inside the national assembly
posted by Andrew Leahy at 2:00 AM
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Monday, November 12, 2007
A Tour to End Two Years
Thursday 18 October
But where was the bus? I’d been standing at my front door for almost five hours. At that point, there was nothing constructive to do. All plans were made. Everything scheduled, booked, and confirmed. I was driving myself crazy, actually. Where was the bus? The bus we paid for. I called Principal Magudu at Wennie Du Plessis Secondary School. No answer. SMSed him. No reply. Learners came to my door to wait with me, a shared silent vigil. They wanted this as much as I did. Almost; they half-expected it to fail, as most things around here do. A few bold ones patted me on the shoulder, kindly reproaching me for not going to Gobabis “to get” the bus, as if business transactions rarely have the binding effect of physical force. But, in most cases, they would be right. Even if something is organized, appointed, or bought, there is no guarantee it will happen. The bus could be broken down. The driver could be drunk in a Gobabis shebeen. The Wennie Dupe principal could have bamboozled me for 10,000 Namibian dollars. By 9:00PM the learners didn’t believe it would come, and I was starting to have my doubts.
When the bus did arrive, around 9:30PM, I knew because I heard cheering from the hostel. Learners were up, out of bed, and sounding a joyous alarm. Teachers in nightgowns ventured from closed-shut houses to view the spectacle. Learners danced around the parked bus. I quickly sent two “strong boys” to the shop (I think we woke them up too) for bread and eggs to feed the two, overworked drivers and applied the other boys to cleaning the bus. Around 11:30PM, I closed my bedroom door and repacked my bag, again.
Friday 19 October
At 4:00AM I took a bath, one I assumed could be my last for four days. At 5:00AM Zebby and I were waking excited Grade 7 boys and girls, though most were already up. Some slept with their packed bags in bed. We let the driver sleep until 5:45AM, but then needed to start packing the bus. Mattresses barely fit. We brought about 20 for 82 learners and six teachers. Good enough. Blankets and bags were jammed into any available overhead space. When the other teachers arrived with huge rolling suitcases, blankets, and personal coolers, I raised my eyebrows only ever-so slightly and continued packing five learners into a three person seat.
By 6:45AM all the learners were counted and in some type of seat. The smaller vehicle we had arranged, a local SUV that drives weekday trips to Gobabis, was nowhere to be found. Everyone seemed privately surprised that we had gotten this far without a hitch, so we left without the second vehicle to make our 8:00AM appointment at Harnas Wildflife Park.
As we left, the entire school came out to bid us farewell and good luck. Some learners ran and jumped alongside the bus as we drove down the dirt road away from Post 10. On the bus, the kids sang – with such enthusiasm – the songs they sing on smaller trips to neighboring schools. These are songs of pride and delight, much better than the droning dirges of morning assembly with their European scales and Christian melodies. These are the songs of pure love, sung with a passion that can’t be duplicated except on school tours. I’ve tried to have them sung in class, and the learners can never understand which songs I mean, like asking someone to sing Jingle Bells on a Monday mid-May. Later, when they sang a role call kind of song, they said a teacher’s name, then asserted that he was from Onderombwa (Good Hope in Otjiherero). Inserting my name in turn was not a special request or second thought. Mr. Leahy…Mr. Leahy… is from …Good Hope. They sang all the way to Harnas and went silent only at the sight of a large, sleeping crocodile. The camouflage-clad, Otjiherero speaking tour guide was a bonus. He joined us on the bus and served as our guide through the game park.
Harnas bills itself as a rehabilitation center for sick or injured animals that cannot be reintroduced to the wild. This may be partially true, but it’s really a zoo. While most game parks in Namibia were formed to protect animals or demarcate an already existing animal ecosystem, Harnas has brought many animals that one rarely sees in game parks and placed them within easy viewing distance of each other. Taking the kids to Etosha would have been great, but it was too far. And our chances of seeing the animals they really wanted to see (predators) would have been smaller.
As we drove around the park, our guide pointed out and discussed the different animals we had parked near. All learners were standing, their eyes peeled on the nearby bush. We saw two, large lions sleeping under a tree. Later we came to the enclosures for leopards, cheetahs, wild dogs, baboons, and caracals (lynx). At the cheetah enclosure, our guide exited the bus and climbed through the fence. It was clear the cheetahs thought it was feeding time, because they approached him rapidly in expectation. The kids hooted and screamed for the guide. Although they live so close to these predators, there knowledge is sometimes dominated by fireside anecdotes or someone’s brother’s report of a viscous cheetah attack. It was helpful that a few weeks prior we had had a visit from the Cheetah Conservation Fund and a subsequent cheetah unit in my class. Namibia is the cheetah capital of the world - it has the highest population – but most learners know them as a danger to people or, more realistically, livestock. The more we can reiterate the facts that cheetahs are not dangerous to humans and should not be killed to save livestock the better.
The kids were silent for most all of the Harnas visit. Our guide answered a few questions and it was already time to go. A four day tour is a busy one. As we pulled back onto the white, dirt road to Gobabis, they started to sing again. The smaller Toyota had caught up with us at Harnas and now four teachers occupied seats in our second vehicle. Everything was working out. The tour was rolling.
The tar road and Gobabis brought a bit of trouble, but I don’t know what I had expected; it was Friday AND payday for teachers. This day is known as an unspoken half day, learners left unattended after 10:00AM. In fact, we saw most of my school’s staff in town as we tried (desperately?) to leave the Omaheke region.
As we waited at the bus driver’s house in the location – he was retrieving a blanket, lunch pail – Zebby, who was the only other teacher on the bus at the moment, got anxious. He had hinted at personal business in town and as we sat he mumbled something about a taxi to the bank, stood, and exited the bus. The other vehicle was absent as well. Upon our arrival in Gobabis, all teachers had, apparently, jumped at the opportunity to complete personal business before we left town. Although I can understand the need for making the most of town visits when one lives in a rural location, I still found this moment to be…inopportune. Or maybe they could have just told me.
I was alone with 82 kids and not sure what to do. When the bus driver came back, we drove through town and I nervously scanned the street for the missing teachers. Of course, I didn’t see one. Then the bus driver asked me where to offload the kids while the bus was serviced. What?! We had specifically planned to omit debussing in Gobabis to save time. The drive to Swakopmund was quite long. A few brief, tour related errands were planned before we left for Windhoek. Yeah, all that was rubbish.
I racked my brains for a place to “hold” the kids until I could get help. We stopped just off the main street at the public bathrooms. The bus pulled away, the learners discovered the toilet locked, and my cell phone ceased to have prepaid airtime all at the same time. 82 kids looked at me with “now whats?” on their faces. I sent the boys to the bush and the girls to a nearby petrol station, NOT the nearby shop. It’s a bit of a blur, but I think, at some point, we played Simon Says.
A mutiny was mounting. It was pushing 12:30PM and we had not eaten lunch. Hostel learners have very regular eating habits. It’s not much, but meals are served with a regularity that is not often broken. If tea break bread is missed and lunch is late, it doesn’t take long for learners to get agitated. I waited for teachers to finish their errands and find me so that I could accomplish the one real errand we had in Gobabis: picking up a donated lunch from a local take-away.
Eventually Mr. Mbuende relieved me – apparently its not that difficult to manage 82 kids, I’m just a pushover – and I ran to get the lunch packs. We fed the kids, repacked the bus, and left Gobabis late, around 3:30PM. We had, at least, a six hour drive ahead. They sang much of the way to Windhoek, the capital, and it was gratifying to watch many standing, pushing towards the front of the bus, watching, waiting for the view around every turn.
I should explain a phenomenon that initially troubled me during the tour. At times – Gobabis, Windhoek, Swakopmund, um, every time we stopped – it seemed the learners (and teachers?) wanted to turn our educational tour into a shopping spree. Parents continually appeared with bags of food, shoes, new clothes and learners continually asked for the pocket money I was holding for them to buy chips, cool drink, and sweets. As we pulled into Klein Windhoek, Zebby instructed the driver to stop at a service station to wait for several parents who had appointed to drop something with their learners. Learners, who were “locked” on the bus by me, promptly began sending teachers and random passers-by for supplies from the shop. Would we ever reach Swakopmund?
Although such stops were troubling for our schedule, they were important for two reasons. First, the parents. In the U.S. we would never send our child on a field trip with empty pockets, or no shoes. Even the first would be seen as mild neglect. Because many of these kids rarely see their families, who often live in another area, it’s difficult for parents to be parents. Things you might want to do before your child goes off on a trip – pack his bag, check his pocket money, and make sure he knows the rules and how to contact you – can’t be done in Namibia. When these kids come to town, parents want to provide a little more than they normally would for a typical hostel weekend. A bag of food, a notebook, a new pair of shoes. Not Nikes, closer to Payless, but new shoes!
Second, the learners, who are comfortable walking barefoot and wearing the same old shirt day in and day out, suddenly become self-conscious. They’ve watched TV. They’ve seen movies. They’ve seen those carefree kids, strolling through bright, clean malls in freshly washed polo shirts, snacking between meals. They want to learn about cheetahs. But they want that too. We finally have pocket money and a place to use it, and Mr. Leahy won’t let us off the bus! It must have been maddening.
Kokuakupi’s young, hip, older sister arrived and brought her a bag of snacks. It wasn’t the cheap Pep store stuff; American brand names all the way. She also brought her a pair of those tapered Euro-style sneakers. Kokuapi looked through her treasure with satisfied expectation, as if this was the least that was necessary for a school tour.
Moments later Uakotora’s, much older, mother arrived wearing her traditional Herero dress. She had brought him a gift bag too and seemed very proud of it. She wanted to take her time presenting each item so as to show her son and everyone watching what a special occasion this was. She showed him (and me) his new shoes. She presented his new notebook and demonstrated how he could take notes during the tour. She showed me the notebook. She presented him with the economy value sack of oranges. This is like giving your child a Costco bag of prunes when everyone else got Lunchables. Uakotora felt embarrassed, but thankful: he was better off than Rakutuka who borrowed old shoes from a Grade 6 learner and ate only what we served him. I smiled at his mother and shook her hand in thanks. We were quite late, but this stop was necessary.
After Windhoek, we pushed through Okahandja and Karibib, finally stopping for a bathroom break in Usakos. We were late for registering our marathon team for the following day’s race and, at 8:00PM, we hadn’t eaten dinner yet. As I tried to convince the service station manager to take a school check for bus diesel, the learners and teachers organized a through-the-window shopping trip. Teachers took money and orders and entered the very small shop, buying mostly bread, butter, and two-liter bottles of Coke. Around 8:45PM, the bus and learners were fueled, and we were on our way to Swakopmund and Walvis Bay.
I’d been in contact with the marathon organizer. She was a woman from the chief sponsor, Etosha Fisheries, a canned seafood distributor (sort of like the Bumble Bee Tuna of Namibia). During our phone calls, she assured me that she could find accommodation for all our learners. In our initial calls, we talked about local school classrooms. In our later calls, the word school occurred less and less. When she instructed me to drive to Walvis Bay and go to the Etosha Fisheries factory, I should have guessed.
We arrived at the coast around 11:30PM. Although the organizer had gone home (I think I woke her up with my many calls), she had instructed the security guards at the factory to show us in. Our accommodation was a large warehouse with pilchard packing machinery, wood palettes, and a fork lift. But the bathroom was quite nice. And, when you really get down to it, the floor here wasn’t much different from the floor in a hostel. I was slightly embarrassed, but the kids made hay. In fact, the kids were amazing, as they usually are in these situations, simply thankful to be somewhere new. This is our home? Okay. They began unloading mattress pads, blankets, and carving out comfortable little areas.
The only real difference between a pilchard factory and a hostel is the presence of clean concrete everywhere. Making a fire and cooking wasn’t an option. At 12:00AM, it was too late anyway. We fed them cold viennas (hot dogs) and three slices of bread. Most kids washed in the large bathrooms and were in bed by 1:00AM. I would be waking the runners at 5:30AM to register for the marathon and warm up.
Saturday 20 October
Race day. I finely met the marathon organizer, who had been very helpful in accommodating our learners, most of whom had nothing to do with the marathon. I picked up our team numbers, eight tee shirts, and eight cans of pilchards (our participant’s gift). While the other teachers and learners began to pack our bus, I started to organize my teams.
I had two teams: four boys and four girls. All of them had trained with me almost daily for three months. I was sure they’d be fine, but the tar road was a bit of a worry for them. We had trained barefoot on dirt roads or sand, and I wouldn’t let them wear shoes, even if they had them, because I feared blisters. They eyed the shoes of other runners. I taped their feet, knowing it would wear off in minutes. But it comforted them; somehow demonstrating our decision to forego footwear was strategic, not economic.
Mbaundja and Tjipe, boy and girl respectively, were my first runners: fast, strong, and competitive. We warmed up, just to do something, but were all too nervous to pay the stretches much attention. At 6:45AM they began the marathon for adults and about ten minutes later they fired the gun for the school relay. As Mbaundja and Tjipe rounded the first corner, I hopped in the Toyota with the rest of the team and we followed.
Eventually we came to the relay exchange point, parked, and waited for our runners. Kamutauve and Ndjandereeko were my second runners, and after the tag, they ran north along the straight coastal road, dunes on the right and the Atlantic Ocean on the left. There are about 10 circuitous kilometers in Walvis Bay before the race goes straight north another 30K to the touristy Swakopmund for a big finish. It’s a beautiful course.
Because there are so many runners, several age groups, a marathon, a half marathon relay, a 10K, and a school relay, it’s difficult to follow anyone’s progress other than your own. But I could tell my boys were doing well. By the fourth runner, Patrick, I was worried he would finish before my third girl came in for the final tag. I left Mr. Mbuende with Penandino and our driver took me and the team to the finish line.
As I waited for Patrick, I watched marathon runners stumble across the finish line, peaceful with exhaustion, and remembered last year when I ran. This year I was safe on the sidelines, but somehow the road to get here was tougher.
I was surprised when Patrick rounded the last corner in downtown Swakopmund; he was early. Almost instantly, I was getting miss calls from the other teachers. The bus was parked nearby and my colleagues joined me in the merry finish line atmosphere. The rest of the group had apparently spent the morning at Shoprite. I didn’t mind. The learners (and teachers) had been preoccupied with shopping. Maybe now it was out of their system. For the moment, everyone was celebrating as we waited for Penandino, my last runner. The runners picked up medals, free cokes, and foam visors! The other teachers suddenly became proud parents and coaches. There was much hugging, photo taking, and congratulating. Had we won anything? Who cares?! There are judges and banners and speakers playing upbeat music around.
My principal, Zebby, and Mr. Mbuende suddenly immerged from under a tent wearing Lucky Star Pilchards visors, medals, and drinking sodas. It WAS a party. Although I mentioned that those supplies might be for the learners, my principal insisted I take some too. Free stuff, anywhere, should not be wasted.
Okay. Okay. Marathon over. Educational tour schedule must be recovered. We didn’t come to Swakopmund with 82 kids to go to Shoprite. We moved back to the bus, where the other learners had been kept for the past hour. This was the first of a few “bus prison” situations I had to diffuse along the way. But the kids didn’t care. They had finally shopped and were drunk on sugar, fullness, and the power you feel after entering a store, opening your wallet, and buying something.
Zebby and I ran to the Swakopmund Museum to alert them that our group had arrived. Mr. Mbuende divided the kids into two, neat single file lines and sent them from the bus towards Zebby and me. I noticed their bags of loot as they approached. Chips, cool drink, sweets, take-away fare, and even the remains of an entire birthday cake. I can only assume that because teachers occasionally “eat a party” that involves cake, and because the learners are never included, many were curious to try the unusual extravagance. And with money in their pockets, pooling it to buy an entire pre-made cake was easy. I would have liked to watch them ask for it: “We want the cake.” I was told they even sang Happy Birthday on the bus.
We entered the museum in small groups, each teacher guiding 15 or so learners through the different exhibits. A room on traditional Namibian cultures. A room on colonial influence and early industrial development. A room on the Rossing Uranium Mine. And, the big hit, a natural history area with exhibits on farming, wildlife, and marine life. The kids had tour worksheets to complete for Natural Science, Social Studies, and English class. It was fun to see them trying to memorize the names of two coastal bird species, a question on the Natural Science assignment, and other facts. They were quiet, respectful, and attentive as Principal Muundjua, Zebby, and Ms. Katjiutua explained different part of the museum. As we left, the curator even complimented us on our well-behaved learners.
As you exit the museum, on the main Swakopmund promenade, it’s a stone’s throw from the beach and ocean. We walked down and took a quick look, as we were so close. Because swimming was scheduled for later in the day, we quickly moved back to the bus and loaded. As we did this, I ran back over to the marathon finish just in time to hear the place announcements. Third place in the primary school relay? Goeie Hoop Primary School! I couldn’t believe my ears. I frantically waved over my principal and team and pushed them forward. The four boys received a second medal, much larger and engraved, and my principal was informed of our school’s prize money. What!? I could see dollar signs in his eyes. We should do this every year, he thought.
We walked back to the bus, heroes. Teachers made phone calls, miss calls, and SMS’s. Zebby had somehow made contact with NBC radio in Windhoek and plans were in the works for an appearance. The prominence of our tour in Namibia’s Herero community was growing.
Lunch was perfect. After the hype of downtown marathon-busy Swakopmund, our group needed a place to stretch out and feel more comfortable, more at home. That morning, Ms. Katjiutua had dropped our pots, firewood, and lunch food off at her sister’s house in the location. We parked our bus in front of small neighborhood house and unloaded. Kids lined up, as they’re used to, holding plates and waiting for their portion. For eating and relaxing, the location is much better than town. You can’t exactly, comfortably, make a fire on the beach, fill a huge black pot with water, and cook chicken and macaroni for 82 kids. In the U.S., we’d buy picnic food. But when you’re borrowing food from the hostel, it’s cheaper to cook.
The trip to the location was a perfect break in the middle of a busy, foreign day. It was like a brief escape home. The chicken was oily and salty and good. We thanked Alve’s family, climbed back in the bus, and drove to the National Aquarium.
It was great to follow my kids around and watch them identify all of the ocean animals we had spent the past two weeks studying in class: sea stars, jelly fish, sea urchins, sea horses, and sharks. The aquarium had a walk-through tunnel that went under the largest tank. First the kids were afraid to use it, having no frame of reference for the protection thick glass gives from two tons of water crashing down on you. Inside this largest tank were many types of fish, sharks, sea turtles, and rays. At three o’clock a scuba diver plunged into the water and began feeding the animals. I had the kids perch around or near all available windows, rightfully annoying the other tourists who paid much more than we had.
After the aquarium, we walked outside to the nearby, newly constructed jetty. At first they thought it was time to swim. But as they realized we were about to board this precarious, wooden death trap supported over crashing waves, about a third of them balked and returned to the bus. The rest clutched railings, arms, and each other as they tentatively ventured farther out on the wooden planks, watching the crashing breakers through the cracks beneath their feet.
Back on the bus, we drove to the beach for the first ocean swim in many of their lives. Swimsuits were creative, but everyone dressed for fun as we ran from the bus to the beach. “Overwhelmed” is the first word that comes to mind. They were beside themselves with irrational excitement. This amount of water in one place, moving, alive, was a completely foreign idea, shocking and exhilarating to the shyest of learners. It was like how you might feel if you discovered flubber. It’s water, but there’s so much of it. And it’s moving, coming towards me, like it’s alive. You can drink it, but it’s much too salty. It’s full of creepy, crawly green plants and the remnants of pink jellyfish and beautifully, smooth stones. Pictures only can do this moment justice. Running, screaming, pure joy. Some played beach soccer, sat on the beach and watched the waves, collected stones, and bottled the water (Later, a good prank on the long, hot bus ride home became getting someone to drink from a bottle filled with salt water.).
We drove back to Walvis Bay and bedded down in the warehouse. We ate a simple dinner of bread and cold, canned pilchards and went to bed early. We were sandy and satisfied. It was a great day.
Sunday 21 October
We slept in a bit, but I think everyone was still up at 6:00. I found it hard to justify taking a mattress, when I’d use it alone, and four learners would cram onto it otherwise. Even still, little Agnes always got pushed off and woke up on the floor. So sleep wasn’t abundant on the floor of the pilchard factory. We packed up the bus, swept the warehouse floor, ate bread and oros, and departed.
This was the part of the weekend that I hadn’t booked or overbooked. I figured, by Sunday morning, we might need a bit of a break. And most things were closed. I should have called the Walvis Bay port authority, however, as they denied us a drop in visit. I guess a working commercial harbor, without a guide, IS no place for children. We went to the nearby sand spit and lagoon to look back towards town and check out the flamingoes and other birds. So much water. It was a cool morning and everyone was ready to move on to whatever else I had cooked up for the day. Fortunatly, Dune 7 didn’t disappoint.
Back on the bus, we drove due east from Walvis Bay into the Namib Naukluft Park. After about 5KM, we turned left onto a road that puts you within spitting distance of one of tallest dunes on the coast: Dune 7.
Although they’d never seen “a mountain” so high before, they needed no explanation. They immediately tackled it head on, surprising a slow-moving group of Japanese tourists. Rather than the short line to a lower, more stable ridge, most ran directly up the dune’s face. I was quickly at the top, admiring their happy struggle. They crawled and clawed and clamored with huge smiles on their faces. A mountain of sand! Running and jumping down was equally fun. Other than a few tumbles, every one survived their first mountain climb.
We drove north back to Swakopmund, starting our longer drive back to Windhoek. But first, it was time to deliver on a promise I had made. A promise most didn’t really believe. It was time for a KFC lunch.
It was true some learners were quite well stocked with pocket money and snacks during the trip, much better than I had anticipated. But it was also true that many learners had no food other than that which we fed them. A tour is brilliant, but it calls to mind decadent food they don’t get in Post 10. We’d been giving them plain bread for breakfast and dinner fairly consistently. I wanted to schedule something special, a real treat, for the learners who couldn’t afford to treat themselves. Thus, KFC was on our itinerary.
None of this bucket stuff. We opted for 82 Streetwise Combos (2 pieces and chips in an individual box). We added 82 rolls from the shop across the street and 82 individual juice boxes. When your meal routine is a long line of learners towards a vat of thin porridge, or being expected/forced to divide a piece of candy five ways, the lunch we had organized was quite over the top. As we pushed a grocery cart full of individual boxes towards the Toyota, I started to have misgivings. Were we just wasting money? Was I being a tourist to want them all to have their own box, their own full meal? This was extravagance. The teachers were very surprised and I could see the looks in their eyes. How much money does this Ojtilumbu have? A weird guilt came over me, like the money should be spent on 500 bags of maize meal. I felt a bit better when I considered the bread and oros we had consumed for several other meals. They deserved this. Every one of them deserved an individual pack. Just this once. When at most family functions they are served last and forced to share with the 8 other kids around, when the hostel waters down milk and gives one egg, when they’ve seen just enough Western media to understand that kids in other parts of the world have this luxurious freedom, they deserve it.
For the first time they didn’t ask for “sumore”. They were silent, considering how best to approach this gift. Eat it? Save it for later? To show to others. Eat it slowly over four hour ride back to Windhoek? That’s what most did. On the ride back, amidst singing, Edwin looked at me, eyes laughing, and yelled, “Mr. Leahy, I’m full!” They almost never say those words.
Back in Windhoek, we were supposed to stay at Khomustura Primary School. We had organized with the principal, who was a former teacher of Zebby’s. When we arrived however, he was nowhere to be found. After sitting on the bus for an hour and failing to track him down, Zebby and I drove to his church in the location. After a quick meeting with the bishop we had a place to sleep for the night. But not so fast.
It was an Evangelical church where people sing and testify for 10 hours on Sunday, coming and going. We had to greet and thank the congregation. First Zebby gave a speech. Then the driver of our Toyota gave a speech. Then my principal did. And finally I was asked to give one. This lasted for about an hour, after we had already been waiting to find a home for several. But sometimes you just have to give a speech in an Evangelical church to find a place for your kids to sleep. As the brass band lead the congregation out, I considered the fact that is was again 10:00PM and we hadn’t given them dinner. But they were still having a blast.
Monday 22 October
The last day. No bath, just a cowboy splash outside the church. We were up early because we wanted to drive through the University of Namibia before our appointment at Parliament. As it turned out, we found a very helpful student affairs employee and scheduled a more formal tour for later in the day.
At Parliament we were a bit early, but the beautiful gardens in the front occupied the attention of our learners. Our guide finally arrived and showed us to the National Assembly lobby. His voice was soft and he seemed unable to make his speech a bit more primary school friendly. I rehashed some of his points and asked some basic questions to get the ball rolling, but he wasn’t interested in my help.
Inside the chambers, however, it was more entertaining. Venyekerera, a trouble maker for sure, picked out the highest chair he could find: the speaker’s. Other learners read the name plates on seats until they found one they recognized or liked. We learned how the room was organized: majority on the right and minority parties on the left. We learned about the placement of the scepter: up for discussion and down for break. And, after many questions about where President Pohamba sits, we learned that he rarely makes an appearance in Parliament proceedings. The kids recognized the room from T.V., and although I wanted our guide to be more kid friendly, all understood that this was where Namibian laws are made.
A short walk from Parliament and we arrived at Owela Museum, Windhoek’s national Natural History museum. Another old teacher of Zebby’s worked there and was happy to take our kids on a guided tour, but only half. He was right; our group was much too big for the museum, but Owela was much more fun than Alte Feste, the museum to which I took the other half of the learners. It’s more about Namibian history, with a heavy emphasis on the liberation struggle. It was great for the kids to see a letter from founding father Sam Nujoma to the UN, but I also knew some of them would have liked to see the life-size models of Namibia’s indigenous peoples and the terrarium holding a model Welwitschia (sp?) mirabilis, a unique, long-living plant they had studied in Natural Science. Mr. Mbuende came with me and pointed out some of the important names of the liberation struggle. Many old photos showed younger versions of the current president and parliamentary leaders. Actually, Alte Feste was a nice compliment to our Parliament visit, showing the origins of the current government. Again, having Mr. Mbuende to explain things in Otjiherero was invaluable.
Around 11:30, we met back at the bus and quickly drove to the University of Namibia for your appointment. The representative from student affairs had found three university students to accompany us and answer questions from the kids directly. We broke up into smaller groups and walked to UNAM’s new library. Although she was from the north, the young woman with my group of kids spoke Otjiherero. I do my best to promote English use, but sometimes there’s no substitute for the connection you make in mother tongue. The kids, by now a little tired, responded to her immediately.
In the library, she showed them the stacks, the electronic card catalogue, carrels for study and laptop hookup, and places to do research or hold small classes. The entire environment couldn’t have been more perfect. Because it was close to exams, the library was overloaded with students: students reading intently, students studying with others, students typing on laptops (just like Mr. Leahy!). And these learners were “cool.” Designer jeans, brand name shirts, backwards hats, hipster shoes. The link between success, hard work and studies, and being “cool” was so obvious. THIS is where you want to be. Suddenly those kids in the village, the ones who failed Grade 10 and spend most days hanging around, the ones who usually commanded the respect and admiration from all of my learners, didn’t seem so cool. Or maybe I’m reading in to it too much. In either case, it was great for my kids to see that there is academic life beyond secondary school in Post 3. The UNAM students joined us on the bus and we drove around the campus. The pointed out lecture halls, libraries, and offices, but also concert venues, take-aways, and fun hostels.
Back at the church, preparing to for lunch and our departure for Post 10, Zebby was making the final preparations for our NBC radio Otjiherero visit. This was his project - I had nothing to do with it - and to be honest, I was a bit skeptical. As it turned out, it was the perfect way to close our trip.
Lunch wasn’t quite ready; it takes a while to cook 10 chickens and 15 kilos of macaroni. We ran to the store for loaves of bread and oros and gave them a snack so our radio visit wouldn’t be laced with answers to the question “How was the tour?” that were something like “I’m hungry.” Back on the bus we drove to the National Broadcasting Corporation’s radio station offices in Windhoek west. I wasn’t sure about the logistics of bringing 82 kids; who exactly would see the studio? But again, it was Zebby’s show. I was surprised when we started bringing the entire group, single file, into the studio.
Soon 82 kids were surrounding a computer, sound board, and set of microphones in the famous, but rather small, Studio 3. All of them. As the announcer came back from a break, he let the entire group say hello in unison. Later, selected learners spoke about the tour, what we had seen, what we had learned, and how much fun we had had. My principal spoke, as did Zebby, Mr. Mbuende, and I.
It was valuable for the kids to see a working radio studio. And the chance to talk about their experience helped them start define what it meant in their lives. But what was really great about this opportunity was the exposure. There are probably 400,000 people in the world who speak Otjiherero. And there is one radio station for all of them. So radio in Namibia is closer to radio in early America. People use it to advertise positions, announce weddings and funerals, and contact loved ones. People don’t listen to Radio Otjiherero. They LISTEN. In the staffroom, on hand held radios, blaring from parked cars. In places with little access to media, the radio is huge. And a group of learners from Epukiro, the heart of Herero culture, the home of the Banderu chief, was on. The tour suddenly became the biggest success to hit the Herero community in months. The U.S. equivalent might be The Today Show. I was sure a host of proud parents were listening to the interview, ears bent on whatever jimmy rigged radio sat outside their simple farm house. Their child was in Windhoek. On the radio! The interview lasted an hour. Our celebrity status was confirmed after we left the studio and began receiving SMS’s and miss calls from our friends back in the village. Later, I was thanked via SMS by two parents I had never meant. And I’m pretty sure I got a hike home last Sunday from strangers who knew me as that volunteer from the radio. It was a great way for our kids to finish this amazing experience.
We drove back to Gobabis and finally reached Post 10 around 11:30PM Monday night. Most teachers came out to greet us, as did most of the younger learners who should’ve been asleep in the hostel. We were exhausted, but very proud. The bus was intact. All learners were safe and happy. It was a great tour.
I’d like to say one last thank you to all the wonderful people who helped fund this tour.
But where was the bus? I’d been standing at my front door for almost five hours. At that point, there was nothing constructive to do. All plans were made. Everything scheduled, booked, and confirmed. I was driving myself crazy, actually. Where was the bus? The bus we paid for. I called Principal Magudu at Wennie Du Plessis Secondary School. No answer. SMSed him. No reply. Learners came to my door to wait with me, a shared silent vigil. They wanted this as much as I did. Almost; they half-expected it to fail, as most things around here do. A few bold ones patted me on the shoulder, kindly reproaching me for not going to Gobabis “to get” the bus, as if business transactions rarely have the binding effect of physical force. But, in most cases, they would be right. Even if something is organized, appointed, or bought, there is no guarantee it will happen. The bus could be broken down. The driver could be drunk in a Gobabis shebeen. The Wennie Dupe principal could have bamboozled me for 10,000 Namibian dollars. By 9:00PM the learners didn’t believe it would come, and I was starting to have my doubts.
When the bus did arrive, around 9:30PM, I knew because I heard cheering from the hostel. Learners were up, out of bed, and sounding a joyous alarm. Teachers in nightgowns ventured from closed-shut houses to view the spectacle. Learners danced around the parked bus. I quickly sent two “strong boys” to the shop (I think we woke them up too) for bread and eggs to feed the two, overworked drivers and applied the other boys to cleaning the bus. Around 11:30PM, I closed my bedroom door and repacked my bag, again.
Friday 19 October
At 4:00AM I took a bath, one I assumed could be my last for four days. At 5:00AM Zebby and I were waking excited Grade 7 boys and girls, though most were already up. Some slept with their packed bags in bed. We let the driver sleep until 5:45AM, but then needed to start packing the bus. Mattresses barely fit. We brought about 20 for 82 learners and six teachers. Good enough. Blankets and bags were jammed into any available overhead space. When the other teachers arrived with huge rolling suitcases, blankets, and personal coolers, I raised my eyebrows only ever-so slightly and continued packing five learners into a three person seat.
By 6:45AM all the learners were counted and in some type of seat. The smaller vehicle we had arranged, a local SUV that drives weekday trips to Gobabis, was nowhere to be found. Everyone seemed privately surprised that we had gotten this far without a hitch, so we left without the second vehicle to make our 8:00AM appointment at Harnas Wildflife Park.
As we left, the entire school came out to bid us farewell and good luck. Some learners ran and jumped alongside the bus as we drove down the dirt road away from Post 10. On the bus, the kids sang – with such enthusiasm – the songs they sing on smaller trips to neighboring schools. These are songs of pride and delight, much better than the droning dirges of morning assembly with their European scales and Christian melodies. These are the songs of pure love, sung with a passion that can’t be duplicated except on school tours. I’ve tried to have them sung in class, and the learners can never understand which songs I mean, like asking someone to sing Jingle Bells on a Monday mid-May. Later, when they sang a role call kind of song, they said a teacher’s name, then asserted that he was from Onderombwa (Good Hope in Otjiherero). Inserting my name in turn was not a special request or second thought. Mr. Leahy…Mr. Leahy… is from …Good Hope. They sang all the way to Harnas and went silent only at the sight of a large, sleeping crocodile. The camouflage-clad, Otjiherero speaking tour guide was a bonus. He joined us on the bus and served as our guide through the game park.
Harnas bills itself as a rehabilitation center for sick or injured animals that cannot be reintroduced to the wild. This may be partially true, but it’s really a zoo. While most game parks in Namibia were formed to protect animals or demarcate an already existing animal ecosystem, Harnas has brought many animals that one rarely sees in game parks and placed them within easy viewing distance of each other. Taking the kids to Etosha would have been great, but it was too far. And our chances of seeing the animals they really wanted to see (predators) would have been smaller.
As we drove around the park, our guide pointed out and discussed the different animals we had parked near. All learners were standing, their eyes peeled on the nearby bush. We saw two, large lions sleeping under a tree. Later we came to the enclosures for leopards, cheetahs, wild dogs, baboons, and caracals (lynx). At the cheetah enclosure, our guide exited the bus and climbed through the fence. It was clear the cheetahs thought it was feeding time, because they approached him rapidly in expectation. The kids hooted and screamed for the guide. Although they live so close to these predators, there knowledge is sometimes dominated by fireside anecdotes or someone’s brother’s report of a viscous cheetah attack. It was helpful that a few weeks prior we had had a visit from the Cheetah Conservation Fund and a subsequent cheetah unit in my class. Namibia is the cheetah capital of the world - it has the highest population – but most learners know them as a danger to people or, more realistically, livestock. The more we can reiterate the facts that cheetahs are not dangerous to humans and should not be killed to save livestock the better.
The kids were silent for most all of the Harnas visit. Our guide answered a few questions and it was already time to go. A four day tour is a busy one. As we pulled back onto the white, dirt road to Gobabis, they started to sing again. The smaller Toyota had caught up with us at Harnas and now four teachers occupied seats in our second vehicle. Everything was working out. The tour was rolling.
The tar road and Gobabis brought a bit of trouble, but I don’t know what I had expected; it was Friday AND payday for teachers. This day is known as an unspoken half day, learners left unattended after 10:00AM. In fact, we saw most of my school’s staff in town as we tried (desperately?) to leave the Omaheke region.
As we waited at the bus driver’s house in the location – he was retrieving a blanket, lunch pail – Zebby, who was the only other teacher on the bus at the moment, got anxious. He had hinted at personal business in town and as we sat he mumbled something about a taxi to the bank, stood, and exited the bus. The other vehicle was absent as well. Upon our arrival in Gobabis, all teachers had, apparently, jumped at the opportunity to complete personal business before we left town. Although I can understand the need for making the most of town visits when one lives in a rural location, I still found this moment to be…inopportune. Or maybe they could have just told me.
I was alone with 82 kids and not sure what to do. When the bus driver came back, we drove through town and I nervously scanned the street for the missing teachers. Of course, I didn’t see one. Then the bus driver asked me where to offload the kids while the bus was serviced. What?! We had specifically planned to omit debussing in Gobabis to save time. The drive to Swakopmund was quite long. A few brief, tour related errands were planned before we left for Windhoek. Yeah, all that was rubbish.
I racked my brains for a place to “hold” the kids until I could get help. We stopped just off the main street at the public bathrooms. The bus pulled away, the learners discovered the toilet locked, and my cell phone ceased to have prepaid airtime all at the same time. 82 kids looked at me with “now whats?” on their faces. I sent the boys to the bush and the girls to a nearby petrol station, NOT the nearby shop. It’s a bit of a blur, but I think, at some point, we played Simon Says.
A mutiny was mounting. It was pushing 12:30PM and we had not eaten lunch. Hostel learners have very regular eating habits. It’s not much, but meals are served with a regularity that is not often broken. If tea break bread is missed and lunch is late, it doesn’t take long for learners to get agitated. I waited for teachers to finish their errands and find me so that I could accomplish the one real errand we had in Gobabis: picking up a donated lunch from a local take-away.
Eventually Mr. Mbuende relieved me – apparently its not that difficult to manage 82 kids, I’m just a pushover – and I ran to get the lunch packs. We fed the kids, repacked the bus, and left Gobabis late, around 3:30PM. We had, at least, a six hour drive ahead. They sang much of the way to Windhoek, the capital, and it was gratifying to watch many standing, pushing towards the front of the bus, watching, waiting for the view around every turn.
I should explain a phenomenon that initially troubled me during the tour. At times – Gobabis, Windhoek, Swakopmund, um, every time we stopped – it seemed the learners (and teachers?) wanted to turn our educational tour into a shopping spree. Parents continually appeared with bags of food, shoes, new clothes and learners continually asked for the pocket money I was holding for them to buy chips, cool drink, and sweets. As we pulled into Klein Windhoek, Zebby instructed the driver to stop at a service station to wait for several parents who had appointed to drop something with their learners. Learners, who were “locked” on the bus by me, promptly began sending teachers and random passers-by for supplies from the shop. Would we ever reach Swakopmund?
Although such stops were troubling for our schedule, they were important for two reasons. First, the parents. In the U.S. we would never send our child on a field trip with empty pockets, or no shoes. Even the first would be seen as mild neglect. Because many of these kids rarely see their families, who often live in another area, it’s difficult for parents to be parents. Things you might want to do before your child goes off on a trip – pack his bag, check his pocket money, and make sure he knows the rules and how to contact you – can’t be done in Namibia. When these kids come to town, parents want to provide a little more than they normally would for a typical hostel weekend. A bag of food, a notebook, a new pair of shoes. Not Nikes, closer to Payless, but new shoes!
Second, the learners, who are comfortable walking barefoot and wearing the same old shirt day in and day out, suddenly become self-conscious. They’ve watched TV. They’ve seen movies. They’ve seen those carefree kids, strolling through bright, clean malls in freshly washed polo shirts, snacking between meals. They want to learn about cheetahs. But they want that too. We finally have pocket money and a place to use it, and Mr. Leahy won’t let us off the bus! It must have been maddening.
Kokuakupi’s young, hip, older sister arrived and brought her a bag of snacks. It wasn’t the cheap Pep store stuff; American brand names all the way. She also brought her a pair of those tapered Euro-style sneakers. Kokuapi looked through her treasure with satisfied expectation, as if this was the least that was necessary for a school tour.
Moments later Uakotora’s, much older, mother arrived wearing her traditional Herero dress. She had brought him a gift bag too and seemed very proud of it. She wanted to take her time presenting each item so as to show her son and everyone watching what a special occasion this was. She showed him (and me) his new shoes. She presented his new notebook and demonstrated how he could take notes during the tour. She showed me the notebook. She presented him with the economy value sack of oranges. This is like giving your child a Costco bag of prunes when everyone else got Lunchables. Uakotora felt embarrassed, but thankful: he was better off than Rakutuka who borrowed old shoes from a Grade 6 learner and ate only what we served him. I smiled at his mother and shook her hand in thanks. We were quite late, but this stop was necessary.
After Windhoek, we pushed through Okahandja and Karibib, finally stopping for a bathroom break in Usakos. We were late for registering our marathon team for the following day’s race and, at 8:00PM, we hadn’t eaten dinner yet. As I tried to convince the service station manager to take a school check for bus diesel, the learners and teachers organized a through-the-window shopping trip. Teachers took money and orders and entered the very small shop, buying mostly bread, butter, and two-liter bottles of Coke. Around 8:45PM, the bus and learners were fueled, and we were on our way to Swakopmund and Walvis Bay.
I’d been in contact with the marathon organizer. She was a woman from the chief sponsor, Etosha Fisheries, a canned seafood distributor (sort of like the Bumble Bee Tuna of Namibia). During our phone calls, she assured me that she could find accommodation for all our learners. In our initial calls, we talked about local school classrooms. In our later calls, the word school occurred less and less. When she instructed me to drive to Walvis Bay and go to the Etosha Fisheries factory, I should have guessed.
We arrived at the coast around 11:30PM. Although the organizer had gone home (I think I woke her up with my many calls), she had instructed the security guards at the factory to show us in. Our accommodation was a large warehouse with pilchard packing machinery, wood palettes, and a fork lift. But the bathroom was quite nice. And, when you really get down to it, the floor here wasn’t much different from the floor in a hostel. I was slightly embarrassed, but the kids made hay. In fact, the kids were amazing, as they usually are in these situations, simply thankful to be somewhere new. This is our home? Okay. They began unloading mattress pads, blankets, and carving out comfortable little areas.
The only real difference between a pilchard factory and a hostel is the presence of clean concrete everywhere. Making a fire and cooking wasn’t an option. At 12:00AM, it was too late anyway. We fed them cold viennas (hot dogs) and three slices of bread. Most kids washed in the large bathrooms and were in bed by 1:00AM. I would be waking the runners at 5:30AM to register for the marathon and warm up.
Saturday 20 October
Race day. I finely met the marathon organizer, who had been very helpful in accommodating our learners, most of whom had nothing to do with the marathon. I picked up our team numbers, eight tee shirts, and eight cans of pilchards (our participant’s gift). While the other teachers and learners began to pack our bus, I started to organize my teams.
I had two teams: four boys and four girls. All of them had trained with me almost daily for three months. I was sure they’d be fine, but the tar road was a bit of a worry for them. We had trained barefoot on dirt roads or sand, and I wouldn’t let them wear shoes, even if they had them, because I feared blisters. They eyed the shoes of other runners. I taped their feet, knowing it would wear off in minutes. But it comforted them; somehow demonstrating our decision to forego footwear was strategic, not economic.
Mbaundja and Tjipe, boy and girl respectively, were my first runners: fast, strong, and competitive. We warmed up, just to do something, but were all too nervous to pay the stretches much attention. At 6:45AM they began the marathon for adults and about ten minutes later they fired the gun for the school relay. As Mbaundja and Tjipe rounded the first corner, I hopped in the Toyota with the rest of the team and we followed.
Eventually we came to the relay exchange point, parked, and waited for our runners. Kamutauve and Ndjandereeko were my second runners, and after the tag, they ran north along the straight coastal road, dunes on the right and the Atlantic Ocean on the left. There are about 10 circuitous kilometers in Walvis Bay before the race goes straight north another 30K to the touristy Swakopmund for a big finish. It’s a beautiful course.
Because there are so many runners, several age groups, a marathon, a half marathon relay, a 10K, and a school relay, it’s difficult to follow anyone’s progress other than your own. But I could tell my boys were doing well. By the fourth runner, Patrick, I was worried he would finish before my third girl came in for the final tag. I left Mr. Mbuende with Penandino and our driver took me and the team to the finish line.
As I waited for Patrick, I watched marathon runners stumble across the finish line, peaceful with exhaustion, and remembered last year when I ran. This year I was safe on the sidelines, but somehow the road to get here was tougher.
I was surprised when Patrick rounded the last corner in downtown Swakopmund; he was early. Almost instantly, I was getting miss calls from the other teachers. The bus was parked nearby and my colleagues joined me in the merry finish line atmosphere. The rest of the group had apparently spent the morning at Shoprite. I didn’t mind. The learners (and teachers) had been preoccupied with shopping. Maybe now it was out of their system. For the moment, everyone was celebrating as we waited for Penandino, my last runner. The runners picked up medals, free cokes, and foam visors! The other teachers suddenly became proud parents and coaches. There was much hugging, photo taking, and congratulating. Had we won anything? Who cares?! There are judges and banners and speakers playing upbeat music around.
My principal, Zebby, and Mr. Mbuende suddenly immerged from under a tent wearing Lucky Star Pilchards visors, medals, and drinking sodas. It WAS a party. Although I mentioned that those supplies might be for the learners, my principal insisted I take some too. Free stuff, anywhere, should not be wasted.
Okay. Okay. Marathon over. Educational tour schedule must be recovered. We didn’t come to Swakopmund with 82 kids to go to Shoprite. We moved back to the bus, where the other learners had been kept for the past hour. This was the first of a few “bus prison” situations I had to diffuse along the way. But the kids didn’t care. They had finally shopped and were drunk on sugar, fullness, and the power you feel after entering a store, opening your wallet, and buying something.
Zebby and I ran to the Swakopmund Museum to alert them that our group had arrived. Mr. Mbuende divided the kids into two, neat single file lines and sent them from the bus towards Zebby and me. I noticed their bags of loot as they approached. Chips, cool drink, sweets, take-away fare, and even the remains of an entire birthday cake. I can only assume that because teachers occasionally “eat a party” that involves cake, and because the learners are never included, many were curious to try the unusual extravagance. And with money in their pockets, pooling it to buy an entire pre-made cake was easy. I would have liked to watch them ask for it: “We want the cake.” I was told they even sang Happy Birthday on the bus.
We entered the museum in small groups, each teacher guiding 15 or so learners through the different exhibits. A room on traditional Namibian cultures. A room on colonial influence and early industrial development. A room on the Rossing Uranium Mine. And, the big hit, a natural history area with exhibits on farming, wildlife, and marine life. The kids had tour worksheets to complete for Natural Science, Social Studies, and English class. It was fun to see them trying to memorize the names of two coastal bird species, a question on the Natural Science assignment, and other facts. They were quiet, respectful, and attentive as Principal Muundjua, Zebby, and Ms. Katjiutua explained different part of the museum. As we left, the curator even complimented us on our well-behaved learners.
As you exit the museum, on the main Swakopmund promenade, it’s a stone’s throw from the beach and ocean. We walked down and took a quick look, as we were so close. Because swimming was scheduled for later in the day, we quickly moved back to the bus and loaded. As we did this, I ran back over to the marathon finish just in time to hear the place announcements. Third place in the primary school relay? Goeie Hoop Primary School! I couldn’t believe my ears. I frantically waved over my principal and team and pushed them forward. The four boys received a second medal, much larger and engraved, and my principal was informed of our school’s prize money. What!? I could see dollar signs in his eyes. We should do this every year, he thought.
We walked back to the bus, heroes. Teachers made phone calls, miss calls, and SMS’s. Zebby had somehow made contact with NBC radio in Windhoek and plans were in the works for an appearance. The prominence of our tour in Namibia’s Herero community was growing.
Lunch was perfect. After the hype of downtown marathon-busy Swakopmund, our group needed a place to stretch out and feel more comfortable, more at home. That morning, Ms. Katjiutua had dropped our pots, firewood, and lunch food off at her sister’s house in the location. We parked our bus in front of small neighborhood house and unloaded. Kids lined up, as they’re used to, holding plates and waiting for their portion. For eating and relaxing, the location is much better than town. You can’t exactly, comfortably, make a fire on the beach, fill a huge black pot with water, and cook chicken and macaroni for 82 kids. In the U.S., we’d buy picnic food. But when you’re borrowing food from the hostel, it’s cheaper to cook.
The trip to the location was a perfect break in the middle of a busy, foreign day. It was like a brief escape home. The chicken was oily and salty and good. We thanked Alve’s family, climbed back in the bus, and drove to the National Aquarium.
It was great to follow my kids around and watch them identify all of the ocean animals we had spent the past two weeks studying in class: sea stars, jelly fish, sea urchins, sea horses, and sharks. The aquarium had a walk-through tunnel that went under the largest tank. First the kids were afraid to use it, having no frame of reference for the protection thick glass gives from two tons of water crashing down on you. Inside this largest tank were many types of fish, sharks, sea turtles, and rays. At three o’clock a scuba diver plunged into the water and began feeding the animals. I had the kids perch around or near all available windows, rightfully annoying the other tourists who paid much more than we had.
After the aquarium, we walked outside to the nearby, newly constructed jetty. At first they thought it was time to swim. But as they realized we were about to board this precarious, wooden death trap supported over crashing waves, about a third of them balked and returned to the bus. The rest clutched railings, arms, and each other as they tentatively ventured farther out on the wooden planks, watching the crashing breakers through the cracks beneath their feet.
Back on the bus, we drove to the beach for the first ocean swim in many of their lives. Swimsuits were creative, but everyone dressed for fun as we ran from the bus to the beach. “Overwhelmed” is the first word that comes to mind. They were beside themselves with irrational excitement. This amount of water in one place, moving, alive, was a completely foreign idea, shocking and exhilarating to the shyest of learners. It was like how you might feel if you discovered flubber. It’s water, but there’s so much of it. And it’s moving, coming towards me, like it’s alive. You can drink it, but it’s much too salty. It’s full of creepy, crawly green plants and the remnants of pink jellyfish and beautifully, smooth stones. Pictures only can do this moment justice. Running, screaming, pure joy. Some played beach soccer, sat on the beach and watched the waves, collected stones, and bottled the water (Later, a good prank on the long, hot bus ride home became getting someone to drink from a bottle filled with salt water.).
We drove back to Walvis Bay and bedded down in the warehouse. We ate a simple dinner of bread and cold, canned pilchards and went to bed early. We were sandy and satisfied. It was a great day.
Sunday 21 October
We slept in a bit, but I think everyone was still up at 6:00. I found it hard to justify taking a mattress, when I’d use it alone, and four learners would cram onto it otherwise. Even still, little Agnes always got pushed off and woke up on the floor. So sleep wasn’t abundant on the floor of the pilchard factory. We packed up the bus, swept the warehouse floor, ate bread and oros, and departed.
This was the part of the weekend that I hadn’t booked or overbooked. I figured, by Sunday morning, we might need a bit of a break. And most things were closed. I should have called the Walvis Bay port authority, however, as they denied us a drop in visit. I guess a working commercial harbor, without a guide, IS no place for children. We went to the nearby sand spit and lagoon to look back towards town and check out the flamingoes and other birds. So much water. It was a cool morning and everyone was ready to move on to whatever else I had cooked up for the day. Fortunatly, Dune 7 didn’t disappoint.
Back on the bus, we drove due east from Walvis Bay into the Namib Naukluft Park. After about 5KM, we turned left onto a road that puts you within spitting distance of one of tallest dunes on the coast: Dune 7.
Although they’d never seen “a mountain” so high before, they needed no explanation. They immediately tackled it head on, surprising a slow-moving group of Japanese tourists. Rather than the short line to a lower, more stable ridge, most ran directly up the dune’s face. I was quickly at the top, admiring their happy struggle. They crawled and clawed and clamored with huge smiles on their faces. A mountain of sand! Running and jumping down was equally fun. Other than a few tumbles, every one survived their first mountain climb.
We drove north back to Swakopmund, starting our longer drive back to Windhoek. But first, it was time to deliver on a promise I had made. A promise most didn’t really believe. It was time for a KFC lunch.
It was true some learners were quite well stocked with pocket money and snacks during the trip, much better than I had anticipated. But it was also true that many learners had no food other than that which we fed them. A tour is brilliant, but it calls to mind decadent food they don’t get in Post 10. We’d been giving them plain bread for breakfast and dinner fairly consistently. I wanted to schedule something special, a real treat, for the learners who couldn’t afford to treat themselves. Thus, KFC was on our itinerary.
None of this bucket stuff. We opted for 82 Streetwise Combos (2 pieces and chips in an individual box). We added 82 rolls from the shop across the street and 82 individual juice boxes. When your meal routine is a long line of learners towards a vat of thin porridge, or being expected/forced to divide a piece of candy five ways, the lunch we had organized was quite over the top. As we pushed a grocery cart full of individual boxes towards the Toyota, I started to have misgivings. Were we just wasting money? Was I being a tourist to want them all to have their own box, their own full meal? This was extravagance. The teachers were very surprised and I could see the looks in their eyes. How much money does this Ojtilumbu have? A weird guilt came over me, like the money should be spent on 500 bags of maize meal. I felt a bit better when I considered the bread and oros we had consumed for several other meals. They deserved this. Every one of them deserved an individual pack. Just this once. When at most family functions they are served last and forced to share with the 8 other kids around, when the hostel waters down milk and gives one egg, when they’ve seen just enough Western media to understand that kids in other parts of the world have this luxurious freedom, they deserve it.
For the first time they didn’t ask for “sumore”. They were silent, considering how best to approach this gift. Eat it? Save it for later? To show to others. Eat it slowly over four hour ride back to Windhoek? That’s what most did. On the ride back, amidst singing, Edwin looked at me, eyes laughing, and yelled, “Mr. Leahy, I’m full!” They almost never say those words.
Back in Windhoek, we were supposed to stay at Khomustura Primary School. We had organized with the principal, who was a former teacher of Zebby’s. When we arrived however, he was nowhere to be found. After sitting on the bus for an hour and failing to track him down, Zebby and I drove to his church in the location. After a quick meeting with the bishop we had a place to sleep for the night. But not so fast.
It was an Evangelical church where people sing and testify for 10 hours on Sunday, coming and going. We had to greet and thank the congregation. First Zebby gave a speech. Then the driver of our Toyota gave a speech. Then my principal did. And finally I was asked to give one. This lasted for about an hour, after we had already been waiting to find a home for several. But sometimes you just have to give a speech in an Evangelical church to find a place for your kids to sleep. As the brass band lead the congregation out, I considered the fact that is was again 10:00PM and we hadn’t given them dinner. But they were still having a blast.
Monday 22 October
The last day. No bath, just a cowboy splash outside the church. We were up early because we wanted to drive through the University of Namibia before our appointment at Parliament. As it turned out, we found a very helpful student affairs employee and scheduled a more formal tour for later in the day.
At Parliament we were a bit early, but the beautiful gardens in the front occupied the attention of our learners. Our guide finally arrived and showed us to the National Assembly lobby. His voice was soft and he seemed unable to make his speech a bit more primary school friendly. I rehashed some of his points and asked some basic questions to get the ball rolling, but he wasn’t interested in my help.
Inside the chambers, however, it was more entertaining. Venyekerera, a trouble maker for sure, picked out the highest chair he could find: the speaker’s. Other learners read the name plates on seats until they found one they recognized or liked. We learned how the room was organized: majority on the right and minority parties on the left. We learned about the placement of the scepter: up for discussion and down for break. And, after many questions about where President Pohamba sits, we learned that he rarely makes an appearance in Parliament proceedings. The kids recognized the room from T.V., and although I wanted our guide to be more kid friendly, all understood that this was where Namibian laws are made.
A short walk from Parliament and we arrived at Owela Museum, Windhoek’s national Natural History museum. Another old teacher of Zebby’s worked there and was happy to take our kids on a guided tour, but only half. He was right; our group was much too big for the museum, but Owela was much more fun than Alte Feste, the museum to which I took the other half of the learners. It’s more about Namibian history, with a heavy emphasis on the liberation struggle. It was great for the kids to see a letter from founding father Sam Nujoma to the UN, but I also knew some of them would have liked to see the life-size models of Namibia’s indigenous peoples and the terrarium holding a model Welwitschia (sp?) mirabilis, a unique, long-living plant they had studied in Natural Science. Mr. Mbuende came with me and pointed out some of the important names of the liberation struggle. Many old photos showed younger versions of the current president and parliamentary leaders. Actually, Alte Feste was a nice compliment to our Parliament visit, showing the origins of the current government. Again, having Mr. Mbuende to explain things in Otjiherero was invaluable.
Around 11:30, we met back at the bus and quickly drove to the University of Namibia for your appointment. The representative from student affairs had found three university students to accompany us and answer questions from the kids directly. We broke up into smaller groups and walked to UNAM’s new library. Although she was from the north, the young woman with my group of kids spoke Otjiherero. I do my best to promote English use, but sometimes there’s no substitute for the connection you make in mother tongue. The kids, by now a little tired, responded to her immediately.
In the library, she showed them the stacks, the electronic card catalogue, carrels for study and laptop hookup, and places to do research or hold small classes. The entire environment couldn’t have been more perfect. Because it was close to exams, the library was overloaded with students: students reading intently, students studying with others, students typing on laptops (just like Mr. Leahy!). And these learners were “cool.” Designer jeans, brand name shirts, backwards hats, hipster shoes. The link between success, hard work and studies, and being “cool” was so obvious. THIS is where you want to be. Suddenly those kids in the village, the ones who failed Grade 10 and spend most days hanging around, the ones who usually commanded the respect and admiration from all of my learners, didn’t seem so cool. Or maybe I’m reading in to it too much. In either case, it was great for my kids to see that there is academic life beyond secondary school in Post 3. The UNAM students joined us on the bus and we drove around the campus. The pointed out lecture halls, libraries, and offices, but also concert venues, take-aways, and fun hostels.
Back at the church, preparing to for lunch and our departure for Post 10, Zebby was making the final preparations for our NBC radio Otjiherero visit. This was his project - I had nothing to do with it - and to be honest, I was a bit skeptical. As it turned out, it was the perfect way to close our trip.
Lunch wasn’t quite ready; it takes a while to cook 10 chickens and 15 kilos of macaroni. We ran to the store for loaves of bread and oros and gave them a snack so our radio visit wouldn’t be laced with answers to the question “How was the tour?” that were something like “I’m hungry.” Back on the bus we drove to the National Broadcasting Corporation’s radio station offices in Windhoek west. I wasn’t sure about the logistics of bringing 82 kids; who exactly would see the studio? But again, it was Zebby’s show. I was surprised when we started bringing the entire group, single file, into the studio.
Soon 82 kids were surrounding a computer, sound board, and set of microphones in the famous, but rather small, Studio 3. All of them. As the announcer came back from a break, he let the entire group say hello in unison. Later, selected learners spoke about the tour, what we had seen, what we had learned, and how much fun we had had. My principal spoke, as did Zebby, Mr. Mbuende, and I.
It was valuable for the kids to see a working radio studio. And the chance to talk about their experience helped them start define what it meant in their lives. But what was really great about this opportunity was the exposure. There are probably 400,000 people in the world who speak Otjiherero. And there is one radio station for all of them. So radio in Namibia is closer to radio in early America. People use it to advertise positions, announce weddings and funerals, and contact loved ones. People don’t listen to Radio Otjiherero. They LISTEN. In the staffroom, on hand held radios, blaring from parked cars. In places with little access to media, the radio is huge. And a group of learners from Epukiro, the heart of Herero culture, the home of the Banderu chief, was on. The tour suddenly became the biggest success to hit the Herero community in months. The U.S. equivalent might be The Today Show. I was sure a host of proud parents were listening to the interview, ears bent on whatever jimmy rigged radio sat outside their simple farm house. Their child was in Windhoek. On the radio! The interview lasted an hour. Our celebrity status was confirmed after we left the studio and began receiving SMS’s and miss calls from our friends back in the village. Later, I was thanked via SMS by two parents I had never meant. And I’m pretty sure I got a hike home last Sunday from strangers who knew me as that volunteer from the radio. It was a great way for our kids to finish this amazing experience.
We drove back to Gobabis and finally reached Post 10 around 11:30PM Monday night. Most teachers came out to greet us, as did most of the younger learners who should’ve been asleep in the hostel. We were exhausted, but very proud. The bus was intact. All learners were safe and happy. It was a great tour.
I’d like to say one last thank you to all the wonderful people who helped fund this tour.
posted by Andrew Leahy at 12:31 AM
0 comments
Friday, April 06, 2007
computer workshop - grade 12s from Windhoek teaching my learners and Zebby
posted by Andrew Leahy at 2:55 AM
0 comments
athletics - Mbaundja (doesn't his name even sound like 'jump'?)
posted by Andrew Leahy at 2:42 AM
0 comments
Friday, March 30, 2007
Notes after class
…Teaching thirty-four of thirty-nine possible classes a week, I have few free periods this year. Time is pinched further as other teachers drop by, class or not, to ask a variety of questions: “Leahy! Are Closing Remarks and Word of Thanks not the same thing?” “Andrew, sorry. What is the self esteem?” “Andrew, sorry. Are you having a worksheet for proper nouns?” When I do have forty minutes to myself, I sometimes walk the school to see the work in other classes.
Today, in the first class to my right, Ms. Korupanda was seated at her desk and the learners looked unencumbered by any specific task, flipping through the pages of old, half-torn books. In the second class, Mr. Ndjoze’s, learners were sitting unattended. Same in the third class, Mr. Marenga’s. Finally, in Zebby’s class, the learners were “working.” Although Zebby was, like other teachers, seated at his desk, the learners were busy with what we call summary. Summary is the cornerstone of Namibian education. A teacher summarizes the important points of a chapter or lesson and writes them meticulously on the board. The learners copy down the notes and attempt to memorize them later for tests. In this case, Zebby had duplicated the notes and the learners were gluing them into their books. This shows planning on Zebby’s part, but it takes a minimum of effort to accomplish. As I made my turn of the school, this was the most promising classroom.
Later, as I sat in my class – I admit daydreaming and writing – I listened as the teacher next door extracted several learners, berated them in mother tongue, and smacked their palms with a long stick. I listened to the slaps, and felt nothing at all…
…Kick Off Magazine, a monthly soccer news digest, is easily the most coveted reading (looking) material by any boy at Goeie Hoop Primary School. Not only does it chronicle the exploits of their alter egos – “I am Ronaldinho! I am Beckham! scrawled on everything they own – it also provides color photos of the remaining favorites. Consider its rare appearance at our remote location and it becomes invaluable (a new ball tops the list, a photo a close second). See a crowd of boys huddled over something with pages and Kick Off lies at the center, its oily, tattered pages slick with overuse. Literacy matters little; successfully identifying each player confers field cred. As a leader flips the pages, onlookers point and rattle off names – Figo, Raul, Bartlet, C. Ronaldo, Camara, Michald, Ballack, Messi, Drogba. Incorrectly attributing a name – no matter the obscure angle of the shot – and risk being branded a poser. Even the youngest boys with little talent can name the greats by face, something with which I still struggle.
The inclusion of not one but four copies of this magazine in my classroom’s Reading Corner was a questionable decision. Is it reading? Am I letting them win? Will there be fights? Would pages systematically disappear until the empty shell of a cover remains, coming to my attention weeks later?
Enter Kariua, I think the toughest camelthorn in the 7th grade. Although his spoken English is quite good – he seems to have defended himself, survived by it – he can barely read the simplest words and writes with a combination of affected messiness, gibberish, and uncertainty, presumably shooting for partial credit when a teacher struggles to decipher his nonsense. It is Kariua who simultaneously attracts the most punishments and the most special errands from teachers, a sign of respect and responsibility. I too have succumbed, and not in a good way, to his textbook cries for attention.
I originally pegged him as the class clown, once publicly humiliating him as a punishment, only to discover he is actually the class screw-up. This ended in tears, for both of us. When the other learners openly call you a “slow learner,” something they’ve obviously heard from teachers, and question your cleanliness in a place where using flushing toilets is a luxury, you’ve got problems. Was he beaten? Abused? Orphaned? I imagine his home life in melodramatic visions. Hostel schools make real information about home life difficult to obtain. I’m not sure what I’d do with it anyway.
When – at my worst – I too have become more physical than is probably legal in the US, it has been with Kariua. And yet he (obviously?) requires the most physical affection, staying after class to talk and ask questions, to clean, to inadvertently lean against me.
During reading corner time last week – a reward for consecutive productive classes – several boys predictably fought over the Kick Off magazines. I made my rounds, encouraging quiet reading and eventually came to Kariua. He can’t read. Not at all. For a 13-year-old boy, something was missed along the way, even if English is his second language. We sat together and worked through a picture alphabet book, acknowledging a common letter, then working out cat, clown, cow. A boy to our left finished hurriedly paging through Kick Off and began to hand it Kariua, who had been next in line. Without removing his eyes from the page, Kariua waved the offer away and continued to read, always looking to me for validation. Face, foot, frog.
This job has much too much power and I’m still not good enough.
But the learning curve IS tremendous. I’ve baptized myself in EFL books, waking up in the middle of the night thinking about themed units, the audio-lingual and comparative approaches, the benefits of inclusion versus exclusion for slow learners in an environment with little special attention. And anyway, now my learners can say “let’s go, let’s go” with an American English accent – my motivational legacy. Better than the impersonation of Mr. Ndjoze; he gets angry grunts. Mine seems goal-oriented…
…More interesting to them than any teaching style I’ve adopted, my new rules/consequences/rewards system is a favorite point of discussion for classes. There are yellow cards, red cards, Mr. Leahy dollars, and a chance to buy a homemade dinner shared with their favorite English teacher (this year). It’s labor intensive and I probably won’t use it again, but you learn. Computer lab time and photos are very popular ($10 and $100 respectively). But dinner with Mr. Leahy ($60, thanks again Senora Cullen for the idea) has proven to be the real point of interest for my learners. Although satisfactorily fed, they rarely eat much of anything exciting. Their eyes gleam as they imagine the luxurious dishes that could produce such rosy cheeks, such plentiful arm hair. Lamb? Roast goat? With all the trimmings? My eyes gleam as I imagine serving them porridge and sour milk; bread, butter, and eggs; macaroni and tomato sauce; putting speculations about my diet to rest. I am not rich. I can’t “borrow [you] one photo.” And I don’t eat fried chicken and drink Coca Cola three times a day…
…Believe it or not, my school has track suits. They sit in a box, unused, and have come to represent one of the main problems of schools (countries?) in a stage of middle development.
The tracksuits were purchased about five years ago, an idea that sought to model the successes of town schools, schools on TV. The royal blue nylon with the school crest and oversized, fold-down collar is a smart little number. A large portion of the school fund was sunk into the suits; they were expected to bring returns as a fundraiser. Excited parents goggled over the rich fabric, the fine cut, and promised their learners would be first in line.
But when the tracksuits finally arrived, no one bought them. Parents didn’t have the money, or didn’t want to spend it on tracksuits. They sit in a dusty box in the principal’s office. At every parent meeting we’ve had, the suits are retrieved and paraded, yet again. Again, everyone admires the fabric, the feel. And again they are refused and returned to the box. An unfinished idea. A failed plan. Now, an afterthought.
I see this in our little used library, our poorly maintained computer lab, our stack of misunderstood dictionaries. Everyone knew them to be a good thing, where we should be – learners reading glossy new library books in their royal track suits. But no one knows how to make it work. The tracksuits remain boxed and the library remains locked and after school, every day, the teachers conspicuously disappear. No one knows how to make it work.
Neither do I.
A recently organized photo lab fundraiser may fall victim to the same problem. We organized the workshop, shared the knowledge, printed some photos. Everyone was excited and everyone claimed they would buy photos. Yet after the workshop, the interest is gone, the printer has returned to the secretary’s office, and our fancy new photo ink cartridge is slowly being sapped by unnecessary letters to the Namdeb Diamond Company asking for donations.
I think you can’t stop. You bring ideas. You believe the school is at the next step, even if it isn’t, even before it gets there. You keep holding workshops, (re)starting the library, talking about alternatives to corporal punishment. Because some day, in a generation that’s not content to rest on the laurels of Independence, maybe it sticks…
Today, in the first class to my right, Ms. Korupanda was seated at her desk and the learners looked unencumbered by any specific task, flipping through the pages of old, half-torn books. In the second class, Mr. Ndjoze’s, learners were sitting unattended. Same in the third class, Mr. Marenga’s. Finally, in Zebby’s class, the learners were “working.” Although Zebby was, like other teachers, seated at his desk, the learners were busy with what we call summary. Summary is the cornerstone of Namibian education. A teacher summarizes the important points of a chapter or lesson and writes them meticulously on the board. The learners copy down the notes and attempt to memorize them later for tests. In this case, Zebby had duplicated the notes and the learners were gluing them into their books. This shows planning on Zebby’s part, but it takes a minimum of effort to accomplish. As I made my turn of the school, this was the most promising classroom.
Later, as I sat in my class – I admit daydreaming and writing – I listened as the teacher next door extracted several learners, berated them in mother tongue, and smacked their palms with a long stick. I listened to the slaps, and felt nothing at all…
…Kick Off Magazine, a monthly soccer news digest, is easily the most coveted reading (looking) material by any boy at Goeie Hoop Primary School. Not only does it chronicle the exploits of their alter egos – “I am Ronaldinho! I am Beckham! scrawled on everything they own – it also provides color photos of the remaining favorites. Consider its rare appearance at our remote location and it becomes invaluable (a new ball tops the list, a photo a close second). See a crowd of boys huddled over something with pages and Kick Off lies at the center, its oily, tattered pages slick with overuse. Literacy matters little; successfully identifying each player confers field cred. As a leader flips the pages, onlookers point and rattle off names – Figo, Raul, Bartlet, C. Ronaldo, Camara, Michald, Ballack, Messi, Drogba. Incorrectly attributing a name – no matter the obscure angle of the shot – and risk being branded a poser. Even the youngest boys with little talent can name the greats by face, something with which I still struggle.
The inclusion of not one but four copies of this magazine in my classroom’s Reading Corner was a questionable decision. Is it reading? Am I letting them win? Will there be fights? Would pages systematically disappear until the empty shell of a cover remains, coming to my attention weeks later?
Enter Kariua, I think the toughest camelthorn in the 7th grade. Although his spoken English is quite good – he seems to have defended himself, survived by it – he can barely read the simplest words and writes with a combination of affected messiness, gibberish, and uncertainty, presumably shooting for partial credit when a teacher struggles to decipher his nonsense. It is Kariua who simultaneously attracts the most punishments and the most special errands from teachers, a sign of respect and responsibility. I too have succumbed, and not in a good way, to his textbook cries for attention.
I originally pegged him as the class clown, once publicly humiliating him as a punishment, only to discover he is actually the class screw-up. This ended in tears, for both of us. When the other learners openly call you a “slow learner,” something they’ve obviously heard from teachers, and question your cleanliness in a place where using flushing toilets is a luxury, you’ve got problems. Was he beaten? Abused? Orphaned? I imagine his home life in melodramatic visions. Hostel schools make real information about home life difficult to obtain. I’m not sure what I’d do with it anyway.
When – at my worst – I too have become more physical than is probably legal in the US, it has been with Kariua. And yet he (obviously?) requires the most physical affection, staying after class to talk and ask questions, to clean, to inadvertently lean against me.
During reading corner time last week – a reward for consecutive productive classes – several boys predictably fought over the Kick Off magazines. I made my rounds, encouraging quiet reading and eventually came to Kariua. He can’t read. Not at all. For a 13-year-old boy, something was missed along the way, even if English is his second language. We sat together and worked through a picture alphabet book, acknowledging a common letter, then working out cat, clown, cow. A boy to our left finished hurriedly paging through Kick Off and began to hand it Kariua, who had been next in line. Without removing his eyes from the page, Kariua waved the offer away and continued to read, always looking to me for validation. Face, foot, frog.
This job has much too much power and I’m still not good enough.
But the learning curve IS tremendous. I’ve baptized myself in EFL books, waking up in the middle of the night thinking about themed units, the audio-lingual and comparative approaches, the benefits of inclusion versus exclusion for slow learners in an environment with little special attention. And anyway, now my learners can say “let’s go, let’s go” with an American English accent – my motivational legacy. Better than the impersonation of Mr. Ndjoze; he gets angry grunts. Mine seems goal-oriented…
…More interesting to them than any teaching style I’ve adopted, my new rules/consequences/rewards system is a favorite point of discussion for classes. There are yellow cards, red cards, Mr. Leahy dollars, and a chance to buy a homemade dinner shared with their favorite English teacher (this year). It’s labor intensive and I probably won’t use it again, but you learn. Computer lab time and photos are very popular ($10 and $100 respectively). But dinner with Mr. Leahy ($60, thanks again Senora Cullen for the idea) has proven to be the real point of interest for my learners. Although satisfactorily fed, they rarely eat much of anything exciting. Their eyes gleam as they imagine the luxurious dishes that could produce such rosy cheeks, such plentiful arm hair. Lamb? Roast goat? With all the trimmings? My eyes gleam as I imagine serving them porridge and sour milk; bread, butter, and eggs; macaroni and tomato sauce; putting speculations about my diet to rest. I am not rich. I can’t “borrow [you] one photo.” And I don’t eat fried chicken and drink Coca Cola three times a day…
…Believe it or not, my school has track suits. They sit in a box, unused, and have come to represent one of the main problems of schools (countries?) in a stage of middle development.
The tracksuits were purchased about five years ago, an idea that sought to model the successes of town schools, schools on TV. The royal blue nylon with the school crest and oversized, fold-down collar is a smart little number. A large portion of the school fund was sunk into the suits; they were expected to bring returns as a fundraiser. Excited parents goggled over the rich fabric, the fine cut, and promised their learners would be first in line.
But when the tracksuits finally arrived, no one bought them. Parents didn’t have the money, or didn’t want to spend it on tracksuits. They sit in a dusty box in the principal’s office. At every parent meeting we’ve had, the suits are retrieved and paraded, yet again. Again, everyone admires the fabric, the feel. And again they are refused and returned to the box. An unfinished idea. A failed plan. Now, an afterthought.
I see this in our little used library, our poorly maintained computer lab, our stack of misunderstood dictionaries. Everyone knew them to be a good thing, where we should be – learners reading glossy new library books in their royal track suits. But no one knows how to make it work. The tracksuits remain boxed and the library remains locked and after school, every day, the teachers conspicuously disappear. No one knows how to make it work.
Neither do I.
A recently organized photo lab fundraiser may fall victim to the same problem. We organized the workshop, shared the knowledge, printed some photos. Everyone was excited and everyone claimed they would buy photos. Yet after the workshop, the interest is gone, the printer has returned to the secretary’s office, and our fancy new photo ink cartridge is slowly being sapped by unnecessary letters to the Namdeb Diamond Company asking for donations.
I think you can’t stop. You bring ideas. You believe the school is at the next step, even if it isn’t, even before it gets there. You keep holding workshops, (re)starting the library, talking about alternatives to corporal punishment. Because some day, in a generation that’s not content to rest on the laurels of Independence, maybe it sticks…
posted by Andrew Leahy at 8:17 AM
4 comments
Friday, January 19, 2007
Capetown from Table Mountain
Drinking giraffe and impala
E
Etosha lion and elephants
Table Mountain from bay
posted by Andrew Leahy at 12:43 AM
0 comments
what what what
If you don’t keep up, the writing can get away from you. Then going back to chronicle things like “Cape Town” or “New Year’s Eve” can be a bother, not a release. It’s better to write what you’re thinking at that time, at that moment, without getting too metaphysical or postmodern. It’s better to write in the now.
Sunday. Certainly the worst of all weekdays. Sunday is church. Sunday is homework. Sunday is, often times, yard work. Or all of these tragedies combined. Sunday is realizing that the once wide open expanse of weekend -where anything is possible, where Time ceases to bind the realities of man, where hope for new life, or at least a better one, lies around every turn- is quickly closing, like a stone trap door in the Temple of Doom. Suddenly, nothing is possible, nothing is on the horizon, and worse, nothing is accomplished. Sunday sucks.
But not today-which is also Sunday- because although school begins this week, it doesn’t really begin until next week. Although teachers and learners are slated to return and classes are expected to resume (in my second year as teacher in the Peace Corps), I now know they will NOT resume, scheduled or otherwise, until next week. No, this week will be a chance to read, meditate, catch up on my correspondence, and ponder the waste of time that is Registration in a Rural Namibian Public School.
On second thought, maybe this is the perfect time to relive the past thirty days. God knows I’ll be glancing at my pictures from vacation often enough this first week back, trying to fathom why I would choose to come back to Okovimburu, back to the bush, back to a concrete classroom and a headache when places like Cape Town and Victoria Falls and things like cold beer and pizza exist in the world. I’ve started this post on several scratch pieces of paper, on several different computers, and, once, on the back of my hand. I guess it’s time to finish it. Thirty days of vacation in the first few days of school? Sure, let’s see what happens.
Sunday
Like I said, school begins tomorrow for teachers. I look around the village at 7:38PM and I’d guess that about a third of the staff is present. Ms. Katjiutua to my left has had several adolescent boys meticulously removing the weeds from her fenced sand yard all day. Ms Tjomuho, to my right, has been seated for several hours now while Ms. Tjijenda sows extensions into her short-growing rug of fro. Mr. Katjiamo, three doors down to my right, has managed to stand shirtless and accomplish nothing all day. I guess there’s little to show for my day. The wash is finished. I managed to buy a few forgotten necessities at the shop (toilet paper, oil, why doesn’t this place have shampoo?). But the boys I employed, with a soccer ball, to weed my yard did a lackluster job. I gave them the ball anyway. The moldy fridge? I’ll tackle that tomorrow. (Interesting connecting sentence that relates my moldy fridge to Cape Town here.) Hmmm, there was not a moldy fridge in sight when I crossed the border into South Africa.
Cape Town
Crossing the South African border was relatively easy. Mark didn’t even bother to turn down the music as the border patrol guard approached. I did. We were driving a Land Cruiser; did we have to be total American jerks? The Land Cruiser was, however, an improvement on the broken down bus I has left behind in Grunau. Twenty hours earlier, I had boarded the Intercape Sleepliner in the hopes of sleeping peacefully all the way to Cape Town. Plush reclining seats, coffee service, and a departure timetable?!?!! This was going to be the easiest bit of travel I’d yet done in Southern Africa. Or so I thought. Seven hours into the trip (around 3:00AM) and the bus cripples in the middle of nowhere, Grunau. South of Keetmanshoop in Namibia, “the middle of nowhere” takes on a more literal meaning. I quickly text messaged other volunteers for rescue. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one traveling to Cape Town that day, and within hours I was pulling away from stranded bus passengers with a look of hopelessness in their eyes. This was the Titanic and I was getting off. Later, I learned the group (on another bus sent from Cape Town) didn’t arrive until the following day. By that time, I was halfway up Table Mountain.
It’s hard to exaggerate the beauty of Cape Town: an urban setting, the green blue bay, and a mountainous backdrop abruptly looming behind every building. Like New York and San Francisco rolled into one. Of course, I’m talking about City Bowl, and the series of sea front neighborhoods, not the Cape Flats or any of the black townships. That’s another story. But for the easy-going tourist, the day-tripper, Cape Town is beautiful. I spent one day hiking Table Mountain, another on Robben Island, a third in Cape wine country, and a fourth, window-shopping in the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront area and craft stall hopping in the hip Green Market area off Long Street. I’d write more about the Emerald City (as some volunteers call it), but it was the first stop on my travels, and it’s now harder to remember.
Monday (First Day for Teachers)
It was a short day, but eventful. Around 8:00AM teachers gathered inside the school fence near the main office building. Most arrived this morning in an effort to suck the last drops of freedom from vacation. Shah, my housemate, pulled up around 7:45. I was the only one wearing a tie. Not even “Mr. The Principal”, “Mr. Dear Colleagues, To Not Waste Time” slept in his Ministry of Education house last night. Everyone was just getting back from the farm.
Around 8:10AM formal greetings commenced: basically a receiving line that each approaching teacher must navigate. A series of handshakes, double shakes, hugs, double hugs, and enthusiastic kisses ensued. I couldn’t help thinking that post-vacation greetings were a good excuse for the male teachers to grab some skin of a female coworker. Apparently Ms. Ngaruka (Trudy) felt the same way. She hugged me once, hugged me twice, and stopped dead center, eyes closed, mouth puckered. At first I thought she was making a funny face; I’m still relatively new here. When I realized the extent of my predicament, I tried to placate the love starved single mother with a kiss on the cheek. She continued to wait, pushing slightly forward, eyes screwed shut, and making a sort of light moaning sound. I glanced around and noticed everyone was waiting. I was holding up the line. I went in and wondered if this was a special occasion or our new level of affectionate greeting. Ah, year two. Interesting that I brought Hershey’s Kisses for the staff to enjoy, a belated Christmas treat (thanks Gene and Cathy Joseph). Trudy held the bag up for the staff to see.
The other big event of the morning was the distribution of mail. Although its only bills and advertisements from furniture stores, because it seldom comes, the teachers relish mail dispersal. Small piles are created and each pointless letter is painstakingly opened and read. Today the principle didn’t bother to compete for attention; he simply paused the meeting for an hour. I didn’t mind. The only item I received was an envelope from the former volunteer in Post 10. She’s a teacher in the U.S. and our schools have started a penpal program. She sent over seventy letters with photos to kick off the program. I was enthralled. Well-written letters and PHOTOS. My kids will go nuts. This may prove to be the most rewarding educational activity of the entire two years. Thank you Northwood Junior High in Highland Park Illinois.
Momentary Pause in whatever structure this might have had
A large man in an extremely large lorry just pulled up - one of those old Mercedes air craft carriers with the high metal railings, chuck full of children. He had a jolly face and thick arms that navigated the round, flat steering wheel to a stop. “I came to give you the money,” he said. The patriarch of a truck full of progeny, coming to school like the Clampets. In reality, they are not only his sons and daughters but brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, cousins and second cousins. He brought them to register. For school. And here they all are. Except today isn’t registration; it starts tomorrow. So what did the flexible staff at Goeie Hoop Primary School do? We sent him away. Ivonne and Lothe, the clan’s representative in last year’s grade 7, were present. I gave them their old workbooks and congratulated them on earning Cs in my class, a grade well above average. Hopefully that lorry brings the others back tomorrow. More likely, he’ll try again next week.
Back to today’s relevant? events
What was interesting, or not interesting, or what I had forgotten at least about Hereros is their penchant for parceling. My theory? Years of hostel schooling where nothing is really yours and everything is everyone’s creates a very different view of earned personal property than we have in the US. These kids have no ownership over food. They eat what is offered when it’s offered. Sure some pocket change exists after a home weekend, but the truth is even with pocket change there’s not much out here. Fatcakes, chips, fudge (sugar milk boiled down to the leftover stuff). And that money is spent after a week at school. These kids have enough, but barely. Having something EXTRA is such a luxury. If one lucky soul has the good fortune of happening upon something sweet, a snack, something above and behind the tedious hostel menu, he does the opposite of what you’d expect. He doesn’t hide and devour the treasure himself – not usually. He shares it with as many people as he sees. Scraping crumbs from cookies and licking the flavoring off chip bags. And he’ll expect the same when you have.
This behavior, I think, is maintained in adults. They joke, “In Africa, we share” as they take a drink of your soda or a portion or your plate. No one has anything and everyone has something. Most cupboards are bare, but everyone is eating. A taste here, a spoon there, and you’ll get by. As people get older, and come into some actual money, they stock food, but no one admits it. Ask your neighbor for some butter, and she will shake her head. But catch her sitting down to fried chicken, porridge, and vegetables, and grab your own plate because she can’t turn you down. Dinner, drinks, rides, anything. If someone catches you having, be ready to share until it’s gone. And feel free, when your rations are low, to impose on others. Once, when Shah was away at his farm, and I ran out of food, I spent three days taking meals from my neighbors. I would saunter over when I could see or smell food cooking at their houses, and bingo. No concept of earned ownership. No “I worked hard for this and it is mine.” No American Dream. Because as soon as you have your white picket fence house, your turkey dinner, or your new stereo, so does the rest of your family, extended family, and village. Total equity and no pretense.
Let’s get back to the staff room. In the states, you might pour a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in a bowl and put that bowl in the middle of a table. People are shy at first. They eye the candy but don’t reach. They ate breakfast. They have a job. Why do they need this unnecessary sweet snack? Everyone “hmphs” but no one can stop thinking about it. Free food. Chocolate. Grab it, damn it! Finally a humorist will break the ice with a morsel of honesty sugar-coated in a dollop of self-depreciation. He’ll say, “Well, aren’t we polite” and snatch the first bite. The field is open and people casually follow his example. They reach, some several times. A mental score is kept. Some never reach and pride themselves on surviving the entire meeting without a taste, savoring the taste of moral superiority instead. And the last Hershey’s Kiss? In America, we leave that in the bowl. We’re not animals. A pitiful reward for some overworked secretary.
In Namibia, the pretense is removed in favor of what might seem like an immature ritual. In Africa, we share. Maybe I had forgotten, or more likely I just wanted to see it again. I dumped small piles of Kisses from the bag onto each staffroom table. I watched as they instinctively, without hesitation or embarrassment, divided the candy equally, counting out piece by piece. Each teacher, now with his horde, is free to devour them instantly or sub-parcel his portion with family and friends. At birthday parties or other catered events people bring Tupperware. It is MY portion and if I use it to feed my kids, what you gonna say? Food allotted. From the hostel matron slopping an impressively exact amount of porridge on a child’s plate, to a precisely divided wedding feast, to a meeting of the local traditional chiefs, there are always equal parcels for all. I’ve mentioned my theory explaining this behavior. Right or wrong, it’s a fixture at any Herero (Namibian?) event where food is available.
That’s why, at a campsite in Botswana, when we inadvertently became guests at wedding reception for a couple we did not know, I was surprised to find an open bar and an open meat stall. In Botswana, things might be different, but it is more likely that this event was catered by the richest family in the town of Ghanzi. In either case, they didn’t mind ten extra tourists as guests eating, drinking, and dancing. It was Christmas Eve.
It’s important to note that after my Cape Town adventure, I joined an organized safari. There are several kinds of safaris, most of which include an embarrassingly large overland vehicle, a gaggle of khaki clad Germans, and an underpaid black man with an intimidating knowledge of roads, history, and flora and fauna. Some include hotel accommodations, five star meals, and elephant rides. Fortunately, some are more low key. They include camping, shared cooking responsibilities, and canoe trips through the Okavango Delta. A trip like this might be difficult to duplicate on your own. It’s not easy to drive into remote locations (like the Okavango Delta) and locate a trustworthy river guide. This is important when hippos and crocodiles pose a decent threat to small, dugout canoes. Needless to say, I’m justifying my participation on such a big, overland safari with a sticker price to match (Merry Christmas Mom and Dad). Also, needless to say, I pulled my hat down low and slouched in my seat as the truck stopped for petrol in my shopping town, Gobabis. We were on the Trans Kalahari Highway, headed for Botswana, and I was embarrassed.
Several hours later we arrived at a dustbowl campsite with nothing interesting to see. This was Ghanzi, our first Botswanan campsite on the road to the delta. It was Christmas Eve and about two minutes after we began to set up camp, we got our first Christmas surprise. A tall black man with a tall white chef’s hat pulled up in a truck and approached our expanding campsite. He was from the related lodge and on orders to inform us that a large wedding reception would be starting that evening. “Warn” would have been a better verb. He said it would conclude no time soon. Maybe we didn’t read into it, but after driving eight hours and setting up camp in a remote location, you don’t expect a tall chef to have any credibility on sleeping arrangements. Initially, I assumed he wanted our tents farther away from the stone shelter so we wouldn’t disrupt the reception. I now realize he had our interests in mind. As the DJ set up his equipment around 10:00PM, sound-checking a techno beat, I realized it would be a long night.
We had just finished after-dinner tea when our circle of canvas camp chairs began to feel surrounded. Cars and partygoers were all around, and our small group of tourists were holding huddle, refusing to be broken by the growing scene. I felt awkward. We weren’t imposing; that would have been impossible. But we were keeping to ourselves, like a stubborn rugby scrum. We needed to join the party or go to bed (if that was possible, bass, bass, bass). A talkative Aussie decided to bridge the gap and approached a group of women. She returned shortly with little to report. Finally we tried as a group and moved toward the dance floor. One man welcomed us warmly. “In Botswana, we are peaceful people. You are welcome!” he said. Drunken teenagers in the men’s bathroom and a jump-suited groom agreed. I’ve danced with women before. And I’ve danced with women holding beers before. But that night was the first time I had danced with a woman holding a beer in one hand and a piece of juice-dripping meat in the other. Given that their party was utterly crashed by a group of tourists, the welcome was warm and genuine, despite some questionable dance lessons (it’s possible they were having as much fun as we were).
At 3:00AM I moved toward my tent. At 4:00AM I climbed in. I started to see the relevance of the chef’s warning more fully. The noise was the least of our problems. Our tents, scattered around the campsite under trees, were now positioned amidst about a hundred vehicles. Some were makeshift hotel rooms. Some were other, private parties with their own music. Some were unsuccessfully trying to exit the scene, erratically turning and spinning out in the deep sand. A green, not- reflective-in-the-least-bit canvas tent suddenly seemed like a horrible place to bed down. At 4:15AM I sat bolt upright and shined my headlamp into the oncoming headlights of a revving, exiting vehicle. At 4:17AM I sat upright again waving my light frantically. At 4:25AM. 4:38AM. 4:58AM. I believe the last car (and tow-truck) left around 5:00AM. We were up at 6:00 and on the road by 7:00. Not only was Christmas Eve memorable, but that morning, some careless wedding guest gave me the present of forgotten, oversized sunglasses. I needed them to shade my bloodshot eyes.
Tuesday (Registration, Day 2)
And that’s the first day of Registration. Again, I have time to write because real school won’t start for another week. Classes should start to tomorrow – in Windhoek and at other town schools they will. But we are in the bush. When I asked several teachers, they responded, “Maybe next week.” The power and water have been shut off for a couple of days now. It’s not the absence of them that hurts; it’s the lack of preparation. Our fridge was already unplugged (and empty) due to the long holiday, and I hadn’t been stockpiling water. It’s lucky Shah’s father keeps his own private drums or we’d be out of luck.
Things to do without power and water: Eat semi-rotten meat (just cook it for three hours over the reserve gas burner). Brush teeth in the yard. Bathroom breaks in the bush. Bathe with water held in a jerry-can that previously held petrol. Close eyes tightly. Lament dead battery on phone, laptop, shaver, etc. Read. Sit in my classroom, and write receipts for the $N120 school fee wearing a shirt and tie in ninety-five degree heat.
Gussied-up Herero Memes and cane-carrying, gentlemanly Tates roll into the village on piled up jalopies in a cloud of dust. A baby in each arm, or strapped to their backs, they wade into my classroom weighted down by petticoats and the troop of children grabbing from behind. The fees are examined and explained and protested – as if “I trekked all the way in to Post 10, I’m damn well gonna make a day of it and have a decent conversation” – before they eventually reach into their huge chest and pull out a proud wad of cash. Beads of sweat accumulate, but stick, not ready to drop. Like broiled skin. Children hide sheepishly behind thick arms and a bat leftover from the night’s hunt struggles to find a window or door. I follow its progress and sympathize.
The current conditions in Post 10 make camping in the Okavango Delta seem like the Ritz. Actually camping at any of the locations I’ve visited (Etosha, Okavango Delta, Livingstone) has been a breeze. Usually tied to a larger rest camp or series of bungalows, these camp sites provide barbecue pits, electrical outlets, and ablutions facilities. Some even have a bar and pool! So, yes, we were in tents. But, no, I didn’t mind. It’s been too hot to sleep inside anyway.
Okavango Delta
Day two in Botswana brought us to the westernmost edge of the delta. We camped beside a large lake with a series of waterways passing through its edges. I imagine the Florida Everglades is similar. The following day we boated out to an island and boarded mokoros, traditional dugout canoes. Although some were made of fiberglass – and had license plates- it was a treat to have a local poler guide us through the labyrinthine waterways of the western delta. We saw many species of birds, several water antelope, and even crocodiles. Unfortunately, at this point, the only part of an elephant we saw was its poo. As we finished our tour of the more shallow and narrow waterways, we cruised back to the island where I took a turn at poling the canoe. I did not end up swimming in the crocodile infested waters, but it is harder than it looks.
Wednesday (The first day of school or Registration, Day 2)
Thirty-seven learners in Grade 7 and twenty-nine learners in Grade 6 reported for duty today. That’s a little less than half full, as far as I’m concerned. The principal claims he’s going to cap enrollment at two sections of thirty-five learners for each grade. Unprecedented? Yes. Incredible? Yes. Probable? Hmmmm.
There was no class today; we continued with registration. I gave back change to people paying school fees until about 11:00. Then I hid in the computer lab and read ESL books while I waited for Gmail to load. The upside to all this free time is the ability to think, and write, and plan activities that you wanted to do the entire preceding year, like a school-wide movie pass system for learners behaving well, or a garden to put the agriculture classes in practical work. If I accomplish even two of the ideas I sketched out today, I’ll be elated. But I had some time to daydream too. I had time to remember the last leg of my safari: Livingstone, Zambia, one of the two cities with access to Victoria Falls (the one NOT in a country that the U.S. economically sanctions and the CIA says not to visit – Zimbabwe).
Livingstone
It’s the roads in Zambia that surprise you. The border crossing from Botswana into Zambia – at this particular location a ferry across the Chobe River- was something different than I experienced in South Africa, Botswana, or Namibia: more people waiting, more smuggled goods, more live animals, more chaos in general. We were told to allow anywhere from thirty minutes to five hours to make it across, depending the line and customs complications. The great thing about an organized tour, however, is visas. They take care of everything.
Driving into Livingstone, you could immediately see a difference from Namibia. It was “the real Africa,” as some volunteers say when they return from parts of southern Africa not so well developed as Namibia. After Lusaka, Livingstone is probably the most important city in the country. It’s the tourism capital. But it looks…old. Littered, potholed streets, a downtown gone to seed, and none of the other civic amenities you might see in Windhoek or Swakopmund. The short drive from downtown to the falls park was terrible; our cab driver zigged and zagged with memorized experience. Given that this is the only road some visitors to Zambia see, I found it incredible that it was not better maintained. While Namibia is poor, it is not poverty-stricken. Zambia seemed to be different.
We spent our first day visiting the falls. At 1.7km wide (Niagra is 1km) and 108m high (Niagra is 58), it was a sight. I kept imagining David Livingstone finding this anomaly – not because I prefer his discovery to that of the natives, but because I imagine his reaction to be more profound. I imagine him hearing it first from some distance away in the lush forest. What could be making such a noise? When natives finally ferried him to an island above the falls he must have been stunned. We have so many points of reference for big, amazing miracles of nature: books, movies, pictures, magazines. Imagine having none of that and stumbling onto something like Victoria Falls (Mosi-oa Tunya to natives, ‘the smoke that thunders’). Anyway, that’s what I thought when I first encountered the falls, the spray hitting me erratically from all sides (I also thought about a sign that read “No washing clothes.” Only in Africa).
When you enter the park it’s a short walk to views of the falls. The Zambezi riverbed above ruptures suddenly and drops 108m to the new riverbed below, creating a huge gorge. You can walk on the upper part, viewing the falls from the right and above. Or you can stand directly across from the many cataracts, facing them head on at alarming proximity. As the water tumbles down it hits the opposing wall of rock – the wall you’re standing on- and spray shoots upward soaking you in minutes. That’s why there’s a clear rainbow daily and a lunar rainbow on nights with full moons. A footbridge and several walkways take you past the Eastern Cataracts to Knife Edge, the last viewing point on the Zambian side. Here you look across the Zambezi into Zimbabwe and, actually, the main flow area of the falls. Turn south, behind you, and follow the river under the Victoria Falls Bridge, connecting the two countries by road.
After this day, the organized tour officially ended. I spent four more days in Livingstone, which also bills itself as the adrenaline capital of southern Africa. By now, I was broke. Although the white water rafting is reputed to be some the best in the world (especially on the Lower Zambezi near Mana Pools National Park, next time), I had to pass. I passed on the elephant rides, abseiling, canoeing and kayaking, glider flights, helicopter rides, and river boarding. When, however, my manhood was challenged by a straight-laced German software engineer (and he offered to foot the bill, which I will pay back sometime), I did not pass on bungee jumping from the aforementioned Victoria Falls Bridge. At 111m, Lonely Planet says it’s the second highest jump in the world. With views of the gorge, falls, and river below, I’d say it’s the most picturesque. An interesting side note: after I finished my jump and was hoisted to the lower part of the bridge, I watched the guy after me jump before he was securely clipped in by the technician next to me. WHAT!?!?! I guess they do this a lot. Anyway, scariest thing I’ve ever done, but awesome. And it’s like I always say: if your friend jumps off a bridge, you’re morally obligated to do so too.
Although my funds were now depleted – and I was officially freeloading off of friends - New Years Eve, Livingstone-style was a gas. We danced at the hottest club in Livingstone to the musical stylings of Bonnie and the Jets (dubbed by me that night, they didn’t have a name). Bonnie was on drums and wanted me to buy him beer, which I did. How often can you hear classic American 50s and 60s pop by an aged Zambian cover band? Just kitschy enough to be cool, especially when they did Elvis and the lead singer did this eyes-closed, locomotive pumping action with his bent arms. Amazing.
Thursday and Friday
The fear is back. Real classes on Monday and, this year, I have an idea what I’ll do. But the fear is back. I’m not sure what I’m teaching or how often I’m teaching it – we’ll draw up the timetable sometime, somehow – but I keep mentioning co-teaching Grade 6 as a way of working more closely with another teacher. Library plans, computer workshops, school tours, and we’re off…
Sunday. Certainly the worst of all weekdays. Sunday is church. Sunday is homework. Sunday is, often times, yard work. Or all of these tragedies combined. Sunday is realizing that the once wide open expanse of weekend -where anything is possible, where Time ceases to bind the realities of man, where hope for new life, or at least a better one, lies around every turn- is quickly closing, like a stone trap door in the Temple of Doom. Suddenly, nothing is possible, nothing is on the horizon, and worse, nothing is accomplished. Sunday sucks.
But not today-which is also Sunday- because although school begins this week, it doesn’t really begin until next week. Although teachers and learners are slated to return and classes are expected to resume (in my second year as teacher in the Peace Corps), I now know they will NOT resume, scheduled or otherwise, until next week. No, this week will be a chance to read, meditate, catch up on my correspondence, and ponder the waste of time that is Registration in a Rural Namibian Public School.
On second thought, maybe this is the perfect time to relive the past thirty days. God knows I’ll be glancing at my pictures from vacation often enough this first week back, trying to fathom why I would choose to come back to Okovimburu, back to the bush, back to a concrete classroom and a headache when places like Cape Town and Victoria Falls and things like cold beer and pizza exist in the world. I’ve started this post on several scratch pieces of paper, on several different computers, and, once, on the back of my hand. I guess it’s time to finish it. Thirty days of vacation in the first few days of school? Sure, let’s see what happens.
Sunday
Like I said, school begins tomorrow for teachers. I look around the village at 7:38PM and I’d guess that about a third of the staff is present. Ms. Katjiutua to my left has had several adolescent boys meticulously removing the weeds from her fenced sand yard all day. Ms Tjomuho, to my right, has been seated for several hours now while Ms. Tjijenda sows extensions into her short-growing rug of fro. Mr. Katjiamo, three doors down to my right, has managed to stand shirtless and accomplish nothing all day. I guess there’s little to show for my day. The wash is finished. I managed to buy a few forgotten necessities at the shop (toilet paper, oil, why doesn’t this place have shampoo?). But the boys I employed, with a soccer ball, to weed my yard did a lackluster job. I gave them the ball anyway. The moldy fridge? I’ll tackle that tomorrow. (Interesting connecting sentence that relates my moldy fridge to Cape Town here.) Hmmm, there was not a moldy fridge in sight when I crossed the border into South Africa.
Cape Town
Crossing the South African border was relatively easy. Mark didn’t even bother to turn down the music as the border patrol guard approached. I did. We were driving a Land Cruiser; did we have to be total American jerks? The Land Cruiser was, however, an improvement on the broken down bus I has left behind in Grunau. Twenty hours earlier, I had boarded the Intercape Sleepliner in the hopes of sleeping peacefully all the way to Cape Town. Plush reclining seats, coffee service, and a departure timetable?!?!! This was going to be the easiest bit of travel I’d yet done in Southern Africa. Or so I thought. Seven hours into the trip (around 3:00AM) and the bus cripples in the middle of nowhere, Grunau. South of Keetmanshoop in Namibia, “the middle of nowhere” takes on a more literal meaning. I quickly text messaged other volunteers for rescue. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one traveling to Cape Town that day, and within hours I was pulling away from stranded bus passengers with a look of hopelessness in their eyes. This was the Titanic and I was getting off. Later, I learned the group (on another bus sent from Cape Town) didn’t arrive until the following day. By that time, I was halfway up Table Mountain.
It’s hard to exaggerate the beauty of Cape Town: an urban setting, the green blue bay, and a mountainous backdrop abruptly looming behind every building. Like New York and San Francisco rolled into one. Of course, I’m talking about City Bowl, and the series of sea front neighborhoods, not the Cape Flats or any of the black townships. That’s another story. But for the easy-going tourist, the day-tripper, Cape Town is beautiful. I spent one day hiking Table Mountain, another on Robben Island, a third in Cape wine country, and a fourth, window-shopping in the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront area and craft stall hopping in the hip Green Market area off Long Street. I’d write more about the Emerald City (as some volunteers call it), but it was the first stop on my travels, and it’s now harder to remember.
Monday (First Day for Teachers)
It was a short day, but eventful. Around 8:00AM teachers gathered inside the school fence near the main office building. Most arrived this morning in an effort to suck the last drops of freedom from vacation. Shah, my housemate, pulled up around 7:45. I was the only one wearing a tie. Not even “Mr. The Principal”, “Mr. Dear Colleagues, To Not Waste Time” slept in his Ministry of Education house last night. Everyone was just getting back from the farm.
Around 8:10AM formal greetings commenced: basically a receiving line that each approaching teacher must navigate. A series of handshakes, double shakes, hugs, double hugs, and enthusiastic kisses ensued. I couldn’t help thinking that post-vacation greetings were a good excuse for the male teachers to grab some skin of a female coworker. Apparently Ms. Ngaruka (Trudy) felt the same way. She hugged me once, hugged me twice, and stopped dead center, eyes closed, mouth puckered. At first I thought she was making a funny face; I’m still relatively new here. When I realized the extent of my predicament, I tried to placate the love starved single mother with a kiss on the cheek. She continued to wait, pushing slightly forward, eyes screwed shut, and making a sort of light moaning sound. I glanced around and noticed everyone was waiting. I was holding up the line. I went in and wondered if this was a special occasion or our new level of affectionate greeting. Ah, year two. Interesting that I brought Hershey’s Kisses for the staff to enjoy, a belated Christmas treat (thanks Gene and Cathy Joseph). Trudy held the bag up for the staff to see.
The other big event of the morning was the distribution of mail. Although its only bills and advertisements from furniture stores, because it seldom comes, the teachers relish mail dispersal. Small piles are created and each pointless letter is painstakingly opened and read. Today the principle didn’t bother to compete for attention; he simply paused the meeting for an hour. I didn’t mind. The only item I received was an envelope from the former volunteer in Post 10. She’s a teacher in the U.S. and our schools have started a penpal program. She sent over seventy letters with photos to kick off the program. I was enthralled. Well-written letters and PHOTOS. My kids will go nuts. This may prove to be the most rewarding educational activity of the entire two years. Thank you Northwood Junior High in Highland Park Illinois.
Momentary Pause in whatever structure this might have had
A large man in an extremely large lorry just pulled up - one of those old Mercedes air craft carriers with the high metal railings, chuck full of children. He had a jolly face and thick arms that navigated the round, flat steering wheel to a stop. “I came to give you the money,” he said. The patriarch of a truck full of progeny, coming to school like the Clampets. In reality, they are not only his sons and daughters but brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, cousins and second cousins. He brought them to register. For school. And here they all are. Except today isn’t registration; it starts tomorrow. So what did the flexible staff at Goeie Hoop Primary School do? We sent him away. Ivonne and Lothe, the clan’s representative in last year’s grade 7, were present. I gave them their old workbooks and congratulated them on earning Cs in my class, a grade well above average. Hopefully that lorry brings the others back tomorrow. More likely, he’ll try again next week.
Back to today’s relevant? events
What was interesting, or not interesting, or what I had forgotten at least about Hereros is their penchant for parceling. My theory? Years of hostel schooling where nothing is really yours and everything is everyone’s creates a very different view of earned personal property than we have in the US. These kids have no ownership over food. They eat what is offered when it’s offered. Sure some pocket change exists after a home weekend, but the truth is even with pocket change there’s not much out here. Fatcakes, chips, fudge (sugar milk boiled down to the leftover stuff). And that money is spent after a week at school. These kids have enough, but barely. Having something EXTRA is such a luxury. If one lucky soul has the good fortune of happening upon something sweet, a snack, something above and behind the tedious hostel menu, he does the opposite of what you’d expect. He doesn’t hide and devour the treasure himself – not usually. He shares it with as many people as he sees. Scraping crumbs from cookies and licking the flavoring off chip bags. And he’ll expect the same when you have.
This behavior, I think, is maintained in adults. They joke, “In Africa, we share” as they take a drink of your soda or a portion or your plate. No one has anything and everyone has something. Most cupboards are bare, but everyone is eating. A taste here, a spoon there, and you’ll get by. As people get older, and come into some actual money, they stock food, but no one admits it. Ask your neighbor for some butter, and she will shake her head. But catch her sitting down to fried chicken, porridge, and vegetables, and grab your own plate because she can’t turn you down. Dinner, drinks, rides, anything. If someone catches you having, be ready to share until it’s gone. And feel free, when your rations are low, to impose on others. Once, when Shah was away at his farm, and I ran out of food, I spent three days taking meals from my neighbors. I would saunter over when I could see or smell food cooking at their houses, and bingo. No concept of earned ownership. No “I worked hard for this and it is mine.” No American Dream. Because as soon as you have your white picket fence house, your turkey dinner, or your new stereo, so does the rest of your family, extended family, and village. Total equity and no pretense.
Let’s get back to the staff room. In the states, you might pour a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in a bowl and put that bowl in the middle of a table. People are shy at first. They eye the candy but don’t reach. They ate breakfast. They have a job. Why do they need this unnecessary sweet snack? Everyone “hmphs” but no one can stop thinking about it. Free food. Chocolate. Grab it, damn it! Finally a humorist will break the ice with a morsel of honesty sugar-coated in a dollop of self-depreciation. He’ll say, “Well, aren’t we polite” and snatch the first bite. The field is open and people casually follow his example. They reach, some several times. A mental score is kept. Some never reach and pride themselves on surviving the entire meeting without a taste, savoring the taste of moral superiority instead. And the last Hershey’s Kiss? In America, we leave that in the bowl. We’re not animals. A pitiful reward for some overworked secretary.
In Namibia, the pretense is removed in favor of what might seem like an immature ritual. In Africa, we share. Maybe I had forgotten, or more likely I just wanted to see it again. I dumped small piles of Kisses from the bag onto each staffroom table. I watched as they instinctively, without hesitation or embarrassment, divided the candy equally, counting out piece by piece. Each teacher, now with his horde, is free to devour them instantly or sub-parcel his portion with family and friends. At birthday parties or other catered events people bring Tupperware. It is MY portion and if I use it to feed my kids, what you gonna say? Food allotted. From the hostel matron slopping an impressively exact amount of porridge on a child’s plate, to a precisely divided wedding feast, to a meeting of the local traditional chiefs, there are always equal parcels for all. I’ve mentioned my theory explaining this behavior. Right or wrong, it’s a fixture at any Herero (Namibian?) event where food is available.
That’s why, at a campsite in Botswana, when we inadvertently became guests at wedding reception for a couple we did not know, I was surprised to find an open bar and an open meat stall. In Botswana, things might be different, but it is more likely that this event was catered by the richest family in the town of Ghanzi. In either case, they didn’t mind ten extra tourists as guests eating, drinking, and dancing. It was Christmas Eve.
It’s important to note that after my Cape Town adventure, I joined an organized safari. There are several kinds of safaris, most of which include an embarrassingly large overland vehicle, a gaggle of khaki clad Germans, and an underpaid black man with an intimidating knowledge of roads, history, and flora and fauna. Some include hotel accommodations, five star meals, and elephant rides. Fortunately, some are more low key. They include camping, shared cooking responsibilities, and canoe trips through the Okavango Delta. A trip like this might be difficult to duplicate on your own. It’s not easy to drive into remote locations (like the Okavango Delta) and locate a trustworthy river guide. This is important when hippos and crocodiles pose a decent threat to small, dugout canoes. Needless to say, I’m justifying my participation on such a big, overland safari with a sticker price to match (Merry Christmas Mom and Dad). Also, needless to say, I pulled my hat down low and slouched in my seat as the truck stopped for petrol in my shopping town, Gobabis. We were on the Trans Kalahari Highway, headed for Botswana, and I was embarrassed.
Several hours later we arrived at a dustbowl campsite with nothing interesting to see. This was Ghanzi, our first Botswanan campsite on the road to the delta. It was Christmas Eve and about two minutes after we began to set up camp, we got our first Christmas surprise. A tall black man with a tall white chef’s hat pulled up in a truck and approached our expanding campsite. He was from the related lodge and on orders to inform us that a large wedding reception would be starting that evening. “Warn” would have been a better verb. He said it would conclude no time soon. Maybe we didn’t read into it, but after driving eight hours and setting up camp in a remote location, you don’t expect a tall chef to have any credibility on sleeping arrangements. Initially, I assumed he wanted our tents farther away from the stone shelter so we wouldn’t disrupt the reception. I now realize he had our interests in mind. As the DJ set up his equipment around 10:00PM, sound-checking a techno beat, I realized it would be a long night.
We had just finished after-dinner tea when our circle of canvas camp chairs began to feel surrounded. Cars and partygoers were all around, and our small group of tourists were holding huddle, refusing to be broken by the growing scene. I felt awkward. We weren’t imposing; that would have been impossible. But we were keeping to ourselves, like a stubborn rugby scrum. We needed to join the party or go to bed (if that was possible, bass, bass, bass). A talkative Aussie decided to bridge the gap and approached a group of women. She returned shortly with little to report. Finally we tried as a group and moved toward the dance floor. One man welcomed us warmly. “In Botswana, we are peaceful people. You are welcome!” he said. Drunken teenagers in the men’s bathroom and a jump-suited groom agreed. I’ve danced with women before. And I’ve danced with women holding beers before. But that night was the first time I had danced with a woman holding a beer in one hand and a piece of juice-dripping meat in the other. Given that their party was utterly crashed by a group of tourists, the welcome was warm and genuine, despite some questionable dance lessons (it’s possible they were having as much fun as we were).
At 3:00AM I moved toward my tent. At 4:00AM I climbed in. I started to see the relevance of the chef’s warning more fully. The noise was the least of our problems. Our tents, scattered around the campsite under trees, were now positioned amidst about a hundred vehicles. Some were makeshift hotel rooms. Some were other, private parties with their own music. Some were unsuccessfully trying to exit the scene, erratically turning and spinning out in the deep sand. A green, not- reflective-in-the-least-bit canvas tent suddenly seemed like a horrible place to bed down. At 4:15AM I sat bolt upright and shined my headlamp into the oncoming headlights of a revving, exiting vehicle. At 4:17AM I sat upright again waving my light frantically. At 4:25AM. 4:38AM. 4:58AM. I believe the last car (and tow-truck) left around 5:00AM. We were up at 6:00 and on the road by 7:00. Not only was Christmas Eve memorable, but that morning, some careless wedding guest gave me the present of forgotten, oversized sunglasses. I needed them to shade my bloodshot eyes.
Tuesday (Registration, Day 2)
And that’s the first day of Registration. Again, I have time to write because real school won’t start for another week. Classes should start to tomorrow – in Windhoek and at other town schools they will. But we are in the bush. When I asked several teachers, they responded, “Maybe next week.” The power and water have been shut off for a couple of days now. It’s not the absence of them that hurts; it’s the lack of preparation. Our fridge was already unplugged (and empty) due to the long holiday, and I hadn’t been stockpiling water. It’s lucky Shah’s father keeps his own private drums or we’d be out of luck.
Things to do without power and water: Eat semi-rotten meat (just cook it for three hours over the reserve gas burner). Brush teeth in the yard. Bathroom breaks in the bush. Bathe with water held in a jerry-can that previously held petrol. Close eyes tightly. Lament dead battery on phone, laptop, shaver, etc. Read. Sit in my classroom, and write receipts for the $N120 school fee wearing a shirt and tie in ninety-five degree heat.
Gussied-up Herero Memes and cane-carrying, gentlemanly Tates roll into the village on piled up jalopies in a cloud of dust. A baby in each arm, or strapped to their backs, they wade into my classroom weighted down by petticoats and the troop of children grabbing from behind. The fees are examined and explained and protested – as if “I trekked all the way in to Post 10, I’m damn well gonna make a day of it and have a decent conversation” – before they eventually reach into their huge chest and pull out a proud wad of cash. Beads of sweat accumulate, but stick, not ready to drop. Like broiled skin. Children hide sheepishly behind thick arms and a bat leftover from the night’s hunt struggles to find a window or door. I follow its progress and sympathize.
The current conditions in Post 10 make camping in the Okavango Delta seem like the Ritz. Actually camping at any of the locations I’ve visited (Etosha, Okavango Delta, Livingstone) has been a breeze. Usually tied to a larger rest camp or series of bungalows, these camp sites provide barbecue pits, electrical outlets, and ablutions facilities. Some even have a bar and pool! So, yes, we were in tents. But, no, I didn’t mind. It’s been too hot to sleep inside anyway.
Okavango Delta
Day two in Botswana brought us to the westernmost edge of the delta. We camped beside a large lake with a series of waterways passing through its edges. I imagine the Florida Everglades is similar. The following day we boated out to an island and boarded mokoros, traditional dugout canoes. Although some were made of fiberglass – and had license plates- it was a treat to have a local poler guide us through the labyrinthine waterways of the western delta. We saw many species of birds, several water antelope, and even crocodiles. Unfortunately, at this point, the only part of an elephant we saw was its poo. As we finished our tour of the more shallow and narrow waterways, we cruised back to the island where I took a turn at poling the canoe. I did not end up swimming in the crocodile infested waters, but it is harder than it looks.
Wednesday (The first day of school or Registration, Day 2)
Thirty-seven learners in Grade 7 and twenty-nine learners in Grade 6 reported for duty today. That’s a little less than half full, as far as I’m concerned. The principal claims he’s going to cap enrollment at two sections of thirty-five learners for each grade. Unprecedented? Yes. Incredible? Yes. Probable? Hmmmm.
There was no class today; we continued with registration. I gave back change to people paying school fees until about 11:00. Then I hid in the computer lab and read ESL books while I waited for Gmail to load. The upside to all this free time is the ability to think, and write, and plan activities that you wanted to do the entire preceding year, like a school-wide movie pass system for learners behaving well, or a garden to put the agriculture classes in practical work. If I accomplish even two of the ideas I sketched out today, I’ll be elated. But I had some time to daydream too. I had time to remember the last leg of my safari: Livingstone, Zambia, one of the two cities with access to Victoria Falls (the one NOT in a country that the U.S. economically sanctions and the CIA says not to visit – Zimbabwe).
Livingstone
It’s the roads in Zambia that surprise you. The border crossing from Botswana into Zambia – at this particular location a ferry across the Chobe River- was something different than I experienced in South Africa, Botswana, or Namibia: more people waiting, more smuggled goods, more live animals, more chaos in general. We were told to allow anywhere from thirty minutes to five hours to make it across, depending the line and customs complications. The great thing about an organized tour, however, is visas. They take care of everything.
Driving into Livingstone, you could immediately see a difference from Namibia. It was “the real Africa,” as some volunteers say when they return from parts of southern Africa not so well developed as Namibia. After Lusaka, Livingstone is probably the most important city in the country. It’s the tourism capital. But it looks…old. Littered, potholed streets, a downtown gone to seed, and none of the other civic amenities you might see in Windhoek or Swakopmund. The short drive from downtown to the falls park was terrible; our cab driver zigged and zagged with memorized experience. Given that this is the only road some visitors to Zambia see, I found it incredible that it was not better maintained. While Namibia is poor, it is not poverty-stricken. Zambia seemed to be different.
We spent our first day visiting the falls. At 1.7km wide (Niagra is 1km) and 108m high (Niagra is 58), it was a sight. I kept imagining David Livingstone finding this anomaly – not because I prefer his discovery to that of the natives, but because I imagine his reaction to be more profound. I imagine him hearing it first from some distance away in the lush forest. What could be making such a noise? When natives finally ferried him to an island above the falls he must have been stunned. We have so many points of reference for big, amazing miracles of nature: books, movies, pictures, magazines. Imagine having none of that and stumbling onto something like Victoria Falls (Mosi-oa Tunya to natives, ‘the smoke that thunders’). Anyway, that’s what I thought when I first encountered the falls, the spray hitting me erratically from all sides (I also thought about a sign that read “No washing clothes.” Only in Africa).
When you enter the park it’s a short walk to views of the falls. The Zambezi riverbed above ruptures suddenly and drops 108m to the new riverbed below, creating a huge gorge. You can walk on the upper part, viewing the falls from the right and above. Or you can stand directly across from the many cataracts, facing them head on at alarming proximity. As the water tumbles down it hits the opposing wall of rock – the wall you’re standing on- and spray shoots upward soaking you in minutes. That’s why there’s a clear rainbow daily and a lunar rainbow on nights with full moons. A footbridge and several walkways take you past the Eastern Cataracts to Knife Edge, the last viewing point on the Zambian side. Here you look across the Zambezi into Zimbabwe and, actually, the main flow area of the falls. Turn south, behind you, and follow the river under the Victoria Falls Bridge, connecting the two countries by road.
After this day, the organized tour officially ended. I spent four more days in Livingstone, which also bills itself as the adrenaline capital of southern Africa. By now, I was broke. Although the white water rafting is reputed to be some the best in the world (especially on the Lower Zambezi near Mana Pools National Park, next time), I had to pass. I passed on the elephant rides, abseiling, canoeing and kayaking, glider flights, helicopter rides, and river boarding. When, however, my manhood was challenged by a straight-laced German software engineer (and he offered to foot the bill, which I will pay back sometime), I did not pass on bungee jumping from the aforementioned Victoria Falls Bridge. At 111m, Lonely Planet says it’s the second highest jump in the world. With views of the gorge, falls, and river below, I’d say it’s the most picturesque. An interesting side note: after I finished my jump and was hoisted to the lower part of the bridge, I watched the guy after me jump before he was securely clipped in by the technician next to me. WHAT!?!?! I guess they do this a lot. Anyway, scariest thing I’ve ever done, but awesome. And it’s like I always say: if your friend jumps off a bridge, you’re morally obligated to do so too.
Although my funds were now depleted – and I was officially freeloading off of friends - New Years Eve, Livingstone-style was a gas. We danced at the hottest club in Livingstone to the musical stylings of Bonnie and the Jets (dubbed by me that night, they didn’t have a name). Bonnie was on drums and wanted me to buy him beer, which I did. How often can you hear classic American 50s and 60s pop by an aged Zambian cover band? Just kitschy enough to be cool, especially when they did Elvis and the lead singer did this eyes-closed, locomotive pumping action with his bent arms. Amazing.
Thursday and Friday
The fear is back. Real classes on Monday and, this year, I have an idea what I’ll do. But the fear is back. I’m not sure what I’m teaching or how often I’m teaching it – we’ll draw up the timetable sometime, somehow – but I keep mentioning co-teaching Grade 6 as a way of working more closely with another teacher. Library plans, computer workshops, school tours, and we’re off…
posted by Andrew Leahy at 12:15 AM
0 comments
Friday, November 17, 2006
School Uniform
I secretly love the learner wearing soccer boots. Powder blue government issued button-up shirt. Grey trousers. Polish black cleats. In a lineup, he almost goes unnoticed, the formal blackness safely camouflaged among China shop flip-flops and bare feet. Sometimes, during morning assembly, I think of the day this decision was made. A relatively conscientious mother and a relatively conscientious learner enter Pep store to buy the uniform. Money is tight. Mother examines school apparel, wondering why uniforms are more expensive then last time she trekked into Gobabis. The boy's eyes wander. Knock-off Chuck Taylor's he can't afford. Knock-off Birkenstocks he doesn't want. And what? What's this? Total 90s on sale for the same price as the dress shoes my mother is holding. And they're black! How he convinced her, I will never know. But at assembly, he stands neatly in his class line, his hands tucked neatly into his grey trouser pockets. His shoulders roll forward to attract less attention; Mr. Ndjoze moves up and down rows - stick in hand- looking to punish. The boy eyes the dirt field behind the classrooms, behind me. He looks down at his new, his only pair of shoes. He looks up at me and smiles. Yes, Mr. Lakey, this is just my day job.
posted by Andrew Leahy at 8:34 AM
17 comments
Padkos
The longest walk in the world is the Sunday, half-mile stretch from the Gobabis Shoprite to the Epukiro hitchhike point. Gobabis isn't much of a place - one strip of service stations and fast food take-aways on the way to Windhoek or Botswana - and on Sundays, in particular, it's desolate. My backpack is loaded with eighty pounds of maize meal, rice, and canned food. The sun beats down, my t-shirt sweat-soaked at 10 o'clock in the morning.
I've tried earlier. I've shopped Saturday and reached the Shell station Sunday at 7:30AM, vigilant in my attempt to successfully find a ride back to Post 10. But that never works. On those days, I wait for ten hours, ask every car that stops for gas, and walk back to the Gobabis volunteer's house to try again on Monday. On the days I expect nothing - I stroll to the store around 9:00AM, confident I'll still have a full day of waiting ahead - a teacher from a nearby school pulls over and offers me an immediate ride. I'm an elated tornado. I shop for three weeks in ten minutes, toss my backpack in the truck, climb in, and pull my hat down for an uncomfortable two hours.
Most of the time, there's no such luck. The Sunday hike is a bummer regardless. I've spent the weekend in town with friends, eating pizza or Chinese or homemade Mexican; watching DVD episodes of Friends or The Office or Lost; talking about school, or anything but school, or our general aggravations about site. Using sarcasm.I walk away from all of this, knowing my trip home will not be brief. Not pulling off a band aid; a blink and I'm home. No, it will be a long, slow day, plenty of time to think about the screaming kids, my empty fridge, and unplanned lessons.
I lean my overloaded bag against a wall and alert all the employees of my presence and destination. They know me now. Or they remember after four hours. "Oh, it's that otjilumbo that waits all day rather than taking the Monday transport." I approach every truck that looks overloaded and beat-up enough to make its way to Epukiro. I check license plats. "W" for Windhoek and that's where they're headed. Townies on their way back from weekend at the farm. They drive canopy covered Toyotas, wear their Sunday finest, their children in Converse. They drink Coke. This is not my ride. I look for the broken down bakkie. I look for the rusted-out Isuzu with 50 KG bags of maize meal and five Herero women already sitting on top of each other, crammed in the back, Buddha-like in their posture and patience. Their barefoot kids are fighting over that cheap, sugary juice.
Sometimes they're already so overloaded, they wave me away. Sometimes, if I tell them I'm a teacher, they give me the front seat, moving a cane-carrying man three times my age to the back. Before, I felt guilty about this treatment. Now, if it's a ride, I'll take anything I can get.
Reading a book is no good. No one else is doing it, it draws attention, and makes it seem like you're not looking for a ride. Listening to music is equally alienating (and I lost my iPOD months ago). Sitting down seems like concession and talking with the women next to you is exhausted after "How are you? I'm fine, thank you." There is NOTHING to do but stand and wait. And then, there's padkos.
The word is Afrikaans. "Fast food" or "to go" is the nearest English translation, but neither captures the spirit of padkos. In a culture of difficult transport; in a culture where ancient women and school children wait roadside for a hike hours at a time; in a culture where getting grom A to B takes several stages, attempts, and days; padkos is Popeye's spinach. It is the food you take to travel. "Fast food" cheapens it, because padkos can be friend chicken and potatoes. "To go" misses the mark, because when you order "to go," you usually go somewhere to eat: home, work, the park. Padkos is for the in-between. Padkos is for the back of a taxi doing 160KM an hour on the tar road to Windhoek. It's for the back of a bakkie doing 80 on the bumpy bush road. It's for the two to ten hour wait by whatever road, service station, or hike point you are currently stranded. Chips and soda. Boerwors (farmer's sausage) and porridge. Fatcakes (donuts) and sour milk. Maybe "travel snacks" captures it best. But the formality of the meal surpasses any mere snack. Padkos can be an entire plate of home-cooked food, carefully packaged for transit. No wonder this country is littered with service stations, every one equipped with a take-away that serves home-cooked, road-ready meals (and every one offering a fine selection of chutney products, weird).
Given my transport troubles, it's amazing I didn't discover padkos earlier. Maybe nervousness (and guilt) prevented me from buying food and eating it publicly during my first year in Namibia. But make no mistake now; if the ride offers, I'm taking taht old man's seat. And I'm munching on a bag of vinegar-soaked chips as I do.
I've tried earlier. I've shopped Saturday and reached the Shell station Sunday at 7:30AM, vigilant in my attempt to successfully find a ride back to Post 10. But that never works. On those days, I wait for ten hours, ask every car that stops for gas, and walk back to the Gobabis volunteer's house to try again on Monday. On the days I expect nothing - I stroll to the store around 9:00AM, confident I'll still have a full day of waiting ahead - a teacher from a nearby school pulls over and offers me an immediate ride. I'm an elated tornado. I shop for three weeks in ten minutes, toss my backpack in the truck, climb in, and pull my hat down for an uncomfortable two hours.
Most of the time, there's no such luck. The Sunday hike is a bummer regardless. I've spent the weekend in town with friends, eating pizza or Chinese or homemade Mexican; watching DVD episodes of Friends or The Office or Lost; talking about school, or anything but school, or our general aggravations about site. Using sarcasm.I walk away from all of this, knowing my trip home will not be brief. Not pulling off a band aid; a blink and I'm home. No, it will be a long, slow day, plenty of time to think about the screaming kids, my empty fridge, and unplanned lessons.
I lean my overloaded bag against a wall and alert all the employees of my presence and destination. They know me now. Or they remember after four hours. "Oh, it's that otjilumbo that waits all day rather than taking the Monday transport." I approach every truck that looks overloaded and beat-up enough to make its way to Epukiro. I check license plats. "W" for Windhoek and that's where they're headed. Townies on their way back from weekend at the farm. They drive canopy covered Toyotas, wear their Sunday finest, their children in Converse. They drink Coke. This is not my ride. I look for the broken down bakkie. I look for the rusted-out Isuzu with 50 KG bags of maize meal and five Herero women already sitting on top of each other, crammed in the back, Buddha-like in their posture and patience. Their barefoot kids are fighting over that cheap, sugary juice.
Sometimes they're already so overloaded, they wave me away. Sometimes, if I tell them I'm a teacher, they give me the front seat, moving a cane-carrying man three times my age to the back. Before, I felt guilty about this treatment. Now, if it's a ride, I'll take anything I can get.
Reading a book is no good. No one else is doing it, it draws attention, and makes it seem like you're not looking for a ride. Listening to music is equally alienating (and I lost my iPOD months ago). Sitting down seems like concession and talking with the women next to you is exhausted after "How are you? I'm fine, thank you." There is NOTHING to do but stand and wait. And then, there's padkos.
The word is Afrikaans. "Fast food" or "to go" is the nearest English translation, but neither captures the spirit of padkos. In a culture of difficult transport; in a culture where ancient women and school children wait roadside for a hike hours at a time; in a culture where getting grom A to B takes several stages, attempts, and days; padkos is Popeye's spinach. It is the food you take to travel. "Fast food" cheapens it, because padkos can be friend chicken and potatoes. "To go" misses the mark, because when you order "to go," you usually go somewhere to eat: home, work, the park. Padkos is for the in-between. Padkos is for the back of a taxi doing 160KM an hour on the tar road to Windhoek. It's for the back of a bakkie doing 80 on the bumpy bush road. It's for the two to ten hour wait by whatever road, service station, or hike point you are currently stranded. Chips and soda. Boerwors (farmer's sausage) and porridge. Fatcakes (donuts) and sour milk. Maybe "travel snacks" captures it best. But the formality of the meal surpasses any mere snack. Padkos can be an entire plate of home-cooked food, carefully packaged for transit. No wonder this country is littered with service stations, every one equipped with a take-away that serves home-cooked, road-ready meals (and every one offering a fine selection of chutney products, weird).
Given my transport troubles, it's amazing I didn't discover padkos earlier. Maybe nervousness (and guilt) prevented me from buying food and eating it publicly during my first year in Namibia. But make no mistake now; if the ride offers, I'm taking taht old man's seat. And I'm munching on a bag of vinegar-soaked chips as I do.
posted by Andrew Leahy at 7:49 AM
0 comments
Monday, October 23, 2006
Lucky Star Pilchards Marathon
4 hours, 54 minutes, and some spare change
Yeah, I know, I didn't qualify for Boston. No excuses, marathons are just hard. But next year, I'm gonna dominate. And not get passed by 50-year-old Afrikaner women in spandex and visors.
Yeah, I know, I didn't qualify for Boston. No excuses, marathons are just hard. But next year, I'm gonna dominate. And not get passed by 50-year-old Afrikaner women in spandex and visors.
posted by Andrew Leahy at 1:37 AM
3 comments
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Sossusvlei
The beginnings of the Sand Dune Sea. A lone road, followed by a long hike, and you come to Sossusvlei itself, a desert oasis. The last remnants of water pool beneath a circle of dunes, the river long since dried up. I'd post a picture of that too, but this one took about 30 minutes. Maybe next week.
posted by Andrew Leahy at 8:21 AM
1 comments
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