Dental Update: Just a Toothbrush

Thanks to generous donations from friends, family and strangers, the first batch of toothbrushes and toothpaste (nearly 300 of each!) for my oral care workshops has been purchased. (As it turns out, a similar quantity of dental floss is going to be near impossible to find. I’m considering the alternatives as I write this.)

Donated funds are in no way depleted, but unfortunately, the current stock of oral hygiene products at ShopRite, Super Spar, and PickNPay is.



So while I wait for the coffers to be replenished, I wanted to once again say thanks.

My workshops are scheduled to begin in September at !Gaib Primary School. About 120 learners in grades 4, 5, 6 and 7 will get all they need to keep their teeth bright and their gums healthy.

All because of you.

Having a Field Day

It’s been a couple of weeks since the Youth Leads kids hosted their own field day. But they did such a good job, and were so proud of their accomplishments, that I thought it deserved some recognition here on my blog.



After 11 weeks of after-school training in sports, leadership and health, 15 learners in grades 5, 6 and 7 organized and conducted their very own field day for the younger kids.



Our kids taught other students the games they’d learned from me and Tonje. They made signs for their stations, broke learners into smaller groups and made sure everything ran efficiently—all on their own.

It was a proud moment—not just for them—but for us, too.


Beauty Teaching "Bang"


Battleship


Rosa and the Girls Teaching Crocodile Crossing


The Kids Playing Crocodile Crossing

Weird Science

Jessica spent a lot of time working with the science fair kids at Eddie Bowe preparing for the regional competition (held here in Khorixas). In the end, all that hard work paid off. Come September they’ll be heading to the nationals in Windhoek, putting their projects up against kids from all over the country. (So keep your fingers crossed!)


Here they are after the big win.

Breaking Ground

It took months of planning to get our new gardening project up and running. But last week, a handful of orphans gathered to break ground and create seedbeds for carrots, potatoes and other vegetables. Our hope is that what’s grown in these plots can be used to feed these kids, who rarely have enough to eat. And that by learning how to cultivate their own land, they’ll be walking away not only with full bellies, but a marketable skill for the future.

There’s some obvious challenges—one being water (this is, after all, the desert). The other being soil (which for the record, is mostly rocks and sand). But we’ve enlisted the help of some local growers who are experts in area agriculture.

From the looks of things, I’d say we’re headed in the right direction.


Preparing the Beds


Still Preparing...


Teamwork


Taking a Break

Special Delivery

My post box is rarely empty. Friends and family are good about sending letters and pictures, books and DVDs, school supplies, stickers and other American treats. There are things to keep for myself, and others to share with the kids. Items to use with Girls Club or on other projects and causes. It’s nice to feel loved (especially when that love comes in the form of novels and M&Ms). The contents are always different, but the names and places they come from are usually the same.

This week, however, I received something I wasn’t expecting: a package that truly tops the charts. It wasn’t sent by my mom, my best friend, or a former colleague. Instead, it came from two little girls, ages four and six. Names I didn’t recognized, but from a town where I used to live.

The box—mammoth in size—came wrapped in brown paper bags, and was filled to the brim with picture books and craft supplies. The contents were fun to sift through, fingertips touching Green Eggs and Ham, Clifford, and other childhood favorites. But the letter was by far the best part.

It was written by their mother, who it turns out, knows my former editor. One of her daughters, she said, had just completed a unit on Africa in school. After learning about the continent and seeing pictures of children in Khorixas on my blog, her two girls decided they wanted to help somehow, too.

So they collected books, crayons, stickers and beads from their own shelves and cabinets. Treasures they were somehow willing to part with, because these items, they decided, could be better put to use by children half way around the world.

They packed them up and shipped them off. And today, their gracious gifts have become the prized possessions of learners who, until now, have never owned a book. Stacks of their favorite stories have become a library for the orphanage, and a seashell bracelet on the wrist of an HIV positive girl actually makes her feel she’s beautiful.

I’ve seen a lot of things as a volunteer. Things that have made me question the system, myself, and at the worst of times, humanity.

But then these two little girls came along: proof of the kindness of strangers. A reminder that even the littlest ones among us have the potential to do big and selfless things.

Knock! Knock!

We live in a hostel with about 400 primary school kids. So when there’s a knock on our door, on weekends or at night, it’s usually a learner looking for food, or eager to show off a new finger trick taught to them by Jessica. Sometimes it’s Kennedy wanting to practice his reading. Other times it’s friends, just wanting to hang out.

But today, none of these was the case.

Kennedy had already come and gone—finishing six more pages of a book I originally thought far surpassed his reading level. (Turns out, he’s doing awesome.) Jessica was in her room doing work and I was cooking lunch when a knock—or rather—a pound—came at the door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Who is it?” I yelled. But the answer was hard to decipher between the language barrier, the accent and a wooden door. I asked again.

“Mfupmpf,” he said.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she knocks—especially when you can’t actually understand who it is. Learners tap furiously 10 or 15 times, pause for a moment, then start rapping again. They are tireless. Richel’s knocks come in threes, and Speech—well, let’s just say you can always tell when Speech is at the door.

This was a pound—with fists. And most certainly a man, judging from his voice. Had I been home alone, or had it been at night, I probably would have pretended to be out or stood quietly in the hallway until he grew tired and went away.

But since it was mid-morning and he was there, I was here, and Jessica was in her room, I opened the door.

Outside was a man (drunk) with half of a freshly killed donkey carcass slung over his shoulder, still bloody and covered with small gray hairs. I said hello, and not 10 seconds later, he launched into a profession of his undying love for me. “I want to start a relationship with you!” he slurred, as he grabbed my hand. (Anyone who knows me will tell you arriving covered in animal flesh is no way to kick things off.)

I’ve lived in Namibia for a while now, so I’ve grown used to this kind of exchange. From guys in town, visitors to my office, even taxi drivers on long rides from Otjiwarango to Khorixas. I’ve been followed from the post office by men chanting explicit rap lyrics, and waved down in the street by drunken men with few teeth eager to confess their love. (Moments that remind me a bit of my previous New York City life.)

In most cases, it’s possible to move away. I leave the store, walk out of my office, head back from town, and even in the taxi, at least turn on my iPod. (Special thanks to those of you who chipped in—and therefore saved my sanity on occasions too numerous to count.)

But when someone comes to your home professing his love, that’s a different story entirely. And moving away isn’t necessarily an option.

I asked if he knew who I was. (He didn’t.)

I asked if we’d met before. (We hadn’t.)

I wondered if he knew my name. (He didn’t.)

I wanted to ask if he even knew what love was—but the answer to that seemed obvious.

The whole situation was somehow humorous—at least for a second—until I realized his hand was on the door, pulling it open and his foot was in our flat. “You have to leave now,” I said. “Let go of the door.”

It was my sternest voice, and it wasn’t working.

He offered me N$10 to go somewhere with him, to get this relationship started. I could think of a dozen things I’d take—and use—N$10 for, but this wasn’t one of them. Not even close.

“Let go of the door,” I said again, this time, a bit louder. This time, really meaning it. This time, actually yanking it.

I could smell the alcohol on his breath and knew to try and negotiate would be pointless. A handful of health classes, four years of college and plenty of life experience have proved you can’t reason with a drunk. And while 10 months in this country have taught me there’s plenty of room for misinterpreting things in a different culture, I was confident that this time, that wasn’t the case.

His hand was on the door, his foot was in my house and his mouth was in my face.

I made a promise when I arrived to Namibia that I would never put myself in jeopardy for the sake of sparing someone else’s feelings. Social faux pas stink (and I’ve had my fair share)—but the alternative is even worse. Asking this guy to leave, then telling him he had to go, all while he was prying the door open and trying to come inside, meant I wasn’t too worried about how he was going to feel—whether he’d be walking away with a bruised ego or in a state of confusion.

I was, in fact, more worried about myself.

“Go. Now,” I said again. I moved his hand from the door several more times, knowing Jessica was nearby if things got any worse.

In the end, after much back and forth, he left, taking the donkey carcass with him. (Thank God.)

And while I was happy to have handled the situation calmly and on my own, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d done the right thing. Maybe he was just trying to be nice—offering the half a donkey as a token of his affection. (So what if he didn’t actually know me and we’d never even met?) Maybe he left after our confrontation wondering what he’d done wrong when he was actually just trying to be a good neighbor or prove himself a promising partner.

See, that’s the thing about this place. I can be so sure of things—and of myself—one minute, and entirely uncertain of it all the very next.

Doing Well When Doing Without

I remember the day I arrived in Khorixas. It was dusty and dry, unfamiliar and unreal. I couldn’t help but think, “This is going to be a challenge.”

The job I’d been requested to do sounded a bit like a graphic design post anywhere else. They wanted me to create posters and pamphlets, graphs and charts, related to any one of the hundreds of diseases that plague the community. I thought it’d be tough—but I figured it’d still be doable.

Then the Matron showed me my “office.”

There was an empty filing cabinet against one of the cement walls, and two shelves of printed materials (circa 1991) pushed against another. There was a desk that most likely served as a dining table in a former life, and a single chair.

It was more than I expected (this is Peace Corps, after all). But I didn’t really have what I needed. Where was the computer? The printer? The phone line and the paper? Where were the materials I’d use to successfully tackle my job assignment?

No one knew.

That was eight months ago. I didn’t have them then, and I still don’t have them now. But what I do have is a new perspective and a different approach. I realized that doing my job here is a lot like solving a puzzle. I get only a few pieces and with them, I have to come up with the entire picture. It’s just about being creative when filling in the blanks.

Sure, there have been challenges—not the least of which is my inability to create the documents they actually wanted. But I’m learning that, resources or not, my job remains the same. And just like everyone else’s, it has to get done. I may have obstacles to overcome and lack the resources that I need. But I’m not the only one. That’s just how it is here.

I knew this before, sure. But I guess I re-realized yesterday, when I met with the new Principal Medical Officer (PMO) for the first time.

I set up an appointment hoping to learn more about him, but also to tell him more about me, my work and my goals as a volunteer. I explained that while I was originally brought in to create educational materials, my office lacked the resources and supplies required. Instead, I focused my efforts on finding ways to disseminate the same information in new (and non-computer dependant) ways.

This meant lifeskills classes and sex education for the primary schools and an Awareness Club at the secondary school to talk about HIV/AIDS. It meant leadership programs after study and sports and reading programs on the weekend. There were facilitator guides to be written and oral care workshops being planned. Plus a new program for orphans to teach job skills and provide food.

It may not be posters. But it’s the same information, just presented in a different way. And interacting with the people makes my job a lot more fun.

The new PMO seemed to understand. And honestly, I think he was even a bit impressed. “That’s what you have to do in Africa,” he said. “Learn to keep doing even when you’re doing without.”

Then he told me about his first year as a doctor. He attended a prestigious medical school, studied under renowned physicians and gained technical training on modern machines. He knew how to save lives with the proper resources. But when he arrived at his first post—a tiny village in rural Nigeria—none of that really mattered. There were no ultrasound or life support machines, because there wasn’t electricity or even running water. He was performing surgeries he’d never heard of all on his own. He had to quickly come to terms with his limited resources and find new ways to do his job despite what he was forced to do without.

While the work we’re called upon to do is very different (obviously—he’s a surgeon and I’m a journalist) the situations we’ve found ourselves in are still a lot alike. We learned our jobs from the best teachers under the best of circumstances. But we’re called to practice our vocations in a place where conditions are less ideal. Where resourses are beyond limited.

But the thing is—we both know it can be done. It can be done without fancy machines. Without state-of-the-art computers. Without electricity and without funds. It can be done—it just has to be done differently.

And we have to continue to remind ourselves that we can still do, even when we’re doing without.

Dear Nam 28,

Dear Nam 28,

Around this time last year, my roommate Danielle called my office from our apartment in Alphabet City. She tore open my much-anticipated invitation and as I held my breath on the other end of the line, she screamed that I’d be spending the next two years in Namibia.

I remember being excited. But I also recall thinking, “Namibia—now where the hell is that?”

So I can only imagine, at this moment, some of you are feeling the exact same way. Excited about all that lies ahead. But nervous, because you’ll have to tie up the loose ends of your life in less than two months and prepare for a two-year adventure that seems nearly impossible to pack for.

Two years.

Forty-five pounds.

No one knows better than a fellow PCV: it’s a lot to wrap your head around.

Which is why I’m sharing the best advice I got while busy laying out clothes, setting aside sunscreen and figuring out how to stuff two years worth of tampons into one backpack and still leave room for the things I’d really need.

The advice? You’ll be fine, so long as you pack these five things: A Leatherman, a pair of Chacos, a Nalgene bottle, headlamp and pictures of family and friends.

The rest? Well, it can be bought upon arrival or disregarded entirely.

Knowing this—especially in the midst of all that’s going on in your life right now—is liberating. Plus it makes packing a lot easier. And after 10 months at site, I can confidently assure you (with the exception of sunglasses) this list is complete, and accurate.

And it made my life a heck of a lot easier.

Sure, the extras are nice—warm socks for winter nights, drink mixes to make water more palatable, books to pass the time. But socks won’t cut the rope you need to hang your mosquito net and you can’t drink water if you don’t have a Nalgene. Books won’t matter if you don’t have electricity, since you can’t see them once it’s dark. And even though space it at a premium, photos of family and friends are small, flat and nice to have when the days get tough.

Plus, they’re impossible to find here---even in Windhoek.

Good Luck! (And see you soon!)

--Jill

Reflections of a Recreational Reader: Part II

The dental curriculum is done and scheduled to launch next month. Our new garden for orphans and vulnerable children (OVCs) is out of planning mode and finally coming to fruition. And at least one of my facilitator guides is ready for publication.

I’m starting a reading program at the orphanage and preparing new lessons and activities for Girls Club and my Awareness group. Yet despite these projects and programs, guides and gardens, I still find time for reading.

Lots of it.

Thankfully, I have a former editor, an old colleague and some good friends to supply me (and by extension, other PCVs,) with a steady stream of new novels, biographies, essays and short stories. So now, just as before, I thought I’d share some of the more meaningful passages and favorite quotes that I’ve come across along the way.

Knowing what matters is easy. Choosing what matters—that’s the hardest part.
--The Secret Life of Bees

But the stronger ones raised up the weaker ones, and both became stronger in the process.
--Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

A leader is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go on ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realizing that all along they are being directed from behind.
-- Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunters.
--African Proverb

It is only our arrogance that prompts us to find unnecessarily complicated answers to simple problems.
--Muhammad Yunus, Banker to the Poor

It is not the big events that hurt the most, but rather the smallest questionable shift in tone at the end of a spoken word that can plow most deeply into the heart.
--Shop Girl

We are imperfect mental beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn out losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves.
--Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

We are drawn to what abandoned us but we are defined by what embraces us.
--The Tender Bar

Failure is part of learning. Fear of failure can paralyze you. If you don’t risk looking ridiculous or inept or even stupid sometimes, you may stay secure, but you’ll also stay the same.
--Maria Shriver

Here, freedom was not entertainment like a carnival ride or a hoedown…Here freedom was a test administered by the natural world that a man had to take for himself everyday. And if he passed enough tests long enough, he was king.
--Toni Morrison, Paradise

I never saw a wild thing that was sorry for itself
--D.H. Lawrence

We imagined we knew everything the other thought, even when we did not necessarily want to know it, but in fact, I have come to see, we knew not the smallest fraction of all there was to know.
-Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

It’s difficult to remember how we thought about the known before it became known.
--Sloane Crosley, I Was Told There’d Be Cake

It is what we make out of what we have, not what we are given, that separates one person from another.
--Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

M.I.A. The Cell Phone Edition

I’ve been pretty out of touch lately. Not because nothing’s been happening, but because my access to Internet has been extremely limited.

For a while I was able to post updates from my computer using my cell phone’s Bluetooth connection. It’s a luxury that may only exist for Peace Corps Volunteers in Namibia. (And it’s one I’ve been extremely grateful to have up until now.)

But this being the desert, sand has a way of wreaking havoc on electronics. Less than six months after purchasing said cell phone, the software went caput, the warranty was not honored and a new (yet similarly dysfunctional) phone was purchased.

I’m hoping at some point to get the old system back up and operating.

So, while I’ve been able to check email and sometimes respond using my phone, posting here has been a real challenge. In an exercise of sanity preservation, I decided to wait until Windhoek to post more on my blog.

I know it’s been a while. Thanks for bearing with me.