breathing hard and its eyes are pitch black. For a beat the classroom is silent. Then, like the opening of the stock market, the kids all remember their exams and start feverishly writing. Outside, they can see other children, from other classrooms, who have already finished their exams. The bell will ring soon.
I am thankful that the bird just sits there. It is still. It stares at me. I wonder if this will end up messy. Droppings on my head. Splatters on the window. We stare each other down. A dual. I wonder if the principal will let me go home and wash my hair… if the need somehow arises.
The learners are finishing their exams. Some of them have put their heads down. Some of them blow kisses to the bird on the chalkboard. I am thankful that it is still. A short while later, the bell rings. To my surprise, no one moves. Everyone just sits are stares at the bird. They are missing out the food and fun of break time. But they just sit there. Almost every eye in the classroom is on this small, pitiful bird. And as though it could sense the collective stare of 40 Namibian children, the bird reluctantly lifts itself into the air and resumes its circular path. Being free from their exams, the kids giggle and wave as the bird flies overhead. It tires faster this time and it becomes almost painful to watch it pause before windows and doors. It’s back hunches. It’s eyes become darker. We sit there for ten, maybe twenty, minutes. Circles and circles and more circles. At one point I remember that children like to catch birds here when they’re feeling extra hungry. Then they cook the tiny bodies over a fire made from donkey dung. I survey the classroom looking for learners who are drooling. There are none. Circles and circles and circles. And then, a charge. The bird backtracks and flies straight at my face. I panic and duck. The bird misses by and inch. It turns and swoops again, just over my head. Then, hovering by the door, it pauses. None of us believe it will leave. It is here to stay. A permanent fixture in the classroom. But, to our surprise, the bird pauses in front of the door, bows it’s head, as if to say goodbye, and ducks out the door. It’s gone.
“Yipppeeeee!” I hear from the back of the classroom. “Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” All the kids join in. They are imitating Grandpa Joe from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It’s adorable. I am happy that they are happy. I am happy to have avoided disaster. The learners collect their exams and turn them into me. Then, they file out of the classroom and disperse. But we are all bonded together. Stuck with this common experience.
Then, later, I went home. And, not having studied all that much while at school, I toss my GRE flashcards on the table and lay down – momentum is to blame. What to do? What to do? I’m bored. But I don’t want to study, too much brain energy. I know! I’ll write! I’ll write about that damn bird.
And here we are.
I can’t believe you read all that. :)
April 23, 2009
That last post, that was mean. I promise to never do that to you again. At least not intentionally. I’m sure I will write about pointless things again but will then think that they’re completely serious and interesting. I urge you not to tell me when they’re not interesting.
One of the more interesting things in my life, however, I will tell you about now. His name is Tu-o. Sometimes his name is Johannes. And occasionally it’s Kloefas. But if you ask him, he will say Tu-o. He is three years old and visits every Saturday morning when his mother comes to do the wash. Right now, he is my all-time favorite thing about Namibia.
Tu-o is my favorite because he is crazy. Not literally, but in practice. He is my favorite because he laughs like woody woodpecker. And he’s definitely my favorite because he’s never afraid. Sometimes during the week, my mind wanders and will end up at a memory of Tu-o from the previous weekend. Sometimes, in my memory, he’s trying to sneak up on me without being seen. If I turn my eyes even slightly in his direction he will bolt out the door where he is hidden again. Other times, in my memory, he’s lining up all his toys (that we let him borrow when he’s here) and then terrorizing them Godzilla-style. And sometimes, in my memory, he is wearing a silly Halloween costume sent from America, running around in circles and terrorizing his sisters, Emma and Katrina (one of my science fair stars from last year).
This last memory still makes me giggle out loud. At the time, it made me laugh so hard I was crying for half an hour straight. He is adorable. I hope you think so too:
I hoped you enjoyed that montage. I picture it to the tune of “Get Rhythm” by Johnny Cash – couldn’t tell you why though. It’s your lucky day though, because I’ll show you another picture montage. This one is of my outing for the Easter holiday. Before you look at them, though, you should know that they do not represent a normal volunteer life. The luxuries found below do not occur everyday. If they did, everyone would be rushing to be a Peace Corps volunteer. And then, it wouldn’t be called volunteering; it’d be called taking over another country… or something.
Also, the pictures are taken in a coastal town called Luderitz in the South of Namibia. It’s about 1200Km from Khorixas and took me about two days of crazy Nam-travel to get there (totally worth it). Lastly, you should know that I didn’t take any of the pictures (my camera was stolen in the previous blog post and, if I weren’t so lazy to write about it, I would tell you about how the police found it in this blog post. It was really amazing. They didn’t even use the footprints in the yard to find the 15 year old boys who were not even clever enough to leave Opuwo with 2 computers, American passports and wallets and a couple of digital cameras. So, the police easily found these youngsters and recovered our goods, minus my camera charger – a part of a camera you never really feel too attached too until it’s gone missing… No, I will not tell you that now). Please, do enjoy:
First, the two crazy days of travel to Luderitz involved a combi ride with, ahem, just the right number, er, the safe number of PCVs crammed in. This shows row 3, 4 and 5 in the combi. Let's not even talk about row 2.
That's my beautiful green eye that you can barely see in the back there.
We stopped in the desert so that we could stretch our legs and honor the event by catching a photo with Flat Stanley for an elementary school in America
Happy Easter!
I invigilated an end-of-the-term exam today. I teach every single one of the upper primary (grade 5 through 7) learners at my school now. At the beginning of class, Namibian tradition dictates that I should ask that class, “How are you, learners?” To which they will invariably answer, “We are fine, Miss. And how are you-oooOO?!” (Progressively getting higher and higher in pitch with the “you” that they just sound silly).
I think this tradition is stupid. If we do it so that they can practice English greetings, they need to move on, advance. If we do it so that I can gauge the emotional state of my class, they are all lying anyway and in the end, I know nothing (except that Morris has a strange ability to hit very high notes still).
Instead, I have developed a very technical system. I walk into a class and don’t have to say anything, and I know how every learner is feeling. It’s called The Thumbs Up System.
In The Thumbs Up System, I started by asking the learners, “How are you feeling today?” If they are feeling well (not “goodly”), they get to give a thumbs-up. If they are feeling badly, they get to give a thumbs-down. If they are feeling “somehow” (Namlish for average, blah, apathetic, etc.), they get to give a straight thumb. In my more advanced classed we also have 45degree thumb angles to signify somehow-good and somehow-bad.
The Thumbs Up System is so successful that I do not even have to ask them how they are feeling anymore. If I walk into a classroom on accident or while looking for someone, the whole class will throw me some kind of thumb sign. Some kids like to give me a thumbs-down and a big frown, then when I ask them what is wrong they laugh and turn their thumb up. Tricky tricky.
I lied though. It’s not called The Thumbs Up System. It’s not called anything. At least you know the truth. And I know the truth from the learners now too. The learners do not have to lie anymore. If they are not fine, they do not have to say that they are just for the sake of unity. And if they do not care how I am, they do not have to ask. It’s freedom. Just how we like it.
So, I invigilated this exam today. When I walk into the room, everyone gives me the thumbs up. It is really encouraging. Everyone is happy. All these thumbs up make me feel like I am approved of. Like maybe I am the cool teacher. I divide the exams among the learners, ask for quiet, please, and take a seat at the teacher’s desk. I was thankful to have such a cooperative group of learners to look after. They are concentrating, moving their mouths while reading questions, scratching their foreheads, trying to remember. I am flying through GRE flashcards (only a few weeks from my own exam now). We are the most productive room in the whole school. In all of Khorixas, in that moment.
Then, there is a squeal of joy. What?! I looked up from my cards. Every eye in the classroom was angled upwards. Hands and pencils still poised in test-taking mode. Everyone is frozen, not sure what to do next. Above our heads is a small bird flying, flying in circles. We’re all getting dizzy watching it. We are happy just to watch it for a while. Then the thought slowly comes to my head, we need to do something. We need to fix this. But how?
I look at the learners and, “Ahem”. I point my eyes downward towards their tests and they all reluctantly start to work on their tests again. We can hear the bird flapping above our heads. It is going faster now. Soon I realize that I am still staring at the bird. It is futile to try to not stare at the bird. At first the bird appears magical and free. It flaps it wings for half of the classroom and then soars the rest of the circle. It does not dip close to any of our heads. It is just here to say hello, maybe to wish us luck. It is not threatening.
Some learners are trying so very hard to keep their eyes on their exams. They look down and put their pencil to the paper. Then slowly, their eyes, almost involuntarily, turn back upward. When their thoughts return to their absentminded heads, they quickly look down at their exam again. They are losing time. They may not finish if this keeps up. I realize this and start to make plans in my head: We could all stand up and urge to bird out of the open door. We could try to throw a sweatshirt over the bird and carry it outside unharmed. We could… just then, one of the learners shows the bird a big thumbs-up… or we could tell the bird how we’re feeling.
None of us are getting anything done. The bird, at first wonderful and exciting, is getting more and more difficult to watch. We cannot take our eyes from it. But, where at first it was gliding and smooth, now it is floundering. It’s circles, at first perfectly geometric, are now irregular and incomplete. The bird is so so tired. It is looking for a way out. The windows are wide open and it does not see them. The door is free and clear and it just passes it by. Each time the bird pauses at a window, the classroom tenses it’s muscles. Then the bird continues on its wearied path and our hopes are dashed. It seems like there is no end in sight. Maybe this bird will just fall from the air, dead with exhaustion. Maybe it will free itself before anything drastic happens. Maybe… The bird lands on the chalkboard and readjusts itself so that it can stare at us all. It’s breathing hard and its eyes are pitch black. For a beat the classroom is silent. Then, like the opening of the stock market, the kids all remember their exams and start feverishly writing. Outside, they can see other children, from other classrooms, who have already finished their exams. The bell will ring soon.
I am thankful that the bird just sits there. It is still. It stares at me. I wonder if this will end up messy. Droppings on my head. Splatters on the window. We stare each other down. A dual. I wonder if the principal will let me go home and wash my hair… if the need somehow arises.
The learners are finishing their exams. Some of them have put their heads down. Some of them blow kisses to the bird on the chalkboard. I am thankful that it is still. A short while later, the bell rings. To my surprise, no one moves. Everyone just sits are stares at the bird. They are missing out the food and fun of break time. But they just sit there. Almost every eye in the classroom is on this small, pitiful bird. And as though it could sense the collective stare of 40 Namibian children, the bird reluctantly lifts itself into the air and resumes its circular path. Being free from their exams, the kids giggle and wave as the bird flies overhead. It tires faster this time and it becomes almost painful to watch it pause before windows and doors. It’s back hunches. It’s eyes become darker. We sit there for ten, maybe twenty, minutes. Circles and circles and more circles. At one point I remember that children like to catch birds here when they’re feeling extra hungry. Then they cook the tiny bodies over a fire made from donkey dung. I survey the classroom looking for learners who are drooling. There are none. Circles and circles and circles. And then, a charge. The bird backtracks and flies straight at my face. I panic and duck. The bird misses by and inch. It turns and swoops again, just over my head. Then, hovering by the door, it pauses. None of us believe it will leave. It is here to stay. A permanent fixture in the classroom. But, to our surprise, the bird pauses in front of the door, bows it’s head, as if to say goodbye, and ducks out the door. It’s gone.
“Yipppeeeee!” I hear from the back of the classroom. “Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” All the kids join in. They are imitating Grandpa Joe from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It’s adorable. I am happy that they are happy. I am happy to have avoided disaster. The learners collect their exams and turn them into me. Then, they file out of the classroom and disperse. But we are all bonded together. Stuck with this common experience.
Then, later, I went home. And, not having studied all that much while at school, I toss my GRE flashcards on the table and lay down – momentum is to blame. What to do? What to do? I’m bored. But I don’t want to study, too much brain energy. I know! I’ll write! I’ll write about that damn bird.
And here we are.
I can’t believe you read all that. :)
April 23, 2009
That last post, that was mean. I promise to never do that to you again. At least not intentionally. I’m sure I will write about pointless things again but will then think that they’re completely serious and interesting. I urge you not to tell me when they’re not interesting.
One of the more interesting things in my life, however, I will tell you about now. His name is Tu-o. Sometimes his name is Johannes. And occasionally it’s Kloefas. But if you ask him, he will say Tu-o. He is three years old and visits every Saturday morning when his mother comes to do the wash. Right now, he is my all-time favorite thing about Namibia.
Tu-o is my favorite because he is crazy. Not literally, but in practice. He is my favorite because he laughs like woody woodpecker. And he’s definitely my favorite because he’s never afraid. Sometimes during the week, my mind wanders and will end up at a memory of Tu-o from the previous weekend. Sometimes, in my memory, he’s trying to sneak up on me without being seen. If I turn my eyes even slightly in his direction he will bolt out the door where he is hidden again. Other times, in my memory, he’s lining up all his toys (that we let him borrow when he’s here) and then terrorizing them Godzilla-style. And sometimes, in my memory, he is wearing a silly Halloween costume sent from America, running around in circles and terrorizing his sisters, Emma and Katrina (one of my science fair stars from last year).
This last memory still makes me giggle out loud. At the time, it made me laugh so hard I was crying for half an hour straight. He is adorable. I hope you think so too:
I hoped you enjoyed that montage. I picture it to the tune of “Get Rhythm” by Johnny Cash – couldn’t tell you why though. It’s your lucky day though, because I’ll show you another picture montage. This one is of my outing for the Easter holiday. Before you look at them, though, you should know that they do not represent a normal volunteer life. The luxuries found below do not occur everyday. If they did, everyone would be rushing to be a Peace Corps volunteer. And then, it wouldn’t be called volunteering; it’d be called taking over another country… or something.
Also, the pictures are taken in a coastal town called Luderitz in the South of Namibia. It’s about 1200Km from Khorixas and took me about two days of crazy Nam-travel to get there (totally worth it). Lastly, you should know that I didn’t take any of the pictures (my camera was stolen in the previous blog post and, if I weren’t so lazy to write about it, I would tell you about how the police found it in this blog post. It was really amazing. They didn’t even use the footprints in the yard to find the 15 year old boys who were not even clever enough to leave Opuwo with 2 computers, American passports and wallets and a couple of digital cameras. So, the police easily found these youngsters and recovered our goods, minus my camera charger – a part of a camera you never really feel too attached too until it’s gone missing… No, I will not tell you that now). Please, do enjoy:
First, the two crazy days of travel to Luderitz involved a combi ride with, ahem, just the right number, er, the safe number of PCVs crammed in. This shows row 3, 4 and 5 in the combi. Let's not even talk about row 2.
That's my beautiful green eye that you can barely see in the back there.
We stopped in the desert so that we could stretch our legs and honor the event by catching a photo with Flat Stanley for an elementary school in AmericaWe visited the ghost town called Kolmanskop. Houses full of sand. Fantastic stories.
We went out on a sail boat. It was beeeaaauutiful. And cold. Very cold.
We had a fantastic braii with lovely toasties (the process pictured below) (a toastie is a grilled cheese sandwich with any variety of other fillings).
And then everyone rejoiced!
Happy Easter!Next time, on The Elephant in the Middle of the Room, we'll see the brave parents conquering Namibia! Stay tuned.
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