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.