No Computer, No New Blog Posts

Updating my blog has been a pretty difficult task this month. Mainly because my computer blew up a few weeks ago, leaving me with nothing to type on and no way to keep everyone updated. It was traumatic at first (loss of technology here almost always is). But ultimately, it's been a bit of a blessing. It's freed up time to finish reading those last lonley books left sitting on my shelf, visit friends and say my goodbyes.

Seven weeks is barely any time.

Work is slowing down, but my life has still been remarkably busy. Two weekends ago a few volunteers and dozens of learners traveled to Swakopmund for the Lucky Star Marathon. I've always been one to get emotional during road races (I cried while working a water station at the New York City Marathon), and this race was no different.

Except that it was.

Instead of top althletes in performance gear, it was hungry, barefoot, learners running against a strong headwind as mac trucks blew past them on a busy (still open) road. These 13 and 14 year old kids passed more professional looking runners with a smile on their face, bright-eyed and breathing heavy. The race is designed to be run alone, as a full 26.2 miles (which most adults did); as a team, where each partner runs a half (which most volunteers did); or as a 4x4 relay (which most of the kids did). Every learner looked so proud! We hitched a ride with a group of learners from Usakos that had already finished and one of the boys told me he couldn't talk about how happy he was because he'd probably burst. And one of my favorite girls from Camp GLOW was a part of the winning relay team.

It was inspiring. And emotional. And a highlight of my Peace Corps service.

Most of the following week was spent in Windhoek going to doctors appointments and visiting the dentist (no cavities!) as part of our Close of Service. It's hard to believe two years is coming to and end, and while so much has changed, I can't help but look back at those early blog posts and realize I'm in the exact same spot--trying to stuff my life into a single backpack and embark on a new adventure in some other part of the globe. I'm sad to say goodbye to this place I've grown to love and now call home, but I'm also eager to see what else is out there and begin a new chapter of my life.

Two years sounds like a long time. But as it draws to a close, I find myself wondering if it's really enough time. Katrina, Tu-o and Emma spent the afternoon at our house yesterday and while their excitement in having us "catch" their photos made me laugh, it also made me sad. They'll keep growing up, only now, I won't be here to see it.

Saying goodbye to your family--even an adopted one--is never very easy.

Losing a Year (But Gaining a New Perspective)

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.

Here's to Hope: The Election Edition

When America elects its first black president, you kind of want to be there.

But if you can’t be in America for such an historic event, Africa is probably the next best place.

Now I realize polls closed a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been slow on the take to post what the waiting game was like for those of us here in Namibia. Since friends and family keep asking, and since it was my first absentee election, I thought I’d share a bit of the experience with all of you here, on my blog.

It goes without saying that following this election from a developing country proved a bit of a challenge. While a handful of friends in Khorixas have televisions, no regular (or reliable) access to Internet or newspapers meant missing a lot of the day-to-day happenings—and sadly, all of the debates. In America I would have been glued to nyt.com at work, and canvassing the streets on weekends. But here in Namibia I relied almost exclusively on weekly reports from my mom and dad, updates from friends via email and the occasional out-of-date Newsweek, compliments of Peace Corps. Oh, and of course, Namibians.

Whether it’s true for all American elections, or just for this one in particular, I can’t say. But most everyone here was following the coverage as closely as we were (or rather—wished we were). Colleagues dropped by my office to talk about who I planned to vote for and the possibility of an African president. (His Kenyan heritage allows even Namibians to claim him as one of their own.) They spoke with a sparkle of pride in their voices and I could see this election was bigger than just our country. The eyes of the world were watching, and I knew that come Wednesday morning, Peace Corps Volunteers everywhere would have to answer to them. Face to face.

Polls were just opening in America Tuesday as I was preparing for sleep here in Namibia. I was too nervous for bed—wondering just what kind of world I’d be waking up in. We were on the brink of change, and I was desperate to see our country actually cross the threshold. I tossed and turned. Restless. Impatient. Worried that instead of waking up in a new era Wednesday morning, I’d be waking up with the same country and the same problems.

It’s just that this time, I’d have friends and colleagues in Namibia to answer to, too.

Given our limited access to technology, we were pretty reliant on well-connected PCVs for updates. A handful of volunteers arranged to camp out in the living rooms of coworkers or friends so they could tune into international news in the early morning, when the first polls closed at home.

SMSes started pouring in around 5 a.m., but they didn’t wake me up. I’d never actually been able to fall asleep. “Electoral count: McCain 95, Obama 207 so far,” the fist one read. “Right now my state of Texas is neutral—can you imagine?” read another. Then, less than an hour later came, “They just projected Obama the winner. All the polls are closed. 297-139.” Finally came, “OBAMA PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!!!!”

I could stop holding my breath.

It seemed safe to say that change was finally upon us.

By 8 a.m. we were at my friend Clarence’s door, eager to catch a glimpse of the news on his TV. His entire family was already huddled around the television—cups of steaming tea in hand—watching America’s new First Family—its first black family—take the stage. A family that, in some ways, looked a lot like his. “Congratulations,” they said, getting up to give us hugs. “You must be so happy!”

And the truth was, we were. Because for the first time, in a long time, I felt good to be an American.

Happy Namiversary!

We celebrated our one-year anniversary this past Sunday in typical PCV fashion: on the side of the road, in the blazing hot sun, trying to thumb a ride.

It wasn’t a celebration, but still, it seemed, a moment to remember.

I’d spent Halloween with other volunteers in a town far to the south. We wore makeshift costumes, “carved” tin can jack-o-lanterns and reminisced over home-cooked meals about where we all were this time last year. (For the record: landing in Windhoek and wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into.)

We agreed, there'd been days that felt like they'd never end, bouts of homesickness, times of sadness and without a doubt, periods of frustration. Still, we said, there were few things we’d change. In the last year, it seems, we’ve experienced--and maybe even accomplished--more than we ever imagined possible.

I learned to click, plucked a chicken and carried water on my head. I slept in a hut, survived 120-degree heat and spent two weeks in a foreign country without any kind of luggage. I bought two-years worth of supplies in less than two hours and found a new place to live in less than 24. I rode 14-deep in a 6-person vehicle and sat shotgun in a homemade donkey cart. I taught health classes and started a girls club. I showed a dozen learners as many games and looked on as they taught their entire school how to play. I started an AIDS Awareness Club and facilitated Windows of Hope. I completed seven dental workshops at two schools and one orphanage, and provided nearly 300 kids with toothbrushes and toothpaste in the process. I read more than 75 books (including War and Peace) and started learning to play the harmonica. I was elected co-chair for Camp GLOW and helped organize and run a workshop for more than 100 out-of-school youth. I created an information resource center at my hospital and showed learners how they could be teachers in their communities. I developed an informal reading program and got a community garden off the ground. I marched in a World AIDS Day event, started a weekend sports and crafts program at the orphanage, wrote two manuals and a facilitator guide and partnered with the Red Cross on more than a dozen outreach events.

I hitchhiked around Namibia and Botswana, crossed the Tropic of Capricorn and walked over an international border. I visited 10 of Namibia’s 13 regions, saw elephants in the Chobe and hiked Table Mountain. I saw hippos, warthogs, crocodiles, water buffalo, kudu, giraffe, monkeys, baboons, whales, seals, penguins and dolphins in the wild. I learned to pitch a tent (in the rain, no less), went sky diving in the desert and kayaked on the other side of the Atlantic. I turned down hundreds of proposals and learned—at least somehow—what it feels like to be treated as a second-class citizen. I broke four cell phones and one ipod. I met the governor of Kunene and listened to the president speak. I visited the birthplace of Shilo and the southern-most tip of the continent.

And I realized that a person can be hundreds of miles from all that she knows and still be in a place she happily calls home.

Not bad for just 365 days…

525,600 Minutes...

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.

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.

Gratitude

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.

Little Victories ...

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.

Lessons Learned

Something in the name Life Skills implies one must live it to actually learn it. There are books and teaching tools, lecture notes and exercises. All attempt to explain time management and decision making, leadership and relationships. Yet the best education—at least in this subject—often comes from experience.

Experience and example.

Jessica and I spend afternoons with Grade 7 learners discussing safe sex and HIV. Their questions about love and relationships continue to amaze me—almost as much as the inability to define either one of these things accurately. Whether a language barrier or just a cultural difference, I can’t be sure. But things it seems I’ve always known, though don’t actually remember learning, aren’t so common knowledge here.

Like what a good relationship looks like.

I’d say: Two people who care about each other. They can be open and honest with one another. They respect each other and carry their weight in the partnership.
My learners would say: When the girl does her job and the man does not beat her.

Or how you can tell if someone loves you.

I’d say: Small gestures that show a person knows about his or her partner. They say kind words and are considerate of feelings. They show appreciation and aren’t afraid to say, “I love you.”
My learners would say: They buy you gifts!

With answers so far from what I know is truly right, it can be hard to explain just what makes their responses so incredibly wrong.

Our Grade 7 Learners

Last week I tried to explain to our group of Grade 7s why a drunk guy yelling, “Hey lady! I love you!” isn’t really love. And why a boyfriend who runs around with other girls doesn’t make a very good boyfriend at all. I couldn’t help but wish I remembered not just what I’d been taught in Guidance class and Topics for Teens, but the way I’d been taught it, too.

The thing is, when it comes to life lessons, a lot of what I’ve learned, I’ve learned from examples set by others. I leaned about love and relationships from watching my parents. I learned about leadership from watching my teachers. And I learned about communication and compassion from watching my friends.

In a community where domestic violence is commonplace, school beatings occur daily and drunk teachers make a spectacle at intramural sporting events, good examples are tough to find.

So when we talked about love, instead of asking kids to tell me about their parents’ relationships (which are often non-existent anyway), I deferred to the Ministry of Health’s (somewhat cheesy) suggested teaching tool: The Bird of Love. Sure, one week later the kids were still able to recite that The Bird of Love, which they’d expertly copied with bright colored crayons on old scraps of paper, was only able to fly with wings of mutual trust and mutual respect. And they could tell me that it was only able to chart its course with a tail of equality. (Seriously…)

But I couldn’t help but wonder if the message had been missed. Trust, respect and gender equality are only far away ideas to many of these students who have yet to see them at work in their own lives.

Learners in Khorixas—and across all of Namibia—can recite lots of things in perfect unison. Like the causes of HIV and the ways to prevent transmission. Yet the infection rate still hovers above 20 percent. Students are taught how to properly use a condom well before they’re able to get erections, and certainly well before they should even be thinking about sex. But more girls get pregnant and drop out of school in Grade 8 than any other, providing there’s a serious disconnect between the lessons that are taught and those that are learned.

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

Happiness is: The Creepy Crawlies

I’ve learned a lot since arriving in Khorixas. And while little to none of it has to do with why I’m actually here, it’s still part of adjusting to life in the Peace Corps, in Namibia, and in the smallest place I’ve ever called home: here.

For starters, it seems even gentle rain means no electricity. No light. No cooking. No dinner. No cell reception. Sometimes for days—like say, the last three, when gale force winds and torrential downpour knocked Khorixas out of commission. Sure, back in the states summer rains meant cool breezes and fresh air. But here they mean moths the size of your face gathering on hallway walls, flying ants with helicopter wings, creepy crawly cockroaches and the biggest, grossest bugs I’ve ever seen climbing all over my bed net while I’m trying to sleep. (I thought the mice in 2R were bad!)

The good news is if I don’t kill the ants, they’ll haul off dead cockroaches and I don’t have to do clean up duty. Which is perfect, because I didn’t buy a mop. Maybe it’s because I spent college with roommates who loved brooms and sponges and used cleaning as a reward. Or perhaps it’s more that I just wasn’t thinking. But it seems this non-essential-in-my-past-life device is absolutely essential here because the thing is, I live in the dessert and that means not just dust, but dirt. Lots of dirt. All over everything, including, but not limited to: my floors.

Along similar lines, I now realize that when living on a budget, there’s no need to purchase two kinds of soap. Dish liquid works fine on clothing and washing powder is perfect for dishes. Sometimes, you don’t even need soap. The bathtub can also do double duty as a giant sink when your kitchen was built without one. What seemed strange during site visit is now just, well, normal.

With 24 of sometimes the longest hours in a given day, things like flossing have become part of my daily routine. Not because hygiene is important (though it is) but because it takes time and time is something I have a lot of. Baking bread took perhaps too long in the states, but in Namibia I find it takes not nearly long enough. I’ve perfected my raisin bread, white bread and pizza dough over the last two weeks, and have an entire cookbook to tackle over the coming two years. It’s lonely to cook for one, but my dad always told me in a new place, food helps make friends.

Here’s hoping.

I’ve already polished off a library’s worth of literature and can now safely say there is no such thing as a bad book when it’s the only book left to read. My old editor at the Daily Local included a Sunday Times in the last package he shipped. I’ve been reading it section by section when I need to feel normal again. It’s easy to forget that old news is still news when you haven’t had a chance to see it. And here in Namibia, I rarely see it.

Mail day is still the best day of the week because it holds the promise of letters from home, packages from friends and general contact with the outside world. Jessica and I take turns rushing our P.O. box (which is often guarded by one of those face-size moths) on Friday mornings. Thursday’s delivery is supposedly dropped and sorted by then. But we’ve noticed more often than not, our correspondence comes when NamPost finds it convenient. That can be Monday or Saturday. It can mean leaving empty-handed six days in a row, but walking out with an armload of packages come day seven.

The good news is, sooner or later, it’s all arriving.

But perhaps the best news of all is that I’m settling in. I may not be sure about my job or my duties—and the fact my supervisor announced today he’s moving back to Nigeria probably isn’t going to help that—but I’m getting comfortable where I am. I’m making friends with Namibians and finding ways to occupy my time without taking on too much responsibility too soon. I spent Sunday in the squatters’ camp (which looks a little like the kind of place you’d expect to see Sally Struthers) playing soccer and netball with the kids. I helped coach Jessica’s track practice last week and lead an HIV support group today. Our after school leadership program kicks off next week and I’ll have my acting debut (Danielle would be proud) in a drama about HIV testing on Valentine’s Day. (Romantic, isn’t it?) Sometime soon I’ll also be putting those journalistic skills of mine to work editing the OYO publication, which I’m really looking forward to.

Sure the transition from city to village, America to Africa can be rocky at times, and slow and frustrating at others. But I’m getting the hang of it. And despite the gross bugs, huge moths and the possibility of a rat as a roommate (did I fail to mention that?), I’m without a doubt happy to be here.

In Namibia. In Khorixas. In the Peace Corps.

I’m happy.

And it feels good.

Welcome to Khorixas: Population Me

I’ve been in Khorixas for five days.

Five days of sandstorms and dust devils.

Five days.
Three books.
Six visitors.
Four cool drinks.
Two trips to the MultiSave.
Three hundred SMSes.

And yes. Even one sunburn.

My first day back in the working world was a reminder of why I loved being a journalist so much: finished products. Each day spent in the newsroom meant another assignment, another interview, and before I went home, another completed story. Clips now stored away in binders and boxes serve as proof that I showed up, clocked in and put it all down on paper. They are evidence of my nine to five (but often later) life.

This will definitely take some getting used to.

I was up at 6 a.m. (which will come as no surprise to those who know me, or to those who’ve served as PCVs). After a cup of coffee, a bowl of Jungle Oats and a bit of reading I was out the door for day one of Real Peace Corps Service. Orientation started at 8:30 and ended at approximately 8:31. It began with “Moro!” and ended with “Here’s your office.” Not much was said in between.

I’ll be working out of a six-room building next door to the hospital. My old roommate, Kate (in the end, no house sharing with newlyweds for me) works just across the hall. Another social worker sits next door, and a cleaning lady has taken up shop in the room on the other side. The hallways are papered with Ministry posters about safe sex, condoms and getting tested, but the walls of my office are completely bare. Thankfully, two windows mean more sun and fresh air than I ever saw in NYC, and the massive dining room table (also known as my desk) leaves plenty of room for spreading out. What, exactly, I haven’t quite figured out. I’m still waiting on a phone. It's unlikely I'll ever see a computer.

My supervisor and I met Thursday—the day before my brother’s 30th birthday—to talk about expectations for my time in Khorixas. The structure of my job, he said, is up to me. The hospital, he added, will simply serve as my resource and support center. In the world of Peace Corps, this arrangement is ideal. Particularly over the long term. But when it comes to first days and Monday mornings it can be a bit overwhelming.

Today I packed my bag with that in mind. In addition to manuals about female empowerment, community action, domestic abuse and alcoholism, I brought an old (but still new to me) Newsweek and a book to pass the time. But my open-door policy and an extra chair--compliments of the cleaning lady--meant people were coming in and out for most of the day. Patrick and Paris, two of the hospital’s drivers, stopped by to chat about the holidays. I met a colleague who wants me to take him back to America and another whose already requested that I extend my service. There was an assistant from the morgue who also leads an HIV support group, and the director of the Red Cross for Khorixas.

I wasn’t exactly busy. But considering it was my first day in an undefined job with no real direction or guidance, in a place where I barely speak the language, things went better than expected. I read a couple of health guides and even took some notes. I volunteered to help Kate run an event for the disabled later on this month, scheduled a meeting with the Red Cross early next week, met with Tonje, a SCORE volunteer here, to talk about designing the health component of her new after school program, and worked with Jessica on an outline for the girls’ club we plan to start at her school.

All that, and I even managed to finish my book.

PCT to PCV in Two Days

New Years in Namibia meant pancakes for breakfast, real orange juice and French pressed coffee. It also meant the perfect start to 2008, and a trend I hope will hold. But ever since we arrived back in Okahandja the reality of our situation has really begun to set in. We’ve been together nearly non-stop for more than two months, and in just two days we’ll be swearing in, packing up, and heading out to our permanent sites. We won’t see each other again until reconnect in May.

Sure, the trainers have prepared us with four-hour language sessions, as well as cultural and technical sessions, too. But volunteers say service is different than training, so the 69 of us really have no idea what to expect. Despite this fact—the undefined jobs and lack of direction—we’re eager to start working. We signed up to volunteer, and that’s what we’re ready to do.

The last few have days felt more like summer camp than final preparations for swear in. Friday night’s highlight was a hilarious talent show—a pre service training tradition—that included slam poetry, dance and musical numbers, a traditional dress fashion show and a CATJAR shout out during a Britney Spears cover. The grand finale was a braai in the courtyard by a handful of PCTs filled with BBQ chicken, garlic bread, vegetable kabobs, green beans, cool drink, grilled pineapple, cinnamon apples and yes, even ice. More produce in a single meal than most of us have seen over the past two months.

The last of our language exams take place today (I had mine yesterday, and let’s just say it’s too bad tape recorders don’t register confused looks and blank stares. Is it possible to do worse the second time around?). Tomorrow we’ll head to Windhoek to shop for supplies for our future homes and visit the Peace Corps office. But as is often the case, we’re still waiting on the check from Washington. It’s unlikely we’ll receive our settling-in allowance or our first paycheck until well after we arrive at permanent site. My living situation is still unclear, and my Peace Corps supervisor told me I’ll just have to figure it out when I arrive in Khorixas (something I’m getting used to hearing/doing.) I’ll either be living on my own, or with a newlywed couple. (One guess as to which I’d prefer.)

The swear-in ceremony is Wednesday morning here in Okahandja. We’ve been practicing our pledges all week. My mama and Amanda’s mama will both be coming in from Tsumeb, and hopefully bringing Cecil along for the ride. Those of us who are station in nearby villages and towns will be leaving immediately following, while volunteers in the Kavango, Caprivi, and places in the far south, will head out early Thursday morning.

We’re all ready to go. But it will still be sad to leave.

//Nau-!a Tama Ta Ha Damara

We’re in the final stages of planning for our weeklong workshop. From the sounds of it, the 60-odd participants who have already signed up should be more than entertained when we cover topics like alcoholism, condom use, the biology of HIV/AIDS, grief and goal setting. Because they told us during the needs assessment that they like games and dramas, we’ve managed to incorporate at least one of each into every session. The last day will include certificates of completion (which are a big deal around here), several plays and of course, a big party with lots of food and cool drinks. (That’s the local term for soda, juice, or anything that’s not water.)

With 13 people each trying to take a turn at the planning wheel, this could have been disastrous. But as it turns out, people who were eager to criticize were also equally willing to step back and observe. We’ve got a pretty solid group of volunteers with a good dynamic that makes even work an okay time. So after a plate of fat cakes and a couple of hours we were well on our way to workshop success. Each of us is responsible for teaching one session each day, but seeing the games and materials others use will be beneficial in running our own workshops down the line.

In the meantime I’ve been practicing for my language exam. My mama doesn’t speak as much Damara to me as I’d hoped, so Jo-Ann, the neighbor, has been helping me practice in exchange for grilled cheeses, lasagna and other American treats. But we hit a wall yesterday when she realized I’d been learning the language for nearly a month, rather than just one week. She went from thinking I was coming along to instead feeling like I was a lost cause.

It was the self-esteem boost I needed with less than 24-hours until my exam.

As for the test, well, it went as expected: terribly. I know more vocabulary than I thought, but I’m nearly incapable of forming complete sentences. (At least for now.) I’m confident that with time (lots of time) I’ll come around. My goal is to be proficient in what I should know by now by the time I leave Tsumeb. I’m literate in Damara, but can’t always hear the difference between //a and a and /a. Since my work in Khorixas will rely mostly on verbal communication, that’s bound to be a problem.

But the good news is that so far, there haven’t been many of those—major problems, I mean. Maybe that’s because we haven’t really had to adjust to life in Namibia quite yet. Although the 70 members of Nam 27 are split between six cities for CBT, we still haven’t had to contend with being totally alone. Because of that, I have a feeling those first few months at permanent site will be filled with the types of challenges we haven’t yet faced. We’ll contend with loneliness and isolation, language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, confusion over jobs and god knows what else.

That’s not to say I’m dreading swearing in. In fact, it’s just the opposite. These are the reasons I signed up for Peace Corps. Sure 2008 will bring more challenges all at once than I’ve faced over the course of the last several years, but that just means more personal growth and greater understanding—of Namibia, Damara, and ultimately, myself.

I'm Here! (And So Is My Luggage!)

The good news is I’ve arrived safely in Namibia. After a week of waiting and a one-hour shopping spree in Windhoek, my luggage has finally arrived, too. I survived my first days here with one dress, a pair of pants, some worn-out flip-flops and a t-shirt. When my bag finally arrived I couldn’t help but wonder why I packed so much stuff in the first place. Two weeks in Namibia and I’m already reevaluating the essentials.

The country is amazing. Open plains and clear blue skies. But there’s also a lot of nothingness. In a place twice the size of California with a population of just 1.8 million people, I guess that’s to be expected. The days are warm and dry and the nights are cool and comfortable—the best of both worlds. The mornings are perfect for runs. November and December are considered the “rainy season” but that’s happened only once since we arrived.

We landed in Windhoek on November 2 after the world’s longest flight and nearly a week’s worth of travel. PCVs from Nam 25 and Nam 26 met us at the airport with a giant banner, two massive buses and a bowl full of fat cakes. These simple yeast rolls are made with a bit of sugar and fried in an iron pot. They’re best served warm, but even day-olds were a delicious welcome to a country we’d heard so much about. The ride from the airport to Okahandja was about an hour—long enough to see a bit of the countryside before sunset, plus baboons, giraffe and warthogs. This is Africa, after all.

There are about 25 trainers from the 13 regions in Namibia working with us on our language and cultural skills before we depart for our official sites in January. (We will do a temporary site visit, which includes our first experience “hiking,” next week.) They lined the walkway of our compound the night we arrived and sang songs in Afrikaans, Silozi and Otijiherero—music and voices like I’d never heard before. It was the warmest welcome I’ve ever received, and a feeling I hope to never forget.

Since then, it’s been 10-hour days of cross-cultural training, Peace Corps rules and regulations sessions, near daily vaccines and a whole lot of “getting to know you” time. I’m living in a room with five other girls: a teacher, a public health worker, and three recent grads. They are all absolutely hilarious and have made the ups and downs up this surprisingly stressful experience easier to handle. So far we’ve been able to keep each other sane and laugh at the things that might otherwise make us cry.

Last week the members of Nam 27 were interviewed by our program directors about potential posts, desired living conditions and expectations for service. From what I can gather, I’ll be working in a small town putting together health training materials and developing community outreach programs to disseminate the information. We were placed in our language groups last Thursday, so many of my fellow volunteers have an idea of where they’ll be heading based on what they’ll be learning. I could still go anywhere.

You’ll all be happy to know I’m learning Khoekhoegowab (kway-kway-kovab). And yes, that’s the clicking language. There are about 15 of us trying to perfect the four basic clicks. So far it’s been a struggle. We were told from the start that it’s unlikely we’ll master the language, but despite that, we’re trying.

One of our trainers took us to the Location, a part of Okahandja where black Namibians were forced to live during Apartheid. As it turns out, many of them still live there today, too. We listened to a Khoekhoe choir practice, and then performed a song with them. We learned a dance that none of us were really all that good at, but I’m still convinced we’ll leave this country with more rhythm than when we arrived.

This week we began twice-daily language lessons in preparation for our permanent site visits next week. On Tuesday, my three-man class actually took to the streets to practice with the locals. It was a reminder of how little you can learn in three days. Unless I was asked my name or where I was from, I was useless. But the women were slow and patient and the little boy, Quinton, got a kick out of our trial and error. I’m sure next week will bring more of the same. I’m anxious, and at the same time, can’t wait to see where I’ll be spending the next two years of my life.

For now, half of our days are filled with language and cultural education. The other is technical training. Workshops and lectures teach us more about the health system and the major health concerns in Namibia. From the looks of it, there are many. The sparse population, rough terrain and lack of transportation mean a majority of Namibians have little or no access to public or private medical care. There are just seven surgeons, five pediatricians and two psychiatrists in the entire country. The university has no PhD program, so doctors must be trained outside of the country. Work permits are hard to come by and it’s nearly impossible to find qualified professionals willing to work for next to nothing in the rural areas where the need is greatest. Here in Okahandja more than 100 people are on the waiting list for antiretrovirals at the local hospital. The facility services about 36,000 people, and while the drugs are in stock, a shortage of qualified doctors able to administer the medication means patients can still wait upwards of six weeks for treatment.

We met with one of the two doctors that serve the town on Tuesday. His patients come from as far away at the Botswana border to the east, Windhoek to the south, and more than 400 km to the west. Nearly 40 percent of his patients are HIV positive and at least two or three more people test positive each week. He told us that health information is widely available throughout the country. Namibia even offers free condoms to residents to prevent the spread of disease. But people are still failing to put what they learn into practice. It happens in the states, too, but after talking to trainers and healthcare professionals—even a traditional healer at the Location—it’s clear there are unique issues and challenges at play here.

Gender roles are a reality in Namibia. Men are the decision makers and women tend to be the more submissive partner in a relationship. Males have the final say in all things related to sex: from where and when it happens to whether condoms are used. Sex is often a display of power rather than an act of mutual satisfaction. If a woman voices her opinion on these matters she’s seen as loose. Rape laws were only recently introduced in Namibia. One current volunteer told us that men in his village were actually unsure how to date after this happened. He said before, they just took what they wanted. Courting didn’t exist. But then, neither did rape. It was expected that women would say no, and it was almost understood that that didn’t really matter.

But there are other obstacles facing health education and AIDS prevention in Namibia. The vast landscape, sparse population, and lack of jobs mean that hospital workers, teachers, policemen and miners are often sent to work in areas far from their families. Wandering men can bring the disease home and pass it on to their wives, who in turn, risk transmission to their children during pregnancy and even after birth. Men are rarely tested. At a clinic in Okahandja 1,200 women tested positive for HIV. Of that number just 12 had husbands who volunteered to be tested, too.

As it turns out, the number one risk factor for AIDS in Namibia is marriage.

Although the country offers health care at a relatively low rate, just two percent of the infected population is getting the drugs and treatment they need for advanced HIV/AIDS. In the states, that number is upwards of 80 percent. There is just one ambulance in Okahandja to service more than 35,000 people. And while a visit to a national health center costs around N$6 (about one dollar in the US), an unemployment rate of 50 percent means even that nominal fee can be prohibitive.

It’s been a lot of information to digest and this past two weeks has served as an incredible eye opener. As a westerner, I know it will be difficult to navigate a system of beliefs and a worldview that’s unfamiliar to me. As a volunteer, we’re taught that the information is out there and that many of the resources are widely available. But even so, many residents, including some of our trainers, are still unsure of just how HIV/AIDS is transmitted. While it can be frustrating to hear, it’s a good reminder of why I’m here: to educate, assist, and ultimately, to learn.

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.

The Things You Miss

My college roommate Molly gave me a card when I left New York. In it, she predicted not just where I would be 26 months from now—finishing up my Peace Corps service and heading on a trip through Eastern Africa—but where our friends and classmates would find themselves, too.

Ilana, of course, will be married. Maybe Darby will have a baby and Dan will probably be engaged. Molly will be attending some top-tier grad school and Alisa will be a doctor.

We will finally be grown up.

It’s exciting to think about where the next two years will take us and what sort of adventures I’ll find in Namibia. But as I struggle (quite literally) to pack my bags, tie up loose ends, and say goodbye to my family, I’m reminded of all that I’ll be missing here, too.

My cousin Paul just got engaged and he’ll get married next October. Once Lilly and Claire learn to walk, they’ll be running circles around my cousins. And the newest addition to our extended family, baby Julian, will be talking by the time I return. He’ll have no idea who I am.

I’ve been thinking about the Peace Corps since I graduated from NYU. And now, four years later, after eighteen months of paperwork, interviews and doctors appointments, my departure date is almost here. I’m not anxious or afraid, just excited and ready. Really ready.

But I’m also a little sad. Sad because of what I’ll miss: the big life events, face time with family and holidays at home. Still, I can’t help but think I’d be missing out on more if I’d decided to stay here, instead of finding out what it really feels like to get sand in my shoes.