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.
May 5, 2009
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…
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