March 21 is Namibian Independence Day, the day that celebrates when Namibia gained its independence from South Africa and became its own nation in the year 1990. While still under South African rule, Namibians were also subjected to the harsh and inhuman laws of apartheid, so they gained not only their independence, but they also reclaimed their human rights as well.
That day, having no real set plans with my host family, Amelia and I decided it would be a good time to hike the mountain nearby. We had been planning on it since week one when the older volunteers had told us how to get up there. So we got up somewhat early, convinced we were set with the directions we were given, and we headed up towards the mountain.
Now I should have known something was wrong when our directions included stones as landmarkers and had us opening people’s gates and going through their property. Needless to say, we got COMPLETELY lost and ended up wandering around a river bed when we ran into some European volunteers staying with an Afrikaaner family. They took us to the house where they were staying hopeful that their hosts would be able to direct us up the correct path.
When we got there, we were greeted by a very nice woman and her teenage daughter. After explaining our story, the daughter offered to escort us some of the way to the beginning of the mountain path. While we were walking we took the opportunity to learn more about Namibia and particularly, in going with the theme of the day, racial relations between the whites and the blacks, since apartheid and racial tensions are still very real in Namibia. The conversation turned out to be very encouraging, she told us that the new generation doesn’t hold on to the past and that race doesn’t matter to her and her friends, that people are people regardless of their skin color. After she left us to continue the journey the rest of the way ourselves, Amelia and I both talked about how refreshing it was to hear a perspective like that from an Afrikaaner.
Even with the new set of directions we still were having a hard time finding our way and ended up walking around from house to house asking for further directions. I was extremely scared at one point because I crossed the threshold of a gated property and was immediately set on upon by a massive german shepherd. I slowly backed up freaking out because the dogs in Namibia are trained to be vicious guard dogs, and thankfully moments before the dog was at my feet the owner came out and called it off. After blowing a sigh of relief, he showed us the gate into the mountain area.
Finally we were proceeding up the mountain, but it was nothing like what we expected. There were no nice clean trails like they have in the States. We were bushwhacking our way through a very inhospitable landscape. There were times where we were barred by walls of thorn bushes, moments where we were had to knock down spider webs the size of tires, accompanied by scary looking spiders with a diameter of a couple of inches, snakes (they were there but thankfully we didn’t run into them, they just kept up scared and watching the ground), and finally baboons.
We had heard that there were baboons on the mountain, and we were excited to see some. However, I have heard that baboons can be vicious animals and are territorial, so when we started to hear noises, like grunting, that continually got closer, louder, and seemingly more hostile… We decided it was time to head back and call it quits.
Hours later, back at the Kupembona’s house, I was sitting out in the backyard with my host father, Nikolaus, and we were talking while watching the sun set. Again, I kept with the theme of the day and brought up race relations, independence, and all of that good stuff. Again, his answer really surprised me. I was expecting there to be some animosity towards the Afrikaaners because of the crimes that they had committed in the past, especially because they were crimes that Nikolaus himself had witnessed and experienced.
I’ve heard stories of Afrikaaners beating black children just for sport, I have friends who have told me of their first person accounts of being beaten. I’ve heard stories of people being arrested and beaten because they weren’t in their assigned location by curfew. I’ve heard stories of human beings who have black skin being treated as if they are merely things by people who falsely believe themselves to be superior because of a single genetic trait. And that’s just the tip of the ice berg, the little that I have heard in my year here in Namibia.
With all that has gone on, so recently, during my lifetime, you would think that you would find hatred, pain, retribution, anger… What I found was forgiveness. There is an idea of reconciliation, I’m not sure if it’s official or not, but it’s there. And I as I listened to my host father talk about reconciliation, how what was done is done, how we have to let go of the past, forgive, make amends, and work towards building the future, I had much hope for the country of Namibia. I believe that any country that is founded on a principal of forgiveness, has a bright future ahead of it.
That first Independence Day was a special one. Two very different voices, one a white Afrikaaner teenage girl, and the other a black Kavango adult male, echoed a powerful message about what Namibia, and the people of the country are really all about. Reconciliation… a simple, but powerful philosophy. Happy Independence Day Namibia! May your people find the reconciliation they seek.
March 17, 2010
Shoplifter
On the evening of 3/20/2009, I decided to accompany my host brother on his errand to this local grocery store to pick up some ingredients for dinner. We walked the short distance in town from our house to the Pick n Pay. It was a beautiful evening, the sun was low and the sky was glowing slightly. As we walked up to the store however, there was a lot of commotion.
We had arrived at the store just in time for the spectacle. A young boy had been caught stealing and was being chased by the security guard. Young Namibian children, and young African children in general, from what I have seen are incredibly active and fit. The slightly out of shape security guard never even have a chance. The boy, probably age 11 or so, was always one step ahead of the guard, almost taunting him somewhat even. After a few minutes of chasing, the security guard, in a last ditch effort, tried throwing his billy club at the young boy, but once he missed, it was over and the boy was well on his way home by that point.
I caught myself throughout the whole thing cheering for the boy, secretly hoping that he would get away. Believing in my mind that whatever he took, he needed it more than the shop did. Not that I was condoning stealing by any means, but I definitely do no condone starvation. Stealing to survive is one thing. It made me really think about what a different world I was living in now, one where small children were stealing out of desperation of hunger. It made me sad for the boy’s situation, but happy he was able to get food one way or another.
We had arrived at the store just in time for the spectacle. A young boy had been caught stealing and was being chased by the security guard. Young Namibian children, and young African children in general, from what I have seen are incredibly active and fit. The slightly out of shape security guard never even have a chance. The boy, probably age 11 or so, was always one step ahead of the guard, almost taunting him somewhat even. After a few minutes of chasing, the security guard, in a last ditch effort, tried throwing his billy club at the young boy, but once he missed, it was over and the boy was well on his way home by that point.
I caught myself throughout the whole thing cheering for the boy, secretly hoping that he would get away. Believing in my mind that whatever he took, he needed it more than the shop did. Not that I was condoning stealing by any means, but I definitely do no condone starvation. Stealing to survive is one thing. It made me really think about what a different world I was living in now, one where small children were stealing out of desperation of hunger. It made me sad for the boy’s situation, but happy he was able to get food one way or another.
Namibian Healthcare
The day of the 19th of March 2009, we were set to tour the various health options available to the people of Okahandja, in order to get a better sense of what is generally available for all of the citizens of Namibia. The plan was to go to a government run hospital, then a private clinic, and then finish up the day with a trip to the traditional healer.
When we arrived at the government hospital, it was much like what you would expect in a third world country. They had decent facilities that looked somewhat run down and poorly equipped. But despite that, they appeared to have most of what they needed to treat everyday illnesses and emergencies, and it was nice to see that the staff seemed well trained and knowledgeable. There was one thing that bothered a good number of the volunteers though, the separate/segregated HIV facilities.
There was an entirely separate pharmacy for the ARVs (Antiretroviral drugs) used to treat HIV/AIDS. I also want to say that the HIV testing and counseling offices were also apart from other offices, but I can’t remember clearly. The reason why this bothered us, in addition to the different colored healthcare passport that HIV infected people carried, was that it made it very easy to identify people with the virus. Not only is that a huge violation of privacy, but it subjects the patients to the horrible stigmatism that is associated with HIV/AIDS in many of the communities within Namibia.
Imagine a faithful wife, contracting HIV from her cheating husband. The community might not know the story of how she acquired the virus, but they will now, through the flaws in the healthcare system, know that she has it, and then they will more than likely make up some story to fit a stereotype they have associated with the virus. They might say that she is unfaithful, a prostitute, a whore, possibly that she was witched, or maybe that she is being punished by God for some horrible sin she has committed. She will then be ostracized by many ignorant people in the community that fear what they don’t understand. It is definitely a flaw that could easily be fixed.
The private clinic was a bit different. It was a nice, air-conditioned office, that reminded me much of the doctors’ offices in the States. Not much to tell, except I’ve heard the quality of healthcare provided in the private clinics is at times very poor. One lady told me that no matter what she goes in with, they just give her tablets for pain and fever. Another lady echoed the same concerns about the private clinic she was using in another town.
The traditional healer was something all its own. First we had to drive somewhat outside of the town, on a winding dirt road for a while, and we ended up close to the base of a hill and rock formations. That added to the mystery of the trip and the whole feeling of going deep into a forest to find this secluded bizarre individual who was in tune with nature and spirits (what I imagined traditional healers/witch doctors to be like). When we got there, the traditional healer turned out to be a Herero woman dressed in her traditional attire. She didn’t speak any English really, so she had one of her daughters and one of the trainers translate.
She told us of all these various traditional remedies that she had lying in front of her. We smelled and felt some of them. She then told us of some of her typical treatments and happened to have a baby there that she had just treated. She described how she had cut him (that’s right, she cut this baby) and put some herbs or powders on the lacerations to provide a quicker delivery mechanism for the “medicine”. I’m all about natural homeopathic remedies, but I’m not sure how I feel about that. It would be interesting though to scientifically research some of the traditional medicines they have developed over the past several hundreds of years.
It was fascinating to hear her talk about the craft of traditional healing being passed down from mother to daughter for generations upon generations, each refining it and making it their own. In fact her daughter is a traditional healer, or maybe more accurately a witch doctor, in a different town. She does what her mother does, but in addition, she also casts bones and contacts the spirit world to diagnose the malady affecting a person. Then if the problem calls for it, she will dance around the fire and perform a healing ritual. It was too bad we couldn’t witness some of those events… but all in due time.
When we arrived at the government hospital, it was much like what you would expect in a third world country. They had decent facilities that looked somewhat run down and poorly equipped. But despite that, they appeared to have most of what they needed to treat everyday illnesses and emergencies, and it was nice to see that the staff seemed well trained and knowledgeable. There was one thing that bothered a good number of the volunteers though, the separate/segregated HIV facilities.
There was an entirely separate pharmacy for the ARVs (Antiretroviral drugs) used to treat HIV/AIDS. I also want to say that the HIV testing and counseling offices were also apart from other offices, but I can’t remember clearly. The reason why this bothered us, in addition to the different colored healthcare passport that HIV infected people carried, was that it made it very easy to identify people with the virus. Not only is that a huge violation of privacy, but it subjects the patients to the horrible stigmatism that is associated with HIV/AIDS in many of the communities within Namibia.
Imagine a faithful wife, contracting HIV from her cheating husband. The community might not know the story of how she acquired the virus, but they will now, through the flaws in the healthcare system, know that she has it, and then they will more than likely make up some story to fit a stereotype they have associated with the virus. They might say that she is unfaithful, a prostitute, a whore, possibly that she was witched, or maybe that she is being punished by God for some horrible sin she has committed. She will then be ostracized by many ignorant people in the community that fear what they don’t understand. It is definitely a flaw that could easily be fixed.
The private clinic was a bit different. It was a nice, air-conditioned office, that reminded me much of the doctors’ offices in the States. Not much to tell, except I’ve heard the quality of healthcare provided in the private clinics is at times very poor. One lady told me that no matter what she goes in with, they just give her tablets for pain and fever. Another lady echoed the same concerns about the private clinic she was using in another town.
The traditional healer was something all its own. First we had to drive somewhat outside of the town, on a winding dirt road for a while, and we ended up close to the base of a hill and rock formations. That added to the mystery of the trip and the whole feeling of going deep into a forest to find this secluded bizarre individual who was in tune with nature and spirits (what I imagined traditional healers/witch doctors to be like). When we got there, the traditional healer turned out to be a Herero woman dressed in her traditional attire. She didn’t speak any English really, so she had one of her daughters and one of the trainers translate.
She told us of all these various traditional remedies that she had lying in front of her. We smelled and felt some of them. She then told us of some of her typical treatments and happened to have a baby there that she had just treated. She described how she had cut him (that’s right, she cut this baby) and put some herbs or powders on the lacerations to provide a quicker delivery mechanism for the “medicine”. I’m all about natural homeopathic remedies, but I’m not sure how I feel about that. It would be interesting though to scientifically research some of the traditional medicines they have developed over the past several hundreds of years.
It was fascinating to hear her talk about the craft of traditional healing being passed down from mother to daughter for generations upon generations, each refining it and making it their own. In fact her daughter is a traditional healer, or maybe more accurately a witch doctor, in a different town. She does what her mother does, but in addition, she also casts bones and contacts the spirit world to diagnose the malady affecting a person. Then if the problem calls for it, she will dance around the fire and perform a healing ritual. It was too bad we couldn’t witness some of those events… but all in due time.
Star Matter
I was walking down the street in the afternoon on my way to the Kupembona’s house, I can’t remember where I was coming from, but that’s not important. It was a typical afternoon, a typical moment, and while I was walking, I looked down and saw a cigarette box lying in the middle of my path. There was nothing special about the cigarette box, I have seen many littering the landscape of Namibia along with all sorts of other rubbish. What was unique about this one particular piece of trash was that it evoked an intense feeling of anger in me.
I can’t say why I took more notice to this one piece of garbage than any others. I can only guess at that point I had seen so much trash littering the streets and the landscape (particularly in the location I had seen earlier that day) that this cigarette carton was “the straw that broke the camel’s back,” and was the outlet for all of my pent up rage at litter throughout the world. I loathed this cigarette box and hated everything that it represented, particularly all of the trash ruining the landscapes of countless beautiful areas, all because some thoughtless individuals are too lazy to carry it to a rubbish bin (or because a government has too many selfish leaders to care about cleaning up the communities they don’t live in).
After my initial hatred had overcome me, a sense of clarity washed over me. Yes, I think a cigarette carton littering the streets is a bad use of resources and has a diminishing effect on the beauty of the surrounding area… BUT, I started to look beyond what it is, to what it was, and what it will become. A cigarette carton, like other trash, doesn’t come out of nowhere, it comes from a tree, a beautiful, life-giving tree, that grows from a seed, feeding on the sun, the air, and the earth. And from there, there are almost infinite possibilities of where some of the nutrients that nourished that tree to grow came from, from the carbon dioxide breath of a human or animal, or from a purifying rain shower, or from the soil newly enriched with a great ancestor that had passed away and returned to the earth. Then, in many years time (I’ll leave the figures to science to state), that same cigarette carton will break down and become soil yet again, to nourish a new plant to grow, and maybe flower, and purify the air and bring beauty to the people who see it.
And if you take it even further into the realms of space and beyond known time, everything is star matter. When the gases of our solar system exploded (I believe, with the guidance of a divine intelligence, call it whatever name you want), our sun and planets formed. And when our solar system has lived out its cycle, the sun will eat the planets and explode as a supernova… and again, all creation will be as one, gases floating in space, star matter waiting for the right collision to start creation anew.
If I was to hate the cigarette carton, I would have to hate everything that is has been and everything that it will be. I can’t possibly hate it now, then love it again in a few hundred years, then hate it, then love it, etcetera etcetera. If it was black and white, clearly is, was and will always be a cigarette carton that is littering the world, then maybe I could feel more justified in my feelings towards that little paper box… but it’s never that easy.
After my brain had wondered through the varying connections of life, spanned across the lifespan of the solar system and envisioned the many transformations and incarnations that cigarette carton might have taken, it finally bridged the connection to human beings.
Just like the beginning for all physical creation, the beautiful glowing gases, the star matter, we human beings have another beginning, going back to the beginning of time… we are souls, spirits, boundless conscious energy glowing with a radiance of love and light, similar to our creator. That is our “big bang”, our origins, where we begin, and what we return to.
What happens here on this planet, in this physical realm is but a blink in eternity. Some may forget their origins, they may forget who and what they truly are. Their lives might be lived like that of a cigarette box, wasted potential, a burden on society, like trash diminishing the beauty and harmony of the surrounding area, the community, the world. That person may be hated or loathed, maybe by a few or many, maybe by him or herself, and maybe even by you… but they can’t truly be hated, not really, because that’s not who they are, because that life will pass.
The star will breathe its final breath, and in a spectacular display devour the planets and the rest of the solar system in one burst of powerful energy and magnificent light, and once again all creation will be together as one, as star matter. The bad, the wrongs that person caused, will fade into time. Our human errors will be eclipsed by the perfect love of our spiritual nature. The light of the soul will shine again, as it was always meant to. And we will see each other for who we truly are… as miraculous spiritual beings. And in that seeing, in that love, we will once again be together as one, as it was before and as it will be again. Star matter, shining souls, that’s what we truly are, and that is magnificently beautiful, no matter what form it temporarily takes on.
I can’t say why I took more notice to this one piece of garbage than any others. I can only guess at that point I had seen so much trash littering the streets and the landscape (particularly in the location I had seen earlier that day) that this cigarette carton was “the straw that broke the camel’s back,” and was the outlet for all of my pent up rage at litter throughout the world. I loathed this cigarette box and hated everything that it represented, particularly all of the trash ruining the landscapes of countless beautiful areas, all because some thoughtless individuals are too lazy to carry it to a rubbish bin (or because a government has too many selfish leaders to care about cleaning up the communities they don’t live in).
After my initial hatred had overcome me, a sense of clarity washed over me. Yes, I think a cigarette carton littering the streets is a bad use of resources and has a diminishing effect on the beauty of the surrounding area… BUT, I started to look beyond what it is, to what it was, and what it will become. A cigarette carton, like other trash, doesn’t come out of nowhere, it comes from a tree, a beautiful, life-giving tree, that grows from a seed, feeding on the sun, the air, and the earth. And from there, there are almost infinite possibilities of where some of the nutrients that nourished that tree to grow came from, from the carbon dioxide breath of a human or animal, or from a purifying rain shower, or from the soil newly enriched with a great ancestor that had passed away and returned to the earth. Then, in many years time (I’ll leave the figures to science to state), that same cigarette carton will break down and become soil yet again, to nourish a new plant to grow, and maybe flower, and purify the air and bring beauty to the people who see it.
And if you take it even further into the realms of space and beyond known time, everything is star matter. When the gases of our solar system exploded (I believe, with the guidance of a divine intelligence, call it whatever name you want), our sun and planets formed. And when our solar system has lived out its cycle, the sun will eat the planets and explode as a supernova… and again, all creation will be as one, gases floating in space, star matter waiting for the right collision to start creation anew.
If I was to hate the cigarette carton, I would have to hate everything that is has been and everything that it will be. I can’t possibly hate it now, then love it again in a few hundred years, then hate it, then love it, etcetera etcetera. If it was black and white, clearly is, was and will always be a cigarette carton that is littering the world, then maybe I could feel more justified in my feelings towards that little paper box… but it’s never that easy.
After my brain had wondered through the varying connections of life, spanned across the lifespan of the solar system and envisioned the many transformations and incarnations that cigarette carton might have taken, it finally bridged the connection to human beings.
Just like the beginning for all physical creation, the beautiful glowing gases, the star matter, we human beings have another beginning, going back to the beginning of time… we are souls, spirits, boundless conscious energy glowing with a radiance of love and light, similar to our creator. That is our “big bang”, our origins, where we begin, and what we return to.
What happens here on this planet, in this physical realm is but a blink in eternity. Some may forget their origins, they may forget who and what they truly are. Their lives might be lived like that of a cigarette box, wasted potential, a burden on society, like trash diminishing the beauty and harmony of the surrounding area, the community, the world. That person may be hated or loathed, maybe by a few or many, maybe by him or herself, and maybe even by you… but they can’t truly be hated, not really, because that’s not who they are, because that life will pass.
The star will breathe its final breath, and in a spectacular display devour the planets and the rest of the solar system in one burst of powerful energy and magnificent light, and once again all creation will be together as one, as star matter. The bad, the wrongs that person caused, will fade into time. Our human errors will be eclipsed by the perfect love of our spiritual nature. The light of the soul will shine again, as it was always meant to. And we will see each other for who we truly are… as miraculous spiritual beings. And in that seeing, in that love, we will once again be together as one, as it was before and as it will be again. Star matter, shining souls, that’s what we truly are, and that is magnificently beautiful, no matter what form it temporarily takes on.
World of Trash
The following day, on March 15, 2009, I had began the morning by accompanying my host family to church, where I noticed for the first time that the men and the women segregate themselves. The first time I went with them, I sat on the women’s side with my host mother (who was probably wondering what the hell is this boy doing following me). This time my host father made sure that I followed him to the appropriate side, and from there I could clearly see the women on one half and the men on the other. It struck me as odd that families wouldn’t want to sit together. I’m still not completely clear as to the reasoning behind this custom.
After church, all that was planned was for me to do my laundry that I had been putting off since I had arrived. It would be my first hand washing experience and would consist mainly of my host sisters laughing at me as I splashed some water around and moved my hands and fingers through the water in an unsuccessful attempt to recreate the agitation cycle that a washing machine uses. In the end, because of my cluelessness, my host sisters ended up doing all but my unmentionables for me. (Pays to play dumb…or to just actually in this case be dumb)
However, before returning to the house for the hand washing fiasco, Nicholas, my host father, needed to run a quick errand to get firewood and thought it would be a perfect time to show me the location in town. Basically, locations are where the whites, during apartheid, would force the black and colored (mixed) people to live. The colored location was closest to town, and the black location was furthest from the white town. Currently, locations are no longer segregated based on race or skin color, they are segregated based on social class, with the locations now being inhabited by the poor.
Since we had just come from church, we were all dressed in our nice semi-formal clothes, driving in the Kupembona’s nice, new, shiny white Toyota sedan. People were definitely staring, especially as we went deeper into the location. I thought I had seen poverty coming from my trip the past week to the Kavango region, but this was the ugliest thing I have seen so far. At least in the Kavango, people were still living in traditional houses, and while they may have appeared poor by western standards, they were still perfectly fine homes, made of natural materials. Here, the people lived in a city of trash. The streets were full of trash, little kids were digging through the trash, the children’s toys were made of trash or were pieces of trash, and the houses were pieced together by trash, by corrugated tin panels, plastic sheets, wood scraps, and whatever else people could find.
It was sad because this wasn’t how anyone should have to live. It’s one thing to live in nature, in the ways of your culture, because I don’t believe everyone should have to be forced into development. There are positives to living a natural and simple life. But to be stuck in between worlds, not attached to the past of your people, nor connected with the present of the developed world, just floating in the limbo between, in a place of poverty, a place of unworthiness, a place of suffering, living a diminished life.
This is the place where these people derive their identity from, they grasp at shreds of dignity with which to define themselves. It’s no wonder that much of the crime comes from this area, because if people are treated like trash, or believe themselves to be trash, then they start acting like it (even though they are far from it). They start trying to overcompensate for their feelings of inadequacy by taking from others, taking other people’s self-confidence, their sense of self-worth, their feeling of power, or their physical possessions. And sadly this happens all over the world.
Now, there are many individuals whose resilient spirits endure or resist the influence of their environments, and never allow the place they live, or the way they are treated to define or diminish who they are. They are amazing people who remain joyful, happy, and caring, and who remain fully human even in subhuman conditions. But still, in this day and age, in this world, with all that we as a species are capable of…no person should have to live in trash.
Until we change that, until we start giving all people throughout the world access to the adequate basics of life, the whole world will be living in the mess of trash that it created…in the rubbish of social problems that develop from poverty, the junk of selfish and thoughtless decisions that plague individualistic societies, the waste of suffering and pain of those affected directly or indirectly by subhuman environments, and worst of all, the garbage of human potential wasted, rotting away, unused and untapped for the betterment of the world. Because of how intricately interconnected the world is… while some of us continue to live in trash, we all end up living in trash. And I don’t know about you, but I am sick and tired of living in a world of trash. It’s high time we cleaned up…
(Sidenote: If you are interested in seeing some of the positive effects of treating the disadvantaged as if they are not so, then please look into the work of Bill Strickland. Mr. Strickland is building upscale schools for underprivileged people in various parts of the country, and the effect has been inspiring. Students are rising to the level at which they are treated, when more is given and expected out of them, they rise up to those expectations to fulfill their full potential.)
After church, all that was planned was for me to do my laundry that I had been putting off since I had arrived. It would be my first hand washing experience and would consist mainly of my host sisters laughing at me as I splashed some water around and moved my hands and fingers through the water in an unsuccessful attempt to recreate the agitation cycle that a washing machine uses. In the end, because of my cluelessness, my host sisters ended up doing all but my unmentionables for me. (Pays to play dumb…or to just actually in this case be dumb)
However, before returning to the house for the hand washing fiasco, Nicholas, my host father, needed to run a quick errand to get firewood and thought it would be a perfect time to show me the location in town. Basically, locations are where the whites, during apartheid, would force the black and colored (mixed) people to live. The colored location was closest to town, and the black location was furthest from the white town. Currently, locations are no longer segregated based on race or skin color, they are segregated based on social class, with the locations now being inhabited by the poor.
Since we had just come from church, we were all dressed in our nice semi-formal clothes, driving in the Kupembona’s nice, new, shiny white Toyota sedan. People were definitely staring, especially as we went deeper into the location. I thought I had seen poverty coming from my trip the past week to the Kavango region, but this was the ugliest thing I have seen so far. At least in the Kavango, people were still living in traditional houses, and while they may have appeared poor by western standards, they were still perfectly fine homes, made of natural materials. Here, the people lived in a city of trash. The streets were full of trash, little kids were digging through the trash, the children’s toys were made of trash or were pieces of trash, and the houses were pieced together by trash, by corrugated tin panels, plastic sheets, wood scraps, and whatever else people could find.
It was sad because this wasn’t how anyone should have to live. It’s one thing to live in nature, in the ways of your culture, because I don’t believe everyone should have to be forced into development. There are positives to living a natural and simple life. But to be stuck in between worlds, not attached to the past of your people, nor connected with the present of the developed world, just floating in the limbo between, in a place of poverty, a place of unworthiness, a place of suffering, living a diminished life.
This is the place where these people derive their identity from, they grasp at shreds of dignity with which to define themselves. It’s no wonder that much of the crime comes from this area, because if people are treated like trash, or believe themselves to be trash, then they start acting like it (even though they are far from it). They start trying to overcompensate for their feelings of inadequacy by taking from others, taking other people’s self-confidence, their sense of self-worth, their feeling of power, or their physical possessions. And sadly this happens all over the world.
Now, there are many individuals whose resilient spirits endure or resist the influence of their environments, and never allow the place they live, or the way they are treated to define or diminish who they are. They are amazing people who remain joyful, happy, and caring, and who remain fully human even in subhuman conditions. But still, in this day and age, in this world, with all that we as a species are capable of…no person should have to live in trash.
Until we change that, until we start giving all people throughout the world access to the adequate basics of life, the whole world will be living in the mess of trash that it created…in the rubbish of social problems that develop from poverty, the junk of selfish and thoughtless decisions that plague individualistic societies, the waste of suffering and pain of those affected directly or indirectly by subhuman environments, and worst of all, the garbage of human potential wasted, rotting away, unused and untapped for the betterment of the world. Because of how intricately interconnected the world is… while some of us continue to live in trash, we all end up living in trash. And I don’t know about you, but I am sick and tired of living in a world of trash. It’s high time we cleaned up…
(Sidenote: If you are interested in seeing some of the positive effects of treating the disadvantaged as if they are not so, then please look into the work of Bill Strickland. Mr. Strickland is building upscale schools for underprivileged people in various parts of the country, and the effect has been inspiring. Students are rising to the level at which they are treated, when more is given and expected out of them, they rise up to those expectations to fulfill their full potential.)
November 8, 2009
Pain in the Buttocks
After stopping for one night in Rundu, it was time for the trainees to depart for our journey back to Okahandja the next morning of the 14th of March 2009. Thankfully, the older volunteers took us (another kilo or two with my effing bags) to the combi hike point and set us up with a ride, because I would have been confused and worried and clueless about what to do otherwise.
After we paid this one lady and had our names recorded down into a registry book, we began the wait. See combis won’t leave usually until they are packed full to capacity, and then some. It makes sense because the more bodies in the car, the more money the driver makes per trip. The only problem is, if you want to get somewhere by a certain time, you can’t rely on a combi. You could be waiting for a few minutes, or for several hours, until they finally reach their threshold time, when they absolutely have to leave in order to reach their destination before it gets too dark.
We waited for a couple of hours before the spots in the combi had all filled up. Originally, we were set to go in this very nice mini-bus, one with isles, individual cushioned seats, and an extended roof that allowed you to stand. That was only a tease however, because shortly before it was time to depart, we were moved into a real true combi. Now the best way that I can describe a combi is that it’s about the size of a minivan or one of those Volkswagen vans from the 60’s or 70’s, and they typically hold about 16 passengers including the driver. Our combi in particular was definitely worn and old, and if the seats had cushioning, I couldn’t feel any between my butt and the support bars.
Nick, Kim, Jessica and I packed into the back, which is the only seat where four have to sit together instead of three. Paul and Jake, apparently the smarter ones of the group, sat right in front of us, and had much more room. I was being pressed by every angle, from the seat, from the people next to me, my knees were pressing into the seat in front of me, and I couldn’t sit up completely straight because the ceiling was low. Thankfully I’m not claustrophobic because I would have lost it in there. I had to sit many hours in a fetal-like position just to relieve pressure on various sore spots on my body.
In addition to the cramped conditions, combis don’t really have air conditioning, and some combi drivers will even demand that you leave the windows closed. For some reason they believe that having the windows open drastically affects the aerodynamics of the van. So what you get is a tightly packed group of hot, sweaty, smelly, uncomfortable, and agitated people. It might not sound that uncomfortable in writing, but I found myself occasionally thinking about how a car crash might be a nice alternative because it would get me out of the combi or possibly end my suffering altogether (which I considered a win-win at the time). I’m tempted to take those of you that visit on a combi ride of your very own so you can fully understand my pain (especially that of my buttocks).
The highlights about this particular combi experience were the times when we would be driving on a nice, well-maintained, dry, paved road and yet it would feel as if the car was hydroplaning. There were moments where I really thought we were going to fly off the road, and that was all before it actually did start to rain. Also, our combi broke down about half way to our destination. We had to wait for maybe a half hour to an hour while the driver continually tried to start up the van. He was eventually successful and we were able to continue our journey.
After a full day in the combi, about 9 or so hours, we finally arrived back in Okahandja. I was so happy to be back home with my host family, away from nasty houses, crazy priests, disgusting roommates, and out of that dreadful combi.
After we paid this one lady and had our names recorded down into a registry book, we began the wait. See combis won’t leave usually until they are packed full to capacity, and then some. It makes sense because the more bodies in the car, the more money the driver makes per trip. The only problem is, if you want to get somewhere by a certain time, you can’t rely on a combi. You could be waiting for a few minutes, or for several hours, until they finally reach their threshold time, when they absolutely have to leave in order to reach their destination before it gets too dark.
We waited for a couple of hours before the spots in the combi had all filled up. Originally, we were set to go in this very nice mini-bus, one with isles, individual cushioned seats, and an extended roof that allowed you to stand. That was only a tease however, because shortly before it was time to depart, we were moved into a real true combi. Now the best way that I can describe a combi is that it’s about the size of a minivan or one of those Volkswagen vans from the 60’s or 70’s, and they typically hold about 16 passengers including the driver. Our combi in particular was definitely worn and old, and if the seats had cushioning, I couldn’t feel any between my butt and the support bars.
Nick, Kim, Jessica and I packed into the back, which is the only seat where four have to sit together instead of three. Paul and Jake, apparently the smarter ones of the group, sat right in front of us, and had much more room. I was being pressed by every angle, from the seat, from the people next to me, my knees were pressing into the seat in front of me, and I couldn’t sit up completely straight because the ceiling was low. Thankfully I’m not claustrophobic because I would have lost it in there. I had to sit many hours in a fetal-like position just to relieve pressure on various sore spots on my body.
In addition to the cramped conditions, combis don’t really have air conditioning, and some combi drivers will even demand that you leave the windows closed. For some reason they believe that having the windows open drastically affects the aerodynamics of the van. So what you get is a tightly packed group of hot, sweaty, smelly, uncomfortable, and agitated people. It might not sound that uncomfortable in writing, but I found myself occasionally thinking about how a car crash might be a nice alternative because it would get me out of the combi or possibly end my suffering altogether (which I considered a win-win at the time). I’m tempted to take those of you that visit on a combi ride of your very own so you can fully understand my pain (especially that of my buttocks).
The highlights about this particular combi experience were the times when we would be driving on a nice, well-maintained, dry, paved road and yet it would feel as if the car was hydroplaning. There were moments where I really thought we were going to fly off the road, and that was all before it actually did start to rain. Also, our combi broke down about half way to our destination. We had to wait for maybe a half hour to an hour while the driver continually tried to start up the van. He was eventually successful and we were able to continue our journey.
After a full day in the combi, about 9 or so hours, we finally arrived back in Okahandja. I was so happy to be back home with my host family, away from nasty houses, crazy priests, disgusting roommates, and out of that dreadful combi.
Take a Closer Look
When we arrived in Rundu after a few hours of driving, there was MORE walking to be done with my ridiculous luggage in hand. We had to foot about a kilo or two into town before arriving at the PCV’s house we were going to stay at for the night. Once there, we unpacked and were given a tour of the town that ended with dinner at the Omashare Lodge. I had an extremely delicious vegetarian pizza and a N$6 glass of wine (about $0.60 at the time!)
After dinner we went to another volunteer’s house for a small get together with all of the Peace Corps Volunteers in the area at the time. It was a great opportunity to talk with the PCVs who had been here for a while and hear their stories and perspectives with regards to Namibia. I heard a lot of interesting and encouraging stories, but there were also a lot of sad things that were said. I’m not just talking about sad stories (there were some of those), but disheartening comments made by some of the volunteers as well.
It appeared as though over time, some of the many problems in Namibia had beaten down these particular volunteers. It was as if they had lost all hope of change and were starting to view Namibians in a general stereotype they had derived from their own negative personal encounters. Saying Namibians were this or that, and judging them in accordance. And with everything they did, they were really only separating themselves from the people they were trying to help.
I could see how being surrounded by so many problems constantly would wear on a person, but only to a certain degree, and only if you allow it to. I thought about how sad it was that they were beat down so easily. I thought about what a horrible experience their service must be if they are constantly focusing on the problems instead of working on solutions. I thought about how limiting it would be to have the belief that “these people” can’t change, that they just are a certain way and there’s nothing to be done about it.
I believe that those types of mentalities only create a gap between people, and by separating yourself from others by focusing on the differences that you judge to be bad, you only render yourself powerless to help them. You create a distance between yourself and them, and it’s in that distance, in seeing them from afar, that they seem so different, unfamiliar, and even scary. But the thing is, Namibians, Americans, and everyone else on the planet, we’re all just humans, we’re all equals. We may all be unique and special individuals in our own ways, with insignificant yet beautiful differences, but we all share the common thread of humanity. And when you get up real close, when you open yourself up to seeing “those people”, truly seeing them, that’s when you realize how familiar, how similar, and just how wonderful your brother, who is a part of you and like you in so many ways, really is.
The only difference that really matters is circumstance. People’s circumstances are what shape them to be the way that they are. Poverty, repressive cultures, abuse and corruption can affect a life path in the same way that kindness, abundance, freedom, and honesty can. I’m not saying that people don’t have choices, because we have a choice in everything we do, but I do believe that some circumstances make choices that are more difficult than others. I don’t know if I’d be the same person if I had been brought up in a poor community, or a controlling family, or an abusive environment, or a culture of repression, jealousy, and secrecy. I would like to think I would be the same person that I am today, that I would not waiver and change in the face of adversity, but the truth is that I just don’t know.
We can never fully know anyone’s story. We can never truly know the challenges and hardships that they have faced in life. We can never absolutely know the impact of the psychological trauma that has been inflicted upon a person by the world around them. And because of that, because we can never know, because we could be just like “that person” if we were in their situation, we might want to have a little more compassion and understanding for where they are coming from.
Because I know that I just don’t know, because I have my own unique story that can never be fully understood, and because I take a closer look and in doing so see my remarkable sister… I won’t be beaten down. I will not allow the impact of circumstance to affect how I view others. I won’t give up hope that all people can learn and change and grow. I won’t lose sight of the true potential that lies within each and every one of us. And I will always remember to take a closer look… because things aren’t always as they seem to be.
After dinner we went to another volunteer’s house for a small get together with all of the Peace Corps Volunteers in the area at the time. It was a great opportunity to talk with the PCVs who had been here for a while and hear their stories and perspectives with regards to Namibia. I heard a lot of interesting and encouraging stories, but there were also a lot of sad things that were said. I’m not just talking about sad stories (there were some of those), but disheartening comments made by some of the volunteers as well.
It appeared as though over time, some of the many problems in Namibia had beaten down these particular volunteers. It was as if they had lost all hope of change and were starting to view Namibians in a general stereotype they had derived from their own negative personal encounters. Saying Namibians were this or that, and judging them in accordance. And with everything they did, they were really only separating themselves from the people they were trying to help.
I could see how being surrounded by so many problems constantly would wear on a person, but only to a certain degree, and only if you allow it to. I thought about how sad it was that they were beat down so easily. I thought about what a horrible experience their service must be if they are constantly focusing on the problems instead of working on solutions. I thought about how limiting it would be to have the belief that “these people” can’t change, that they just are a certain way and there’s nothing to be done about it.
I believe that those types of mentalities only create a gap between people, and by separating yourself from others by focusing on the differences that you judge to be bad, you only render yourself powerless to help them. You create a distance between yourself and them, and it’s in that distance, in seeing them from afar, that they seem so different, unfamiliar, and even scary. But the thing is, Namibians, Americans, and everyone else on the planet, we’re all just humans, we’re all equals. We may all be unique and special individuals in our own ways, with insignificant yet beautiful differences, but we all share the common thread of humanity. And when you get up real close, when you open yourself up to seeing “those people”, truly seeing them, that’s when you realize how familiar, how similar, and just how wonderful your brother, who is a part of you and like you in so many ways, really is.
The only difference that really matters is circumstance. People’s circumstances are what shape them to be the way that they are. Poverty, repressive cultures, abuse and corruption can affect a life path in the same way that kindness, abundance, freedom, and honesty can. I’m not saying that people don’t have choices, because we have a choice in everything we do, but I do believe that some circumstances make choices that are more difficult than others. I don’t know if I’d be the same person if I had been brought up in a poor community, or a controlling family, or an abusive environment, or a culture of repression, jealousy, and secrecy. I would like to think I would be the same person that I am today, that I would not waiver and change in the face of adversity, but the truth is that I just don’t know.
We can never fully know anyone’s story. We can never truly know the challenges and hardships that they have faced in life. We can never absolutely know the impact of the psychological trauma that has been inflicted upon a person by the world around them. And because of that, because we can never know, because we could be just like “that person” if we were in their situation, we might want to have a little more compassion and understanding for where they are coming from.
Because I know that I just don’t know, because I have my own unique story that can never be fully understood, and because I take a closer look and in doing so see my remarkable sister… I won’t be beaten down. I will not allow the impact of circumstance to affect how I view others. I won’t give up hope that all people can learn and change and grow. I won’t lose sight of the true potential that lies within each and every one of us. And I will always remember to take a closer look… because things aren’t always as they seem to be.
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