Namibian Chaos

Nothing happens fast in Namibia.

Meetings are long. Speeches are endless. And leaving “now” means “see you in a few hours.”

Nothing happens fast, except one thing:

Moving out.

The Matron called me at 4:30 this afternoon.

Sit down she says. And follows with:

You need to have everything moved out of your flat before you leave for Windhoek tomorrow morning.

At 6 a.m.

Um.

Good luck.

It was like being told—the day my luggage failed to appear—that I had just two hours to buy everything I’d need for the next two years in a country I’d only just arrived in.

What?!

Renovations—the ones that have been posted at the hospital gate since the day I first came back in late November—are finally getting started.

New and improved.

Coming soon.

And it’s all starting?

With me.

Fifteen months. That’s the estimated time for project completion. But because this is construction—construction in Africa no less, I have a feeling I’ll be finished with service well before they’re finished with improvements.

I was told to pack my bags and leave them in a room the size of my bedroom. A room that will presumably become mine upon return. One with no outlets, no light. Nowhere to cook or store food. With no burglar bars, or even a key to the door.

Instead?

I took my things to Jessica’s.

She thought she was just dropping off her sewing kit and then celebrating her birthday. She ended up schlepping my possessions halfway across town with a driver name Sapho in what I’m pretty sure is the hospital morgue truck.

“It’s all fine,” she said. “Namibian chaos loses again. We know it will attack, but we’re ever prepared.”

Or at least we’re getting good at being prepared.

So come 6 a.m. tomorrow, I’ll take the remainder of my things to her place. Head to Windhoek for Camp Glow, then spend a week in Botswana before heading back to the capital for more Peace Corps training.

Then I’ll return to Khorixas.

Only thing is, for now, I’m just not sure where.