August 15, 2011
I never really thought that this day would come for some reason. I remember arriving here in Namibia and meeting PCVs who had been here for a year, and they would always pause in disbelief to answer the question, “How long have you been in Namibia?” “12 months… yeah, yeah, one year I guess.” That’s me now. I’ve been here for one year. Weird.
It’s a strange feeling mostly because it feels like my true understanding of this place is just beginning. At our training we had this 60 year old woman who was a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) who had been here for over a year. She gave us a pep talk on why we should never go home early (Early Termination or ETing) because it takes a long time to understand your environment. She told us that just when you start to think that you get what’s going on around you, you wait a few months and you realize that you didn’t get it. After a year you might think, oh I get how this works, and then you learn that you didn’t. It takes time. Now, I see where she is coming from. Do I feel like I accomplished a lot here in a year? No, not at all. Do I feel like I learned a lot in a year? More than any other year of my life.
I’ve learned how to shower out of a bucket… Eggs don’t need a refrigerator… How to wash clothes by hand… How to squat on the balls of my feet for long periods of time… Pound mahangu… Sweep by using hay and bending at the waste... How to t9 my feelings... I learned how to SHARE… America might be as equal as opportunity gets... Come on, just cut off the mold, it’s still good… Hoe a mahangu plant... How to make a baby stop crying (not)... How to sleep to the lullaby of a baby crying hysterically… Spoiled milk is yogurt… How to run a soccer tournament alone… Forks are overrated… What it’s like to be a minority… How to shamelessly bucket shower naked with meme…We really don’t need to eat all that food… How to sleep in the sand every night... Bake cake from scratch with spoiled milk and no margarine... How to share one drinking cup with every other person at a party... I also have a culture… How to suck sugar from a stick (sugar cane) and gnaw on flavored wood (oondunga)… How to stand up for my needs without feeling guilty... BO shmeeO… How to really be wrong… How to cook in a kitchen full of anthills… You don’t need toilet paper to pee… You don’t need a toilet to pee… What it’s like to not understand anything that people are saying for hours at a time… How to be patient… You don’t need to be a writer or be an artist or be a singer to write or draw or sing… White girls don’t put a weave in their hair because their real hair will fall out... How to tolerate children getting beaten… What it’s like to wanna beat a child… How to eat kidneys, intestines, stomachs, full baby exotic birds, goat penis, goat meat, chicken necks/feet, fish heads and eye balls, catapillars, bone marrow, frogs, kudu, crocodile, Oryx, zebra, springbok, ostrich, and dog, just to name a few … How to tolerate diarrhea for weeks on end… and so much more.
I read a blog post of another PCV who said that he was still not convinced he should be here or that he should stay the whole time after one year, and I felt pity for him. I don’t think I’m there. I’m convinced I’m here for the whole time, God willing. As that 60 year old PCV said, “If Nelson Mandela can sit in a prison on Robin Island for 23 years, you can spend 27 months in Namibia.”
Monday, August 22, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Untangled
Omwedhi othindji (Many moons/months) have passed since I last wrote and I’m sorry but for a while I was the most out of sorts. The flood hit our village unexpectedly and HARD. I arrived back from a weekend away during Independence Day (March 21) about to take the turn into the village from the tarred road to find that that was impossible. The water was about to overcome the road. Luckily, my neighbor was there about to walk into the village also, and by necessity she became my guide. We walked for about two hours into the village (about 6 km or 3-4 miles) in water up to my thighs. The next day we had school and I wondered how all the teachers who come from town are going to make it into the village.
They walked. Two hours to the school and two hours back. Learners showed up to school with water marks on their clothes above chest level. The little ones were immediately dismissed (1-7) and the grade 7 was told to go and help carry the smaller ones across the water. This water is not safe, because it is full of excrement from the locals, cattle, goats, dogs, etc, and is therefore diseased. There are also animals living in the water like lethal snakes that are also searching for dry land like humans, so it was imperative that we cancel school under these conditions. Yet, the government was insisting that we continue with at least our grade 10 and perhaps have some sort of camp set up at the school. Without mattresses, food, or a place to bathe, the teachers complained and the parents refused to help out the school especially without reimbursement. I sat through hours of Oshiwambo, understanding very little except that the learners were fighting to have a camp set up at school and all the teachers denied their appeals. It was decided that school would end for a few weeks until the flooding went down and that we would continue during the holiday. (fake smile).
This presented a big problem for me, because I had Will, my mom, and Jacki coming to visit me during the entire break, so no matter where we put these days, it was impossible for me to not have a conflict. On top of that, I had just succumbed to the fact that I don’t want to teach the load that I am teaching and it would be better for the entire school and community if I could give English to someone else. My learners were doing terribly partly because my mind was all over the place trying to fill 50 different requirements a day. I felt like I needed to drop something, but I hate quitting. I hate not finishing what I start, no matter how stressful it is. I will never admit I can’t handle something, but this was not about whether I can handle the workload, this is about the learners learning. I had to get out of my head and into the real world where another’s future is dependent on my performance.
[Why drop English? I didn’t study English. I didn’t plan on teaching English. English has some of the most requirements out of any subjects and its very time consuming to grade. You have to be creative which is fun if you have time, but I am also busy planning for ICT, Physical Science grade 9, Physical Science grade 8, and Math grade 9. It takes FOREVER to grade. I don’t have the time to also teach another promotional (core) subject which is entirely different than what I studied or expected. It has many requirements to fulfill each term. It is also 7 periods a week which is a lot of time.]
These are two major problems that I struggled to deal with because I did not want to face my principal to ask for more time off. Not to mention my self-esteem was rather low because my competence is no longer based on how well I do, but how well others do which somewhat out of my control. I knew my leaving for a few weeks would be bad for my learners who are already getting 0 out of 40 when I am here every day (but then again it can’t get any worse hey?) but there was no way I could work. All that money and all that time and all that distance that my family and friends are sacrificing and I have to work? Sometimes things start to spiral. I just can’t handle this. I don’t have time to do any of the projects/things I want to do. I am going to look so incompetent for not being able to handle my load and all the teachers are going to be mad b/c I have to change everyone’s schedule. None of the learners understand me. Hardly any of the teachers understand me. I’m never going to learn this language. I have done nothing except help my learners get bad grades. They would do better with another teacher. I am behind in all of my subjects. I shouldn’t have come here at this point in my life. I should have come when I acquired more skills. The only thing I was looking forward to is now being jeoparidized… And then my meme caught me crying to myself.
“Why are you crying?”
“Meme, I was supposed to have my family and friends come during the break and now I have to teach.”
“Oh! Don’t worry! You just go to school for the subject you teach and then come back and they stay at the homestead! They will be here.”
(The crying worsens.)
“It’s just, we were going to travel to other parts of Namibia. We, we, we wanted to go other places besides the homestead.”
“Oh… you just tell the principal.”
“But I can’t. I feel too bad. It is not good for me to leave while all the others stay.”
“No, you just tell him. He will understand.”
All the next day was chaos. We decided to close school that day and the principal was running around doing many things, and I was too timid to talk to him. I just struggled to edit his letters to the Ministry of Education. How do I keep the same complex language as to not offend him? The only thing he said to me that day was, “Are you finally done [editing my letter]?” I’m intimidated. Luckily, Meme to the rescue. She went up to him separately and told him that before he leaves, we have to have a talk. At the end of the day we three went into his office. “Let’s make this quick.”
He said that he would allow me to be off during the weeks, because it is too far for my family and friends to travel and not be with me. He also said he would work something out to change my schedule. It was that quick; it was apparently that easy, but without someone beside me, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage.
There are times that this chain of life gets so tangled that you don’t even know where to start, and you feel like you would rather just cut it than work it out. But once your friend with the long nails unloops that last knot, you wonder why you even brought out those scissors in the first place.
They walked. Two hours to the school and two hours back. Learners showed up to school with water marks on their clothes above chest level. The little ones were immediately dismissed (1-7) and the grade 7 was told to go and help carry the smaller ones across the water. This water is not safe, because it is full of excrement from the locals, cattle, goats, dogs, etc, and is therefore diseased. There are also animals living in the water like lethal snakes that are also searching for dry land like humans, so it was imperative that we cancel school under these conditions. Yet, the government was insisting that we continue with at least our grade 10 and perhaps have some sort of camp set up at the school. Without mattresses, food, or a place to bathe, the teachers complained and the parents refused to help out the school especially without reimbursement. I sat through hours of Oshiwambo, understanding very little except that the learners were fighting to have a camp set up at school and all the teachers denied their appeals. It was decided that school would end for a few weeks until the flooding went down and that we would continue during the holiday. (fake smile).
This presented a big problem for me, because I had Will, my mom, and Jacki coming to visit me during the entire break, so no matter where we put these days, it was impossible for me to not have a conflict. On top of that, I had just succumbed to the fact that I don’t want to teach the load that I am teaching and it would be better for the entire school and community if I could give English to someone else. My learners were doing terribly partly because my mind was all over the place trying to fill 50 different requirements a day. I felt like I needed to drop something, but I hate quitting. I hate not finishing what I start, no matter how stressful it is. I will never admit I can’t handle something, but this was not about whether I can handle the workload, this is about the learners learning. I had to get out of my head and into the real world where another’s future is dependent on my performance.
[Why drop English? I didn’t study English. I didn’t plan on teaching English. English has some of the most requirements out of any subjects and its very time consuming to grade. You have to be creative which is fun if you have time, but I am also busy planning for ICT, Physical Science grade 9, Physical Science grade 8, and Math grade 9. It takes FOREVER to grade. I don’t have the time to also teach another promotional (core) subject which is entirely different than what I studied or expected. It has many requirements to fulfill each term. It is also 7 periods a week which is a lot of time.]
These are two major problems that I struggled to deal with because I did not want to face my principal to ask for more time off. Not to mention my self-esteem was rather low because my competence is no longer based on how well I do, but how well others do which somewhat out of my control. I knew my leaving for a few weeks would be bad for my learners who are already getting 0 out of 40 when I am here every day (but then again it can’t get any worse hey?) but there was no way I could work. All that money and all that time and all that distance that my family and friends are sacrificing and I have to work? Sometimes things start to spiral. I just can’t handle this. I don’t have time to do any of the projects/things I want to do. I am going to look so incompetent for not being able to handle my load and all the teachers are going to be mad b/c I have to change everyone’s schedule. None of the learners understand me. Hardly any of the teachers understand me. I’m never going to learn this language. I have done nothing except help my learners get bad grades. They would do better with another teacher. I am behind in all of my subjects. I shouldn’t have come here at this point in my life. I should have come when I acquired more skills. The only thing I was looking forward to is now being jeoparidized… And then my meme caught me crying to myself.
“Why are you crying?”
“Meme, I was supposed to have my family and friends come during the break and now I have to teach.”
“Oh! Don’t worry! You just go to school for the subject you teach and then come back and they stay at the homestead! They will be here.”
(The crying worsens.)
“It’s just, we were going to travel to other parts of Namibia. We, we, we wanted to go other places besides the homestead.”
“Oh… you just tell the principal.”
“But I can’t. I feel too bad. It is not good for me to leave while all the others stay.”
“No, you just tell him. He will understand.”
All the next day was chaos. We decided to close school that day and the principal was running around doing many things, and I was too timid to talk to him. I just struggled to edit his letters to the Ministry of Education. How do I keep the same complex language as to not offend him? The only thing he said to me that day was, “Are you finally done [editing my letter]?” I’m intimidated. Luckily, Meme to the rescue. She went up to him separately and told him that before he leaves, we have to have a talk. At the end of the day we three went into his office. “Let’s make this quick.”
He said that he would allow me to be off during the weeks, because it is too far for my family and friends to travel and not be with me. He also said he would work something out to change my schedule. It was that quick; it was apparently that easy, but without someone beside me, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage.
There are times that this chain of life gets so tangled that you don’t even know where to start, and you feel like you would rather just cut it than work it out. But once your friend with the long nails unloops that last knot, you wonder why you even brought out those scissors in the first place.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Homeward Bound
March 24, 2011
As strong or as confident I may seem, people can truly intimidate me at times. I can’t tell what Meme is thinking or feeling by her demeanor. She is dignified and not entirely warm in general, so I cannot tell, is she being cold towards me? Is she mad at me?
My social life has been booming lately because I scored two friends at work. haha I have a 23 year old Namibian co-worker, Priscilla, who teaches Pre-primary at our school who lives in town, and I am able to stay with her overnight on some weekends. I also have another 28 year old counterpart, Iipinge, that I am good friends with that I meet in town at times. Both of these buddies of mine have introduced me to some of their friends and being the only white girl around, I feel pretty good about myself walking into town.
“Magano! Ongiini?” (Gift, how is it?)
“Onawa! Ongiini, Shikoyeni?” (It’s good. How is it, Shikoyeni?)
“Onawa! Where have you been?” (It’s good).
“Oh in the village, you know…”
But the excitement of staying in town is what we would call not sustainable but tempting. It sucks my bank account dry from spending money on food and drinks, and I have been feeling like people at the homestead are resentful of me. This has made me have anxiety, but what else is new. I can’t tell though, because it may just be all in my head. I could just be interpreting others' behavior completely wrong because I feel guilty leaving. But let me give you an example:
I came back to the village from a weekend away to celebrate my fellow volunteer, Lance’s birthday and I had a nasty chest cold that hindered me from being able to speak. All the mucous went into my chest and I couldn’t talk without sounding like a squeaky hamster wheel. Returning to the village was anything but delightful, because everyone accused me of drinking too much alcohol and refused to believe I had a cold.
“Ah-ah. Maybe you drink too many beer.”
“Aaye. Otandi ehama. Oshi li!” (No, I’m sick. It’s true!)
My meme heard me speak and said that every time I leave and go to the town, I come back sick. I think to myself, no this is the only time this has happened but whatever. Then she told me that the reason I am sick is because I drank too many cold drinks and it has given me ‘the mengles.’ I think to myself, mengles is not a word and I have not had this amount of room-temperature drinks in my entire life due to refrigeration so I don’t believe this hypothesis has a lot of support. I then decide that I cannot go to school on Monday, because you need to be able to speak to teach. She told me that if I do not go to school, it will look like it is a ‘blue Monday’. Here, a ‘blue Monday’ means you are too hung over to go to work. I don’t care. Think what they will, but I am sick, and my principal heard my voice and told me to get treatment. How can I prove that I am not an alcoholic like the majority of others? How can I explain that in my culture people do not even drink on Sunday so we have never had a Blue Monday?
I felt welcomed with negativity, but I couldn’t tell if it is just me being hypersensitive and worried. I am worried that the family or the village will think that I do not like it here, when in fact I love it. I would rather live nowhere else.
So I fight back by “killing em with kindness,” as Allie would say. I decide to cook dinner for the family the next weekend.
“Meme, I would like to cook for the family tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Blank face.
So we go to town together and I buy some ground beef. We have been eating catfish and porridge every single day for about two months. The flood waters have brought the catfish right up to our doorstep, and Tate is eager to make his contribution to the family by scooping them up in the net at night. Harvesting these fish is his pride and joy and just about all we talk about, because neither of us can speak each other’s mother tongue.
“Jeanniney, fish!”
“Ee-ee. Wow! Owa kutha eeshi othindji!” (Yes. Wow, you caught many fish.)
“Ya! It’s very nice.”
“Iyaloo, Tate!” (Thank you. It’s good, Father.)
“Ya, very nice.”
I buy all these ingredients to make spaghetti with a meat sauce since we hadn’t had meat since December ( and you know how I get when I haven’t had meat for a while). Also I bought ingredients to make a banana chocolate chip cake for desert. I have not tried out my oven yet and have only used the gas stove, so it was quite the experiment. I had heard from my host sister that Meme likes banana bread so I wanted to let her know that I was making the cake just to her taste (trying really hard to show her I'm a great daughter).
“Meme! I am making a chocolate chip banana cake for you, because your daughter told me YOU LIKE BANANA BREAD. So I thought I would make you a BANANA CAKE!”
“Okay.” Blank face. Walks out.
“Dammit.” I mutter to myself. Getting her to like me again is going to take more work than I thought.
So I was having all these insecurities that people on the homestead do not really like me. Maybe people think I am a drunk for not coming in on Monday. I am making this dinner and I don’t know if anyone really cares. I start to make the sauce early and the kids are all around. Four young girls that love to watch my every move and command me to stare at their every move.
“Look, Jeannina! Look! Tala! Look! Jeannina! Jeannina!!!!”
Well, at least some people are happy I am here, even if they are under the age of eight. So I whip out a box of crayons and paper that Will sent me. Twenty-four colors! The kids nearly pee their pants. They have never seen so many colors in their lives. I give them each their own piece of paper and tell them to draw me a picture to put on my wall. That will keep them busy. I got my speaker on my iPod and I am in my element. I start dicing tomatoes and start crying as a dice the most powerful onions one can come into contact with and the kids gaze at me in amazement. They do not understand why I am crying over onions. I sauteed the ground beef and the onion. I take out my can opener and open up cans of tomato past.
"Oh! Tala Jeannina," the kids stop drawing and stare at me again. They have never seen a can opener before.
"Jeannina you have nice things."
"Thank you very much."
I mix some tomato paste with water. Throw in a soup packet to make the paste mixture thicken and add a little flavor. Boil that. Throw in tomatoes and spices and oil and let it simmer forever because I added too much water. Whatever. And in walks my other meme in the house. Meme Selima has an infant, Nango. She has Nango strapped to her back and I tell her to sit down. Then in walks my 11 year old brother, Benhard. I ask him if he wants to draw. He starts drawing. I got eight people in my tiny kitchen, listening to music watching me cook. I start to bake the cake. Everyone is astonished by the way I crack an egg and put it in. Watching me mash up the banana and add mysterious white powders in various amounts. I chop up a bar of chocolate to fold in and give some of it to everyone. This was the first cake they had ever seen made, because they do not have an oven, so when would they see a cake made?
In that kitchen, I felt needed. I felt loved. I felt a part of a family. I truly shared my culture with them. They saw things they had never seen before and it was not an iPod or a laptop; I was not showing off the cool things that they cannot afford. I was showing them how to crack an egg to put in a cake or how to check on something in the oven or how to use a can opener without stabbing a knife through the top.
I cooked the spaghetti and then we all ate. I showed them how to twirl spaghetti on a fork to get it all in one bite, but since they struggle to use a fork being so used to using their hands, it was not the most effective lesson I ever taught. It was still fun to watch them try. One girl started using two forks to shovel the pasta in her mouth. Everyone ate until they were full and I said, “Don’t forget about the cake. Save room for the cake!” Benhard was like, “We are eating the cake tonight!?” “Yes we are!” “Yesssssssss!” Even had some claps. I explained how we eat dessert, because we like sweet things after a meal. They did not know anything about dessert.
We brought out the cake, which was perfectly undercooked I might add, and I re-tell meme why I chose to bake a banana cake. She says, “okay.” I feel stupid, but still confident that she has really enjoyed the meal. As she is eating the cake she says, “This tastes like banana loaf.”
“Yes! It DOES taste like banana loaf. I had heard from your daughter that you like banana loaf. That is why I chose to bake banana cake. Because I thought you would like it, because you like banana loaf. I made this for YOU!” (really giving it my all to make sure she knows I want to make her happy).
“Ohh!” she says, with a smile on her face.
That interaction really highlighted for me the idea that Meme likely does not understand what I am saying a large portion of the time but pretends to understand. The same way I pretend to understand Oshiwambo sometimes. I now realize she is not being cold or ignoring me, but rather she may be embarrassed that she does not understand. Now I am working harder at conveying my messages in multiple ways so we are sure we have an understanding.
I ended the night playing Uno and watching Homeward Bound on my laptop with Benhard. Wasn't the wildest Saturday night of my life but is sure up there with the best of em.
As strong or as confident I may seem, people can truly intimidate me at times. I can’t tell what Meme is thinking or feeling by her demeanor. She is dignified and not entirely warm in general, so I cannot tell, is she being cold towards me? Is she mad at me?
My social life has been booming lately because I scored two friends at work. haha I have a 23 year old Namibian co-worker, Priscilla, who teaches Pre-primary at our school who lives in town, and I am able to stay with her overnight on some weekends. I also have another 28 year old counterpart, Iipinge, that I am good friends with that I meet in town at times. Both of these buddies of mine have introduced me to some of their friends and being the only white girl around, I feel pretty good about myself walking into town.
“Magano! Ongiini?” (Gift, how is it?)
“Onawa! Ongiini, Shikoyeni?” (It’s good. How is it, Shikoyeni?)
“Onawa! Where have you been?” (It’s good).
“Oh in the village, you know…”
But the excitement of staying in town is what we would call not sustainable but tempting. It sucks my bank account dry from spending money on food and drinks, and I have been feeling like people at the homestead are resentful of me. This has made me have anxiety, but what else is new. I can’t tell though, because it may just be all in my head. I could just be interpreting others' behavior completely wrong because I feel guilty leaving. But let me give you an example:
I came back to the village from a weekend away to celebrate my fellow volunteer, Lance’s birthday and I had a nasty chest cold that hindered me from being able to speak. All the mucous went into my chest and I couldn’t talk without sounding like a squeaky hamster wheel. Returning to the village was anything but delightful, because everyone accused me of drinking too much alcohol and refused to believe I had a cold.
“Ah-ah. Maybe you drink too many beer.”
“Aaye. Otandi ehama. Oshi li!” (No, I’m sick. It’s true!)
My meme heard me speak and said that every time I leave and go to the town, I come back sick. I think to myself, no this is the only time this has happened but whatever. Then she told me that the reason I am sick is because I drank too many cold drinks and it has given me ‘the mengles.’ I think to myself, mengles is not a word and I have not had this amount of room-temperature drinks in my entire life due to refrigeration so I don’t believe this hypothesis has a lot of support. I then decide that I cannot go to school on Monday, because you need to be able to speak to teach. She told me that if I do not go to school, it will look like it is a ‘blue Monday’. Here, a ‘blue Monday’ means you are too hung over to go to work. I don’t care. Think what they will, but I am sick, and my principal heard my voice and told me to get treatment. How can I prove that I am not an alcoholic like the majority of others? How can I explain that in my culture people do not even drink on Sunday so we have never had a Blue Monday?
I felt welcomed with negativity, but I couldn’t tell if it is just me being hypersensitive and worried. I am worried that the family or the village will think that I do not like it here, when in fact I love it. I would rather live nowhere else.
So I fight back by “killing em with kindness,” as Allie would say. I decide to cook dinner for the family the next weekend.
“Meme, I would like to cook for the family tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Blank face.
So we go to town together and I buy some ground beef. We have been eating catfish and porridge every single day for about two months. The flood waters have brought the catfish right up to our doorstep, and Tate is eager to make his contribution to the family by scooping them up in the net at night. Harvesting these fish is his pride and joy and just about all we talk about, because neither of us can speak each other’s mother tongue.
“Jeanniney, fish!”
“Ee-ee. Wow! Owa kutha eeshi othindji!” (Yes. Wow, you caught many fish.)
“Ya! It’s very nice.”
“Iyaloo, Tate!” (Thank you. It’s good, Father.)
“Ya, very nice.”
I buy all these ingredients to make spaghetti with a meat sauce since we hadn’t had meat since December ( and you know how I get when I haven’t had meat for a while). Also I bought ingredients to make a banana chocolate chip cake for desert. I have not tried out my oven yet and have only used the gas stove, so it was quite the experiment. I had heard from my host sister that Meme likes banana bread so I wanted to let her know that I was making the cake just to her taste (trying really hard to show her I'm a great daughter).
“Meme! I am making a chocolate chip banana cake for you, because your daughter told me YOU LIKE BANANA BREAD. So I thought I would make you a BANANA CAKE!”
“Okay.” Blank face. Walks out.
“Dammit.” I mutter to myself. Getting her to like me again is going to take more work than I thought.
So I was having all these insecurities that people on the homestead do not really like me. Maybe people think I am a drunk for not coming in on Monday. I am making this dinner and I don’t know if anyone really cares. I start to make the sauce early and the kids are all around. Four young girls that love to watch my every move and command me to stare at their every move.
“Look, Jeannina! Look! Tala! Look! Jeannina! Jeannina!!!!”
Well, at least some people are happy I am here, even if they are under the age of eight. So I whip out a box of crayons and paper that Will sent me. Twenty-four colors! The kids nearly pee their pants. They have never seen so many colors in their lives. I give them each their own piece of paper and tell them to draw me a picture to put on my wall. That will keep them busy. I got my speaker on my iPod and I am in my element. I start dicing tomatoes and start crying as a dice the most powerful onions one can come into contact with and the kids gaze at me in amazement. They do not understand why I am crying over onions. I sauteed the ground beef and the onion. I take out my can opener and open up cans of tomato past.
"Oh! Tala Jeannina," the kids stop drawing and stare at me again. They have never seen a can opener before.
"Jeannina you have nice things."
"Thank you very much."
I mix some tomato paste with water. Throw in a soup packet to make the paste mixture thicken and add a little flavor. Boil that. Throw in tomatoes and spices and oil and let it simmer forever because I added too much water. Whatever. And in walks my other meme in the house. Meme Selima has an infant, Nango. She has Nango strapped to her back and I tell her to sit down. Then in walks my 11 year old brother, Benhard. I ask him if he wants to draw. He starts drawing. I got eight people in my tiny kitchen, listening to music watching me cook. I start to bake the cake. Everyone is astonished by the way I crack an egg and put it in. Watching me mash up the banana and add mysterious white powders in various amounts. I chop up a bar of chocolate to fold in and give some of it to everyone. This was the first cake they had ever seen made, because they do not have an oven, so when would they see a cake made?
In that kitchen, I felt needed. I felt loved. I felt a part of a family. I truly shared my culture with them. They saw things they had never seen before and it was not an iPod or a laptop; I was not showing off the cool things that they cannot afford. I was showing them how to crack an egg to put in a cake or how to check on something in the oven or how to use a can opener without stabbing a knife through the top.
I cooked the spaghetti and then we all ate. I showed them how to twirl spaghetti on a fork to get it all in one bite, but since they struggle to use a fork being so used to using their hands, it was not the most effective lesson I ever taught. It was still fun to watch them try. One girl started using two forks to shovel the pasta in her mouth. Everyone ate until they were full and I said, “Don’t forget about the cake. Save room for the cake!” Benhard was like, “We are eating the cake tonight!?” “Yes we are!” “Yesssssssss!” Even had some claps. I explained how we eat dessert, because we like sweet things after a meal. They did not know anything about dessert.
We brought out the cake, which was perfectly undercooked I might add, and I re-tell meme why I chose to bake a banana cake. She says, “okay.” I feel stupid, but still confident that she has really enjoyed the meal. As she is eating the cake she says, “This tastes like banana loaf.”
“Yes! It DOES taste like banana loaf. I had heard from your daughter that you like banana loaf. That is why I chose to bake banana cake. Because I thought you would like it, because you like banana loaf. I made this for YOU!” (really giving it my all to make sure she knows I want to make her happy).
“Ohh!” she says, with a smile on her face.
That interaction really highlighted for me the idea that Meme likely does not understand what I am saying a large portion of the time but pretends to understand. The same way I pretend to understand Oshiwambo sometimes. I now realize she is not being cold or ignoring me, but rather she may be embarrassed that she does not understand. Now I am working harder at conveying my messages in multiple ways so we are sure we have an understanding.
I ended the night playing Uno and watching Homeward Bound on my laptop with Benhard. Wasn't the wildest Saturday night of my life but is sure up there with the best of em.
I'm a teacher?
February 22, 2011
So I have been teaching for about a month now and have much more appreciation for the work teachers do. It’s funny to realize that the whole teaching thing was really put on the backburner. I was so enthralled by the idea that I would be going to Africa, meeting new people, becoming a part of a new culture, learning a new language, breaking gender barriers and crossing racial stereotypes that I hardly ever thought about struggling with teaching. In fact, I really never thought about teaching. I just came here expecting the unexpected, but what I should have been doing is thinking about what is to be expected… you’re a volunteer teacher, darling.
So I go to school and teach too many different subjects. I teach computers 8-10 (six classes a week), English grade 7 (seven classes a week), Math grade 9 (5 classes a week), Physical Science 8 and 9 (four classes each grade a week) and 3 PE classes. I have to plan for many different subjects each day and it becomes a bit overwhelming. I have not been preparing properly, but I am doing what I can. I work from 7:30 am to 4 pm each day but I think I need to start asking to stay later because I can not get it all done. All the adults reading this are rolling their eyes like, welcome to my world. Between the creative planning and the marking and recording grades and writing tasks/tests and disciplining and remedial teaching for various subjects, I feel like I can not be the best teacher that I could be. I just keep reassuring myself that I am a first year teacher and this is my first month. In time, I will figure things out.
What is also difficult is the lack of background understanding that the learners have. We are given a syllabus to follow by the Ministry of Education and in many cases it is way too advanced. Specifically for my English grade 7 class and Math grade 9 class. In English, I am expected to be teaching them how to write letters and form appropriate essays, but the learners do not know what a subject or a verb is. They do not know any of the parts of speech so they do not know how to logically form a sentence. Some of them are decent at English. Do not get me wrong, but the passages they are supposed to read and listen to are much too advanced at this level. In Math, I started the year off teaching my grade 9 the multiplication table. None of them knew the multiplication table so I cut out flash cards and we spent 1.5 classes doing the table from 1 to 10. I spent the whole first week testing them and telling them to memorize the flash cards. They have improved a lot since day one, but are still not totally there. They also did not realize that division is the opposite of multiplication. I am not sure if they understand that now, but we had to move on. The syllabus has a lot to cover. They are allowed to use calculators at grade 8 and really depend on them because they were never forced to learn their multiplication table before then. I refuse to let them use calculators and they hate me for it, but their curriculum does not require it at all. They can do all the multiplication/division by hand if they need to. The other grade 9 class is using calculators, but we will see in the end whose class has a better understanding. (I’m praying it’s mine).
I am designing the computer class so the curriculum is all up to me. To anyone who as ever taught computers to amateurs, it is a grueling and slow process because you take your knowledge of the computer for granted.
“Okay class is over so you need to close the window you are working on. You need to close out! Close out! X-out! Close out by clicking the x in the top corner. No, go to the top right corner. Aaye (No), go up, up, to the right, kololyo (to the right in oshiwambo). Yeah, the x, click. No, not the box, click the X. Okay now Log off. Click Start and click Log Off. Again, log off. Log off!.. Okay Tuyenikelao (name of a learner) class is over so you need to close out. Click the x at the top right corner… Nyanukweni (name of a learner) I said you need to close out!...”
Many of the lessons that I plan are way too long, because it takes them a long time to enter their password. Understanding case-sensitive has taken a while but I think they are starting to get ahold of it. We have spent a few classes doing Paint and that has been good practice at gaining control of the mouse. My main goal is to fuel their interest in computers and inspire them to want to learn more. I don’t think I will be able to fully teach them how to type, but I want to teach them how to explore and figure things out on their own.
The language barrier is the hardest part. I stand up in front of the classroom like I am on stage. Cue the circus music…
“Verbs are action words. They are the ‘doing’ in the sentence, like jump (as I jump), or sit (as I sit) or punch (as I punch) or speak (as I point to my lips and my throat and motion outwards) or cry (with my sad face I wipe my fake tears)…”
I look like a sign language interpreter or a mime that can talk. The learners stare at me blankly or laugh at me. They will not remember what a verb is but they enjoy class anyway. I picture myself in their shoes, listening to someone try to teach me in Oshiwambo and how I would feel. Lost.
Sometimes I want to run out of the room I am so discouraged. Sometimes I just want to run. Get me out of here. In the words of Rachel Odhner, “I gotta go.” And I actually might, if my running shoes weren’t stolen in Swakopmund.
So I have been teaching for about a month now and have much more appreciation for the work teachers do. It’s funny to realize that the whole teaching thing was really put on the backburner. I was so enthralled by the idea that I would be going to Africa, meeting new people, becoming a part of a new culture, learning a new language, breaking gender barriers and crossing racial stereotypes that I hardly ever thought about struggling with teaching. In fact, I really never thought about teaching. I just came here expecting the unexpected, but what I should have been doing is thinking about what is to be expected… you’re a volunteer teacher, darling.
So I go to school and teach too many different subjects. I teach computers 8-10 (six classes a week), English grade 7 (seven classes a week), Math grade 9 (5 classes a week), Physical Science 8 and 9 (four classes each grade a week) and 3 PE classes. I have to plan for many different subjects each day and it becomes a bit overwhelming. I have not been preparing properly, but I am doing what I can. I work from 7:30 am to 4 pm each day but I think I need to start asking to stay later because I can not get it all done. All the adults reading this are rolling their eyes like, welcome to my world. Between the creative planning and the marking and recording grades and writing tasks/tests and disciplining and remedial teaching for various subjects, I feel like I can not be the best teacher that I could be. I just keep reassuring myself that I am a first year teacher and this is my first month. In time, I will figure things out.
What is also difficult is the lack of background understanding that the learners have. We are given a syllabus to follow by the Ministry of Education and in many cases it is way too advanced. Specifically for my English grade 7 class and Math grade 9 class. In English, I am expected to be teaching them how to write letters and form appropriate essays, but the learners do not know what a subject or a verb is. They do not know any of the parts of speech so they do not know how to logically form a sentence. Some of them are decent at English. Do not get me wrong, but the passages they are supposed to read and listen to are much too advanced at this level. In Math, I started the year off teaching my grade 9 the multiplication table. None of them knew the multiplication table so I cut out flash cards and we spent 1.5 classes doing the table from 1 to 10. I spent the whole first week testing them and telling them to memorize the flash cards. They have improved a lot since day one, but are still not totally there. They also did not realize that division is the opposite of multiplication. I am not sure if they understand that now, but we had to move on. The syllabus has a lot to cover. They are allowed to use calculators at grade 8 and really depend on them because they were never forced to learn their multiplication table before then. I refuse to let them use calculators and they hate me for it, but their curriculum does not require it at all. They can do all the multiplication/division by hand if they need to. The other grade 9 class is using calculators, but we will see in the end whose class has a better understanding. (I’m praying it’s mine).
I am designing the computer class so the curriculum is all up to me. To anyone who as ever taught computers to amateurs, it is a grueling and slow process because you take your knowledge of the computer for granted.
“Okay class is over so you need to close the window you are working on. You need to close out! Close out! X-out! Close out by clicking the x in the top corner. No, go to the top right corner. Aaye (No), go up, up, to the right, kololyo (to the right in oshiwambo). Yeah, the x, click. No, not the box, click the X. Okay now Log off. Click Start and click Log Off. Again, log off. Log off!.. Okay Tuyenikelao (name of a learner) class is over so you need to close out. Click the x at the top right corner… Nyanukweni (name of a learner) I said you need to close out!...”
Many of the lessons that I plan are way too long, because it takes them a long time to enter their password. Understanding case-sensitive has taken a while but I think they are starting to get ahold of it. We have spent a few classes doing Paint and that has been good practice at gaining control of the mouse. My main goal is to fuel their interest in computers and inspire them to want to learn more. I don’t think I will be able to fully teach them how to type, but I want to teach them how to explore and figure things out on their own.
The language barrier is the hardest part. I stand up in front of the classroom like I am on stage. Cue the circus music…
“Verbs are action words. They are the ‘doing’ in the sentence, like jump (as I jump), or sit (as I sit) or punch (as I punch) or speak (as I point to my lips and my throat and motion outwards) or cry (with my sad face I wipe my fake tears)…”
I look like a sign language interpreter or a mime that can talk. The learners stare at me blankly or laugh at me. They will not remember what a verb is but they enjoy class anyway. I picture myself in their shoes, listening to someone try to teach me in Oshiwambo and how I would feel. Lost.
Sometimes I want to run out of the room I am so discouraged. Sometimes I just want to run. Get me out of here. In the words of Rachel Odhner, “I gotta go.” And I actually might, if my running shoes weren’t stolen in Swakopmund.
Acceptance
February 12, 2011
I am beginning to believe that feeling blessed is a matter of recognizing what is around you. Each time I step out of my mind momentarily and become aware of that which is surrounding me, I feel blessed. I use the word blessed because I do not have the vocabulary to use another word to encompass this feeling of happiness, luck, sacredness, separateness, and support.
When I become conscious again of what is around me, I see a sandy bucket that I need to fill with water by lifting a heavy 4.5 foot barrel that is half-filled (not half-empty because it’s heavy!) in order to wash my dirty dishes. I see ant-hills in my kitchen and a can of corn that will be lunch tomorrow. I see my single bed with a china-shop mattress that is sunk in the middle permanently from sleeping in it the first night. I see the plastic bag filled with clothes that need to be washed which looks like five loads to me, and my hands start to itch in anticipation of the soap exposure they will undertake when I wash the clothes later today. I see sand covering my floor, my feet, my bed, and I smell the stench of our urine pouring through the window in the adjacent room. I hear the flies buzzing around those puddles of pee that we regularly form in the ‘showering’ area outside that room. I feel the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and down my sternum. I also see the sun high in the sky, the same sun that makes me squint, browns my skin and fills my face with acne. The same sun that I scorn each day and avoid under umbrellas and trees is the sun that tells me that I have all day. The sun does not move fast here. It slowly moves from the horizontal line to the right, above the flat dry savannah until it reaches the same horizontal line to the left, while the colors of the sky respond by blending differently after each degree of change.
It isn’t the awareness of how easy life is that makes me feel blessed. It’s being cognizant that I want to be a part of it. It’s knowing that I am able; I am able to not only endure but to enjoy life’s tediousness, especially with others. This feeling of blessedness emanates from realizing how much I endorse being in the environment that I am in. I chose this life and every day I wake up and participate in it, I do so volitionally, willing to face the hardships that I know will come. Never have I felt so free.
I am beginning to believe that feeling blessed is a matter of recognizing what is around you. Each time I step out of my mind momentarily and become aware of that which is surrounding me, I feel blessed. I use the word blessed because I do not have the vocabulary to use another word to encompass this feeling of happiness, luck, sacredness, separateness, and support.
When I become conscious again of what is around me, I see a sandy bucket that I need to fill with water by lifting a heavy 4.5 foot barrel that is half-filled (not half-empty because it’s heavy!) in order to wash my dirty dishes. I see ant-hills in my kitchen and a can of corn that will be lunch tomorrow. I see my single bed with a china-shop mattress that is sunk in the middle permanently from sleeping in it the first night. I see the plastic bag filled with clothes that need to be washed which looks like five loads to me, and my hands start to itch in anticipation of the soap exposure they will undertake when I wash the clothes later today. I see sand covering my floor, my feet, my bed, and I smell the stench of our urine pouring through the window in the adjacent room. I hear the flies buzzing around those puddles of pee that we regularly form in the ‘showering’ area outside that room. I feel the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and down my sternum. I also see the sun high in the sky, the same sun that makes me squint, browns my skin and fills my face with acne. The same sun that I scorn each day and avoid under umbrellas and trees is the sun that tells me that I have all day. The sun does not move fast here. It slowly moves from the horizontal line to the right, above the flat dry savannah until it reaches the same horizontal line to the left, while the colors of the sky respond by blending differently after each degree of change.
It isn’t the awareness of how easy life is that makes me feel blessed. It’s being cognizant that I want to be a part of it. It’s knowing that I am able; I am able to not only endure but to enjoy life’s tediousness, especially with others. This feeling of blessedness emanates from realizing how much I endorse being in the environment that I am in. I chose this life and every day I wake up and participate in it, I do so volitionally, willing to face the hardships that I know will come. Never have I felt so free.
Housekeeping, you want fresh towel?
February 11, 2011
The trip up the Skeleton coast was amazing and then we had some down time until it was New Year’s Eve. So much had happened in 2010 that I almost needed it to be over so I could begin grasping the fact that I am indeed going to live here. It was strange knowing that only months before that time I was living in New Baltimore sipping wine by the pool. Then to think that only a few months before that, I was at my Commencement with the Jungle and their families and my family and all of my best friends. Then thinking about how still that same year we were holding keg parties at the Jungle and going to Senior Nights at Tilt. At the same time I was taking my Electricity and Magnetism mid-term and scraping the ice off my car every day instead of sweating all night long. 2010 NEEDED to be over. I am not studying abroad; I am not missing one semester and then coming back. College is over. I am living and working in Namibia!
Some people went to Dune 7 and partied. It sounded like it was an unbelievable time, but I did not feel like spending the money. Swakopmund is expensive! So I stayed by the beach with a lot of others and partied at the Tiki Hut by our campsite. It was 30 Namibian dollars to get in and we did not want to pay so we went around the bar by way of the beach to where the bonfire was outside. Some late-comers were drilled by the thunderous waves and lost their footing and their phones/shoes in the process of sneaking over to the bonfire. At 11:48 pm I gathered Allie who had fallen asleep at the campsite and we ran to the massive bonfire which was ignited at 12 Midnight. So that was like watching the ball drop on TV in Newbie, except a little different because I watched a tower be burned to the ground on a beach with the waves crashing up against the bar and then snuck into a huge dance party in the bar and danced with random strangers until I backed up into Allie by accident who was also dancing with random strangers.
New Year’s Day was our last day in Swakopmund and so we tried to live it up. We relaxed and played ultimate Frisbee in the park , and then we made reservations at this nice sushi restaurant, knowing that we would not have sushi for a long time. We showered and went to this modern looking sushi bar and had pleasant conversation for about 1.5 hours and then we ate. It was a good last meal before we “went back to Africa” the next day.
Going back to the North was exciting. I got to visit Ryan’s homestead which was cool because he lives with Kwanyamas, which is another dialect of Oshiwambo. He is learning Oshikwanyama, I am learning Oshindonga but I live with Oshikwambi-speaking people, another dialect of Oshiwambo. He has the hook-up in comparison to my place (electricity, his own building, refrigerator, etc) but to each her own. Then my two friends Lisa and Brian came to visit my homestead for one night which was also so awesome. Having visitors is really exciting, because it gives you a very homey feeling. The next morning I left with them and went to visit Allie’s homestead which is also really nice. She has her own building with two rooms, one for her kitchen/dining room and one for her room, and she decorated it tremendously. It looked like home. She also has a shower and a flush toilet, which I do not have. Allie, Lisa, Brian and I made the best Pad Thai I have ever had. The mosquitoes were merciless, but the food and company made that concern dissolve.
Allie’s place really inspired me to come back to my room and start to make it my home. I still had pictures that my sisters had put up on my wall, my bed took over my room and I had all my clothes sitting in a suitcase and I really envied the work that she did. So I came back to the village and asked for help moving things around. I have one room for my kitchen in one building where the boys sleep and one room for myself where the girls sleep. My kitchen is still not nearly what I want it to look like but I switched my bed that was in my room with the bed the Ministry of Education got me, which is smaller and has a terrible mattress. However the space is what matters most! I put my big wardrobe in my room and now can fit all my clothes in my wardrobe! No more suitcase. Then I took down the pictures that were there before and only put up my pictures. I have twice as much room now. My mosquito net is not taking up my whole room and I can hang my clothes. I hooked up my gas stove so now I can cook! I bought some kitchen utensils to use as well, like a cutting board, a bowl, plates, knives, colander, pots, cookie sheets and essential items like flour, pasta, rice, salt, ramen noodles. The problem is that the Ministry has not given me the tables they promised they would give me. So I put everything on the ground or on the cardboard box the stove came in for storage. I have about 8 anthills in my kitchen that cannot be swept away but generally the ants stay away from my bowls and things. The ants just encourage me to push for these tables. Also it is not fun to eat off your lap once you cook something the way it is fun to eat off a table. Soon they will come though. Also, I might be putting an electric fridge in one of the bars that is like 0.5 miles away from me if it is approved by the Ministry who should pay for the electricity. Then my bag of tomatoes will not spoil in one day!
That is the update on my housekeeping. Sorry if it was boring but I wanted to share how I live because I have a hard time putting pictures online. Iyaloo! (Thanks!)
The trip up the Skeleton coast was amazing and then we had some down time until it was New Year’s Eve. So much had happened in 2010 that I almost needed it to be over so I could begin grasping the fact that I am indeed going to live here. It was strange knowing that only months before that time I was living in New Baltimore sipping wine by the pool. Then to think that only a few months before that, I was at my Commencement with the Jungle and their families and my family and all of my best friends. Then thinking about how still that same year we were holding keg parties at the Jungle and going to Senior Nights at Tilt. At the same time I was taking my Electricity and Magnetism mid-term and scraping the ice off my car every day instead of sweating all night long. 2010 NEEDED to be over. I am not studying abroad; I am not missing one semester and then coming back. College is over. I am living and working in Namibia!
Some people went to Dune 7 and partied. It sounded like it was an unbelievable time, but I did not feel like spending the money. Swakopmund is expensive! So I stayed by the beach with a lot of others and partied at the Tiki Hut by our campsite. It was 30 Namibian dollars to get in and we did not want to pay so we went around the bar by way of the beach to where the bonfire was outside. Some late-comers were drilled by the thunderous waves and lost their footing and their phones/shoes in the process of sneaking over to the bonfire. At 11:48 pm I gathered Allie who had fallen asleep at the campsite and we ran to the massive bonfire which was ignited at 12 Midnight. So that was like watching the ball drop on TV in Newbie, except a little different because I watched a tower be burned to the ground on a beach with the waves crashing up against the bar and then snuck into a huge dance party in the bar and danced with random strangers until I backed up into Allie by accident who was also dancing with random strangers.
New Year’s Day was our last day in Swakopmund and so we tried to live it up. We relaxed and played ultimate Frisbee in the park , and then we made reservations at this nice sushi restaurant, knowing that we would not have sushi for a long time. We showered and went to this modern looking sushi bar and had pleasant conversation for about 1.5 hours and then we ate. It was a good last meal before we “went back to Africa” the next day.
Going back to the North was exciting. I got to visit Ryan’s homestead which was cool because he lives with Kwanyamas, which is another dialect of Oshiwambo. He is learning Oshikwanyama, I am learning Oshindonga but I live with Oshikwambi-speaking people, another dialect of Oshiwambo. He has the hook-up in comparison to my place (electricity, his own building, refrigerator, etc) but to each her own. Then my two friends Lisa and Brian came to visit my homestead for one night which was also so awesome. Having visitors is really exciting, because it gives you a very homey feeling. The next morning I left with them and went to visit Allie’s homestead which is also really nice. She has her own building with two rooms, one for her kitchen/dining room and one for her room, and she decorated it tremendously. It looked like home. She also has a shower and a flush toilet, which I do not have. Allie, Lisa, Brian and I made the best Pad Thai I have ever had. The mosquitoes were merciless, but the food and company made that concern dissolve.
Allie’s place really inspired me to come back to my room and start to make it my home. I still had pictures that my sisters had put up on my wall, my bed took over my room and I had all my clothes sitting in a suitcase and I really envied the work that she did. So I came back to the village and asked for help moving things around. I have one room for my kitchen in one building where the boys sleep and one room for myself where the girls sleep. My kitchen is still not nearly what I want it to look like but I switched my bed that was in my room with the bed the Ministry of Education got me, which is smaller and has a terrible mattress. However the space is what matters most! I put my big wardrobe in my room and now can fit all my clothes in my wardrobe! No more suitcase. Then I took down the pictures that were there before and only put up my pictures. I have twice as much room now. My mosquito net is not taking up my whole room and I can hang my clothes. I hooked up my gas stove so now I can cook! I bought some kitchen utensils to use as well, like a cutting board, a bowl, plates, knives, colander, pots, cookie sheets and essential items like flour, pasta, rice, salt, ramen noodles. The problem is that the Ministry has not given me the tables they promised they would give me. So I put everything on the ground or on the cardboard box the stove came in for storage. I have about 8 anthills in my kitchen that cannot be swept away but generally the ants stay away from my bowls and things. The ants just encourage me to push for these tables. Also it is not fun to eat off your lap once you cook something the way it is fun to eat off a table. Soon they will come though. Also, I might be putting an electric fridge in one of the bars that is like 0.5 miles away from me if it is approved by the Ministry who should pay for the electricity. Then my bag of tomatoes will not spoil in one day!
That is the update on my housekeeping. Sorry if it was boring but I wanted to share how I live because I have a hard time putting pictures online. Iyaloo! (Thanks!)
Picture me rollin'
February 3, 2011
Dune 7 is the Sahara by the sea. In Owamboland, all I see is flat. Flat flat flat and land for days. Now I know why Christopher Columbus thought what he did. This world definitely ends over there, and I can fall off on ‘that side’. When you ask a Namibian where he/she is from, he/she will answer by giving a name of a village and pointing in the direction the village is and usually saying ‘that side of ___’. Oh New York? Oh that side. (pointing NW)
So for me, Dune 7 was something I had never encountered, having not been flat. Outside of Walvis Bay, next to the same Atlantic, lies this enormous sand dune that is a great tourist attraction. Allie and I were the last of the group to trudge up there and it was no joke. Under the steaming sun with the heat bouncing of the sand and stinging us in the face, 20 of us pushed our calves into the sand separately, counting the steps until it would end. Allie stopped at the bottom to pick up trash. While collecting the garbage I heard her say, “Really, people? Really?” I pretended not to hear and continued my trek. I had one goal and I wanted it to be over.
I climbed a dune. Haha! With my face wrapped with an oshitenge in Islamic-fashion and my sunglasses on, I pose for the camera while my friend is puking behind me. “Let’s pretend that Rob is not ruining this for everyone.” Then we walked along the ridge of the dune and onto the highest point. Miley Cyrus, “The Climb” came to mind.
In silence we all acknowledge what is happening around us. Looking out into the distance, whether you are from Nevada or Montana or have gone to South Africa, we know that we have never seen this before. And words are too trite for that feeling. So we gaze.
Time keeps on ticking into the future and it’s time to leave. With this cloth wrapped around me, I hear people discussing the prospect of rolling down.
“I was thinking about rolling down, but then I’d get my clothes all sandy and I don’t feel like washing off.”
“It looks too steep. I wanted to but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
So I wrapped that piece of cloth we call a oshitenge around my upper body and I start tumbling without joining in the discussion. Round and Round my head is spinning at rapid speed as I hear crazy Allie in the distance, “No, Jeannine! Don’t! It’s too muchhhhhhhhhhhhh!” But it’s too late. I am already rolling. And the only thing stopping me is myself.
Rolling down that hill was a natural non-pharmaceutical high. I felt like a kid on a merry-go-round! I spun so fast my brain could not keep up so joy was just running through my veins; maybe joy is my default feeling for when chaos ensues (we will see in 2012 when the world ends). I thought I was going to reach the bottom soon so I slowed myself down, the way you slow down when you are swimming with your eyes closed and you think you have reached the end of the pool. I stopped myself on the sizzling sand by digging my limbs deep into the sand. It has to be the end. My brain spun for another 10 seconds. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. I felt like I was upside down. I looked around and realized, I was only two thirds down the Dune and then Allie rolled up behind me. (pun) I was happy and surprised to see her trailing behind (another pun). We sat there in silence for a moment trying to grasp normal orientation, trying to see straight.
“Maybe we should walk down?” “No we gotta finish this.” “Yeah, you’re right.”
So we let our bodies fall into the hands of nature/physics and allow our brains and bodies to spin into oblivion down the rest of Dune 7. And wouldn’t ya know, our paths crossed. Two star-crossed lovers that had to pull handfuls of sand out of their socks, back pockets, front pockets, brassieres lol, underwear, hair, etc. on the verge of vomiting. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Dune 7 is the Sahara by the sea. In Owamboland, all I see is flat. Flat flat flat and land for days. Now I know why Christopher Columbus thought what he did. This world definitely ends over there, and I can fall off on ‘that side’. When you ask a Namibian where he/she is from, he/she will answer by giving a name of a village and pointing in the direction the village is and usually saying ‘that side of ___’. Oh New York? Oh that side. (pointing NW)
So for me, Dune 7 was something I had never encountered, having not been flat. Outside of Walvis Bay, next to the same Atlantic, lies this enormous sand dune that is a great tourist attraction. Allie and I were the last of the group to trudge up there and it was no joke. Under the steaming sun with the heat bouncing of the sand and stinging us in the face, 20 of us pushed our calves into the sand separately, counting the steps until it would end. Allie stopped at the bottom to pick up trash. While collecting the garbage I heard her say, “Really, people? Really?” I pretended not to hear and continued my trek. I had one goal and I wanted it to be over.
I climbed a dune. Haha! With my face wrapped with an oshitenge in Islamic-fashion and my sunglasses on, I pose for the camera while my friend is puking behind me. “Let’s pretend that Rob is not ruining this for everyone.” Then we walked along the ridge of the dune and onto the highest point. Miley Cyrus, “The Climb” came to mind.
In silence we all acknowledge what is happening around us. Looking out into the distance, whether you are from Nevada or Montana or have gone to South Africa, we know that we have never seen this before. And words are too trite for that feeling. So we gaze.
Time keeps on ticking into the future and it’s time to leave. With this cloth wrapped around me, I hear people discussing the prospect of rolling down.
“I was thinking about rolling down, but then I’d get my clothes all sandy and I don’t feel like washing off.”
“It looks too steep. I wanted to but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
So I wrapped that piece of cloth we call a oshitenge around my upper body and I start tumbling without joining in the discussion. Round and Round my head is spinning at rapid speed as I hear crazy Allie in the distance, “No, Jeannine! Don’t! It’s too muchhhhhhhhhhhhh!” But it’s too late. I am already rolling. And the only thing stopping me is myself.
Rolling down that hill was a natural non-pharmaceutical high. I felt like a kid on a merry-go-round! I spun so fast my brain could not keep up so joy was just running through my veins; maybe joy is my default feeling for when chaos ensues (we will see in 2012 when the world ends). I thought I was going to reach the bottom soon so I slowed myself down, the way you slow down when you are swimming with your eyes closed and you think you have reached the end of the pool. I stopped myself on the sizzling sand by digging my limbs deep into the sand. It has to be the end. My brain spun for another 10 seconds. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. I felt like I was upside down. I looked around and realized, I was only two thirds down the Dune and then Allie rolled up behind me. (pun) I was happy and surprised to see her trailing behind (another pun). We sat there in silence for a moment trying to grasp normal orientation, trying to see straight.
“Maybe we should walk down?” “No we gotta finish this.” “Yeah, you’re right.”
So we let our bodies fall into the hands of nature/physics and allow our brains and bodies to spin into oblivion down the rest of Dune 7. And wouldn’t ya know, our paths crossed. Two star-crossed lovers that had to pull handfuls of sand out of their socks, back pockets, front pockets, brassieres lol, underwear, hair, etc. on the verge of vomiting. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Seal the Deal
January 18, 2011
My birthday was not all glimmer and glitz, because I did not have a phone. Allie was generous enough to let me use hers. She even texted Will through skype, as a surprise for me, to ask him to tell all my friends to call her phone. Unfortunately, the phone’s battery would not last and I’m sure the frustration in the US was a bit unbearable. It was hard hearing Jaimegirl’s voice for one minute and then getting cut off; talking to Candice for 8 minutes was a pleasure although would have loved for it to be longer; I got cut off from Will after 45 seconds as well. Apparently, my family called in the middle of the night but I was sleeping. That is a major frustration over here, but it is a blessing that Namibia even has service at all and that I usually access the internet through my phone. Probably my greatest struggle is feeling dependent on others calling me, because it is way too expensive for me to call outside of Namibia or even in Namibia. Nonetheless, I try to keep a positive attitude, and even though the calls are dropped every 10 seconds, the 30 seconds of conversation make it all worth it.
On the 28th, about 20 of us rented two closed pickup trucks (!) and drove up the Skeleton Coast. We stopped at a shipwreck which exemplified why they call it the Skeleton Coast. We kept on going North to Hentie’s Bay which is a smaller, more local version of Swakopmund and got some fried fish and chips to go. It took about an hour for them to make 20 fish and chips but it was seriously worth it in the end. We saw some funny shops, one that had a picture of a seal that pointed saying, “Seal Shoes.” Then, we continued north to Cape Cross to see the seal colony there.
By this point, things are looking rather deserted (tehe). To the right, no life in site, endless desert sands. To the left, there is coastline and a seemingly infinite ocean. We pull up to the office where we pay for admission. It is 3 km or so away from where the seal colony is, and so we read up on the latest seal news. There is some controversy in Namibia over clubbing, and I ain’t talkin dancin. Apparently every year the government sponsors a mass clubbing of seals (meaning they beat thousands of seals to death with clubs), which results in a good profit from their hide and export of their innards (their genitals are shipped to China for reasons I am unaware of). I feel so much empathy for these innocent, beautiful, unique, harmless creatures that I just can’t wait to see them. I want to tell them that I’m sorry about their impending, brutal death and reassure them that someday we humans will suffer the repercussions of our cruel actions, that someday we too will be at the mercy of a creature that has surpassed us in intelligence, that our careless reign will not exist forever…
We pull up to Cape Cross and are welcomed by the large crucifix, a replica of one that was placed there by a Portuguese explorer, I believe. We step out of the car and are smacked in the face by the stench of the dead and dying seal population. Not having the upmost ability to breathe through my nose, I can take it, and I walk toward the viewing deck, which is long wooden dock raised about 2 feet off the ground that stretches all around the coast, about 30 yards inland from the sea. I take about 4 steps onto the viewing dock for my first image to be a dead adolescent seal lying on the viewing dock to my right, and another one just off the viewing dock with blood from its head drying in the sand.
“Well, I know this is one place that I am NOT taking my family, “says Ryan.
“Oh my God, look at this little guy! He’s so cute!” says Allie, also known as Fran from the Nanny.
A seal colony is the perfect way to describe it. It is like when South Africa colonized Namibia, or the Europeans colonized America, they came to a spot and claimed it. They pushed everything else back so that it is solely their territory and as a result, many more moved in. All you could see was black and brown slippery, slick, hairy skin throughout the coastline. 250,000 seals. That is when I started to have a panic attack.
I wasn’t just viewing them-- I am telling you, they were all around me. Seals and baby seals had overtaken the picnic bench area behind me and were using it for shade. So much for a picnic lunch. Seals and baby seals were beneath every inch of the viewing deck, so that every step you took, every plank you applied pressure on, you would hear a cry from a seal beneath you in response. I was stepping on the seals, or were they clipping at my heels? Which one of us was the aggressor? The sounds--the moans, the cries, the whimpering, the calling of their young, the fighting of two alpha males all blending together sounded like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell. The way they were itching their damp bodies on the rocks by rubbing against them and taking their fingerlike appendages and scratching their faces constantly started to make me itch. They all seemed to be looking at me and yowling. All the baby seals were scuttling and waddling in our direction to go underneath the viewing deck. Come on Jeannine, you are a ‘scientist’. How do you not appreciate the beauty in what you are seeing? How exceptional this experience is? This is something you may never see again. Take it all in. But that’s just it. You cannot take it all in. There are too many seals to comprehend, and it is when you start to grasp the nature of the matter, it’s overwhelming. The putrid smell, the wailing, and the overpowering sight was enough for me to calmly evacuate the premises. My friend, Dan, put my experience well when he said, “Yeah, I could tell you weren’t really into it when you walked as far as you could away from the area by yourself and faced the other direction until we were all ready to go.”
Later, we were all discussing our greatest fears, and that is when I realized I have a seal phobia.
We decided we would camp out on the beach by the shipwreck. We cooked food over an open fire, cooking pasta with a meat sauce and roasting marshmallows for desert. Allie and I slept out underneath the stars together. It was very cold by the sea, so we huddled together in our sleeping bags. We awoke at sunrise, ready to go to Walvis Bay and Dune 7.
My birthday was not all glimmer and glitz, because I did not have a phone. Allie was generous enough to let me use hers. She even texted Will through skype, as a surprise for me, to ask him to tell all my friends to call her phone. Unfortunately, the phone’s battery would not last and I’m sure the frustration in the US was a bit unbearable. It was hard hearing Jaimegirl’s voice for one minute and then getting cut off; talking to Candice for 8 minutes was a pleasure although would have loved for it to be longer; I got cut off from Will after 45 seconds as well. Apparently, my family called in the middle of the night but I was sleeping. That is a major frustration over here, but it is a blessing that Namibia even has service at all and that I usually access the internet through my phone. Probably my greatest struggle is feeling dependent on others calling me, because it is way too expensive for me to call outside of Namibia or even in Namibia. Nonetheless, I try to keep a positive attitude, and even though the calls are dropped every 10 seconds, the 30 seconds of conversation make it all worth it.
On the 28th, about 20 of us rented two closed pickup trucks (!) and drove up the Skeleton Coast. We stopped at a shipwreck which exemplified why they call it the Skeleton Coast. We kept on going North to Hentie’s Bay which is a smaller, more local version of Swakopmund and got some fried fish and chips to go. It took about an hour for them to make 20 fish and chips but it was seriously worth it in the end. We saw some funny shops, one that had a picture of a seal that pointed saying, “Seal Shoes.” Then, we continued north to Cape Cross to see the seal colony there.
By this point, things are looking rather deserted (tehe). To the right, no life in site, endless desert sands. To the left, there is coastline and a seemingly infinite ocean. We pull up to the office where we pay for admission. It is 3 km or so away from where the seal colony is, and so we read up on the latest seal news. There is some controversy in Namibia over clubbing, and I ain’t talkin dancin. Apparently every year the government sponsors a mass clubbing of seals (meaning they beat thousands of seals to death with clubs), which results in a good profit from their hide and export of their innards (their genitals are shipped to China for reasons I am unaware of). I feel so much empathy for these innocent, beautiful, unique, harmless creatures that I just can’t wait to see them. I want to tell them that I’m sorry about their impending, brutal death and reassure them that someday we humans will suffer the repercussions of our cruel actions, that someday we too will be at the mercy of a creature that has surpassed us in intelligence, that our careless reign will not exist forever…
We pull up to Cape Cross and are welcomed by the large crucifix, a replica of one that was placed there by a Portuguese explorer, I believe. We step out of the car and are smacked in the face by the stench of the dead and dying seal population. Not having the upmost ability to breathe through my nose, I can take it, and I walk toward the viewing deck, which is long wooden dock raised about 2 feet off the ground that stretches all around the coast, about 30 yards inland from the sea. I take about 4 steps onto the viewing dock for my first image to be a dead adolescent seal lying on the viewing dock to my right, and another one just off the viewing dock with blood from its head drying in the sand.
“Well, I know this is one place that I am NOT taking my family, “says Ryan.
“Oh my God, look at this little guy! He’s so cute!” says Allie, also known as Fran from the Nanny.
A seal colony is the perfect way to describe it. It is like when South Africa colonized Namibia, or the Europeans colonized America, they came to a spot and claimed it. They pushed everything else back so that it is solely their territory and as a result, many more moved in. All you could see was black and brown slippery, slick, hairy skin throughout the coastline. 250,000 seals. That is when I started to have a panic attack.
I wasn’t just viewing them-- I am telling you, they were all around me. Seals and baby seals had overtaken the picnic bench area behind me and were using it for shade. So much for a picnic lunch. Seals and baby seals were beneath every inch of the viewing deck, so that every step you took, every plank you applied pressure on, you would hear a cry from a seal beneath you in response. I was stepping on the seals, or were they clipping at my heels? Which one of us was the aggressor? The sounds--the moans, the cries, the whimpering, the calling of their young, the fighting of two alpha males all blending together sounded like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell. The way they were itching their damp bodies on the rocks by rubbing against them and taking their fingerlike appendages and scratching their faces constantly started to make me itch. They all seemed to be looking at me and yowling. All the baby seals were scuttling and waddling in our direction to go underneath the viewing deck. Come on Jeannine, you are a ‘scientist’. How do you not appreciate the beauty in what you are seeing? How exceptional this experience is? This is something you may never see again. Take it all in. But that’s just it. You cannot take it all in. There are too many seals to comprehend, and it is when you start to grasp the nature of the matter, it’s overwhelming. The putrid smell, the wailing, and the overpowering sight was enough for me to calmly evacuate the premises. My friend, Dan, put my experience well when he said, “Yeah, I could tell you weren’t really into it when you walked as far as you could away from the area by yourself and faced the other direction until we were all ready to go.”
Later, we were all discussing our greatest fears, and that is when I realized I have a seal phobia.
We decided we would camp out on the beach by the shipwreck. We cooked food over an open fire, cooking pasta with a meat sauce and roasting marshmallows for desert. Allie and I slept out underneath the stars together. It was very cold by the sea, so we huddled together in our sleeping bags. We awoke at sunrise, ready to go to Walvis Bay and Dune 7.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
January 15, 2010
Back to the village! Back to the homestead. Back to my home. For the next two years.
It is insane to think I have been here officially 5 months now. My European extravaganza lasted a little longer than this, and that felt like eternity. This has felt very short in comparison. It makes me feel like these two years is going to go by fast.
The past few months have been crazy because it has been back and forth between American culture and Namibian culture. Surrounded by Americans and then surrounded by Namibians. Pre-Service training was 8 weeks, and we were practically surrounded by Americans the whole time except when we went home to our host families. One of those weeks we went to our homestead—site visit—all Namibians. Then we went back to all Americans, then we came to our sites to move in – all Namibians—then we went to Reconnect for two weeks—All Americans—then we went back to site for a week with all Namibians—then we went on vacation for almost a month! All Americans. Now I’m back and ready to feel settled. My head is spinning.
The end of the school year was interesting. Hotter than ever, and I had very little to do. The teachers were busy preparing exams and going to Windhoek to grade exams. I replaced teachers who were absent and who went to Windhoek to grade for two weeks. It was all “Revision” aka review, and it went well. They do not have substitute teachers here, and so if the teacher is absent, then the kids sit in their classroom alone. Sometimes the teachers will just skip class or be really late to class and a learner is designated to go and find them if they are missing. It was cool to have the learners run up to me…
“Miss Jahneen, Miss Jahneen! Come and teach!”
“Where is your teacher?”
“Excuse?” (Their way of saying pardon?)
“Are you all alone today?”
“…?”
“Do you have a teacher?”
“No, she is not here.”
“Okay, I’ll come.”
“Yayyy!” (Lots of jumping and running into the classroom.)
At the end of the year we had a 48% pass rate for our grade 10. We are a combined school with grades 1-10. The 10th graders take national exams that determine whether they will be admitted into another upper secondary school for 11 & 12 grade. All of our success is based on how many kids pass 10th grade. We were ranked 29 out of 60 in our region. We got work to do.
Reconnect with other volunteers. Nothing could be like it. We were on top of a mountain outside of Windhoek at an amazing resort with two in-ground pools. The mountains were so green and it starkly contrasted the endless flat plains of sand that we are surrounded by in the North. It was a luxury to stay there. Very relaxing and nice to see my fellow volunteers, but the conference was very pre-mature and we could have benefitted a lot more if it were later in the year like it usually is. It was nice to be able to go into the capital which is just like a small American city. The food was amazing and the tea times were plentiful. (We had two tea breaks a day, just like in Pre-service Training, and it gets addicting. You start to really NEED tea time after a while).
Then I went back up to my site in the north and went to two awesome Owambo weddings. Wow talk about fusion. The bride wears a traditional Catholic white dress in this desert-like climate. The bridesmaids all have matching dresses too! It looks like an American wedding from afar and then you walk into the church. Let’s back up.
I went on a Friday although the wedding ceremony was on a Saturday. I watched cows get slaughtered and cut up and I participated in lots of yelling and dancing and chanting every time we heard a gunshot go into a cow’s head. We would yell in this shrill that is like a Mexican shrill (ayayayayayy), maybe. It’s unique. I watched the cow get all diced up and they all laughed at my expressions, knowing I had never seen anything like it. I took pictures like a tourist. I have been giving up on “blending in” because there’s one major thing that stands in my way.
So they cooked this cow all night long and we drank lots of traditional beer which is acid reflux in a kalabash. My sister and I got really tired so we just laid down a mattress and went to sleep. We were awoken suddenly, as usual, at about 10:30, …
“Penduka! Penduka!” (Wake up, Wake up!)
“Mem?” (Mom or Ma’am. Meaning what do you need, Mom? If you are called by someone you always answer Mem? Or Tat? Like Meme or Tate, what do you need?)
“Magano, Take a meat.” (Magano is my Oshiwambo name. It means Gift. )
I get up reluctantly, knowing that I should take more beef, even though I had already eaten some earlier in the evening and the ol’ acid reflux is acting up. It is over within a half hour and in our haziness, my sister and I fall back asleep… and at 12 midnight.
“Penduka! Penduka! Magano, take a meat!”
“No thank you. I am okay, thank you!”
“OH! You are not going to take a meat? Magano, take a meat!”
I get up grudgingly. Do these people even care that I was a vegetarian before I came here? Do they even understand how hard I try to do what they do, eat their goat liver and small baby birds and cow intestine and fish heads and sand and…
I sit and eat that beef that had live blood flowing through it only hours before and go back to sleep with it crawling up my throat, as I lack a pyloric valve… and at 1:30 am…
“Penduka! Penduka! Take a meat.”
“Are you serious? There is more meat? When is this going to be over? What time is it?”
“Meat and porridge! Wake up and take!”
“No, sorry my stomach hurts, I can’t.” (half-lie)
But my sister got up and ate it whole-heartedly. When I woke up the next morning, I was asked if I was feeling better right away. I said I was fine. I spent at least 2 hours dicing potatoes for the biggest vat of potato salad I had ever seen and then later went to the church. My meme and sister did not want to go to the church so I went by myself.
There were three couples getting married, not just one, and apparently sometimes there are 10 or so. I went with some people that I did not know, but we arrived at least half way into the service. Obviously when I walk in, somehow all 250 heads turn to look at the white girl that just stepped into the church in the middle of the bushland. I’m not the one getting married people. Nothing to see here. To be fair, there probably was not another white person who stepped foot in there since the missionaries that set the place up. The service was like a funeral in that people were asked to come up and make statements about the couples. People went up there and were talking all about the marriage of the two and I believe anyone who wanted to go could go up front. Obviously I went up there… haha just kidding!
It was another 2 hours in Oshiwambo, so I am not very sure about what happened and no one was with me to help me understand… Exhibit A: We had to make an offering to the couples and there was a bowl in the center aisle. Of course I am in the innermost seat in the last row and I am nudged to be the first one to go forward. I didn’t have any money on me and the lady that nudged me gave me 15 Namibian cents. That’s like 2 pennies. I walk confidently down the center aisle with a big smile on my face to distract the fact that I am about to be the first one to put money in the bowl and they are going to know exactly how much the white girl contributed to their marriage, 15 cents, after all the cow meat they gave me (forced down my throat). I place the money in the bowl and turn the corner to walk away. The woman behind me pulls me back and shows me that we are to shake the hands of all three couples.
“Congratulations, that’s less than three Namibian cents I contributed to your future. Did I mention you look beautiful on this wonderful occasion?”
It turned out that we were not supposed to walk down the middle aisle at all, but the outer aisles. So half the church is following my lead and the other half is going to the outer aisle and they are meeting awkwardly in one mass in middle. Damn Oshilumbu (white person).
Exiting the church the members of the family wait for the wedding party to come out and then form a parade in front of them. We danced and sang and chanted and shrilled announcing the wedding party behind us as they walked with stone cold expressions on their faces, but hey at least we were happy. We went back to the homestead and the wedding march continued when the wedding party made it to the homestead. Then the bride and groom sat at a designated area while everyone gathered around. A prayer was said and there was a speaker and then a line up of people offering gifts. Then we all went inside the homestead and there was a special tent designated for the wedding party and other tents for guests. A wedding is much different here, because there is not a guest list. Anyone can come (example, me) and there is tons of food made for whoever shows up. The similarities were there too. The special tent for just the wedding party members and many outdoor tents (like those big ones used at events) were rented. We ate a lot of food and drank many, many sodas. Then a large group and the wedding party went to the groom’s homestead for another celebration with food. I don’t know how these people can eat so much. Then everyone came back late and danced well into the night. We stayed over again and I refused to eat meat in the middle of the night.
The next day my friend, Ryan, came and visited my homestead. He was the first to see it and it was exciting to show him around. Then we went to another wedding in my village which was great, because I knew a lot of people and could look really popular in front of my fellow PCV. I got to explain to Ryan all about how weddings work haha like I was an expert. I was given a towering plate of beef as a gift by someone at the wedding before anyone was even eating and I thanked them for being so generous. Then the food came out and Ryan and I ate a big plate under this one tent (including shredded beef mixed with mayo). Then my colleague came out with chicken and gave us a nice portion. We were stuffed but told we had to go over to the wedding tent, so of course we went. Then a woman came up to Ryan with another plate of food.
“Oh, no thank you. I already ate in the other tent!”
She gives Ryan, my meme, and me a confused look.
“I already had a plate at the other tent. Thanks!”
My meme then accepts the plate of food even though she had already eaten as well. Feeling like he had made a major mistake and did something insulting, Ryan requests another plate of food and I accept one as well. ( You are always supposed to accept food if it is offered, but we figured they did not know we had eaten.) I eat some and then share with the woman next to me, but Ryan, disregarding his physiological limits, determinedly finishes his plate. After that, he didn’t want to talk anymore and passed out early in sickness. Two days later, he was sicker than I’ve seen anyone yet. Oops!
Wow I just wrote a lot about weddings and really only skimmed the surface, and that was only one weekend!
Next day, Ryan and I went to meet all the other volunteers in the central Namibia. We stopped by Lake Otjikoto and chilled with many a-species. All types of exotic birds, ostriches, warthogs, some type of huge gemsbok-like thing, guinea pigs, an alligator… weird stuff going on there. We met up two days later and then we headed to Okahandja to take the overnight train to Swakopmund. This was a novelty in Peace Corps history, because you can pretty much go for free to Swakopmund if you find someone to give you a ride and it only takes 2 hours by car. It costs N$100 (about USD$15) to go on the train and it took like 9 hours to get there. Sounds like we made a dumb decision, but being on an overnight party train with Germans and Namibians with the train roaring at 45 miles an hour was one of the best nights of my life. SO much fun. A local climbed out of the window and re-entered from another window while the train was moving. It was that wild. My friends (Nick, Ryan and Allie) even got to drive the train with the conductor. At some point, the air changed from dry desert wind to a cool, seaside breeze…
And then there was Atlantic Ocean. The very same one seen in New York and Florida but on the other half of the world. It felt so good to feel the cold salt water wash up against my toes and the mist blow across my face. We settled at our camping site about 50 yards from the beach, right next to an awesome beach bar that had a DJ and cheap food. It was perfect. We stayed there for N$40 a night like $5.50 a night. It was amazing. Swakopmund is the Western world in Namibia, and I had not been around so many white people since being in the US. It was very strange. At one point we were at a restaurant and everyone eating there was white, and we all felt out of place even though we were all white. This is the prime time tourist location. The houses are amazing. You feel like you are in LA walking down Santa Monica Blvd. They even have a spectacular pier.
We spent Christmas there, about 30 of us. Some people brought decorations to put on a tree on our campsite and on Christmas Eve, I put on the Now That’s What I Call Christmas album on my iPod, despite the resistance of many, and then within minutes we all were dancing and singing Christmas carols loudly into the night. (The next day, the campsite owners told us that there was a curfew haha.) On Christmas, we woke up to cute little stockings that Santa put by all of our tents stuffed with candy. We listened to the Maria Carey Christmas album as we opened our “secret springbok” gifts from each other. It was my first Christmas without my family and it was truly very magical even without the snow. We all still had loved ones around (awwwwwwww). I had a Jewish Christmas with two of the Jewish volunteers *perhaps the only two in the country?* and a bunch of us went out to Chinese food on Christmas. It was the best Chinese food I had ever had in my life. Nothing like American-Chinese food. It was gourmet and felt like a real Jewish-Christmas feast. We sat there as the only ones in the place for like 3 hours, and then we saw two young girls eating and noticed their American accents. Two Peace Corps Botswana volunteers! Nice to meet new friends.
Speaking of meeting new friends, Allie and I called a South African guy on the street because his shirt said “F_c_book”, and we wanted to know what his deal was. He looked like a tourist. He was on vacation at his vacation house that he hadn’t been to in 13 years outside of Swakop, so he was kind of alone with his mom and aunt. He also was a world traveler and had stayed in the US on the West Coast for a while, so he loved American football. He invited us to a festival outside of Swakop in the area where his vacation house is and we agreed. Allie, Brian, and I all went to this festival and it was a lot of fun. It was like being at an American fair. Many beer tents, food vendors, tickets to get beer, live music, DJ and then we walked to his house and stayed over. Dylan was so generous. He picked us all up, bought and wrapped a gift for us for Christmas, let us eat a ton of food at night and make eggs in the morning, watched 2 hours of ESPN with me on my birthday morning, and drove us back on my birthday with a detour into the Namib desert, and dropped us off in Swakop. He said that Americans had treated him really well and he wanted to do the same for us, and he certainly did. We obviously invited him to my birthday party, and he also hung out with us on New Year’s Eve. We are definitely going to visit him in Capetown.
My birthday was incredible. I have had the best birthdays ever in the past three years; it’s unreal to recount. I bought myself two birthday dresses and was feeling great sipping coke out of my purple birthday wine glass that Allie and Ryan got me. Then I went out to eat at a fabulous Italian restaurant with my friends, had delicious Tagliatelle Carbonara and then a surprise birthday song came from sisters Julie and Lisa. They had a cheap xylophone, a whistle, and a tambourine I believe. They sang this song in bar area in the restaurant where we were sitting with Allie and Brian as backup:
Jeannine The Bean
She’s from NY, not the city but where it is green.
She sweats a lot but her armpits are clean.
She is an African Queen.
Jeannine the Bean,
She looks a lot like she’s Chinese.
She is not mean
On alcohol and basketball, she is real keen.
Jeannine the Bean,
Let’s put some wine into here Nalgene.
She’s smoking hot and super lean.
I really hope she doesn’t get gangrene .
Jeannine the Bean,
Just look at her in those skin tight jeans.
She’s got a diva cup in uterine.
She looks so fine she makes me wanna scream.
Happy birthday to the neen-er ween-er, neen-er ween-er, neen-er ween-er neen-er ween-er….
It was hilarious, thoughtful, outrageous, undeserved and more than I could ever ask for. In just 4 months, I have made some really amazing friends. The funny part was that an Italian couple sitting at the bar was so impressed by this spectacle that they came up to us and asked us if we could go up to their table of ten in the other dining area and sing the song again. Of course we did. I showed up at the table feeling like I was in Rome, “Buona Sera, Mi Amici!” And we pounded away at our Fisher Price xylophone and slammed spoons together in my honor. I wish I had it on video. The Italians were shocked but eventually joined it. We went back to the table and a chocolate mousse was brought to the table with a candle in it! Awww another happy birthday song. Then Dylan showed up with Jello shots and it was time to go to the beach and meet the others. We had a dance party on the beach with about 30 of us, including PCV’s from other groups. Later, a cake with candles in it was carried out to me and everyone sang happy birthday to me again. I received many presents from the crew and we danced until the stereo died at like 1 am. It was good timing because we had to go on an excusion to the skelton coast in the morning...
More to come...
Back to the village! Back to the homestead. Back to my home. For the next two years.
It is insane to think I have been here officially 5 months now. My European extravaganza lasted a little longer than this, and that felt like eternity. This has felt very short in comparison. It makes me feel like these two years is going to go by fast.
The past few months have been crazy because it has been back and forth between American culture and Namibian culture. Surrounded by Americans and then surrounded by Namibians. Pre-Service training was 8 weeks, and we were practically surrounded by Americans the whole time except when we went home to our host families. One of those weeks we went to our homestead—site visit—all Namibians. Then we went back to all Americans, then we came to our sites to move in – all Namibians—then we went to Reconnect for two weeks—All Americans—then we went back to site for a week with all Namibians—then we went on vacation for almost a month! All Americans. Now I’m back and ready to feel settled. My head is spinning.
The end of the school year was interesting. Hotter than ever, and I had very little to do. The teachers were busy preparing exams and going to Windhoek to grade exams. I replaced teachers who were absent and who went to Windhoek to grade for two weeks. It was all “Revision” aka review, and it went well. They do not have substitute teachers here, and so if the teacher is absent, then the kids sit in their classroom alone. Sometimes the teachers will just skip class or be really late to class and a learner is designated to go and find them if they are missing. It was cool to have the learners run up to me…
“Miss Jahneen, Miss Jahneen! Come and teach!”
“Where is your teacher?”
“Excuse?” (Their way of saying pardon?)
“Are you all alone today?”
“…?”
“Do you have a teacher?”
“No, she is not here.”
“Okay, I’ll come.”
“Yayyy!” (Lots of jumping and running into the classroom.)
At the end of the year we had a 48% pass rate for our grade 10. We are a combined school with grades 1-10. The 10th graders take national exams that determine whether they will be admitted into another upper secondary school for 11 & 12 grade. All of our success is based on how many kids pass 10th grade. We were ranked 29 out of 60 in our region. We got work to do.
Reconnect with other volunteers. Nothing could be like it. We were on top of a mountain outside of Windhoek at an amazing resort with two in-ground pools. The mountains were so green and it starkly contrasted the endless flat plains of sand that we are surrounded by in the North. It was a luxury to stay there. Very relaxing and nice to see my fellow volunteers, but the conference was very pre-mature and we could have benefitted a lot more if it were later in the year like it usually is. It was nice to be able to go into the capital which is just like a small American city. The food was amazing and the tea times were plentiful. (We had two tea breaks a day, just like in Pre-service Training, and it gets addicting. You start to really NEED tea time after a while).
Then I went back up to my site in the north and went to two awesome Owambo weddings. Wow talk about fusion. The bride wears a traditional Catholic white dress in this desert-like climate. The bridesmaids all have matching dresses too! It looks like an American wedding from afar and then you walk into the church. Let’s back up.
I went on a Friday although the wedding ceremony was on a Saturday. I watched cows get slaughtered and cut up and I participated in lots of yelling and dancing and chanting every time we heard a gunshot go into a cow’s head. We would yell in this shrill that is like a Mexican shrill (ayayayayayy), maybe. It’s unique. I watched the cow get all diced up and they all laughed at my expressions, knowing I had never seen anything like it. I took pictures like a tourist. I have been giving up on “blending in” because there’s one major thing that stands in my way.
So they cooked this cow all night long and we drank lots of traditional beer which is acid reflux in a kalabash. My sister and I got really tired so we just laid down a mattress and went to sleep. We were awoken suddenly, as usual, at about 10:30, …
“Penduka! Penduka!” (Wake up, Wake up!)
“Mem?” (Mom or Ma’am. Meaning what do you need, Mom? If you are called by someone you always answer Mem? Or Tat? Like Meme or Tate, what do you need?)
“Magano, Take a meat.” (Magano is my Oshiwambo name. It means Gift. )
I get up reluctantly, knowing that I should take more beef, even though I had already eaten some earlier in the evening and the ol’ acid reflux is acting up. It is over within a half hour and in our haziness, my sister and I fall back asleep… and at 12 midnight.
“Penduka! Penduka! Magano, take a meat!”
“No thank you. I am okay, thank you!”
“OH! You are not going to take a meat? Magano, take a meat!”
I get up grudgingly. Do these people even care that I was a vegetarian before I came here? Do they even understand how hard I try to do what they do, eat their goat liver and small baby birds and cow intestine and fish heads and sand and…
I sit and eat that beef that had live blood flowing through it only hours before and go back to sleep with it crawling up my throat, as I lack a pyloric valve… and at 1:30 am…
“Penduka! Penduka! Take a meat.”
“Are you serious? There is more meat? When is this going to be over? What time is it?”
“Meat and porridge! Wake up and take!”
“No, sorry my stomach hurts, I can’t.” (half-lie)
But my sister got up and ate it whole-heartedly. When I woke up the next morning, I was asked if I was feeling better right away. I said I was fine. I spent at least 2 hours dicing potatoes for the biggest vat of potato salad I had ever seen and then later went to the church. My meme and sister did not want to go to the church so I went by myself.
There were three couples getting married, not just one, and apparently sometimes there are 10 or so. I went with some people that I did not know, but we arrived at least half way into the service. Obviously when I walk in, somehow all 250 heads turn to look at the white girl that just stepped into the church in the middle of the bushland. I’m not the one getting married people. Nothing to see here. To be fair, there probably was not another white person who stepped foot in there since the missionaries that set the place up. The service was like a funeral in that people were asked to come up and make statements about the couples. People went up there and were talking all about the marriage of the two and I believe anyone who wanted to go could go up front. Obviously I went up there… haha just kidding!
It was another 2 hours in Oshiwambo, so I am not very sure about what happened and no one was with me to help me understand… Exhibit A: We had to make an offering to the couples and there was a bowl in the center aisle. Of course I am in the innermost seat in the last row and I am nudged to be the first one to go forward. I didn’t have any money on me and the lady that nudged me gave me 15 Namibian cents. That’s like 2 pennies. I walk confidently down the center aisle with a big smile on my face to distract the fact that I am about to be the first one to put money in the bowl and they are going to know exactly how much the white girl contributed to their marriage, 15 cents, after all the cow meat they gave me (forced down my throat). I place the money in the bowl and turn the corner to walk away. The woman behind me pulls me back and shows me that we are to shake the hands of all three couples.
“Congratulations, that’s less than three Namibian cents I contributed to your future. Did I mention you look beautiful on this wonderful occasion?”
It turned out that we were not supposed to walk down the middle aisle at all, but the outer aisles. So half the church is following my lead and the other half is going to the outer aisle and they are meeting awkwardly in one mass in middle. Damn Oshilumbu (white person).
Exiting the church the members of the family wait for the wedding party to come out and then form a parade in front of them. We danced and sang and chanted and shrilled announcing the wedding party behind us as they walked with stone cold expressions on their faces, but hey at least we were happy. We went back to the homestead and the wedding march continued when the wedding party made it to the homestead. Then the bride and groom sat at a designated area while everyone gathered around. A prayer was said and there was a speaker and then a line up of people offering gifts. Then we all went inside the homestead and there was a special tent designated for the wedding party and other tents for guests. A wedding is much different here, because there is not a guest list. Anyone can come (example, me) and there is tons of food made for whoever shows up. The similarities were there too. The special tent for just the wedding party members and many outdoor tents (like those big ones used at events) were rented. We ate a lot of food and drank many, many sodas. Then a large group and the wedding party went to the groom’s homestead for another celebration with food. I don’t know how these people can eat so much. Then everyone came back late and danced well into the night. We stayed over again and I refused to eat meat in the middle of the night.
The next day my friend, Ryan, came and visited my homestead. He was the first to see it and it was exciting to show him around. Then we went to another wedding in my village which was great, because I knew a lot of people and could look really popular in front of my fellow PCV. I got to explain to Ryan all about how weddings work haha like I was an expert. I was given a towering plate of beef as a gift by someone at the wedding before anyone was even eating and I thanked them for being so generous. Then the food came out and Ryan and I ate a big plate under this one tent (including shredded beef mixed with mayo). Then my colleague came out with chicken and gave us a nice portion. We were stuffed but told we had to go over to the wedding tent, so of course we went. Then a woman came up to Ryan with another plate of food.
“Oh, no thank you. I already ate in the other tent!”
She gives Ryan, my meme, and me a confused look.
“I already had a plate at the other tent. Thanks!”
My meme then accepts the plate of food even though she had already eaten as well. Feeling like he had made a major mistake and did something insulting, Ryan requests another plate of food and I accept one as well. ( You are always supposed to accept food if it is offered, but we figured they did not know we had eaten.) I eat some and then share with the woman next to me, but Ryan, disregarding his physiological limits, determinedly finishes his plate. After that, he didn’t want to talk anymore and passed out early in sickness. Two days later, he was sicker than I’ve seen anyone yet. Oops!
Wow I just wrote a lot about weddings and really only skimmed the surface, and that was only one weekend!
Next day, Ryan and I went to meet all the other volunteers in the central Namibia. We stopped by Lake Otjikoto and chilled with many a-species. All types of exotic birds, ostriches, warthogs, some type of huge gemsbok-like thing, guinea pigs, an alligator… weird stuff going on there. We met up two days later and then we headed to Okahandja to take the overnight train to Swakopmund. This was a novelty in Peace Corps history, because you can pretty much go for free to Swakopmund if you find someone to give you a ride and it only takes 2 hours by car. It costs N$100 (about USD$15) to go on the train and it took like 9 hours to get there. Sounds like we made a dumb decision, but being on an overnight party train with Germans and Namibians with the train roaring at 45 miles an hour was one of the best nights of my life. SO much fun. A local climbed out of the window and re-entered from another window while the train was moving. It was that wild. My friends (Nick, Ryan and Allie) even got to drive the train with the conductor. At some point, the air changed from dry desert wind to a cool, seaside breeze…
And then there was Atlantic Ocean. The very same one seen in New York and Florida but on the other half of the world. It felt so good to feel the cold salt water wash up against my toes and the mist blow across my face. We settled at our camping site about 50 yards from the beach, right next to an awesome beach bar that had a DJ and cheap food. It was perfect. We stayed there for N$40 a night like $5.50 a night. It was amazing. Swakopmund is the Western world in Namibia, and I had not been around so many white people since being in the US. It was very strange. At one point we were at a restaurant and everyone eating there was white, and we all felt out of place even though we were all white. This is the prime time tourist location. The houses are amazing. You feel like you are in LA walking down Santa Monica Blvd. They even have a spectacular pier.
We spent Christmas there, about 30 of us. Some people brought decorations to put on a tree on our campsite and on Christmas Eve, I put on the Now That’s What I Call Christmas album on my iPod, despite the resistance of many, and then within minutes we all were dancing and singing Christmas carols loudly into the night. (The next day, the campsite owners told us that there was a curfew haha.) On Christmas, we woke up to cute little stockings that Santa put by all of our tents stuffed with candy. We listened to the Maria Carey Christmas album as we opened our “secret springbok” gifts from each other. It was my first Christmas without my family and it was truly very magical even without the snow. We all still had loved ones around (awwwwwwww). I had a Jewish Christmas with two of the Jewish volunteers *perhaps the only two in the country?* and a bunch of us went out to Chinese food on Christmas. It was the best Chinese food I had ever had in my life. Nothing like American-Chinese food. It was gourmet and felt like a real Jewish-Christmas feast. We sat there as the only ones in the place for like 3 hours, and then we saw two young girls eating and noticed their American accents. Two Peace Corps Botswana volunteers! Nice to meet new friends.
Speaking of meeting new friends, Allie and I called a South African guy on the street because his shirt said “F_c_book”, and we wanted to know what his deal was. He looked like a tourist. He was on vacation at his vacation house that he hadn’t been to in 13 years outside of Swakop, so he was kind of alone with his mom and aunt. He also was a world traveler and had stayed in the US on the West Coast for a while, so he loved American football. He invited us to a festival outside of Swakop in the area where his vacation house is and we agreed. Allie, Brian, and I all went to this festival and it was a lot of fun. It was like being at an American fair. Many beer tents, food vendors, tickets to get beer, live music, DJ and then we walked to his house and stayed over. Dylan was so generous. He picked us all up, bought and wrapped a gift for us for Christmas, let us eat a ton of food at night and make eggs in the morning, watched 2 hours of ESPN with me on my birthday morning, and drove us back on my birthday with a detour into the Namib desert, and dropped us off in Swakop. He said that Americans had treated him really well and he wanted to do the same for us, and he certainly did. We obviously invited him to my birthday party, and he also hung out with us on New Year’s Eve. We are definitely going to visit him in Capetown.
My birthday was incredible. I have had the best birthdays ever in the past three years; it’s unreal to recount. I bought myself two birthday dresses and was feeling great sipping coke out of my purple birthday wine glass that Allie and Ryan got me. Then I went out to eat at a fabulous Italian restaurant with my friends, had delicious Tagliatelle Carbonara and then a surprise birthday song came from sisters Julie and Lisa. They had a cheap xylophone, a whistle, and a tambourine I believe. They sang this song in bar area in the restaurant where we were sitting with Allie and Brian as backup:
Jeannine The Bean
She’s from NY, not the city but where it is green.
She sweats a lot but her armpits are clean.
She is an African Queen.
Jeannine the Bean,
She looks a lot like she’s Chinese.
She is not mean
On alcohol and basketball, she is real keen.
Jeannine the Bean,
Let’s put some wine into here Nalgene.
She’s smoking hot and super lean.
I really hope she doesn’t get gangrene .
Jeannine the Bean,
Just look at her in those skin tight jeans.
She’s got a diva cup in uterine.
She looks so fine she makes me wanna scream.
Happy birthday to the neen-er ween-er, neen-er ween-er, neen-er ween-er neen-er ween-er….
It was hilarious, thoughtful, outrageous, undeserved and more than I could ever ask for. In just 4 months, I have made some really amazing friends. The funny part was that an Italian couple sitting at the bar was so impressed by this spectacle that they came up to us and asked us if we could go up to their table of ten in the other dining area and sing the song again. Of course we did. I showed up at the table feeling like I was in Rome, “Buona Sera, Mi Amici!” And we pounded away at our Fisher Price xylophone and slammed spoons together in my honor. I wish I had it on video. The Italians were shocked but eventually joined it. We went back to the table and a chocolate mousse was brought to the table with a candle in it! Awww another happy birthday song. Then Dylan showed up with Jello shots and it was time to go to the beach and meet the others. We had a dance party on the beach with about 30 of us, including PCV’s from other groups. Later, a cake with candles in it was carried out to me and everyone sang happy birthday to me again. I received many presents from the crew and we danced until the stereo died at like 1 am. It was good timing because we had to go on an excusion to the skelton coast in the morning...
More to come...
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