New Era magazine recently interviewed a couple of PCVs (including two honorary members of the CATJAR--Juice and Jeffie B) for this story about life in Peace Corps, in Namibia, and in Nam 27.
Riding a donkey, secondary projects and little victories? Sounds about right. (Although that part about Juice being white and Filipino? Not so much.)
A couple of weeks ago--after a long, hot and heinous hike--I came home to find four of our learners all dolled up in their Sunday Best. After weeks of classes at the local Catholic Church (some of which conflicted with Girls Club...ahem) these young ladies were confirmed. 
Best of all? They were nice enough to stop by to show off their fancy dresses!
The last time I answered the door on a Saturday morning, I was greeted by an aggressive drunk man with half a skinned donkey slung over his shoulder who was interested in getting friendly. So, needless to say, I was expecting something outside of the ordinary when I heard the voices of two learners yelling, "Miss! Miss!" at our window this afternoon.
I walked into the kitchen where Kennedy and Elvis, two Grade 5s, peeped through the burglar bars above our kitchen counter. "Hello?" I said.
"Hello Miss! We just wanted to show this bird!"
"Bird?" I said. "What bird?"
And from below the window ledge, two tiny hands lifted a broken branch where a small brown and very wild bird perched silently. Still alive, but paralyzed by what I can only imagine was pure fear.
"Is it real?" I asked.
(Sure, I could practically see its heart beating through its little feathered chest. But never in my life have I known someone capable of catching a wild bird with bare hands...But then, never in my life have I lived in Africa.)
"Yeah," they said. "It was flying in the kitchen and we just caught it there."
"Oh," I said...Of course.
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.
We live in a hostel with about 400 primary school kids. So when there’s a knock on our door, on weekends or at night, it’s usually a learner looking for food, or eager to show off a new finger trick taught to them by Jessica. Sometimes it’s Kennedy wanting to practice his reading. Other times it’s friends, just wanting to hang out.
But today, none of these was the case.
Kennedy had already come and gone—finishing six more pages of a book I originally thought far surpassed his reading level. (Turns out, he’s doing awesome.) Jessica was in her room doing work and I was cooking lunch when a knock—or rather—a pound—came at the door.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Who is it?” I yelled. But the answer was hard to decipher between the language barrier, the accent and a wooden door. I asked again.
“Mfupmpf,” he said.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she knocks—especially when you can’t actually understand who it is. Learners tap furiously 10 or 15 times, pause for a moment, then start rapping again. They are tireless. Richel’s knocks come in threes, and Speech—well, let’s just say you can always tell when Speech is at the door.
This was a pound—with fists. And most certainly a man, judging from his voice. Had I been home alone, or had it been at night, I probably would have pretended to be out or stood quietly in the hallway until he grew tired and went away.
But since it was mid-morning and he was there, I was here, and Jessica was in her room, I opened the door.
Outside was a man (drunk) with half of a freshly killed donkey carcass slung over his shoulder, still bloody and covered with small gray hairs. I said hello, and not 10 seconds later, he launched into a profession of his undying love for me. “I want to start a relationship with you!” he slurred, as he grabbed my hand. (Anyone who knows me will tell you arriving covered in animal flesh is no way to kick things off.)
I’ve lived in Namibia for a while now, so I’ve grown used to this kind of exchange. From guys in town, visitors to my office, even taxi drivers on long rides from Otjiwarango to Khorixas. I’ve been followed from the post office by men chanting explicit rap lyrics, and waved down in the street by drunken men with few teeth eager to confess their love. (Moments that remind me a bit of my previous New York City life.)
In most cases, it’s possible to move away. I leave the store, walk out of my office, head back from town, and even in the taxi, at least turn on my iPod. (Special thanks to those of you who chipped in—and therefore saved my sanity on occasions too numerous to count.)
But when someone comes to your home professing his love, that’s a different story entirely. And moving away isn’t necessarily an option.
I asked if he knew who I was. (He didn’t.)
I asked if we’d met before. (We hadn’t.)
I wondered if he knew my name. (He didn’t.)
I wanted to ask if he even knew what love was—but the answer to that seemed obvious.
The whole situation was somehow humorous—at least for a second—until I realized his hand was on the door, pulling it open and his foot was in our flat. “You have to leave now,” I said. “Let go of the door.”
It was my sternest voice, and it wasn’t working.
He offered me N$10 to go somewhere with him, to get this relationship started. I could think of a dozen things I’d take—and use—N$10 for, but this wasn’t one of them. Not even close.
“Let go of the door,” I said again, this time, a bit louder. This time, really meaning it. This time, actually yanking it.
I could smell the alcohol on his breath and knew to try and negotiate would be pointless. A handful of health classes, four years of college and plenty of life experience have proved you can’t reason with a drunk. And while 10 months in this country have taught me there’s plenty of room for misinterpreting things in a different culture, I was confident that this time, that wasn’t the case.
His hand was on the door, his foot was in my house and his mouth was in my face.
I made a promise when I arrived to Namibia that I would never put myself in jeopardy for the sake of sparing someone else’s feelings. Social faux pas stink (and I’ve had my fair share)—but the alternative is even worse. Asking this guy to leave, then telling him he had to go, all while he was prying the door open and trying to come inside, meant I wasn’t too worried about how he was going to feel—whether he’d be walking away with a bruised ego or in a state of confusion.
I was, in fact, more worried about myself.
“Go. Now,” I said again. I moved his hand from the door several more times, knowing Jessica was nearby if things got any worse.
In the end, after much back and forth, he left, taking the donkey carcass with him. (Thank God.)
And while I was happy to have handled the situation calmly and on my own, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d done the right thing. Maybe he was just trying to be nice—offering the half a donkey as a token of his affection. (So what if he didn’t actually know me and we’d never even met?) Maybe he left after our confrontation wondering what he’d done wrong when he was actually just trying to be a good neighbor or prove himself a promising partner.
See, that’s the thing about this place. I can be so sure of things—and of myself—one minute, and entirely uncertain of it all the very next.
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.
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.
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.
Posts
All Comments
