After an interesting journey (see note below), the Northern contingent of WorldTeach volunteers arrived in Ondangwa, one of Namibia's relatively sizeable towns. A short briefing about our placements from a regional director of the Ministry of Education followed, and as our group was examining a map of our sites, my principal, Tate Shapaka, entered the building. I tried to contain my excitement, and my efforts to remain composed resulted in a disappointingly awkward introduction. Oh well. I tossed my bags into the bed of Shapaka's bakkie (pickup truck), hopped in the front seat, and we headed off. We first stopped for KFC (the only American fast food chain I have encountered in Namibia, and it just so happens to be considered somewhat of a luxury) and for gas. While we were filling up a youngster hawking presumably bootleg cds approached my passenger side window. I assertively but uncomfortably declined his offer. In stark contrast, when Shapaka caught sight of the youth he gestured for the kid to scram, put his truck into gear, and said, "No! Go to school!" I immediately knew that I was a fan of my principal.
The ride to Oshikunde School was long and largely on rough dirt roads. The trip was made even more intriuging by my conversation with my new boss, during which I discovered I should expect to often hear the word "oshilumbo", which means white person, and that my living arrangements included neither power nor running water. I would eventually learn from my Head of Department at school that this meant we were "living the African way", something which I found oddly invigorating. All the same, I had absolutely no idea how I was going to get by.
As we pulled into the school grounds our vehicle was greeted by large groups of learners peering in, following our route, smiling, and waving. I was here, and I was flippin' pumped. Caught up in the moment I requested that my principal introduce me to as many of my colleagues as possible despite the quickly approaching darkness. I enthusiastically met many of my fellow staff members, and as the sun set and I entered my new home, I realized that my flashlight was buried deep within one of my two large bags. No worries, I thought, I'll use my cell phone for light as I unpack until I find my flashlight. Unfortunately my cell phone died not two minutes after I locked my front door behind me. I was forced to employ various electronic devices (ipod, nook ereader) for any amount of light until I at long last yanked my flashlight from under a pile of underwear. Success! By my newly found light source I set my watch alarm an hour before I would need to wake up just in case I had unknowlingly changed time zones on my day's journey, and went to sleep.
*A note concerning the approximately seven hour drive from Windhoek to Ondangwa:
A cd with perhaps five tracks of traditional African music progresses through the phases of being beautiful, to charming, to quaint, to borderline irritating, right before it is accepted as a necessity when it is learned that it's being played at maximum volume so that your driver manages to stay awake behind the wheel.
January 31, 2010
January 25, 2010
A Little Catch-Up
The past few weeks were eventful, but little occurred that compelled me to start writing. Since a fair number of small things have accumulated, I have decided it is time for an update.
Three weeks ago the WorldTeach volunteers travelled North to Tsumeb for a teaching practice session. The organization posted flyers and broadcasted via the radio that any learners who would like to attend could visit a week-long session of morning lessons smack in the middle of their last week of holiday prior to the new school year. Each of our seven WorldTeach classrooms had about five to ten learners, which when I considered how many American children would willingly start their school year one week early, struck me as a rather impressive turnout. During that week, back at the hostel small teams of volunteers took turns cooking dinner for the rest of the group, and despite always knowing it in theory, the experience finally drove home to me in practice that I am utterly worthless in a kitchen. Thankfully, I also learned that I'm not so bad in front of a group of school-children, and with the confidence I gained I found myself joining the kids in a game of uma (a kind of memory jump-rope game) and felt assured of my ability before departing for my year-long site in Oshikunde.
For some diversion after our week of hard work, our group spent a morning touring the wilderness of Etosha National Park. A noteworthy but irrefutably bland thing we observed was the Etosha Salt Pan. It is an enormous flat expanse of earth moist with salt water, and it is about as exciting as it sounds. I mention it only because it is visible from space, a statement which unfailingly causes me to geek out for at least a moment. With that said, we also witnessed some extraordinary wildlife. Impalas, dik-diks (I'm not sure if that is spelled correctly, but I'm sticking with it), zebras, elephants, a hyena (eating a giraffe carcass!!), live giraffes, lots of birds, oryx, kudus, wildebeests (and danger), a chameleon, a jackal, a monitor lizard, and lion paw tracks if memory serves me right. I have a lot of pictures of this that I am trying my best to post. In the meantime I will just mention that every proportion of a giraffe's body is downright incorrect.
Our last week of orientation consisted of preparatory shopping, celebratory dinners, a birthday party, local language lessons, a fair amount of Band of Brothers, and a lot of Pictionary. After packing everything up Sunday, we all went to sleep for the last time at our orientation hostel in Windhoek with an alarm to be ready for our pickup at 8 the next morning. Each of us, going to different locations, had a long day of traveling ahead.
Three weeks ago the WorldTeach volunteers travelled North to Tsumeb for a teaching practice session. The organization posted flyers and broadcasted via the radio that any learners who would like to attend could visit a week-long session of morning lessons smack in the middle of their last week of holiday prior to the new school year. Each of our seven WorldTeach classrooms had about five to ten learners, which when I considered how many American children would willingly start their school year one week early, struck me as a rather impressive turnout. During that week, back at the hostel small teams of volunteers took turns cooking dinner for the rest of the group, and despite always knowing it in theory, the experience finally drove home to me in practice that I am utterly worthless in a kitchen. Thankfully, I also learned that I'm not so bad in front of a group of school-children, and with the confidence I gained I found myself joining the kids in a game of uma (a kind of memory jump-rope game) and felt assured of my ability before departing for my year-long site in Oshikunde.
For some diversion after our week of hard work, our group spent a morning touring the wilderness of Etosha National Park. A noteworthy but irrefutably bland thing we observed was the Etosha Salt Pan. It is an enormous flat expanse of earth moist with salt water, and it is about as exciting as it sounds. I mention it only because it is visible from space, a statement which unfailingly causes me to geek out for at least a moment. With that said, we also witnessed some extraordinary wildlife. Impalas, dik-diks (I'm not sure if that is spelled correctly, but I'm sticking with it), zebras, elephants, a hyena (eating a giraffe carcass!!), live giraffes, lots of birds, oryx, kudus, wildebeests (and danger), a chameleon, a jackal, a monitor lizard, and lion paw tracks if memory serves me right. I have a lot of pictures of this that I am trying my best to post. In the meantime I will just mention that every proportion of a giraffe's body is downright incorrect.
Our last week of orientation consisted of preparatory shopping, celebratory dinners, a birthday party, local language lessons, a fair amount of Band of Brothers, and a lot of Pictionary. After packing everything up Sunday, we all went to sleep for the last time at our orientation hostel in Windhoek with an alarm to be ready for our pickup at 8 the next morning. Each of us, going to different locations, had a long day of traveling ahead.
January 13, 2010
An Attempted Transaction
A Pretentious Vignette of a Namibian Afternoon:
We are heading south from Tsumeb back into Windhoek. Approximately 90 minutes into our trip I am shaken from a half slumber by an abrupt application of our bus brakes. The car behind us quickly swerves to the right and slingshots around the bus, quickly overtaking us. This reactionary maneuver is safe because there are no vehicles approaching in the opposite direction. A quick swivel of my head reveals that we are pulling into one of the periodic rest areas that abut the two-lane, tar road. We are pulling into a stop which, like all the others that appear every 10 kilometers or so, consists of a dirt semicircle adjacent to the main road, a fairly large tree, a picnic table protected by the tree, and a trash can. Is our driver stopping for a brief cigarette break? He did so on our northward journey to Tsumeb. Does our driver need to urinate? We have seen him do that too. Are we all getting an opportunity to stretch and talk? Unlikely.
I momentarily catch the sight of a young boy, perhaps fourteen years old, standing on the roadside holding two brilliantly white mushrooms, one in each hand. They are enormous. The stalks might be 4 inches long, and their heads are only marginally smaller than the size of band cymbals. This boy must somehow be the purpose of our stop.
We casually loop back around the lone tree. Two dogs, each wearing leashes which are not attached to anything at all, lie peacefully in the shade. They are motionless except for their panting and the slow turn of their heads as they follow our bus with their tired gaze. The young boy, carrying the mushrooms and wearing only green denim pants that reach his shins, wades through the tall grass between the road and our dirt turn-off. Our driver opens his door and hops to the ground. He walks toward the boy and stops at the edge of the high grass. The back of his immaculately white hat says "Reebok". The back of his light blue polo shirt reads "National Council of Higher Education."
A conversation ensues. Several moments later, the young boy and our driver part. The boy returns to the roadside with the mushrooms, and our driver turns back to our bus. The negotiated price must have been too high.
Twenty minutes drive further down the road, beyond the fencing that separates the denser bush and the occasional group of animals from the lesser foliage next to the road, I momentarily see a dark, muscular, middle-aged man with deep blue jean pants snap a thin branch from a tree and toss it into a thigh-level pile by his side.
We are heading south from Tsumeb back into Windhoek. Approximately 90 minutes into our trip I am shaken from a half slumber by an abrupt application of our bus brakes. The car behind us quickly swerves to the right and slingshots around the bus, quickly overtaking us. This reactionary maneuver is safe because there are no vehicles approaching in the opposite direction. A quick swivel of my head reveals that we are pulling into one of the periodic rest areas that abut the two-lane, tar road. We are pulling into a stop which, like all the others that appear every 10 kilometers or so, consists of a dirt semicircle adjacent to the main road, a fairly large tree, a picnic table protected by the tree, and a trash can. Is our driver stopping for a brief cigarette break? He did so on our northward journey to Tsumeb. Does our driver need to urinate? We have seen him do that too. Are we all getting an opportunity to stretch and talk? Unlikely.
I momentarily catch the sight of a young boy, perhaps fourteen years old, standing on the roadside holding two brilliantly white mushrooms, one in each hand. They are enormous. The stalks might be 4 inches long, and their heads are only marginally smaller than the size of band cymbals. This boy must somehow be the purpose of our stop.
We casually loop back around the lone tree. Two dogs, each wearing leashes which are not attached to anything at all, lie peacefully in the shade. They are motionless except for their panting and the slow turn of their heads as they follow our bus with their tired gaze. The young boy, carrying the mushrooms and wearing only green denim pants that reach his shins, wades through the tall grass between the road and our dirt turn-off. Our driver opens his door and hops to the ground. He walks toward the boy and stops at the edge of the high grass. The back of his immaculately white hat says "Reebok". The back of his light blue polo shirt reads "National Council of Higher Education."
A conversation ensues. Several moments later, the young boy and our driver part. The boy returns to the roadside with the mushrooms, and our driver turns back to our bus. The negotiated price must have been too high.
Twenty minutes drive further down the road, beyond the fencing that separates the denser bush and the occasional group of animals from the lesser foliage next to the road, I momentarily see a dark, muscular, middle-aged man with deep blue jean pants snap a thin branch from a tree and toss it into a thigh-level pile by his side.
January 11, 2010
A Night Among the Stars
The following is the story of one of the more preposterous nights of my life.
As part of the WorldTeach orientation, the volunteers are split into small groups and assigned a Namibian host to stay with for a period of 24 hours, which includes a Saturday night. My group, myself and three other volunteers, was picked up early on a Saturday evening by Sula, a short and energetic man from Kenya. He is the father of the cutest 6 year old girl in Namibia, a well traveled man, having lived in several places in Africa and studied in Europe before deciding to make Namibia home, and he was a fantastic host. He also happens to be the manager of one of Africa's most successful pop music acts, Gal Level.
We all crammed into Sula's sedan, and he quickly offered to play us some not-yet-released Gal Level material. I didn't quite appreciate the significance of this opportunity and was actually rather worried that I wouldn't like what I was about to hear. I am a horrible liar, and attempting to explain to your enthusiastic host of five minutes that the pure gold he has just dropped in your ear is not exactly your thing is a poor way to begin a relationship. Thankfully, the music we heard, especially one track in particular, was excellent, and I could genuinely tell Sula and Frida (one half of Gal Level who was also in the car) that I really enjoyed it.
After a quick driving tour of Windhoek, during which Sula showed us (and commented critically upon) Namibia's majestic and humongous state house, we arrived at the Ogopy Butterfly music label's headquarters. This is a house where the label's producer and video editor live, and it is also home to the label's television and audio studios. Sula wanted Frida to rework a verse of a song still in production and invited us into the studio to witness it. Now, this song, as Sula proudly explained, is the story of a passionate inter-racial romance entitled "White Boy" and is one of the first songs of its kind in the region. Sula and Victor, the label's producer who I later befriended, agreed that Frida's earlier recording lacked a satisfactory level of emotion. Frida claimed she was struggling to connect with the material because it is the first song she has had to perform that she has not written personally, so Sula thought the logical solution was that I, being a white boy, be her inspiration.
"Sing to him!" he said, "Look at him and sing!" Frida was not pleased. Since I was a little uncomfortable too I quietly tried to deflect the attention from myself. I can't remember what I said, but if I managed any words at all they were probably stupid.
Shortly thereafter, preparations for a large braai started, Sula's brother Faizel MC arrived with a fairly large amount of alcohol, and the night began in earnest. After a few hours of carousing and general merriment, our small WorldTeach group was invited to accompany the Ogopy Butterfly contingent out for a night on the town. I was dressed in khaki shorts and a Rajon Rondo t-shirt, and fewer things typically excite me less than the prospect of a night of clubbing, but in those circumstances the only appropriate response I could think of was "Why not?"
Not long after arriving at Cheers, I proceeded to act a damn FOOL on the dance floor with Frida, her hilarious friend Kelly, and anyone else who cared to join. My dance-move repetoire was limited and absolutely ridiculous, but by all signs was quite well received. My dance fury culminated in me simply throwing my hands above my head and jumping straight up and down until I didn't have the breath to continue. Faizel generously drove the Americans (who are not party people) home at the lame, early hour of 3am. On the way back I contemplated the fact that I will never again have a night like that in my life, and I happily realized that I made the most of it.
As part of the WorldTeach orientation, the volunteers are split into small groups and assigned a Namibian host to stay with for a period of 24 hours, which includes a Saturday night. My group, myself and three other volunteers, was picked up early on a Saturday evening by Sula, a short and energetic man from Kenya. He is the father of the cutest 6 year old girl in Namibia, a well traveled man, having lived in several places in Africa and studied in Europe before deciding to make Namibia home, and he was a fantastic host. He also happens to be the manager of one of Africa's most successful pop music acts, Gal Level.
We all crammed into Sula's sedan, and he quickly offered to play us some not-yet-released Gal Level material. I didn't quite appreciate the significance of this opportunity and was actually rather worried that I wouldn't like what I was about to hear. I am a horrible liar, and attempting to explain to your enthusiastic host of five minutes that the pure gold he has just dropped in your ear is not exactly your thing is a poor way to begin a relationship. Thankfully, the music we heard, especially one track in particular, was excellent, and I could genuinely tell Sula and Frida (one half of Gal Level who was also in the car) that I really enjoyed it.
After a quick driving tour of Windhoek, during which Sula showed us (and commented critically upon) Namibia's majestic and humongous state house, we arrived at the Ogopy Butterfly music label's headquarters. This is a house where the label's producer and video editor live, and it is also home to the label's television and audio studios. Sula wanted Frida to rework a verse of a song still in production and invited us into the studio to witness it. Now, this song, as Sula proudly explained, is the story of a passionate inter-racial romance entitled "White Boy" and is one of the first songs of its kind in the region. Sula and Victor, the label's producer who I later befriended, agreed that Frida's earlier recording lacked a satisfactory level of emotion. Frida claimed she was struggling to connect with the material because it is the first song she has had to perform that she has not written personally, so Sula thought the logical solution was that I, being a white boy, be her inspiration.
"Sing to him!" he said, "Look at him and sing!" Frida was not pleased. Since I was a little uncomfortable too I quietly tried to deflect the attention from myself. I can't remember what I said, but if I managed any words at all they were probably stupid.
Shortly thereafter, preparations for a large braai started, Sula's brother Faizel MC arrived with a fairly large amount of alcohol, and the night began in earnest. After a few hours of carousing and general merriment, our small WorldTeach group was invited to accompany the Ogopy Butterfly contingent out for a night on the town. I was dressed in khaki shorts and a Rajon Rondo t-shirt, and fewer things typically excite me less than the prospect of a night of clubbing, but in those circumstances the only appropriate response I could think of was "Why not?"
Not long after arriving at Cheers, I proceeded to act a damn FOOL on the dance floor with Frida, her hilarious friend Kelly, and anyone else who cared to join. My dance-move repetoire was limited and absolutely ridiculous, but by all signs was quite well received. My dance fury culminated in me simply throwing my hands above my head and jumping straight up and down until I didn't have the breath to continue. Faizel generously drove the Americans (who are not party people) home at the lame, early hour of 3am. On the way back I contemplated the fact that I will never again have a night like that in my life, and I happily realized that I made the most of it.
January 2, 2010
To Eat Or Not To Eat
My vegetarianism went to the wayside almost immediately. The backslide toward eating flesh began in New York with a cat-food-sized tin of chicken salad and snowballed into using my incisors to shred off a chunk of a beef slab being passed around on a a fork at our New Year's Eve "braai" (barbeque).
Whether i'll return to meatlessness is undecided. My first few carnivorous meals were not exactly comfortable physically, so at the moment I think I'll continue to eat meat in moderation to grow accustomed to it in case I need to eat it in the future at my school site.
A returning volunteer has assured me that a healthy, meat-free diet can be maintained in Namibia easily, in fact after going through similar "meat training" she said she was surprised just how easy it was, so some hope remains. However, Namibians love meat. At one lunch I attempted to describe what I ate in the States to a Namibian acquaintance, Moses. After hearing I was vegetarian he leaned back in his chair and both of his hands shot straight for the top of his head in disbelief. When I told him that I often ate "fake meat", expecting to explain the variety of soy-based meat lookalikes (phony bologna, tofurkey, etc.), he replied with complete seriousness, "What do you mean? Chicken?"
Whether i'll return to meatlessness is undecided. My first few carnivorous meals were not exactly comfortable physically, so at the moment I think I'll continue to eat meat in moderation to grow accustomed to it in case I need to eat it in the future at my school site.
A returning volunteer has assured me that a healthy, meat-free diet can be maintained in Namibia easily, in fact after going through similar "meat training" she said she was surprised just how easy it was, so some hope remains. However, Namibians love meat. At one lunch I attempted to describe what I ate in the States to a Namibian acquaintance, Moses. After hearing I was vegetarian he leaned back in his chair and both of his hands shot straight for the top of his head in disbelief. When I told him that I often ate "fake meat", expecting to explain the variety of soy-based meat lookalikes (phony bologna, tofurkey, etc.), he replied with complete seriousness, "What do you mean? Chicken?"
The Arrival
After a 15 hour flight, on which I only managed to catch about 10 minutes of sleep, the WorldTeach group landed in Johannesburg, South Africa. A quick 2-hour hop to Windhoek, Namibia's capital, followed. We landed, and I walked down the portable flight of stairs, stopped, took a deep breath, and thought, "Hmm...it's toasty."
An unseasonably hot sun, our Namibia field director, and the proprietor of the hostel in which we have been staying greeted us at the airport. The trip was not short, and it was not easy. Here is a short list of some small misfortunes I encountered:
1)I was delayed in JFK airport's security after my carry-on luggage set off some alarm. The security woman shouted at me as I grabbed for my bag, and then proceeded to inspect it's contents (my medicine, toothbrush, bug spray) thoroughly.
2)Our group got conflicting directions from employees in the Johannesburg international terminal, and the ensuing zig-zags and line switches resulted in us all missing our connecting flight to Namibia.
3)In the 15 hours of travel one of my shoes came untied, and a loose lace caught itself in the machinery at the top of a nearly 30 ft. high escalator in Johannesburg.
4)Of all the 26 bags checked by the WorldTeach group, the only one not waiting in the baggage claim in Windhoek upon our arrival was my biggest, 50lb. bag.
Since I now had the least luggage, I was one of three volunteers to catch a ride with Tangeni, our hostel's owner, in his CRV. After we hopped in and buckled up, he rolled down the windows, pressed play on his stereo, and we took off. As Jack Black once penned, "The journey was long and arduous." But it's pretty damn hard to be bummed as you hurtle down a two-lane highway to a steady stream of Michael Jackson's greatest hits, while baboons and wild boars chill by the road and the stark and extraordinary Namibian bush whizzes passed on both sides.
An unseasonably hot sun, our Namibia field director, and the proprietor of the hostel in which we have been staying greeted us at the airport. The trip was not short, and it was not easy. Here is a short list of some small misfortunes I encountered:
1)I was delayed in JFK airport's security after my carry-on luggage set off some alarm. The security woman shouted at me as I grabbed for my bag, and then proceeded to inspect it's contents (my medicine, toothbrush, bug spray) thoroughly.
2)Our group got conflicting directions from employees in the Johannesburg international terminal, and the ensuing zig-zags and line switches resulted in us all missing our connecting flight to Namibia.
3)In the 15 hours of travel one of my shoes came untied, and a loose lace caught itself in the machinery at the top of a nearly 30 ft. high escalator in Johannesburg.
4)Of all the 26 bags checked by the WorldTeach group, the only one not waiting in the baggage claim in Windhoek upon our arrival was my biggest, 50lb. bag.
Since I now had the least luggage, I was one of three volunteers to catch a ride with Tangeni, our hostel's owner, in his CRV. After we hopped in and buckled up, he rolled down the windows, pressed play on his stereo, and we took off. As Jack Black once penned, "The journey was long and arduous." But it's pretty damn hard to be bummed as you hurtle down a two-lane highway to a steady stream of Michael Jackson's greatest hits, while baboons and wild boars chill by the road and the stark and extraordinary Namibian bush whizzes passed on both sides.
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