Better Late Than Never: Christmas in Nkata Bay

People who prefer to live life with a sense of order and continuity will likely find this blog post--and the next--maddening. They're about the final leg of our Christmas holiday, which according to my calendar (and I’m assuming, also yours) should have been posted about three months ago. But the way I see it, better late than never, right?

So here goes.

If you remember, I headed out on a month-long holiday adventure with a handful of other PCVs. We visited Victoria Falls, where I saw my too short life flash before my eyes while rafting the Zambezi, we celebrated my 28th birthday, and visited Lake Malawi and Monitor Island, too. We’d had nothing but smooth(ish) sailing—at least in terms of travel. Our buses left mostly on time, we were seated in relatively comfortable positions (all things considered) and even the roads were decent.

But all that ended when we left Senga Bay. That’s when the headaches and the hassles of traveling in a developing country (more specifically, a developing country you don't live in) started to become abundantly clear.

We missed the last day bus out of Senga Bay, and rather than wait 13 hours in a dark bus rink in a strange town, we hopped aboard a minibus driven by a man named Cabbage and spent the night here. In the morning, we pulled on our packs and headed out to the road. We planned to walk the 4K to where buses waited in the main part of town, but on our way, a combi with a sign reading “Nkata Bay” pulled up and offered to take us to our Christmas destination.

For twice the going rate.

That should have been the first sign: This wasn’t the ride for us.

But instead, we negotiated a better price (i.e. a fair price), unloaded our bags and got into the car.

We collected other passengers (since combis never leave before they’re full) and were on our way within the hour. It all seemed promising. That is, until our driver pulled over about a third of the way, and cut the engine. All of the other passengers got out.

“We’re having problems with the breaks. You’ll have to wait here while we service it. We’ll come back and collect you,” he said.

We exchanged looks with one another.

Now I’m no mechanic, but I was fairly certain that, had there really been problems with the breaks, I would have noticed sometime in the last 200K. I tapped Dar on the shoulder, and she said as much to the guy who’d been sitting next to her.

“Nkata Bay?!” he asked—obviously surprised. “This guy can’t drive there. He’s only licensed to travel up to here.”

It seems our driver had gotten word of the foreigners staying in town the night before, and learning our destination, decided to see just how much cash he could get out of us. He never intended to take us to Nkata Bay, and as we suspected, he had no designs on picking us up once the car was “serviced” either.

So we sat there. The five of us. And we didn’t move. Dar pulled out a map and began to explain where we were versus where we’d paid to go, then did some quick math to determine just how much cash we needed back. The driver wasn’t having it, and kept pleading with us to be “fair and reasonable.” (Two words I’m not convinced he knew the meaning of.) He tried to convince us that he should keep the money, and that one of the other combi drivers would happily take us for free. But when we challenged him to arrange it, he looked at us like we’d gone mad. Things got heated, mainly because as budget travelers, we weren’t willing to walk away paying three times the cost of a trip that took us merely a third of the way. While we continued to voice our grievances, a crowd of drivers gathered around and tried to negotiate rates for the rest of our journey.

Dar mentioned something about the Christmas spirit, the season of Jesus, how God was watching, and ended with something about the Ten Commandments. Then, with a look of regret (not for his actions, but for being caught), the driver handed over our money. And we found ourselves, once again, on the side of the road.

Frustrated, we hauled our packs to the shaded stoop of a shop and waited. For what, we weren’t exactly sure. A local radio DJ who was walking the streets heard our argument with the combi driver and came over to make sure we were okay. He pointed to the row of minibuses on the other side of the road (minibuses that had all now conveniently switched their signs to read “Nkata Bay”) and warned us against taking them for the duration of our trip. It seemed they had a reputation for claiming to go one place, then dropping foreigns somewhere else entirely.

We didn’t need any further convincing.

He waited with us for a while. He took Dar to buy sunglasses, showed us the best spot for cooldrinks and told us about a real bus coming through later that day. It was our best bet for arriving in Nkata Bay safely.

So, three hours later, we said goodbye and boarded a bus packed with passengers. There was no place to sit, but we were happy to finally be on our way. This time, in a relatively reliable mode of transportation. We bought roasted ears of corn and bags of water through bus windows. And after two day’s journey, we arrived at our Christmas destination. I’d never been so happy—or so relieved.

Nkata Bay was beautiful. Our campsite had views of Lake Malawi and it was just a minute’s walk to the beach. Yet despite the breathtaking sites and the sparkling, clear water, spending Christmas away from family was, as always, a bit hard. Last year, I had my Namibian family to celebrate with. And this year, I had my Peace Corps friends. While it was mostly fun, sitting by the beach, listening to Christmas carols and drinking Mosi—I’d be lying if I said it was even close to the same. There was no snow. No midnight Mass. No roaring fire. No Christmas tree to decorate.

But there was, of course, food!

And lots of it.

There weren’t any of our traditional American dishes—I never expected that anyway—but there were tables filled with vegetables and fruits, a spit with a roasting pig, homemade breads and rolls, dishes of sides and plates of dessert. There was more than enough to eat (and more variety than we’d seen in over a year). It was a true holiday feast.

It was all delicious, but my favorite part was that it was a meal in keeping with the spirit of the season. Once guests had lined up and their plates were filled, street kids who’d been playing in the yards all day also got to line up to have their share. Because unlike in America, where health codes and ridiculous regulations mean perfectly good food goes to waste—even at the holidays—in Malawi, Christmas time means everyone gets to eat.

And eat well.

Malawi in Pictures

View of the Lake in Nkata Bay


The Gang on Christmas Day


Christmas Eve in Nkata Bay


A Traditional Macoro


Fishing Boats on Lake Malawi


Morning Fishing in Senga Bay


Monitor Island in Lake Malawi


Me on Monitor Island


World's Biggest Snail (You Can't Tell, but it was HUGE)


Jeffie B Negotiating for My Birthday Turtle

Merry Khorixas-mas!

You may have noticed that I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from writing here on my blog. That’s because, for the past month, I’ve been on holiday with other PCVs, traveling though Zambia, Malawi and Tanzania. We were busy sorting out transport, flagging down buses and searching for accommodations. (Plus, Internet was pretty hard to come by.)

So for the next week, you can expect to find pictures, stories and retrospectives on my adventures—starting of course, with my final days in Khorixas and Christmas with the kids at Sunrise Center.

My friend Nicole was nice enough to send all the materials for making homemade ornaments—from spools of ribbon and string, to stacks of old Christmas cards, scissors, glitter and colorful pens. It arrived (along with a Pillsbury cake mix from my mom) just in time for the holidays. Both made our Christmas party at the orphanage more memorable.

The kids were excited to decorate and personalize their tiny tree. (And they loved the glitter!) Plus, it reminded me a lot of holidays growing up—which is kind of nice, especially so far away from home.

The ornaments turned out great, but I don't think the kids had ever eaten cake so soft. The little ones looked shocked when the pieces they grabbed crumbled in their tiny hands. Happy, one of the smallest, solved this problem by using his chocolate-frosted hands to shovel stray crumbs from the cement floor directly into his mouth. (Gross? Maybe to some. But I say it's resourceful.)

So Long, Tsumeb: A Month in Pictures

Welcome to Tsumeb


Christmas with the Kids


My Little Brother, Cecil


Ashley and Her Brothers


My Cousins on Christmas


The Kids Playing on Christmas


The Drunk Balloon Demo at Our Health Workshop


Amanda Cooking Outside


Me, Cecil and Geraldine


Me and Amanda on Family Appreciation Day


Christmas Eve


Dancing in the Streets


Community Service Day at the Old Age Home


Another Sunset...


Lake Otjikoto


Colleen's Christmas Present to CATJAR

Leaving Home to Come Home

We have just a few days left in Tsumeb. It’s hard to believe we arrived here nearly three weeks ago, but a lot has happened in that short amount of time. We organized a successful four-day community health workshop for area youth, as well as a community day at the local old-age home. We all "passed" our initial language assessment tests. We visited Lake Otjikoto and the world’s largest meteorite (which, for the record, is the Namibian version of the Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota). We were locked out of our bathroom for two days, and a couple of nights ago, I narrowly escaped death when our fireside dinner was interrupted by a location-wide dogfight. I turned 27. We taught our trainers “Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer.” And for most of us, we spent our first Christmases away from home.

But the biggest thing by far is that after twenty-some days, the 13 of us have become members of a Namibian family. I’ve got a mama, two cousins and the cutest baby brother ever to visit when things in Khorixas get tough and I just need a break. Lucre told me (sort of like my own parents did) that my room is always waiting, and that when I return, it will be the same as when I left it.

That’s nice to hear, even a few thousand miles from home.

My first Namibian Christmas was certainly one to remember. There was no build up to the big day like there is in the States. No feverish preparations of huge meals, special dishes, or cutout cookies. There was no wrapping presents or visiting family and friends. Instead, we spent Christmas Eve practicing Damara with yet another language lesson, and coping with the idea of being so far from home. Homesickness, which had been non-existent to this point, seemed to be at an all-time high with most PCTs. But a last-minute mail run to Windhoek meant unexpected surprises. For me, a box from Darby and a packet of letters from family made it feel a bit more like the holidays.

Amanda and I opted to attend the 7:30 Catholic Mass on Christmas Eve, despite the fact out Lutheran families would attend church the following morning. We needed at least one familiar thing at a time when nothing at all felt the same. The two-hour service was in Afrikaans and the only song we recognized was “Silent Night” (sung in German, no less), but there was a tree on the altar and that alone meant it felt a bit more like Christmas. As it turns out, 7:30 is a lot like Midnight Mass (which my family usually attends back in the states) when your new bedtime is 9:30 and you’re rarely out until dark. I had a bowl of Cornflakes for dinner and then was off to bed.

Lucre’s cousin brought us a small tabletop Christmas tree, like the one grandma used to have in Rochester. But aside from that, there wasn’t much in the house (or Namibia for that matter) that felt like the holidays. Amanda lives only a couple of houses away, so while our families were at church we attempted to back her grandma’s chocolate chip cookie recipe with Namibian ingredients. (They were a big hit with our mamas, but not so much with us.) We watched the BBC and listened to the music blaring from the yards in the location. As it turns out, Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable,” Chris Brown’s “Wall to Wall,” and Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back,” are more than just the songs that I run to. They’re big holidays hits in Namibia, too.

Amanda’s mama found us a last-minute ride to Etosha—an ambulance driver from her hospital. But when he arrived drunk and suggested we make a detour for more drinks along the way, we decided it might be best to wait on experiencing the sixth-largest game park and instead opted for a more traditional holiday celebration. The braai.

We headed to Caravan Park, a patch of grassy land with grill pits and shade trees on the edge of Town. There were dozens of families with boom boxes blasting, drinking Windhoek and Tafel, grilling goat, chicken and any other meat imaginable. They were eating watermelon and dancing. Sand and snow may cover the ground in similar ways, but this was different from the White Christmases typical of Upstate New York. Add sparklers and America and you’ve easily got the Fourth of July.

But back at Lucre’s house things felt more like the holidays. Half of Tsumeb (and about 30 kids) were crowded into our yard, laid out on mats, relaxing in lawn chairs, playing soccer and dancing to traditional Damara music. (I promise, there are pics to come.) Being around so much family meant it finally felt like Christmas—even if it was 90 degrees and my cousin Phil wasn’t around to dress like Santa.

With the holidays over and our workshop and community service out of the way, the last thing to focus on is our family appreciation day. Rumor has it we’ll be killing a goat and braaing at the same park where I celebrated my first Namibian Christmas. It will be tough to say goodbye to my family here, especially because that’s what these past few months have been filled with most: Goodbyes. But Sunday morning I’ll be on my way back to Okahandja for a CATJAR reunion. And just 10 days away from becoming a real Peace Corps Volunteer.

Home for the Holidays

For the first time in my life I won’t be home for Christmas. Not just this Christmas, but three Christmases. It’s an idea that’s hard to swallow, particularly with a mom who takes the holiday so seriously and in a family that’s never been apart come December 25.

I knew going into the Peace Corps that I would miss a lot of things—many of which I’ve already written about here. But I was still hoping to spend one last Christmas at home with my family.

Luckily, my parents planned accordingly.

This weekend my aunt and uncles, cousins and even baby Julian, rented a van and drove from western PA to Roc City to help us deck the halls and trim the tree. So what if it’s October? I’m leaving tomorrow.

It was a chance for us to see each other one last time and to celebrate the season (and the birthdays) I won’t be here for. We caught up over glasses of wine and plates of food. It was a reminder of what the holidays are really all about—family.

Sure I won’t be home for Christmas. Already I know it’s going to be hard (does Namibia even have pine trees?). But my mom, dad, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends have given me a 365-send off with enough memories to last me until I make it back in 2010.

Thank you.