Thursday, May 29, 2008

Saying Goodbye

It's been just seven months, but already some of my first (and closest) Khorixas friends are moving away. This weekend, Lani, Benjamin and Doreen will be heading to the coast (and the mines) to start schooling. And in less than two weeks, Tonje, the SCORE volunteer who introduced me to most everyone I know, will be heading back to Norway after a year of service.

I'm sad to see them go, but excited about what lies ahead for them. Plus, we had a great time saying goodbye.


The Goat Braai


The Volunteers: Jessica, Me, Tonje and Richel (One of the NAM-VIPS)


Me & Benjamin (Wearing His Sunglasses at Night)


The Steps


Me Learning the Steps


More Integration...


Jessica and Speech Cutting It Up


The Whole Gang

Botswana Bound Part 2: In Pictures


Giraffes in Maun


My First Zebra


The Okavango River


The Okavango Delta


Bucket Baths on the Delta


Water Lily on the Delta


Our First (of Several) Mac Truck Hikes

Botswana Bound Part 2: Kasane to Windhoek

One of the best parts of Peace Corps travel is meeting other Peace Corps Volunteers. That’s partly because they understand the ups and downs of this unique experience. But it’s also because they hold priceless advice for traveling through their country of service on the cheap, and even offer free accommodations to fellow PCVs.

Our final night in Kasane, as Tina, Jeffie B, Ashley, Rachel and I sat around a hightop table planning our next day’s move, a guy from NYC pointed out a fellow PCV standing near the bar with a couple of friends. Unlike most conversations with complete strangers—the ones that leave both parties grasping at straws for a point of interest—we knew from the start we had something in common.

We were all Americans. And better yet, we were all PCVs.

After a few minutes of back story—where we were from, where we were living and our general job descriptions—we mentioned that the following morning we’d be traveling to Maun for a couple of days near the Okavango Delta before heading back to Windhoek via Gobabis.

Our new PCV friend gave us the best route for safe arrival (which included hitch hiking and two buses—one of which traveled along, perhaps, the worst laid road in Southern Africa), as well as the number of a PCV in Maun who was happy to allow other PCVs to camp in her yard.

Six hours, two buses and a few giraffe and zebra later we arrived in Maun. The busy shopping town reminded me a lot of Otjiwarango. We called our new PCV friend—an energetic and artsy grandmother type—who met us at the bus stop and offered to take us out to dinner.

On her.

It was the first of many beyond hospitable things she did for us. Not the least of which included doing our laundry, showing us around, cooking us dinner, and allowing us to stay, free of charge, for four nights in the yard of her location home. Our days were filled with aimless wandering around town and through the nature reserve. Our nights, with family style dinners and fantastic conversation.

Our final night in Maun was also the sixth-month anniversary of our arrival in Namibia. We opted to celebrate with a private sunset boat tour of the Okavango Delta and a night at Back to the Backpackers camping site, just outside of town. (Two luxuries we could afford only because of our hostesses’ generosity.) The accommodations were amazing. Flat, clear patches for pitching tents right next to the river. Hot showers. Delicious (and affordable) food. Even gin and tonics. Plus, an incredible view of the Okavango River.

Rachel and I spent the earlier part of the day learning to weave the traditional baskets of Botswana with guidance from the most patient and kind woman I’ve met. IN additional to inviting tourists and travelers into her home, she travels to local schools and instructs girls on the tradition. She told us even if they did not pass grade ten, they would still have a marketable and moneymaking skill to help them survive. We (wrongly) assumed we’d be walking away, four hours later, with a product similar to those we’d seen displayed at roadside stands: handcrafted palm frans bowls the size of large dinner plates, with intricate designs and spellbinding patterns.

Instead, we returned with “baskets” only the size of coasters. Four hours of knot tying and weaving—it seems—is much harder than it looks.

At 5 pm we piled into a private boat with wine and cheese (two items rarely found in the PCV town, diet or budget, for that matter) and headed towards the delta for sunset. There was little wildlife to be seen, but after the success in Kasane, we were far from disappointed. To be on the much-storied Delta among tall swamp grass and warm, peaceful breezes, made us more than happy.

The next day, mid-afternoon, we said goodbye to Maun and headed back to the bus stop. Our exceptional hostess warned us that the mini bus to Ghanzi could be an experience.

But we wouldn’t know. We never made it on.

After two hours of waiting in the blazing sun, far from any real shade, the mini bus pulled up and a crowd we hadn’t even spotted rushed the doors. Before the vehicle had a chance to slow, let alone stop, women were ripping open the doors and throwing their bodies into seats and aisles. Children were being crushed by the body weight of towering adults, and grown men were throwing women out of the way.

Despite her hefty bag, which she used as a shield, Ashley was left at the wayside. Even my NYC rush-hour subway skills were no match for the ravenous crowd. I was quickly shoved to the side, where I would have toppled over, had my flailing arms not made direct contact with a woman’s chest to catch my balance. Only Jeffie B made it safely inside. But when he realized he was the soul victor of our hard-fought battle, he regretfully unloaded and walked with the rest of us to a hike point a few kilometers away.

The road to Ghanzi is anything but well traveled. We stood together at the roadside and quietly wondered whether we’d ever made it out of Maun. (If the mini bus was an indication—a successful departure seemed unlikely). But less than an hour after dropping our packs and waving our hands, a Mac truck pulled up and offered all five of us a ride.

It was cramped quarters. Five PCVs, a driver, and another passenger, stuffed into the cab of a mammoth mobile. But we were happy to be on our way and not about to complain. We arrived just before dark (with a pit in our stomachs from the thud of a dog we’d hit along the way) and said goodbye to our kind drivers before preparing to set up camp.

In the rain.

There are few things less fun than folding your body into an awkward and uncomfortable position for five hours with a couple of strangers. Pitching a tent in high winds and downpour (particularly when rainy season is supposed to be over) has got to be one of them. Luckily our tents, if not our selves, turned out to be waterproof.

The next morning—after a night of fear that heinous winds might rip our tents from the ground—we were on the road with another Mac trucker.

Namibia bound.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Botswana Bound Part I: In Pictures


We Crossed the Border...Now What?


One of Our First Elephant Sightings


Mama and Baby


Three Elephants Stopping for a Cool Drink


View of the Chobe River


A Kudu. (For the record, these are actually the size of moose)


A Bunch of Baboons


One Lone Hippo Peeking Up...


...While Another Lounges on the Sand


Sunset on the Chobe

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Botswana Bound Part I: Windhoek to Kasane

There’s luxury travel.

There’s budget travel.

And then, there’s Peace Corps travel.

Sure, it’s lovely to do the first. And it takes skill to do the second. But for a select few there’s a two-year window that allows for the third.

It requires a bit of creativity and a lot of flexibility. But that may be why a group of us were so eager to celebrate our first six months in Africa the Peace Corps way: with a roundabout trip from Windhoek to Windhoek via Botswana.

It wasn’t direct. But it was scenic.

The adventure began after my week at GLOW. A handful of facilitators, one pop star and a team of Nam PCVs successfully illustrated the importance of teamwork, communication and leadership to a group of learners from all over Namibia. But a couple of scheduling mishaps, a few illnesses and 168 hours straight with 80 learners meant we were all ready for a bit of a break. So after a night in a hostel—the closest thing to privacy I’d had all week—we piled into a taxi and headed to the B1. Caprivi bound!

Now, I spent six years in New York. I’ve taken my fair share of cabs. And without a doubt, I’ve been taken for a ride. Probably more than once. But to ask a taxi in Windhoek to drop you at the B1 is a lot like asking a taxi in NYC to drop you on Broadway. They’re both big roads. The kind you’d expect a professional driver to at least be familiar with. So it came as a bit of a surprise to learn our guy, who had been running his taxi for six years, not only didn’t know where the B1 was, but also, didn’t know WHAT the B1 was.

Seven dollars and a few basic hand signals later we were at the B1. The four of us heading north divided into pairs and spread out along the highway. Since PCVs aren’t allowed to drive cars, and the cost of petrol has made kombis nearly unaffordable on our budgets, we opted to free hike as far as we could go.

Luckily for us, that meant all the way to Botswana.

Free rides usually mean committing to conversation, so Rachel and I traded off riding shotgun. I lucked out: A police officer from Windhoek who was worried about two girls standing on the side of the road alone, and an Afrikaner who worked or the Ministry of Agriculture and owned a farm outside of Khorixas.

Rachel—well—not so much. She spent the first leg of our journey feigning interest in a roadmaster who spouted random facts about the width of Namibian streets and the composition of tar on heavily versus rarely traveled roads. And the final five hours talking about an imaginary American boyfriend in an effort to fend of marriage proposals from a guy who claimed he wore his wedding ring “only for pleasure.” Not because he was married. (Right.)

Our hikes were hit or miss, but other friends heading north hit the jackpot when a woman who was not only heading to the Kavango (where we planned to overnight on straw mats at the home of a Nam 25er), but also onto Caprivi—our final Namibian destination. They convinced her—with the lure of a real bed after a long journey and a warm meaty meal—to stay in Rundu. So the next morning, by 5 a.m., we were comfortably seated in a new car heading to Katima.

No waiting.

No waving.

Glorious.

We met up with a few more PCVs in Katima, and after a traditional meal of porridge and fish, headed to the village (and mud huts) where we’d overnight before heading to the Botswana border. Another night on straw mats, before taking up our early morning stations on the side of the road. Despite a serious lack of vehicles we were on the road in under an hour.

A police officer dropped us off at the border post where we filled out some paperwork before walking across a bridge over the Chobe and Okavango rivers into Botswana. It was the first time I’d ever walked into another country, and the view was amazing.

We set down our packs, munched on some Trader Joe’s trail mix from America, and in less than an hour, were piled in the backseat of a four-door truck with an incredibly kind family from Zimbabwe. Not only did they rearrange their cargo to accommodate our bags, their teenage daughter offered to tuck herself in the bed of the truck to make room for the four of us up front.

The road to Kasane runs parallel to Chobe National Park. It’s home to the largest population of African Elephants in the world. Something like 120,000. We talked about Zimbabwe politics, the election, and the rejection of China’s arms but still kept our eyes trained on the bush. Minutes into the country and we were already desperate to see an elephant.

That didn’t take long.

Seeing these mammoth animals in their natural habitat quite literally took our breath away. Our ride humored us by stopping while we Ohhed and Ahhed the way some tourists do at the squirrels in Washington Square Park. (Now I kind of understand—although I’d like to think there’s something slightly more magical about a massive elephant than a tiny rodent.) They backed up their truck. Paused at the roadside. And in the end, probably got as big a kick from our reactions as we did from the elephants.

We said goodbye to our ride in Kasane and hello to two other volunteers. They’d traveled the day before us and arrived at our campsite early. We pitched our tents on the Chobe River, where we were lucky enough to hear hippos grazing on swamp grass every night. (We were, however, protected by an electric fence.)

The highlight of Kasane was not a fancy lodge—since we don’t have the clothes. Or an exotic game drive-since we didn’t have the money. Instead, it was a group boat ride on the Chobe hosted by our hostel. It proved to be not only one of the highlights of the town, but also of our trip.

In two hours I saw more wildlife in Botswana than I’d seen in six months in Khorixas. Elephants. TONS of elephants. Hippos. Giraffes. Kudu. Baboons. Water buffalo. Crocodile. And well—even just the water was something to see.

It’s amazing how months of desert and sand have a way of making even clear blue rivers a site to see.

GLOWing

Few things require more work, patience or planning than teaching.

Except for maybe Camp GLOW. (Guys and Girls Leading Our World.)

Each year this Peace Corps original gathers nearly 100 promising learners from across Namibia’s 13 regions, for a week-long exercise in leadership. One that uses teamwork to develop critical thinking skills, and encourages communication and self-esteem while building trust.



The logistics required to bring dozens of learners from home to Windhoek can be a nightmare. And keeping just as many kids focused and on task can be insane. But it’s an experience that, in some ways, is as meaningful for the PCVs as it is for the students. Partly because we can see change as it happens.

Sure, GLOW may not be unique by American standards. Field trips to the Capitol or universities, teambuilding activities like the trust fall, future planning, and candid conversations about sex and relationships are nearly commonplace in the States.



But here in Namibia, where group activities are rarely part of the classroom and learning often consists of copying lessons from the board, GLOW in a novel concept. It provides kids from different tribes, who speak different languages and who come from very different backgrounds, with the opportunity to actively solve problems and overcome challenges.

Together.

Maybe it doesn’t sound like much. Not in the face of alarmingly low pass rates or an extremely high prevalence of HIV. But when the girl with the softest voice stands before her peers and finally, with confidence, shouts her story out loud, it’s immediate evidence of positive change.



And when—five days into camp—a learner given the nickname “Nobody” by his teachers, asks instead to be called “Somebody”—well, it’s difficult for anyone to argue experiences like GLOW don’t have a lasting impact.

Not just for the learners. But for us volunteers, too.