Leaving Home to Come Home

We have just a few days left in Tsumeb. It’s hard to believe we arrived here nearly three weeks ago, but a lot has happened in that short amount of time. We organized a successful four-day community health workshop for area youth, as well as a community day at the local old-age home. We all "passed" our initial language assessment tests. We visited Lake Otjikoto and the world’s largest meteorite (which, for the record, is the Namibian version of the Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota). We were locked out of our bathroom for two days, and a couple of nights ago, I narrowly escaped death when our fireside dinner was interrupted by a location-wide dogfight. I turned 27. We taught our trainers “Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer.” And for most of us, we spent our first Christmases away from home.

But the biggest thing by far is that after twenty-some days, the 13 of us have become members of a Namibian family. I’ve got a mama, two cousins and the cutest baby brother ever to visit when things in Khorixas get tough and I just need a break. Lucre told me (sort of like my own parents did) that my room is always waiting, and that when I return, it will be the same as when I left it.

That’s nice to hear, even a few thousand miles from home.

My first Namibian Christmas was certainly one to remember. There was no build up to the big day like there is in the States. No feverish preparations of huge meals, special dishes, or cutout cookies. There was no wrapping presents or visiting family and friends. Instead, we spent Christmas Eve practicing Damara with yet another language lesson, and coping with the idea of being so far from home. Homesickness, which had been non-existent to this point, seemed to be at an all-time high with most PCTs. But a last-minute mail run to Windhoek meant unexpected surprises. For me, a box from Darby and a packet of letters from family made it feel a bit more like the holidays.

Amanda and I opted to attend the 7:30 Catholic Mass on Christmas Eve, despite the fact out Lutheran families would attend church the following morning. We needed at least one familiar thing at a time when nothing at all felt the same. The two-hour service was in Afrikaans and the only song we recognized was “Silent Night” (sung in German, no less), but there was a tree on the altar and that alone meant it felt a bit more like Christmas. As it turns out, 7:30 is a lot like Midnight Mass (which my family usually attends back in the states) when your new bedtime is 9:30 and you’re rarely out until dark. I had a bowl of Cornflakes for dinner and then was off to bed.

Lucre’s cousin brought us a small tabletop Christmas tree, like the one grandma used to have in Rochester. But aside from that, there wasn’t much in the house (or Namibia for that matter) that felt like the holidays. Amanda lives only a couple of houses away, so while our families were at church we attempted to back her grandma’s chocolate chip cookie recipe with Namibian ingredients. (They were a big hit with our mamas, but not so much with us.) We watched the BBC and listened to the music blaring from the yards in the location. As it turns out, Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable,” Chris Brown’s “Wall to Wall,” and Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back,” are more than just the songs that I run to. They’re big holidays hits in Namibia, too.

Amanda’s mama found us a last-minute ride to Etosha—an ambulance driver from her hospital. But when he arrived drunk and suggested we make a detour for more drinks along the way, we decided it might be best to wait on experiencing the sixth-largest game park and instead opted for a more traditional holiday celebration. The braai.

We headed to Caravan Park, a patch of grassy land with grill pits and shade trees on the edge of Town. There were dozens of families with boom boxes blasting, drinking Windhoek and Tafel, grilling goat, chicken and any other meat imaginable. They were eating watermelon and dancing. Sand and snow may cover the ground in similar ways, but this was different from the White Christmases typical of Upstate New York. Add sparklers and America and you’ve easily got the Fourth of July.

But back at Lucre’s house things felt more like the holidays. Half of Tsumeb (and about 30 kids) were crowded into our yard, laid out on mats, relaxing in lawn chairs, playing soccer and dancing to traditional Damara music. (I promise, there are pics to come.) Being around so much family meant it finally felt like Christmas—even if it was 90 degrees and my cousin Phil wasn’t around to dress like Santa.

With the holidays over and our workshop and community service out of the way, the last thing to focus on is our family appreciation day. Rumor has it we’ll be killing a goat and braaing at the same park where I celebrated my first Namibian Christmas. It will be tough to say goodbye to my family here, especially because that’s what these past few months have been filled with most: Goodbyes. But Sunday morning I’ll be on my way back to Okahandja for a CATJAR reunion. And just 10 days away from becoming a real Peace Corps Volunteer.