The other night, one of the grade two teachers was visiting at my home stay. She is only contracted to teach at the school for this year because she was hired and placed by the ministry for the temporary position. She is renting out half a mud hut across the dirt road from my home stay. She is young, friendly, a genuinely good person who does her job (sometimes this is rare) and does her job well. Anyway, on Saturday I had been at the school working on the library, so when I came home she was sitting outside on the cement porch with my host mom just talking and visiting. Considering my host mom speaks minimal English, they were speaking in Khoekhoe. When this happens, I can rarely ever participate, so I just listen and see how many words I can recognize and try to decipher what they might be talking about. So, I sat in silence attempting to pick up on their colloquial sentence structure and watching the sunset, my mom excused herself to the kitchen to cook dinner. The grade two teacher actually has a house in Outjo (about 2 hours away) where her immediate family and grade six daughter lives. When she got the position here, she brought along her grade three son. Knowing this position was only for a year, she had applied to teaching jobs in Otjiworongo, a city much closer to her home in Outjo than Erwee. I asked her if she had heard anything about the job, if it was filled already or if she was hired. We then started talking about her daughter and she told me that she has been away from her for three years. The two years prior to her being here, she had been placed by the ministry at another school far away from Outjo. I told her that I understand how that can be hard being away from her daughter for so long. “I’m 22 and I don’t even like the idea of being away from my mom for just two years.” I told her that I thought she was a strong lady and wished her the best of luck with the job placement. We continued to talk about our families. I talked about living with my mom and Craig and how lucky I am that my dad is only a three hour drive away. I told her that my brother and I are really good at stressing out our parents, but we aren’t so ruthless that we do it at the same time. When David moved away to go to school in Florida, I stayed in Indiana for school. Then, when he decided to move back to the Midwest, I decided to move to Africa. She laughed and reciprocated my previous compliment to her; she told me “you are strong too for being here.”
Now, let me first explain that even though while in Erwee, she has been staying in a mud hut, she is by far the flyest dresser at our school. She’ll come in on Fridays in fashionable jeans and a silk top complete with coordinating jewelry. By looking at her, you would think she was visiting from the capital rather than living in a one room hut. Anyway, she has three raised blister-looking swells on her arms which I had noticed whenever she sports one of her many American-esque hipster tops. I didn’t really think anything of them, just thought that maybe they were scars from a fall or a car accident or maybe they were just birthmarks or something.
But, possibly seeing me so happy talking about my family, she decided to share some more about hers. She continued to tell me about how “clever” (what Namibians say when they mean “smart”) her daughter is and how she was just selected as a prefect for next year at her school (a prefect is comparable to being on student council but with a safety patrol twist). I’m not sure if it was because this was the first time since I’ve been here that we’ve had the opportunity to talk and share outside of school or what made her decide to say what she did next: “Their father is in prison, in Walvis Bay. He’s there for a year and then has three years of what? How do you say? Probation or what.” “Is it?” I responded with a Namlish phrase that has infiltrated my vocabulary, the first official sign of integration. “Last year, he tried to kill me.” She was looking down pushing back a cuticle when she spoke. Still focused on her fingernail, she pointed to her arm, “that’s what these are from. Some people when they taste those things, they just change, you know? It’s a problem.” Her boyfriend, the father of her two children, is an alcoholic. Apparently, one evening sometime last year, he had gotten out of control.
Ever since my site visit in September, I had always thought of this teacher as a really cool chick. She’s hilarious and has this deep, infectious laugh, one that if she wasn’t so happy all the time could be mistaken for an evil-up-to-no-good cackle. But this how I feel now, finally at my permanent site. I’m only at the surface. I’m just sitting on the dock, with my toes in the water having no idea what fish or rusting auto parts are underneath. I guess knowing these things only come with time, which is natural for someone moving to a new place. But, here, it is a bit more intense.
So, I’m here, in Erwee. My home for the next two years. I’ve been here for a little over a month and much like my first two months in country, so much has happened.
During my site visit, I had met my host mother but she was the only one of this new host family I had met. I was informed that she was married and that she had children, but beyond that I did not know much else. So, when I was dropped off the day after swearing-in, I was greeted by two of her daughters, 25-year old Maureen and 23-year old Grace. There was also another small girl there, Maureen’s daughter, 4-year old Sweetness. For the first couple hours as I was unpacking my things, they were nice enough—accommodating, curious, congenial. Then, they invited me to go with them to the shop. My understanding of a shop is a place where you purchase foodstuffs and other essentials. So, I agreed to accompany them as soon as I finished up organizing my things. We had just left the gate of the yard, when Grace said, “Ahtata! I forgot the cups,” and she went back inside to retrieve two silver tumblers. Red flag. I soon realized that we were in fact going to the shop to buy things, just that those things happened to be bottles of beer.
In Namibia, the drinking culture is much different than the states. Anywhere in the states, it is commonplace to order a glass of beer with your meal or to buy a bottle of wine along with your groceries. You can do so freely, without any worry of the cashier or your neighbors believing you are an alcoholic. Well, that is not how it is here. Especially in villages, you are perceived either as sober or as a drunk. There are many Namibians that I have met, however, who do simply drink on occasion and not to excess, but it is not without taking severe discretion of their surroundings as well as taking measures to ensure the privacy of their consumption. So, first day in the village (actually any day in the village), drinking at the shop probably would not have been the wisest decision. The entire walk there, in my head I was trying to think of a way out, an excuse not to go that would not offend them. Luckily, I didn’t even have to think of anything because just as we were approaching the shop, my great friend Rachy called and I was able to sit outside and talk to her as my diversion. I described to Rachy exactly what was going on and collectively we decided that I needed to utilize the nap excuse. It is a pretty standard and safe defense for getting out of just about anything, “I’m really tired for some reason. I might be getting sick. I had a long day yesterday and I’m going to go take a nap.” No one can argue with that. What are they going to say, “no, you can’t sleep. I’m going to deny your desire to feel better by forcing you stay awake here with me”? No. So, that’s what I did. As soon as I got off the phone with Rachy, I briefly went into the shop to request the house key from my host sisters and left just as fast as I had entered.
I was at home for a couple hours before they came back. It had started to get dark and I was getting hungry so I’m glad they returned because cooking in a stranger’s kitchen is never a comfortable situation. They were only home long enough to cook some rice and soup (aka sauce made from Knorr soup packets) before they left again to go back to the shop.
They left me there with 4-year old Sweetness and another girl who’s relation was unknown (standard of Namibian families to have random children that seemingly live at the house because they cook, clean, make tea when actually they don’t live there, have no relation to the family, and no one finds it important to explain this relationship to the guest…me). The house is divided into two parts: my host parents’ “wing” and the rest of the house. It is obvious that their section of the house was before, the entire house. It is a large room with an adjoining bathroom—cement floors, wooden rafters on the ceiling that support the corrugated iron roof, and cement brick walls. Then, at some point, they decided to add on. So, they just built another building directly next to the one they already had. This section is comprised of a kitchen, sitting room, and additional bedroom. Because the house is essentially two separate houses, the door to the host parent’s bedroom and the door to the kitchen both lock. And you cannot access one structure to the next without having to walk along the cement porch outside.
So, for myself, Maureen, Grace, Grace’s boyfriend, Sweetness, and mystery girl there was a single bedroom. When they left for the second time, I wondered how this was going to work. There are two beds in the bedroom: a queen size and a twin. So, the first night, I slept in the twin bed while Sweetness and mystery girl shared the Queen size. Then, around midnight when they others decided to come home, they banged on the door (walls are thin and there’s a gap between the top of the wall and the tin roof, so banging was unnecessary) for someone to unlock the door to let them in. I refused to get up because if you know me, the only thing I hate more than bananas is being woken up unnaturally. Mystery girl gets up and lets them in and Maureen enters the room and shares the Queen with the two other girls. When I woke up in the morning, Grace and her boyfriend had made a bed of blankets on the floor of the sitting room. Small space, many people, I wasn’t really ready for that.
Peace Corps Namibia has some pretty rigid rules when it comes to homestays. The most important one is that the volunteer must have his/her own room with a door that locks. They maintain that we must have our own space to retreat to and it must lock because even though Peace Corps trusts and approves the host families, no one knows who will be stopping by during the day.
As innocently and inconspicuously as I could, the next day I asked Maureen if she and Grace lived her all year round. They said they did not and that they were just home for a couple of weeks in November. Ok, so I figured this was only temporary. That next week, another daughter came home, the youngest, Buella. She came home from school because she was finished with her exams and was off on holiday. I realized that this sharing the room thing was a bit more indefinite that I had anticipated.
At that point, I decided to mention something to Peace Corps about it, asking them what they suggest I do about the situation. I mean, I didn’t want to kick these people out of their own room, but at the same time, I needed my own space and they knew the rules from the start. I eventually played dumb and talked to my host mom telling her that “the Peace Corps called today to check up on me and they asked me alot of questions about my site. They asked if I was sharing a room and I told them I was. They said that I was not allowed to and that I must work something out. Is there anything we can do?” It ended up not being a huge issue like I was anticipating it to be (the worry wart coming out in me) and I’m back to having my own room that locks.
So, the situation mildly improved. It improved even more when Maureen and Grace both moved back out leaving my host mom, host dad, Buella, Sweetness, and Sean (Grace’s son) at home. Still a lot of people for a four room house. Yeah, it is crowded. Maybe it is that or maybe it is that the family and I got off on the wrong foot, but the situation has never really been rectified. When I’m there, I constantly feel like I am in the way and they don’t really do anything to make me feel welcome either. We don’t have running water, so we fetch it from a large drum about 200 meters away. They have developed this intricate bucket system that I have only half-deciphered. I know that the red bucket is for bathing and the yellow is for scooping water out of other buckets, but that is as far as I have gotten. Instead of explaining the rest of their methodology, they just laugh and yell in Khoekhoe when I go for the wrong one. Very frustrating. I explained to the family that I would only be eating dinner with them at home, having breakfast on my own and lunch at Danielle’s. So, the food I buy is the food we can cook and eat for dinner. Not sure what was miscommunicated there, but it is not happening because the food that I for our dinners disappears to their lunches. And if I want to eat dinner, I have to cook it, for myself and about six other people. I don’t mind helping out, you know, doing the dishes, cooking a meal, but being at school all day and starting up running again makes me extremely tired. So by the time I get home and bathe, normally it is 7:30 or 8:00. My bed time is 9:00. Since my host mother and Buella do not work and with me being gone all day at work, I would think that they would have the time and energy to cook dinner. Not actually true. Earlier, after about my fourth night in a row of cooking dinner, I got the feeling that if I didn’t, we wouldn’t eat. I decided to test my theory by reading by the fire and not making any mention of dinner. 8:30, my host mother turns to me and asks, “aren’t you hungry?” Perfect, I thought, she’s going to offer to cook something! “Yes, I am pretty hungry,” I responded. “Well,” she said, “what are you going to cook for us then?” I’ve become an in-house extra hand to them rather than a part of the family. I really think that they are nice people, maybe just not the host-an-American-for-two-months type of company. I know that our relationship will be much better once I am out of there. I still plan to visit, go over there once a week for tea, or bake for them or something. For now, only a couple weeks left…
But, a homestay is temporary. Beyond all that, I am deeply in love with this place.
Let me first give you the rundown of the logistics so that anything else I might say won’t confuse you.
First, a recap:
Arrived to Namibia August 21. Stayed with a host family (whom I’m obsessed with) in Okahandja during Pre-Service Training (PST). Stayed in Okahandja for about 2 months and was sworn-in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) on October 16. I traveled the six hours from Okahandja to my permanent site in Erwee (located in Northwest Namibia in the Kunene Region). I will be teaching English (and possibly math) for grades 5-7 at Grootberg Primary School (GPS). For my first two months here I’ve been assigned to another host family (whom, if you couldn’t tell, I’m not obsessed with). There is a current PCV at-site whom I’ll be replacing. Her name is Danielle and she leaves Erwee December 13. The past two months, I have been observing her and learning the ropes of teaching at GPS. I will begin teaching my own classes in January, when the new school year begins.
…sorry for all the parentheticals, but hopefully if at any point you get confused you’ll be able to reference back to that paragraph quite easily.
GPS stats…number of learners: 300/number of learners living at hostel: 200/grades: 1-7/begin with all english instruction: grade 3 (grades 1 and 2 taught in learners’ mother tongue)/computers: 2 (1 of which has been pirated by the school secretary for her personal solitaire use)/grade 5-7 subjects: english, khoekhoe, natural science and health education, life skills, social studies, math/passing mark: 30%
Let me first describe the Namibian school system a little bit. The majority of schools in the nation are hostel schools, where learners board at the institution as well. Since the population is so spread out, it would be impossible for the Ministry of Education to build schools and staff teachers in every remote village. So, they build these hostel schools and scatter them about so people commute. But, this is not the typical boarding school you may be imagining. I can only speak for my school, but at GPS the resources are thin. There are only enough beds or foam mattresses for grade seven. The hall does not have tables, chairs, or indoor plumbing. There are no toilets, other than the few in the hostel buildings. While there are several physical deficiencies, in the past couple years my school has been blessed with luck.
GPS is on gravel road C-40, which is the main route to high-end tourist attractions like Palmwag Lodge and Grootberg Lodge. About two years ago, there was a tour group from England traveling on that very road when they passed through Erwee. Considering it is the only pocket of buildings for about 150km, naturally these foreigners were intrigued. They saw the small sign and arrow pointing toward “Grootberg Primary School” and they decided to stop by. School was in session, so they entered and asked the principal if they could look around. Mr. Tjivikua being the overly congenial man that he is, decided to show them around, introducing them to staff and learners. One of the men in the group happened to be a coordinator for the World Wide Schools program that connects schools in the UK to schools in Africa. From this chance meeting, Mr. Tjivikua and this English lad continued communication and ended up developing a 2-year school improvement plan for GPS. In the past year, English students have raised money for and visited the school purchasing cups, plates, school supplies, ceiling tiles and painting several classrooms and outdoor murals. The contract is not up yet, and future plans call for further maintenance and more beds. In another one of these fortuitous occasions, a tour group of elderly people from Canada came driving down C-40, saw the same rusting sign, and also decided to pop-in. One thoughtful lady was so touched by the learners and the school that when she returned home, she began something extraordinary. A master seamstress herself, she decided to use her talent to help GPS and inspire others to help as well. She and several other Canadian women, some even strangers to her, sewed over 200 quilts to send to Erwee. So now, even though every learner may not have a bed, every one has a unique blanket, with more than just the warmth of a covering. So, I guess what I believe is that something out there is taking care of this place. Maybe that’s why I’m here, I don’t know.
It is something I am having a difficult time getting used to thinking about, that these kids don’t go home. Every so often, there are home weekends, where their parents are encouraged to pick up their child and take them home for the weekend, but that may be every six or seven weeks. A 24/7 matron looks after the learners as well as the rest of the hostel staff that comes to cook or clean during the day, but it is not a mother. The learners share rooms by grade. So, whereas your classmates may be your best friends, they are not your sisters, not your brothers. These kids don’t even have the luxury of answering “nothing” to the typical parental dinner table question of “what did you learn at school today?” When I think back to my grades one through seven school days, I remember field trips to the zoo, sitting at my kitchen table spelling my vocabulary words out loud to my mother who was at the sink elbow-deep in soap suds. I remember running to be first in the bus line so I could have the coveted back seat, and bringing home ribbons, certificates, stickers, and red-pen A’s to show my parents that I did it. Every personal sentiment that I connect to my school days does not exist here. I’m not saying that the teachers don’t care or that the learner’s accomplishments are neglected because that is far from the truth. It is just exhibited in a different way, I guess. Like I said, it is something I’m getting used to.
Aside from the realities of the school, I am obsessed with my colleagues. I work with nine other teachers, all of whom are genuinely nice, caring people who each have their own silly way of being who they are. Sometimes, at our daily morning staff meeting, I’ll just look around the table and imagine what the sitcom would be like if these people were cast. There’s the dominant male who’s jokes are subtle yet hysterical, the outgoing mildly overweight great aunty type, the shy guy who always has his hands behind his back and never looks you in the eye when you converse, the endearing married couple, the fly loud one whose eye rolls make it very apparent when she disagrees with something, and the white girl. If we all lived at the same metropolis apartment complex in a generic big city or worked at some magazine or secret government agency, the syndicated laughs would be non-stop. Regardless, of this crew I have made two very good friends: Sodina and Olin. Sodina is the lower primary head of department (HOD, basically the equivalent of a vice principal) and Olin is the Khoekhoegowab teacher. They live together in a house on the hostel grounds and have literally adopted me. When I was at my lowest, my “I can’t take this anymore” phase with my homestay, they invited me over for dinner. They feed me after church on Sundays and invited me over to watch “Big Brother Africa” eliminations over tea. Somehow, as good friends just do, they know when I’m not in my best mood. They are both intuitive and subtly, in their own ways, let me know that they’re concerned. One day, Olin came into the library with a stack of exams. I was busy labeling the spines of some books, killing as much time as I could before I had to go back home. “May I sit in here and mark?” she asked. “Of course,” I responded. While she was in there, we didn’t really talk about much, nothing prolific that I can recall, but she knew, like a friend I had known for years, that I wanted someone there. With the intuition of a mother, Sodina knows when something is up as early as our morning greeting. We’ll shake hands, and if she suspects something, she’ll continue holding my hand beyond our “good morning” exchange. She’ll maybe turn and begin a conversation with someone else, but she won’t let go until she recognizes that I understand. It is nice to know I have this here, this comfort that normally takes a while to discover. In a new place, in a new situation, this is the part where you have to admit to yourself that you are vulnerable. For as independent and self-reliant as I like to think that I am, being alone, in Africa has brought me face to face with my weaknesses, my self-doubts, and my faults. This part is good though. It is partly why I decided to get on the plane in the first place, to figure these things out on my own. While a little self-discovery is great, having these couple of friends here to take my mind off those things is pretty rad too.
Beyond their genuine sincerity, I can only describe our friendship as exuberant. Think back to when you were in like third grade and another teacher would come into your classroom. With her arms full of papers and manilla file folders, she would enter, say something to your teacher and they would both start laughing. To you, busy at your worksheet, the conversation would be imperceptible. As this kid, you always wanted to know what they were talking about, what could possibly be so funny about school? Those exchanges to you were about as peculiar and mystic as the teacher’s lounge or the machines that grade tests. Sodina, Olin, and I are those teachers. I’m finally on the other side of the fanatical. With learners at our sides or even in their desks, we’ll point, raise our eyebrows, make sarcastic remarks, giggle, and carry on as if I have already been here for two years.
But, I haven’t. I’ve only been here two months. Like I said, I’m replacing a volunteer so during these last few months of school, I have not had a class of my own. So, I’ve done some observations, gotten comfortable with the school schedule, and the idiosyncrasies that make this place special (i.e. morning greeting etiquette, tea break procedure, how to make copies using a machine that produces a “master roll” first, where the toilet paper is stored, etc). But, what I have spent most of my time doing isn’t completely isolated to my work at the school. In a way, it was therapy.
One of Danielle’s secondary projects while she was here was starting a school library. When she arrived, there was a dark classroom empty save maybe two piles of dusty books. From there, she raised money and solicited donations for books and even got the ministry to bring shelves to the school. Now, it is a favorite place among many learners. Even the learners who do not know any English come in a flip though book after book in awe of the illustrations. Like any library in the states, it is a magical space. My mother works in an elementary school library and has ever since I was a student at that school. I always enjoyed reading and can define my years in school by the books we read. Attending DePauw University, I uncovered my personal passion for words and became and English Writing major, spending my study time in the best place for words, the Roy O. West library. Needless to say, I was very enthusiastic to be taking over the library for Danielle. With homestay being a total drag and having no place else of my own to really go, the library became my refuge. I could stay in there during the entire school day, be there before, during, and after afternoon study. Inside, I could control what was happening. In about two weeks time, I categorized, alphabetized, and labeled every book. I rearranged the shelves and cleaned out cabinets. I wrote a training guide for library prefects. I developed a reading program to be used for advanced lower primary learners or remedial upper primary learners. I made a parts of speech game with rules that cater to any grade level. As an outlet for my craftiness, from the parts of books ruined by marker, pen, or rip, I make a whimsical alphabet to be strung up and hung at the front of the room. I could sit in there, all day, without stress, without thinking, and simply work. I made progress. Progress that I could see. I felt like I was doing something. And my time in there harkened back pleasant memories of the Hinkle Creek story pit and my days as a library helper there, as well as the more recent instances of my all-nighters as a serial procrastinator.
Beyond my minimal time at home and my extensive time at school, I’ve had some other exciting PC happenings. The weekend before Thanksgiving in the states, I went with my PCV friend Michael Jones (who?!) to visit some other PCVs in the big city (sarcasm) of Otjiwarongo. We had our own Thanksgiving cornucopia of fried chicken, corn on the cob, pumpkin seeds, mashed potatoes, and wine (ok, so, the pumpkin seeds were no pumpkin pie and the wine was definitely no merlot…but to me, it was a feast). It was a much needed break from my time in Erwee and it was nice to see and experience a site so different from my own.
PC/NAM has all these committees that PCVs can sign up for and be on. There is one called Diversity Tour where the committee selects 40 learners from all over the country to take on a tour of the nation. They visit places like Etosha National Park and coastal cities, places that these learners may never have the opportunity to see otherwise. Pretty awesome. There is another one that develops programming to empower girls and promote gender equality. There is an HIV/AIDS committee and even a PCV compiled literary magazine of sorts. All of these, you can sign up for and you’re on it. There is one committee, however, that you must apply for and be selected to join. It is called VSN or the Volunteer Support Network (DePauw people…depauw.year1 but in Namibia). It’s basis acts as a peer-to-peer assistance system, where any volunteer in country can contact a member of VSN for whatever help they need, be it a professional dispute, personal problem at site, or even to ask a simply clarification on a wide variety of Nambiguities. VSN members are that peer resource. They also take on several other projects to make life easier for volunteers. Anyway, if it is not obvious, I applied and was chosen. There are four members from group 30 on VSN and I’m very excited to get started even though our first meeting is not until the end of January.
So learner’s took their last exam on Monday and school is out for teachers on the ninth. The first day back is January thirteenth where I will officially be a teacher. Kind of a scary notion, but I think I’ll be able to handle it. What will I be doing in the mean time? Those special holidays of Christmas and New Year’s are in there, and to be honest I have not thought much about the imminence of either. Normally around this time, I would be cramming for finals, waiting until December 23rd to start my shopping, and wearing my blue puffy vest and green ear muffs. Welp, I’m no longer a student, I’m seven hours away from the nearest mall, and it is ninety degrees. So, to get in the spirit I’ve been reading a collection of Christmas stories that I found in the library and watching “Elf” (but if you know me, that is an all-year round cinematic masterpiece to me and not really conducive to the Christmas season). I’m still finalizing where I’ll be and who I’ll be with for the holiday. I’m sure where ever I am, I’ll eat, drink, and be merry, so don’t worry about me.
i leave you with two tasks:
1. read “A Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote
2. watch “Elf.” get to the part when Buddy gets hit by the taxi. rewind. watch that part again. and again.
tis the season,
one love,
oh and if anyone gets to the bottom of tiger’s mysterious 2am car crash, let me know.
peacekees,
julie
