There's now a real live Namibian Jill!
My friend Natasha, the one who recently had a baby, named her new daughter after me. (Or, perhaps more accurately, after us, since the little one's full name is Jill-Tasha.)
She said she wanted her baby girl to be ready for America.
I say that's the nicest thing anyone's done.
Ever.
There’s an old Mexican saying that when the pots have been broken, we can all go home.
Earlier this week, the remaining members of Nam 27 got together at a four star hotel in Windhoek (with hot showers, real beds and huge buffets) for our Close of Service conference. We talked about what we would do in our last three months of service.
We talked with RPCVs about adjusting to life back in America. We filled out as many exit forms and as much paperwork as we did to get into Peace Corps. We talked about resumes and grad school applications, the most memorable moments of our service, and the reasons why, even when things got tough, we decided to stick it out. We said goodbye. And then, we broke our pot. The one we’d signed and decorated and filled with our hopes and aspirations nearly two years ago.
And now, we can all go home.
Nam 27
It’s hard to believe that in three months my time in Namibia will be over. Two years, said and done. And while I’m certain I’ll be able to recreate something similar to my former life back in NYC, I know that recreating this experience—the friendships I’ve formed, the adversities I’ve overcome, the personal growth I’ve experienced and the tragedies I’ve faced will be impossible.
It’s a "once in a lifetime".
And one I’ll be eternally grateful for the opportunity to have had. 
Celebratory Springbok Shots Before We Say Goodbye
Peace Corps volunteers in Namibia invite outstanding learners from across the country to attend this week-long leadership camp in Windhoek every year. And while it's an incredible experience to be surrounded by so many bright and caring kids, a few of their stories always seem to stand out and leave a lasting impression.
This year, one of those learners was near and dear to me, mostly because he came from Khorixas. Two days before camp, Jessica sent me a message saying Selvanus, one of my learners from last year, had decided not to go to Camp GLOW. He'd made up an excuse about his father being sick, but we realized he was nervous to leave home (he hadn't been away in ten years, and only then to visit his sister a couple of hours away). He didn't have pocket money or new clothes to take to Camp, and was worried what the other kids would think.
I was already in Windhoek preparing for GLOW--buying supplies, visiting the bank and meeting with Peace Corps. Otherwise, I would have marched over to his house for a face-to-face talk. Instead, I did the next best thing. With the help of another volunteer (who was able to explain the situation to his mother in Afrikaans), we managed to convince Selvanus that he'd make loads of new friends, travel with other learners from his school and not have to worry about new clothes or spending money. (Especially since Camp is free and learners have to wear their Camp GLOW T-shirts!)
In the end (after more than a couple of phone calls, a visit from Jessica and a whole lot of convincing), Selvanus decided to come. And he did GREAT. He was nervous at first, but after a couple of hours he had an ear-to-ear grin that lasted for all of camp.
On the last day of GLOW he gave me a homemade thank you card. It was all the proof I needed that he'd had an amazing Camp GLOW experience.
Dear Miss Jill,
All I wanted to say was thank you for telling me that clothes are not important. So thank you very much and big big big thank you. I love you as my mother. Plz forgive me for being blind.
-Selvanus
Once again I thank you and the whole PCVs for the great support and in enriching our minds with better education. Camp GLOW was the best experience I ever had in my life. Now finally I packed my backpack and brought with me all the leadership skills I gained. Camp GLOW contributed a lot to my life, my self confidence and my self-esteem. WOW! I wished it would be forever. HOW SAD! Good things really do come to an end. But I remember to pack all of the good memories gained. I moved the mountains. I believe wherever I fly, I'll be the best of the best. Wherever I go, I'll top all the rest. THANK YOU CAMP GLOW!
Gerson
A handful of Nam 27ers discovered the album, NOW That’s What I Call Peace Corps! just before swear-in. It was a play on the yearly Top-40 compilation some American music label puts out. Only the songs on this album were hand selected by our predecessors in Nam 26. It was somehow tongue and cheek, but the titles hinted at what we were in for over the course of our service:
Chain of Fools
It’s a Great Day to Whoop Somebody’s Ass
Where the Streets Have No Name
Hanging Around
Losing a Whole Year
Halfway Home
Time of Need
Run
Little Victories
I Will Survive
Some titles made us laugh. Others made us seriously question what we’d gotten ourselves into. But one in particular really got me thinking: the song Losing a Whole Year.
It was something I’d seriously contemplated before joining the Peace Corps—something I think almost all of us had. Everything we’d miss. (Perhaps it was even this fear that prevented me from serving straight out of university.) It was something I thought of when I left home for D.C., and it was something I thought about even more as I prepared to swear in and commit two years to life in Namibia.
One of my final stateside blog posts touched on this subject. Not losing one year—but losing two. I’d contemplated the friends’ weddings I’d miss (they’ll be three more this year), the babies I’d meet only after they’d become toddlers (three and counting), the holidays I’d spend away from family (four major ones and another two more to go) and the milestones I’d miss out on while living in a foreign land. There were the jobs I couldn’t have. The stories I couldn’t write. The money I couldn’t save.
And at the time, it all seemed a little overwhelming. Was Peace Corps worth all that I’d be giving up?
I now know the answer.
Yes.
But I didn’t realize why until a couple of months ago, when a fellow Nam 27er was sent back to the states to be treated for a medical condition Peace Corps couldn’t handle in Namibia. She wasn’t ready to go. And like many of us, felt there was too much left to be done. There was regret and frustration. Anger and I’m sure some tears. But when our Country Director sat her down for one final talk, something else became clear. Sure, she said, there was more to be done. And of course we’ll always leave feeling like we haven’t done enough. But our work here is lasting, and regardless of how much we’ve managed to change in Namibia, we can without a doubt, measure the things we’ve changed in ourselves. One of the most important things we’ve gained, she said, is the true understanding of the value of a year.
In my American life I measured my years in bylines and paychecks. In articles written and stories scooped. I measured my year in failed relationships and in pounds lost or gained. In fashion trends that worked (and those that didn’t). In new addresses and in old friends. So it was no surprise that when I boarded the plane for Africa, these were the things I worried that I’d miss.
But 17 months later, I see things differently.
A year is more than dollars and cents. More than the number of stories written, weddings attended or minor milestones achieved. It’s about being touched by the kindness of strangers. About family and old friends who keep relationships strong even from an ocean away. And about new friends who understand almost exactly what I’m facing. It’s about seeing places I never thought I’d go and living a life I never imagined I’d have. It’s about overcoming obstacles. About learning to work within a mixed-up system, instead of always trying to fight it. It’s about hitchhiking and clicking. About fitting in. About laughing (mostly at myself). It’s about love notes from learners and hugs from kids. Gaining patience and killing time. About having friendships here that are as real and as important as the ones I left at home. It’s about measuring my own successes in the faces and deeds of those around me. It’s about 2,000 kids who now have toothbrushes and 1,000 teachers who now know their HIV status. It’s about finding a second home in a place I never imagined I’d fit in.
But mostly it’s about valuing life more because I’m living better. About realizing that, even with the smallest pay check of my life, I’m able to live more richly than I ever have before.
Maybe the 26ers were right. Perhaps we are losing a whole year—even two. But our Country Director was onto something. What we’re gaining is so much more:
A new understanding.
A wider perspective.
And a greater appreciation for the true value of a year.
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...
Last year’s Thanksgiving was a pretty lame affair. Jessica and I had just arrived in Khorixas for the first time and were still reeling from what I can only assume was pure culture shock. We headed to a rest camp outside of town and feasted on chicken and chips. And as we did so, we made every effort to pretend we were somewhere else.
But this year I think we go it right. Mostly because this time, Thanksgiving actually felt like Thanksgiving—complete with mashed potatoes, gravy—and yes, even specially ordered turkeys! So maybe we weren’t with our families back home, but Jessica and I hiked up to Rundu (part of the way in the back of a cabbage truck in the pouring rain…) and spent the holiday with our “family” and friends here in Namibia.
Four generations of Peace Corps volunteers (Nam 25, 26, 27 and 28) spent most of Saturday cooking. Nam 27 was in charge of pumpkin pies, apples pies and vegetable side dishes (for 40!), Nam 26 had mashed potatoes (17 kilos!) and carrot cake, and Patrick, a member of Nam 12 who so graciously hosts Thanksgiving dinner at his rest camp each year, took charge of the turkeys (5!). Being newbies, Nam 28 just got to sit back and watch.
This was my first time cooking Thanksgiving dinner, and I think it’s safe to say I learned a few things: You can never have enough gravy (or enough mashed potatoes). It’s never too early to start cooking (which is good, because most of us wake up at 5 a.m.). It is possible to make cheesecake without cream cheese, shopping the day-of ain’t no big thang, and sometimes "fine china" is just paper plates.
Perhaps most importantly, I learned that when you’re PCVs, it doesn’t matter whether the food comes out hot, or whether it comes out at the same time. Instead, it just matters that we’re there, our friends are there, and the turkey’s there, too.
Nam 26, 28 & 27
Not Sure What to Make of it...
Me & Rachel
YUM!
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.
It’s been 365 days since I left New York City.
A year ago I was sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn with my closest friends, waiting with one massive duffle for a town car to whisk me away.
To JFK.
To Upstate.
Eventually, to Namibia.
I’d quit my job. I’d moved out. I’d spent two weeks couch surfing (an urban rite of passage) and filled my social calendar with more dinners and drinks that I thought humanly possible.
I’d even bought cargo pants.
I smiled through the tears when we hugged goodbye, mostly because I knew exactly what I was leaving behind: A city I loved. Friends and family I adored. A career I enjoyed.
At the time, I had no idea what I was heading towards: A place where everyone (including me) clicks. Where taps run cold and showers are a myth. To a town where families cook outside, teachers arrive drunk to school, and the color of my skin is the first thing people see. Where hospital patients have to sleep on floors, medicine runs out too soon and an old flatbed truck is the closest thing to an ambulance.
A place where most of what I thought I knew doesn’t make much sense anymore.
And even though I’m different from that girl I was a year ago today, sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn—naïve but certain, excited yet still somehow afraid—remembering her makes me smile.
Not because she’s gone. (Trust, I haven’t changed that much.) But because I’m certain that even now, given the same choice—between staying in a place she loved with the people she loved, or embarking on the unknown—despite the hardships, frustrations and sacrifices that lie ahead—she’d do it all again.
Without so much as a second thought.
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.
Thanks to generous donations from friends, family and strangers, the first batch of toothbrushes and toothpaste (nearly 300 of each!) for my oral care workshops has been purchased. (As it turns out, a similar quantity of dental floss is going to be near impossible to find. I’m considering the alternatives as I write this.)
Donated funds are in no way depleted, but unfortunately, the current stock of oral hygiene products at ShopRite, Super Spar, and PickNPay is. 
So while I wait for the coffers to be replenished, I wanted to once again say thanks.
My workshops are scheduled to begin in September at !Gaib Primary School. About 120 learners in grades 4, 5, 6 and 7 will get all they need to keep their teeth bright and their gums healthy.
All because of you.
My post box is rarely empty. Friends and family are good about sending letters and pictures, books and DVDs, school supplies, stickers and other American treats. There are things to keep for myself, and others to share with the kids. Items to use with Girls Club or on other projects and causes. It’s nice to feel loved (especially when that love comes in the form of novels and M&Ms). The contents are always different, but the names and places they come from are usually the same.
This week, however, I received something I wasn’t expecting: a package that truly tops the charts. It wasn’t sent by my mom, my best friend, or a former colleague. Instead, it came from two little girls, ages four and six. Names I didn’t recognized, but from a town where I used to live.
The box—mammoth in size—came wrapped in brown paper bags, and was filled to the brim with picture books and craft supplies. The contents were fun to sift through, fingertips touching Green Eggs and Ham, Clifford, and other childhood favorites. But the letter was by far the best part.
It was written by their mother, who it turns out, knows my former editor. One of her daughters, she said, had just completed a unit on Africa in school. After learning about the continent and seeing pictures of children in Khorixas on my blog, her two girls decided they wanted to help somehow, too.
So they collected books, crayons, stickers and beads from their own shelves and cabinets. Treasures they were somehow willing to part with, because these items, they decided, could be better put to use by children half way around the world.
They packed them up and shipped them off. And today, their gracious gifts have become the prized possessions of learners who, until now, have never owned a book. Stacks of their favorite stories have become a library for the orphanage, and a seashell bracelet on the wrist of an HIV positive girl actually makes her feel she’s beautiful.
I’ve seen a lot of things as a volunteer. Things that have made me question the system, myself, and at the worst of times, humanity.
But then these two little girls came along: proof of the kindness of strangers. A reminder that even the littlest ones among us have the potential to do big and selfless things.
It's been about three weeks since I first asked friends and family to consider donating money to my preventative oral care workshop fund. (You can read more about it here.)
Since then, thanks to the generosity of college roommates, former colleagues, high school classmates and even strangers, I've managed to raise about 25% of my $6,000 goal. Enough for nearly 500 learners to get all they need to keep their teeth clean and their gums healthy.
And so, I wanted to say thanks.
This project, which I am developing under the guidance of our regional dentist, would not be possible without your help and support. Those of you who have already donated should be finding a Thank You note in your mailbox soon. I tell you this now because Nam Post can, at times, be somewhat unreliable. (A special thanks to Amanda's parents who took a stack of envelopes on their recent trip from Namibia. This explains why some of you have a postmark from California.) Hopefully my messages will find you well.
For those of you who have not yet pledged your support but would like to, there's still time. Just send me an email (or post a comment here) to learn more about the two donor options.
Your support of me--and of the kids of Khroxias--really does mean the world. I'll keep everyone who made this project possible updated via my blog when the curriculum is launched in early September, so stay tuned.
Peace Corps Volunteers aren’t allowed to drive. And since our monthly stipend breaks down to roughly $3USD a day, most of us couldn’t afford to even if we had the chance.
Because of this, travel is always a hassle and ETAs are impossible to gage. Trips that should take just a couple of hours can often exceed five or six because so many variables are out of our hands. Rides in and out of our small towns and villages usually include a set rate in an over-loaded “taxi” and a couple of hours touring the location in search of additional passengers. Drivers frequently “make turns” en route to deliver packages, drop people off, or run random errands.
But once we’re on the open road and out of our sites, most of us opt for the preferred PCV mode of transportation: free hiking. This is basically the African version of hitch hiking—standing on the side of the road and somehow thumbing a ride.
Sure, it has its downsides. There are awkward conversations and even denied marriage proposals (sometimes more than one over the course of a single ride). Standing on the roadside alone is less than fun and, especially for females, can at times feel down right dangerous.
But it has its upsides, too. More space, nicer (and safer) cars, and interesting and incredibly kind people.
Like the guy we met today.
Regular free-hikers learn quickly there are two types of drivers willing to pick up travelers. Those who worry we’ll be taken advantage of, and those who want to take advantage of us. Our ride from Okahandja to Otjiwarango definitely fell into the first group.
Not five minutes after removing our packs, a man in a four-door truck headed for Tsumeb loaded our bags into the back. (I think a half-full car of men that offered us a ride 10K up the road may have alarmed him enough to pull over.)
We talked about our jobs as volunteers and told stories from our lives in Khorixas and Caprivi (I was traveling with Ashley). In exchange he filled us in on his South African childhood and former life in Botswana and the bush. There was hardly a silent moment on our near three-hour trip. He even provided us with self-defense tips for solo-travel and gifted Ashley a Leatherman when he realized she was going around the country without one.
We pulled in to Otjiwarongo ready to unload our bags at the Taxi point. But instead, stopped in a parking lot where he told us we weren’t going anywhere until after we ate. It was like meeting a friend’s parents at a restaurant in college. He told us not to be shy, and made sure our sodas were nothing smaller than large. A few hamburgers and some plates of fries later and we were out the door.
And on our way to the pharmacy.
Where (our moms would love this) he bought packages of vitamins that he (surprise!) handed off to us as we headed out to his truck. “You have to take these if you can’t find or afford fruit,” he told us. “It’s like a bag of oranges in every tablet.” Not knowing what else to do, we said thanks.
He drove us around the corner to the taxis and waited. Two drivers approached us (both of whom I’d ridden with before), eager to get our business to Khorixas. While we negotiated, our guy stuck around. We figured it was to make sure we got off okay. Instead, he pulled up behind us and gave our driver a wave. We thought it would be a fatherly, “Take good care of these girls and get them home safe” talk, but he took it a step further and paid both our fares in the process, too.
It was without a doubt, one of my nicest free-hike moments, mostly because his kindness had been genuine. It came with no ulterior motive—simply sincere and honest concern. There was never an “Are you married?” or “Where’s your boyfriend?” or a “Can you take me to America?” during the course of our conversations. Rather, a “Please make it home safely and let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”
Only thing is, it’s hard to do more when you’ve already done it all.
Eight months makes a place feel like home. There are faces I recognize. Friends who drop by. Children who yell my name now instead of someone else’s. There are quiet roads I know, and busy days I can prepare for.
But there are still moments when, despite loving the life I’m learning to live, it’s easy to feel far from family and friends.
Which is why I want to say thank you.
Thank you to a Mom and Dad who send care packages more often than most. To Aunts and Uncles who pack a laundry list of wishes into a plain cardboard box. To old roommates who write near weekly letters and former coworkers who insure I’m always taking my vitamins. To best friends who respond immediately to text messages and past editors who keep my bookshelves stocked. To family friends who brought Crayola crayons and scented markers to our kids and to the girl who's decided to do her Mitzvah project for Khorixas. To the strangers who’ve sent school supplies and sporting goods and to the people who’ve pledged their support for my dental program.
Thank you.
Thank you for your generosity.
Thank you for your kindness.
Thank you for making those hard days somehow easier to bear. And for reminding me that even across an ocean and a continent away, I'm never that far from home.
Tuesdays in Khorixas mean Youth Leads—an after school program that uses sports to teach about self-esteem, health, fair play and leadership. It’s another way—one that doesn’t rely on Ministry tools like The Bird of Love (see previous post)—to deliver life skill messages.
Our hour-long sessions start with a silly game. Usually one that involves learners—most in grades 5 through 7—sitting in a “somehow” circle for play. These lead into an often disjointed (but always entertaining) discussion about sportsmanship, teamwork, problem solving and role models.
Afterwards we take to the field for soccer, netball, or some other new game, and put the day’s lessons to work at play.
Some people argue that sports aren’t a valid vehicle for real education. Schools in the states are scaling back recess and cutting budgets for athletics. Sure. Youth Leads teaches life skills under the guise of play. But, like sports, it also trains young people to be disciplined. To be leaders in their class. To be leaders in their school.
Older students learn a wide variety of games, and at the end of nine weeks, run their own field day for younger classmates. It may not be the serious charts and graphs of health class or life science. But at least here we can be sure the kids are learning.
How?
When another PCV visited last week, our learners were eager to explain Fruit Salad and Leader of the Band—two games that previously opened meetings. And when Tonje, the SCORE volunteer, missed a session, it took little prompting on our part to get students to volunteer information and rules for the games we’d played in her absence.
But the best proof came this weekend.
Tonje and I spend Saturday mornings in the Dungerhoek (squatter camp) at the edge of Khorixas doing Sports-4-All. It’s informal. A drop-in activity that starts when the balls hit the ground, and ends when we decide it’s time to collect them. Older kids organize pick-up games of soccer while Tonje and I entertain younger kids with slightly more advanced versions of Duck-Duck-Goose.
Last weekend, while older boys sported their ball handling skills on the field, Kennedy, one of the youngest members of Youth Leads and easily the smallest learner in grade 5, gathered the smaller kids for a game of Battle Ship (like tag, but with teams). Tonje and I stood by while tiny faces with big eyes and open ears listed to Kennedy explain the rules of play in Damara. Staying safe. Getting tagged out. He divided learners into teams, and when one of the girls volunteered to be “it,” Kennedy stood on the sidelines, waiting to be sure rules were followed. Waiting to be sure they all understood.
Maybe it's not much—Kennedy getting out there and organizing play. But it’s definitely something. It’s more than reciting the ABCs of HIV prevention or what it takes to make The Bird of Love fly.
It’s more, because for the first time, I saw the littlest learner in grade 5 with a handful of classmates looking up to—and learning—from him.
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