Learning a Language is Good for your Stomach

In September of 2006, when I knew that I would be going to Namibia, I decided it would be a good idea to start learning one of the local languages before I left. Now, Namibia has at least ten different indigenous languages, but the most common is called Oshiwambo, which is spoken by nearly half of Namibia’s 1.8 million people. As a result, I decided to try to learn Oshiwambo.

My first step, like a dummy, was to browse the languages section of one of the worlds’ largest Barnes & Noble stores (sorry Leslie). Down the aisle I looked. There was Berlitz Guide to Italian, Easy Mandarin, Teach Yourself Polish, but nothing about Oshiwambo. Hm.

The next step was more successful. I rang up the Namibian Mission to the United Nations, explained my situation, and the secretary who answered the phone eventually agreed teach me Oshiwambo. Her name was Ester Mwale (Muh-wah-ley) and for the next two months, I spent an hour a week at the Namibian mission practicing basic greetings, counting, and learning to say that I was going to or coming from a dozen different places. When I finally got my placement in Outapi, I immediately called up Ester to tell her, and actually had a three-exchange conversation in Oshiwambo that went like this:

Me: Wa ley ley po, meme [Good morning, miss – although it was 3p.m. at this point]
Ester: Eh-yay. [Yes]
Me: Nawa? [Is it ok?]
Ester: Eh-yay. [Yes.]
Me: Ester, otandii koh Ovamboland. Otandii koh Outapi! [I’m going to Ovamboland. I’m going to Outapi]
Ester: [A combination of a shriek and a ululation].

It turns out that my site at Anamulenge mission in Outapi is where my teacher’s mother lives. As a result, I came to Namibia with a list of contacts in the capital and in Outapi. When I arrived for my first day of school, the first teacher I met was Jona Ndiloshini, who turned out to be Ester’s younger cousin. He was as amazed by the coincidence as I was, but I think Jona was even more impressed that I could count to 20 in Oshiwambo. For the next week, whenever he had a chance, he asked me to count for him. It was both flattering and felt at the same time like I was a trained seal performing tricks, but people seemed to like it.


Anyway, towards the end of the first full week of school, Jona and I drove out to the homestead of Meme Monika, his aunt and the mother of my teacher, Ester. This was my first visit to a traditional homestead. It was a large compound, with three squarish concrete buildings with beds, and several circular, thatched-reed huts that were used for cooking and other purposes. Someone may have slept there, but it was hard to tell.









The family living at the compound seemed large – there were about fifteen people there that night. I don’t remember all of them, but I did meet and talk to several. There was Solomon, a barrel-chested and smiling twenty-something who was the chef for the evening; Maria, a beautiful but shy young woman who was leaving the next day to go to university; Meme Monika herself, who caught up with her daughter on my cell phone; Ndanjey, an adorable younger sister, Meme Kooloo (Respected Ma’am) Ester, Ester’s very enthusiastic grandmother; and Tate Kooloo (Respected Sir) Peter, who was some sort of a village elder who stopped by to welcome me.


To celebrate, Meme Monika decided to have a brai, which is an adopted Afrikaans word, I think, for barbecue. Solomon, one of her sons, dragged a goat towards the back of the compound. About half an hour later he proudly showed me how he had skinned the goat, and the goat’s hide lay drying on the roof of one of the huts. Then, Solomon cooked up the goat over a small wooden fire, with a metal grille balanced on three cement blocks.





During the time it took to cook, I sat and listened to most of the family speak in Oshiwambo, and all I could do was nod. So much for my learning! We drank a fairly sour, cloudy, alcoholic juice that was a little hard to stomach, and then one of the younger children led us on a short expedition in the dark to catch frogs that had come out because of the recent rains. These suckers were huge! I held one for awhile until it squirmed and got away. They have a hard, thick, flat spine that feels like a flexible plastic ruler when you hold the frog.

When it was time to eat, we began with barbecued goat’s meat. Solomon brought out a large bowl with assorted pieces of grilled goat, and the adults sat around milk crate which served as our table and ate with our hands. My friend Jona made fun of me for not eating enough meat off of the ribs. He tried to show me how to do it, which involved tearing off the end of the bone with his teeth and then stripping off the rest of the meat. I tried, but couldn’t quite manage it.

For the second round, Solomon brought out a large bowl of osheefeema, which is a Namibian staple. It is made from mahangu, a grain which I believe is also known as sorghum. The grain is pounded and then made into a thick mixture which tastes like Cream of Wheat if you put in too much wheat and too little water. We scooped up handfuls of the osheefeema and then dipped into another bowl that had both meat and some broth in it. It was a yummy meal, and we stuffed ourselves until nearly 10:30 at night.

Jona and his brother gave me a ride home in the back of his pickup truck, and I was so stuffed that I couldn’t even think of eating breakfast the following day!