This past weekend I went with three other volunteers, Julia, Megan, and Kyle (this group has become a pretty regular foursome) and two Namibian teachers to Ruacana Falls near the Namibia-Angola border. The falls apparently are not as impressive as they once were before the construction of a hydroelectric power dam (when they were considered one of the wonders of the world), but to give you an idea of their scale, this “NamPower” plant provides approximately 50% of the power used in all of Namibia.
Julia and I bought two allegedly six person tents at the inexpensive China Shop in Eenhana and then caught a cab ride about 30 minutes west to meet the rest of our group in Ounona. From there it was about a 5 hour journey west and north to the falls in the back of a truck. Since the truck belonged to a member of our party, there were only four of us with the luggage in the back. Also, the truck bed had a top and a mattress on the bottom. In hitch-hiking terms, this was borderline luxurious.
After camping Friday night (only two people fit in each tent), we arose bright and early Saturday morning to check out the falls. Maybe I was tired and pessimistic, but for whatever reason I was expecting to just snap a couple of photos, stare for a few minutes, say “Wow this is nice”, and then leave. Happily, the falls offered much more than that. Next to the falls are abandoned buildings speckled with bullet holes where some of the combat in Namibia’s fight for independence took place just a few decades ago. There is an excellent view at the top of the falls where we took several pictures. And then, there is a stairway (497 steps) down to the falls’ bottom. The stairs took us closer to the falls, and closer, and closer, and closer. At the base of the stairway we arrived at some large slippery rocks. We decided to climb out on them, farther, and farther, and farther. When we finally reached a point from where we could progress no more, we were sitting on a bunch of rocks in the dead center of the mouth of the Kunene River directly at the base of the falls. Many more pictures were taken. Many, many more minutes were spent staring. The two losers of a game of “One Potato, Two Potato” then had to trek back to our car to fetch some food because we decided our little rock peninsula would be a fantastic place to relax and snack. We sat eating, talking, feeling the spray of the water, and taking turns sitting in a perfectly shaped natural rock chair in the water’s current for hours. On top of that, we were completely alone. Absolutely no one else had decided to visit the falls that morning.
Even the best English speaking Namibian teachers have relatively small vocabularies, which is to be expected. What has surprised me though is how the constraints of these limited lexicons force Namibians to express themselves with combinations of words I have never thought to link together. One instance of this occurred when a learner told me that I have excellent “underwater English”. When I asked him what he meant he replied that my English is much more than a surface understanding of the language, it is deep; therefore it is “underwater English.” I loved it. Another consequence of these constraints is the use of simple sentences. “Nature is beautiful," our Namibian friends kept saying all morning. "Nature is beautiful." This little equation isn’t exactly poetic, but it certainly gets the point across. And I agree.
February 25, 2010
February 22, 2010
Wrapping Up HIV/AIDS Education
I will begin this post in the same manner I began the first real lessons in my grade 11 and 12 Life-Skills classes (after playing a game of tag outside where one in six learners started as “It”).
Here are the facts:
In 2007, 15.3% of Namibian adults were HIV+.
That is approximately one in six adults.
In 2008 Namibia had the sixth highest HIV prevalence rate in the world.
Almost all of the remaining top five are Namibia’s neighbors (Botswana, South Africa, etc).
In 2001 approximately 40,000 Namibian children were orphans because their parents had died of HIV/AIDS.
There are 700 learners at Oshikunde School.
That is 57 Oshikundes full of children with no parents.
This is a problem.
After the first week of class rules, introductions, and answering questions about where Maryland is and how long it took me to get to Namibia, I dove headfirst into heavy material with my oldest learners. This was partially because as I researched the HIV situation in Namibia I considered it rather important, and it was partially because I wasn’t exactly sure what “Life-Skills” was.
We spent our first class getting facts out in the open, confronting myths, and answering anonymously submitted questions. After I made a trip to the local, free, confidential HIV testing center, New Start (funded by USAID, represent!) lesson number two was on available testing, treatment, and support. This week in lesson four we will conclude the unit with role plays and by making HIV/AIDS Awareness posters to hang around the school grounds. In my Life-Skills planning notebook, that left lesson three for condom demonstrations. This is something that I had not envisioned myself ever doing…ever. But as they say, practice makes perfect, and if you are the Life-Skills teacher for all but one of the grade 11 and grade 12 classes, by the end of the week your presentation skills get perfected.
I fine tuned my performance to impart all the necessary information while still including qualifications that I was not endorsing promiscuity and that abstinence is hands down the most effective method of prevention, moments of seriousness to emphasize the gravity of the risk in Namibia, and of course jokes spaced out through the demonstration to keep things comfortable. One digression was a story about why Mr. Brent brought a flashlight to class. You see, for the first week of his stay in Oshikunde, Mr. Brent had no working light bulbs, so he would walk around his house with a flashlight squeezed between his cheek and his shoulder. But Mr. Brent would drop it [drop the flashlight to gasps from the learners] over, and over, and over again, so now it doesn’t work. But today [thrust the flashlight high overhead], today it will be used! Do we know what it will be used as? [Chuckles and emphatic nods from the learners].
To be perfectly honest, I was more than a little nervous about putting on these demonstrations. I wasn’t sure how the learners would respond, and I also was uncertain how the other teachers would react if they got word of my presentations. But the old Life-Skills syllabus I received does explicitly state that the overarching theme of HIV Awareness should be present in as many lessons as possible, so before my first demo I took a deep breathe and just went for it. To begin I would get all my learners to put their heads down so no one could see anyone else and then give a thumbs up if they knew how to use a condom properly or a thumbs down if they did not. Seeing over half of my learners (who in these classes are often twenty years of age or older) not answer at all, which I took as a “no”, and many others quickly put their thumbs down, was all I needed to press on with confidence. And during one of my last Life-Skills lessons of the week, because I do not have my own classroom, the Head of Department for Sciences (basically the vice-principal) was in the room grading papers, and as a result was witness to my lesson. It felt great, as I went through the presentation and answered questions, to notice him nodding his head in approval and even occasionally laughing quietly at my antics.
We’ll see during Wednesday’s staff meeting if I get chastised for transgressing some rules of propriety, but I seriously doubt it. And even if I do, as it stands now close to 250 young Namibian adults know, for certain, a skill that could save their lives. If it’s not in the syllabus it should be.
Here are the facts:
In 2007, 15.3% of Namibian adults were HIV+.
That is approximately one in six adults.
In 2008 Namibia had the sixth highest HIV prevalence rate in the world.
Almost all of the remaining top five are Namibia’s neighbors (Botswana, South Africa, etc).
In 2001 approximately 40,000 Namibian children were orphans because their parents had died of HIV/AIDS.
There are 700 learners at Oshikunde School.
That is 57 Oshikundes full of children with no parents.
This is a problem.
After the first week of class rules, introductions, and answering questions about where Maryland is and how long it took me to get to Namibia, I dove headfirst into heavy material with my oldest learners. This was partially because as I researched the HIV situation in Namibia I considered it rather important, and it was partially because I wasn’t exactly sure what “Life-Skills” was.
We spent our first class getting facts out in the open, confronting myths, and answering anonymously submitted questions. After I made a trip to the local, free, confidential HIV testing center, New Start (funded by USAID, represent!) lesson number two was on available testing, treatment, and support. This week in lesson four we will conclude the unit with role plays and by making HIV/AIDS Awareness posters to hang around the school grounds. In my Life-Skills planning notebook, that left lesson three for condom demonstrations. This is something that I had not envisioned myself ever doing…ever. But as they say, practice makes perfect, and if you are the Life-Skills teacher for all but one of the grade 11 and grade 12 classes, by the end of the week your presentation skills get perfected.
I fine tuned my performance to impart all the necessary information while still including qualifications that I was not endorsing promiscuity and that abstinence is hands down the most effective method of prevention, moments of seriousness to emphasize the gravity of the risk in Namibia, and of course jokes spaced out through the demonstration to keep things comfortable. One digression was a story about why Mr. Brent brought a flashlight to class. You see, for the first week of his stay in Oshikunde, Mr. Brent had no working light bulbs, so he would walk around his house with a flashlight squeezed between his cheek and his shoulder. But Mr. Brent would drop it [drop the flashlight to gasps from the learners] over, and over, and over again, so now it doesn’t work. But today [thrust the flashlight high overhead], today it will be used! Do we know what it will be used as? [Chuckles and emphatic nods from the learners].
To be perfectly honest, I was more than a little nervous about putting on these demonstrations. I wasn’t sure how the learners would respond, and I also was uncertain how the other teachers would react if they got word of my presentations. But the old Life-Skills syllabus I received does explicitly state that the overarching theme of HIV Awareness should be present in as many lessons as possible, so before my first demo I took a deep breathe and just went for it. To begin I would get all my learners to put their heads down so no one could see anyone else and then give a thumbs up if they knew how to use a condom properly or a thumbs down if they did not. Seeing over half of my learners (who in these classes are often twenty years of age or older) not answer at all, which I took as a “no”, and many others quickly put their thumbs down, was all I needed to press on with confidence. And during one of my last Life-Skills lessons of the week, because I do not have my own classroom, the Head of Department for Sciences (basically the vice-principal) was in the room grading papers, and as a result was witness to my lesson. It felt great, as I went through the presentation and answered questions, to notice him nodding his head in approval and even occasionally laughing quietly at my antics.
We’ll see during Wednesday’s staff meeting if I get chastised for transgressing some rules of propriety, but I seriously doubt it. And even if I do, as it stands now close to 250 young Namibian adults know, for certain, a skill that could save their lives. If it’s not in the syllabus it should be.
February 18, 2010
A Miscellaneous List:
I have wicked farmer’s and sandal tans.
I am a beast at slicing bread.
I am a pro at condom demonstrations (more on that later).
I also have an upper thigh tan.
My eyes water slightly when I exhort my learners to educate each other about AIDS.
I am a complete wuss.
If a woman hands you her baby as she climbs into a truck bed, be cool, she will ask for it back.
Economy toilet paper has a lot of uses.
Electrical tape kind of sucks.
Malaria-meds induce crazy dreams.
I can define the word “but”.
I am beginning to find it weird to not see any donkeys.
I want to ride one.
In Namibia, “Leonard” is pronounced “Ronald”.
I will never kick you out of a classroom unless you lie to my face.
If you lie to my face you will be kicked out.
Before you kick a learner out of your classroom for lying to you, first make sure he actually understands what you are asking.
There is a bar in Namibia called “Gangster’s Paradise”.
I have almost 15 hours of beauty pageant judging experience.
My soccer ball juggling record is 7.
That is four more than my US record.
The learners can juggle into the hundreds.
In Namibia, Chris Brown is the KING.
If you ever want your class to laugh, erase a chalkboard with your hand.
Basketball skill does not translate as well to netball as you would expect.
I actually can function on less than ten hours of sleep a day.
I am not a morning person.
Lawrence to me: Always drink otombo [a grungy brew] with a friend because it could be poisoned.
Me to Lawrence: WHAAAT?!?
Onda hole omalaka (I like languages).
“Oshilumbu” means “white person”, but it’s not a slur.
Underground hip-hop lyrics are a little over the heads of young adults still attempting to grasp the simple past tense.
Dogs are not pets everywhere.
The Banana Dance is a HUGE HIT (this cannot be overstated),
Conjunction Junction…not so much.
Sherlock Holmes is way cooler than Hercule Poirot.
Snapping your fingers, pointing, and saying “that side” is considered giving directions.
Granola cereals are awesome.
You have to separate whites and colors when you hand-wash too!
I have time to write miscellaneous lists.
To be continued….
I am a beast at slicing bread.
I am a pro at condom demonstrations (more on that later).
I also have an upper thigh tan.
My eyes water slightly when I exhort my learners to educate each other about AIDS.
I am a complete wuss.
If a woman hands you her baby as she climbs into a truck bed, be cool, she will ask for it back.
Economy toilet paper has a lot of uses.
Electrical tape kind of sucks.
Malaria-meds induce crazy dreams.
I can define the word “but”.
I am beginning to find it weird to not see any donkeys.
I want to ride one.
In Namibia, “Leonard” is pronounced “Ronald”.
I will never kick you out of a classroom unless you lie to my face.
If you lie to my face you will be kicked out.
Before you kick a learner out of your classroom for lying to you, first make sure he actually understands what you are asking.
There is a bar in Namibia called “Gangster’s Paradise”.
I have almost 15 hours of beauty pageant judging experience.
My soccer ball juggling record is 7.
That is four more than my US record.
The learners can juggle into the hundreds.
In Namibia, Chris Brown is the KING.
If you ever want your class to laugh, erase a chalkboard with your hand.
Basketball skill does not translate as well to netball as you would expect.
I actually can function on less than ten hours of sleep a day.
I am not a morning person.
Lawrence to me: Always drink otombo [a grungy brew] with a friend because it could be poisoned.
Me to Lawrence: WHAAAT?!?
Onda hole omalaka (I like languages).
“Oshilumbu” means “white person”, but it’s not a slur.
Underground hip-hop lyrics are a little over the heads of young adults still attempting to grasp the simple past tense.
Dogs are not pets everywhere.
The Banana Dance is a HUGE HIT (this cannot be overstated),
Conjunction Junction…not so much.
Sherlock Holmes is way cooler than Hercule Poirot.
Snapping your fingers, pointing, and saying “that side” is considered giving directions.
Granola cereals are awesome.
You have to separate whites and colors when you hand-wash too!
I have time to write miscellaneous lists.
To be continued….
February 14, 2010
On Time in Africa
On Thursdays I do not have a class to teach until after the midday lunch break. During the mornings I usually try to complete any marking that needs to be done and to plan my lessons for the following week. I also make myself available to perform whatever random tasks my colleagues do not have the time to. I have retyped (and revised) field trip letters and taken pictures of the school for a principal’s report (which I assure you all I am trying to upload), and last Thursday I was asked to generate tickets for a school event Friday night, the Miss Oshikunde Valentine 2010 Beauty Pageant. After quickly typing up a word document, making copies, and turning them in, the teacher in charge jokingly inquired, “What is your cut?” I chuckled and responded that all I would require is the honor of attending this event, which in my mind promised to be quite interesting. He quickly asked if I would like to be a judge for the show, and the next thing I knew my Friday night was planned.
Friday afternoon we needed to quickly hitch to town to get prizes, light bulbs, and other necessary supplies for the night’s spectacle. The ride back was leisurely, with periodic stops at roadside shebeens (bars) to say hello to various community members whiling away the afternoon. Several hours later my colleague looked at his watch and said, “The show starts at 7:30, and it is now five ‘till seven, we should get moving.” My eyebrows raised, did I just detect a sense of urgency from one of my co-workers? This is something that is not completely absent in Namibia, but it is something that is conspicuously lacking. I replied that I would do what I could to help, and we started moving back to school. I quickly changed and unlocked my office door to give a learner access to the power switches for the school block which would serve as our arena, and then proceeded to sit….and wait. There was very little for me to do because frankly, there was very little that needed to be done. Strangely though, the event did not even start to begin until approximately 9:30pm. At that time I thought we had begun, but about 15 minutes into the event, the organizers wordlessly put the program on hold to rearrange the desks that comprised our makeshift catwalk, a task which took another quarter hour.
The contestants walked carefully on the improvised stage for four rounds, each requiring a new wardrobe and the necessary changing time, musical performances served as interludes, but each of these had to be restarted a few minutes in because the performer was not happy with how it was going and wanted a mulligan, and periodically large groups of learners would charge the stage and frantically bust a move for what struck me as completely impromptu dance break marathons.
A quick note for context: Power and water are scarce in Oshikunde, but wireless internet service is surprisingly prevalent. Because this service is free from the hours of 1-5am and I am seven hours ahead of the East Coast, my family and I have regularly spoken via Skype on Friday nights (6pm their time, 1am Saturday my time). Now back to the story…
I was extremely excited early Friday evening as the Pageant approached. The starscape above astounded me, I was beside myself with geeky laughter as I contemplated the fact that I was deep in the Namibian bush preparing to participate in one of the school’s biggest events of the year as a judge, and I was looking forward to sharing some of my own personally brewed Oshikundu (Namibia’s low alcohol traditional after dinner drink) with my colleagues, and finishing my Wu-Tang Collection movie “Kung-Fu Genius” while I awaited my weekly catch-up phone call with my family. Slowly, I removed items from this planned list as I first waited for the event to start. “Ok, I can watch the end of ‘Kung-Fu Genius’ tomorrow.” After the first round, one of my fellow judges offhandedly mentioned to me that she hoped the pageant wouldn’t last as long as last year’s which went all the way to 1am. “Alright, no Oshikundu tonight either, but even if it goes as late as last year’s which apparently was excessively long, I can still hustle back to my room to talk with family.” You may be able to imagine my frustration as the festivities dragged on and I watched my cell phone clock slowly click up to, reach, and move well beyond 1am. I tried to think to myself that I could still contact my family the next day to let them know I was safe, and that at that moment I should just recognize that I could not leave the event and should just enjoy the moment. But as the night wore on, with more and more learners falling asleep in their chairs in the audience, it was all I could do to stay awake and to remain in tolerable spirits. As the conclusion approached and it was time for the judges to deliberate, I learned that my two female colleagues had completely revamped their scorecards to assess the contestants in their own unique way. This was the last straw. I (politely as I could) explained that there was no way we could reconcile these, took everyone’s score-sheets, reinterpreted them as best I could, totaled everything together with my cell phone, circled the winners, handed them over to the other judges to explain what I did and ask for questions or comments, and submitted the results to the pageant organizer. Eventually the emcee announced the winners, and I…was…out of there. The time was three in the morning.
As I was leaving, those learners who had remained awake were still dancing on top of the desks on the stage. They obviously had had a blast that night. I too enjoyed pieces of the celebration. There were moments of genuine beauty, humor, and good ol’ fashioned fun. For example, there was a kind of raffle where learners could pay a dollar to draw a name from a basket so that person would accompany them down the catwalk. Unbeknownst to me my name was included and when it was called I hammed it up with a couple double-takes and “who me?”s and then chivalrously escorted a bashful young lady in front of the crowd to substantial applause. Nevertheless, the lack of concern for punctuality and time management is a serious difference between our cultures, so much so that even I really struggle to maintain my patience and composure, and I would like to think that I am a fairly laid-back person.
Friday night was difficult. Saturday our school hosted an athletics meet scheduled to start at 8am; I set an alarm. It did not begin until after 10:30 and had not completely finished when I left for another volunteer’s school around 6pm. This school was also hosting a Mrs. Valentine and despite all my best efforts I was roped in to judge again. This time I knew what I was getting into though, two friends were judges beside me, and another hysterical friend was emceeing the event in an absurd gold satin shirt and white dress shoes. After my tribulations the previous twenty four hours I was able to manage my expectations, and I was in stitches from 8 at night until 1 in the morning as I shared with friends one of the most fun nights of the year so far.
I slept in on Sunday. I will be at work early on Monday morning.
Friday afternoon we needed to quickly hitch to town to get prizes, light bulbs, and other necessary supplies for the night’s spectacle. The ride back was leisurely, with periodic stops at roadside shebeens (bars) to say hello to various community members whiling away the afternoon. Several hours later my colleague looked at his watch and said, “The show starts at 7:30, and it is now five ‘till seven, we should get moving.” My eyebrows raised, did I just detect a sense of urgency from one of my co-workers? This is something that is not completely absent in Namibia, but it is something that is conspicuously lacking. I replied that I would do what I could to help, and we started moving back to school. I quickly changed and unlocked my office door to give a learner access to the power switches for the school block which would serve as our arena, and then proceeded to sit….and wait. There was very little for me to do because frankly, there was very little that needed to be done. Strangely though, the event did not even start to begin until approximately 9:30pm. At that time I thought we had begun, but about 15 minutes into the event, the organizers wordlessly put the program on hold to rearrange the desks that comprised our makeshift catwalk, a task which took another quarter hour.
The contestants walked carefully on the improvised stage for four rounds, each requiring a new wardrobe and the necessary changing time, musical performances served as interludes, but each of these had to be restarted a few minutes in because the performer was not happy with how it was going and wanted a mulligan, and periodically large groups of learners would charge the stage and frantically bust a move for what struck me as completely impromptu dance break marathons.
A quick note for context: Power and water are scarce in Oshikunde, but wireless internet service is surprisingly prevalent. Because this service is free from the hours of 1-5am and I am seven hours ahead of the East Coast, my family and I have regularly spoken via Skype on Friday nights (6pm their time, 1am Saturday my time). Now back to the story…
I was extremely excited early Friday evening as the Pageant approached. The starscape above astounded me, I was beside myself with geeky laughter as I contemplated the fact that I was deep in the Namibian bush preparing to participate in one of the school’s biggest events of the year as a judge, and I was looking forward to sharing some of my own personally brewed Oshikundu (Namibia’s low alcohol traditional after dinner drink) with my colleagues, and finishing my Wu-Tang Collection movie “Kung-Fu Genius” while I awaited my weekly catch-up phone call with my family. Slowly, I removed items from this planned list as I first waited for the event to start. “Ok, I can watch the end of ‘Kung-Fu Genius’ tomorrow.” After the first round, one of my fellow judges offhandedly mentioned to me that she hoped the pageant wouldn’t last as long as last year’s which went all the way to 1am. “Alright, no Oshikundu tonight either, but even if it goes as late as last year’s which apparently was excessively long, I can still hustle back to my room to talk with family.” You may be able to imagine my frustration as the festivities dragged on and I watched my cell phone clock slowly click up to, reach, and move well beyond 1am. I tried to think to myself that I could still contact my family the next day to let them know I was safe, and that at that moment I should just recognize that I could not leave the event and should just enjoy the moment. But as the night wore on, with more and more learners falling asleep in their chairs in the audience, it was all I could do to stay awake and to remain in tolerable spirits. As the conclusion approached and it was time for the judges to deliberate, I learned that my two female colleagues had completely revamped their scorecards to assess the contestants in their own unique way. This was the last straw. I (politely as I could) explained that there was no way we could reconcile these, took everyone’s score-sheets, reinterpreted them as best I could, totaled everything together with my cell phone, circled the winners, handed them over to the other judges to explain what I did and ask for questions or comments, and submitted the results to the pageant organizer. Eventually the emcee announced the winners, and I…was…out of there. The time was three in the morning.
As I was leaving, those learners who had remained awake were still dancing on top of the desks on the stage. They obviously had had a blast that night. I too enjoyed pieces of the celebration. There were moments of genuine beauty, humor, and good ol’ fashioned fun. For example, there was a kind of raffle where learners could pay a dollar to draw a name from a basket so that person would accompany them down the catwalk. Unbeknownst to me my name was included and when it was called I hammed it up with a couple double-takes and “who me?”s and then chivalrously escorted a bashful young lady in front of the crowd to substantial applause. Nevertheless, the lack of concern for punctuality and time management is a serious difference between our cultures, so much so that even I really struggle to maintain my patience and composure, and I would like to think that I am a fairly laid-back person.
Friday night was difficult. Saturday our school hosted an athletics meet scheduled to start at 8am; I set an alarm. It did not begin until after 10:30 and had not completely finished when I left for another volunteer’s school around 6pm. This school was also hosting a Mrs. Valentine and despite all my best efforts I was roped in to judge again. This time I knew what I was getting into though, two friends were judges beside me, and another hysterical friend was emceeing the event in an absurd gold satin shirt and white dress shoes. After my tribulations the previous twenty four hours I was able to manage my expectations, and I was in stitches from 8 at night until 1 in the morning as I shared with friends one of the most fun nights of the year so far.
I slept in on Sunday. I will be at work early on Monday morning.
February 7, 2010
Birthday Wishes
Subtitle: An Unabashed Appeal for Money
I will not sugarcoat it. Oshikunde is hard pressed to provide some of the most basic resources for its learners. A few days ago a man came from the government to “fix” our water. For two days (before it inexplicably stopped), questionably clean water flowed out of two taps located on the entire school grounds (one with a strong flow, one you could place your bucket and go for a stroll) to provide for 700 learners and approximately 30 staff. Granted a little less than half of the learners and two thirds of the staff live on school grounds, but the school still must provide for its whole population for a substantial part of the day for five days a week (and is it really that much better to say 1.5 taps of dubious water for 350 learners and 20 staff members for two days?) Also, the learners live in camping tents that are covered by enormous, evidently porous canopies. Paradoxically, in Namibia, at least among the learners rain is not welcome. I have come to grips with the fact that it is not possible for me to completely revamp this school and miraculously solve all of its problems. Fortunately the administration of the school has repeatedly demonstrated to me that it is working to address these matters with the government. Because the school is equally concerned with these circumstances and anything I may be able to do regarding the living situation will be only a band-aid fix, I have focused my thought processes on coming up with inexpensive and helpful projects that I will be able to leave behind to be sustained by school staff after I leave. Some ideas I have had are:
*durable, comprehensive English dictionaries, one for each of the 15 classrooms
*plastic buckets to be used as trash cans in the classrooms and around school grounds
*a book drive to improve and draw attention to the school library which is currently a closet locked behind a food storage room
*I have even been ambitious enough to consider purchasing a movie projector to display films on the sides of the school buildings for the hostel learners on weekends. I think this may boost morale among the struggling students and may have the affect of drawing more talented secondary learners to the school
For these reasons, as my birthday approaches, I would like to ask anyone who is reading that was considering buying a gift for me, to instead contribute towards a gift for the Oshikunde School. If you were planning on getting me a gift certificate, a movie, or a birthday meal, it is my wish that that money go to the learners. Even if you would have just bought me a beer at the bar (if I was successfully dragged from my basement), please consider using those few dollars on something that will significantly improve someone’s life and last. American dollars go a long way in Namibia. The current exchange rate is a little over $7 Namibian for every $1 US. Anything that you are willing to donate would be sincerely appreciated.
I would like to end by stating that although this appeal is unabashed, I am not asking for charity. Food is needed, but it gets eaten. Water is vital, but it gets drunk. These basic remedies provide relief but only push problems back because one little blog service project will not feed the country forever. I want this money to be a wise investment in the future of these learners’ lives and in the future of their country. With that said, I would also like anyone who donates to have a voice in how the money is spent. Please post any ideas for projects as comments on this blog.
If you would like to participate please send a check (cash works too I guess) to my parents, my USA HQ, at:
8429 Early Bud Way
Laurel, MD 20723
The impact may be small, but it will be positive, and it will last. The country’s progress will get a push and gain momentum, and you will be responsible.
Tangi Unene (Thank you very much)
I will not sugarcoat it. Oshikunde is hard pressed to provide some of the most basic resources for its learners. A few days ago a man came from the government to “fix” our water. For two days (before it inexplicably stopped), questionably clean water flowed out of two taps located on the entire school grounds (one with a strong flow, one you could place your bucket and go for a stroll) to provide for 700 learners and approximately 30 staff. Granted a little less than half of the learners and two thirds of the staff live on school grounds, but the school still must provide for its whole population for a substantial part of the day for five days a week (and is it really that much better to say 1.5 taps of dubious water for 350 learners and 20 staff members for two days?) Also, the learners live in camping tents that are covered by enormous, evidently porous canopies. Paradoxically, in Namibia, at least among the learners rain is not welcome. I have come to grips with the fact that it is not possible for me to completely revamp this school and miraculously solve all of its problems. Fortunately the administration of the school has repeatedly demonstrated to me that it is working to address these matters with the government. Because the school is equally concerned with these circumstances and anything I may be able to do regarding the living situation will be only a band-aid fix, I have focused my thought processes on coming up with inexpensive and helpful projects that I will be able to leave behind to be sustained by school staff after I leave. Some ideas I have had are:
*durable, comprehensive English dictionaries, one for each of the 15 classrooms
*plastic buckets to be used as trash cans in the classrooms and around school grounds
*a book drive to improve and draw attention to the school library which is currently a closet locked behind a food storage room
*I have even been ambitious enough to consider purchasing a movie projector to display films on the sides of the school buildings for the hostel learners on weekends. I think this may boost morale among the struggling students and may have the affect of drawing more talented secondary learners to the school
For these reasons, as my birthday approaches, I would like to ask anyone who is reading that was considering buying a gift for me, to instead contribute towards a gift for the Oshikunde School. If you were planning on getting me a gift certificate, a movie, or a birthday meal, it is my wish that that money go to the learners. Even if you would have just bought me a beer at the bar (if I was successfully dragged from my basement), please consider using those few dollars on something that will significantly improve someone’s life and last. American dollars go a long way in Namibia. The current exchange rate is a little over $7 Namibian for every $1 US. Anything that you are willing to donate would be sincerely appreciated.
I would like to end by stating that although this appeal is unabashed, I am not asking for charity. Food is needed, but it gets eaten. Water is vital, but it gets drunk. These basic remedies provide relief but only push problems back because one little blog service project will not feed the country forever. I want this money to be a wise investment in the future of these learners’ lives and in the future of their country. With that said, I would also like anyone who donates to have a voice in how the money is spent. Please post any ideas for projects as comments on this blog.
If you would like to participate please send a check (cash works too I guess) to my parents, my USA HQ, at:
8429 Early Bud Way
Laurel, MD 20723
The impact may be small, but it will be positive, and it will last. The country’s progress will get a push and gain momentum, and you will be responsible.
Tangi Unene (Thank you very much)
February 2, 2010
Calling Things by Their Right Names
I am a native English speaker. As such I am a valuable resource for a Namibian school. Although English is the country’s official language, it is almost no citizen’s mother tongue, and English is presently the only subject a learner absolutely must pass in order to progress in school. I have made myself available to all learners and staff members who have any questions I may be able to answer. I have thrown all of my support behind the after-school English Club, “Voice of Change”, which fines its members one dollar for speaking Oshiwambo during the weekdays. Most learners, to put it mildly, struggle with English. Nevertheless, one of the first things that struck me upon my arrival at Oshikunde is how incredibly hard the learners work. Their living conditions alone would be excuse enough for almost anyone to just coast by in class blaming their poor grades on early wake ups for showers, almost daily clothes hand-washing sessions, multiple daily water fetching trips, and late night scrambling to keep things dry if it ever rains on their “hostel” tents. One fact about myself that I quickly realized in Namibia is that I am a sucker for languages, and I figured that if these young adults are willing to work so hard to learn mine, it is only fair that I try to learn theirs.
At the end of my classes, if time allows I ask the learners to teach me one word in Oshikwanyama (the local dialect of Oshiwambo). I constantly ask staff members how to say certain phrases in their language, and my favorite ritual I have established is asking learners questions while walking with them to the ondobe (watering hole) to fetch some omeva (water). In Namibian culture it is a sign of respect to offer someone your assistance. It is also considered rather rude to deny anyone the privilege of helping you should they ask to do so. As a person who feels uncomfortable taking advantage of or unnecessarily relying on others, this cultural more took some getting used to. I once returned from class to find a learner exiting my front gate with a tub full of weeds that he had just pulled from my yard. Every ounce of me wanted to say “You don’t have to do that! Please go study or rest, you work hard enough as it is!” but I found that the right to perform an elder a service is highly sought after. This means I have to swallow my tongue and simply express my sincere gratitude as best as possible. A trend that quickly developed after learners saw me walking anywhere with a bucket is that of learners asking to fetch water for me. Being simultaneously averse to being disrespectful by refusing and by acting entitled by delegating learners to do my chores, I have negotiated with the learners that they may carry my water if they allow me to walk and talk with them.
On these walks the learners ask me questions about 50 Cent, and Barack Obama, and California, and other American volunteers they assume I know, and English grammar rules. While walking I take every opportunity to point at anything and ask, “Shike?” which literally means “what?” and in context means “what is that called in Oshikwanyama?”
“Shike? Shike? Shike?” I say. I hope I don’t bore them with this game, but their interest in it shows no signs of waning. Giggles and laughs accompany my every attempt at their language. If I make a mistake, it is funny. Oddly, if I get it right, it is hilarious. It took me some time to figure out that I was getting anything right at all I was so confused by the volumes of laughter. It may be obvious and banal to state, but communication is what pulls people together. Cultural and language differences are substantial barriers between people, but even if you speak a broken tongue, just trying to learn someone else’s language is one of the best ways to show someone that you want to connect with them because everyone can recognize and appreciates an earnest inquiry into the way they live.
A Short Oshikwanyama Dictionary:
Wa le le po = good morning
Wa hala po = good afternoon
Wa tokelwa po = good evening
Kala po nawa = goodbye
Inda po nawa = travel safely
Ehee (eh-hey-hey) = yes
Ewa = Ok, I accept
Ohandi takela omeva = I am fetching water
Gavela katatuka = My bucket is broken (guess why I learned this one)
Onda fya enota = I am thirsty (and this one)
Ikulya ewa = good food
Onda hole okutala omwede = I like to look at the moon
At the end of my classes, if time allows I ask the learners to teach me one word in Oshikwanyama (the local dialect of Oshiwambo). I constantly ask staff members how to say certain phrases in their language, and my favorite ritual I have established is asking learners questions while walking with them to the ondobe (watering hole) to fetch some omeva (water). In Namibian culture it is a sign of respect to offer someone your assistance. It is also considered rather rude to deny anyone the privilege of helping you should they ask to do so. As a person who feels uncomfortable taking advantage of or unnecessarily relying on others, this cultural more took some getting used to. I once returned from class to find a learner exiting my front gate with a tub full of weeds that he had just pulled from my yard. Every ounce of me wanted to say “You don’t have to do that! Please go study or rest, you work hard enough as it is!” but I found that the right to perform an elder a service is highly sought after. This means I have to swallow my tongue and simply express my sincere gratitude as best as possible. A trend that quickly developed after learners saw me walking anywhere with a bucket is that of learners asking to fetch water for me. Being simultaneously averse to being disrespectful by refusing and by acting entitled by delegating learners to do my chores, I have negotiated with the learners that they may carry my water if they allow me to walk and talk with them.
On these walks the learners ask me questions about 50 Cent, and Barack Obama, and California, and other American volunteers they assume I know, and English grammar rules. While walking I take every opportunity to point at anything and ask, “Shike?” which literally means “what?” and in context means “what is that called in Oshikwanyama?”
“Shike? Shike? Shike?” I say. I hope I don’t bore them with this game, but their interest in it shows no signs of waning. Giggles and laughs accompany my every attempt at their language. If I make a mistake, it is funny. Oddly, if I get it right, it is hilarious. It took me some time to figure out that I was getting anything right at all I was so confused by the volumes of laughter. It may be obvious and banal to state, but communication is what pulls people together. Cultural and language differences are substantial barriers between people, but even if you speak a broken tongue, just trying to learn someone else’s language is one of the best ways to show someone that you want to connect with them because everyone can recognize and appreciates an earnest inquiry into the way they live.
A Short Oshikwanyama Dictionary:
Wa le le po = good morning
Wa hala po = good afternoon
Wa tokelwa po = good evening
Kala po nawa = goodbye
Inda po nawa = travel safely
Ehee (eh-hey-hey) = yes
Ewa = Ok, I accept
Ohandi takela omeva = I am fetching water
Gavela katatuka = My bucket is broken (guess why I learned this one)
Onda fya enota = I am thirsty (and this one)
Ikulya ewa = good food
Onda hole okutala omwede = I like to look at the moon
February 1, 2010
Slow by Slow
Chapter 1: The First Week
“Hard”, “bitter”, “I was in tears”, “We are suffering”, “This is how we survive”. These are some of the ways learners have described their living situation to me. Some of this is hyperbole – a limited vocabulary has resulted in a “Namlish” vernacular which overuses and misuses the word “suffering” – some of it is not. Unfortunately, before I could be in any kind of position to assist these learners I also had to overcome many of the hardships with which they struggle daily.
The first few weeks at my school site were extraordinarily busy because every moment not taken to acclimate to my new work surroundings was spent attempting to establish a sustainable system of living in and around my new home. Now that I have faced some of the obstacles that impede obtaining basic resources, although I can not and will never be able to completely understand the toll taken on the learners everyday just by living, I can genuinely empathize. Luckily for me, I am in a position to now find some humor in my circumstances, which I will proceed to do momentarily. I just wish first to make it clear that I have witnessed how the youngsters live, and have shared some of their struggles. I assure you that it sucks.
I mentioned previously that my principal informed me en route to our school that I at that moment did not have any running water or electricity in my apartment. Thankfully, my first evening at school, Tate Shapaka lent me a large bucket containing maybe 15 liters of clean water. For this I would be extremely grateful. That first day I was also pleasantly surprised by the square footage my apartment contained (I have a large living/bedroom with a loveseat and chairs, a kitchen, and a bathroom all to myself), but the setting sun shortened the amount of time I could spend appreciating its spaciousness. Throughout almost the entirety of my adult life I have been most productive in the evening hours, but I had to instantly discard my night owl tendencies because without power, and therefore without light, your day in Namibia ends promptly at 8pm.
Retiring at such an ungodly early hour did have the benefit of allowing me to easily rise before the sun. I spent my first few mornings fumbling about in the dark with a flashlight squeezed between my chin and shoulder attempting to start my day (that is until I dropped it one too many times and it broke). I had no electricity to power the brand spanking new refrigerator provided for me, and even if there was power, the new stove which I removed from its box had no power cord, so I subsisted on the non-perishable groceries with which I stocked myself in Windhoek for breakfast lunch and dinner. That first week there were a lot of apples, peanuts, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, dried fruit bars, and still more peanuts. After eating breakfast and brushing my teeth, I would take an enormous breath, and prepare emotionally and mentally for the mind-boggling task of bathing myself. Here at Oshikunde the male learners wash in the field behind my back yard. They also wash while wearing boxer shorts. These facts may seem trivial, but they become crucial when you have never bathed with a small plastic basin (lent to you by your next door neighbor) and are forced to observe the kids washing just to comprehend how it is possible.
After two days of unpacking, compiling interminable lists of “to dos” and “needed supplies”, and rationing my initial gift of 15 liters of water, I was approached by the head of the languages department, my man Vilo Shitaatala, who said to me abruptly, “Stewart! Do you have light?” To which I helplessly responded in the negative. I had learned from my colleagues that I could purchase a cord in the nearest town to attach to the one point on campus that receives power and snake it in through my apartment window. Vilo was happy to inform me that the school could provide me with such a cord. That afternoon, he advised me while generating another needs list, gave me blinds for my front windows, and helped bring electricity into my room to power my fridge. My window must remain open so the cord can fit through, and in a malaria zone that is a drawback. I have mentioned that I was without power, stove, light, and water. I was also without a proper mosquito net arrangement. Paradoxically I found myself excited to remember that I was also without a pillow! This meant that I could use the pillow case I did bring as a makeshift mosquito screen, and it is currently pasted to my back window with sticky putty I bought from a teacher’s supplies store.
The next day I received a knock on my door from my principal, who was accompanied by three Namibian workers in a bakkie. “We have your stove,” said Tate Shapaka. I clapped my hands together, shook his, and welcomed the crew through my door. My smile slowly dissipated though as they dragged in the sketchiest, dirtiest, gas stove I had ever laid eyes upon with a titanic dirt-covered gas tank in tow. Knocking my cords and things off my counters, and just chucking my trash out my back door, they pulled this monstrosity into my kitchen where they determined that the cord was too short for the tank to be stored outside. They placed the tank around a corner from the stove and explained their placement decision by showing me the tank tube’s rubber o-ring and informing me that they had no idea how long it would be before it bursts, putting me in no small amount of danger around a lit stove. Breathing deeply, and purposefully, I maintained optimism until one of the workers opened the large gas tank’s valve no more than a slight turn and I was overwhelmed by the smell of gas six feet from the tank in a matter of seconds. “The government has given me an ‘operable’ stove," I thought, "I will be pressured into signing for its receipt, and with their duty ‘fulfilled’ I will not receive another stove all year…I am going to explode in my sleep.” After beginning to express my considerable displeasure though, one worker exclaimed “the stoves are all on!” All four of the stove valves had been left completely open, which was the cause of the outpouring of fumes. By shutting these, we effectively plugged the gas gush. My trepidation for my own survival rapidly transformed to deep gratitude for these crazy bastards and their work. I happily signed and have been hard-boiling the hell out of eggs ever since.
An escorted trip to Eenhana, the closest large town to my school, to purchase some buckets, utensils, a can opener, a light bulb and what what (as they say in Namlish) had me thinking that this gradual process of settling in was all but over. I should have known that this experience, which Vilo so aptly described as moving “slow by slow”, was not yet nearly over.
Oh yeah, at my school every Monday and Friday we have “Morning Devotion”. The learners line up by class, raise the Namibian Flag, sing the National Anthem, and sing some hymns (there is no de facto separation of church and state). It really is a pretty cool sight. This is followed by announcements from teachers and the principal. On Friday, my first morning assembly, the principal’s announcements were interrupted by a serious commotion amongst the learners. Shouts and yelps were heard as learners scattered every which way to avoid impact with two donkeys that barrelled through their lines. Evidently one donkey was a male and the other was not, because the principals gestures were to no avail as the male chased down and mounted the mare not twenty five feet from the flag pole.
Chapter II: The Second Week
My first weekend was joyfully spent at the residences of some of my fellow American volunteer teachers. I never would have guessed that showers, proper meals, and regular bms (forgive me mother) could be so heavenly. A little rest and relaxation sharing stories and misadventures with others experiencing some of my struggles did wonders for my state of mind.
Upon my return to Oshikunde on Sunday I was super-psyched to put the finishing touches on my room. The first order of business was setting up my light bulb. I plugged it in and flicked it on. It worked! “Let there be light!” sayeth Brent! Tragically, the workmanship on the job was shoddy. As I taped my cord to the wall, wires came loose from the bulb (they weren’t soldered or even screwed in, just kind of mashed into the frame), I got electrocuted, the bulb came loose from its attachment, and it fell, shattering upon impact with the floor. I dropped to my knees, held my head in my hands, and I am man enough to admit that I was, for a moment, on the verge of tears.
Fast forwarding to the next day, my colleagues Ivan and Vilo enter the picture. Weilding swiss army knives larger than potatoes, they snagged a bulb from an unused (unpowered) fixture on my ceiling, expertly rewired my bulb and wire connections, taped the bulb to my kitchen wall, and even hung my mosquito net, all in a matter of 30 minutes. I merely offered them cold water and copious thank yous.
For the past several years of my life I strived for an ideal of complete self-reliance. I bored many people with quotes from Emerson and Thoreau. What I gleaned from these first few weeks is this. Self-sufficiency can be attained, and for me the psychological reward of doing things such as fetching my own water is close to unparalleled. However, it is damn hard. In fact, absolute self-sufficiency is probably impossible, and if there are other human beings nearby who are generous enough not just to help but to be excited to share your load, like my new friends here, then life is that much better. Maybe the only thing better is to be the person who lends a hand, and I hope to be able to someday repay my friends.
“Hard”, “bitter”, “I was in tears”, “We are suffering”, “This is how we survive”. These are some of the ways learners have described their living situation to me. Some of this is hyperbole – a limited vocabulary has resulted in a “Namlish” vernacular which overuses and misuses the word “suffering” – some of it is not. Unfortunately, before I could be in any kind of position to assist these learners I also had to overcome many of the hardships with which they struggle daily.
The first few weeks at my school site were extraordinarily busy because every moment not taken to acclimate to my new work surroundings was spent attempting to establish a sustainable system of living in and around my new home. Now that I have faced some of the obstacles that impede obtaining basic resources, although I can not and will never be able to completely understand the toll taken on the learners everyday just by living, I can genuinely empathize. Luckily for me, I am in a position to now find some humor in my circumstances, which I will proceed to do momentarily. I just wish first to make it clear that I have witnessed how the youngsters live, and have shared some of their struggles. I assure you that it sucks.
I mentioned previously that my principal informed me en route to our school that I at that moment did not have any running water or electricity in my apartment. Thankfully, my first evening at school, Tate Shapaka lent me a large bucket containing maybe 15 liters of clean water. For this I would be extremely grateful. That first day I was also pleasantly surprised by the square footage my apartment contained (I have a large living/bedroom with a loveseat and chairs, a kitchen, and a bathroom all to myself), but the setting sun shortened the amount of time I could spend appreciating its spaciousness. Throughout almost the entirety of my adult life I have been most productive in the evening hours, but I had to instantly discard my night owl tendencies because without power, and therefore without light, your day in Namibia ends promptly at 8pm.
Retiring at such an ungodly early hour did have the benefit of allowing me to easily rise before the sun. I spent my first few mornings fumbling about in the dark with a flashlight squeezed between my chin and shoulder attempting to start my day (that is until I dropped it one too many times and it broke). I had no electricity to power the brand spanking new refrigerator provided for me, and even if there was power, the new stove which I removed from its box had no power cord, so I subsisted on the non-perishable groceries with which I stocked myself in Windhoek for breakfast lunch and dinner. That first week there were a lot of apples, peanuts, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, dried fruit bars, and still more peanuts. After eating breakfast and brushing my teeth, I would take an enormous breath, and prepare emotionally and mentally for the mind-boggling task of bathing myself. Here at Oshikunde the male learners wash in the field behind my back yard. They also wash while wearing boxer shorts. These facts may seem trivial, but they become crucial when you have never bathed with a small plastic basin (lent to you by your next door neighbor) and are forced to observe the kids washing just to comprehend how it is possible.
After two days of unpacking, compiling interminable lists of “to dos” and “needed supplies”, and rationing my initial gift of 15 liters of water, I was approached by the head of the languages department, my man Vilo Shitaatala, who said to me abruptly, “Stewart! Do you have light?” To which I helplessly responded in the negative. I had learned from my colleagues that I could purchase a cord in the nearest town to attach to the one point on campus that receives power and snake it in through my apartment window. Vilo was happy to inform me that the school could provide me with such a cord. That afternoon, he advised me while generating another needs list, gave me blinds for my front windows, and helped bring electricity into my room to power my fridge. My window must remain open so the cord can fit through, and in a malaria zone that is a drawback. I have mentioned that I was without power, stove, light, and water. I was also without a proper mosquito net arrangement. Paradoxically I found myself excited to remember that I was also without a pillow! This meant that I could use the pillow case I did bring as a makeshift mosquito screen, and it is currently pasted to my back window with sticky putty I bought from a teacher’s supplies store.
The next day I received a knock on my door from my principal, who was accompanied by three Namibian workers in a bakkie. “We have your stove,” said Tate Shapaka. I clapped my hands together, shook his, and welcomed the crew through my door. My smile slowly dissipated though as they dragged in the sketchiest, dirtiest, gas stove I had ever laid eyes upon with a titanic dirt-covered gas tank in tow. Knocking my cords and things off my counters, and just chucking my trash out my back door, they pulled this monstrosity into my kitchen where they determined that the cord was too short for the tank to be stored outside. They placed the tank around a corner from the stove and explained their placement decision by showing me the tank tube’s rubber o-ring and informing me that they had no idea how long it would be before it bursts, putting me in no small amount of danger around a lit stove. Breathing deeply, and purposefully, I maintained optimism until one of the workers opened the large gas tank’s valve no more than a slight turn and I was overwhelmed by the smell of gas six feet from the tank in a matter of seconds. “The government has given me an ‘operable’ stove," I thought, "I will be pressured into signing for its receipt, and with their duty ‘fulfilled’ I will not receive another stove all year…I am going to explode in my sleep.” After beginning to express my considerable displeasure though, one worker exclaimed “the stoves are all on!” All four of the stove valves had been left completely open, which was the cause of the outpouring of fumes. By shutting these, we effectively plugged the gas gush. My trepidation for my own survival rapidly transformed to deep gratitude for these crazy bastards and their work. I happily signed and have been hard-boiling the hell out of eggs ever since.
An escorted trip to Eenhana, the closest large town to my school, to purchase some buckets, utensils, a can opener, a light bulb and what what (as they say in Namlish) had me thinking that this gradual process of settling in was all but over. I should have known that this experience, which Vilo so aptly described as moving “slow by slow”, was not yet nearly over.
Oh yeah, at my school every Monday and Friday we have “Morning Devotion”. The learners line up by class, raise the Namibian Flag, sing the National Anthem, and sing some hymns (there is no de facto separation of church and state). It really is a pretty cool sight. This is followed by announcements from teachers and the principal. On Friday, my first morning assembly, the principal’s announcements were interrupted by a serious commotion amongst the learners. Shouts and yelps were heard as learners scattered every which way to avoid impact with two donkeys that barrelled through their lines. Evidently one donkey was a male and the other was not, because the principals gestures were to no avail as the male chased down and mounted the mare not twenty five feet from the flag pole.
Chapter II: The Second Week
My first weekend was joyfully spent at the residences of some of my fellow American volunteer teachers. I never would have guessed that showers, proper meals, and regular bms (forgive me mother) could be so heavenly. A little rest and relaxation sharing stories and misadventures with others experiencing some of my struggles did wonders for my state of mind.
Upon my return to Oshikunde on Sunday I was super-psyched to put the finishing touches on my room. The first order of business was setting up my light bulb. I plugged it in and flicked it on. It worked! “Let there be light!” sayeth Brent! Tragically, the workmanship on the job was shoddy. As I taped my cord to the wall, wires came loose from the bulb (they weren’t soldered or even screwed in, just kind of mashed into the frame), I got electrocuted, the bulb came loose from its attachment, and it fell, shattering upon impact with the floor. I dropped to my knees, held my head in my hands, and I am man enough to admit that I was, for a moment, on the verge of tears.
Fast forwarding to the next day, my colleagues Ivan and Vilo enter the picture. Weilding swiss army knives larger than potatoes, they snagged a bulb from an unused (unpowered) fixture on my ceiling, expertly rewired my bulb and wire connections, taped the bulb to my kitchen wall, and even hung my mosquito net, all in a matter of 30 minutes. I merely offered them cold water and copious thank yous.
For the past several years of my life I strived for an ideal of complete self-reliance. I bored many people with quotes from Emerson and Thoreau. What I gleaned from these first few weeks is this. Self-sufficiency can be attained, and for me the psychological reward of doing things such as fetching my own water is close to unparalleled. However, it is damn hard. In fact, absolute self-sufficiency is probably impossible, and if there are other human beings nearby who are generous enough not just to help but to be excited to share your load, like my new friends here, then life is that much better. Maybe the only thing better is to be the person who lends a hand, and I hope to be able to someday repay my friends.
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