More of my Favorite Things

The sound of the learners singing: The Namibian National Anthem and the school song are sung every Friday during morning assembly, along with some other Otjiherero music. It’s as if everyone here was born knowing how to harmonize and compliment each other’s voices. Jocie’s Banana Bread recipe: Every time we’re lucky enough to have bananas in the grocery store, Will or I grab them and make this amazing treat. We must share though, because good Namibians always share! Shiwee and Dune: Even though this nearly-4-year-old and probably-2-year old duo are out to destroy all of my belongings and color on my floor, they’re super cute and super smart. Shiwee can often be found plodding around the house with those little braided pigails in her hair, muttering in a combination of Otjiherero and English. My principal: I was a bit wary at first, but my principal really is a good egg. He has the learners’ best interests at heart, has a good sense of humor, and has a really cute relationship with his young son. He also never gives me a hard time, even when I do something wrong. Seeing Himba people everywhere: The women are covered in ochre and animal fat which give their skin a red hue, their hair is braided and coated in a thick red mud, and they are topless and adorned in jewelry. They often have babies strapped to their backs. Bonus points if they bump into you when you’re wearing white. The men have walking sticks, patterned loin cloths, and funky hair styles. (Google image the Himba to see what I’m talking about). The rain of compliments: There are many kind words my learners have for me and for each other, especially the girls. And they really, truly mean what they say, you can tell. I’ve already been told that my mom is “very young!” my sister “very beautiful!” and my dad was apparently cast as the handsome protagonist from the Mexican-dubbed-over-in-English soap “Catalina and Sebastian.” All of my marriages: Whenever I’m asked the ridiculous question “Miss, do you know Chris Brown?” or any of the other myriad of popular famous people (Obama, Will Smith, David Beckham, take your pick), I reply, “of course, he’s my husband!” It takes them a second to get it, and then they go, “Sheeeeeeeee…” or “ah-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!” (The coolest noises ever, they both mean something like “unbelievable,” or “wow,” depending on the context, and in this case they didn’t believe me and it was more like, “you kidder, you!”) Then I pretend my phone just rang and that I’m talking to one of them. Today I asked Obama if he was enjoying being president, and then told him to say hi to Michelle and the kids for me. Yep, just a typical day for an American like me…

The Two Faces of Namibia

I’m standing in line, a slip of paper in hand that will allow me to pick up my first package sent from America. I’m very excited (as you can imagine,) for the books and pictures of Vermont that lie within, although my enthusiasm is clouded by the fact that I was just cut in line by not one, but two men. One of whom is another teacher at a nearby school. He knows me, he was just talking to me, and he knows I was here first. And yet, he cuts. This isn’t the first time this has happened and line-cutting is another thing that, I am told, is “just a part of the culture.” As my blood rises to its boiling point, my resentment for this phrase is renewed. It seems like a cop-out for rude and childish behavior. A shrugging off of the persistent bullying and disrespect many people here seem to have for one another. (I think back to my substitute teaching days in Kindergarten class. Never again will I sigh ‘does it really matter, Billy?’ when he whines that Kimmy cut him in the gym class line. Yes, Billy has a right to put his grubby Nike on that wooden lacquered floor three seconds before Kimmy!) But, I digress. The line-cutting wouldn’t be such a huge deal if the woman at the post office desk didn’t move as if she recently swallowed an elephant tranquilizer. The post office is by far the least efficient thing I have witnessed in Namibia—and why not? It’s not like they’re vying for business here. “You don’t like that I’m staring blankly at you for fifteen seconds before asking the guard if he knows where the stamps are located? Then by all means, hitch a ride over to the next town three hours away and wait in their line.” The people will come and wait for over an hour whether the one staff person works cheerfully and quickly or grudgingly and painstakingly. They seem to opt exclusively for the latter. I’ve considered that all this may just be my lack of cultural sensitivity. There are obviously some things going on that I just don’t get, and that’s fine. But that doesn’t mean I can’t complain about them. Now that I’ve convinced my audience that all I do is complain about Namibia (it’s a phase, I’ll outgrow it soon), I must mention that with the abysmal lows, there come many impressive and wonderful displays of intelligence that set me back on my feet. For example, there is an 11th grader here who took out “The Crucible” by Arthur Miller from the library. As I was signing it out for him, I couldn’t help but think he was just checking it out for the sake of checking it out. However, he brought it back to me today and, when prompted, laid out a full account of the play. Not only did he grasp the plot; he learned from it, felt emotion through it, and identified with it (it’s about the Salem witch trials, and so-called ‘witch doctors’ are still around in Opuwo and the rest of Africa today). How can one town hold such a diverse array of people? My learners who believe women should always cook and clean for the man and that women are the ones spreading HIV and AIDS interact daily with the learners who are up to date on Namibia’s government affairs and understand canonized American literature. And sometimes, they’re just the same person.

The Last Straw

“It’s a part of the culture,” they tell me, all the while clucking and shaking their heads. “You must not let them in the library, they will just steal the books.” And they do, oh believe me, they do. They steal books by stuffing them under their shirts, in their pants, or tucking them in their folders and papers and bags as they shuffle hastily out in a cluster of 35 other learners. They are not only crafty, and I hate to admit this, but they are craftier than I am. They manage to steal the most ridiculous things without me noticing: photographs on the wall behind my desk, thumbtacks, pages out of magazines, plastic folders, every pen I own, pink and green chalk (which the girls use as makeup), their classmates’ belongings, and, of course, books. Not even good books, mind you, but some of the most complicated, boring looking, old and desiccated books that I can say I could honestly watch being tossed into a bonfire without blinking an eye. And I like books, I really do—but I wouldn’t pass up a s’more roasted on a fire fed by the 1937 edition of the “biology teacher’s desk reference manual.” Stealing books from the already miniscule and under resourced school library is wrong in so many ways, it’s true, but it’s when my personal things go missing that I become the most irritated. Now, I can deal with the occasional missing pen. I have painstakingly written my name, “Ms. Carmen,” on many of my belongings in a big black Sharpie marker I keep in my personal desk drawer. I wrap masking tape around my pens and write my name on that as well as the pen’s plastic casing and rubberized grip—all to no avail. They still take my pens. But pens are pens, I’ll live. Today, however, was the last straw. Today someone took my preparation file. Okay, okay, hold your appalled gasp and shudder of disgust until I explain the weight of this: My preparation file is something I must present to the principal once a week and it contains all my papers that I put a lot of effort into creating and organizing. It has plastic sheets in it holding a plethora of documents I photocopied myself onto nice pink paper as well as important papers such as class lists and my scheme of work. It was all in a giant black cardboard folder I was using as a barricade so that my learners wouldn’t cheat on the test they have this week. How could I miss that leaving the classroom, right? Oh, the craftiness! I actually had a teacher search the bags of my grade 10A class before I got a tip that it was a grade 9B learner who wandered in during a free period. The grade 9B’s denied taking it when confronted, but they have a project this week for another class that requires the type of folder that I’m missing—which means—I will figure out who took it when they turn in that project. And they will be cleaning my library for months to come, oh yes, we will become very good buddies, me and this preparation-folder-stealing-and-other-not-so-nice-adjectives 9th grader. The pink papers I eventually found crumpled in tiny balls in the trashcan outside the library, getting rid of the evidence that it was indeed MY file the obvious aim there. I was very, very, very upset and angry all day, satiated only by my assurance that I will, eventually, catch the culprit. I’m way past feeling sorry for this leaner who probably can’t afford to buy their own cardboard file; he or she could have asked a teacher for help, explained the situation, anything but take what didn’t belong to him or her. By the by, Robin Hood wasn’t so magnificent after all. (Although he never stole my preparation file, so I’ve got nothing against him personally.) “What gumption! What disrespect! How dare they steal my personal property!” I was thinking, stewing in a broth of fury as I slumped down behind my desk after break time. In a moment of paranoid frenzy I went to label more of my belongings with the words “MS. CARMEN’S”--only to find that the big black Sharpie marker was missing from my personal desk drawer.

The Rainy Season

Yup, it’s the rainy season here, which means it rains anywhere from a few minutes to several hours. It has been raining more frequently than a month ago, and every day at some point for the past few days. Today was supposed to be the district track meet, but between the downpour turning the track into mud soup and the athletes’ bare feet, it was decided after the 5k and 3k that it was too dangerous and we would proceed with the meet tomorrow. (Now here is some track and field weather that I am used to!) I took this opportunity to go for a run on my own and explore the surrounding streets, all the while wringing out cupfuls of water from my shirt. I did my best at dodging the massive puddles in the dirt roads, paranoid thoughts of hookworms and other yucky things you can get from contact with standing water creeping into the back of my mind. My friend Ayoola, who is staying in a much more remote and rural area 15 kilometers away, is quite literally stranded due to flooding of the roads. This happens every time it rains moderately for more than an hour or two. The athletes who came from distances to attend the meet are staying overnight in the classrooms of my school. I can only assume they brought whatever bedding they have and are now camping out on the dirty concrete. Right now I’m going to go brave the newly formed brown rivers criss-crossing all of Opuwo to play a Valentine’s Day game of poker with Will and some Peace Corps volunteers. I know that as I am walking, it will be with wistful longing for some of those dorky rain boots that have ladybugs or rubber duckies on the sides…

A Note on Omeva

Omeva, which is Otjiherero for water, is unique in Opuwo. Lately it has been, for the most part, running when I need it in my house, but only sometimes at Will’s place (the bathtub faucet is his only source of water, whereas I have several sinks and a shower). Sometimes the water shuts off for no apparent reason at any given time. Usually from about 8pm until about 5am, there is no running water, period. Whoever is in charge of water shuts it off. Infrequently, they will fix the pipes and there will be no water during the day. Thankfully, as of yet I have no funny stories about getting soapy in the shower and having it stop, but I’ve also learned to keep a stock of full 5-liter bottles in my bathroom. Additionally, the water here is full of lyme and magnesium and other funky things that upset American stomachs. They have been working on the water though, and I think it’s better. I drank some and it didn’t give me any problems, but now I’m using a Brita filter that the previous volunteer so graciously left behind. (I started out on bottled water but I drank about 5 liters a day, which at that rate would’ve cost me over $75 a month.) I was concerned about cholera as it is apparently a big problem here, but I think that issue is in regards to those who try to drink from or are more exposed to the rivers and streams (namely the Himbas). I don’t know how to say this nicely, but the rivers and streams here are atrocious—people use them as their bathrooms and trash bin, and as a result, in the worst of places they are often the most foul-smelling and toxic-colored sources of water I have ever seen. (The toilets here, especially in schools, are frequently out of order, and there is no affordable trash removal system to speak of.) I know that drinking water is really healthy, especially in a climate like this one, but everyone here is amused by my Nalgene and asks me with a smirk if I like to drink a lot of water. Nobody here drinks very much; one learner told me she gets by on an estimated 1 liter a day, which was all the more shocking because we were returning from a sunny, sweaty day of playing sports in the town field. It would seem that drinking enough water is something that we learn (how many Americans have had the phrase “Eight 8oz glasses of water a day” hammered into their brains) and is perhaps more determined by culture than we realize. Either way, I’m glad I have a fridge here stocked with filtered water, milk, fruit juice, and sometimes, my latest obsession—orange Fanta.

My Favorite Things

The bread from OKGrocer: If you time it right, it’s still warm when you buy it. I eat it with butter and strawberry jam almost every day. Instant chocolate pudding: Mix well, land it in the freezer and you’ve almost got yourself some ice cream—watch out Ben and Jerry! The sounds the goats make: Sometimes I mistake their bleating for one of those pompous monocle-clad men circa 1800 clearing his throat. Bonus points if there is a herd right outside my window, or coming towards me on a narrow path. The glass coke bottles: They look like someone stretched them out, maybe in a tug-of-war situation. Makes a nice decorative vase if you stick some dried underbrush in there. My bed: it’s a double, enough said. And finally, last but not least, the smell of African rain. You can usually see it coming from miles away, but it’s much more satisfying to sniff the air and know you have a few minutes—tops—to find shelter. It’s probably the moisture in the wind stirring up the earth and grasses, or maybe it’s the fact that any change from dry sunny heat is going to excite the senses, but there’s no denying: there’s some magical quality in the rain storms of Namibia.

Track & Field, Namibia style

Well, it’s track and field season here, but sports are very, very, very different in Namibia in terms of, well, everything! (I must note that it’s imperative to have a sense of humor while reading this.) I’m an athletic “coach” here, and our town just hosted a meet this Saturday morning with three other schools close by. The facilities are actually not bad; the track is 400 meters (or so it seems), made of rocky dirt and some weeds, and there is some stadium seating. Before this meet took place I met with other athletics coaches and we discussed such things as what equipment we have, how we will pay for items such as renting a speaker system and a tent, and who we can borrow a truck from for the day to haul things from place to place. Between the four schools we had two javelins, one shotput (they use big rocks when this isn’t available), and the stand for high jump (but no mats) –-that’s it. We ended up using a pile of old bed mattresses for the high jump (but I think just about everyone opted for the scissor kick instead of the fosbury flop anyway). Somehow we got a starter gun, although I have no idea where it came from. My former teammates would’ve cringed at the way the javelins were thrown, but long jump looked like it was successful. They raked the sand with sticks and an old shovel. At no point was any distance measured (although things like sticks and flip flops were used to mark who was ahead in the field events) including the track distances so it was just approximation and guesswork. The learners drew the lanes with chalk, as well as the finish line, so it was a bit messy anyway. (The only staggered starts I saw were for the 200 but they didn’t look right from where I was standing.) Will and I were the timers, but we quickly discovered that times don’t matter here and the only thing being recorded were the names of the top 2 finishers (in each of the three age groups) so they could advance to next weekend’s meet with more schools. This means that most runners, when they saw they weren’t in 1st or 2nd, just gave up. The performances were not anything exceptional, but I must note that these kids get very little sleep, not enough water or food, and they haven’t trained at all unless you count copious walking (aside from two very confusing weeks where I attempted to coach them to almost no avail due to the language barrier and their inexperience with the type running program that I’m used to). They also run barefoot, and I was astounded that no one got seriously injured on the big and little rocks on the track. But then, I’ve witnessed them run through glass with no problem so I guess they can handle rocks! The “best” part about this though is that at 1:00, the athletes left to go get food (this is a hostel/overnight school so they are fed at the school cafeteria) and the other teachers/officials decided the meet was over. After I sat in the sun all day waiting for my favorite, the 800 meters, and after all my efforts to get my learners to try it out, a teacher at my school announced that they would “just assume the 1500 meter winners would have been the winners of the 800 too” and “no one is probably going to do the 3,000 and 5,000 meters anyway.” Meet over. (Yep, I officially miss UVM track and field!) Now, at least, I can understand why no one was enthused about track and field though: there’s no incentive to try it because it’s clearly embarrassing and considered a failure for them to get anything other than 1st or 2nd, they aren’t trained to understand their event or gain confidence, they aren’t timed or marked so they have no idea if they’re improving, and the season is over (after 2 weeks) for everyone except the winners, who have a good chance of ending their season next weekend anyway. It’s frustrating but also rather amusing to witness how different something I thought was so simple can be! I’ve always held onto the idea that track and field (especially running) is the great sport equalizer: anyone can do it at anytime and no equipment or facility is absolutely necessary. It’s not like equestrian, gymnastics, or even soccer (they use crunched up pieces of paper for a ball here sometimes) where if you’re the “best” it’s only because billions of others didn’t have the same opportunities as you. I still maintain that track is about as close as it gets, but now I understand how much really goes into the participation, success, and inspiration of the track and field athlete: the knowledge gained from experience, reading, observing, other athletes and above all good coaching, and it’s more clear than ever just how lucky I have been in my running career.

Blow the Whistle on Corruption!

Hello everyone! I am so happy to be able to finally post on this blog and confirm that I am indeed alive, despite seeing a lion, having my friends get mugged, and not taking malaria pills! The past two weeks were fraught with culture shock and general frustrations in Opuwo, but now I am settling in, getting used to the culture, and finding the humor in the sometimes ridiculous day-to-day happenings here. Take today, for example, or rather last night when I was trying to sleep and all I heard were the sounds of shrill whistles outside my window. I live right next to Mureti High School, which is a hostel (overnight) school, so I can usually hear them chatting away in Otjiherero in the evenings following their mandatory study time. This week, a man from a government-funded program designed to combat “corruption” is at our school, and last night he gave all the 11th and 12th graders whistles, which they have been instructed to blow every time they see something that seems “corrupt.” Well. I have to say, 11th and 12th graders, regardless of where they are from, are still 11th and 12th graders. All I’ve been hearing for the past 24 hours is TWEEEE! TWEE-TWEE! TWWEEEEEEEEE!!! (For those who are Arrested Development fans, this situation directly references that episode where Michael gives whistles to the investors to “blow the whistle on corruption” and they all just start blowing the whistles as soon as they get them!) So please, don’t send me a donation of whistles from America, I will feed them to the goats.