Better Late Than Never: The Bus Ride from Hell

We had all been excited to see Lake Malawi. Other volunteers said it was absolutely amazing. And they were, without a doubt, absolutely right. And while Christmas in Nkata Bay had been fun, we were certain the highlight of our trip was still to come.

A week in Tanzania. More specifically, Zanzibar.

We’d had a couple of transport hang-ups en route to Nkata Bay, but it was nothing compared to those we found once we voyaged out. We learned our lesson about minibuses on the previous leg of our journey, so determined not to make the same mistake twice, we heeded the advice of our DJ friend, and unloaded our packs onto one of the major buses bound for Mzuzu. From there, we’d catch another bus over the border and make our way to Dar es Salaam, where we would pick up Rachel’s friend in three day’s time.

Or so we thought.

We arrived at Mzuzu just after lunch, and while a couple of us stayed to watch our bags, Jeffie B and Dar headed off on bike taxis to collect cash from ATMs and buy our bus tickets to Tanzania. We waited patiently for the 11:30 pm departure time, at which point, we’d board a bus—where we’d spend the next 36 hours in transit.

Or so we thought.

We read books while we waited. We talked to curious people who wondered what we were doing. We walked to the shops and bought cooldrinks and fat cakes. And we watched as local travelers left the station and drunkards came in.

“We should probably go that side, where there’s light,” said our friend Paul. He was only 17, and had been sent to collect his uncle from the station. We’d begun talking a few hours earlier, and he was clearly concerned for our safety. “I know the place. If you’re stuck, you can come to sleep at my house. I’ll walk you back in the morning.”

It was a sincere (and appreciated) offer. And perhaps one we should have taken him up on. But even at 1 am, with the station mostly empty (save a handful of loud and inebriated men who played pool at a nearby shabeen and a family also waiting for the same bus to the border) we were convinced our ride was still on its way.

The family of five—a teacher, his wife and three small children, curled up on some chairs in front of an empty shop and slept. We sat on our packs, and calculated how many visits to the pay toilet we could buy with our remaining kwacha. We kept watch on the entry, and believed our bus might arrive at any moment.

But when the sun began to creep over the tin roof of the terminal shelter, and the closed shop once again opened, we considered that perhaps our 11:30 departure time had been am instead of pm. So again, we waited. We waited until the ticket booth opened. We waited over cups of steaming hot tea, while the director made some calls, only to inform us that the bus was coming. That it was even on its way now.

We waited for three more hours, until we were called over to the ticket booth, where we were told that in fact, the bus was not coming. That it had never even left the capital. The bus company, we learned, had only one bus--our bus--and it was stuck in the Lilongwe with a broken headlight.

There was an alternative. We could wait, in hopes that the bus was fixed in time to make its next 11:30 pm departure. Or, we could take a combi—one the bus company promised to pay for—and meet another bus at the Tanzania border.

We were somehow reluctant to travel with with only promises as currency. (By this point we’d spent what remained of our kwacha on the pay toilet and refused to take out more. It would be useless in Tanzania. And our Peace Corps budget didn't allow a for a lot of extra spending.) But after 28 hours in the bus terminal, we were even more reluctant to stick around. The family we’d been waiting with seemed okay with the new option, so we followed their lead and piled into a combi—relieved to see an employee from the company would also be coming with us.

Our ride started with a flat tire. We waited patiently while it was patched and fixed, and breathed a sigh of relief when we were once again on the road. The views of the lake were incredible, but with such a spastic driver—one who weaved in and out of lanes and passed on blind curves—it was hard to know whether to watch the scenery or keep our eyes on the road. We picked up some passengers along the way and dropped off others. We seemed to be making decent time—until we learned the border crossing closed at 5 and it was already 4:15. We had only about 30K to go, and after 10K had passed, the combi took a quick turn and we found ourselves, once again, in the midst of what was becoming an all too familiar sight: another bus terminal.

“You cannot be serious,” I said.

The car sat idol for a moment before the engine cut. Some words were exchanged in Chichewa and we saw the face of our companion—the man from the bus terminal—drop.

“What are they saying?” I asked the teacher with his family. He and Jeffie B had become friendly along the way, and he seemed just as anxious to cross the border as we were.

“They want K1,000 more to go the rest of the way,” he said.

“Total?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Each.”

I gasped. Here we were, more than 30 hours after we’d started out for Tanzania, a mere 15K from the border, and these guys who’d taken us so much of the way were refusing to budge unless we paid more than twice the sum we’d already agreed upon.

All this time I’d been worried the bus would not be waiting across the border. But now I doubted if we’d ever make it there in the first place. With just 30 minutes to spare before the crossing closed, it was feeling near impossible.

Our friend from the bus company said something and the car started to move. I assumed the situation had been sorted out and we were once again on our way. But no sooner had we pulled out of the terminal, we were stopping somewhere else.

A petrol station.

Backed into a corner.

“Open your door,” I said to Dar. We were lucky enough to be in a two-door combi (kind of like a double-door minivan) so I didn’t feel so trapped. Which was a good thing, since moments later we were surrounded by taxis and a man from outside was walking away with one of the family’s babies.

“We’re not going anywhere,” I said.

“We negotiated with these guys already,” said Jeffie B, after a taxi driver claimed he’d give him a good deal.

“We have NO MONEY,” said Ashley.

And she was right. We had not a cent to our names, save the American money for our Tanzanian visas. And for that, we basically had exact change. We were completely dependent on our companion from the bus company. A man who was currently pacing the parking lot and looking more than a little worried.

“Just get in,” said the driver. “We’ll take you.”

We wanted to go. The crossing would close if we didn’t hurry. But we weren’t prepared to leave without our guy. After all, he had to pay. And we were worried the bus on the other side wouldn’t be waiting or worse—that it didn’t exist at all. We’d need his help on the other side if that were the case.

The man from the bus company got off the phone and walked back over to the combi. He got in, said something, and in a few moments we were off.

“He’s paying,” the teacher said.

But from the look on our companion's face, I had a feeling the extra kwacha was coming out of his pocket and not that of the company.

We hauled to the border crossing and made it, literally, as the lights turned out. We payed our fees and followed the man to the other bus. We’d asked several times along the way whether he was sure it would still be waiting. Despite our panic and apprehension, he never seem concerned. And when we arrived in Tanzania, moments after a power outage struck the entire country, blanketing it in black, we saw why.

The bus was there, but there was no one on it.

All this time we’d expected to have a vehicle filled with impatient passengers, eager to leave upon our arrival. The guy from the station hadn’t been worried about it departing without us, because this bus was going nowhere.

“Here it is,” he said.

“When does it leave?” we asked. After all, we were supposed to meet a friend at 10 pm the next day. We never expected that three days might not be enough time to get to our destination.

“Tomorrow maybe. Sometime,” he said. "Can't drive at night."

We looked at each other. He could not be serious.

But he was.

“You sleep here,” he said, pointing to the bus seats. “It’s no problem.”

But we could see a big problem. Already men from the crossing were coming up to the bus windows professing their love. “I’ve always wanted a white woman,” they said. “I am in love with you.” It was too hot to sleep with the windows closed and obviously too dangerous to sleep with them open. But the guy from the station, aware of our concern, pointed to a man sitting next to a single burning candle—a man who could not have been less than 85 years old—and said, “Don’t worry, there’s security.”

We had a couple of bucks left over from our visas, so I went with the guy from the bus station to try and find accommodations. My friends were okay with a night in the bus, but I had a feeling we shouldn't press our luck. There was a place just next to the bus that was bare at best, but spotless and clean and just what we needed. And only $2 per person. After a night in a bus terminal, so many hours on the road, and the uncertainties of travel the following morning, we were more than ready for beds and definitely in need of a shower. The fact that there was no electricity and we were out of water mattered little. We were just happy to be indoors.

The next morning, showered and well-rested, we walked to the bus in hopes of an early departure. We were still 15 hours away from Dar es Salaam and had to be at the airport by 10 pm. We had no way to get in touch with Rachel’s friend if we were late, and having never been to Africa, we knew she’d be less than thrilled showing up to an empty airport.

But the hours ticked past and by 10 am, we realized there was no way we were going to make it. Had transport been seamless (which it so rarely is, and in this case, wasn't) we still would have arrived well after she did.

But there was nothing we could do, so we sat back, relaxed and waited. And eventually we made it to Dar es Salaam.

Luckily, the plane was delayed.

28 Hours in a Bus Terminal: A Photo Essay

Ever wondered what 28 hours in an outdoor bus terminal in the middle of Malawi looks like? Here's a peek.(Spoiler Alert: It's even less fun than it looks.)


Hour 4, Mzuzu: Jeffie B., Dar, Rachel and Ash


Hour 9, Mzuzu: Ash Catching Some Zs while a New Friend Reads Her Book


Hour 12, Mzuzu: The Group Gets Some Shut Eye


Hour 19, Mzuzu: Ashley, Me and Rachel Trying to Get Some Sleep


Hour 22, Mzuzu: Jeffie B Sleeping Like a Baby

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.

Just a Toothbrush: The Waiting Game

Today was supposed to be our first major dental outreach. The dentist, her assistant and I spent most of yesterday counting tubes of toothpaste for some 300 learners and dividing them into bags for separate classrooms. We made fruits, vegetables, candy and other foods from construction paper, cut dozens of sheets of stickers for rewards, and went over our strategy for tackling seven grades in a single day.

The plan was to drive two hours outside of Khorixas, down a long dirt road and into one of the farm settlements. We’d use hospital transport (which we applied for weeks in advance) and spend six hours going over the oral care basics I’d outlined in previous workshops, class by class. Lorain (the dental assistant, who is fluent in Damara) would take the lower primary grades, while Isabel (the dentist from Zambia) and I would divide upper primary. Afterwards, Isabel would offer checkups for learners who had never been to the dentist.

It was a perfect plan.

So we rose at 5 a.m. I drank a few cups of coffee to get me going, and piled the boxes of supplies near my door.

And then, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By 7:30 it seemed like something was wrong. Transport is always complicated--and it's usually running late, but we'd planned to be on the road by 6:30, because we needed to be at school sometime close to 9. I sent Isabel a message. She was waiting at the hospital, but said there was no car in sight.

So I left the supplies and I left my bag and I set out towards the hospital. By the time I arrived it was clear we had a major problem. The transport officer was off for the day and the driver we’d been assigned was only certified to drive around town.

While there was a vehicle somewhere, there was a driver nowhere.

So Isabel, Lorain and I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Luckily, the former transport officer was on duty. Although it was almost 9, she said one of the social workers could take us out to the farm school. The school we were going to was about two hours away, and we needed at the very least two hours to conduct our workshops—one hour-long session for upper primary and one hour-long session for lower primary. School was only scheduled until 1 p.m.—with no afternoon study—so we had to leave immediately if we wanted to make it in time to do anything at all.

But still we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Our driver came. But only to collect someone for a trip to the Location. He returned. But only to leave and collect a fridge from the government building. It was after 11 by the time we were really ready to go. And by that time, it was too late.

So we'll have to reschedule.

We’ll have to re-plan.

And we’ll have to reapply for transport.

The whole situation was beyond frustrating—the waiting and the not knowing, the last-minute cancellation and the work gone to waste. But there was a silver lining.

Sort of.

I was mad, but I could see that Lorain and Isabel were angry, too. That means that despite the headaches and the hassles, they were just as excited to get to the farm schools as I was. They were eager to conduct workshops, start our new, extended outreach, and see their hard work come to fruition. And that's really what this is all about.

It was hard to see them disappointed. But it was also strangely reassuring. It made me realize that while I’d done these workshops alone in the past, I finally had company—colleagues that were trained and prepared. And perhaps most importantly—colleagues that genuinely wanted to participate.

We may not have made it today, but I have no doubt we’ll make it there soon. In fact, we’ve already re-scheduled for two weeks from now. When hopefully we’ll rise at 5 a.m., drink a few cups of coffee to get started, pile boxes of supplies in the back of our bakki and be leading oral care workshops for some 300 learners before 9 a.m.

Transport willing, that is...

Back in the Saddle

When I’m not busy with work, I’m usually busy waiting.

Waiting for transport to come.
Waiting for meetings to start.
Waiting for teachers to arrive.
Waiting for funding to come through.
Waiting for learners to listen.

It’s one of those things that—until now—I’ve never been very good at. I like things to happen. And I like it best when they happen now.

But these days, I’m getting a lot of practice with being patient. And I think it’s safe to say, I’m definitely getting better.

The week before last was painfully slow. (And yes, you guessed it—all about waiting.) I had projects to work on and clubs to work with, but too many factors beyond my control meant there wasn’t much work I could actually do.

I was eager to host more primary school dental workshops. But materials were running low. Without transport to collect more toothbrushes and toothpaste, there was nothing to distribute.

My office space was cleaned and the shelves emptied as phase one of the transformation from workspace to hospital resource room. And while I was ready to file, label and organize, the materials I’d collected had yet to be delivered to Khorixas.

I’d organized activities for the Awareness Club at the secondary school, but Grade 10 exams meant the kids were too busy studying and preparing to attend much after-school anything. And Girls Club was supposed to be a lesson on physical conditioning and a healthy heart, but a last-minute awards ceremony was scheduled for the same time.

The beds of our community garden have been ready for weeks, but it was disappointing to learn that without funding, there’d be no food to feed the kids while they worked. So for now, not much more can be done.

In a week like this one it’s easy to feel frustrated and hard to feel productive. So while it seemed like my work life was on hold, I decided to focus on my own life instead. I picked up War and Peace, and plowed through half of the dense Russian text. And I took up a morning running program that gets me out in the streets well before the sun comes up.

It was my only way of feeling accomplished at a time when it seemed nearly impossible to be productive.

Luckily that’s changed.

This week the dental supplies were purchased and workshops have started once again. My office is now officially the hospital resource room. The learners in Girls Club know about healthy hearts and cardio kickboxing. And while the garden may still be on hold (since funding is always slow to surface), the OVCs and I are keeping busy on Saturday afternoons playing games, learning English and drawing pictures to decorate their walls. They’re having fun and just being kids.

And me? Well, I’ve got 650 pages left in War and Peace and I’m still heading out on those early-morning runs. But mostly I’m just feeling a whole lot more productive. And ultimately, a whole lot happier, too.

Silver Linings

It’s been a trying week.

A friend was pretty seriously injured in a car accident. I saw a woman die. And I witnessed total disregard for human life by a man who had vowed to protect it.

This week made me question people.
It made me question authority.
And it made me question myself.

I’m not sure how I’d deal with this kind of adversity in America—mostly because I never had to. My life there—despite its stress and hassles—was, by comparison, pretty easy. When things got tough, I had outlets for clearing my mind and releasing stress. There were happy hours with friends, phone calls to vent or extra sweat sessions at the gym. But those things aren’t options here. And to be honest, I’m not sure they’d help, even if they were.

So I’ve adopted a new coping mechanism: Being thankful.

It doesn’t rid my mind of the things I’ve witnessed or enable me to forget the words I’ve heard ... that’d be impossible. Instead, it forces me to focus on something else. Something just as important and just as big:

The positive.

Rather than try to repress resentment, anger and fear, I can, through the simple exercise of making a list, remind myself that—even amid this sadness and frustration—there’s always something (or someone) to be thankful for.

Here are just a few:

Weekly calls from home. Sunsets. 355 sunny days a year. Prestick. Mosquito nets. Small kids with big backpacks. Five-dollar coins. Audio books. Little boys with plastic capes. New tar roads. The orange pitcher that makes my bucket bath feel like a shower. CATJAR. When people know my name. NAM post. Sipho. Speech. A phone that works (finally). American magazines. Round faces with big smiles. The Office (and the person who sends it). My education. Katie’s care packages. Dried fruit. Trail running shoes. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. Free rides. My ipod. Amazing friends (both here and in the states). Chick Flicks. Havaianas. Bruce Springsteen. Gaining patience. Handwritten letters. Free SMSes. Tracy. My Awareness Club. Gift, “Short for Present.” SMSes from the states. Feeling like I’ve accomplished something. Quiet walks. That kids yell, “I love you!” instead of “//Hosa!” Stationary with my name on it. Richel. Facebook Mobile. Love letters from learners. My mom and dad. Memories of NYC. Kiwi fruit on sale. Soy milk. A Sunday afternoon that doesn’t last forever. M&Ms. Electricity (when we have it). Running water (almost all day). Random hugs. Critical thinking skills. Catherine and Abigale. Bivy sacks. Kids reading to me out loud. My office becoming the new library. The little boy who blew me a kiss. Coverage of the Olympics. Perfect weather. Fans. Plans. Saturday pants in Africa. Mornings. Not having to worry about money. Unlimited time to think.

This experience and the chance to see all that I have seen.

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.

Getting the Green Light ...

It doesn’t take much to get the green light. That’s one of my favorite things about working here in Namibia. There’s no red tape, no background checks, interviews or paperwork. If I have an idea, I just have to offer it up. It almost always becomes a reality. Schools are eager to enrich their programs. Teachers are anxious to lighten their loads. And it seems almost everyone wants to work with the American.

In some ways this makes my life easier. But I’m finding the “system” is not without flaws. When the go ahead is quick to come by it can be hard to gage the real level of others’ commitment. So there are times when I’m ready to get the ball rolling and despite their initial enthusiasm, others are nowhere to be found.

Like today.

I was scheduled to start a session of Youth Leads (the after-school sports, leadership and life skills program Tonje and I did) at a new primary school. Gino (one of my Nam Friends) and I met with the principal last week to discuss our plan for the term, our lessons and our activities.

I swear he was on board when we walked away.

But it’s been a week since we talked. Three missed meetings and one totally MIA teacher. So understandably, I had some reservations when I headed to school this afternoon. That glimmer of enthusiasm I’d felt from the principal in our first meeting must have flickered out when he missed so many more.

I stopped at Gino’s house on the way, ready to discuss plans for our first day. And though he’d volunteered to help—more importantly, been excited to—he wasn’t ready to go, because, I found, he wasn’t even there.

Then I arrived at school to a missing principal. (Again.) And a missing teacher. (Still.) And a bunch of learners who’d never been informed. (Of course.)

It’s frustrating, but it happens when people and projects don't require much up front. So I’ll go back to school tomorrow. And then again next Tuesday (when hopefully we’ll start). Because in a place without paved streets or traffic signals, getting the green light may not always mean go—but it certainly never means stop.

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.

Something from Nothing

Hillside View of Opuwo

Back in the states a nine-hour car ride meant a trip from Michigan to Rochester, across the border and through Canada. It was a drive to Chicago and then some, or six trips from the city to the shore. It was legroom and traffic. Roadside stands and Top 40 Radio: windows rolled down and music turned up.

But here in Namibia the nine-hour car ride is a different animal entirely. It’s one that travels 12-deep with two screaming babies. It packs a variety of cooked (and stinking) meats for snacks, and includes two roadside breakdowns. It covers just 350 km. But on flooded out dirt roads, with Damara hymns blasting.

It leaves you wishing, more than anything, for transport of your own.

I spent the last week in Opuwo, the capital of the Kunene region, meeting with Ministry of Health officials and a Nam 26er who heads up the IEC (Information Education Communication) Committee for the region. It was supposed to help me learn more about the job I’m charged with doing over the next two years. After a month at site, Peace Corps (and my supervisor) must have finally decided it was time for a little direction. (Plus, it gave me an excuse to see some of Nam 27 friends and visit a new place, too.)

Twelve thousand people live in Opuwo, which makes it roughly twice the size of Khorixas. Though in the same region, the two places are dramatically different. Opuwo is built into a hillside with scenic views of Namibia—vast plains and towering plateaus. Mud hut settlements line the road into town, and Herero and Himba make up a majority of the population. Opuwo is "typical" Africa … what I imagined before coming to Namibia. The Himba women, with their traditional dress, red clay skin, intricate jewelry and exposed chests, look straight out of the pages of National Geographic.

The week felt like a second round of shadowing (which we did as trainees back in November). But this time it was job-specific. Kate, a Nam 26er who’s been working on IEC development in Opuwo for about six months, introduced us to the RMO (Regional Medical Officer), who explained what my job is for the next two yeas. We also went around to the regional Red Cross, Medicos del Mundo and a couple of other NGOs.

View from the Top

Kate has a western office, complete with a computer, scanner, printer and even air conditioning. It’s a far cry from the bare essentials (desk, chair, shelf) of my work space in Khorixas. Yet she and I are charged with the same task. In addition to general health promotion—community outreach, educational programs, demonstrations and program facilitation—we should both be developing educational and informational materials for our districts. The only difference is, she has the resources.

As I’m quickly learning, Peace Corps is an exercise in creating something out of nothing.

In addition to the obvious challenges presented by my non-existent access to technology, there are still more obstacles to bringing health messages to the masses. For starters, English is considered Namibia’s national language, but few people in Khorixas understand enough to grasp the complicated messages about HIV, diabetes and TB I’m trying to convey. And while most people here are fluent in Damara, it’s primarily an oral language. This means few are literate in their native tongue. Kate has relied on images alone for some of her most recent campaigns, but has come to realize that the western interpretation of pictures and stories is often very different from Namibian understandings and assumptions.

So it seems, I must build my place here from the ground up. I will need to solicit donations for a resource library for the hospital, so I can research the topics I am educating the community about. (It will also be good for nurses and doctors, who as of now, have no place to reference current medical studies or reports.) And I’ll need to find my own means of securing a computer, printer and scanner before I can begin to generate IEC materials. I'll also have to find local artists to create images for these brochures, posters and pamphlets. This is not to say the task is impossible. Rather, that it is, without a doubt, a process. One that reminds me of why we are here for two years.

I'm trying to move forward on this long-term project, but in the meantime, I’m focusing on the non-material production part of my job here: the health promotion and outreach. It's the part I expect to enjoy most.

I started Windows of Hope—a life skills, health and sexual education curriculum that’s sponsored by the Ministry of Education—on Monday. I’ll be teaching 40 grade-7 learners about HIV, sexuality, rape, relationships and their changing bodies. I’m continuing with Youth Leads, the after-school sports and leadership program with the SCORE volunteer, and planning for an Independence Day soccer and volleyball tournament for secondary school kids. I helped put together a Valentine’s Day event to promote HIV testing and spent the last few days in the field doing awareness campaigns. In May, Jessica and I will start our girls club, which will focus on self-esteem, self-respect, leadership and long-term goal setting for upper-primary learners.

I guess the good news about creating something from nothing is, there's always more to do.

Sunset in Opuwo