Weekend in Waterberg

Nine of us got together at Waterberg Plateau a week after arriving at site to celebrate Emily’s birthday. Minus an incident relighting an already lit oven, the weekend was perfect. Waterberg was beautiful, the temperature was cool, and the girls even prepared a luxury breakfast of buttered toast and real brewed coffee. (What was once considered prison food has quickly become this PCV’s delicious dish.)


Waterberg Plateau


Trying to Avoid the Muck and Mud


Getting Ready for the Ride


A View From the Top


The Burn Victim Birthday Girl Looking at One of Waterberg's Watering Holes


Proof That Sand DOES Get Stuck In Flip Flops

Swearing In and Signing Out from Camp Okahandja

It’s been a couple of weeks since we left Okahandja for our permanent sites. Here are a few highlights from our final days at our first Africa home: The ladies of CATJAR, our fresh food tailgate, a traditional dress fashion show and of course, swearing in. (Where I unfortunately failed to capture a full Nam 27 group shot.)


The CATJAR (Plus Honorary Members: Jeffie B, Juice and Ian)


Me and Colleen Getting Busy on the Melon


Tailgating at the Center: More Veggies Than We Saw All Training


Some of the Girls in Their Traditional Dress


Riding Two-Deep with Tina in my Traditional Damara House Dress


The Tsumeb Group All Dolled Up


Flag Signing


Jessica and Jill: The Ladies of Khorixas

Happiness is: The Creepy Crawlies

I’ve learned a lot since arriving in Khorixas. And while little to none of it has to do with why I’m actually here, it’s still part of adjusting to life in the Peace Corps, in Namibia, and in the smallest place I’ve ever called home: here.

For starters, it seems even gentle rain means no electricity. No light. No cooking. No dinner. No cell reception. Sometimes for days—like say, the last three, when gale force winds and torrential downpour knocked Khorixas out of commission. Sure, back in the states summer rains meant cool breezes and fresh air. But here they mean moths the size of your face gathering on hallway walls, flying ants with helicopter wings, creepy crawly cockroaches and the biggest, grossest bugs I’ve ever seen climbing all over my bed net while I’m trying to sleep. (I thought the mice in 2R were bad!)

The good news is if I don’t kill the ants, they’ll haul off dead cockroaches and I don’t have to do clean up duty. Which is perfect, because I didn’t buy a mop. Maybe it’s because I spent college with roommates who loved brooms and sponges and used cleaning as a reward. Or perhaps it’s more that I just wasn’t thinking. But it seems this non-essential-in-my-past-life device is absolutely essential here because the thing is, I live in the dessert and that means not just dust, but dirt. Lots of dirt. All over everything, including, but not limited to: my floors.

Along similar lines, I now realize that when living on a budget, there’s no need to purchase two kinds of soap. Dish liquid works fine on clothing and washing powder is perfect for dishes. Sometimes, you don’t even need soap. The bathtub can also do double duty as a giant sink when your kitchen was built without one. What seemed strange during site visit is now just, well, normal.

With 24 of sometimes the longest hours in a given day, things like flossing have become part of my daily routine. Not because hygiene is important (though it is) but because it takes time and time is something I have a lot of. Baking bread took perhaps too long in the states, but in Namibia I find it takes not nearly long enough. I’ve perfected my raisin bread, white bread and pizza dough over the last two weeks, and have an entire cookbook to tackle over the coming two years. It’s lonely to cook for one, but my dad always told me in a new place, food helps make friends.

Here’s hoping.

I’ve already polished off a library’s worth of literature and can now safely say there is no such thing as a bad book when it’s the only book left to read. My old editor at the Daily Local included a Sunday Times in the last package he shipped. I’ve been reading it section by section when I need to feel normal again. It’s easy to forget that old news is still news when you haven’t had a chance to see it. And here in Namibia, I rarely see it.

Mail day is still the best day of the week because it holds the promise of letters from home, packages from friends and general contact with the outside world. Jessica and I take turns rushing our P.O. box (which is often guarded by one of those face-size moths) on Friday mornings. Thursday’s delivery is supposedly dropped and sorted by then. But we’ve noticed more often than not, our correspondence comes when NamPost finds it convenient. That can be Monday or Saturday. It can mean leaving empty-handed six days in a row, but walking out with an armload of packages come day seven.

The good news is, sooner or later, it’s all arriving.

But perhaps the best news of all is that I’m settling in. I may not be sure about my job or my duties—and the fact my supervisor announced today he’s moving back to Nigeria probably isn’t going to help that—but I’m getting comfortable where I am. I’m making friends with Namibians and finding ways to occupy my time without taking on too much responsibility too soon. I spent Sunday in the squatters’ camp (which looks a little like the kind of place you’d expect to see Sally Struthers) playing soccer and netball with the kids. I helped coach Jessica’s track practice last week and lead an HIV support group today. Our after school leadership program kicks off next week and I’ll have my acting debut (Danielle would be proud) in a drama about HIV testing on Valentine’s Day. (Romantic, isn’t it?) Sometime soon I’ll also be putting those journalistic skills of mine to work editing the OYO publication, which I’m really looking forward to.

Sure the transition from city to village, America to Africa can be rocky at times, and slow and frustrating at others. But I’m getting the hang of it. And despite the gross bugs, huge moths and the possibility of a rat as a roommate (did I fail to mention that?), I’m without a doubt happy to be here.

In Namibia. In Khorixas. In the Peace Corps.

I’m happy.

And it feels good.

Welcome to Khorixas: Population Me

I’ve been in Khorixas for five days.

Five days of sandstorms and dust devils.

Five days.
Three books.
Six visitors.
Four cool drinks.
Two trips to the MultiSave.
Three hundred SMSes.

And yes. Even one sunburn.

My first day back in the working world was a reminder of why I loved being a journalist so much: finished products. Each day spent in the newsroom meant another assignment, another interview, and before I went home, another completed story. Clips now stored away in binders and boxes serve as proof that I showed up, clocked in and put it all down on paper. They are evidence of my nine to five (but often later) life.

This will definitely take some getting used to.

I was up at 6 a.m. (which will come as no surprise to those who know me, or to those who’ve served as PCVs). After a cup of coffee, a bowl of Jungle Oats and a bit of reading I was out the door for day one of Real Peace Corps Service. Orientation started at 8:30 and ended at approximately 8:31. It began with “Moro!” and ended with “Here’s your office.” Not much was said in between.

I’ll be working out of a six-room building next door to the hospital. My old roommate, Kate (in the end, no house sharing with newlyweds for me) works just across the hall. Another social worker sits next door, and a cleaning lady has taken up shop in the room on the other side. The hallways are papered with Ministry posters about safe sex, condoms and getting tested, but the walls of my office are completely bare. Thankfully, two windows mean more sun and fresh air than I ever saw in NYC, and the massive dining room table (also known as my desk) leaves plenty of room for spreading out. What, exactly, I haven’t quite figured out. I’m still waiting on a phone. It's unlikely I'll ever see a computer.

My supervisor and I met Thursday—the day before my brother’s 30th birthday—to talk about expectations for my time in Khorixas. The structure of my job, he said, is up to me. The hospital, he added, will simply serve as my resource and support center. In the world of Peace Corps, this arrangement is ideal. Particularly over the long term. But when it comes to first days and Monday mornings it can be a bit overwhelming.

Today I packed my bag with that in mind. In addition to manuals about female empowerment, community action, domestic abuse and alcoholism, I brought an old (but still new to me) Newsweek and a book to pass the time. But my open-door policy and an extra chair--compliments of the cleaning lady--meant people were coming in and out for most of the day. Patrick and Paris, two of the hospital’s drivers, stopped by to chat about the holidays. I met a colleague who wants me to take him back to America and another whose already requested that I extend my service. There was an assistant from the morgue who also leads an HIV support group, and the director of the Red Cross for Khorixas.

I wasn’t exactly busy. But considering it was my first day in an undefined job with no real direction or guidance, in a place where I barely speak the language, things went better than expected. I read a couple of health guides and even took some notes. I volunteered to help Kate run an event for the disabled later on this month, scheduled a meeting with the Red Cross early next week, met with Tonje, a SCORE volunteer here, to talk about designing the health component of her new after school program, and worked with Jessica on an outline for the girls’ club we plan to start at her school.

All that, and I even managed to finish my book.

PCT to PCV in Two Days

New Years in Namibia meant pancakes for breakfast, real orange juice and French pressed coffee. It also meant the perfect start to 2008, and a trend I hope will hold. But ever since we arrived back in Okahandja the reality of our situation has really begun to set in. We’ve been together nearly non-stop for more than two months, and in just two days we’ll be swearing in, packing up, and heading out to our permanent sites. We won’t see each other again until reconnect in May.

Sure, the trainers have prepared us with four-hour language sessions, as well as cultural and technical sessions, too. But volunteers say service is different than training, so the 69 of us really have no idea what to expect. Despite this fact—the undefined jobs and lack of direction—we’re eager to start working. We signed up to volunteer, and that’s what we’re ready to do.

The last few have days felt more like summer camp than final preparations for swear in. Friday night’s highlight was a hilarious talent show—a pre service training tradition—that included slam poetry, dance and musical numbers, a traditional dress fashion show and a CATJAR shout out during a Britney Spears cover. The grand finale was a braai in the courtyard by a handful of PCTs filled with BBQ chicken, garlic bread, vegetable kabobs, green beans, cool drink, grilled pineapple, cinnamon apples and yes, even ice. More produce in a single meal than most of us have seen over the past two months.

The last of our language exams take place today (I had mine yesterday, and let’s just say it’s too bad tape recorders don’t register confused looks and blank stares. Is it possible to do worse the second time around?). Tomorrow we’ll head to Windhoek to shop for supplies for our future homes and visit the Peace Corps office. But as is often the case, we’re still waiting on the check from Washington. It’s unlikely we’ll receive our settling-in allowance or our first paycheck until well after we arrive at permanent site. My living situation is still unclear, and my Peace Corps supervisor told me I’ll just have to figure it out when I arrive in Khorixas (something I’m getting used to hearing/doing.) I’ll either be living on my own, or with a newlywed couple. (One guess as to which I’d prefer.)

The swear-in ceremony is Wednesday morning here in Okahandja. We’ve been practicing our pledges all week. My mama and Amanda’s mama will both be coming in from Tsumeb, and hopefully bringing Cecil along for the ride. Those of us who are station in nearby villages and towns will be leaving immediately following, while volunteers in the Kavango, Caprivi, and places in the far south, will head out early Thursday morning.

We’re all ready to go. But it will still be sad to leave.