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.

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.