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.

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?!?!?!?!

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…

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.

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.