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.