Hitchin' A Ride

Peace Corps Volunteers aren’t allowed to drive. And since our monthly stipend breaks down to roughly $3USD a day, most of us couldn’t afford to even if we had the chance.

Because of this, travel is always a hassle and ETAs are impossible to gage. Trips that should take just a couple of hours can often exceed five or six because so many variables are out of our hands. Rides in and out of our small towns and villages usually include a set rate in an over-loaded “taxi” and a couple of hours touring the location in search of additional passengers. Drivers frequently “make turns” en route to deliver packages, drop people off, or run random errands.

But once we’re on the open road and out of our sites, most of us opt for the preferred PCV mode of transportation: free hiking. This is basically the African version of hitch hiking—standing on the side of the road and somehow thumbing a ride.

Sure, it has its downsides. There are awkward conversations and even denied marriage proposals (sometimes more than one over the course of a single ride). Standing on the roadside alone is less than fun and, especially for females, can at times feel down right dangerous.

But it has its upsides, too. More space, nicer (and safer) cars, and interesting and incredibly kind people.

Like the guy we met today.

Regular free-hikers learn quickly there are two types of drivers willing to pick up travelers. Those who worry we’ll be taken advantage of, and those who want to take advantage of us. Our ride from Okahandja to Otjiwarango definitely fell into the first group.

Not five minutes after removing our packs, a man in a four-door truck headed for Tsumeb loaded our bags into the back. (I think a half-full car of men that offered us a ride 10K up the road may have alarmed him enough to pull over.)

We talked about our jobs as volunteers and told stories from our lives in Khorixas and Caprivi (I was traveling with Ashley). In exchange he filled us in on his South African childhood and former life in Botswana and the bush. There was hardly a silent moment on our near three-hour trip. He even provided us with self-defense tips for solo-travel and gifted Ashley a Leatherman when he realized she was going around the country without one.

We pulled in to Otjiwarongo ready to unload our bags at the Taxi point. But instead, stopped in a parking lot where he told us we weren’t going anywhere until after we ate. It was like meeting a friend’s parents at a restaurant in college. He told us not to be shy, and made sure our sodas were nothing smaller than large. A few hamburgers and some plates of fries later and we were out the door.

And on our way to the pharmacy.

Where (our moms would love this) he bought packages of vitamins that he (surprise!) handed off to us as we headed out to his truck. “You have to take these if you can’t find or afford fruit,” he told us. “It’s like a bag of oranges in every tablet.” Not knowing what else to do, we said thanks.

He drove us around the corner to the taxis and waited. Two drivers approached us (both of whom I’d ridden with before), eager to get our business to Khorixas. While we negotiated, our guy stuck around. We figured it was to make sure we got off okay. Instead, he pulled up behind us and gave our driver a wave. We thought it would be a fatherly, “Take good care of these girls and get them home safe” talk, but he took it a step further and paid both our fares in the process, too.

It was without a doubt, one of my nicest free-hike moments, mostly because his kindness had been genuine. It came with no ulterior motive—simply sincere and honest concern. There was never an “Are you married?” or “Where’s your boyfriend?” or a “Can you take me to America?” during the course of our conversations. Rather, a “Please make it home safely and let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

Only thing is, it’s hard to do more when you’ve already done it all.

Getting the Green Light ...

It doesn’t take much to get the green light. That’s one of my favorite things about working here in Namibia. There’s no red tape, no background checks, interviews or paperwork. If I have an idea, I just have to offer it up. It almost always becomes a reality. Schools are eager to enrich their programs. Teachers are anxious to lighten their loads. And it seems almost everyone wants to work with the American.

In some ways this makes my life easier. But I’m finding the “system” is not without flaws. When the go ahead is quick to come by it can be hard to gage the real level of others’ commitment. So there are times when I’m ready to get the ball rolling and despite their initial enthusiasm, others are nowhere to be found.

Like today.

I was scheduled to start a session of Youth Leads (the after-school sports, leadership and life skills program Tonje and I did) at a new primary school. Gino (one of my Nam Friends) and I met with the principal last week to discuss our plan for the term, our lessons and our activities.

I swear he was on board when we walked away.

But it’s been a week since we talked. Three missed meetings and one totally MIA teacher. So understandably, I had some reservations when I headed to school this afternoon. That glimmer of enthusiasm I’d felt from the principal in our first meeting must have flickered out when he missed so many more.

I stopped at Gino’s house on the way, ready to discuss plans for our first day. And though he’d volunteered to help—more importantly, been excited to—he wasn’t ready to go, because, I found, he wasn’t even there.

Then I arrived at school to a missing principal. (Again.) And a missing teacher. (Still.) And a bunch of learners who’d never been informed. (Of course.)

It’s frustrating, but it happens when people and projects don't require much up front. So I’ll go back to school tomorrow. And then again next Tuesday (when hopefully we’ll start). Because in a place without paved streets or traffic signals, getting the green light may not always mean go—but it certainly never means stop.

Looking Back at AIDS Awareness Week

It seems like every school subject in Namibia includes at least one lesson on HIV/AIDS. The message of abstinence is drilled into learners’ heads beginning in Grade One, and by the time students reach secondary school, the words are tired, played out and mostly meaningless. So when I found out this was HIV Awareness week I wanted to do something different with my AIDS Club. Something that didn’t involve long speeches or boring lectures. And I wanted an approach that didn’t rely on instilling fear or making threats.

After years of being the students—subjected to Ministry of Health or Ministry of Education initiatives—I asked the twelve members of my club to instead, become the teachers. (Most of them already know more about HIV and AIDS than kids their age in America.) Rather than sit in class and listen to me talk about the best methods of protection or the importance of using a condom (things they’ve been told countless times before), I asked them to consider the messages they thought were most important. Things they’d been told by friends, teachers and nurses that they wanted to share not just with each other, but with their community, too.

So for two Wednesdays, these secondary school learners brainstormed and they drafted. They used sheets of flipchart paper and markers, crayons and colored pencils (all sent from friends and family back at home—thank you very much!!!) to create their own posters for HIV/AIDS. Posters that would be showcased in front of classmates during morning assembly, but that would ultimately end up on the walls of the Rapid Test center at the Khorixas Hospital.

The kids were more than enthusiastic about being given the chance to be creative. (I think the colorful supplies definitely had something to do with that.) But more than anything, after years of being on the receiving end of AIDS-related messages, I think they were grateful for the opportunity to tell others what they’d learned. Instead of being reminded of what they didn’t know, they were asked to recall and share all that they did.

On Thursday we met outside the school gates and walked together through the Location, back to the hospital and into the testing center. It was a place most of the learners had never been before. They filled every seat in the waiting room and listened quietly as employees explained the testing process from start to finish. And they asked tons of thoughtful and intelligent questions that really impressed me. It was clear their base of knowledge was high and their desire to learn more was great.

When we left, I felt like they walked away with something. Information about the testing center? That was a given. But pride? That was something new. Because for the first time, with colorful posters and positive messages, they were able to prove to their community that learners can sometimes make the best teachers, too.

Reflections of a Recreational Reader

Even with new projects and programs, fund raising, adapting and integration, my Peace Corps service has given me plenty of time to catch up on recreational reading. From Great Books to Chick Lit, biographies to memoirs, I’ve spent afternoons with nearly every genre. I’ve been keeping track of favorite quotes and meaningful passages since I first arrived in Namibia. Ultimately, what I’ve taken away from these authors and their stories may say as much about my experience as my blogs and journals do…

You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you will discover will be wonderful. What you discover will be yourself --Alan Alda

What made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met who could be anywhere. By saints, I mean people who behave decently in a strikingly indecent society --Kurt Vonnegut

There are times when, as ordinary as it all appears, it was beyond my imagination --Jhumpa Lahiri, Interpreter of Maladies

Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is just that quiet voice at the end of the day that says: I’ll try again tomorrow --Anne Hunninbale

In any city, at any hour … there are people sleeping … But…there are a few people who are awake at this hour who are both awake and dancing, and its here that we need to be…To be awake with the people who were still dancing --You Shall Know Our Velocity

Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of these things and still find calm in your heart --A greeting card

Every soft foot needs a hard sole --In the Time of Butterflies

Life only gets exciting when it gets tough --Last Song of Dusk

What do we do when we finally reach the summit and flop down? We weep. All inhibitions stripped away. We cry like babies. With joy for having scaled the mightiest of mountains, and with relief that the long torture of the climb has ended --Barry Bishop

Do not conquer the world with force, for force only causes resistance --Tao Te Ching

I am grateful for this trouble around me because it gives me an opportunity to see how fortunate I am --Chuang-Tse

If we citizens do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our own imagination at the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams --Yann Martel, The Life of Pi

The arts are not a way of making a living. They are a way of making life more bearable --Kurt Vonnegut

There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely—a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement --Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Cheating Death in a Donkey Cart

Few things are more Namibian than a donkey cart ride at sunset.

And, as I learned today, few things are more terrifying.



In a town where cars are scarce and distances can be far, families rely on these makeshift vehicles to carry them from home to farm or farm to town.

Namibians make it look easy. When they do it, it seems almost safe.

But for a couple of volunteers (including one from NYC) mounting a donkey cart is a lot like asking to die.

Especially with Speech at the reigns.



While I’ve ridden the Magnum at Cedar Point and taken taxicabs on New Year’s Eve, I’ve never felt the fear of death quite like I did tonight. We tore through the rocky streets of Khorixas in a rickety cart made from a rusted-out truck bed perched on two rejected car tires.

I crouched on a thin metal ledge as Speech whipped our three donkeys into gear with a worn rubber strap, and I clutched Jessica’s knee with a fierce white-knuckle grip while thanking God for the two tiny and fearless learners using my shoulders for balance. Round-faced children lined the streets yelling, "//Osa! //Osa!" and grannies clapped their hands as we barreled past.



If Khorixas had a newspaper, we would be all over tomorrow’s front page: Three crazy white girls fearing for their lives aboard Namibia’s most popular mode of transport. But it doesn't, so we won't.

And instead, we'll wake up in the morning just happy to still be alive.

Gratitude

Eight months makes a place feel like home. There are faces I recognize. Friends who drop by. Children who yell my name now instead of someone else’s. There are quiet roads I know, and busy days I can prepare for.

But there are still moments when, despite loving the life I’m learning to live, it’s easy to feel far from family and friends.

Which is why I want to say thank you.

Thank you to a Mom and Dad who send care packages more often than most. To Aunts and Uncles who pack a laundry list of wishes into a plain cardboard box. To old roommates who write near weekly letters and former coworkers who insure I’m always taking my vitamins. To best friends who respond immediately to text messages and past editors who keep my bookshelves stocked. To family friends who brought Crayola crayons and scented markers to our kids and to the girl who's decided to do her Mitzvah project for Khorixas. To the strangers who’ve sent school supplies and sporting goods and to the people who’ve pledged their support for my dental program.

Thank you.

Thank you for your generosity.

Thank you for your kindness.

Thank you for making those hard days somehow easier to bear. And for reminding me that even across an ocean and a continent away, I'm never that far from home.