My Trash is not My Own

Everything I throw away gets rummaged through by all the children in my village.  The large hole behind my hut, meant for dumping rubbish, becomes a gathering place for six to eight children any time they suspect I have tossed something into the pile of empty beer bottles and wrappers.  This is the same pile where I threw out an ant-infested loaf of bread that was then eaten by these same children.

I can always count on the faces of these children trying to peer in through my windows multiple times throughout the day.  Since most of them are too young to speak English, the best I can do is lift up my curtain, make it obvious that I know they are there, and knock on the glass.

I’m always being watched.  I open my door, it creaks, and there I am facing the rest of my village.  It seems that the sound of the door creaking has become the announcement that my house is now open to all the children who wish to go through my stuff.  And I’m doing my best to let them be curious and still keep my space.  Doing my laundry becomes entertainment for others, my short walk to my pit latrine can be seen by everyone, I can never go fetch water alone (though I do appreciate the help), and I can’t leave my door open unless I want to supervise the children.  The feeling of being watched 24/7 is exhausting.  Especially when you’re someone like me, who has always needed space to unwind and reflect and breathe.

And sometimes when I think I can’t take it anymore, Imasiku and Simalumba (also refered to as Simamba, Bamba, Bomba, and various other things) always restore my love for the kids here.  Imasiku no longer refers to me as mukuwa (the word for white person), but does his best to call me by my name (which comes out as Shala).  And Simamba, well he’s the cutest baby that looks like an old man that I’ve ever seen and when he waves at me I can’t help but feel better about everything.

Adjustments.

While I’ve definitely become more comfortable here in Mubiza, things are still troubling.  The week began with a very hurt kitten.  The poor thing might have to have its leg amputated, but we are hoping it recovers.

I then proceeded to find out that the water pumps are broken, so there has been no clean water in the village since Friday.  This makes things entirely frustrating and the whole ordeal has made me realize how much trouble I have asking for help.  Yesterday I was out of water and after school I sent two learners to fill up my buckets.  They came back with water too filthy to put into my water filter.  I hadn’t had anything to drink all day so I did it anyways and luckily didn’t get sick from it.  I sat in my hut trying to figure out what to do.  I needed more water and didn’t want to ask anyone for help.  I wanted to be able to do it myself.  Instead I sat on my bed and cried.  I was really thirsty.

I decided to cut it out and ask for help.  My host dad came to my hut and told me the water I had wasn’t water for drinking.  So we ventured to a neighboring village to see his sister and get powder to clean the water.  Of course we were invited to eat food.  Unfortunately it was not my favorite dish. Sour milk and porridge.  I gulped down what I could, and when we returned home I found I had missed a visit from a volunteer who lives in town.  I was pretty bummed, but luckily I cleaned my water and was finally able to drink something.  I think that was the most satisfying water I have ever tasted.

 

It gets really hot here.

 

Today’s frustrations came in the form of 6th graders.  Their classroom is the shade beneath a tree.  So that doesn’t help the teaching process.  For some reason they felt like today they didn’t have to listen, and during part of the lesson a truck came right by our classes and got stuck in the sand.  My voice is not loud.  It’s hard to shout over an extremely loud vehicle.

 

Despite all this, things are good.  I just need to learn to get over myself and ask for help.  This lack of privacy and independence gets to me. 

Small Bump in the Road

Moving to my permanent site wasn’t quite as magical as my first visit.  I guess it was to be expected.  The majority of my time here thus far had been wonderful, I had to have a hard time at some point.

On October 17th we all officially transitioned from PC Trainees to PC Volunteers.  We swore in in our “target languages,” and while my heart was pounding through the entirety of my being, I gave part of the Silozi thank you speech.  We sang. Some danced.  And that was it.  We were officially volunteers.  And that same afternoon some of us left for our permanent sites, leaving Okahandja to feel somewhat empty.  Those of us who were to leave the next day took our last trip to Spar (our beloved grocery store) and ate ice cream.

The next morning I piled all of my belongings into a combi at 5:30am, expecting to leave no later than 6:00am.  This did not happen.  After the combi dropped us off where the supervisor from a nearby village was waiting to drive us up to Caprivi, we spent a few hours trying to sort out a luggage issue.  The plan was for a pick-up to take our luggage up to Caprivi while we road in the car with the supervisor.  Turns out the those driving the truck didn’t want to go that day.  We had to leave most of our luggage behind, save for a few back packs and water filters, and have faith that someone would eventually pick up our belongings from the house where we left them.

They arrived.  A few days after being at site.  This was a few days after feeling entirely alone and frustrated and awkward.  I started teaching seventh graders on Monday, feeling completely unprepared, though I think I actually did ok.  My hut was not yet equipped with a bed, so for the first few nights I slept on a cot in another hut, belonging to an absent PCV.  The amount of new people was overwhelming, most of whom I had not seen during my site visit a month earlier.  Swarms of bees had made themselves comfortable in my hut. Ants ate their way through bags to infest my bread.  At this point, the logical thing in my head was to throw it away.  So I did.  Only to find that 15 minutes later a small  boy found the bread in my trash pile and people proceeded to eat it.  I felt like an ass for throwing it away.  I don’t know why I got so worked up about it, but the situation with everyone around while it happened was really awkward.  That combined with seeing children so upset and crying to the point of wetting themselves, and then getting in trouble and being beaten repeatedly with a stick, was a bit much.  It was a lonely first week at site.

The days did get better though.  The end of the week was equipped with an actual bed, all of my luggage, more confidence in the classroom, the children not being shy around me anymore (though this was to the point of them barging in my hut and rummaging through my things), and complete confidence that I will eventually feel perfectly content in my village.  I actually do like it there.  It was just a bit of an…adjustment.

And now? And now Katima Mulilo is comforting me with it’s flush toilets, showers, milkshakes, packages waiting oh so patiently at the post office for me, and good company.  A weekend that I’m sure will get me ready to feel refreshed and ok about heading back to Mubiza.

Bittersweet.

10.15.09

Training is coming to an end.  It’s bittersweet.  The past couple of months have been full of amazing people, and I have deep admiration for so many of them.  My fellow trainees are all unique and dedicated and fascinating…and hilarious.  I can’t deny that I’ve had moments of homesickness, but with PC Namibia Group 30 I am always guaranteed someone who can make me laugh to the point of my jaw aching.  And while language classes got long and entirely aggravating, it’s a good feeling when I have even an inkling about what my family is talking about in Silozi…not many Americans speak an ounce of Silozi. So thanks 4 hour Silozi classes.

I am going to miss being surrounded by these amazing people.  Like woah.

But. I get to go to Mubiza! I get to live in a hut. My host family is amazing. I get to start teaching (and I’m a bit freaked out by this). I can finally get settled in.  I am getting cats. I get to eat amazing food cooked over a fire. I get to start thinking about my secondary projects. I get to join the wonderful group of Caprivi volunteers!

 

This upcoming weekend is sure to be full of tears and excitement and anxiousness and long car rides and who knows what else.

Free Rides

9.27.09

Can I just say that I love Namibia?! Despite the annoyances that inevitably popped up, and the multitude of social problems that the country is working towards overcoming, this place is magical. 

This is not to say that my time here is bubbly 24/7, but all of the good outweighs the negatives.  My personal downers involve language frustration, awkward family time, exhaustion, and small bouts of loneliness.  Larger, more important issues, include the really high rate of HIV/AIDS, especially in the area I will be living permanently.  Alcohol is another huge problem here.  It’s really sad to see.  There’s no such thing as having a drink here.  You either don’t drink, or are completely wasted.  My small small village has two shebeens (bars that sell home made brews and other alcohol), if not more, and there are quite a number of people who are always drunk. (Another annoying thing about the shebeens is that they play loud music 24/7 and can be heard throughout the entire village.  Not fun to try and sleep to, but I’m guessing eventually my brain will just tune it out.)

One thing that also bothers me is the gender dynamics of this country.  It is probably slowly changing, but male dominance is so much more obvious and in your face than it is in the U.S.  Wealth disparity is also extreme.  Namibia has the highest rating on the scale that determines wealth disparities.  It’s so strange to see mud huts, tin shacks, hungry children and beggars, and then see mansions and people driving BMWs and Mercedes and fancy bathrooms in fancy coffeeshops…

Let’s not forget I said this place was magical.  So many of the people here are so kind.  Especially up in the Caprivi region, where I’ll be living.  My host family is so generous and kind and sharing is such a big part of the culture here.  When I greet the older women in Silozi, smiles stretch across their faces as they reach to shake my hand.  It’s so welcoming and inviting and I’m not worried about integrating into the community. (The only thing I’m really worried about in that sense is remembering everyone’s name and face and story.) The landscape here is beautiful and I can’t wait to see it when the rains come! It’s dry and brown and the sun turns bright reds and oranges during sunset and when it dips below the horizon the stars come out.  The morning greets me with loudly chirping birds and feels cool and refreshing.  In my village, the roosters are my alarm.  This place has grown on me.

Yesterday was especially enjoyable.  A group of us hiked down to Windhoek.  Our ride took us straight to the restaurant we were heading to.  We ate delicious Indian food and headed towards the mall.  (Yes, it feels strange to go to a mall while in the Peace Corps.)  We were almost at the mall, yet didn’t realize that, when we decided to flag down a taxi.  Seven of us shoved into the tiny car, hanging out windows, and we each paid N$15 for the driver to take us not far at all.  Kind of frustrating but my blistered feet were thankful.  We bought movie tickets and spent the afternoon in a theatre.  Our trip back was ridiculous.  We tried walking from the mall to our hike point on the B1 to get back to Okahandja, and had a pick-up (bakkie) not pulled over to take us to the B1, we would have been walking far into the night.  The kind driver dropped us off, and we waited on the high way for a ride.  We got offers from people who wanted money, and we had to continually say we were volunteers with little money.  Right when we were ready to call a taxi, because we were worried it was getting too late and too dark, a truck pulled over and gave us a ride.  I love the idea of hitch hiking.  It just makes sense.  If someone is going where you are headed, obviously you give them a ride.  We are always safe, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it as a female alone, but it’s fun to meet people and enjoy the free ride.

 

Some more info about contacting me:

-I have a new mailing address.  So if you want to send me letters and things send them to:

P.O. Box 2236

Katima Mulilo

Namibia, Africa

 

My wish list includes: LETTERS, trail mix, and books (any fiction will do :) teehee), also it’s pretty pricey to ship things here but letters are always light and great.

-If you have Skype, it’s not too expensive to call me *hint hint* :) just ask for my number!

Thanks for being so great, Caprivi.

Sarah had a magical week, though not devoid of complete frustration. After a drive up to Caprivi that took entirely too long because of car troubles (though not all bad because it involved elephants and warthogs and buffalo and a zebra and lots of other wildlife) we arrived in Katima. This night included a bizarre trip to a bar/restaurant that was closed. We were with someone who knew the owner and he had saved plates of food for us. Also, he was drunk. And inappropriate. After eating cold french fries (chips), we were directed to serve ourselves behind the bar (because there was no way in hell he was going to serve us) and then told to fuck off. The entire time he was laughing about all this. It was just bizarre. That's really all I can say.

After we spent the night with wonderful current volunteers, I, along with the two new Caprivi volunteers, headed to our villages. My stop was first. We pulled over on the side of the road. I said goodbye to my comfort zone of fellow trainees and was greeted by chickens, starving dogs, some mud huts, and a few shebeens (bars with cheap home brews that aren't particularly safe and help to maintain the huge problem with alcoholism). Luckily a current volunteer was waiting with a member of my new host family. We dropped my stuff off in my hut and went on a walk to meet the village members. I can't stress enough how important greetings are in this culture. It is entirely rude to not greet someone, and generally they involve asking how the other person is, clapping, and hand shaking. Kneeling for elders is always important.

The first couple hours were completely overwhelming. The entire time I was ready to go lay down on my cot and cry, but I was surrounded by people and it wouldn't have been the best idea. Luckily this feeling passed quickly. My host family is the kindest I have ever met. They have a two year old son who loves to laugh at me whenever he sees me. I have finally got him saying "bye" to me when I leave for school in the morning, and he continues to say it until I am out of sight.

They cook buhobe and muloho over a fire. I take bucket baths in the afternoon to cool off. My bathroom is a pit latrine. The water is safe to drink. Spiders love my walls. I am inheriting a cat. My first hike was free. My school is right across the street. They are getting a new building (currently the 5th graders are in an old mud structure while the 6th graders have class outside), and hopefully a computer lab. There is a garden project. There are learners who want to start a girls club. HIV/AIDS is a huge problem. I get to incorporate prevention into my English classes. I love Mubiza (my village). It's very small, but an easy hike to Katima.

And yesterday? Yesterday was probably my favorite day. It included starting the day with a cup of tea I actually enjoyed (I know, weird right?), going to school and observing classes, packing, and heading to Katima. After eating a delicious lunch, we met up with other volunteers, drank oh so delicious milkshakes and headed to a fancy (and I mean fancy) lodge to drink beers from their bar and swim in a pool. The night then proceeded with tons of laughter, spending ridiculous amounts of money on chips and chocolate, curry and rice, cookies, guitar playing and electricity going out. And sleep. It was the perfect end to my site visit to Caprivi. I cannot wait to go back.

Let's Get Rid Of Sundays.

This is the second Sunday that I wish I could fast forward through. Long days filled with nothing in particular lead to homesickness and the inevitable question of "What the hell am I doing here?" Last Sunday was full of frustration, flat tires, the beating sun, marriage proposals by those who find violence against women acceptable, and slow driving that stretched into the night. And today? Today involved lies about aching stomachs to avoid repeating last Sunday's adventure, loneliness, an entire season of Grey's Anatomy, and waiting for the hours to go by so it can be Monday.

I love Mondays in Africa. Monday means other volunteers. And structure. And the days are full of language training. Weekdays are exhausting but enjoyable. And I can't even begin to describe how frustrating language can be.

I also love mornings. They are chilly and sunny and comfort comes in the form of instant coffee and silence. It's a nice routine.

And now I'm just counting down until my birthday dinner this Wednesday which might be full of pizza and beer and friends and comfort. Closely followed by a Saturday of traveling to Caprivi and who knows what that will bring!