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.
November 8, 2009
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.
The Thrill of Hiking
The Following Day, the 13th of March, I was planning on beginning my travels back to our training town of Okahandja. The previous night, a fellow trainee, Paul, arrived at our house. The plan was that his driver would drop him off, spend the night in a nearby village, and then drive us the 200 kilometers to Rundu (the closest town) in the morning. We were supposed to leave around 6 am, so when that hour came and went, and several hours passed, we realized it was time to make other arrangements.
Chris and Lori (other PCVs) were planning on going to Rundu on that day as well, so luckily we had them to help us with the last minute chaotic travel plans. So we decided we would hike (hitchhike) to Andara, meet Lori, and then from there we would foot (walk) to the paved road to find a hike to Rundu.
I didn’t think much of the plans, I just threw on my flip flops, my heavy backpack, and my loaded duffle bag and set out to begin the journey. I decided against sunscreen initially because I didn’t think we would be out in the sun long enough for me to burn. We started by walking about 1 kilo from Frans Dimbare to the gravel road, a distance that seemed much farther with my hefty luggage. At the gravel road, we waited under a tree for about an hour for a car to pick us up and take us to Andara.
After we arrived, Lori joined the party and we proceeded onward. The way I pictured things when they were talking about the walk from Andara to the paved road, was that it would be a short distance. I did not realize we would be walking several kilos in the blistering African sun. After several minutes in, with no view of an end in sight, I realized that it was long past time for the sunscreen. So I used the moment to steal a quick break, I unburdened myself of my bags, lathered the sunscreen onto my sweat-drenched skin, and then reloaded the luggage back onto my tired and sore shoulders.
We walked… we walked… and then we walked some more. I kept praying that one of the small clouds in the sky would block the sun, even if just for a moment, just to give us some reprieve from the heat. I kept hoping that over each hill we were on would be the tire road. But there were few periods of shade, and there were many, many tiny hills. And what made the whole thing unbearable was the luggage that I had deemed an appropriate amount for this trip. If I had known I would be trekking through the blistering savannah during midday I would have packed very differently (one set of underwear and clothes would have sufficed).
Finally, the end came, as it always does, we made it to the road and my suffering was over. We found some shade by the paved road and waited for the first vehicle we saw to flag down. We were lucky and didn’t have to wait too long. A lorrie (a semi-truck) stopped and agreed to take us to Rundu for N$50. We climbed up into the back, into this long, open-topped flatbed, and then the driver took off for our destination.
It was such an incredible and exciting experience, hiking for the first time. The thrill of the unknown, of not having scheduled and reliable transportation, of taking chances and depending on others, was unique and completely unforgettable.
I lied on the rusted metal flatbed, hidden from the unrelenting sun by my dirty towel. I rested and took a nap during the 2 hr drive. I stood up while the lorrie was moving, feeling the wind blow against my skin. I looked around at all of the surrounding nature and the numerous villages scattered throughout. I waved to all of the small children walking alongside the road, who were jumping with excitement at the sight of a white person. I did something that I would never be able to do in the States…And I LOVED every second of it.
Chris and Lori (other PCVs) were planning on going to Rundu on that day as well, so luckily we had them to help us with the last minute chaotic travel plans. So we decided we would hike (hitchhike) to Andara, meet Lori, and then from there we would foot (walk) to the paved road to find a hike to Rundu.
I didn’t think much of the plans, I just threw on my flip flops, my heavy backpack, and my loaded duffle bag and set out to begin the journey. I decided against sunscreen initially because I didn’t think we would be out in the sun long enough for me to burn. We started by walking about 1 kilo from Frans Dimbare to the gravel road, a distance that seemed much farther with my hefty luggage. At the gravel road, we waited under a tree for about an hour for a car to pick us up and take us to Andara.
After we arrived, Lori joined the party and we proceeded onward. The way I pictured things when they were talking about the walk from Andara to the paved road, was that it would be a short distance. I did not realize we would be walking several kilos in the blistering African sun. After several minutes in, with no view of an end in sight, I realized that it was long past time for the sunscreen. So I used the moment to steal a quick break, I unburdened myself of my bags, lathered the sunscreen onto my sweat-drenched skin, and then reloaded the luggage back onto my tired and sore shoulders.
We walked… we walked… and then we walked some more. I kept praying that one of the small clouds in the sky would block the sun, even if just for a moment, just to give us some reprieve from the heat. I kept hoping that over each hill we were on would be the tire road. But there were few periods of shade, and there were many, many tiny hills. And what made the whole thing unbearable was the luggage that I had deemed an appropriate amount for this trip. If I had known I would be trekking through the blistering savannah during midday I would have packed very differently (one set of underwear and clothes would have sufficed).
Finally, the end came, as it always does, we made it to the road and my suffering was over. We found some shade by the paved road and waited for the first vehicle we saw to flag down. We were lucky and didn’t have to wait too long. A lorrie (a semi-truck) stopped and agreed to take us to Rundu for N$50. We climbed up into the back, into this long, open-topped flatbed, and then the driver took off for our destination.
It was such an incredible and exciting experience, hiking for the first time. The thrill of the unknown, of not having scheduled and reliable transportation, of taking chances and depending on others, was unique and completely unforgettable.
I lied on the rusted metal flatbed, hidden from the unrelenting sun by my dirty towel. I rested and took a nap during the 2 hr drive. I stood up while the lorrie was moving, feeling the wind blow against my skin. I looked around at all of the surrounding nature and the numerous villages scattered throughout. I waved to all of the small children walking alongside the road, who were jumping with excitement at the sight of a white person. I did something that I would never be able to do in the States…And I LOVED every second of it.
A Load of Croc
Because of transportation and other logistical problems, my week of site visit, where I was suppose to go around the community meeting all sorts of “important” people, including the Fumu (the chief) of the Hambukushu Tribe, was pretty uneventful. I spent most of the time reading, writing, and listening to the constant rainfall from the comfort(?) of my nasty room, or lying in the hammock next to the Kavango River (and being scared by the crocodiles). So on March 12, 2009, when Chris suggested that we go visit a neighboring village, Andara, I jumped at the idea.
We went to visit Lori, the volunteer there, whose group had arrived only 3 months before mine. She showed us around the village and the school she was working in. The village had a really unique feel to it since it was on a church mission, so there were some old brick buildings that are not common in the area. The school was depressing in some senses, the buildings were trashed and dirty, but at least the learners were used to it and it didn’t diminish their spirits much, at least from what little I was able to tell. (I’m not sure if the fact that the learners have adjusted to horrible conditions is a good or bad thing?)
After a while of walking around many long, sandy paths, Chris suggested that we go and visit his friend, the mission priest, Fr Andrew. I thought that would be a great opportunity to meet a community leader since I had failed to meet others throughout the week.
Meeting Fr Andrew was definitely an interesting experience to say the least. When we arrived at his house, we were almost immediately thrown into a crocodile hunt. Earlier in the week I had heard stories of people being taken by crocodiles, and apparently there was one crocodile that had taken a few children in the village. So right away we were told of the situation, and we followed Fr Andrew and a group of men as they raced to the side of the river where the crocodile had been spotted previously in the day.
It was exciting and terrifying at the same time, especially since we had to cross a bridge that was barely above water (I kept imaging Jaws-like scenes where the shark, or crocodile in this instance, jumps out of the water with its mouth wide open, surprising some unaware and careless victim). And then most of the time we were hunting, there was water on both sides of us, causing me to constantly look over my shoulder, fearful of some ambush from behind. We scoured over the area for a while, looking for the animal in question, but apparently it had already fled the scene of the crime before we arrived. All we managed to actually see was a foot long baby crocodile floating calmly in the water.
The hunt was called off shortly after we realized the crocodile was long gone, and we then began to chat with Fr Andrew for a bit. I don’t even know where to begin, I’m clueless as to how to describe, or do justice to what this man is like. All I can say is that I’m appalled that he is stationed there. I think it is sad that this man was chosen by any institution to represent God, to be a leader, to help these people. Every time I have interacted with him I have come away slightly disturbed in some way, and that first encounter was no exception.
It began with simple small talk, and while Fr Andrew was talking, he was smoking and swinging around his loaded shotgun. I HATE guns to begin with, but I felt extremely uneasy with it constantly being swung in my direction. Then slowly cuss words started to just flow freely from his mouth, and it wasn’t just the words, it was the way he talked. He talked with a certain tone and lack of respect that I felt was unbefitting of a leader, let alone a spiritual one.
I remember him telling one man that he should stay away from alcohol and avoid drinking because of the problems it creates. I could have appreciated what he was saying had I not felt that his words were empty and that he didn’t even believe in what he was saying. I just knew deep down that he was a hypocrite and drank as well (a feeling I later confirmed to be true).
All of this I could have merely disregarded as a possible misunderstanding, but then he confirmed the unsettling feelings I had been having since I first met him when I overheard him discussing “business” with a friend. He was talking about a few learners transferring from another school and mentioned something about how he would be making extra money, since their schools fees were more at the previous school and he would be charging them the same, even though the fees were suppose to be less. He was taking advantage of people that had very little to begin with, and that I cannot respect.
I even heard one story about how the learners, who put up with horrible conditions far beyond what we can imagine, and do so on a daily basis, went on strike one day because of the food that the mission was serving them. For learners to react like that, they must have been subjected to absolutely horrible conditions. Apparently, Fr Andrew (or his staff), who constantly has lavish braais (Barbeques), saw it fit to feed the learners porridge (ground up maize) that was infested with maggots.
This man, this “servant” of God is suppose to be serving these people, yet he lives like a king, on a level that rivals the Fumu. He has a huge house by the river, on a very large piece of property, with an orchard and garden and various livestock, he owns several cars, he has servants/workers, and who knows how much money he is skimming and profiting from various things such as charging people for power that is generated for free from the hydroelectric plant on his property.
I know it may not sound like it, but I don’t hate Fr Andrew, I don’t dislike him, and I try very hard not to judge the man for what he is doing. I feel sorry for him because I believe his actions are a result of how unhappy he is in life. And I’m absolutely sure that Fr Andrew has many good qualities, for he has on many occasions been generous and hospitable to me and others. I hope that one day he learns what it means to truly serve your community and is able to be a real leader to the people… but for now my concern is with the people and what’s best for them, and in my opinion, that means this “leader” needs to go.
We went to visit Lori, the volunteer there, whose group had arrived only 3 months before mine. She showed us around the village and the school she was working in. The village had a really unique feel to it since it was on a church mission, so there were some old brick buildings that are not common in the area. The school was depressing in some senses, the buildings were trashed and dirty, but at least the learners were used to it and it didn’t diminish their spirits much, at least from what little I was able to tell. (I’m not sure if the fact that the learners have adjusted to horrible conditions is a good or bad thing?)
After a while of walking around many long, sandy paths, Chris suggested that we go and visit his friend, the mission priest, Fr Andrew. I thought that would be a great opportunity to meet a community leader since I had failed to meet others throughout the week.
Meeting Fr Andrew was definitely an interesting experience to say the least. When we arrived at his house, we were almost immediately thrown into a crocodile hunt. Earlier in the week I had heard stories of people being taken by crocodiles, and apparently there was one crocodile that had taken a few children in the village. So right away we were told of the situation, and we followed Fr Andrew and a group of men as they raced to the side of the river where the crocodile had been spotted previously in the day.
It was exciting and terrifying at the same time, especially since we had to cross a bridge that was barely above water (I kept imaging Jaws-like scenes where the shark, or crocodile in this instance, jumps out of the water with its mouth wide open, surprising some unaware and careless victim). And then most of the time we were hunting, there was water on both sides of us, causing me to constantly look over my shoulder, fearful of some ambush from behind. We scoured over the area for a while, looking for the animal in question, but apparently it had already fled the scene of the crime before we arrived. All we managed to actually see was a foot long baby crocodile floating calmly in the water.
The hunt was called off shortly after we realized the crocodile was long gone, and we then began to chat with Fr Andrew for a bit. I don’t even know where to begin, I’m clueless as to how to describe, or do justice to what this man is like. All I can say is that I’m appalled that he is stationed there. I think it is sad that this man was chosen by any institution to represent God, to be a leader, to help these people. Every time I have interacted with him I have come away slightly disturbed in some way, and that first encounter was no exception.
It began with simple small talk, and while Fr Andrew was talking, he was smoking and swinging around his loaded shotgun. I HATE guns to begin with, but I felt extremely uneasy with it constantly being swung in my direction. Then slowly cuss words started to just flow freely from his mouth, and it wasn’t just the words, it was the way he talked. He talked with a certain tone and lack of respect that I felt was unbefitting of a leader, let alone a spiritual one.
I remember him telling one man that he should stay away from alcohol and avoid drinking because of the problems it creates. I could have appreciated what he was saying had I not felt that his words were empty and that he didn’t even believe in what he was saying. I just knew deep down that he was a hypocrite and drank as well (a feeling I later confirmed to be true).
All of this I could have merely disregarded as a possible misunderstanding, but then he confirmed the unsettling feelings I had been having since I first met him when I overheard him discussing “business” with a friend. He was talking about a few learners transferring from another school and mentioned something about how he would be making extra money, since their schools fees were more at the previous school and he would be charging them the same, even though the fees were suppose to be less. He was taking advantage of people that had very little to begin with, and that I cannot respect.
I even heard one story about how the learners, who put up with horrible conditions far beyond what we can imagine, and do so on a daily basis, went on strike one day because of the food that the mission was serving them. For learners to react like that, they must have been subjected to absolutely horrible conditions. Apparently, Fr Andrew (or his staff), who constantly has lavish braais (Barbeques), saw it fit to feed the learners porridge (ground up maize) that was infested with maggots.
This man, this “servant” of God is suppose to be serving these people, yet he lives like a king, on a level that rivals the Fumu. He has a huge house by the river, on a very large piece of property, with an orchard and garden and various livestock, he owns several cars, he has servants/workers, and who knows how much money he is skimming and profiting from various things such as charging people for power that is generated for free from the hydroelectric plant on his property.
I know it may not sound like it, but I don’t hate Fr Andrew, I don’t dislike him, and I try very hard not to judge the man for what he is doing. I feel sorry for him because I believe his actions are a result of how unhappy he is in life. And I’m absolutely sure that Fr Andrew has many good qualities, for he has on many occasions been generous and hospitable to me and others. I hope that one day he learns what it means to truly serve your community and is able to be a real leader to the people… but for now my concern is with the people and what’s best for them, and in my opinion, that means this “leader” needs to go.
A Legacy of Love
For the several days following my arrival at Frans Dimbare, there was an assortment of feelings that I experienced. I had many highs, and equally as many lows. It was a rollercoaster period that was draining and energizing all at the same time. I had met with various coworkers and organizations that I would be working with, and while I felt entirely encouraged and motivated by the energy and enthusiasm of the people around me, I was also afraid that I might not be able to live up to their expectations. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to fulfill the job and tasks that I had been assigned to do.
I had been given the title and responsibility of Acting Health Youth Officer for the centre. Basically what that means is that I am supposed to be in charge of all of the health programs for the Ministry of Youth in the region that the youth centre serves. That includes tens of thousands of people, spread over an enormous area of land (the size of a small state), where people are sparsely populated and not easily accessible. And all the while, I have to share unreliable and often incapacitated transportation, and I have extremely limited resources and language skills.
Had it not been for the incredible people that work at the youth centre, or the motivation of the local youth, or the support and encouragement from people back at home, I would have probably given up already. Because how can one person possibly manage to reach all of those people? By myself, what work can I really accomplish? Alone, I am limited. Alone, I am small. And alone, I am powerless to truly affect this world.
But thankfully I do not embark on this journey alone. I have many friends, family and even strangers, both here and abroad that stand with me. They have supported me with their taxes and money, they have assisted me with their donations and time, they have inspired me with their ideas, they have encouraged me with their actions, and they have strengthened me with their love.
I am a legacy of them all. I am a legacy of those who came before me to pave the way with their work, to lay the foundation for mine. I am a legacy of the support and encouragement from my friends and family, those closest to me that have shared with me in the journey of life, through good times and bad. I am a legacy of the great leaders of the past that have inspired me with their actions and the way they have chosen to live their remarkable lives. I am a legacy to the strength of the human spirit as witnessed to by the brave heroes of this world. I am a legacy of peace, for the boundless internal peace I have received in life I wish to share. And I am a legacy of love, from all those who share its miraculous gift with me freely.
We are all legacies of whatever light or dark we chose. We can perpetuate anger, pain, and hate as we have experienced it. We can hurt others and build upon the suffering of the world by adding our own suffering and that of the people we affect. Or we can summon up the indestructible spirits of the past, people like Gandhi, Peace Pilgrim, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, and countless others, and join with the courageous hearts of the present, and we can stand together as one. We can build upon what others have done and are currently doing to take the frontier of greatness further than it has ever been before. We can do more than we ever thought possible, more than we could ever do alone. Together, we can become a force more powerful than any one individual, a force with the potential to really make a difference in the world and in people’s lives. That is the legacy I chose carry on.
I thank those who have come before for their contribution, and their part in all of this, for everyone has their unique part to play. I stand here today with them, because of them, because of you… so thank you. Thank you for standing with me, enabling me to move beyond myself and my limitations as an individual. In tribute of my gratitude, I offer my life’s legacy, although still a work in progress, it’s a legacy that is shared with many, the legacy of love, for the future, for the now, for you and for all. I pass it on freely, as it was passed on to me, for all who would accept it and share in the infinite strength it provides. May it show you that when we stand united, for the sake of love’s purpose, that we can accomplish extraordinary things.
I had been given the title and responsibility of Acting Health Youth Officer for the centre. Basically what that means is that I am supposed to be in charge of all of the health programs for the Ministry of Youth in the region that the youth centre serves. That includes tens of thousands of people, spread over an enormous area of land (the size of a small state), where people are sparsely populated and not easily accessible. And all the while, I have to share unreliable and often incapacitated transportation, and I have extremely limited resources and language skills.
Had it not been for the incredible people that work at the youth centre, or the motivation of the local youth, or the support and encouragement from people back at home, I would have probably given up already. Because how can one person possibly manage to reach all of those people? By myself, what work can I really accomplish? Alone, I am limited. Alone, I am small. And alone, I am powerless to truly affect this world.
But thankfully I do not embark on this journey alone. I have many friends, family and even strangers, both here and abroad that stand with me. They have supported me with their taxes and money, they have assisted me with their donations and time, they have inspired me with their ideas, they have encouraged me with their actions, and they have strengthened me with their love.
I am a legacy of them all. I am a legacy of those who came before me to pave the way with their work, to lay the foundation for mine. I am a legacy of the support and encouragement from my friends and family, those closest to me that have shared with me in the journey of life, through good times and bad. I am a legacy of the great leaders of the past that have inspired me with their actions and the way they have chosen to live their remarkable lives. I am a legacy to the strength of the human spirit as witnessed to by the brave heroes of this world. I am a legacy of peace, for the boundless internal peace I have received in life I wish to share. And I am a legacy of love, from all those who share its miraculous gift with me freely.
We are all legacies of whatever light or dark we chose. We can perpetuate anger, pain, and hate as we have experienced it. We can hurt others and build upon the suffering of the world by adding our own suffering and that of the people we affect. Or we can summon up the indestructible spirits of the past, people like Gandhi, Peace Pilgrim, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, and countless others, and join with the courageous hearts of the present, and we can stand together as one. We can build upon what others have done and are currently doing to take the frontier of greatness further than it has ever been before. We can do more than we ever thought possible, more than we could ever do alone. Together, we can become a force more powerful than any one individual, a force with the potential to really make a difference in the world and in people’s lives. That is the legacy I chose carry on.
I thank those who have come before for their contribution, and their part in all of this, for everyone has their unique part to play. I stand here today with them, because of them, because of you… so thank you. Thank you for standing with me, enabling me to move beyond myself and my limitations as an individual. In tribute of my gratitude, I offer my life’s legacy, although still a work in progress, it’s a legacy that is shared with many, the legacy of love, for the future, for the now, for you and for all. I pass it on freely, as it was passed on to me, for all who would accept it and share in the infinite strength it provides. May it show you that when we stand united, for the sake of love’s purpose, that we can accomplish extraordinary things.
October 4, 2009
Cleaning up Messes
The following few days of site visit turned out to be a lot better than the first. I bounced back from the initial shock of my living conditions (temporarily at least). I even started to view the house and the condition it was in, in relation to the world. I had joined Peace Corps because the world is a mess, and I wanted to make it better. I was in essence sent to Namibia to help clean up an existing “mess”. This nasty, nasty house was not only a literal microcosm of the mess, but it was also a metaphor for the world at large.
All over the world, in every single country, there are “messes” that are created by self-absorbed, unaware, inconsiderate individuals and entities (governmental and business). Sometimes these people and organizations are completely ignorant to what they are doing and just don’t realize how they are affecting others (maybe they would change if they did?), but sometimes, as sad as it is, they know exactly what they are doing and are entirely aware of the harm and damage they are inflicting upon people and the planet that sustains them.
Sometimes the messes are more tangible. For example, when a person litters and throws a piece of garbage on the ground (or when a roommate is a slob and doesn’t clean up after himself). When a business, that doesn’t factor in the destruction of the planet into its cost-benefit analysis, pollutes the local environment and therefore, because everything is connected, is polluting the whole world. And when conversely, a business, that does actually include in its cost-benefit analysis the dignity of human life but deems financial profits to far outweigh that dignity, exploits human beings, including children, in sweatshop factories they have created in various parts of the world.
Sometimes the messes are intangible. For instance, when systems are set up, like health insurance, which prioritize making profits over improving the quality of life of the people for whom the systems were initially created to help. When minds are lost and confused from being constantly mislead, manipulated, and deceived with lies and false information from people and institutions they trust. And when people’s mentalities about themselves and others are shaped solely by negative experiences acquired while interacting with the world around them.
And sometimes, and I believe almost all of the time, the messes are a combination of both. Such as poverty, with its mental and emotional impacts on the poor, in addition to the systems in place that perpetuate the cycle of poverty and ensure that it continues for generations to come, along with its blatantly obvious problems such as starvation, homelessness, lack of education, lack of money and resources, and just altogether general lack. Such as crime, with its visible effects of vandalism, theft, rape, and murder, along with its less visible effects of terrorizing its victims, in addition to the underlying systems that perpetuate that cycle as well. Such as war, with all of its devastation and destruction, landscapes scarred, people injured, and lives lost, along with the equally traumatic mental devastation that it inflicts upon everyone.
These messes, and all other messes in the world, are the product of one thing and one thing only…selfishness. It’s the individual, “me” mentality that causes all of these problems (quite possibly all problems) in the world. Because if you are thinking in terms of everything being part of an interconnected organism or brotherhood of humanity, how can you even make a mess to begin with, let alone not take responsibility for it and clean up after yourself if you accidentally do make one? People need to start thinking about the consequences and effects of their actions, and about the people who will be the ones cleaning up the messes in the aftermath, instead of merely thinking about the self-reward that lies in their moment of decision.
I hope the day will come when individuals will no longer burden the rest of humanity by their self-centered choices and desires. Until then, the world will continue to be distorted with its assortment of messes. And while it’s unfair, and we should never have to live in these messes in the first place, we do have a choice to make… we can continue to live in the filth of others, OR we can begin to clean up this world, one small mess at a time, by trying to mend the wounds inflicted upon the environment, by trying to wash away the errors in the imperfect systems that continually fail us, by trying to wipe away the grime of deception imposed upon our minds, and by trying to polish and restore this magnificent planet and its remarkable habitants to their original luster.
I refuse to live in anyone’s filth. I came to Africa to clean up messes… and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
All over the world, in every single country, there are “messes” that are created by self-absorbed, unaware, inconsiderate individuals and entities (governmental and business). Sometimes these people and organizations are completely ignorant to what they are doing and just don’t realize how they are affecting others (maybe they would change if they did?), but sometimes, as sad as it is, they know exactly what they are doing and are entirely aware of the harm and damage they are inflicting upon people and the planet that sustains them.
Sometimes the messes are more tangible. For example, when a person litters and throws a piece of garbage on the ground (or when a roommate is a slob and doesn’t clean up after himself). When a business, that doesn’t factor in the destruction of the planet into its cost-benefit analysis, pollutes the local environment and therefore, because everything is connected, is polluting the whole world. And when conversely, a business, that does actually include in its cost-benefit analysis the dignity of human life but deems financial profits to far outweigh that dignity, exploits human beings, including children, in sweatshop factories they have created in various parts of the world.
Sometimes the messes are intangible. For instance, when systems are set up, like health insurance, which prioritize making profits over improving the quality of life of the people for whom the systems were initially created to help. When minds are lost and confused from being constantly mislead, manipulated, and deceived with lies and false information from people and institutions they trust. And when people’s mentalities about themselves and others are shaped solely by negative experiences acquired while interacting with the world around them.
And sometimes, and I believe almost all of the time, the messes are a combination of both. Such as poverty, with its mental and emotional impacts on the poor, in addition to the systems in place that perpetuate the cycle of poverty and ensure that it continues for generations to come, along with its blatantly obvious problems such as starvation, homelessness, lack of education, lack of money and resources, and just altogether general lack. Such as crime, with its visible effects of vandalism, theft, rape, and murder, along with its less visible effects of terrorizing its victims, in addition to the underlying systems that perpetuate that cycle as well. Such as war, with all of its devastation and destruction, landscapes scarred, people injured, and lives lost, along with the equally traumatic mental devastation that it inflicts upon everyone.
These messes, and all other messes in the world, are the product of one thing and one thing only…selfishness. It’s the individual, “me” mentality that causes all of these problems (quite possibly all problems) in the world. Because if you are thinking in terms of everything being part of an interconnected organism or brotherhood of humanity, how can you even make a mess to begin with, let alone not take responsibility for it and clean up after yourself if you accidentally do make one? People need to start thinking about the consequences and effects of their actions, and about the people who will be the ones cleaning up the messes in the aftermath, instead of merely thinking about the self-reward that lies in their moment of decision.
I hope the day will come when individuals will no longer burden the rest of humanity by their self-centered choices and desires. Until then, the world will continue to be distorted with its assortment of messes. And while it’s unfair, and we should never have to live in these messes in the first place, we do have a choice to make… we can continue to live in the filth of others, OR we can begin to clean up this world, one small mess at a time, by trying to mend the wounds inflicted upon the environment, by trying to wash away the errors in the imperfect systems that continually fail us, by trying to wipe away the grime of deception imposed upon our minds, and by trying to polish and restore this magnificent planet and its remarkable habitants to their original luster.
I refuse to live in anyone’s filth. I came to Africa to clean up messes… and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Nightmare on Frans Street
EEEEK EEEEK EEEEK!!! (pretend it’s old-style horror movie sound effects)
If my life was a movie, this would be one of the horror scenes. Where right as I’m walking into my house-to-be, I’m happy and smiling and everything seems fine, then out of nowhere, the moment I step inside…they cue the old-style horror music they usually play when one of the characters is surprised by the killer or stumbles upon dead bodies. The camera then does a close up on my face as my eyes widen dramatically and my face shows an expression of sheer terror as I bear witness to some unimaginable horror. Then the camera flies around the room as if in a panic zooming in and out at the scenes before me, then back to my facial expression, then back around the room, and finally back to my face. The music ends loudly and abruptly, the screen suddenly blacks out…AND CUT, End Scene!
Let me preface this all by saying that I wasn’t necessarily thrilled about the idea of living with a roommate from the beginning. When I found out that I was the ONLY volunteer from our group that would be living with another PCV as a roommate, I thought it was extremely ironic. My past is full of bad roommate experiences. They were all great people, but we just had very different expectations and ideas about respectfully living in shared spaces. Plus, Peace Corps never said anything about living with another person, let alone a volunteer. So I had been planning on, was even looking forward to, having my own place where I could go home to at night after work, mentally recharge, and reflect on my experiences and on life in general. I had already decided that my home was to be my sanctuary here in Namibia, where I would escape all of my problems and worries.
Apparently I was sorely mistaken, and my new roommate, Freddy Krueger, I mean Chris, took those dreams of a warm and happy home, chased them down a dark and scary corridor, cornered them, paralyzing them with fear as they realized there was no hope of escape, and then mercilessly and brutally tore into them, clawing them to pieces until they had ended, and all that was left was a bloody, unrecognizable shell of a dream.
This was how I felt when I entered my new “home” (if I could even call it that). Upon entering the dungeon (all the curtains were drawn and it was extremely dark as if a vampire was living there), I noticed the place was crawling with spiders and covered in spider webs. There was a layer of filth on the floor and garbage and other crap lying all around, and this was just the sitting room. In the kitchen there were cockroaches and ants to go with the spiders, and countless dead bugs stuck to the light, trash and messes galore, some mystery goo on the walls, counters, and cabinets, and hints of black mold here and there to add that special touch. I tell you, if I was starving and a piece of food touched any part of that kitchen, I would leave it, walk outside, and wait to die of starvation, it was that disgusting.
In my bedroom-to-be we had the typical spiders with accompanying webs, dust, some new type of dead bugs, and my personal favorite, lines of dried bat urine all over the walls and rather large piles of bat dropping that fell through the cracks in the ceiling. The shower was a collage of various browns, greens, yellows, reds, and black, and the drain was nicely clogged with plenty of human hairs. And the crown jewel, the toilet, was the most disgusting thing I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t tell what its original color was, it was hidden somewhere deep below the thriving bacteria colonies, the algae, the pee splatters, and the poop stains.
I was almost certain that I was in Hell, that I had fallen asleep on the drive up and the car got into some horrible accident, and here I was experiencing the absolute worst punishment that could be devised for me... EVER!!!
I finally calmed myself a bit. I figured I had seen the worst of it all and there couldn’t possibly be anymore surprises. I decided I would just get ready for bed, go to sleep, and hope that the following day would be better. I prepared my cot, which was right next to all the dead bugs and spiders. Then I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I placed my toothbrush under the faucet and turned on the water, brown muddy water engulfed my nice clean toothbrush. That was the straw that broke the camels back. I almost lost it completely, and was on the verge of either becoming catatonic or crying/laughing hysterically. I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t live in this hell hole for two years (or eternity if my hell theory was correct).
WILL THIS NIGHTMARE EVER END?!?!?!?!
If my life was a movie, this would be one of the horror scenes. Where right as I’m walking into my house-to-be, I’m happy and smiling and everything seems fine, then out of nowhere, the moment I step inside…they cue the old-style horror music they usually play when one of the characters is surprised by the killer or stumbles upon dead bodies. The camera then does a close up on my face as my eyes widen dramatically and my face shows an expression of sheer terror as I bear witness to some unimaginable horror. Then the camera flies around the room as if in a panic zooming in and out at the scenes before me, then back to my facial expression, then back around the room, and finally back to my face. The music ends loudly and abruptly, the screen suddenly blacks out…AND CUT, End Scene!
Let me preface this all by saying that I wasn’t necessarily thrilled about the idea of living with a roommate from the beginning. When I found out that I was the ONLY volunteer from our group that would be living with another PCV as a roommate, I thought it was extremely ironic. My past is full of bad roommate experiences. They were all great people, but we just had very different expectations and ideas about respectfully living in shared spaces. Plus, Peace Corps never said anything about living with another person, let alone a volunteer. So I had been planning on, was even looking forward to, having my own place where I could go home to at night after work, mentally recharge, and reflect on my experiences and on life in general. I had already decided that my home was to be my sanctuary here in Namibia, where I would escape all of my problems and worries.
Apparently I was sorely mistaken, and my new roommate, Freddy Krueger, I mean Chris, took those dreams of a warm and happy home, chased them down a dark and scary corridor, cornered them, paralyzing them with fear as they realized there was no hope of escape, and then mercilessly and brutally tore into them, clawing them to pieces until they had ended, and all that was left was a bloody, unrecognizable shell of a dream.
This was how I felt when I entered my new “home” (if I could even call it that). Upon entering the dungeon (all the curtains were drawn and it was extremely dark as if a vampire was living there), I noticed the place was crawling with spiders and covered in spider webs. There was a layer of filth on the floor and garbage and other crap lying all around, and this was just the sitting room. In the kitchen there were cockroaches and ants to go with the spiders, and countless dead bugs stuck to the light, trash and messes galore, some mystery goo on the walls, counters, and cabinets, and hints of black mold here and there to add that special touch. I tell you, if I was starving and a piece of food touched any part of that kitchen, I would leave it, walk outside, and wait to die of starvation, it was that disgusting.
In my bedroom-to-be we had the typical spiders with accompanying webs, dust, some new type of dead bugs, and my personal favorite, lines of dried bat urine all over the walls and rather large piles of bat dropping that fell through the cracks in the ceiling. The shower was a collage of various browns, greens, yellows, reds, and black, and the drain was nicely clogged with plenty of human hairs. And the crown jewel, the toilet, was the most disgusting thing I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t tell what its original color was, it was hidden somewhere deep below the thriving bacteria colonies, the algae, the pee splatters, and the poop stains.
I was almost certain that I was in Hell, that I had fallen asleep on the drive up and the car got into some horrible accident, and here I was experiencing the absolute worst punishment that could be devised for me... EVER!!!
I finally calmed myself a bit. I figured I had seen the worst of it all and there couldn’t possibly be anymore surprises. I decided I would just get ready for bed, go to sleep, and hope that the following day would be better. I prepared my cot, which was right next to all the dead bugs and spiders. Then I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I placed my toothbrush under the faucet and turned on the water, brown muddy water engulfed my nice clean toothbrush. That was the straw that broke the camels back. I almost lost it completely, and was on the verge of either becoming catatonic or crying/laughing hysterically. I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t live in this hell hole for two years (or eternity if my hell theory was correct).
WILL THIS NIGHTMARE EVER END?!?!?!?!
The Gated Community
After many hours of driving, and an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally, we finally arrived at Frans Dimbare Youth Centre. It really felt like it was in the middle of nowhere. We had been driving a long distance on the paved road without seeing anything but small mud hut villages and many herds of cattle. Then we had turned off the main road and drove a distance on a dirt one with even less to see. And then at last, there it was, away from any city or town, hidden in a remote corner of Namibia, in the African bush, my home for the next 2 years.
I have to admit that I was a little surprised at first. On the drive I had seen so much poverty that I didn’t expect the youth centre to be so nice. To enter Frans Dimbare we had to pass through an entrance gate and sign in with the security guard who was sitting in his booth. It all seemed very official. The rest of the perimeter of the rather large property was maintained by a tall razor wire fence.
After driving further inward, we approached what looked like the main building. Since it was a weekend, the offices were closed, and we were having difficulty figuring out exactly where I was supposed to go. So I texted my future roommate, Chris, the other Peace Corps Volunteer who was already currently working there, and then he left to come and get us.
While we were waiting I looked around at the place I had been assigned by Peace Corps. It really was beautiful, with lots of trees and lush vegetation; everything was so green (which definitely changed after rainy season ended). There were some Baobab trees towering above like giants. It was right on the mighty Kavango River which was full of many different and beautiful rock formations.
Frans Dimbare really is a special place and an extraordinary youth centre. It has a well groomed camp site, with bathrooms fully equipped with hot and cold running water. It has classrooms for computers, tailoring, hospitality, auto shop, and metal working. It has an extremely nice health clinic, which I am in charge of (Qualifications? ...Ah, who needs ‘em). It has a small cultural museum and library in the admin building. And it has an orchard of mango trees, guava trees, banana trees, and I think lemon trees, in addition to a massive garden where a variety of crops are grown and sold by the local youth.
Then there is my house. It is a somewhat western style house, with two bedrooms, two half bathrooms (one has a toilet and sink, and the other has a bath, shower, and sink) with hot and cold running water, a fully equipped kitchen (that includes a microwave), a large sitting room, a small courtyard with a small plot of land for gardening, and lastly, a patio with a hammock about 15 ft from the river.
This was definitely a place I could get used to. I was really looking forward to vacationing, uh, I mean working there for the next two years of my life. So when Chris arrived, I said goodbye to my driver and the PCT I was traveling with, Paul, and we began walking towards the house on the river, where I would be staying the first night of many in this gated community known as Frans Dimbare. Everything seemed so perfect…
I have to admit that I was a little surprised at first. On the drive I had seen so much poverty that I didn’t expect the youth centre to be so nice. To enter Frans Dimbare we had to pass through an entrance gate and sign in with the security guard who was sitting in his booth. It all seemed very official. The rest of the perimeter of the rather large property was maintained by a tall razor wire fence.
After driving further inward, we approached what looked like the main building. Since it was a weekend, the offices were closed, and we were having difficulty figuring out exactly where I was supposed to go. So I texted my future roommate, Chris, the other Peace Corps Volunteer who was already currently working there, and then he left to come and get us.
While we were waiting I looked around at the place I had been assigned by Peace Corps. It really was beautiful, with lots of trees and lush vegetation; everything was so green (which definitely changed after rainy season ended). There were some Baobab trees towering above like giants. It was right on the mighty Kavango River which was full of many different and beautiful rock formations.
Frans Dimbare really is a special place and an extraordinary youth centre. It has a well groomed camp site, with bathrooms fully equipped with hot and cold running water. It has classrooms for computers, tailoring, hospitality, auto shop, and metal working. It has an extremely nice health clinic, which I am in charge of (Qualifications? ...Ah, who needs ‘em). It has a small cultural museum and library in the admin building. And it has an orchard of mango trees, guava trees, banana trees, and I think lemon trees, in addition to a massive garden where a variety of crops are grown and sold by the local youth.
Then there is my house. It is a somewhat western style house, with two bedrooms, two half bathrooms (one has a toilet and sink, and the other has a bath, shower, and sink) with hot and cold running water, a fully equipped kitchen (that includes a microwave), a large sitting room, a small courtyard with a small plot of land for gardening, and lastly, a patio with a hammock about 15 ft from the river.
This was definitely a place I could get used to. I was really looking forward to vacationing, uh, I mean working there for the next two years of my life. So when Chris arrived, I said goodbye to my driver and the PCT I was traveling with, Paul, and we began walking towards the house on the river, where I would be staying the first night of many in this gated community known as Frans Dimbare. Everything seemed so perfect…
A Desert of a Different Kind
When I entered the Kavango, I had entered a desert of a different kind. A desert where resources are scarce, not water, where the landscape of opportunities is barren just like empty dunes, where the lack of a good education system hinders people’s efforts for advancement just as the sand absorbs footsteps, making it difficult to walk, where the venomous creatures to be vigilant for aren’t snakes and scorpions, they are businessmen or corrupt individuals looking to take advantage of and prey on the people, where the apathy and lack of care from the country and the world community at large burn and blister the souls of the people, depleting them of the water of hope as their dry spirits cry out for thirst that could easily be quenched… and a desert where the mirage, the true illusion, is that people really do care and are doing everything they can to help.
It was in this desert that I first lost hope. Upon seeing the conditions of the people, what difficult lives they lead, how the need was so great, my heart just broke. I sat there in the car, looking out the window with tears in my eyes as we passed by countless villages of people living in poverty. It was overwhelming. So many emotions and thoughts raced through me, until I had nothing left. I felt numb, empty, hopeless. I couldn’t imagine that after all of our time on this planet, we humans still had so many problems, and they just seem to be compounding and growing with each passing year.
At one point, I even recall wanting to die. All I want to do in this life is help others. I want to leave the world knowing that it is better off for having me in it, and that it is in better condition than when I came into it. But that day, I felt completely helpless. The problem just seemed far too great, and I felt far too small. What could one person possibly do? And what was the point of things if I couldn’t truly help people? It was in that moment of despair that I had given up. I had given up on the world with all of its problems. I had wanted it all to end, to leave behind the misery, the pain, the suffering, all of it.
However, just as there was darkness, there was light. Other emotions, other thoughts, started to pervade me. Things started to come together. I started to realize that I was here for a reason. I could feel a sense of belonging, that this was where I was meant to be. I could see some of the events leading to me being here. I had talked to two individuals, one here in the country and one working for Peace Corps back in the States, and both times that I followed my instincts and talked to them, both times my placement was changed. These events, along with many others had been leading up to this, I could feel it. And it was this feeling of purpose that renewed my sense of hope and my resolve to do the best I could, whether that made any difference or none at all.
So I embrace this desert of a different kind, this desert where I lost hope, this desert where I found it again, and this desert where I have been brought for a reason. I accept that I am but one person and that I might accomplish little if anything. I understand that the need is great beyond measure and there will be many challenges to come. I am aware that I will see suffering, experience loss, and witness the cruelty of poverty. Yet regardless, I am thankful that I am able to be here, and that I have an opportunity to try to make a difference in the world. For that, for the mere possibility of a brighter future…I am eternally grateful.
It was in this desert that I first lost hope. Upon seeing the conditions of the people, what difficult lives they lead, how the need was so great, my heart just broke. I sat there in the car, looking out the window with tears in my eyes as we passed by countless villages of people living in poverty. It was overwhelming. So many emotions and thoughts raced through me, until I had nothing left. I felt numb, empty, hopeless. I couldn’t imagine that after all of our time on this planet, we humans still had so many problems, and they just seem to be compounding and growing with each passing year.
At one point, I even recall wanting to die. All I want to do in this life is help others. I want to leave the world knowing that it is better off for having me in it, and that it is in better condition than when I came into it. But that day, I felt completely helpless. The problem just seemed far too great, and I felt far too small. What could one person possibly do? And what was the point of things if I couldn’t truly help people? It was in that moment of despair that I had given up. I had given up on the world with all of its problems. I had wanted it all to end, to leave behind the misery, the pain, the suffering, all of it.
However, just as there was darkness, there was light. Other emotions, other thoughts, started to pervade me. Things started to come together. I started to realize that I was here for a reason. I could feel a sense of belonging, that this was where I was meant to be. I could see some of the events leading to me being here. I had talked to two individuals, one here in the country and one working for Peace Corps back in the States, and both times that I followed my instincts and talked to them, both times my placement was changed. These events, along with many others had been leading up to this, I could feel it. And it was this feeling of purpose that renewed my sense of hope and my resolve to do the best I could, whether that made any difference or none at all.
So I embrace this desert of a different kind, this desert where I lost hope, this desert where I found it again, and this desert where I have been brought for a reason. I accept that I am but one person and that I might accomplish little if anything. I understand that the need is great beyond measure and there will be many challenges to come. I am aware that I will see suffering, experience loss, and witness the cruelty of poverty. Yet regardless, I am thankful that I am able to be here, and that I have an opportunity to try to make a difference in the world. For that, for the mere possibility of a brighter future…I am eternally grateful.
The Forgotten Places
On the 8th of March 2009, after only being in the country a little over two weeks, we trainees were going on a week long visit to our site placements. This visit, in the middle of training was to familiarize ourselves with what would be our homes for the next 2 years, to put into practice some of our new language and cross-cultural skills that we gained from training, and to make sure the site (and Peace Corps in general) was a good match on both sides.
The day before, almost everyone’s supervisors had arrived to meet their new volunteer, and to escort them up to their site the following day. My organization was one of the few that did not send anyone to our training. I was a little disappointed at first, but was told that it was due to transportation problems and that other travel arrangements were already made to get me to my site. So I went home for the night, packed what I had deemed to be a good travel amount of luggage (with a curbside travel service maybe), and went to bed early.
The following day I woke up early, my host father drove me down to the training centre to meet my ride, gave me a hug goodbye and then I was off. We drove through a lot of beautiful countryside, with some mountains, rock formations, lots of green vegetation, warthogs, and GIGANTIC ant hills, many that were even taller than me. We drove through a few very similar towns named Otjiwarongo, Otavi, and Grootfontein, all of which were sites for volunteers from our group. As we continued our journey however, I was not prepared for what lie ahead.
Entering the Kavango region was probably one of, if not the most, shocking events of the Peace Corps experience thus far. Us volunteers had only seen such a limited portion of Namibia staying in the small developed town of Okahandja, a town I previously considered to be 3rd world. My only experience with developing countries thus far in life has been with Mexico and Venezuela. But I had not seen 3rd world until I entered the Kavango. Our transport had just stopped in Grootfontein not too long before. That town was clean, developed, and looked like a really nice place to live.
About an hour outside of Grootfontein is where things changed drastically, at a place known as the red line. It is at this red line where land boundaries melt away and the land becomes communal, where the government steps aside and takes backseat to the tribal chiefs and councils, and… it’s where the majority of the poverty is. There are even gates, that are very much like border crossing stations (they are actually veterinary checkpoints), that you have to pass through to enter the regions above the red line.
As we entered the Kavango region through the Mururani Gate, the change was instantly noticeable. The concrete houses I had previously associated with 3rd world were replaced with mud huts with thatched grass roofs. Herds of cattle and goats roamed freely into the roads and around the villages. The number of cars I saw along the way, either moving or parked, decreased dramatically, and I saw donkey carts for the first time. There were no more gas stations or shops (at least for a while). All signs of a developing country were gone, and at that moment, for me, that part of Namibia changed from being 3rd world, to being a piece, a place, forgotten and left behind in the country’s, the whole world's race to develop.
Just two days before, I had been in the capital city buying my cell phone. There I saw women carrying bulging shopping bags loaded with expensive purchases, But in Kavango, I was seeing women carrying extremely heavy 20 Litre water cans on top of their head for long distances, as they fetched water for their families from the river or a nearby bore hole. In Windhoek, I saw people sitting down at nice restaurants, ordering off of menus with huge selections, eating delicious food prepared on kitchen equipment by kitchen staff, and served to them by paid workers. Above the red line, I have seen women cooking a very limited variety of inexpensive and usually self-produced foods over an open fire to feed their hungry families. In the south I saw many stores with shoes. In the north I saw many people without shoes. In Maerua Mall, I saw many young children running around playfully, buying sweets, food, and ice cream, I saw them going to the movies, buying new clothes, toys, or games. In the forgotten part of Namibia, I saw young children herding their family’s cattle during the heat of the day, peddling tango (phone credit), food, and other items in the streets to support their families, playing with toys made from trash, and I have even seen them begging for bread. And where I saw the rich gathered, I saw mostly white people. Where I have seen poverty in this country, I have only seen black people.
I have seen both sides of the extremes, in Namibia, and in other parts of the world. What I always have a difficult time understanding is not the degree of poverty or the conditions in which people live, but rather gap, the disparity between the two extremes. I personally believe that the gap doesn’t have to exist, that all human beings can live happy and comfortable lives, and furthermore that we ALL DESERVE to live such lives. But as long as we as a society continue to want disparity, poverty, imbalance, and inequality, we will continue to have it. We will continue to have our excessively wealthy, our desolately impoverished, and all of the spaces in between… And we will continue to have the 3rd world with all of its forgotten places and people.
The day before, almost everyone’s supervisors had arrived to meet their new volunteer, and to escort them up to their site the following day. My organization was one of the few that did not send anyone to our training. I was a little disappointed at first, but was told that it was due to transportation problems and that other travel arrangements were already made to get me to my site. So I went home for the night, packed what I had deemed to be a good travel amount of luggage (with a curbside travel service maybe), and went to bed early.
The following day I woke up early, my host father drove me down to the training centre to meet my ride, gave me a hug goodbye and then I was off. We drove through a lot of beautiful countryside, with some mountains, rock formations, lots of green vegetation, warthogs, and GIGANTIC ant hills, many that were even taller than me. We drove through a few very similar towns named Otjiwarongo, Otavi, and Grootfontein, all of which were sites for volunteers from our group. As we continued our journey however, I was not prepared for what lie ahead.
Entering the Kavango region was probably one of, if not the most, shocking events of the Peace Corps experience thus far. Us volunteers had only seen such a limited portion of Namibia staying in the small developed town of Okahandja, a town I previously considered to be 3rd world. My only experience with developing countries thus far in life has been with Mexico and Venezuela. But I had not seen 3rd world until I entered the Kavango. Our transport had just stopped in Grootfontein not too long before. That town was clean, developed, and looked like a really nice place to live.
About an hour outside of Grootfontein is where things changed drastically, at a place known as the red line. It is at this red line where land boundaries melt away and the land becomes communal, where the government steps aside and takes backseat to the tribal chiefs and councils, and… it’s where the majority of the poverty is. There are even gates, that are very much like border crossing stations (they are actually veterinary checkpoints), that you have to pass through to enter the regions above the red line.
As we entered the Kavango region through the Mururani Gate, the change was instantly noticeable. The concrete houses I had previously associated with 3rd world were replaced with mud huts with thatched grass roofs. Herds of cattle and goats roamed freely into the roads and around the villages. The number of cars I saw along the way, either moving or parked, decreased dramatically, and I saw donkey carts for the first time. There were no more gas stations or shops (at least for a while). All signs of a developing country were gone, and at that moment, for me, that part of Namibia changed from being 3rd world, to being a piece, a place, forgotten and left behind in the country’s, the whole world's race to develop.
Just two days before, I had been in the capital city buying my cell phone. There I saw women carrying bulging shopping bags loaded with expensive purchases, But in Kavango, I was seeing women carrying extremely heavy 20 Litre water cans on top of their head for long distances, as they fetched water for their families from the river or a nearby bore hole. In Windhoek, I saw people sitting down at nice restaurants, ordering off of menus with huge selections, eating delicious food prepared on kitchen equipment by kitchen staff, and served to them by paid workers. Above the red line, I have seen women cooking a very limited variety of inexpensive and usually self-produced foods over an open fire to feed their hungry families. In the south I saw many stores with shoes. In the north I saw many people without shoes. In Maerua Mall, I saw many young children running around playfully, buying sweets, food, and ice cream, I saw them going to the movies, buying new clothes, toys, or games. In the forgotten part of Namibia, I saw young children herding their family’s cattle during the heat of the day, peddling tango (phone credit), food, and other items in the streets to support their families, playing with toys made from trash, and I have even seen them begging for bread. And where I saw the rich gathered, I saw mostly white people. Where I have seen poverty in this country, I have only seen black people.
I have seen both sides of the extremes, in Namibia, and in other parts of the world. What I always have a difficult time understanding is not the degree of poverty or the conditions in which people live, but rather gap, the disparity between the two extremes. I personally believe that the gap doesn’t have to exist, that all human beings can live happy and comfortable lives, and furthermore that we ALL DESERVE to live such lives. But as long as we as a society continue to want disparity, poverty, imbalance, and inequality, we will continue to have it. We will continue to have our excessively wealthy, our desolately impoverished, and all of the spaces in between… And we will continue to have the 3rd world with all of its forgotten places and people.
June 7, 2009
The Technological Hunger
CELL-Le-Luia CELL-Le Luia Celleluia
I can not even begin to describe to you how excited our group was on cell phone day. For the week leading up to the 6th of March, we had all been counting down the days until we would travel to the capital, Windhoek, and once again become a part of society. We would be able to receive and make calls, text each other (and some lucky US loved ones with AT&T and T-Mobile), and use the internet. Yes, you heard that last part correctly...we would be able to access the internet from our phones. And all of this for fairly reasonable prices too.
The cell phone system is quite different in Namibia than it is in the States. First, it is mostly a prepay system. You initially start with about 20 Namibian dollars which is about 2 American dollars, and then you can always add additional money later at any time. Now N$20 doesn’t seem like a lot, but if you work the system right, it can go very far. Thankfully, the volunteers that have come before shared all of their tips and tricks with us, so we didn’t have to figure it out on our own. Basically, we get about a hundred texts a day for N$0.40, all incoming texts and calls are free, and internet is dirt cheap (like N$0.50 a day on average). We just sync our phones and computers through Bluetooth, and then we have full access to the World Wide Web.
You don’t know what having internet access meant to our group. It meant no more racing each other to the internet café in Okahandja during our brief lunch time, and fighting over who gets online. It meant the freedom to check email whenever we wanted. It meant “Hello world, we’re back in the 21st century with the rest of you”.
We had been without internet for what seemed like such a long period that we were starving for it. When we arrived in Windhoek, we entered the town like a pack of hungry lions. At first we were cautious, observing our surroundings. Then we proceeded to the various cell phone shops. They were our watering holes, where the cellular game gathered. We were patient, and like all good predators we observed the various cell phone models. We took mental note of which ones were low priced, thus making them easier to catch, and we also took especially fond notice to the meat of the phones, because like I said, we were especially hungry for the fat, the internet feature.
After spending several hours roaming the land of Windhoek for the most fertile watering hole, and carefully planning our attack…it was feeding time. It was a frenzy as we raced to the store Game, desperately hoping that the other blood-thirsty volunteers would not finish off the coveted prey, the Nokia 2630, before we arrived. As we rushed the store, a crowd of spectators watched as we first surrounded the phones, picked them off one by one from the herd, tore at the packages, their skin, with tooth and claw, and then finally in satisfying a deep and primal nature, devoured them completely until we had our fill, or until their blood, our talk-time was depleted.
The beast, the American in us, got exactly what it wanted that day. We are once again connected to the rest world. The game are plentiful, the famine is over, and our hunger is quelled…well…at least for now…
I can not even begin to describe to you how excited our group was on cell phone day. For the week leading up to the 6th of March, we had all been counting down the days until we would travel to the capital, Windhoek, and once again become a part of society. We would be able to receive and make calls, text each other (and some lucky US loved ones with AT&T and T-Mobile), and use the internet. Yes, you heard that last part correctly...we would be able to access the internet from our phones. And all of this for fairly reasonable prices too.
The cell phone system is quite different in Namibia than it is in the States. First, it is mostly a prepay system. You initially start with about 20 Namibian dollars which is about 2 American dollars, and then you can always add additional money later at any time. Now N$20 doesn’t seem like a lot, but if you work the system right, it can go very far. Thankfully, the volunteers that have come before shared all of their tips and tricks with us, so we didn’t have to figure it out on our own. Basically, we get about a hundred texts a day for N$0.40, all incoming texts and calls are free, and internet is dirt cheap (like N$0.50 a day on average). We just sync our phones and computers through Bluetooth, and then we have full access to the World Wide Web.
You don’t know what having internet access meant to our group. It meant no more racing each other to the internet café in Okahandja during our brief lunch time, and fighting over who gets online. It meant the freedom to check email whenever we wanted. It meant “Hello world, we’re back in the 21st century with the rest of you”.
We had been without internet for what seemed like such a long period that we were starving for it. When we arrived in Windhoek, we entered the town like a pack of hungry lions. At first we were cautious, observing our surroundings. Then we proceeded to the various cell phone shops. They were our watering holes, where the cellular game gathered. We were patient, and like all good predators we observed the various cell phone models. We took mental note of which ones were low priced, thus making them easier to catch, and we also took especially fond notice to the meat of the phones, because like I said, we were especially hungry for the fat, the internet feature.
After spending several hours roaming the land of Windhoek for the most fertile watering hole, and carefully planning our attack…it was feeding time. It was a frenzy as we raced to the store Game, desperately hoping that the other blood-thirsty volunteers would not finish off the coveted prey, the Nokia 2630, before we arrived. As we rushed the store, a crowd of spectators watched as we first surrounded the phones, picked them off one by one from the herd, tore at the packages, their skin, with tooth and claw, and then finally in satisfying a deep and primal nature, devoured them completely until we had our fill, or until their blood, our talk-time was depleted.
The beast, the American in us, got exactly what it wanted that day. We are once again connected to the rest world. The game are plentiful, the famine is over, and our hunger is quelled…well…at least for now…
Frans Dimbare
So ever since finding out the language I would be learning, I had a general idea of the area I would be going to, mostly because Thimbukushu isn’t a language spoken in many parts of the country (or world). In fact, if you were to look at a map of Namibia, you would see that it’s only really spoken in the Mukwe constituency of the Kavango Region, which in terms of land area is about one percent of the country.
Other languages on the other hand, such as Afrikaans, KhoeKhoegowab, or Otjiherero had no idea where they would be placed since those languages are spoken in various random regions throughout Namibia. So on 3/5/2009 when we all found out our official site placements, those language groups were a little more surprised than I was.
In the parking lot of the training center, Peace Corps staff had made a huge map of Namibia with sand and rocks. They even had some of the major cities and site names on it to help give us an idea of where we were actually going, because we had never been outside of Okanhandja or Windhoek at that point. We stood around the border of the model country and one by one our sites were announced.
Lejeune, the Assistant Peace Corps Director, would announce the name of the volunteer and their site placement, the Peace Corps Trainee would walk onto the country, collect their site information from her while the other PCTs cheered and applauded, and then the volunteer would walk to where their site was on the map.
When my name was announced, I found out that I would be going to Frans Dimbare. I took my site information from Lejeune, shook her hand, and tried to find where my placement was on the map. It actually wasn’t on the map that Peace Corps made, nor will you find it on any map that I am aware of. That’s because Frans Dimbare is a youth centre, not a village, and it’s actually in a pretty remote and sparsely populated area of Namibia. The closest “town” is Divundu, and it is so small that depending on the detail of the map, you usually won’t find included.
I waited at the Divundu labeled stone while the other PCVs were being called. I have to admit that I wasn’t paying much attention, but when everyone’s site had been called I noticed that we were placed all over the country. I had mixed feelings about that. I was sad because we were all so far away from each other, but on the other hand it’s great if we ever get around to traveling since almost all of the major places are covered.
When the site placement ceremony was finished, we socialized for a bit, congratulating each other, talking about our sites and figuring out who was closest to us. Then the day was over and it was time to go back to our homes for the night. Some questions had been answered that day, and we had finally learned where we would be spending the next two years of our lives… but new questions arose. All we had were names and information, but until we actually saw our sites with our own eyes, there would remain an uncertainty, the mystery of what’s to come …
Other languages on the other hand, such as Afrikaans, KhoeKhoegowab, or Otjiherero had no idea where they would be placed since those languages are spoken in various random regions throughout Namibia. So on 3/5/2009 when we all found out our official site placements, those language groups were a little more surprised than I was.
In the parking lot of the training center, Peace Corps staff had made a huge map of Namibia with sand and rocks. They even had some of the major cities and site names on it to help give us an idea of where we were actually going, because we had never been outside of Okanhandja or Windhoek at that point. We stood around the border of the model country and one by one our sites were announced.
Lejeune, the Assistant Peace Corps Director, would announce the name of the volunteer and their site placement, the Peace Corps Trainee would walk onto the country, collect their site information from her while the other PCTs cheered and applauded, and then the volunteer would walk to where their site was on the map.
When my name was announced, I found out that I would be going to Frans Dimbare. I took my site information from Lejeune, shook her hand, and tried to find where my placement was on the map. It actually wasn’t on the map that Peace Corps made, nor will you find it on any map that I am aware of. That’s because Frans Dimbare is a youth centre, not a village, and it’s actually in a pretty remote and sparsely populated area of Namibia. The closest “town” is Divundu, and it is so small that depending on the detail of the map, you usually won’t find included.
I waited at the Divundu labeled stone while the other PCVs were being called. I have to admit that I wasn’t paying much attention, but when everyone’s site had been called I noticed that we were placed all over the country. I had mixed feelings about that. I was sad because we were all so far away from each other, but on the other hand it’s great if we ever get around to traveling since almost all of the major places are covered.
When the site placement ceremony was finished, we socialized for a bit, congratulating each other, talking about our sites and figuring out who was closest to us. Then the day was over and it was time to go back to our homes for the night. Some questions had been answered that day, and we had finally learned where we would be spending the next two years of our lives… but new questions arose. All we had were names and information, but until we actually saw our sites with our own eyes, there would remain an uncertainty, the mystery of what’s to come …
Currents of the Heart
On March 3rd, 2009 during the regular training day routine, as other people were falling asleep (Amelia) during the unmemorable session, I was staring around the room lost in random thought. At some point my gaze passed by the open window (AKA Amelia’s headrest) and I noticed that there were tons of white things floating in the air. I first thought it was something like the cottonwood tree (I think that’s the one?), and there were all sorts of light white fuzzy seeds floating across the street with the gentle breeze. But as I looked harder I noticed the “things” weren’t floating, they were flying. Then a few of the “things” flew by the window and I realized I was looking at the migration of hundreds of thousands, or maybe millions, of white butterflies.
I wanted to run outside and blow off the lame training class, but I knew Peace Corps wouldn’t approve me skipping training to go watch butterflies. The training, which I have already forgotten, was far too “important” to be missed; however, this migration which has no importance to any organization, including Peace Corps, is what has remained engrained in my memory.
It was a beautiful sight, even from the distant window view. And for the days following there were still tons of butterflies flying around the area, flying right in front of your face as you walk. Every day since then I swear that I have seen at the very least one butterfly each day, all sorts of different varieties and colors. It’s one of the many things I love about Namibia.
There was another migration of sorts on that day as well, Alison left to go back home to America. While she was waiting for over a year from the time she received an invitation from Peace Corps, to the time she departed to Namibia, she had met the man she felt was her soulmate. Initially, she thought her dream of doing Peace Corps was more important, but when she got over here, she realized how much she missed this man, Shane, and how much she wanted to share the volunteer experience with him.
Some people thought that she was making a poor decision, and giving up her dream for a guy she hadn’t known for that long. I didn’t see it that way at all. I believe she understood that sometimes things change, and the plans we make no longer serve to provide us our highest purpose in life. From what I know about Alison, I feel that she was following her heart, just as the butterfly flies with the wind. She had been planning for a long time to do Peace Corps, but the winds changed, a love entered her life, and instead of fighting against the wind, she surrendered to it. She opened her wings wide and allowed her heart to carry her off to a new and exciting land… the land of love.
If we allow ourselves to be lead by our hearts, the wind, it will carry us where we need to be. On the other hand, if we fight against it, we’ll struggle in life and then eventually come crashing down. That’s because we were never meant to go against our hearts. The decisions we make, our wings, were designed to catch the currents of the heart and effortlessly follow them to happiness. I truly believe that life is only difficult when we try to oppose the natural flow of these heart currents.
So spread your wings to their fullest, let go of the expectations of where you think you “should” go, let go of your attachments to commitments and plans and what is merely comfortable, let go of the fear of the unknown that holds you back from taking risks and leaves you only with regrets, and let the currents of the heart take you not to where you think you need to be, but rather where you were meant to be. Soar in the freedom of the heart, in the beauty of the wind, like the miraculous creation you are, like the butterflies on their liberated journey into the wonderful unknown.
I wanted to run outside and blow off the lame training class, but I knew Peace Corps wouldn’t approve me skipping training to go watch butterflies. The training, which I have already forgotten, was far too “important” to be missed; however, this migration which has no importance to any organization, including Peace Corps, is what has remained engrained in my memory.
It was a beautiful sight, even from the distant window view. And for the days following there were still tons of butterflies flying around the area, flying right in front of your face as you walk. Every day since then I swear that I have seen at the very least one butterfly each day, all sorts of different varieties and colors. It’s one of the many things I love about Namibia.
There was another migration of sorts on that day as well, Alison left to go back home to America. While she was waiting for over a year from the time she received an invitation from Peace Corps, to the time she departed to Namibia, she had met the man she felt was her soulmate. Initially, she thought her dream of doing Peace Corps was more important, but when she got over here, she realized how much she missed this man, Shane, and how much she wanted to share the volunteer experience with him.
Some people thought that she was making a poor decision, and giving up her dream for a guy she hadn’t known for that long. I didn’t see it that way at all. I believe she understood that sometimes things change, and the plans we make no longer serve to provide us our highest purpose in life. From what I know about Alison, I feel that she was following her heart, just as the butterfly flies with the wind. She had been planning for a long time to do Peace Corps, but the winds changed, a love entered her life, and instead of fighting against the wind, she surrendered to it. She opened her wings wide and allowed her heart to carry her off to a new and exciting land… the land of love.
If we allow ourselves to be lead by our hearts, the wind, it will carry us where we need to be. On the other hand, if we fight against it, we’ll struggle in life and then eventually come crashing down. That’s because we were never meant to go against our hearts. The decisions we make, our wings, were designed to catch the currents of the heart and effortlessly follow them to happiness. I truly believe that life is only difficult when we try to oppose the natural flow of these heart currents.
So spread your wings to their fullest, let go of the expectations of where you think you “should” go, let go of your attachments to commitments and plans and what is merely comfortable, let go of the fear of the unknown that holds you back from taking risks and leaves you only with regrets, and let the currents of the heart take you not to where you think you need to be, but rather where you were meant to be. Soar in the freedom of the heart, in the beauty of the wind, like the miraculous creation you are, like the butterflies on their liberated journey into the wonderful unknown.
Where Has All of the Hot Water Gone?
So I had come to assume that the Kupembona house had no hot water. The assumption was due to the fact that every night for weeks, when I went to take my bath, no matter how far I turned the hot water nozzle, all I would get was cold water. Wishful thinking was apparently not enough to warm it up. I began to feel that having a separate hot water nozzle was merely a cruel joke.
The typical bath compromised of me filling up the tub about an inch or two, kneeling down in the center and hunching over in a fetal-like position, and using a wash cloth and the splashing method to do the majority of the cleaning. It was really a sight to see as I would contort my body into all sorts of positions (some might have even been yoga postures) in an attempt to avoid prolonged contact with the cold water. Depending on the day and how exhausted I was, I would also consider using the hand sprayer. But I was typically too tired, so there were rarely any times when I would willingly spray the cold water all over my body. At the end of the few minutes it took to clean myself, I would usually be kneeling down in a puddle of murky brown water.
I finally started to accept and adjust to this new way of life until one fateful afternoon. I had decided to take my bath earlier than usual so I could go to bed at a decent time. It just so happens that I went into the bathroom right after Marina finished bathing. I could instantly tell that something was different. The room was practically a sauna. The temperature was many degrees higher than the rest of the house and probably most of Africa. I felt like I could hardly see through all of the steam and was practically choking on the air it was so heavy and humid. The mirrors were fogged and dripping with condensation. All of this and the window was open, which means a good amount of heat and moisture had even escaped.
After that night, everyday was a race to beat Marina to the bathroom (literally, we would get up from the dinner table and run to our rooms to get our things first). Although many a time was I defeated by my opponent, the clever little one started taking baths in the early afternoon, sometimes before I even came home from training. She would walk out of the bathroom with a huge smile on her face (and I swear, slightly short of breath as well from the minor heat exhaustion). I would stare right at her, knowing exactly what had just taken place in there, imagining gallon after gallon of the scarce hot water filling up the bathtub until there was none left. Then in my mind I could picture her playing around in it, splashing, swimming, spitting out water like those fish fountains. And in each little mental scenario she turns to me cackling and laughing away to mock me and my cold, muddy puddle.
You may have won this one little girl, so enjoy the water while you can…but know this, you will rue the day that you crossed me…
The typical bath compromised of me filling up the tub about an inch or two, kneeling down in the center and hunching over in a fetal-like position, and using a wash cloth and the splashing method to do the majority of the cleaning. It was really a sight to see as I would contort my body into all sorts of positions (some might have even been yoga postures) in an attempt to avoid prolonged contact with the cold water. Depending on the day and how exhausted I was, I would also consider using the hand sprayer. But I was typically too tired, so there were rarely any times when I would willingly spray the cold water all over my body. At the end of the few minutes it took to clean myself, I would usually be kneeling down in a puddle of murky brown water.
I finally started to accept and adjust to this new way of life until one fateful afternoon. I had decided to take my bath earlier than usual so I could go to bed at a decent time. It just so happens that I went into the bathroom right after Marina finished bathing. I could instantly tell that something was different. The room was practically a sauna. The temperature was many degrees higher than the rest of the house and probably most of Africa. I felt like I could hardly see through all of the steam and was practically choking on the air it was so heavy and humid. The mirrors were fogged and dripping with condensation. All of this and the window was open, which means a good amount of heat and moisture had even escaped.
After that night, everyday was a race to beat Marina to the bathroom (literally, we would get up from the dinner table and run to our rooms to get our things first). Although many a time was I defeated by my opponent, the clever little one started taking baths in the early afternoon, sometimes before I even came home from training. She would walk out of the bathroom with a huge smile on her face (and I swear, slightly short of breath as well from the minor heat exhaustion). I would stare right at her, knowing exactly what had just taken place in there, imagining gallon after gallon of the scarce hot water filling up the bathtub until there was none left. Then in my mind I could picture her playing around in it, splashing, swimming, spitting out water like those fish fountains. And in each little mental scenario she turns to me cackling and laughing away to mock me and my cold, muddy puddle.
You may have won this one little girl, so enjoy the water while you can…but know this, you will rue the day that you crossed me…
40 Days and 40 Nights
The desert, to me, is a place of purification, a place of retreat. Metaphorically, it’s where one goes to remove the distractions in their life, to regain focus, to center oneself and reconnect with his or her soul. A person leaves behind the things of the outside world to discover what lies within. Because, it’s when the physical world becomes barren, that the oasis of the spirit can begin to flourish.
Before all of this happened, back in the months before I even found out that I would be going to Namibia, I prayed that God would send me to the desert. I meant metaphorically, but the universe is not without a sense of humor and I was sent to a literal desert as well. I had reached a point in life where I felt I had learned a lot and grown so much in so many ways. I wanted to go to a place mentally where I could turn within and solidify at the core of my being, the person I choose to be.
I was reminded of this prayer on Sunday, March 1, 2009, when I was attending Mass with my host family at a Catholic Church in Okahandja (where I was the only white person). It actually happened to be an Ash Wednesday Mass (but on a Sunday), which adds to the whole desert theme overlaying my experience here in Namibia. Ash Wednesday, for those that aren’t familiar, marks the beginning of lent, a period of sacrifice, a time when we go to a metaphorical desert by giving something up, usually a bad habit, in remembrance of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.
It wasn’t really the sermon or the readings that reminded me of my long forgotten prayer, mostly because the Mass was spoken in five or so alternating languages, and I couldn’t follow along. It was the spirit of the church, the soul with which they prayed that reminded me. I sat there in a cramped, hot, simple cement building without air conditioning, and without fans even because the power was out. The church was a desert, but the congregation was an oasis. They sang with so much soul and passion and love for God. I have never in my life heard singing as incredible as what I have heard in that tiny Okahandja church. They don’t have much, but at the same time, they have everything. Their soul, their song, will endure forever.
It made me reflect on what’s missing in the churches in the states. Most of those churches have everything they could ever want or need. They have really beautiful buildings, pretty decorations, perfectly regulated temperatures, expensive sound equipment and musical instruments, and all sorts of other various experience “enhancing” resources, but they are sadly lacking soul, at least to the degree that I’ve experienced here in Africa. What happens when you strip down the American church, when you take away the bake sales, the fancy trimmings, the comforts, the equipment, etc? Does much substance remain?
Similarly, I think that the problem a lot of times with people in the states is that we start to rely upon or identify ourselves with outside factors. We identify ourselves with the way we look, with what others think of us and how we are viewed, with our “failures” and accomplishments, and sometimes with an image we want to be associated with. But take away the beauty products, the lotions, the gel, the makeup, the cologne, the designer clothes, the trendy sunglasses, the expensive jewelry, the job title, the degree(s), the work, the money, the material possessions, your good looks, your friends, your relationship with your significant other, your family even…and what endures? Who are you when you’re standing naked and alone in the middle of the desolate desert?
That’s what I’m here to find out. You take everything away and what’s left? … So far, my truth, what I shout from the center of the desert, mentally stripped of everything ever associated with me from this fleeting world, including my physical body. What I cry with an undiminished voice and an indestructible essence is, “ME!!!…I remain, I endure…the desert strengthens me, reminding me that I am spirit…and I endure”…
Before all of this happened, back in the months before I even found out that I would be going to Namibia, I prayed that God would send me to the desert. I meant metaphorically, but the universe is not without a sense of humor and I was sent to a literal desert as well. I had reached a point in life where I felt I had learned a lot and grown so much in so many ways. I wanted to go to a place mentally where I could turn within and solidify at the core of my being, the person I choose to be.
I was reminded of this prayer on Sunday, March 1, 2009, when I was attending Mass with my host family at a Catholic Church in Okahandja (where I was the only white person). It actually happened to be an Ash Wednesday Mass (but on a Sunday), which adds to the whole desert theme overlaying my experience here in Namibia. Ash Wednesday, for those that aren’t familiar, marks the beginning of lent, a period of sacrifice, a time when we go to a metaphorical desert by giving something up, usually a bad habit, in remembrance of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.
It wasn’t really the sermon or the readings that reminded me of my long forgotten prayer, mostly because the Mass was spoken in five or so alternating languages, and I couldn’t follow along. It was the spirit of the church, the soul with which they prayed that reminded me. I sat there in a cramped, hot, simple cement building without air conditioning, and without fans even because the power was out. The church was a desert, but the congregation was an oasis. They sang with so much soul and passion and love for God. I have never in my life heard singing as incredible as what I have heard in that tiny Okahandja church. They don’t have much, but at the same time, they have everything. Their soul, their song, will endure forever.
It made me reflect on what’s missing in the churches in the states. Most of those churches have everything they could ever want or need. They have really beautiful buildings, pretty decorations, perfectly regulated temperatures, expensive sound equipment and musical instruments, and all sorts of other various experience “enhancing” resources, but they are sadly lacking soul, at least to the degree that I’ve experienced here in Africa. What happens when you strip down the American church, when you take away the bake sales, the fancy trimmings, the comforts, the equipment, etc? Does much substance remain?
Similarly, I think that the problem a lot of times with people in the states is that we start to rely upon or identify ourselves with outside factors. We identify ourselves with the way we look, with what others think of us and how we are viewed, with our “failures” and accomplishments, and sometimes with an image we want to be associated with. But take away the beauty products, the lotions, the gel, the makeup, the cologne, the designer clothes, the trendy sunglasses, the expensive jewelry, the job title, the degree(s), the work, the money, the material possessions, your good looks, your friends, your relationship with your significant other, your family even…and what endures? Who are you when you’re standing naked and alone in the middle of the desolate desert?
That’s what I’m here to find out. You take everything away and what’s left? … So far, my truth, what I shout from the center of the desert, mentally stripped of everything ever associated with me from this fleeting world, including my physical body. What I cry with an undiminished voice and an indestructible essence is, “ME!!!…I remain, I endure…the desert strengthens me, reminding me that I am spirit…and I endure”…
O Brother Where Art Thou
“Are you my brother? …You look like my brother…Yes, you are my brother”
Those were some of the words that Marina, my host sister, said as she hugged me when I returned home in the afternoon following the cultural food event. They were small words, uttered by a small child, but they meant a lot to me. I had felt the same way (leave it to a child to say out loud what we adults sometimes fear to), that these people were like family to me. No genetics or bloodline (maybe thousands of years ago, since we are all connected) bound us to each other. They didn’t have to take me in, to look out for me, to care for me, and I in return didn’t have to stay with them, to spend time with them, or take interest in their lives. But the beautiful thing is that even though we didn’t have to, we chose to. We chose to reach beyond blood, beyond culture, beyond race, beyond all the unknowns…to unity, humanity, and to love, the one true known.
They had seen something special in me, and I in them. If I were to leave and come home this very day I would feel proud of the work I did here in Namibia. I may not have anything to put down on a report, nothing that will look good on paper to headquarters in Washington D.C., nothing really tangible or measurable, and I’m sure nothing that will impress too many people. But I have a special relationship with at least five Namibians, and that’s something incredibly magnificent. Wherever I go in life I know that there is a little girl, my sister, and my wonderful newly acquired family that know there are people just like them in American that care about them. And I know that Namibians, like all the other inhabitants of this planet, are good, wonderful people, waiting for us to rediscover just how wonderful they truly are.
Together, me and the Kupembonas have built a bridge, a link of humanity. They are being built all across the world as we speak, by people willing to give of their time and resources to others, to show them that they aren’t alone, that there are people who care about them. When they do this, the illusion of separation, of differences, of inequality, the illusion that allows us to hate and kill one another instantly dissolves and we remember that we are one, that we are all the same, that we are members of one big family… and that we are loved. When enough bridges are built, when enough people once again remember the great truth that we are all brothers and sisters, then we can finally learn to live together in harmony, war and conflict can end, and World Peace can at long last begin.
This is the work that I am part of, the work we can all be a part of. All we have to do is go back to the innocence of our childhood, the time before we learned how to hate, before we learned to close off our emotions, before we started fearing what people thought, before we began to believe we were better than others, the time when the world hadn’t yet clouded our souls. We have to look at our neighbors, the ones in house next door, the ones in the bordering country, in the shelter down the street, in the mud hut thousands of miles away…and we have to ask ourselves, “Are you my brother?” Then with the freedom and unbound spirit of a child, allow ourselves to believe, to remember, to know that, “Yes, you are my brother.”
Those were some of the words that Marina, my host sister, said as she hugged me when I returned home in the afternoon following the cultural food event. They were small words, uttered by a small child, but they meant a lot to me. I had felt the same way (leave it to a child to say out loud what we adults sometimes fear to), that these people were like family to me. No genetics or bloodline (maybe thousands of years ago, since we are all connected) bound us to each other. They didn’t have to take me in, to look out for me, to care for me, and I in return didn’t have to stay with them, to spend time with them, or take interest in their lives. But the beautiful thing is that even though we didn’t have to, we chose to. We chose to reach beyond blood, beyond culture, beyond race, beyond all the unknowns…to unity, humanity, and to love, the one true known.
They had seen something special in me, and I in them. If I were to leave and come home this very day I would feel proud of the work I did here in Namibia. I may not have anything to put down on a report, nothing that will look good on paper to headquarters in Washington D.C., nothing really tangible or measurable, and I’m sure nothing that will impress too many people. But I have a special relationship with at least five Namibians, and that’s something incredibly magnificent. Wherever I go in life I know that there is a little girl, my sister, and my wonderful newly acquired family that know there are people just like them in American that care about them. And I know that Namibians, like all the other inhabitants of this planet, are good, wonderful people, waiting for us to rediscover just how wonderful they truly are.
Together, me and the Kupembonas have built a bridge, a link of humanity. They are being built all across the world as we speak, by people willing to give of their time and resources to others, to show them that they aren’t alone, that there are people who care about them. When they do this, the illusion of separation, of differences, of inequality, the illusion that allows us to hate and kill one another instantly dissolves and we remember that we are one, that we are all the same, that we are members of one big family… and that we are loved. When enough bridges are built, when enough people once again remember the great truth that we are all brothers and sisters, then we can finally learn to live together in harmony, war and conflict can end, and World Peace can at long last begin.
This is the work that I am part of, the work we can all be a part of. All we have to do is go back to the innocence of our childhood, the time before we learned how to hate, before we learned to close off our emotions, before we started fearing what people thought, before we began to believe we were better than others, the time when the world hadn’t yet clouded our souls. We have to look at our neighbors, the ones in house next door, the ones in the bordering country, in the shelter down the street, in the mud hut thousands of miles away…and we have to ask ourselves, “Are you my brother?” Then with the freedom and unbound spirit of a child, allow ourselves to believe, to remember, to know that, “Yes, you are my brother.”
May 5, 2009
All Shook Up
The morning of the cultural food day, only one week into training, was also the day we received terrible news. We found out that one of the members of Group 29, Nick, was assaulted.
The story went that Nick was on his way to Rachel’s house to walk her to the kombi pickup point. They both stayed in the location (a product of apartheid, where the black people were forced to live; now where the poor people live), and it happened to be a pay weekend, which means that people had money for alcohol. So chances are, you had some people out at the shebeens (the bars) all night long, and when they were going home, they passed Nick. In their drunken state they decided to try to take his possessions. So a group of about three guys attacked him, one hit him in the face, while the others tried to grab his bag and/or restrain him. Luckily he got away with his belongings and a barely noticeable bruise.
The incident caused me to flash back to the safety and security presentation that we had earlier that week and a PCT’s blog I read with three entries in total, two dealing with robbery and the third about leaving to go home, and I have to admit that I even considered going home… AGAIN. I was terrified walking home for several days after. Even though it didn’t happen to me, the attack still really shook me up, and brought me to a pessimistic, negative place where everyone was a criminal and out to hurt me.
That is absolutely no way to live though, and thankfully I returned to seeing the world, Namibia, Okahandja, through the eyes of brotherhood and friendship. During our two month stay in Okahandja there was only the one criminal incident that happened to our group, yet there were COUNTLESS friendly faces, greetings, smiles, and good people. If I would have let one event, one small group’s twisted actions, cloud my perspective or alter my path or close me off to others, I would have missed out on a lot of great things. We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we allow events to affect us and how we view the world. The biggest crime would have been to allow those men to rob me of the priceless experiences that I have had, to allow them to affect who I am at the core. Nick’s belongings could easily be replaced, but a part of me could not.
So I make a choice…I choose to live in a reality where criminals are powerless to truly hurt me, they can take away my possessions, even hurt my body, but I won’t allow them to damage my soul, the essence of who I am. I choose to live in a remarkably wonderful world instead of a horrible one, a world where people are goodhearted and care about each other. I choose to live among brothers and sisters instead of strangers and enemies, where people help one another. I choose to only experience good, and therefore every experience can be used as an opportunity for learning and growth (and how can that ever be bad). And I choose to smile at the world…and pretty much all of the time I find it smiling right back at me.
The story went that Nick was on his way to Rachel’s house to walk her to the kombi pickup point. They both stayed in the location (a product of apartheid, where the black people were forced to live; now where the poor people live), and it happened to be a pay weekend, which means that people had money for alcohol. So chances are, you had some people out at the shebeens (the bars) all night long, and when they were going home, they passed Nick. In their drunken state they decided to try to take his possessions. So a group of about three guys attacked him, one hit him in the face, while the others tried to grab his bag and/or restrain him. Luckily he got away with his belongings and a barely noticeable bruise.
The incident caused me to flash back to the safety and security presentation that we had earlier that week and a PCT’s blog I read with three entries in total, two dealing with robbery and the third about leaving to go home, and I have to admit that I even considered going home… AGAIN. I was terrified walking home for several days after. Even though it didn’t happen to me, the attack still really shook me up, and brought me to a pessimistic, negative place where everyone was a criminal and out to hurt me.
That is absolutely no way to live though, and thankfully I returned to seeing the world, Namibia, Okahandja, through the eyes of brotherhood and friendship. During our two month stay in Okahandja there was only the one criminal incident that happened to our group, yet there were COUNTLESS friendly faces, greetings, smiles, and good people. If I would have let one event, one small group’s twisted actions, cloud my perspective or alter my path or close me off to others, I would have missed out on a lot of great things. We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we allow events to affect us and how we view the world. The biggest crime would have been to allow those men to rob me of the priceless experiences that I have had, to allow them to affect who I am at the core. Nick’s belongings could easily be replaced, but a part of me could not.
So I make a choice…I choose to live in a reality where criminals are powerless to truly hurt me, they can take away my possessions, even hurt my body, but I won’t allow them to damage my soul, the essence of who I am. I choose to live in a remarkably wonderful world instead of a horrible one, a world where people are goodhearted and care about each other. I choose to live among brothers and sisters instead of strangers and enemies, where people help one another. I choose to only experience good, and therefore every experience can be used as an opportunity for learning and growth (and how can that ever be bad). And I choose to smile at the world…and pretty much all of the time I find it smiling right back at me.
The Infamous Smiley
Since Peace Corps apparently doesn’t like to give trainees time to rest, the very first Saturday after our exhausting first week in Namibia was another training day. Though thankfully it wasn’t a typical session they had planned for that morning of February 28, 2009, it was a cultural food day.
The morning had an interesting start. Since I lived in town and walked to training every day, I was usually early, and this day was no exception. I had beaten all of the trainees to the training centre, and my “reward” for that was getting to watch the old woman in the kitchen prepare what some call smiley (spelling?). I was all excited to watch, and actually be the first to watch, someone prepare a traditional Namibian dish, especially one as cool sounding as smiley. The name is very deceptive however, because there is nothing at all smiley about a dead goat head. I was horrified to watch as this lady shaved the hair off the grey disgusting looking goat head floating in a bucket of water.
Within a few minutes the other trainees arrived in the kombi, just in time to give me an excuse to leave and save my appetite for the rest of the day. I went over to the driveway, as far away from the goat head as possible, and after talking for a bit, we started setting up. After we finished, the host families came to join us and the cooking began.
Because of all of the various cultures in Namibia, particularly the seven represented by our languages, we had many different stations. It was really quite cool to see all of the different tribes cooking their various dishes. Some were even dressed in their traditional attire. We walked around from station to station, sometimes observing and sometimes actively participating in the cooking and meal preparations.
The trainers had purchased three live chickens to slaughter there and use for a few of the different tribal groups, so a couple of the trainees assisted with that. I stood back and observed. I figured if those poor chickens could go through the pain of beheading, that I could watch to further reinforce my vegetarianism. It was such a sad thing to see…the chickens were afraid, and as the executioner would bring the knife up to cut off their heads, the chickens would close their eyes, bracing themselves for the atrocity to come. After I finished daydreaming about jumping on the “guillotine” to stop the carnage, I said a silent prayer for their poor little chicken souls and was on to the next station.
At the Afrikaans station they were making brai bread which is one of my favorite things in Namibia. It’s grilled bread, but it’s so much more too…I just love it. The other love of my life is the fatcakes. They are basically fried bread, so they’re not at all healthy, but they’re absolutely delicious. Pop or porridge is very typical dish. It is like mashed potatoes, but is made from maize (hard corn) or mahangu and is somewhat more jello-like in the sense that it holds its form. There is also another dish made from maize that I really like. You grind the casing off of the maize, and then boil it until it’s somewhat soft. I forget the name, but it’s really good.
From there the rest of the food was all downhill. One station had caterpillars to eat, they were just sitting in a bowl soaking in water (I just imagined them being slimy and cold). This one pot had all sorts of various chicken/animal parts and my knowledge of anatomy isn’t developed enough to name them all. I think some of the trainees tried some chicken intestines at one point (that’s when I had to get out of there for a bit it was just too much). There was this one traditional drink that tasted like sandy watered down milk, which I ended up “accidentally” knocking over. And then there was the Herero station, which had mostly just various meats. It was also the location of the infamous smiley, of which they eat not only the facial tissue, but the marrow and brain as well (I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth).
After lots of cooking, and lots of eating, cultural food day was over. I had managed to avoid the majority of questionable foods by sticking to the breads for the most part. It was a nice finish to our first week in Namibia. It was fun, interesting, and an overall really cool experience. I’ll just have to remember to not get there so early next time, and to not be deceived by a name as innocent sounding as smiley.
The morning had an interesting start. Since I lived in town and walked to training every day, I was usually early, and this day was no exception. I had beaten all of the trainees to the training centre, and my “reward” for that was getting to watch the old woman in the kitchen prepare what some call smiley (spelling?). I was all excited to watch, and actually be the first to watch, someone prepare a traditional Namibian dish, especially one as cool sounding as smiley. The name is very deceptive however, because there is nothing at all smiley about a dead goat head. I was horrified to watch as this lady shaved the hair off the grey disgusting looking goat head floating in a bucket of water.
Within a few minutes the other trainees arrived in the kombi, just in time to give me an excuse to leave and save my appetite for the rest of the day. I went over to the driveway, as far away from the goat head as possible, and after talking for a bit, we started setting up. After we finished, the host families came to join us and the cooking began.
Because of all of the various cultures in Namibia, particularly the seven represented by our languages, we had many different stations. It was really quite cool to see all of the different tribes cooking their various dishes. Some were even dressed in their traditional attire. We walked around from station to station, sometimes observing and sometimes actively participating in the cooking and meal preparations.
The trainers had purchased three live chickens to slaughter there and use for a few of the different tribal groups, so a couple of the trainees assisted with that. I stood back and observed. I figured if those poor chickens could go through the pain of beheading, that I could watch to further reinforce my vegetarianism. It was such a sad thing to see…the chickens were afraid, and as the executioner would bring the knife up to cut off their heads, the chickens would close their eyes, bracing themselves for the atrocity to come. After I finished daydreaming about jumping on the “guillotine” to stop the carnage, I said a silent prayer for their poor little chicken souls and was on to the next station.
At the Afrikaans station they were making brai bread which is one of my favorite things in Namibia. It’s grilled bread, but it’s so much more too…I just love it. The other love of my life is the fatcakes. They are basically fried bread, so they’re not at all healthy, but they’re absolutely delicious. Pop or porridge is very typical dish. It is like mashed potatoes, but is made from maize (hard corn) or mahangu and is somewhat more jello-like in the sense that it holds its form. There is also another dish made from maize that I really like. You grind the casing off of the maize, and then boil it until it’s somewhat soft. I forget the name, but it’s really good.
From there the rest of the food was all downhill. One station had caterpillars to eat, they were just sitting in a bowl soaking in water (I just imagined them being slimy and cold). This one pot had all sorts of various chicken/animal parts and my knowledge of anatomy isn’t developed enough to name them all. I think some of the trainees tried some chicken intestines at one point (that’s when I had to get out of there for a bit it was just too much). There was this one traditional drink that tasted like sandy watered down milk, which I ended up “accidentally” knocking over. And then there was the Herero station, which had mostly just various meats. It was also the location of the infamous smiley, of which they eat not only the facial tissue, but the marrow and brain as well (I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth).
After lots of cooking, and lots of eating, cultural food day was over. I had managed to avoid the majority of questionable foods by sticking to the breads for the most part. It was a nice finish to our first week in Namibia. It was fun, interesting, and an overall really cool experience. I’ll just have to remember to not get there so early next time, and to not be deceived by a name as innocent sounding as smiley.
Man of the Cloth
Today is the day that I have decided to join the order of the priesthood. I have decided to take one very solemn vow, a vow of security, and that is to never again receive an opened package for as long as I am here in Namibia. From this day foreword, I make a request that all the care packages sent to me bear the name of Father Justin Gorrie.
You see somewhere along the line, the packages sent from the states to Namibia are opened by postal workers. The workers inspect the packages, they take what they want, and then sometimes, if you are lucky, they reseal the packages and send them on the rest of their journey a little lighter than when they began. Declaring anything of value in the package is like taking a big, bright and flashy neon colored sharpie and writing the words “STEAL ME” all over your box or bubble envelope.
I have heard many volunteers’ stories of postal theft. Sometimes packages are cut open, and then sealed up with a tape that says they found that the package was “accidentally” busted opened during transit somehow. My favorites are always the ones involving food, where things are half-eaten and then returned to the package as if the bandit is being considerate and saving some for the designated recipient. My very first package in Namibia was a bubble envelope that was completely torn open at the seal, just wide enough to get a hand inside to fondle the contents. Luckily for me, they did not find the Mexican crafts to be as valuable as I did, and I received everything that was sent to me.
The good news is that there are steps that can be taken to deter postal theft. For some reason (and my guess is that the thieves are mostly insecure males), tampons seem to create a powerful force field around the inner contents of a package that few postal workers dare to penetrate. So you can throw in a few tampons or pads as packing materials and almost forgo the shipping insurance entirely.
However, if you are looking for a method other than one that plays solely on insecurity, then you can attempt to play on the criminal’s guilt by using religion to your benefit. For this method, you can add the title of Father or Sister in front of anyone’s name, you can write various bible verses or quotes on the exterior of the package, you can write sayings like “God is watching” or “Don’t SIN” or “Thou shall NOT steal”, and you can even include church bulletins, bibles, or various other religious objects right on top of everything else.
The last level of defense is attempting to deceive the crooks by disguising the package as something of little value. This means declaring it as merely a shipment of USED books, USED clothing, USED school supplies, tampons (USED?), and other various church donations with very little or no value. And for the Ultimate protection, you can combine all of the methods, and just like on one volunteer’s package, you can write messages such as “Jesus loves Tampons.”
Please, do whatever you can to help me maintain the vows of my new order and to fulfill my holy mission of receiving pure and uncorrupted packages. For now I am a man of the cloth…at least as far as Namibian postal workers are concerned…
You see somewhere along the line, the packages sent from the states to Namibia are opened by postal workers. The workers inspect the packages, they take what they want, and then sometimes, if you are lucky, they reseal the packages and send them on the rest of their journey a little lighter than when they began. Declaring anything of value in the package is like taking a big, bright and flashy neon colored sharpie and writing the words “STEAL ME” all over your box or bubble envelope.
I have heard many volunteers’ stories of postal theft. Sometimes packages are cut open, and then sealed up with a tape that says they found that the package was “accidentally” busted opened during transit somehow. My favorites are always the ones involving food, where things are half-eaten and then returned to the package as if the bandit is being considerate and saving some for the designated recipient. My very first package in Namibia was a bubble envelope that was completely torn open at the seal, just wide enough to get a hand inside to fondle the contents. Luckily for me, they did not find the Mexican crafts to be as valuable as I did, and I received everything that was sent to me.
The good news is that there are steps that can be taken to deter postal theft. For some reason (and my guess is that the thieves are mostly insecure males), tampons seem to create a powerful force field around the inner contents of a package that few postal workers dare to penetrate. So you can throw in a few tampons or pads as packing materials and almost forgo the shipping insurance entirely.
However, if you are looking for a method other than one that plays solely on insecurity, then you can attempt to play on the criminal’s guilt by using religion to your benefit. For this method, you can add the title of Father or Sister in front of anyone’s name, you can write various bible verses or quotes on the exterior of the package, you can write sayings like “God is watching” or “Don’t SIN” or “Thou shall NOT steal”, and you can even include church bulletins, bibles, or various other religious objects right on top of everything else.
The last level of defense is attempting to deceive the crooks by disguising the package as something of little value. This means declaring it as merely a shipment of USED books, USED clothing, USED school supplies, tampons (USED?), and other various church donations with very little or no value. And for the Ultimate protection, you can combine all of the methods, and just like on one volunteer’s package, you can write messages such as “Jesus loves Tampons.”
Please, do whatever you can to help me maintain the vows of my new order and to fulfill my holy mission of receiving pure and uncorrupted packages. For now I am a man of the cloth…at least as far as Namibian postal workers are concerned…
The Kupembonas
The day after we met our host family was the day we actually moved in with them, which gave me ample time to prepare myself for two months of being unloved and rejected. I wasn’t too thrilled about the idea of leaving all of my new friends and fellow trainees and living with strangers; however, things turned out to be much better than I could have imagined.
No one could have picked a better family for me to live with. The Kupembonas are some of the most decent and thoughtful people in Namibia, make that the whole world. They took me into their house for two months and really made me feel like one of the family. They cooked some incredibly delicious vegetarian food (which that alone made me incredibly lucky since other vegetarians were served canned fish, butter sandwiches, or other inedible looking “meals”), they took the time to get to know me and bond with me, they were always looking out for me (sometimes a bit too much, but it always made me feel special), and they really do care for me (my host dad looked so proud at our swearing-in ceremony and they call me sometimes more than my real family, which is huge in Namibia since calls seem so expensive). Here’s a brief description of my wonderful Namibian host family.
Veronika is a teacher at a local school, and also makes really nice bedding as a side job (she made me a beautiful African print duvet). The madam (what they sometimes call women over here, I believe partially inspired by soapies or other foreign media) is quiet at times, but really a funny, intelligent and caring woman. Nicholas is a police detective for the Okahandja Police Department. He’s a hard worker, an honest and caring man, and really progressive as a Namibian male (hopefully I’ll explain some of the Namibian male behavioral patterns later on).
Sien is currently working to improve his college entrance examination score so he can go to University. He was working for a warehouse until he was exploited by the management and paid the equivalent of 10 US dollars for a full week of work (the cost of living is not justifiably less than it is in America for that “salary”). Sien is a smart, funny boy who is so positive and always seems to have a smile on his face. Nikoleta is a learner (what they call students here). She is extremely intelligent, very caring and sensitive, and just an all-around great kid (she is always laughing at me too, the things I say, the way I do things, etc). Then we have Marina who is also a learner. This one is totally out of control, she’s wild, loud, crazy, and just a complete mess…but I love her for it. She always keeps things entertaining. Down at the core she is truly such a bright and caring, wonderful young girl.
The Kupembonas were extremely hospitable to me, and really made me feel like I had a home here in Namibia for my two months of training. They are incredible beyond words and I am forever grateful for having them in my life. I honestly couldn’t have been placed with a more perfect family for me. Once again I did not get my way (Thank you God), and once again things turned out better than I could have imagined. I guess I owe you an apology my little boot puzzle piece, you paired me with a truly wonderful family and home.
No one could have picked a better family for me to live with. The Kupembonas are some of the most decent and thoughtful people in Namibia, make that the whole world. They took me into their house for two months and really made me feel like one of the family. They cooked some incredibly delicious vegetarian food (which that alone made me incredibly lucky since other vegetarians were served canned fish, butter sandwiches, or other inedible looking “meals”), they took the time to get to know me and bond with me, they were always looking out for me (sometimes a bit too much, but it always made me feel special), and they really do care for me (my host dad looked so proud at our swearing-in ceremony and they call me sometimes more than my real family, which is huge in Namibia since calls seem so expensive). Here’s a brief description of my wonderful Namibian host family.
Veronika is a teacher at a local school, and also makes really nice bedding as a side job (she made me a beautiful African print duvet). The madam (what they sometimes call women over here, I believe partially inspired by soapies or other foreign media) is quiet at times, but really a funny, intelligent and caring woman. Nicholas is a police detective for the Okahandja Police Department. He’s a hard worker, an honest and caring man, and really progressive as a Namibian male (hopefully I’ll explain some of the Namibian male behavioral patterns later on).
Sien is currently working to improve his college entrance examination score so he can go to University. He was working for a warehouse until he was exploited by the management and paid the equivalent of 10 US dollars for a full week of work (the cost of living is not justifiably less than it is in America for that “salary”). Sien is a smart, funny boy who is so positive and always seems to have a smile on his face. Nikoleta is a learner (what they call students here). She is extremely intelligent, very caring and sensitive, and just an all-around great kid (she is always laughing at me too, the things I say, the way I do things, etc). Then we have Marina who is also a learner. This one is totally out of control, she’s wild, loud, crazy, and just a complete mess…but I love her for it. She always keeps things entertaining. Down at the core she is truly such a bright and caring, wonderful young girl.
The Kupembonas were extremely hospitable to me, and really made me feel like I had a home here in Namibia for my two months of training. They are incredible beyond words and I am forever grateful for having them in my life. I honestly couldn’t have been placed with a more perfect family for me. Once again I did not get my way (Thank you God), and once again things turned out better than I could have imagined. I guess I owe you an apology my little boot puzzle piece, you paired me with a truly wonderful family and home.
Stupid Little Boot Puzzle Piece
The same day that we found out language, was also the same day that I met my host family for the first time. The Peace Corps training staff had all of the trainees and host families together in the Kukuri Centre dining hall. After we went over all of our fears and concerns about hosting and being hosted, the trainers handed out puzzle pieces to the group. The purpose was to have the trainees seek out and find which family they “fit together with.”
I had been eyeing this one family from the moment they had stepped into the centre. They looked very friendly and had tons of cute kids that I knew I would just have so much fun playing games with. We even had a “moment” outside when I greeted them all and they smiled ever so kindly and greeted me in return. When I saw that they held a triangular shape puzzle piece that looked similar to mine, I knew it was destined to be. And just as I was standing up to let the family know the good news, Anika swooped in, and in one instant demolished a perfectly imagined future full of Phase 10, Canasta, and more games and fun than a person could hope for.
As I sat there devastated, watching Anika in the center of a swarm of fun and loving children, receiving countless hugs, I knew it was time to go look for the other half to my dumb and ugly boot puzzle piece. After scanning the crowd over and over, I finally found my host parents. We connected the awkward puzzle pieces and introduced ourselves. Then as we were going outside to talk more and get to know each other, the host mother vanished from sight. All I could think was that she really disliked me, because she hardly said a word to me, barely gave me any eye contact, and then just left without saying anything. (Anika’s host mother wouldn’t have done that to me, we would have talked and laughed and instantly bonded in that short introduction section. I just know because of the moment we had earlier that day.)
Before my new host mother left, she did answer one question for me. You see, I had heard many stories from volunteers about their Memes and Tates, and I was excited to be accepted into the family as one of their own children and to call my host parents Father and Mother in the native language. So when I asked my host parents what I should call them, I was just looking for a confirmation that I could call them what all of the other volunteers have called their host parents, Meme and Tate. But instead of hearing those wonderful words I had imagined saying (and that Anika was probably saying at that very moment), I was told to call them Mr. Nikolas and Mrs. Veronika. (Yes sir and Ma’am)
Me and the host father talked a bit outside. I asked questions about the family, and learned that I had a 19 year old host brother named Sien, two host sisters named Nikoleta and Marina, with ages 12 and 9 respectively. Then we talked about other various random topics for a while before I gave him the bad news. I told him the one thing no Namibian parent ever wants to hear their child or guest say. The thing that had caused families across the centre to breathe a sigh of relief when they found out they were one of the “lucky” ones who hadn’t been stuck with “one of those”. You see, the families had been prepared for, and known that there were some of us in the group, and they were dreading being one of the few who “drew the short end of the stick”. So I mustered up the courage and told him the truth, that I was one of the diseased and unwanted lepers, I was the shame of Namibian society…I was a VEGETARIAN!!! (dum dum dummmm)
Right at the moment I spoke the horrifying words, I bet he was wishing some omnivore (probably frickin’ Anika) was staying with him. From the look on his face I can just imagine that I had crushed his grandiose vision of braiing (Afrikaans for grilling) more meats than one could dream of. Homestay was not off to a great start (at least not as great as Anika’s). Damn you stupid little boot puzzle piece…damn you to hell…
I had been eyeing this one family from the moment they had stepped into the centre. They looked very friendly and had tons of cute kids that I knew I would just have so much fun playing games with. We even had a “moment” outside when I greeted them all and they smiled ever so kindly and greeted me in return. When I saw that they held a triangular shape puzzle piece that looked similar to mine, I knew it was destined to be. And just as I was standing up to let the family know the good news, Anika swooped in, and in one instant demolished a perfectly imagined future full of Phase 10, Canasta, and more games and fun than a person could hope for.
As I sat there devastated, watching Anika in the center of a swarm of fun and loving children, receiving countless hugs, I knew it was time to go look for the other half to my dumb and ugly boot puzzle piece. After scanning the crowd over and over, I finally found my host parents. We connected the awkward puzzle pieces and introduced ourselves. Then as we were going outside to talk more and get to know each other, the host mother vanished from sight. All I could think was that she really disliked me, because she hardly said a word to me, barely gave me any eye contact, and then just left without saying anything. (Anika’s host mother wouldn’t have done that to me, we would have talked and laughed and instantly bonded in that short introduction section. I just know because of the moment we had earlier that day.)
Before my new host mother left, she did answer one question for me. You see, I had heard many stories from volunteers about their Memes and Tates, and I was excited to be accepted into the family as one of their own children and to call my host parents Father and Mother in the native language. So when I asked my host parents what I should call them, I was just looking for a confirmation that I could call them what all of the other volunteers have called their host parents, Meme and Tate. But instead of hearing those wonderful words I had imagined saying (and that Anika was probably saying at that very moment), I was told to call them Mr. Nikolas and Mrs. Veronika. (Yes sir and Ma’am)
Me and the host father talked a bit outside. I asked questions about the family, and learned that I had a 19 year old host brother named Sien, two host sisters named Nikoleta and Marina, with ages 12 and 9 respectively. Then we talked about other various random topics for a while before I gave him the bad news. I told him the one thing no Namibian parent ever wants to hear their child or guest say. The thing that had caused families across the centre to breathe a sigh of relief when they found out they were one of the “lucky” ones who hadn’t been stuck with “one of those”. You see, the families had been prepared for, and known that there were some of us in the group, and they were dreading being one of the few who “drew the short end of the stick”. So I mustered up the courage and told him the truth, that I was one of the diseased and unwanted lepers, I was the shame of Namibian society…I was a VEGETARIAN!!! (dum dum dummmm)
Right at the moment I spoke the horrifying words, I bet he was wishing some omnivore (probably frickin’ Anika) was staying with him. From the look on his face I can just imagine that I had crushed his grandiose vision of braiing (Afrikaans for grilling) more meats than one could dream of. Homestay was not off to a great start (at least not as great as Anika’s). Damn you stupid little boot puzzle piece…damn you to hell…
March 29, 2009
Shushwa (Chicken)
The next few days of training went a lot better than the first, and the presentations were far less terrifying. A lot of it was repetitive and common sense, but like all government institutions, you have to cover those policies and procedures. None of it really interested us though because all we could think about were our language assignments. Since the first day of training, we had known that soon enough we would be placed into language groups based on our site placements.
We had interviews on the first two days of training with our APCD, Lejeune. During the interviews, her and Philomena (another PC staff member), asked us series of questions in order to get an idea of where we would fit best in all of the potential sites in Namibia. They asked us questions about rural vs. urban settings, what type of work we were looking to do, about our experience and background, various preferences regarding living situations, and then some people were even asked random questions about gardens, raising chickens, and fish farms.
Finally on the 25th of February, after all of the interviews were conducted and Lejeune had time to finalize placements, we found out our languages. We didn’t find out our actual placements on that day for reasons unknown to us. They handed us slips of paper with the name of an animal on it, and then we were suppose to make the sound of the animal until we found our language teacher and classmates through the cacophony of badly mimicked animal noises.
After many indiscernible clucks, I finally found the other “chickens” by looking at the slips of paper in their hands. There were only three in my group, Paul, myself, and our language instructor Raymond (who is a national news anchor for Namibia and is tribal royalty). When we went outside to talk more with our instructor, we learned that the language we would be studying was called Thimbukushu. It is a Bantu language spoken by the Hambukushu tribe in the northeast of the Kavango region in Namibia and parts of Botswana as well.
Aside from Thimbukushu, the other languages our group will be learning include Afrikaans, Oshindonga, Otjiherero, Silozi, Rukwangali, and Khoekhoegowab (a clicking language). At first, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t learning Afrikaans, which is spoken throughout various countries in the southern region of the African continent. But the more I think about it, I’m really excited to learn such an uncommon language. Apart from native speakers, there is probably a small handful of people around the world that know this disappearing language. It makes the experience that much more unique and interesting. I mean, how many people do you know can say that they have heard of Thimbukushu, let alone can speak it? Mbadiko (There aren’t any)
We had interviews on the first two days of training with our APCD, Lejeune. During the interviews, her and Philomena (another PC staff member), asked us series of questions in order to get an idea of where we would fit best in all of the potential sites in Namibia. They asked us questions about rural vs. urban settings, what type of work we were looking to do, about our experience and background, various preferences regarding living situations, and then some people were even asked random questions about gardens, raising chickens, and fish farms.
Finally on the 25th of February, after all of the interviews were conducted and Lejeune had time to finalize placements, we found out our languages. We didn’t find out our actual placements on that day for reasons unknown to us. They handed us slips of paper with the name of an animal on it, and then we were suppose to make the sound of the animal until we found our language teacher and classmates through the cacophony of badly mimicked animal noises.
After many indiscernible clucks, I finally found the other “chickens” by looking at the slips of paper in their hands. There were only three in my group, Paul, myself, and our language instructor Raymond (who is a national news anchor for Namibia and is tribal royalty). When we went outside to talk more with our instructor, we learned that the language we would be studying was called Thimbukushu. It is a Bantu language spoken by the Hambukushu tribe in the northeast of the Kavango region in Namibia and parts of Botswana as well.
Aside from Thimbukushu, the other languages our group will be learning include Afrikaans, Oshindonga, Otjiherero, Silozi, Rukwangali, and Khoekhoegowab (a clicking language). At first, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t learning Afrikaans, which is spoken throughout various countries in the southern region of the African continent. But the more I think about it, I’m really excited to learn such an uncommon language. Apart from native speakers, there is probably a small handful of people around the world that know this disappearing language. It makes the experience that much more unique and interesting. I mean, how many people do you know can say that they have heard of Thimbukushu, let alone can speak it? Mbadiko (There aren’t any)
The Sheer Terror of Training
Officially, the training began on February 23rd 2009. I would say that as a group we were very excited and ready to begin. We had been anticipating this day for so long. We had been waiting for the experiences and all that Namibia had to offer for months, some people even years. We were eager PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees), chalked full of enthusiasm and energy. We were up early and after breakfast we were thrust straight into one of our first classes, Security and Safety.
The class covered many of the security issues relevant to Namibia along with stories to illustrate the need for caution. We were told how robbery is major concern in larger cities, especially the capital Windhoek. People will approach you and demand your belongings. Sometimes they will not have any weapon, sometimes they will have a knife, and thankfully less often they will have a gun. You can many times walk away untouched, at least physically, as the motive for robbery in Namibia is usually rooted in mere survival more so than in places like the US. Sometimes though, people are assaulted during the robbery.
From what I gather, muggings occur more frequently when you have somewhat organized crime. For example, criminals have started to fake taxiing services. So a person will get in a taxi alone, or with a group of men, be driven out to some scarcely populated location, robbed, beaten, and then left. A current PCV actually was the victim of such an event and still has a scar on his forehead from where one of the robbers stabbed him with a screwdriver.
Other things to be aware of include pick-pocketing and ATM card copying. The criminals are apparently refining their pick-pocketing abilities and beginning to work in groups, so extra vigilance is required. I have no personal experience with the gypsies in Rome, but from what I have heard it sounds a lot like the pick-pockets here are equally as skilled. As for ATM/Check card copying, it’s almost just not worth it to use your card in public. Restaurant servers will on occasion allegedly run your ATM card twice, as though your card was declined the first time, but in reality they are making a copy only to drain your bank account later.
As I was sitting in this very serious presentation, all of the excitement, the energy, the enthusiasm, all of the wanderlust and anticipation, everything was drained out of me, and all I was left with was a feeling of sheer terror. I had flashbacks to a blog I read from one PCT that consisted of three entries; in the first one he was robbed, in the second one he chased a burglar out of his house, and in the third one he was leaving to come home after only one month. I thought, “What the hell did I get myself into?” I actually contemplated coming right back to the states, but then…if I did that…I would have to pass through THE DREADED Windhoek. I WAS TRAPPED!!
Windhoek is apparently so dangerous in fact, and there have been enough incidences involving PCVs, that it is off-limits to volunteers except for official Peace Corps business. There is a silver lining to all of this though. By taking certain precautions, being extra careful, and remaining aware of your surroundings, you can avoid most of the dangers. And again, most of the criminal activity is rooted in survival and isn’t really malicious in nature, so rarely are people killed. So ummm, I guess that’s good news, right? Thank you Peace Corps staff for the encouraging presentation. Yay, let’s get started …I can’t wait……TO DIE!!!
The class covered many of the security issues relevant to Namibia along with stories to illustrate the need for caution. We were told how robbery is major concern in larger cities, especially the capital Windhoek. People will approach you and demand your belongings. Sometimes they will not have any weapon, sometimes they will have a knife, and thankfully less often they will have a gun. You can many times walk away untouched, at least physically, as the motive for robbery in Namibia is usually rooted in mere survival more so than in places like the US. Sometimes though, people are assaulted during the robbery.
From what I gather, muggings occur more frequently when you have somewhat organized crime. For example, criminals have started to fake taxiing services. So a person will get in a taxi alone, or with a group of men, be driven out to some scarcely populated location, robbed, beaten, and then left. A current PCV actually was the victim of such an event and still has a scar on his forehead from where one of the robbers stabbed him with a screwdriver.
Other things to be aware of include pick-pocketing and ATM card copying. The criminals are apparently refining their pick-pocketing abilities and beginning to work in groups, so extra vigilance is required. I have no personal experience with the gypsies in Rome, but from what I have heard it sounds a lot like the pick-pockets here are equally as skilled. As for ATM/Check card copying, it’s almost just not worth it to use your card in public. Restaurant servers will on occasion allegedly run your ATM card twice, as though your card was declined the first time, but in reality they are making a copy only to drain your bank account later.
As I was sitting in this very serious presentation, all of the excitement, the energy, the enthusiasm, all of the wanderlust and anticipation, everything was drained out of me, and all I was left with was a feeling of sheer terror. I had flashbacks to a blog I read from one PCT that consisted of three entries; in the first one he was robbed, in the second one he chased a burglar out of his house, and in the third one he was leaving to come home after only one month. I thought, “What the hell did I get myself into?” I actually contemplated coming right back to the states, but then…if I did that…I would have to pass through THE DREADED Windhoek. I WAS TRAPPED!!
Windhoek is apparently so dangerous in fact, and there have been enough incidences involving PCVs, that it is off-limits to volunteers except for official Peace Corps business. There is a silver lining to all of this though. By taking certain precautions, being extra careful, and remaining aware of your surroundings, you can avoid most of the dangers. And again, most of the criminal activity is rooted in survival and isn’t really malicious in nature, so rarely are people killed. So ummm, I guess that’s good news, right? Thank you Peace Corps staff for the encouraging presentation. Yay, let’s get started …I can’t wait……TO DIE!!!
The Land of Song
Our kombi caravan pulled into the small town of Okahandja in the afternoon on the 22nd of February. We headed straight to the Kukuri training center, which is where we would train and stay until we were placed with host families the following week. As we were exiting and unpacking the kombis, I had my first encounter with one of the greatest treasures Namibia has to offer. Namibia may export countless diamonds and other “valuable” resources, but in my mind, its true wealth lies in its people’s soul and song.
We were welcomed into the center, the town, the country, by the Okahandja choir and our training staff. They had two lines, one on each side of the driveway, and as we came in, they sang and danced in celebration of our arrival. After several minutes, the singing ended and we went inside the dining hall to receive instructions for the remainder of the day. But following some logistical information, the choir came in to perform once again for us before we went to settle into our rooms.
I can’t even begin to describe the singing here. As I sat there on the front row of that dining hall, faced by a small local youth choir of about 10 members, I became completely absorbed in the moment. I was mesmerized by the few beautiful voices that filled the rather large room. I didn’t notice the cameras flashing all around me, I forgot that I possessed the ability to think as my mind became serene and silent for once, and the whole world outside of that room was momentarily lost to me. I didn’t notice anything that was going on beyond that powerful exchange where they bared their soul in song, and I, in an instant of grace, could witness the truth of their creation through the freedom and beauty of their expression. I didn’t understand any of the words nor the meaning of what was sung, but I did understand the language of the soul. And what they were singing to me, to our group, to anyone willing to listen…with all of their hearts, in that universal language of the soul, they were singing a song of love.
Here in Namibia, people have yet to be trained to become extremely self-critical, they haven’t really started hiding or rejecting parts of who they are, and they haven’t begun to truly hate themselves, at least not the way we in the United States have. They sing openly and freely with all of their heart and soul. And regardless of if someone is off-key, when they come together, everything is absolutely perfect. Whether it’s a choir, church community, our trainers, or a random group of Namibians, it’s as though there is an invisible force guiding and directing them. The music is never just performed or contrived; it is lived in the moment, open to the freedom and flow of creativity. People sing what they feel, and in doing so create beautifully improvised songs that can never truly be duplicated.
The way the people here sing is indicative of how they live life, or rather celebrate life. My good friend Amelia put it best when she said, “Here my heart sings.” Here in Namibia, away from the distractions, away from the material world and its desires and ideals, away from the judgments, away from the restrictions…in the freedom, in the joy of purpose, in the essence of brotherhood, sharing, helping and love…and here in Namibia, the land of song, together with countless other singing hearts, my heart has burst into song.
We were welcomed into the center, the town, the country, by the Okahandja choir and our training staff. They had two lines, one on each side of the driveway, and as we came in, they sang and danced in celebration of our arrival. After several minutes, the singing ended and we went inside the dining hall to receive instructions for the remainder of the day. But following some logistical information, the choir came in to perform once again for us before we went to settle into our rooms.
I can’t even begin to describe the singing here. As I sat there on the front row of that dining hall, faced by a small local youth choir of about 10 members, I became completely absorbed in the moment. I was mesmerized by the few beautiful voices that filled the rather large room. I didn’t notice the cameras flashing all around me, I forgot that I possessed the ability to think as my mind became serene and silent for once, and the whole world outside of that room was momentarily lost to me. I didn’t notice anything that was going on beyond that powerful exchange where they bared their soul in song, and I, in an instant of grace, could witness the truth of their creation through the freedom and beauty of their expression. I didn’t understand any of the words nor the meaning of what was sung, but I did understand the language of the soul. And what they were singing to me, to our group, to anyone willing to listen…with all of their hearts, in that universal language of the soul, they were singing a song of love.
Here in Namibia, people have yet to be trained to become extremely self-critical, they haven’t really started hiding or rejecting parts of who they are, and they haven’t begun to truly hate themselves, at least not the way we in the United States have. They sing openly and freely with all of their heart and soul. And regardless of if someone is off-key, when they come together, everything is absolutely perfect. Whether it’s a choir, church community, our trainers, or a random group of Namibians, it’s as though there is an invisible force guiding and directing them. The music is never just performed or contrived; it is lived in the moment, open to the freedom and flow of creativity. People sing what they feel, and in doing so create beautifully improvised songs that can never truly be duplicated.
The way the people here sing is indicative of how they live life, or rather celebrate life. My good friend Amelia put it best when she said, “Here my heart sings.” Here in Namibia, away from the distractions, away from the material world and its desires and ideals, away from the judgments, away from the restrictions…in the freedom, in the joy of purpose, in the essence of brotherhood, sharing, helping and love…and here in Namibia, the land of song, together with countless other singing hearts, my heart has burst into song.
Wanderlust
When we had finished soaking in some of our new surroundings on the airport tarmac, we headed into the airport to pass through customs and to collect our baggage. I was technically the first member of Group 29 to officially enter Namibia (ha Lindsay). I walked up to meet some Peace Corps Namibia staff members, handed over my passport and WHO (World Health Organization) immunization card, and went to check for the luggage.
The silent prayers I offered after hearing the previous luggage horror stories had been answered. I quickly found both of my bags (with everything in them) and then helped pull other volunteers’ bags, which were marked with a purple thread of yarn, off the luggage carousel as well. As the other volunteers began to join me, it became quite apparent that others had not been as fortunate as myself. More than half of the group did not get all of their bags, and I don’t even know how many were missing items. Anything of value that was placed in the checked bags was subject to the random thefts. It was hit or miss really. Nick found an empty battery package in his bag, which the thief was courteous enough to replace after removing all of the batteries. This initial hassle was due to the hospitality of the Johannesburg International Airport baggage handlers. (If any of you plan to visit, don’t worry, there are measures that can be taken to help prevent theft)
We waited for some time, as a few of the volunteers were in denial about the status of their baggage (Rachel). But as the luggage on the carousel slowly dwindled down and disappeared, and as time elapsed, they began to accept the reality of the situation. The unlucky travelers went to go fill out reports with the airline while the rest of us went outside to wait. We were greeted by group of PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) holding a banner and cheering for our arrival. It was extremely comforting to have people who at one point in time were standing in our very shoes. And in the hours to follow, we relentlessly questioned them in an attempt to understand Namibia and what it held in store for us.
Finally, all of Group 29 was reunited. We were packed into two kombis (I’ll elaborate later, but basically vans), and headed North from Windhoek to Okahandja, where we would be training for the next two months. During the hour long ride, we continued the question and answer sessions we had been previously engaged in. In my kombi, a PCV named Chaz answered questions, gave us suggestions, and told us stories of exotic animals, various tribes and regions, random interesting cultural beliefs and behaviors, and racial issues rooted in a way too recent past. My mind was completely overwhelmed. And as I sat there staring out the window, drinking in the incredible scenery, I was overtaken by a sense of wanderlust. Wanderlust for the possibilities that lied ahead of me, for all of the challenges I would face, for all mysteries awaiting me, for the adventures calling my name…and wanderlust for this country I had never heard of before, this country called Namibia... this strange and exciting new world.
The silent prayers I offered after hearing the previous luggage horror stories had been answered. I quickly found both of my bags (with everything in them) and then helped pull other volunteers’ bags, which were marked with a purple thread of yarn, off the luggage carousel as well. As the other volunteers began to join me, it became quite apparent that others had not been as fortunate as myself. More than half of the group did not get all of their bags, and I don’t even know how many were missing items. Anything of value that was placed in the checked bags was subject to the random thefts. It was hit or miss really. Nick found an empty battery package in his bag, which the thief was courteous enough to replace after removing all of the batteries. This initial hassle was due to the hospitality of the Johannesburg International Airport baggage handlers. (If any of you plan to visit, don’t worry, there are measures that can be taken to help prevent theft)
We waited for some time, as a few of the volunteers were in denial about the status of their baggage (Rachel). But as the luggage on the carousel slowly dwindled down and disappeared, and as time elapsed, they began to accept the reality of the situation. The unlucky travelers went to go fill out reports with the airline while the rest of us went outside to wait. We were greeted by group of PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) holding a banner and cheering for our arrival. It was extremely comforting to have people who at one point in time were standing in our very shoes. And in the hours to follow, we relentlessly questioned them in an attempt to understand Namibia and what it held in store for us.
Finally, all of Group 29 was reunited. We were packed into two kombis (I’ll elaborate later, but basically vans), and headed North from Windhoek to Okahandja, where we would be training for the next two months. During the hour long ride, we continued the question and answer sessions we had been previously engaged in. In my kombi, a PCV named Chaz answered questions, gave us suggestions, and told us stories of exotic animals, various tribes and regions, random interesting cultural beliefs and behaviors, and racial issues rooted in a way too recent past. My mind was completely overwhelmed. And as I sat there staring out the window, drinking in the incredible scenery, I was overtaken by a sense of wanderlust. Wanderlust for the possibilities that lied ahead of me, for all of the challenges I would face, for all mysteries awaiting me, for the adventures calling my name…and wanderlust for this country I had never heard of before, this country called Namibia... this strange and exciting new world.
Here's the Scoop
So after some of my last entries, a lot of people have been wondering what has been going on with Amelia. Well… here’s the scoop people…absolutely NOTHING. I know that’s probably not the dramatic or interesting story that you were looking for, but that’s the reality of it. I think my entry about Amelia was misinterpreted. Don’t get me wrong, I meant every word of it, and I think the world of her…BUT, that’s the way I would write about any one of the people that I love and care about. I wrote that entry because I believe that she has an amazing story to tell and I wanted to share that with you. I could have probably written similar entries for each and every one of the volunteers here in Namibia… or each and every one of you back in the states for that matter.
We each have lives and stories so unique and varied, each one precious and wonderful in its own way. Amelia’s story just struck me the most out of the group. I feel it is rare, and inspiring, and a powerful testament to selflessness… but no more so than others. She is a very special person, but the same is true for the rest of Group 29. I decided to pick one example because I didn’t want to write 22 entries, you probably didn’t want to read 22 entries, and the thought of writing 22 entries alone is tiring.
But please know this…every single person I’ve ever met, every person in my life right now…I have had similar thoughts about. What was said in that entry could easily be said about you. You may not have your own blog entry on this webpage, but in the vastness of my mind, written in secret, there is an entry with your name on it. It is formed with intangible thoughts, not words… and attached to those thoughts is a prayer of thanksgiving. For I am thankful beyond measure for every single person in my life. To me, each one of you is a priceless gift… whether or not it is stated plainly, I hope you know this.
We each have lives and stories so unique and varied, each one precious and wonderful in its own way. Amelia’s story just struck me the most out of the group. I feel it is rare, and inspiring, and a powerful testament to selflessness… but no more so than others. She is a very special person, but the same is true for the rest of Group 29. I decided to pick one example because I didn’t want to write 22 entries, you probably didn’t want to read 22 entries, and the thought of writing 22 entries alone is tiring.
But please know this…every single person I’ve ever met, every person in my life right now…I have had similar thoughts about. What was said in that entry could easily be said about you. You may not have your own blog entry on this webpage, but in the vastness of my mind, written in secret, there is an entry with your name on it. It is formed with intangible thoughts, not words… and attached to those thoughts is a prayer of thanksgiving. For I am thankful beyond measure for every single person in my life. To me, each one of you is a priceless gift… whether or not it is stated plainly, I hope you know this.
March 11, 2009
Disclaimer
I felt a disclaimer would be necessary for this blog after a couple of days in Namibia. When I arrived, I was fully prepared to document my experiences for those people who might be interested in my adventures. I had planned to capture each incredible moment with mere words and a camera. I had no idea how inadequate those tools would be for the assigned task. They would probably accomplish the job as successfully as performing exploratory surgery with a plastic knife and salad tongs.
I wish I could share every moment, every second with each and every one of you. It is incredible beyond words. I wish you could see what I’ve seen, hear what I’ve heard, feel what I’ve felt, and experience what I have and will experience. But sadly that can’t happen. Those moments are passed, lost forever to my memory. I feel a little guilty even that all of this is for me, that God gave this great gift to only me. But I know that there are gifts out there for each and everyone, experiences unique to each individual. And as much as I am able, I will try my hardest to capture what I can, share what I am able, to give you all a tiny piece of the wonder that is consuming me daily. I will use my words like an artist uses a paintbrush in an attempt to recreate on the canvas of your mind what my being has bore witness to. Through me and my words, my stories, my struggles, my joys, and my writings, as limited as they are…I hope you share in my greatest treasure, my gift of life.
I wish I could share every moment, every second with each and every one of you. It is incredible beyond words. I wish you could see what I’ve seen, hear what I’ve heard, feel what I’ve felt, and experience what I have and will experience. But sadly that can’t happen. Those moments are passed, lost forever to my memory. I feel a little guilty even that all of this is for me, that God gave this great gift to only me. But I know that there are gifts out there for each and everyone, experiences unique to each individual. And as much as I am able, I will try my hardest to capture what I can, share what I am able, to give you all a tiny piece of the wonder that is consuming me daily. I will use my words like an artist uses a paintbrush in an attempt to recreate on the canvas of your mind what my being has bore witness to. Through me and my words, my stories, my struggles, my joys, and my writings, as limited as they are…I hope you share in my greatest treasure, my gift of life.
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