Our squatter's camp. There are hundreds more like these.

Me. Awkwardly standing in front of Khorixas. It's my K town...

The view from our cellphone tower hill. Purdy!

March 8, 2008
I don’t know I why I never gave much thought to hard-boiled eggs before in my life. They are the perfect food. They are full of protein that didn’t come from a goat or a 40-dollar bag of chicken. They cook in their shell – which is clean, even if a cockroach was crawling in the pan. And they travel… just like me. The only problem is I can’t eat them in front of people or I feel like Anne from Arrested Development (“I’m sure egg is a very lovely girl”).

So much has happened in the last week, I’m not sure if I can sum it all up. Last Friday was Leap day! Yay! In order to celebrate leap day and our continuing sanity, a group of 10-15 PCVs were going to come to Khorixas for Mexican food (not surprisingly, a rare commodity in Namibia). It was going to be Taco Fest ’08. I was so excited to hang out with a lot of Americans, eat tacos and generally relax without having to travel long distances. Sadly though, a few days before Taco Fest ’08 the PC Namibia decided to crack down on travel. This meant that only three were close enough to get permission to make the trip. Apparently, Nam27 is just too young in their Namibian lives to successfully travel around the country. Which is odd, because we weren’t too young during training (“just hike (hitch hike) back from shadowing. It’s in your budget to take a taxi too”) and at the beginning of service in January (my supervisor had to explain how to get a taxi in Khorixas. She’s helpful… really helpful. I hear this makes me a lucky PCV duck). But, overall, I can understand the PC not wanting the responsibility to inform families back home about a car accident or similarly devastating incident. (And don’t tell them I said, but rumor has it, we’re standing on the shoulders of a few previous Nam volunteers with less than excellent travel judgment… but you didn’t hear it from me).

I was disappointed at first but it turned out that the partial cancellation of Taco Fest ’08 would work in my favor. For the past couple of weeks, my co-workers have been telling me to pack my bags. And no, they didn’t want to get rid of me. My flat near the hostel was almost ready and they were excited that I was about to move closer to school. I was excited too (the daily tour of K town was getting old) and so I spent the 25th packing the things I didn’t use on a daily basis. Luckily, that was also the day my house-mate was cleaning the volunteer house so I was given some Tupperware without lids, ancient pans, plastic wine glasses, a couple of sink stoppers, an old collection of glass peanut butter jars and a mediocre toasted sandwich maker (it takes about 20 minutes to toast bread). I was told in my replacement letter (where a previous PCV at your site will write you a letter giving you the ins and outs. I think I mentioned this letter when I wrote about getting my site assignment), things in the volunteer house left by previous volunteers became a part of the house and, therefore, needed to remain there. So, I felt a little guilty taking them. But in the end, I overcame my guilt by looking at the kitchenware as loaners. I’ll return anything worthy of return after two years (read: the glass jars are not being toted back across town).

I spent the whole week waiting for someone to say “Surprise! It’s time to move.” Then, on Leap Day, I was teaching my last science class when one of the teachers at my school came in to tell me my furniture was being delivered. The PC Namibia requires that we get a means to cook (stove), a bed, a table and chairs. I also got two extra mattresses and a refrigerator (I think the fridge might be required also, but I’m not sure). I asked for five extra minutes to finish up my lesson (I was having all my learners hold bread in their mouths for 20 minutes to experience the effects of saliva. True, I could just tell them what saliva does, but would it really be science if I just told them?) and then I headed over the hostel yard to see my furniture and new flat. When I got to my flat it was a bustle of activity. The hostel matron was putting the finishing touches on cleaning. The math teacher was moving my table in. The two HODs (Head of Department) were removing the wrapping and Styrofoam from my new refrigerator. All the work was being done for me. I was a little in the way – which a feeling I’ve never appreciated. Luckily, the work was done so quickly (odd for this country but, land of contrast, can be expected from time to time) they finished within 20 minutes and gathered me, another teacher and four Ministry of Works men to drive to town and collect my things. With all those men, you would have thought moving my stuff would have been a breeze. And I’m sure I made it look effortless as they watched me carry five loads out to the truck from the comfort of the shade and the consolation of a cold beer. The work went quick enough though. I was out of the house before my housemate even started making her lunch. I made a promise to come back later in the day and clean my room, hopped in the truck and, as per tradition, ran a few other people’s errands on the way back to my flat (cars are the valuable commodity. Everybody wants a ride).

That afternoon I had left class at about 1:00 and was in my new flat with furniture and all my things by 1:45. It was a big change for 45 minutes. But, just as quickly as everyone had shown up to help, they all disappeared with the reassurance that they would be back with light bulbs and gas for the stove before 5:00. “Just wait here,” I was told. Great… But, wait… Friday afternoon was beginning to look miserable with no food and a leash to my new apartment. I decided to bolt to a take-away (a hole-in-the-wall type grocery store) in the location for shortbread cookies and Simba chips (made by Lays, I think). Of course I chose the wrong time because as I came running back around the corner some blue jumpsuits (Ministry of Works) were waiting on my stoop to make my new toilet flush (a problem I wasn’t even aware I had). While those two were hard at work on the plumbing, two more blue guys showed up to work on the light bulbs. But, they forgot a ladder, so one ran back to the ministry to snag one. He came back with a ladder and another blue guy (who was out to prove that it’s always 5:00 somewhere). About that time, two Eddie Bowe teachers meandered in “just to take a look.” While I was showing the teachers around and carefully avoiding the plastered blue guy, we heard this terrible thudding noise and ran outside to take a look. The truck carrying my gas had arrived and (driven by blue guy) was stuck in a ditch. The truck went forward, then backward, then forward, backward, forward, backward… My gas tank rolling to the front of the truck bed, then to the back, then to the front, back, front, back… Now, I’m no expert, but I don’t want anything ruining the structural integrity of a 5-foot tank of anything explosive that’s going to park itself in my house. Luckily, the beer drunken earlier or our raised eyebrows convinced this blue guy to stop and let the gas go.

My house was humming. It was full of men in blue jump suits and people debating the best way to set up an American house. As the work dwindled down, I watched five men in blue jumpsuits and two Eddie Bowe teachers debating how to screw in a light bulb and my imagination wandered: “How many Namibians does it take to screw in a light bulb? I would have put my money on two or three… but five to seven, hmmm…” and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I’m sure there’s a lame joke in there somewhere. If you find it, let me know. And, Mom, Dad, let the little blue guy jokes run rampant.

Everyone was gone by 4:45. I shut the door and locked it. It was time to breathe. I was so lucky to get such specialized attention on a Friday. Even though it was stressful, I’m going to try to treasure the memory because it’ll probably be a year before another blue suit walks into my flat – Welcome to the do-it-yourself chapter of my life. I didn’t rest too long because I still had to walk back to town to clean my old room.

On my way back to my new flat from town, I stopped by Jill’s to see what had become of Taco Fest ’08. With the action of the day, I was a little out of the loop. I found Jill just chilling in her apartment alone. I was equally exhausted. So I found a cozy spot on her tiled floors to call mine while she broke the news about Taco Fest ’08. It turned out that two from Katmanjab were coming much later that night and one from Outjo didn’t know when she was coming. While she was telling me the unfoldings of the travelers and the Fest the sun went down and I found myself laying on a tile floor in the dark, exhausted and disgusting, reveling in the hilarity of the fest we had planned for that night. Earlier, we had even considered making a piñata for the occasion. The irony of this place is too much to handle at times. All I can say is, go ahead and make plans – just don’t plan on using them.

That night, I spent the first night in my flat. If any of you are considering the Peace Corps, or moving to another country in general, you should know that things you think make a home are not always what you would expect. In America, I would have said company, comfort and convenience make a house a home. But here I’ve discovered all I need is my fan, my mosquito net and some fashion of privacy. I like the poetry in my previous line of thinking but it’s much easier to get a fan and mosquito net here. So, after setting up my fan, hanging my mosquito net (more to keep out the cockroaches, beetles and other various forms of evil than actual mosquitoes) and pinning some sheets in the window, it was time for bed in the comfort of my new home.

The next morning, I stopped by Taco Fest ’08 to find three PCVs and one unexpected VSO had made it to Khorixas. Things were looking up for the Fest. We all walked to town to hit up Multisave, PEP and the hardware store. Then we spent the day relaxing in the company of other Americans (and one Canadian). At the end of the day, I took everyone on a nature hike (and by “I took everyone” I mean I got schooled by one who practically ran up the cell phone tower hill, two had been before and two stayed behind to actually make the tacos… but who’s counting). We watched the sun set from the hill. When we got back to Jill’s, it was time for tacos. Taco Fest ’08 rating: Tacos? Great. Fest? I’ve had better. ’08? There had better be a ’08.5 or that was a bit of a bust. Truthfully, though, it was good to hang out and eat Mexican food. I felt… what’s that word… oh, yeah, normal.

Sunday and the rest of the week, I spent trying to set up my flat. Monday after school, the teachers all met at my flat to throw me a surprise party. It was so sweet. They decorated the outside of my flat with paper roses and signs that said, “Welcome home J. Roger”… I know… just look the other way and smile… They also brought sodas and a tray full of goat meat. We were all sitting on the floor (because I only have two chairs) eating our goat. I American-finished my meat (which means I didn’t pick the bone clean) and was trying to hide the leftovers (because if there’s still meat on the bone, someone will eat it), when they gave me a huge bag full of dishes. They were all orange and white stripes – totally cute. Then on Wednesday morning, the hostel matrons gave me another gift bag full of dishes. They were totally cute too. And I feel like these people get me because in all those dishes there were six coffee mugs. That’s my kind of gift!

Otherwise, setting up my apartment has been a battle to get curtains up that will deter the little eyes that are so curious about my life. I would love to share it with them but I don’t feel so comfortable with them knowing I have a computer, Ipod, camera and an overall fancy-smancy lifestyle. The only thing they seem overly interested in, though, is the food. I have my own theories on this but some of them involve me being bitter about consistently being asked for a piece of bread, so we’ll reserve those for another day. The other battle is the cockroaches. You can say, “gross” but I say, “This means war”. Those little devils just twitch their antennae at me and say, “What are you gonna do about it, huh? Huh?” They’re going down.

As always, more later - I’ve got war to wage

March 13, 2008
Time here is an enigma. Time everywhere is an enigma. Some days just fly by and others are pulling my teeth out one at a time with no drugs. This week was one where I lost a lot of teeth.

This past weekend, Jill and I walked out to the Rest Camp just outside Khorixas. They have a pool, restaurant, palm trees and a gift shop. Nothing says western like a gift shop. It was nice to have someone give me a sprite with ice in the glass and to be able to put my feet in a blue pool (even if it doesn’t have chlorine: a chemical I feel is even more necessary in Africa). Walking out there, I was hoping that an out-of-the-ordinary afternoon would make everything feel right again. But my hopes were not answered. While it was nice, I was still in Khorixas.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not Khorixas… it’s just that I haven’t left since February 1st. It takes me 25 minutes to walk from one side of the city to the other. And what’s on the other side, you ask? Another view of the middle of nowhere! Its truly fascinating living in one of the least populated countries on the planet but I have cabin fever!

I hope to remedy this problem next weekend with my plans to visit Swakopmund for the Easter holiday. Judging by how iffy travel in this country is though, I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much. But, honestly, if this trip falls through, I may actually go crazy – real crazy, the kind where you don’t know you’re crazy. I’ll be sure to keep you posted… that is if I remember how to use a keyboard in my demented state…

Well, as you can see, I’ve started occupying my time by making personal sanity threats online. But I have healthier outlets too. On Monday, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons the kids have “study” from 3 to 4. This means, from what I can tell, the kids all come back to school to sit in a classroom and play the quiet game. I’m sure they’re doing something but it’s definitely not homework for my class (Average marks on my last math homework assignment? 0/25. My optimism is waning. Sorry). This next Monday, I chose six Grade 7 learners to train to work in the library during study. I asked for volunteers who would be willing to help me re-shelf books, sweep and mop the library every week. I got about 50 out of the 75 Grade 7 learner sign up to help (this only furthers my theory that they’re not doing anything in study). So, I made a quiz for them to show off their alphabetizing and organizing ability then chose the 6 top scorers to help. I’m really excited for the extra help and for kids practicing having extra responsibility. Also on Mondays, Jill has taken over a club called “Window’s of Hope”. It is a national program that is taught at a lot of schools. It teaches kids more about HIV, AIDS, puberty and relationships. If the kids come to every meeting, they get a certificate (which has a lot more draw than you would initially think). There’s a Windows group for Grade 4-7. We work with Grade 7. I’ve been helping with the club also – which really just means, Jill does all the planning and I show up to hang out and remind the kids to stop talking when someone else it talking. I also got to give the lecture on what each reproductive organ does, from a biological standpoint (I remember my high school Anatomy and Physiology teacher said, “it makes me blush,” when we got to that topic so he brought in a nurse to teach the reproductive chapter. And in his memory, I’m going to admit that it makes me blush too).

On Tuesdays, I have Reading during study. The Grade 6 and Grade 7 teachers picked 5 learners from each class that had “reading difficulties”. This means that they can’t read at all. According to their Khoekhoe teacher, they read better in English that they do in Khoekhoe. I think there’s a fundamental problem with me trying to teach them how to read in English without them first being able to read in Mother Tongue… but who am I to be a pessimist… and I don’t know how to teach reading in Khoekhoe (actually, I think one of the teachers is considering starting a reading group for Khoekhoe too). I have to admit, though, I’m kind of at a loss for how to teach a target language while only being able to communicate in that target language - especially when I’m not that great at drawing.

Wednesday and Thursday afternoons I spend doing a variety of things. Mostly, this means watching TV on DVD (Desperate Housewives Season 2 and, currently, Lost Season 1 – which I already watched during training but its worthy of another go), obsessively cleaning my flat to defeat the cockroaches, making some form of unhealthy food to devour (Sandies are my new favorite cookies. Who knew donuts were so easy? And why does anybody buy brownie mix?) and, on good days, testing my bravery by picking the busiest time of day to walk on a new street in the location (it takes a lot of greeting energy but usually ends up being worth it). On Fridays, I usually check my PO box and spend a bit of time listening to the Shebeen music in the Donkerhoek (the squatter’s and I are neighbors now. They really know how to live it up).

Last Friday, my learners had a choir concert. They told me it started at 6. We showed up at 6 to an empty hall with the kids singing on stage. They would sing a part of a song and then stop. Then they would start another song and the choir director would get a cell phone call and stop the whole thing. It was really odd. When our choir came down off the stage and another school took the stage we figured it was a good time to go home. I was stopped at the door and asked why I was only going to stay for the rehearsal. The real show didn’t start until 8. We decided to leave anyway but got stopped by one of my learners who was so sad we were leaving early. It broke my heart a little. She’s a tomboy with a sensitive soul – my kind of girl. In the end, though, she was just happy that we showed up for rehearsal.

That about wraps up the recent happenings in my humble life but before I go, let me just tell you about a wise NAM27 friend of mine. He thinks some things he does sound normal: I did my dishes… I ate a tuna fish sandwich… I went for a bike ride… He also thinks a few things he does sounds impressive… I went rafting… I went bungee jumping… I defeated a snake… But, the reason my friend is so wise is because he’s realized that with the simple phrase “IN AFRICA!!!” the mundane sounds exhilarating: I did my dishes IN AFRICA… I went for a bike ride IN AFRICA… And the impressive sounds almost unbelievable: I went rafting IN AFRICA… I went bungee jumping IN AFRICA… So, because it seems a lot of what I’m doing these days is mundane and a little down to earth for this whole post I’m going to add:

…IN AFRICA!!!

And hope that you feel a little more impressed with my life : )


March 18, 2008
When I first arrived in Namibia, I didn’t notice a lot of weird or unusual bugs. Throughout training I saw the occasional scorpion, many mosquitoes and one or two freakish yellow-segmented “hair-eating spiders” (I think they made up the hair eating part, and frankly, the spider part too – they look more like miniature lobsters). Since I’ve been at site, I’ve changed my tune. I have become far more acquainted with Namibia’s insect life than I ever could have hoped for.

In Khorixas it seems you can measure the seasons by the bugs. The type/species/color/sound of bugs change every week or every two weeks. When I first arrived in January I saw large black beetles with three bright stripes. Then there were the flat wall spiders (they’re really really flat. Its bizarre). Wing-shedding termites came next, followed by the bird-sized moth. The moths were trailed by the black “ho-ho” – a smelly beetle that only travels in hundreds. And most recently, we enjoy the company of bright red and green robot beetles. I call them robots because nothing organic should ever move the way they do. Lucky for us, the flys and mosquitoes are constants and with all this changes I need a few rocks in my life.

And the cockroaches… oh, the roaches. They’re new… and un-welcomed in my life.

March 19, 2008

Today is the last day of school for the week. I am so thankful for this long weekend. I’ve been in a funk lately. The funk is partially due to me spending too much time “alone” (read: I am always around people but I’m rarely with people. Does that make sense?) and it’s partially due to me being overly aware of cultural differences. Lately, I only seem to be able to focus on how differently I think and act. I find myself starting thoughts with “At home…” and “When I was in school…” On one hand, it’s definitely not healthy to compare and judge so much. On the other hand, a kid threw a rock at me yesterday while screaming “white person!” in Damara… So, I have a distinct feeling I’m being judged too.

Maybe judging isn’t the right word though. Maybe, more often, it’s observing. My learners like to observe. They like to observe freckles, eyes, “painings” (sunburns, scratches, pimples…), length or “bigness” of “hairs”, eyes, eyebrows, accents, walking, backpack carrying, drawing, writing… the list goes on but it only gets more pathetic. The kids love to tell me how I do everything differently and why I look different. It’s a little too much for me to handle sometimes. When volunteers return to America, they say they miss the attention. They say they wonder why no one cares that they’re walking through town and why no one marvels at their mundane accomplishments. So, when I get home, I’m going to need you all to tell me you can see my veins, that I walk like a man and that I have big hairs. Just every so often until I re-adjust to being normal. And I’ll be sure to say, “Well, in Namibia, I…” just so you can feel a little judged too. Deal?

Ah, I kid, but it’s only because everyone’s thinking it and I’m just trying to say it.

Aside from the mind games, things at site are going pretty great. Last Friday night, an acquaintance invited some of us to a concert. The choir was from Outjo and has been traveling around singing about discrimination. It was an event for the youth so it was held at the secondary school. It was a lot of fun for a few reasons. First, it was fun to be out after dark. I believe admitting that only solidifies my less than sparkling social life reputation. Normally, though, walking around any African city is a bit intimidating in the dark. Since I’ve moved to the location though it’s been a lot easier to find someone to walk with. It takes about ten extra minutes but everyone gets dropped off. Daytime. Nighttime. It’s all fair game now. I’m liberated! Hey, don’t judge. I know I’m a grandma. Second, it was fun because many of the faces I’ve met are becoming repeats. I really like a lot of the locals I see around town on a regular basis. It’s good to talk to people who realize that you’re another person – not just a wallet, white skin or a potential girlfriend (they’re big on quick “commitment” here, so let’s be honest… another wife. And I did mean to say another. Two? Three? Eh, who doesn’t have five wives these days?). It’s nice that I’m finding some familiar friends to talk to. It makes me feel safe. If something goes awry I know there are a few who would be quick to my rescue. And, third, it was fun because choral education here is silly. Don’t tell any of the performers, but when they sing a whole song about saying no to sugardaddies I giggle. I even giggle when I’m sitting in the front row. You know, it’s just been awhile since I’ve heard the word “sugardaddy” in three-part harmony. Overall, the kids are doing a good thing. It’s great that they want to help their community in any form. It’s going to make them more well rounded in the long run. And well rounding is a skill that hard to come by in these parts.

Today, I spent a lot of time just talking to learners. Since it was the last day, the kids were eager to get back to their farms for the long weekend. This made them less than keen on the whole learning science idea. I called some kids in for discipline from a problem yesterday but I just didn’t have the heart. Instead I told them they had a job to do – I made them tear paper into tiny pieces so that we could make new paper. They loved it. I know it’s probably a bad idea to have learners love discipline. I’ll reap the benefits of that later. The other kids in class heard about the tough discipline and came running. Pretty soon we just had a huge paper tearing party. It felt a little like a sleepover. It could have been all the observations or just that I was hanging out with a lot of 7th graders. It was fun either way. And, bonus, they’re learning how to recycle and brushing up on their English skills by telling me all about the city’s gossips – there’s far too much to keep track of (not surprisingly, most of it involves alcohol and hangovers).

Well, I’ve got to finish packing for my big weekend away tomorrow. Travel here is beast. It really grates on the planning part of my personality. If I lived anywhere else, I would actually know how I’m getting to my destination tomorrow. But here, I’m just waking up in the morning, taking my backpack and walking in search of some combi (van) that’s headed to Swakopmund also. I’ve got a good feeling about 7am tomorrow. I figure if I’m up early, someone’s bound to be leaving throughout the day. Apparently I missed four combis that already left today, though. I’m thankful for cars and the fact that one day I will drive one again. An, if I want to, I will be the only person in that car - wasting gas, radio blaring and feeling great about it all.

See you in Swakop!

Today:

I made it to Swakopmund. I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about it later. But I can tell you now that I'm back in America... I've mentally blocked the idea that this city could be in Namibia. The idea that soon I will be going back to roosters, donkeys, rocks, dust, and cold water bucket baths is a little too much to think about when you're drink has an umbrella in it and you went to a movie theater last night. Am I still in the Peace Corps?

The Lot of a Dung Beetle

February 11, 2008

In staging (the Washington DC part of training), Peace Corps tries to prepare you for arriving in country. I think it’s a noble cause but, let’s be honest, nothing prepares you for being in country. Regardless, before we left, I did get one piece of valuable advice that I still use today. The woman leading our hotel-conference room sessions told us, “Just open the door. Everyday, open the door.”

Now, I know this sounds simple when outside is your Starbuck’s cup of coffee, your car and, most importantly, hundreds of strangers who could care less that you left your house today. But, while living here, I’ve grown to miss these strangers. I miss not being cared about. I miss anonymity.

My walk to work everyday is pretty great. First, I leave my house and lock three doors on my way out. Getting out of “town” requires dodging various domestic animals, including guard dogs, whole flocks of chickens and the occasional goat. Then, I hop over the guardrail to the main road. The paved road! I love the paved road! And since it’s still dark and you can see for miles anyway, I walk a bit down the middle of the paved road just to reminisce. Then, I take a turn into the location. The first sign that I’m on time is the tractor warehouse guard unlocking the gate. The next sign is a middle-aged woman that I don’t know. Every morning she’ll say something like, “you are later today” or “Oh, you have woken early”. Thanks for the recognition, lady. Next is the boy who calls me teacher though he goes to a different school. “Good morning teacher.” Then, the check out girl from Multisave (our only grocery store in town) walks the other direction to work about this time. She knows I like oatmeal and don’t speak Damara (once I took a 4-year-old neighbor to Multisave with me. While I was paying the checkout girl seemed confused. Finally she stopped everything to ask if I was Damara and if the child was mine. I felt that “no” was the obvious answer but I didn’t want to say it so quickly that I insulted her intelligence, so I said “noooo” – which may have been too enthusiastic of a no). Next on the walk are the second grade girls who wave and stare – sometimes from the perch of trees. Then 25 minutes from when I locked my front door (17 when I book-it), I arrive in the safety of the school.

I got a ride to school this week in a hearse. A story for a different day, I think. But the next morning all of these people commented on my absence from the street the day before. Nice but, if it happened in America, creepy, no? Walking home is worse because, by then the town as resorted to its party-like atmosphere. Music blaring from houses. Women sitting under trees selling fat cakes. Kids on the stoop of the general store. Generally, I only get asked for a dollar once or twice. The “chief” tells me I changed the weather again. I say “Hello. I am fine. Thanks. And you?” about ten times. On special days, the street pastor will give me an impromptu lesson on spreading the good news and ask for my “viewings on the character of Jesus.” Also on these special days, the man who lives across from the hospital will yell, “Stop, stop walking! Stop! Stop walking! Stop! Talk! Stop walking!” until I am out of his sight. And, if I’m lucky, the fourth grader from the school in town will stop and ask me, with impressive neck-snapping attitude, my mother’s name, my father’s name and where I come from (her most rehearsed English phrases). Which is actually cute. Unlike the man across from the hospital.

On good days, this culture and life of Khorixas all make me smile on both walks. The fact that people are willing to talk to me and welcome me to their town makes me feel like maybe I will belong someday. On bad days, I feel like I am under a microscope (oil immersion 1000x). That’s when all the recognition makes me want to hide.

Luckily, hiding is easy because currently, I love my room. This is pretty pathetic seeing how my room is about the same size a drive thru Dutch Brothers. But it is mine and it is American. On it’s walls I have tacked every 2007 Christmas card, every going away card I brought with me, every letter written to me, my evaluation from modal school (my TRC PCV friend said some nice things. I need nice things in my life), a calendar from Grandma, a map of Namibia where I wrote all PCV sites, a world map (that convinces me the world is actually tiny and I can just hop back to you all), a Seattle space needle ornament left by the previous volunteer and glow in the dark stars (they’re so happy). So, as you can see, this is a nice hole to hide in. But sometimes I have to remind myself I am in Africa… I need to go outside and explore. I need to open the door.

Which bring me to the national anthem. Exploring Namibia makes you think of the national anthem and it would be a shame if I told you about explorations without sharing the background knowledge that goes with them. The anthem goes:

Namibia, Land of the brave
Freedom fight, we have won
Glory to their bravery
Whose blood waters our freedom
We give our love and loyalty
Together in unity
Contrasting, beautiful Namibia
Namibia our country
Beloved land
Of savannahs
Hold high the banner of liberty
Namibia, our country
Namibia, motherland, we love thee.

I’ve learned a couple of things from that anthem. First, the correct way to pronounce “our” is with a breath between its two syllables… that’s right two. Just like the word “films”. Second, apparently many nations are brave. And oddly it seems true for all of them. Striking out on your own and making a new country requires a bit of bravery, I would think. Third, the savannahs are the most loved. And, fourth, the line that will always get stuck in my head is the part about “contrasting, beautiful Namibia”.

There’s nothing particularly musically interesting about that line. I think it just gets stuck in my head because it’s so true. My favorite example of contrast was on my walk this evening (the one where I forced myself to leave my Dutch brother’s room). Over the past few days, Khorixas has gotten more green than I thought possible. Nearly everywhere there was sand when I first arrived is covered in grass and little yellow flowers. The trees have doubled in size and grown leaves. As I was walking and enjoying the greenery, I couldn’t help but notice the sky. To the north was a rainbow in some white clouds and blue sky. To the west the sun was setting. Setting suns here always mean yellow, orange, pink, purple and perfect. To the south, over the donkerhoek was a downpour. It looked evil. To the East were dark purple clouds and lightening.

The whole thing made me think that maybe even the sky gets bored in Africa. And, land of contrast, it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. The rain was flooding the Donkerhoek. A little boy drowned in the rains there this weekend. It’s been an upset around town. He was very little and got carried away by a new-formed river (my learners were plastered to the windows facing the camp today during class because they wanted to see all the crowds and cameras who had come talk about the boy). And, in the same moments as the flood, a rainbow decorated the opposite sky. Thunder, lightening, sunset, flood and rainbow all at once seems like a crowd but, in Khorixas there was room in the sky for all of it.

Sometimes I think people make things up for national anthems. Ok, maybe not everyone is America is brave… or, maybe they weren’t really admiring the flag while enduring canon fire… (I know I wouldn’t have been). But, this is the long way of saying: For Namibia, it’s true. Beautiful and contrasting. They’re both true.


12-02-08
I had an odd sensation today. It was fleeting but all around odd anyway. It was a feeling that I was supposed to be here. I felt like, for a brief moment, that there wasn’t anywhere else in the world I was supposed to be.

At school we have eight periods in a day and one half hour tea break. A period is forty minutes long. At the end of each forty minutes one 7th grade boy is responsible for leaving all of his eight classes to ring the bell. I believe he was chosen for this task because of his upstanding nature… and, he owns a watch. Then, when the bell sounds, kids file out of class and move as a group (5A, 5B, 5C, 6A, 6B, 7A, or 7B) to their next classroom. The fun part of moving to another classroom is that transition time is not written into the schedule. First period ends at 8:00. Second period begins at 8:00. If 6A has to move from classroom 18 (the lowest numbered classroom – I don’t get it either) to classroom 42, they have to do it “quickly, quietly and efficiently” – nearly impossible for 40 6th graders. And, when they arrive at classroom 42 at 8:05, who is to blame? The class? The previous teacher? I don’t mind when my entire class arrives late. However, at times (at least once a day), a learner will arrive about 10 minutes after the rest of their class. I have yet to make this an offence that requires disciplinary action but, instead, stop them and ask “why are you late?” Here are some of the responses:

- “I was making food for Mr. [so and so].”
- “I was in the toilet.”
- “Mr. [so and so] was asking a stick.”
- “Miss [so and so] was asking tea.”
- “I was drinking the water.”
- “Mr. [so and so] sent me to the store for NikNaks (Namibian Cheetos)”.
- “I was lost.”
- “I have dropped my pen in the sand. Borrow me another.”

First, being in the toilet sounds messy… and wet. Second, English vocabulary is sometimes inserted into Afrikaans or KK grammar – it makes for interesting sentence structure. And, third, what the crap (am I allowed to say crap online)? I thought we were in school? I understand a learner being late for child-ish reasons like digging for their pen in the sand or getting lost at a school they’ve been attending since they were six years old. But being late to buy Cheetos? Being late to run to a teacher’s house and make a sandwich? I don’t know if I’ll ever get that.

Even outside of school, the whole concept is still foreign to me. Children run the errands and do the chores. They make and deliver tea and lunch. They clean the kitchen and do the dishes. They carry bags and water to the house. Is it just my imagination, or in America, is it the opposite? If I recall, in elementary school my mother made me lunch. I didn’t have to run home and make my entire family’s, my teacher’s and my lunch before running back to school.

They have a phrase here, though Americans use it more than Namibians (and I have to admit I’ve never heard it said by an American that wasn’t mocking). They say, “send a small boy.” Need a chair? Send a small boy. Need lunch? Send a small boy. Chalk? Small boy. Need another teacher? A small boy can tell them to come. We even learned “Axabrob” in KK class. It means “small boy”. This is what we call a cultural difference. I’m sure one of you can tell me the irreparable mental and physical damage we are doing to these small boys when they go to fetch this or that. I’m sure it’s against some child labor law. But, I have yet to decide which is a better system of raising a child. Granted, I love the way I was raised and, if I do say so myself, I turned out ok. But, that’s not the case for all American children. We’re spoiled. I was spoiled. Is that better or worse? I’m not sure. I am sure, though, science class is more important than NikNaks.

Oh, and “small boy” really just means child. Which really means learner. Which in our case could mean a 6 year old or 16 year old.

Tuesdays and Thursdays I teach for six of the eight periods. I have two double period math classes in the morning and two single period science classes in the afternoon. In order for me to teach these classes, I have to commandeer classrooms from other teachers who are off that period. I usually feel like an invasion force when I arrive at class. None of the teachers really know the schedule yet (myself included). So on their off periods they tend to be sitting quietly working at their desks a look up to see me standing their with an armload of teaching materials (that I could have let a small boy carry) and holding the schedule that says I get to take over their classroom. I’d like to think that my word is enough but it doesn’t hurt that I have the whole class I’m teaching behind me yelling things like “Miss [person in charge] said we are here!” Meanwhile, the ones who aren’t yelling are hitting each other over the head with something. Or eating something. Or stealing something. Or breaking something. (Kids… I do love them. I do.) I imagine most of these teachers are kind enough to give up their classrooms just to stop the chaos. And, I’m sure it has nothing to do with me looking like a homeless, beggar teacher.

If I were a real teacher, my double period math class would simply sit in the same classroom for two periods on Tuesday and Thursday. But, alas, I am a fake teacher. This means that on Tuesday and Thursday, I dedicate the last two minutes of the first period to prep my learners to switch classes. I tell them: “we are having the rest of class. You must go to room 42. Go in. Sit down. Get your exercise books out and keep working on your assignments.” So, after erasing any proof that I existed in the first classroom, I go to room 42 to find my learners standing outside hitting each other with something. Or eating something. Or stealing something. Or breaking something. I sigh. Then, I finagle my way into borrowing the classroom. Then, I call my learners in. They come in and stand there staring at me. This is common. It means we must greet each other. But, after I convince them that we did just spend forty minutes together, they finally sit down without a second greeting for the morning and, after a minimum of ten minutes and five reminders, get their books back out and open them. Kids… I do love them. I do.

Today, I was in the middle of finagling my class into their second classroom when one of my learners ran up to me with a worried look. She said, “kakerlaka.” I have learned the meaning of this word many times since I’ve been in Namibia – none of these lessons were pleasant. “Kakerlaka” means cockroach. She and her worried expression then bent down and flicked a cockroach away from my foot. Then she ran back to join the rest of her class. She saved me! She saved me from the kakerlaka! Granted, it was a cockroach and I’m pretty sure I could’ve handled myself if it had decided to take a path over my foot. But one of my learners was looking out for me. It made me feel accepted and I pondered for a brief moment adding cockroaches to international signs of peace but ultimately decided against it.

2-17-08
When I got home from work this Friday, I spent the afternoon cleaning to prepare for a couple of volunteers that were coming to town to spend the weekend. In mid-plunge, I wondered if ever before I had needed to plunge the toilet, bathtub, shower and kitchen sink to prepare for people staying the night – we have plumbing problems.

Yesterday was the Katmanjab-Khorixas cluster athletic competitions. Khorixas is the bigger town so the events were held at our stadium. There are two other education PCVs near Katmanjab who traveled with their learners this weekend. In theory, the games began at 7am on Saturday. We, who are learning precious integration skills, decided this merited us showing up at 8:45 – within two hours is appropriate. It was a good day overall. Though, I didn’t do anything I can claim will attribute to the betterment of the Namibia, the Peace Corps, Khorixas, my school, my learners or even these particular athletic games. However, I did get a lot of, what we like to call, “face time” – imperative in reminding your community that you still exist and, someday, when you’re not so clueless and they are actually in need of help (instead of the reverse), you will be there for them.

Spending the weekend with two other volunteers was nice because it gave me a little perspective on the whole PCV experience. I realized that, generally, we are all confused, all the time. It seems that, because you live in a certain town or remembered someone’s name, you may be a better PCV than another but, in actuality, it just means you are a better faker. More than once during the games, one of us would be talking to a local teacher or coordinator with the others standing silently by. At the end of an outwardly logical conversation, the two silent ones would ask, “What was that about?” Inevitably this was followed by, “I have absolutely no idea.”

I have this theory that if you just keep smiling and showing up maybe it’ll all work out. If nothing else, at least the American people seem pleasant because we smile all the time. Someone will say something like, “when the volunteers travel to Outjo they will train the team and ride with the learners.” This is followed by us smiling and saying, “okay…” while thinking “Me-volunteer or another volunteer? What team? What do I train them? Why are the learners going to Outjo? When? Are we going in the back of a cattle truck or a vehicle with seatbelts? What are we doing when we get to Outjo? Why did I need to know that?” And, in the time you are deciding which of these questions is the most pertinent to ask out loud (because there will only be time for one to be answered before another seemingly unrelated tangent will take place that only causes ten more questions), you smile.


2-18-08
I got a fever yesterday. It came on really fast in the afternoon. Just walking from the kitchen to my room felt like I had just run a lap around the track. Luckily, one of the times I collapsed from exhaustion after a walk through the house, it was next to my Peace Corps medical handbook. I decided this was probably the good time to make sure I didn’t have an exotic fever-causing virus only available in southwestern Africa.

It didn’t appear that I have anything more than a cold. But, still catching my breath (and still living in Namibia), I found some interesting things to read about in my handbook. My favorite section is the one completely dedicated to Culture Shock. Symptoms of culture shock were listed as: Homesickness, boredom, Family tension, Withdraw from friends, excessive amounts of sleep, compulsive eating or not eating, Irritability, stereotyping host country locals, loss of ability to work, inexplicable fits of weeping, exaggerated cleanliness, and alcohol abuse.

Jessica’s reading thoughts: “Fits of weeping? Check. Sleep? I sleep, yeah. Homesick? Check. Boredom? I’m still reading the PC medical handbook. Eat? Yeah… and I bake… is baking bad… Cleanliness? I take showers. Hmm.”

Keep reading: The stages of these symptoms follow the following pattern: 1) Initial euphoria 2) Irritability and hostility 3) Gradual adjustment 4) Adaptation and bi-culturalism

Jessica reading thoughts: “Cool. I get to be bi-cultural! Is that as cool as being bi-lingual? Wait, did I miss the euphoria? Was that somewhere between the jet-lag and break downs on the phone when I first called home?”

Suddenly, my low-grade fever was far from my thoughts and I was concerned with my mental state of being – as I often am in Namibia. Then, I got an SMS from a friend and got distracted – as I often do in Namibia. And forgot about the whole thing until later. At which point I decided: I may or may not have these symptoms. And I may or may not die of culture shock. But, either way, the fact remains that US government educational material continues to entertain me :)

Disclaimer: the above entry is a result of what I like to call a fever-medicine shadow. This means my brain was raised (granted, a few slight) degrees above normal and American medicine is strong and, well, both tend to make me ramble. Thanks for listening.


2-19-08
After spending some time in examination of the work done by the laborious dung beetle, I have a new appreciation for my lot in life and, if you spend your days involved in tasks other than rolling large pieces of…, you should too.


2-22-03
I think I’ve reached the point in the game where travel meets job. The novelty is officially starting to wear off.

I’ve reached a point where the beautiful African-child faces I teach everyday are the same learners I taught yesterday and will teach tomorrow. They need to do their homework and they need to tuck in their uniform shirt. Yes, you can go to the toilet. No, you may not throw a pen across the room.

I’ve reached a point where the crazy man on the corner who sells decorative nuts has about three with my name on them. Literally. And he’s impoverished… but I’m still not buying one. And I stopped feeling bad about saying no.

I’ve reached a point where stopping to talk to the woman who sits under the tree selling fat cakes is just stopping to talk to someone I know. Even though she gives me iffy medical advice like: “hold garlic on your tongue until it burns and then it will burn out the fever.” Hmm, I think I’ll stick to the fat cakes.

I’ve reached a point where I accept a ride from anyone with Khorixas plates. Don’t worry mom.

I’ve reached a point where Bird-sized moths are not fascinating. They are gross… ok and still pretty cool when they die and cover the road.

I’ve reached a point where I’ve quit caring that I don’t match. And I don’t notice that deodorant never comes out of my shirts. And I think I wore the same outfit on Wednesday and Friday this week… but I can’t be sure because I wear it so often.

I’ve reached a breaking point where I started wearing sunscreen. Hey, skin cancer never looked good on anyone.

I’ve reached a point where I nearly consistently remember that people at home are still at home and, thanks to technology, still very accessible. But I still get homesick. I think there’s no controlling that.

I’ve reached a point where I count down to seemingly mundane events. Wednesday: groceries! Woo! Saturday: Cinnamon rolls and Internet! Sweet! March 1st: new clothes that I haven’t worn in Namibia yet. I hid them from myself. I am going to be so clean! …Everybody needs a strategy for counting down the full two years.

I’ve reached a point where I can watch nearly a whole season of Grey’s Anatomy in 48 hours, while still going to work and sleeping. Ok, ok, I bet I could have done that before too.

I’ve reached a point where, when I see kids playing soccer in the street with a lightening storm in the background, I think of my childhood and not “oh, my goodness, I’m in Africa!” even when they yell “Donkey cart” instead of “car” to clear the game out of the street. (Actually, I have no idea what they yell because they aren’t speaking English, but something effectively gets them all out of traffic when it matters)

I think I’ve almost reached the point where this becomes normal.

Actually, I’m probably speaking too soon. But, there are enough normal moments in everyday to make me think that maybe, just maybe, the world is small. And maybe, we are all alike.

Don’t feel bad for me and my normality. Be proud. I may actually fit in soon. I may actually make a friend! …Lets not get carried though. I still only walk on two streets in the location and have been too scared to branch out. I’ll make it with time, though.

Wish me luck. I’m integrating.

"You can be mean. You're in the Peace Corps. It's like a free card"

That is a quote from an anonymous PCV. I'd like to think its true. Only because its hard to be nice all the time... In any country.

Oh, and PS (pre-script): Jill is no longer in the Valentine's Day play. Bummer. I'm going to need something to do on Valentine's Day now... And I hope that will be reading all of the loving emails you all send me :)


January 30, 2008

Before I left the States, I read a few blogs from current volunteers in Namibia. They were helpful, but I don’t think I fully understood them until now. Only natural, I suppose. One thing I remember reading was about a PCV who started walking with an umbrella to and from school. She felt a little silly but didn’t want to get burned. Now that I’m here, I see many women carrying umbrellas and only one has been American. I think they want their skin to be lighter… but that could be a myth. I also remember reading about learners mocking American accents. I thought, “That could be cute”. No! It’s maddening! When will the novelty wear off? I don’t remember reading much about the language. This is odd because – It is Huge! I do remember reading about the unnatural pace a PCV goes through books. Jill proves this one true at a rate of about a day to day and a half per book. And, most recently, I’ve remember reading about the January and February sporting chaos. When I first read it sounded like just another hoop the PCVs had to jump through. But today, I experienced the magic of it all.

My primary school took the Kudus and the Orics to a stadium on the way out of town. Yet another corner of Khorixas I “footed” it to (their word, not mine). The kids were asked to come after lunch break to begin at 2:00 and they were asked not to wear dresses. The learners showed up between 1:45 and 3:00… some of them in skirts, some in boxers and some in tank tops I would have made them go and change out of if they lived in my house (meaning: it didn’t have enough fabric for a 14 year old). But, there were no dresses.

First, the kids met in the stadium. This stadium has a soccer field – with real grass!!! It also has a dirt track, covered stadium, bathrooms with running water and a few shade trees. When I got there early (what was I thinking) I sat and pondered the grass and shade trees and felt a little like I was back home. Then the learners started showing up. These kids, who live in houses made from 30 different pieces of corrugated metal and cook outside on a fire in the one pot their family owns, were now spending the afternoon running around a western-style stadium. It was cute and I wished I had cotton candy and peanuts to give all of them. While waiting they played and rolled in the grass. There were butterflies too… how could you not see magic in that? I mean seriously.

When most of the teachers and learners had arrived, the teams were split. Then, they started with team cheers. I’m pretty convinced they made up most of them on the spot. But the great thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they can get behind any clapping/singing game pretty quickly. The bad thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they have a lot of enthusiasm about it and forget to stop sometimes. “Oh, numbah, Numbah one. Kudus ah Numbah one” was chanted for approximately half an hour on repeat. Cute, but in a if-you-were-someone-else’s-kid way (and, at Eddie Bowe, “we’re teachers and parents” and that “makes us tougher” – I’ve been told). Annoying or otherwise, I was really happy to see them take ownership over their teams. I have this theory about building character by owning something you put work into.


When the track meet began it had a lot of whatever-meter runs… I can’t remember because I don’t belong at track meets. The kids who weren’t running cheered on their teammates from the stands. At one point in time, a child collapsed on the track right before the finish line. One teacher cleared the other kids away and tried to wake up the fallen learner. He was unsuccessful and called over another teacher to help carry the learner off the track. The second teacher picked up the collapsed learner and started to carry him away. The whole stadium had stopped to watch… about that time the kid cracked a smile and jumped out of the teacher’s arms and ran away. It reminded me a little of the Sandlot. I laughed, but then took a quick second to reflect on how much trouble that learner has given me in Science and stopped. It’s the creative ones that get you.

In the whole afternoon, I literally did nothing. I sat with the Grade Ones and enjoyed the scene. Sometimes, I show up and have to run the show and sometimes and show up and sit with the Grade Ones… it’s all about being prepared for anything… or not caring that you’re not prepared and going with the flow. I was ok with it though because the Grade Ones are excellent companions despite the fact that they only speak 9 words of English: How, are, you, am, fine, I, love, you and bye-bye. Technically, “Haullo” is KK too.


1-31-07
Did you know Khorixas and Chia Pets are made out of the same substance? I just went for a walk on a familiar path and got lost because so much greenery has sprouted in the past week. I’m trying not to appreciate it too much because I’m sure it will all fade very quickly. But I did take pictures so I can prove that greenery does exist in semi-desert areas (thank you Ecology for that practical knowledge).

I borrowed a book today called “Dear Exile”. It is a book full of letters written between two friends. One is in New York and the other is a PCV in Kenya. I spent the whole afternoon reading the adventures of the two and laughing out loud to myself like a crazy person. The PCV describes the first days of school… and I laughed. They waited three days for their staff meeting to start. She describes the staff room at her school… and I laughed. There was a flood and roaches in it while she wrote that letter (writing letters at school? I’ve done it. And I only wish our school had enough water for a flood). And, when the PCV attempted to burn dental floss and instead burned his hand… I laughed. Some of the scenarios seem a little too close to home.

Today, I have been in Khorixas for exactly three weeks. Two years has never felt longer. But on the plus side, approximately half the city knows my name. On the downside, they only know my name because of gossip.

Real teaching has only been in my existence for this past week. And in these precious few days I have concluded one thing: I will never be a middle school teacher. My grade six “Maths” (why is everything plural here: hellos, good mornings, maths, sciences…) classes have been ok. They listen well and are willing to answer questions. We are currently working on whole numbers and expanded notation. I’m a little surprised that they don’t know that the 5 in 56 means 50. I find myself struggling to remember 6th grade and what I knew about math. Anyway, grade 7 has been a bit of a handful. Teaching those two classes everyday is just asking to be made fun of. It is literally like I am back in middle school again. It’s really hard to balance the novelty of being from America and being a new strict teacher (strict – that’s me! Actually, I just chant that to myself before I walk in the classroom. Don’t smile before Christmas, they say. I think here it’s Easter, though). They want to mock my accent and ask me questions about American money and Eminem but I am insistent that we learn science. In real life, I’d rather just talk to them about whatever interests them. That could be one of the reasons they describe the first three months of PC teaching as “a disaster. Ha, a train wreck!” in training.

Another first: Today I checked out the first two books from the library for the year. One kid wanted a book on sports and the other wanted information about animals. I helped them find some books and fill out their library cards. They are my guinnee pigs for the whole process. I’ve been told to not let learners take books home because they get wet in floods or parents in the squatter’s camp use the pages to build a fire. But I stressed the importance of keeping the books safe and I am hoping for a safe return. I am also hoping that instilling small trusts in them will make them more responsible and worthy of trust. Responsibility! Ownership! Leadership! Be an Example! Am I sounding too Western yet?

Tomorrow is a sanity trip day. The volunteers will exodus from Khorixas and travel to Outjo. There we will hide from our semi-desert troubles, make a lot of no-bake cookies and commiserate. Also on the to do list: search for and recover a new trashcan. It seems un-assaulted rubbish bins are in short supply in K town.


2-5-08
I feel like my blog is a safe place. I feel this for a lot of reasons but, mainly, I feel this because I can still write the date month-day-year. Sometimes I have mini panic attacks when I turn to write the date on the board every morning – year-day-month, wait… month-day-year, no… um, day-month-year. Yeah, that’s it. Really, it’s quite a pitiful sight.

For lunch break today I had a liter/litre of fruit juice. I think that’s weird. Is that weird?

I didn’t find a rubbish bin in Outjo. I feel kind of bad about this. But I did succeed in eating a lot of cookies and commiserating.

Jill is going to be in a play that some youth in Khorixas are putting on for Valentine’s Day. She is going to be a nurse. The play is about the first time an original tribe heard the real facts of HIV/AIDS, I think… the explanation is weirder every time I hear it. I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve looked forward to Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry about Jill’s moral though; I’ll sit in the back so she can’t hear me laughing.

Today, I took a page from an old high school teacher of mine. The first day of calculus class, he kindly passed out note cards for us to write our name, age, favo(u)rite color, food, subject and what we wanted to be when we got out of school. We spent the whole time filling out the cards having warm fuzzy feelings that this man genuinely wanted to know about our lives. Then, he collected them and dismissed us. When we came back the next day, we had a lecture where he asked us the answer to numerous trigonometry and calculus questions. But, in the beauty of his plan, we did not need to raise our hands to answer these questions. He called on us! By flipping through our note cards! Then, at the end of everyday, he’d shuffle them! This painful set-up meant I had to pay attention for all of class and be ready with an intelligent answer because I never knew when my name was next in the pile. Well, as you can imagine, this plan is more difficult when the names have clicks and you are a clicking dunce, such as myself. But, willing to make a fool of pronunciations, I enacted the Note Card Plan today. It went over really well in 6th grade. I giggled to myself a little at the collective “gasp” from 6A when I turned their note cards against them. Grade 7 will have to experience that joy tomorrow. Oh, the satisfaction of classroom management.

Behavior management has been a bit of a nightmare since I’ve started teaching. I’m not exactly sure why this is. I’ve never had a behavior problems with a group of kids that I had NO idea how to solve. After all, working with and leading groups of kids has been my job, as a volunteer or otherwise, since I was a kid myself. I feel like that amount of training should have given me enough tricks to start off this year. But these kids are a different breed. I won’t go into the details of the problem because, well honestly, they’re all too middle school-ish. But I will say, I started the note cards today and have an elaborate reward system worked up for next week. I think the trick in all of this is to just keep showing up. Their weakness is an underestimation of American persistence… or, at least, Miss Jessica’s persistence.

Well, in the mean time, between now and then, just for kicks, a few things I’ve been wondering:

- Does speaking three languages affect the mental development of a child? How? What if they don’t learn how to read and write in any of them?

- Can a human run faster than a donkey?

- Can tans become permanent? Am I going to have perma-shirt sleeves?

- Is Mefloquine severely detrimental to my health?

- How to I get scones crumbly?

- What are some recipes I can use mealie (corn) meal for? (Moto, I think it was a typo/misunderstanding in the recipe I gave you. Fat cakes call for flour – not corn/mealie meal)

- Excessive cravings for cheese is like a brain-tumor thing, right?

- What’s going on in your lives?


2-9-08
I was using the Note Card Plan yesterday in science class. It works really well. But sometimes the kids just freeze when I call on them. This is understandable for a couple of reasons. First, kids here don’t get singled out for anything except when they do something wrong. So obviously they would look like deer in the headlights when I call on them. And second, English is not their first language and, I know from experience, speaking a foreign language in front of large groups is scary… really scary.

Anyway, it’s understandable that they freeze. So, I’ve taken to walking over to their notebooks and looking at the answer they have written. Usually, it’s correct. At which point I say, “perfect”. Yesterday, I noticed the bold ones started to freeze also. This is the opposite of what should happen. I discovered the cause in the last period of the day. One of the louder boys in class gave me the deer in the headlights look when I called his name. Then, he held out his book for me to look at. I looked and said “perfect. Say that out loud.” But instead, he turned to his friend, straightened his shirt, brushed it off in an I’m-awesome manner and repeated “perfect”.

Sheesh. Someone praise these kids please.

Over the past few days, I reread my blog posts. How is it that so much perspective could be gained a three and a half months? During site visit I remember Jill and I were totally disgusted with out respective housing situations. But, I can’t lie; they’re both quite posh (minus Jill’s overwhelming need to mop). I remember thinking also that a lot of the people I met were kind of rude. I’ve re-met those people since being back at site and, to be honest, they’re really pleasant welcoming people. I also remember while writing some of the posts I was really worried that they would come off as cynical or too serious. While re-reading I found that none of them were really that bitter.

I say all of that because I was debating whether or not I should write about corporal punishment. Do they really need to know? Will they understand? I think you will.

Corporal punishment is illegal in the United States (that’s a bit of an understatement, huh? In truth, you can’t really even touch a child). Well, it’s illegal in Namibia too. But, the catch, it’s only illegal if you get caught. Beating children is still accepted among colleagues as a good form of discipline. I knew this before I got to school. And I understand that it is still a new law and it may take a few years to see the full effect. But, it’s still a shocking sight.

Don’t go overboard with imagination. The people I work with are good people. And kids aren’t beaten to a pulp. Beating means the learner has to hold their hand out while the teacher hits it repeatedly with a stick. The stick is usually about the same diameter as my pointer finger. After each hit, the little ones jump around with their hand tucked under their armpit or between their legs. Then they hold out their hand again for another hit.

I’ve only seen a few kids being beat but learners are more than willing to share their beating stories with me. “Oh, miss, I failed a test and I was beat by Mr. So-and-so…” I know from experience that kids like to tell stories. But I also know those stories are usually rooted in truth. I’m not starting an all out witch-hunt. I’m just sayin… there are stories.

I’m not trying to underplay the fact that kids are being beat here either. The problem comes from the fact that I don’t belong. I am an outsider. I can’t just come into these schools, pull out my soapbox, stand there and preach “In America… Beating children causes fear… Discipline should be balanced with reward…” This country is still trying to figure out who it is. That can be a rocky process.

Since we’re being so honest about being in the Peace Corps in Namibia, I think I’ll let you in on another [superficial] cultural difference. Oddly enough, this cultural misunderstanding puts PCVs in as much of a foul mood as the beatings… really, just the female PCVs, though. Let me explain:

Here, it is good to be fat. Being fat can mean a few things. It can mean that you are rich enough to afford food, you are all around healthy and, most importantly, you don’t have AIDS. It is a common compliment to say, “You are fat!”

Well, let me tell you, this does not go over well. It doesn’t matter if the person is actually fat or not. One volunteer I met from NAM26 is approximately the same size as Mary Kate Olson. She lives with a family and teaches in the north. Her host family was so pleased one morning when she came in for breakfast wearing a large shirt. “Oh, you are fat today!” They were so excited for her. She was less than pleased though.

Our trainers tried to warn us. They explained that sometimes it could mean that you look happy, healthy and well adjusted. This, as you can imagine, doesn’t help. Yesterday, I put on a sweatshirt between our morning staff meeting and tea break. One of my favorite colleagues came up to me as I was waiting for the tea water to boil, patted my hip and said, “Oh, yes. You are getting fatter.” Gosh, this freaked me out. I went home and tried on some pants I haven’t worn since the Sates to make sure they still fit. They do. Don’t worry. I prefer to think she was referring to the sweatshirt and the fact that I was actually smiling during tea break and not dreading the awkwardness.

Which brings me to the sweatshirt. It’s cold here! Just yesterday and today. The rain came on Thursday night. This time it’s not the patchy downpours that alternate with intense sunshine to ensure misery. It was almost similar to Oregon spitting rain. We have been sitting a cloud for the past two days and it is glorious. Bleak. Gray. Wet. Cold(ish). I love it. I’m not crazy, just homesick.

And since we’re flowing so nicely between topics, you all need to know: I am a wimp. I am a wimp because I am homesick. I hear from reliable sources that it is common to be homesick when you move to Africa… or, generally, the other side of the planet. But, I have a period of everyday dedicate to being homesick. I don’t choose these periods of the day or how long they last. They usually choose me. Sometimes, my tears well up at very inconvenient times – like staff meeting or while explaining STIs (STDs) to 7th graders. It’s actually a little pathetic.

I have faith, though, that this is what we like to call an “adjustment period”. And, hopefully, it will pass. I am finding each day to be better than the day before it. Each week, I am becoming more comfortable. It would all be so much easier though if I could just get a cup of coffee at Chapters, curl up on a friend’s couch, watch TV and drive to my parents’ house on the weekends…

All those things will be there when I get back, though? Right? Friends, reserve those couches for me now. Got it? Mom, Dad. Car? House? Elmer’s? Ok?

Well, this is “Goodbye”. Wait. I already did that in October. So that means this is a “See you later”. But I won’t see you for a while. So this is really a “More later”. Which I am sure to be true. Because, here, there is always more to tell. Always.

More Later. Love, J

Some words are light

January 22, 2008

I’ve given up trying to get the water any color but grey when I rinse my laundry. And, I found out I like running… but only down hills…

I haven’t been writing the past week for two reasons. 1) I’m pretty sure someone stole a couple of hours from each of my days and 2) I’m a little embarrassed that I haven’t started teaching yet.
Last week was the first week of school. Monday was a cluster (district) meeting. I think I wrote about that one already. We got a pep talk. This past year the Kunene schools jumped from 13th, last, to 5th. The Khorixas cluster scores, however, remained the same. This means that we did not contribute to the 8-place jump. Our pep talk was shape up or… shape up. I was told to arrive for this meeting at 8 in the morning. When I arrived at 8, the secretary was there to point me in the right direction and a social studies teacher was there to offer me a chair outside of the meeting room. The social studies teacher and I then proceeded to sit there until 10:30, when everyone else showed up (including the colleague who told me eight). Wrong time, you may guess? The agenda they handed out when we all finally sat down – “Khorixas Cluster Meeting. 14 January 2008. 8:00 am”. Welcome to Namibia.
Tuesday was registration. I’m sure I wrote about that. Still a conundrum. Wednesday was the first day learners were in classes. In class, they corrected the spelling and information on roll call, dusted their desks and harassed the new American teacher. Really, it was just one who seems like he’s going to be trouble. I was given grade 7A to entertain for the day. We read a lot of stories, hoping it would get them used to the accent so I wouldn’t have to talk as slow when teaching actually started. Then we had silent reading time. It was a long day but a good one overall. Thursday, they changed the lock on the library and gave me a key! Woot! A few cleaning supplies later, I’ve got all of the book donations unpacked and dusted. These are the books for the kids in the hostel. I want to use them for an after school reading program… but that feels a little too ambitious right now (Maybe, after I actually start teaching). Also in the library is a closet full of old papers and posters. I know you all have the wrong idea of Namibia because I have running water, electricity, a gas stove and a phone that can get me on facebook, but you have to realize, this is still Africa and that much paper in one room is like a gold mine. I spent part of Thursday going through the boxes of old AIDS posters (seemingly, an ineffective way to educate against the epidemic – just judging by how new the posters are, the lame slogans and the 3 inches of dust on the box) to look for ones with clean white backs I can write on. I had enough that I decided to make a poster for the library. I wanted to write a poem because I have a feeling knowledge about poetry isn’t that widespread in Khorixas. I would’ve written one of my own but I’m a shy poet. So, I pulled the only poetry book off the shelf and found this gem:

Feelings About Word
By. Mary O’Neill

Some words clink
As ice in a drink.
Some move with grace
A dance, a lace.
Some sound thin
Wall, scream and pin.
Some words are squat:
A mug, a pot.
And some are plump:
Fat, round and dump.
Some words are light:
Drift, lift and bright.
A few are small:
A, is and all.
And some are thick
Glue, paste and brick.
Some are sad:
“I never had…”
Some are gay:
Joy, spin and play.
And some words cry,
“Goodbye… Goodbye.”

I’m not really sure why I shared that with you, but I am sure it’ll make you a better person in the long run.
Friday, I spent about an hour at school before I left for the weekend. I let my counterpart and supervisor know that I had plans to go to Okakarara on Friday for a friend’s birthday. I was planning on leaving after school but they came into the library on Friday morning to tell me they had called a taxi and it would be there in an hour. Sweet! Permission to skip work and a ride! More about the weekend a little later, though.
Monday, the kids finally got last year’s timetable (schedule of classes). Currently, they’re making the new timetable to include me and Natural Science (or so they say). Since they are using an old timetable, I am the only teacher without a class. So, I trudged, dejectedly, to the library again. The only thing I have left to do in the library is re-shelf all of the books because they’re all out of order. But, I don’t want to do an overhaul like that yet. Instead, I remade a few labels, hung some posters, (and I can’t lie) worked on my personal budget and surfed facebook (Hey, I’m there from 7:00 – 1:30 by myself.).
Today has been more of the same. I remade the Feelings About Words poster for Jill, the Health PCV in Khorixas, to hang in her apartment. She’s a writer and I know she would appreciate such fine workmanship. Plus, I chose a particularly special Anti-AIDS poster to draw on the back of (I feel like there’s got to be a better way to educate the general public about AIDS. I can’t think of what it is. At least they’re trying something, I guess). Also, this afternoon, I’m coaching track. Don’t be so shocked… well, ok, you can be shocked. I didn’t volunteer to run with the kids; I was just standing in the wrong place when all the other teachers decided they didn’t want to… Personally, I don’t think it’s fair to play “not it” in Damara if not everyone speaks Damara.
The upper primary kids were divided into two teams – the Kudus and the Orics. I get to train the Kudus. Poor kids. This afternoon is the first official (if there is such a thing in Namibia) practice. Then, at the beginning of February the Orics and Kudus will compete to see who gets to go to the Khorixas cluster competition, then to the Kunene regional competition. I’m still not sure what’s involved in these competitions but I’m assuming a lot of running because there’s no equipment for anything else. Either way, I think the kids who run without shoes should get seconds taken off of their time.
That about sums up life at school. Just add super awkward tea breaks where I don’t understand a word for half an hour, a bell that sounds like a fire alarm, the sweetest cleaning crew on the planet and hiding in a dusty library closet so no one knows you don’t so anything for six and a half hours and you’ve got the starting-work-in-Africa experience in a bottle.
Outside of school has been a roller coaster. I prefer to think that it’s my circumstances and surroundings that change so often because otherwise, I’m a bi-polar train wreck. I’m pretty sure I mentioned the cooking and baking that’s taken over my life. I don’t think I’ve gotten any better, my standard have just getting lower. Monday-Wednesday I was settling in, cooking and taking walking tours of Khorixas. Thursday night I started packing for my weekend in Okakarara. Since I am still unsure about who has keys to my room and what little kid is going to be walking through, this also involved cleaning my room and locking up anything valuable.
I had to take out my trash too. Now, let me just preface this story with a few things. First, don’t try this at home. Second, I burned my trash through all of CBT and shadowing successfully. And, Third, I are a college grad-ge-ate… So, you’re probably wondering by now. I took my bag of trash out to the can but you can’t leave trash outside in the can because people will go through it and scatter it. Residents solve this problem by burning their trash. Or, in semi-urban settings, like Khorixas, they just don’t put their trash out until the morning it’s going to be picked up (Monday). But, when you’re on a cleaning spree, why wait? So, I put my trash out and, as I have done before (I promise) I lit it on fire. There was just one problem with this foolproof plan and that was: our trashcan is plastic… I know all you scholars out there are wondering how I didn’t foresee the huge flames that engulfed the entire trashcan and melted it to the pavement and, honestly, I have no idea why I didn’t. Just know I was lulled into a false sense of security by the metal lid and handles. Never assume anything in Africa - Of course the sides were plastic. Why not? So, after my tiny bag of trash had started a neighborhood bonfire, I ran inside to get water to put out the flames. But, welcome to the roller coaster, our kitchen had a flood earlier in the day and we had turned the water off. Luckily, the teakettle and a pot on the stove were full. I ran those outside and used a combination of water and sand to put out the fire. About the time I got the flame down to a manageable smolder my housemate’s car alarm starts going off. Within seconds, I’ve got an audience consisting of a just-woken-up British VSO, a street kid and a dog I think is rabid. Also about that time, a freak rainstorm finished putting out the fire (I couldn’t make stuff like this up if I tried). Personally, I think the scene was pretty self-explanatory: me, drenched, holding a teakettle, standing next to a melted trashcan. Nonetheless, I explained myself the best I could to my housemate as she was turning off her car alarm and then went inside to finish packing. The next morning I woke up early (4:45. Normally I wake up at 5) to scrape the plastic off the pavement… along with my pride.
When I got to school my colleagues had called the taxi so I gathered my bags and took a turn by the hospital to pick up Jill. After a half hour tour in the location as the taxi driver ran errands, we left for Outjo. In Outjo, we picked up another NAM 27er and headed for Otjiwarongo. Super Spar stop! We bought coffee and garlic bread and continued to Okakarara (detailed trip schedule for dad – Google Earth it!).
It was rainy and dreary when we got to Okakarara. And I loved it! There are two PCVs in Okakarara and four who live outside. When all of us had arrived we went to the local restaurant to relax and recover from our respective taxi rides. That evening we made pizza, enjoyed free SMS Friday and played Outburst. It was a great evening, except (roller coaster) the oven exploded in the birthday girl’s face. Luckily, her eyebrows, her primary concern, were still intact (mostly). Her right arm and face only looked sunburned but her right hand was covered in blisters. Her solution? Drink a lot of Vodka. Peace Corps? Hard Core.
The next morning we hired two taxis. They were both VW Rabbits and we practiced our clown car skills out to Waterburg Plateau. Waterburg is a nature reserve between Otjiwarongo and Okakarara and it’s beautiful. When we first arrived, the tour guides told us about game drives. It sounded tempting but we were shut down at the N$350/person price tag. We opted for a walking tour instead. About ten minutes later, two were covered in mud, four were annoyed at the mosquitoes, one was distracted by the German tourists and Sabrina and I were the only ones actually interested in the first stop, a German cemetery. My pondering the cemetery (and what, in 1904, made 22-year old Fritz decide to come to Namibia. And did he know he would die there… hmmm) was interrupted by The Plan. The Plan was to flirt with the rangers until we got a better price on the game drive. Clearly, this was not my area of expertise, so I waited outside. I did see through the window that the blister, burned hand was hidden away during haggling – hmm, maybe a technique I’ll have to keep in mind. The Plan was successful and we got a 50% discount.
When our safari vehicle arrived it was equipped with two quirky tour guides who claimed they had only been working at the park for two days… a joke, I think, but after a whole afternoon with them, I’m still not entirely convinced they didn’t just highjack the vehicle and decide to give tours that day.
The vehicle was an open-air truck. With the rain, the first couple minutes of the trip were spent convincing ourselves that the cold was a welcome change. Then, seemingly from nowhere, our self-claimed novice guides pull out these fleece-lined heaven-sent ponchos. My day was suddenly the best on the planet (roller coaster). I found a bag of peanuts in my bag and sat back for a beautiful ride with friends.
Along the way, we stopped at two hides surrounding a watering hole. We didn’t have any luck. The only animals we saw were butterflies, a chameleon, springbok, a stomach left over from a lion kill, beetles eating the stomach left over from the lion kill and a domestic buffalo (A cow. I told you they were quirky). The whole trip put us in high spirits anyway. At the end it also turned out one of the guides was the cook. So, when we got back to the main part of the park he opened the restaurant for us. The birthday girl’s mom sent money to pay for our dinner… and… it… was… fabulous!!
After dinner (with an amazing view of the plateau and deciding Brad and Angelina probably rented out the whole place) our taxis came to pick us up. We made it back to the house safely and our resident chef (chemist = chef) made a birthday cake. The evening was quiet and relaxing. In the morning the three of us from the West (Outjo and Khorixas) caught a taxi to Super Spar. After we had acquired 50 extra pounds of canned tuna, five different blocks of cheese and some spices, we continued on our way home. By the time I got to back to Khorixas I was slightly miffed (roller coaster). On the way home, our taxi almost ran out of gas. The gaslight was on with 65Km to go. Apparently, the approved solution for this is to drive at 80km/hour, which, in the middle of nowhere, feels like I could run faster (but only downhill :) ). I stopped looking at the clock but I’m pretty sure it took us about two to two and half hours to from Outjo. The entire time, Jill and I SMSed about the coming predicament – running out of gas in the textbook description of “nowhere”. Anytime something bad is about to happen in PC Namibia, you have the consolation that you may become a scenario to train the next group. So, we imagined our little transportation nightmare typed on a 1/2 sheet of paper with 15 NAM 28ers sitting around discussing it. And, I’m sure, their conclusion would be a brilliant revelations like, “just don’t get in the car in the first place.” Which all sounded great when I was staring at my slip of paper… but in real life, in the middle of nowhere, it doesn’t always fly. But, it was not our time for fame and we made it back to Khorixas safely. Thank goodness! …and gas.


January 23, 2008
Today was a good day. I think. I’m at least due for a good day anyway. Monday and Tuesday I was super homesick. I know home is safely waiting for me. But I think homesickness is encouraged by frustration at the problems (real and imagined) I deal with here and wishing I could just leave them. I know at home I wouldn’t have to deal it. But we call that quitting and I’m not fond of it. Peace Corps Namibia is what we like to call a “challenge by choice” (thanks Tilikum, for the terminology) and sometimes I’m not entirely sure why I keep choosing it. The good news is: I survived Monday and Tuesday and today has been better.
I am still not teaching. But, today I met with my supervisor. She explained a little more about the school and some the learner’s reaction to me. It was really helpful, if, for no other reason, to at least remind me that they know I’m here. Also, the timetable is in the works (I saw it with my own eyes so I know it exists). Right now, the plan is for me to start teaching 6A and 6B Math (I think they feel uneasy about this because I tried to find 70 percent of 39 today and got it wrong… it was the 7 times 9 that got me… 63, I know, I know, but I had just got done running around in the sun with the kids) and 7A and 7B Natural Science on Friday. With the way things are going, it’ll probably be Thursday instead. Living here is all about patience and being on your toes – seems like opposites, neh?
Track practice has been fun these past two days. The kids like to make fun of my accent. It was a little annoying at first so I made a game out of it. They have to repeat after me in their best American accents (which are actually terrible but make them giggle). Words they think sound particularly silly are “lower”, “raise”, “ok” and “good job”. I believe in Namibia they say “low-ah”, rolled “r” for raise, “ow-kay” and… I’m not sure why “good job” is funny… maybe it’s just not said enough around here.
Jill joined me today for practice. I was really grateful. I have enough knowledge to fake a track practice but Jill was actually in track so she’s got some real exercises. We had them doing high knees, butt kicks, lunges and walking on toes out to a tire and then they had to sprint back. They were over-enthusiastic and sprinted in both directions no matter how many times I told them otherwise. So, on the lunge round I went with all five teams out to the tire and sprinted back. Then, oddly, I decided to run their final laps with them… at three in the afternoon, in a desert. I’m such a white girl – I have to wear shoes and I think the desert is hot. The cleaning ladies were a little concerned about my health and red face afterwards (as I was multiplying 39 by 0.7) but I assured them it was normal.
When I got home, as per a young single person’s prerogative, I decided cookies were for dinner. Yum – especially with the cocoa powder I got at Spar. While the cookies were cooling I went on a hike in my backyard. So great and so Africa. I live on the edge of town (the opposite edge of Khorixas from the school where I work. Just FYI), so out back is a hill with a cell phone tower. The hill is probably half the size as McDonald forest loop 36 minus pine trees, mud and pups. The top is a great view and a cool wind. I like to call it the Khorixas escape route (I’ve been up there three times since I’ve been at site. I’m going to have to start exploring other hills around. Heaven knows there are enough to climb around here).
When I got back, I had my cookies for dinner, a lukewarm shower and a few styling from the Cranberries. An alright day all around, I suppose.


January 26, 2008
Yesterday was the last free SMS Friday *sad face*. I think I’ll survive though. I got a Christmas tree in the mail (thanks Heather). Facebook hasn’t been down all week. Sweet! And, I’m going to a mopping party at Jill’s house in a few minutes. She doesn’t know how to mop and, with the vast amounts of empty floor space available in PC housing (due to lack of furniture), it is extremely important. Some kids from Khorixas offered to help (they are sympathetic to American weirdness because they had the two previous PCVs as teachers in their Secondary school).
Yesterday was the semi-first day of teaching. I taught my math classes but the science ones were interrupted by a meeting… in the middle of school? Math went over really well, though. The kids got a kick out of the slow-down-you’re-talking-too-fast-and-I-don’t-understand-you thumbs down I taught them. I told them a story about flying from America to Namibia. Progressively, I would talk faster and faster until they would all throw the thumbs down when they couldn’t understand anymore. I don’t think they get to tell teachers what to do often… probably not a good way to start off the year but whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?
I tried scones again this morning. They keep coming out squishy. If anyone knows how to get them flaky let me know. Random request, I know. Well, I’ve got a mop and bucket calling my name. I love hearing what you all are up to – Facebook messages work best but email works a lot also.

January 27, 2008
Well, I thought I was posting yesterday but I didn’t get a chance to yet. It’s ok though because if I had posted I would have to wait a really long time to tell you about my amazing day today. Actually, most of it was pretty terrible.
I woke up this morning to a mean case of homesick and a power outage. It had rained last night and had caused the power to go out. Since the morning was cloudy and there was nothing to do at home I decided it would be a good morning for a hike. Little did I realize that cloudy, raining weather in Khorixas is like dumping a bucket of water on Hell. I was dying halfway up the hill I had decided to explore. I may be exaggerating, but I think it was worse than a Louisiana summer. By the time I got home I was looking forward to the cold shower that I usually dread but the water was out. I think it wanted to steal Electricity’s thunder. I was going to SMS Jill to see if the location was having similar problems but I was out of Tango (phone minutes) and, about that time, my phone battery died anyway. Sheesh. How am I supposed to cope in Africa, without any coping mechanisms? Luckily, my ipod still had some juice, though one side of my headphones had gotten squished in my lock box. So, I put the good side of the headphones in and some still functioning pieces of the other side. It looked a little silly but it got the job done.
In the afternoon, the power and water came on at about the same time (I think it’s a conspiracy to make me think I’m bi-polar). It was just in time to get a SMS from Jill inviting me to hang out in the donkerhoek (squatter’s camp). The SCORE volunteer in town takes soccer balls over there every weekend. The basic plan is just to wander in and look for kids… and sure enough, the kids come. Everyone gets to play. The teenagers started a serious soccer game, with shoes outlining the goals. Some younger ones started a game of catch and “tegu te” (I’m not sure how it’s spelled, or said really, but it’s similar to duck duck goose). Then, they decided to switch to net ball. Net ball is like basketball but you don’t bounce the ball. Jill and I found a purpose during all this as the nets. We held out our arms anytime a team came near to make a basket. The faces that you make when you’re a net, I think, have got to be priceless. I was thinking my nose was not going to make it out of the net ball game intact. But it’s fine… This could be because my team lost miserably and, consequently, made fewer threats on my face. Down time during my net experience was spent convincing some little boys that my thumb was detachable. I have never seen so much awe and wonder and the thumb removal trick. I think kids in the States have lost their awe… or I’m just less able to trick them.
When we left the donkerhoek it was about to rain again but I felt pretty good about life in general. If nothing else, at least I discovered a new coping mechanism. Who knew it would be hanging out and playing with kids who never have electricity and water. Which is good to think about tonight as I work on my lesson plans to the tune of thunderstorm and the glow of candlelight. That’s right, the power’s back off. But, don’t be grossed out, the water came back on long enough for me to get a shower.

when it's ok to swear

January 13, 2008
Wow. So much has happened in such a short amount of time. This past week was really busy… and, yet, still very African.
Sunday and Monday were our LPIs. LPI stands for Language Proficiency Interview. We had a mid-LPI in the middle of CBT – on which I scored a NL. NL stands for Novice Low, and it is as bad as it sounds. Novice Low is the lowest you can score. It’s just above not knowing any of the language. The next scores are Novice Mid, Novice High, Intermediate Low, Intermediate Mid, Intermediate High and Advanced. For Peace Corps service you need to score an Intermediate Low. However, in Namibia, language is not critical to your assignment (though it is still a touchy topic among natives. There is a lot of pride in a tribe’s language. Also, most Namibians (sans Afrikaners) know at least three languages – Mother Tongue (Khoekhoe, Otjiherero, Oshiwambo, Thimbukishu, etc.), Afrikaans and English (for school). So knowing only one of the three, four, six, ten… that others know, you feel a little out of the loop. Not to mention a little stupid). In Namibia, if a trainee doesn’t score an IL they can retake the LPI at reconnect (a meeting three to four months down the road)(Actually, they just changed the policy and you have to retake the LPI at reconnect, mid–service meeting and at close of service no matter what you score the first time. I think they are trying to see if the language training is paying off in the long run). This is generally good news for people learning Khoekhoe. Most of us scored a NH. There were a few IL and one IH... but we just pretend she’s a genius. In our whole group only one person received an advanced score. She is learning Afrikaans. I’m a little bitter about this seeing how you can generally just talk funny and sound like you’re speaking Afrikaans. Example: “Wat es jou naam?” “ My naam is Jessica.” “Ek kom van Amerika af.” Should I translate, or have you figured it out? I don’t mean to discredit the people learning Afrikaans. It’s still a challenge. It’s just tough that we’re compared. Also, in Namibia, scores are not private. Grade 10 and grade 12 national exam scores are printed in the newspapers. Everyone knows if you’ve failed or passed. So, they stuck with this tradition and printed all of our LPI scored on one paper and passed it out to everyone. Cultural integration at its best!
I had my LPI on Sunday. In memory of GFU, I got up early sat down at the dinning room tables in my PJs and studied until my test. About mid-morning I found a sympathetic local who was willing to practice with me. Also, I was expecting the same break-neck paced mumbling I got during my mid-LPI so I memorized a few key phrases, such as: “speak slower” “Wait, I know” “I know but I forgot” “I don’t understand” “wait, I do understand” and “speak louder”. My interview was after lunch. I was so shocked when I got in there that it was actually fun to muddle through a conversation! Some things I had to literally translate into KK, which was no fun and terrible grammar, but other times I felt like I had a good grasp on the conversation. At one point in time I even used past, present and future in the same thought. I believe I said, “I like science. I wanted to be a doctor but I am going to teach science.” There were other times though, that I lied because I didn’t have enough grammar to tell the truth. I told her that my dad was a doctor, my mother was a banker and my brother was currently studying computers. Not far from the truth… it was the best I could do in KK.
It was nice to get the LPI out of the way so I could regroup on Monday. Since we got to Namibia, we’ve literally been ferried, taxied, bused and sent ten different places. It gets little tiring and disorganized. I have been living out of a suitcase since I packed it in October. Granted, it looks like my suitcases and their contents were put in a huge dryer, tumbled and dumped back into my retreat center room. Luckily, my seven roommates seem to be having the same trouble. I believe we won the messiest room award… if it actually existed. Anyway, Monday was spent packing and running around Okahandja looking for replacement clothes and toiletries.
I also got a chance to visit the craft market at the end of town. The craft market is a mini settlement of tents and tables filled with all things African looking. It was a lot of fun to visit because I wasn’t looking for anything. However, some of my friends who were haggling for real got a little frustrated. I was just haggling to see if I could get a good deal. In the end, I guess I got dooped though because I bought a bracelet I got a good price on. One particular conversation was pretty memorable. One of the merchants came up to my friend and said, “come to my tent, I have something to show you.” Well, I don’t know if I need to tell you, but we get a little protective of each other, and my ears pricked up when I heard him talking to her. A third friend came over also and said, “So you think you know what American women want?” The man said, “why yes, I think I do.” So we decided to see what was up. First, we were offered candlesticks. Um, no. Then, we were offered beaded dolls. Not quite. Then, getting desperate, we were offered a traditional mug (used to scoop the beverage out of it’s fermenting spot in the ground). Eww, no. And, one last final pitch – “How about a traditional bow and arrow?” Oh, and a line-up full of losers. But I was laughing so hard by the time I left the tent it was worth the spiel.
On our walk back from the craft market, a PC vehicle drove by. We literally jumped on it and asked for a ride. This was just a sign to me that we’ve changed in the past two months. At the beginning, it was good to walk. Good exercise. Also, why would I ride in an iffy combi with a grumpy driver when I could just walk for a few extra minutes? Well, since then, I’ve realized that PC has got some of the best rides in the country… not to mention seatbelts. That, coupled with the fact that days average 110F, makes you jump on PC vehicles (literally) when you see them in action.
Tuesday, we were bused to Windhoek to spend our settling-in allowance (money that should be used to buy household items to use during service)… but (welcome to the Peace Corps) that money wasn’t put in our accounts. The day was spent doing one of two things. One, people spent savings from their American accounts to buy toasters, tea kettles, blankets, sheets, pots, pans, pillows and fans. Or, option number two, spend N$350 dollars (somewhere around $60 American) from of our walk-around allowance and then wait for the buses to pick us up at the mall. I opted for the second and spent my $60 on a fan, speakers, a pillow, the tiniest plate I’ve ever seen and a spoon. These were all chosen in the midst of mid-isle breakdowns induced by 1) being overwhelmed by the sheer size of a superstore in the middle of Africa and 2) being completely exhausted. This ended up working out in my favor, though, when I got to site.
Wednesday was our swearing in ceremony. We got all gussied up for the event. It was nice to wear clothes that hadn’t been exposed to dust, sun and sweat and still smelled vaguely of my parent’s washing machine. The program was supposed to start at 10am (African time). The audience was made up of some of our supervisors, some host families, the local news and our trainers. First, there were some speakers. Then, we said our pledge of service where we promised to serve the people of Namibia to the best of our ability for the next two years. Then we said the same pledge of service in Afrikaans, KKG, Oshiwambo, Otjiherero, Rukwangali, Silozi and Thimbukushu – whichever we had been learning over the past couple of months. True to my form, I was laughing by the time we reached the end of the pledge. It wasn’t how we sounded that got me laughing; it was the response to our pledge that I was giggling at. The end of each sentence was followed by the audience gasping, ooos, awes and clapping. You would’ve thought we were juggling fire while standing on a bed of nails. It was cute. I think they were proud. Yay! We made it to PCV! There were 69 PCVs sworn in. We started with 70 PCTs. That’s got to be one for the record books, I think. I’ve got a lot of NAM 27 pride.
After our pledge a volunteer from each language group gave a thank you speech in the language they had been working on. These were equally as impressive to the audience. For KK, my good friend Nick gave the speech (with permission to use his name online!). He did a good job… as far as I could tell… Hey, I don’t speak the language. It’s hard to tell if you speak KK well because locals tend to laugh. Sometimes they laugh because you just said a lot of gibberish and sometimes they laugh because they’re overwhelmed with joy that an American would care to learn their language. I’m sure it was the second but our pledge and speech were reciprocated with snickers.
I was forewarned about what would happen next, but that didn’t make it any easier. People were literally whisked away by their supervisors and transports to site. Some of them didn’t even change out of their dress clothes before they were driven away. I didn’t think it would be hard. After all, I came here to work with Namibians not to make friends with Americans… or so I thought. In the past months, I’ve made some good friends. There were only two who knew each other when we arrived in DC, and they’re married. In DC, they gave us all pink yarn for our bags, told us to look out for each other and put us on a plane for Africa. Ten weeks later, that’s what we’ve done. I don’t think I’ve had a single problem that at least three people didn’t try to help me solve. Obviously, there are politics and, obviously, we’re not all best buds for life… but they’re my Namibian support system. Luckily, they’re all still in country and saving the world at their respective sites. And, as a bonus, we all get back together at reconnect with awesome/absurd stories to share!
Again, true to my form, I was one of the last to leave. I got to stay another night at the retreat center and then left for site on Thursday morning. All of the volunteer teachers in the Kunene regions rode together. Everything went really smoothly until we had driven an hour or so north. We stopped in Otjiwarongo, one of the last big towns, for shopping at Super Spar (I love that place!). When we were about to leave our driver noticed that something had gone wrong with the tire. This was no big deal, since we weren’t actually moving when he discovered that something was wrong. But it did lend itself to us sitting in a broken down car with all of our groceries waiting a couple of hours for the Ministry of Education vehicle secretary to get back from lunch and give us the keys to another (older) combi. By the time we got a new car and drove the next hour and a half (two hours or more by slow old combi) to Khorixas, it was 5pm. It had taken seven and a half hours to drive what would normally take four hours. This is when I realized I actually love and hate life in Namibia, at the same time. On one side, I got to hang out with all the Kunene volunteers for a few extra hours and the roadblock guard said he wouldn’t let anyone into Khorixas who looked like they would give me trouble (How many of you have your own personal Namibian road block, huh?). But, on the other hand, it took all day to get a simple trip done. The five other PCVs who were supposed to make it to site couldn’t keep traveling because it is not safe to drive at night – elephants, warthogs, kudu, dikdiks… you name it, it’ll prance in front of your car. So, they all stayed over in K town. The sleepover was fun.
Before I got to Khorixas, my supervisor called to let me know my flat wasn’t ready. My flat is attached to school hostel in the location. However, the ministry of education has a house in town that education volunteers live in. When I got to town, they gave me a set of keys to this house. The house has a living room with three extra mattresses, two unoccupied bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen, toilet room, bathroom and washroom. I’ll be staying in this house for… well that seems to be the question of the day. Some say I’ll be here until Monday, others say a week, others two and some even say a month. The volunteer house is a bit of a luxury because it is fully stocked with furniture, dishes, bedding, hangers, fans… all of the things I should have been buying with my settling in allowance. The downside, according to Namibians, is that I have to walk half an hour to school. Despite all the perks, I look forward to living in my flat because it will be easier to work with the hostel kids (I’m interested in starting a reading club, girls club and, if its not too nerdy, some sort of science club). Also, I can unpack into my own space and be my own American self – loud emo music, funny food and isolative ways. I think it also helps me relate more to the kids I’m teaching if I live in the location with them. The kids, the roosters, the drunkards and me…
Khorixas is very different than I remember it. It feels HUGE! I think this is because I’ve just spent so long in Otjimbingwe. The first place we stopped when we got to the city was the ministry building. It is in the center on a big hill. From there, you can see the entire location in one direction and the town in the other. I was shocked by how huge it looked. The site description says “semi-urban” but I was beginning to doubt that in my time away. When I first arrived in Khorixas, during site visit, I had only been to Okahandja. Okahandja, at least the part we’re allowed to stay in, is western and paved. Khorixas was dusty and small in comparison. After visiting Khorixas the first time, during shadowing, I was put at a farm school and then, Otjimbingwe; both tiny places. Now, anything bigger than 500 people feels like New York. Last I heard there are between 5,000 and 10,000 people here (It’s hard to get a good measure because some don’t really work or have homes… they just drink). All I can say is that 40,000 people in my “small” hometown is going to be quite a shocker two years from now.
I start work tomorrow. I’m a little nervous for the chaos that will consume my life after that. I’ll let you know how it goes. Until then, though, I’m just kickin it in my new digs in K town. I live with a British VSO who works in the Ministry of Education office. The past couple of days have been great! I sleep! Ten hours last night! Until 8 in the morning – what?! I cook! Sometimes pancakes, sometimes tortillas, sometimes no-bake cookies… hey, I’m scared to light the gas oven on my own. Friday was free SMS Friday – always a pleasure. I know I’ve SMSed too much when I am typing on a computer, get to the bottom of the page, press down and expect it to take me to the top again. Ai. Saturday, the other PCV in Khorixas cooked dinner for the SCORE volunteer and me. And, today… Today, I don’t think I’ve done a single thing. Thank Goodness!


January 15, 2008
I’m gliding. Really, that’s just the only way to get through the chaos of Namibian meetings… Just glide over it all with a little caffeine, a lot of patience and a good phone equipped with internet and wikipedia. Yesterday was the cluster wide meeting. We went over a lot of technical things like exams, pass/no pass requirement (to pass you need 3Ds and 2Cs. I kid you not), sports and transportation. Today we registered learners. This means I got a table and chair and sat outside from 8 am to 1pm and waited for anyone who wanted to register for grade 7. Not that this means I got to register them – oh, no. I said, “Wait here” and then went to go get someone else to register them. Make sense? If so, please explain it to me, because I don’t get it.
Life outside of school has been good also. I spend some time cooking. Last night was potato night. Today, we’re trying fat cakes. You use the sun to help the rise. Sounds fun. Also, the reception around town has been interesting. It’s been mostly good, which, I suspect, is a result of the large number of volunteers who have preceded me. I think I have the best of both worlds because there have been many volunteers in the city but there has only been one at my school. This minimizes the comparison boat and I greatly appreciate that.
Well, more later – as always. I’ve got to scoot because sunlight is fading and I still need it for my fat cakes.