Heading South for the Holidays

At the end of the first term, we had a three week holiday from school. My friend Lynn and I planned to meet in Cape Town, South Africa. Even though she was coming from New York and I was just coming from Namibia, it took me longer to get there. First, I had to get from Outapi to Windhoek, Namibia’s capital, 500 miles away.

To begin, I took a shared taxi from Outapi to Oshakati, the major city in the north. From Oshakati it is possible to hitchhike for free, but that's more successful if you're a pretty female volunteer which, alas, I am not. The other way is to take a combi (a passenger van, usually made by VW, seating about 14-18) or small minibus (seating 20-30).

Finding a minibus or combi is easy, but getting the vehicle to leave the hike point is hard. When I arrived, about a dozen men surrounded me shouting, “Windhoek? Walvis? Tsumeb?” Each of these guys was working for a different minibus. You can haggle with these guys a little bit, but price is less important than getting a good look inside the van to see how full it is. See, the buses only leave when they are full. Once you are sitting in a combi, it might be an hour or three before it actually leaves. One friend got in a combi at 8:30am and didn’t leave until 12:30pm. Sometimes, the combi drivers even pay people to sit inside to make it look full!

In my case, I was pretty lucky. We drove around the hike point for awhile, collecting a few more passengers. One guy kept jumping out to buy things at the nearby open market. After only an hour, our driver decided it was time to go, and we were not overcrowded like usual. Then we headed south on the one tar road toward Windhoek. You can see the route on the map below.


Heading south, what I was surprised by how ‘big’ the towns of Tsumeb, Otavi, and Otjiwarongo were. When we first drove north after training, they seemed like small towns, the sort that make you slow down for two minutes when driving on a two-lane country road. Compared to the north, however, these towns were well-developed metropolitan areas with large stores, paved side streets, and irrigated crops in the surrounding countryside. Unlike the cement box houses of the north, there were a few buildings with interesting architectural elements, like curves or arches. Another thing that surprised me was how, between the towns, there was nothing. Nada. Shrubs, small trees, & fences. Once or twice, we drove for 30 or 40 minutes without passing any small villages. In the north, there are small clusters of cuca shops and houses dotting the landscape. During a 10 mile run, I can pass by four different villages.

From Windhoek, I caught a ride all the way to Cape Town with a Peace Corps friend and his colleague, Mr. Galand. Mr. Galand is a non-white South African who teaches with Jason. During our drive, he showed a characteristic African endurance of discomfort and hunger. On the second day of our drive, he drove for 12 hours straight on a packet of crackers.

The road south from Windhoek was nearly 1,000 miles straight to Cape Town. South of Windhoek, the landscape turned bleaker. Grasses and small trees gave way to sparse, scrubby bushes on a wide, flat plain. Sun-baked hills rose in the distance. The few towns were based around natural springs, because there is never enough rain to have permanent rivers. Physically, this area looked as desolate and arid as southern Utah or Nevada.


The towns were different than those in the north, because the southern part of Namibia more fully experienced the ravages of apartheid. Each city that we passed had both a “town” and a “location.” These euphemisms refer to white and non-white areas, respectively. Often, the main road divided the two. The towns were situated on the better land with more trees, and there were paved roads, many shops, and nice houses. The locations were just the opposite: few trees to provide shade from unrelenting sun, sand roads, and houses that were small boxes made from cement bricks or cobbled together with pieces of corrugated metal. Seeing the stark divisions between rich and poor in the areas affected by apartheid, I appreciated Ovamboland much more.


Once we crossed the border, the first several hundred miles of South Africa looked just Namibia: dry, mountainous, and desolate, with little human or animal habitation. Then, as we neared a perennial river in a mountain valley, suddenly there was green everywhere! Using irrigation, the Afrikaners have grown a wealth of fruits and other crops. This shock of green freshened our eyes and the air after 1000 miles of arid, scrubby pastureland. Officially, the southeastern edge of South Africa has what is called a “Mediterranean climate.” It’s not lush like a rain forest, but it has enough rainfall to create rivers and irrigate crops. As a result, citrus farming and wine cultivation are both huge industries. For me, however, just seeing all the green made me feel at ease!

Welcome, Father!

Today I attended most of the priestly ordination of Father Boniface Benedictus Mwahindange (please don’t me how to pronounce that!). I didn’t really have much choice about whether I would attend or not, because the ordination happened about five feet from my door.

Last night, I went out with about 10 of my friends and colleagues for my birthday. We gathered at a local bar. After two or three large bottles of Tafel, the excellent local brew, I felt like I was speaking Oshiwambo fluently. At the very least, when newcomers arrived I was able to make the introductions in Oshiwambo. Eventually we moved to a second bar, which was one of the nicest bars I’ve been to in Namibia. It was large, well-lit, and clean. Outside of the bar itself, there was a formal outdoor seating area in the form of a poured concrete porch. Behind the bar, a nice buffet of beef, goat, oshifima, carrots and butternut squash was available. After a late dinner and a few more drinks, I headed home around 11:30 and feel into a deep sleep.

When I awoke Saturday morning with a slight hangover, I threw on my nicest clothes, a tie, my dress shoes, and stumbled out of my room, vaguely hoping that the ordination would not be too big of a deal. I was wrong. When I opened the door, I saw between 500 and 1,000 people sitting and standing in the courtyard of the boys’ hostel. Tenting had been erected to provide shade over much of the crowd. A small platform, not more than three feet from my bedroom door, had been transformed into a ceremonial altar, replete with flowers, a podium, and white draping. At least five hundred chairs from the mission, the school, and our neighboring school were arranged around the courtyard. Right in front of my door sat about 30 Catholic priests. I said a quick “Baruch ata” to myself and sat down to watch the ceremony.



This ordination was a big deal for several reasons. First, the Archbishop of Namibia was there to officiate. Secondly, the priest being ordained was from the Benedictine order, and was the first native Namibian Benedictine priest ever to be ordained. Finally, father-to-be Boniface was a local boy from the Ombalantu region. It was a case of local boy made good.

The most interesting part of the ceremony was how in many ways it resembled a wedding. At the beginning—well, only one hour into the ceremony, which technically still counts as the beginning, as the whole thing lasted five hours—the initiate was presented to the Archbishop by his proud parents. They gave him away just as in a traditional wedding. I think the Archbishop may even have asked if the parents had any objections, but because the whole thing was in Oshiwambo, I’m really just guessing here. After some singing by the nuns and girls from our school, there was a long ritual where the initiate prostrated himself completely before the Archbishop while a variety of prayers were said. The initiate may have lain there for 30 minutes or more, which emphasized the submission to God’s will. Once Father Boniface was formally ordained, the Archibishop presented him to the audience. Each of the thirty Catholic priests in attendance came up on the altar, hugged the new priest and said a few words to him. It was as if they were welcoming him into his new family, which I suppose they were. The Archibishop and the new priest then walked, arm in arm, around the crowd to much singing and celebration.




Despite my best intentions of sticking it out for the whole time, three hours of hot sun, Oshiwambo, and a mild hangover got the better of me. Anyhow, it seemed like I’d seen the good part already. Unable to go back to my room, I went over to Robin and Nicola’s house and took a nap. Fortunately, I woke up in time to catch the end and the food. There were so many people attending that food was served in four different areas of the mission; depending on a person’s importance, they were served different food in different areas. Priests and government ministers got the primo chow in the boys’ dining hall, nuns and community leaders got the next-best food in the girls’ hall, regular folks ate in the main hall, and children were served something outdoors under a tree. I was heading to food area #3 when Sister Daisy, my colleague, pulled me into nuns’ dining hall. All the salads were gone, but I did eat a piece or two of meat from the bulls which had been chased around the school the day before. I didn’t exactly enjoy it, but by the time I was done eating at least my headache had disappeared.

Would tomorrow's dinner please come to my office IMMEDIATELY?

At my old school in New York, our principal overused the P.A. system, calling out any staff member who was late for a meeting. Mr. Duch, the principal, didn't care if he interrupted classes five times a day, and you could always tell how pissed off he was by how he used the word immediately. If he didn’t use immediately at all, he was in a good mood. Sometimes he intentionally said the word softly, as in “Mr. Jones come down to the principal’s office immediately.” Then, you knew he was angry but trying to keep his temper. Most frequently, however, he would attack the beginning of the word in rage: “Mr. Jones, come down to the principal’s office IMMEDIATELY. Usually these announcements were merely annoying, but occasionally they were in the middle of Regents exams, which was unconscionable.

After yesterday, however, I realize that Mr. Duch can’t compete with a bunch of incompetent men trying to kill six bulls. While the students sat for their April exams, the mission where our school is housed was busy with preparations for a priest's ordination. The mission staff and our students had been busy for several weeks preparing: students in the hostel were made to weed and cut the grasses, a large banner went up, and the nuns and some of the more devout children had been practicing songs since February. On Friday, however, things took a more surreal turn.

Several local headmen donated bulls for the post-ordination feast, and when I got to school on Friday morning, these bulls were wandering around the mission grounds. Halfway through the morning’s three hour exam, a group of men began to try to slaughter the bulls. These guys were terrible bull-slaughterers. I first realized that something was amiss when I heard a shot, followed by the noise of a bull running past the staff room door. I ducked out to see what was going on. To my left, a bull was lumbering past the staff room and turning into the compound where most of the classes are held. Following him were six men. One man had a small rifle, but it was not of a sufficient caliber to bring down a bull. The other five men carried sticks and stones to throw towards at the bulls.


The technique for slaughtering the bull was terribly inefficient and cruel. The men with sticks tried to corner the bull, which usually meant they ran after the bull for a good 20-30 minutes at a crack, occasionally hitting him in the flank with a stick. If they finally did corner an animal, the man with the gun would advance as close as possible, shoot, and the run like hell. Because the gun was too weak or the man's aim too poor, shooting the bull only wounded it. Then angry bull would charge around the mission, sometimes through the through the classroom compound. One particular bull, a large black one, had been shot several times in the face and was pretty angry about the whole situation. I can't blame him. The men chased this particular bull around the mission and the school grounds for a couple of hours.

The Indian nuns and I looked on, somewhere between shocked, and disgusted. The Ovambos, both young and old, enjoyed the spectacle. The men chasing the bulls seemed to think it was some sort of a game. The students watched avidly from the windows of their classrooms, and a few brave ones stepped outside to see what was going on. Whenever a bull ran by their classroom, the children would all scream and run inside, smiling and chattering. Now, mind you, this was in the middle of an exam! I’m glad it wasn’t my test they were taking.

I finally watched the men bring one of the bulls down. They had shot it several times, and when it tried to turn away, several men pelted it in the head and face with large stones. It faltered, swaying unsteadily on its legs as if drunk, but did not fall down. Then one of the men ran behind and grabbed its tail, and the poor creature tried to run more time, dragging the man behind it. But by now the bull was so weak it could not run quickly, and when the other men caught up with it they stoned and shot it to death.

The interruptions to class were bad enough, and far worse than anything my old principal could do. But what I still can’t understand is the wanton cruelty in slaughtering the animals. Had they merely tied up the bull first, they could have been done in minutes rather than hours. There was no reason for these bulls to be chased around the mission for an hour or two, injured and frightened. There was no reason why the men could not have secured a better gun. There was no reason for the men to enjoy this cruelty. The poor bulls were competing in a game they could not win.

Better Late Than Seder

The day after I returned from the royal wedding, I hosted a small seder for my two site mates, Nicola and Robin. Because of a variety of reasons, I had not attended a Seder at the beginning of the holiday, but I was able to hold a seder on the last night of Passover. Robin and Nicola, not knowing the difference between the first night and the last night, didn’t care.

Finding the right foods for the ritual Passover meal was not easy in Ovamboland. In Windhoek, the capital, there is a Conservative synagogue and a small Jewish population. However, Windhoek is an 8 hour drive from here. I would wager there are perhaps 20 Jewish people within a 250 mile radius of Outapi, so the local markets don’t have a “Jewish foods” section. The most important food, of course, is matza, and luckily the only ingredients for matza are bread and flour. I found a recipe on the internet and made my own. According to the recipe you have no more than 17 minutes from the time the water hits the flour to the time the dough must go in the oven. I think I took a few minutes too long to knead the dough. When it came out of the oven, it tasted like boring pita bread, not matza. But it still tasted bad, and that's the important part!


Some other elements of the seder plate were also improvised. For parsley, I used lettuce. For charoset, I chopped apples, crushed peanuts, and then used yogurt to the hold them together. The whole concoction was quite tasty, and we ate it for dessert for several days. For bitter herbs, the closest thing I could find was a jar of German spicy mustard. Given our people’s history, I figure that works. For a shankbone, I went to the deep freezer and removed one of the legs of the goat we slaughtered the month before. Mogen David wasn’t available at the local bottle shop, so instead we used a cheap Namibian wine. However, the local wine is called Tassenberg – maybe it’s made by Jews! The actual meal was a stew of brisket, potatoes, carrots and onions.


Even if the food wasn’t spot on, we still retold the story. My aunt Phyllis reminded me that the story is the most important part of the holiday. My friends learned the story of Passover, of how God helped the Jews to escape slavery in Egypt. We shared my one Haggadah and passed it from person to person. We asked the four questions, described the four sons, and dipped our fingers in Tassenberg for each of the ten plagues. I sang “Dayenu” horribly out of tune, while Nicola and Robin looked on skeptically. Most of all, we reminded ourselves that Passover is not only about the Jews escaping from Pharoah thousands of years ago. Passover is about any people who are still in bondage in the world: across the globe, some people remain in slavery or indentured servitude; others are in the grip of oppressive, totalitarian regimes; and many remain in the grip of desperate poverty. We are lucky to have escaped such bondage thousands of years ago, but this holiday reminds us about those who are not so lucky.

Of course, it also reminds us that Jewish holidays can be summarized in three simple sentences: "They tried to kill us. We survived. Let's eat!"

Rockin' Royal Wedding

I’ve been to small weddings and large weddings, but never before have I been to a wedding that resembled a rock concert. This weekend, however, while camping at Nakambale, Nicola and I had the chance to attend a traditional Ndonga wedding party.

While we were resting at the campsite after a short walk in the bush, a rotund Ovambo man came up and introduced himself to us. He explained that he was one of the best men for his friend’s wedding, which had begun yesterday about 30km away. Today, the wedding celebration was to continue at traditional homestead of the groom’s family, just 2k from the campground. The preparations at the homestead were not quite ready, so he was planned to bring the wedding party to the campsite for a short period of time. When we asked who was getting married, we found out that the groom was the nephew of the traditional king of the Ndonga people, one of about six Ovambo tribes in Namibia. This was, in fact, a royal wedding!

An hour later, a small caravan of expensive SUVs and double-cab 4x4 pickups rolled into Nakambale. Forty or more well-dressed people spewed forth from the vehicles and commandeered the four picnic tables. Nicola, the three Finnish museum students who were staying at Nakambale, and I watched from 30 meters away, unsure what protocol was when a royal wedding party crashes your campsite. Do you invite them for tea?

At first glance, it seemed like a very typical western wedding party, in western clothing, drinking coca-colas and bottled beer. We gazed from the sidelines, unsure what to do. Then four of the bridesmaids, in shimmering purple dresses, went into the campsite’s kitchen. My water bottle was in the refridgerator there, so now that I had an excuse to introduce myself. I strode into the kitchen and said hello, and they turned out be very friendly. When they realized that I had a digital camera with me, all but one wanted to show off their outfits for the camera. I was more than happy to oblige.





The women you see in the pictures were bridesmaids for the groom, not the bride. In Ndonga weddings, they explained, both the groom and the bride have their own set of bridesmaids and groomsmen. I asked if the women on both sides had to buy the same dress, or if they were different. All the bridesmaids purchased the same dress, but the color of their shoes differed depending on whether the woman represented the bride or the groom.

The people in the wedding party were clearly not in dire poverty. The bridesmaids all wore expensive dresses and shoes, and most everyone was immaculately dressed. Many of these people were educated and had decent jobs, which may be a result of the way Namibia was colonized. Rather than trying to destroy traditional leaders like the French did, the Germans, British and Afrikaners recognized traditional leaders and paid them a salary to gain their cooperation. As a result, the royalty here also achieved monetary wealth and status in a western hierarchy. The people in the wedding party represent not only traditional royalty and but also modern wealth and status. The groom for example, not only stands to inherit the throne of the Ndonga kingdom, but he also makes a good living as a professional pilot.

After talking to the bridesmaids for awhile, the groom’s mother beckoned me to her. I came over and greeted her in the very best Oshiwambo I could muster. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I think I said about three sentences beyond the standard greeting and that impressed her. I squatted to talk with her, and to my surprise found out her English was excellent. She and her husband, who was a clergyman, spent time in Iowa while he was training for the church. They lived in Dubuque, and I wonder if they went to the same seminary that my friend Matt’s parents atteded. Talk about a small world, huh? At the end of our conversation, she invited Nicola, the Finns, and me to join them at the wedding reception. How could we say no to a royal wedding?





We began to prepare for the reception. Nicola and I looked like, well, crap. We had been camping and our “nice clothes” consisted of jeans and the least stinky t-shirts we could find. The three Finns were better off. Two of them had bought traditional Ovambo dresses just a few days before. When put on these colorful though somewhat shapeless outfits, the bridesmaids oohed and aahed. We snapped a couple more pictures, and then the wedding party jumped into their pickups and SUVs and sped off down the dirt road to the groom’s mother’s farm.

Our group followed on foot with Maggie, the proprietor of the campsite. The walk in the mid-afternoon wasn’t far, just one or two kilometers. As we approached the farm, we crested a small hill and the sight looked for all the world like a summer concert at an outdoor music venue. Several large tents were set up. Cars were parked haphazardly on the grass surrounding the tents. People were streaming in from several directions. For just a moment, I felt like I was walking down the road to see a the Grateful Dead at Alpine Valley in Wisconsin.



When we got closer to the site, Maggie directed us to a field perhaps 500m from the tents. Here, the bride and groom were slowly promenading toward the tents, surrounded by wedding party. The entire party stopped frequently as a variety of groups performed traditional entertainment in front of the couple. Two different groups of dancers performed several times each. A group of four young men riding bareback on horses rode by occasionally. Older women ululated, and a few women fanned – and occasionally hit – the couple with switches made from horse tails. Walking the 500m took perhaps 90 minutes. Surrounding the couple and lining their route were hundreds of people from the community. Many were dressed traditionally but some, especially a few younger men, just showed up wearing ratty trousers and t-shirts. So that’s what party-crashing looks like Ovamboland.





After the procession, it got kind of boring for awhile. There were a lot of speeches in Oshiwambo, and a long period of time where wrapped gifts and cash were given to the couple. Nothing was opened at the time, though I could make out some power tools whose shape was visible beneath the wrapping. By now I was getting hungry and wondering how the hosts could possibly feed all these people. Just then, the groom’s mother called for me to follow her so that my group could get into the food tents.

When we finally went inside the compound we came to the tents, under which tables and chairs had been set up to seat roughly 300 people. Not everyone made it inside; the family had gatekeepers to keep some out, but I believe even those were fed something outside the compound. There were large bowls of different salads, and then chicken and beef to eat. Instead of waiters and waitresses, the bridesmaids and groomsmen rushed around serving drinks, and I filled up on Tassie, a cheap red wine, mixed with Coca-Cola. We weren’t in the best section, so we got some food but not quite enough to fill our stomachs. A band played in the background, and the conversation with my unfamiliar table companions was just as awkward as at a wedding back home.

Then, just as darkness fell around 6:30 pm, it was all over. Even though the band was still playing, only a few children remained, listening to the music. Workers began to stack the tables. Everyone seemed to know that it was time to leave, and scores of people streamed away from the farm. This time, we caught a ride back in a pickup truck. By 7:30 we were back at the tents, amazed, surprised, and exhilarated to have seen a Ndonga Royal Wedding.

A Finn Time in Nakambale

My birthday week coincided with Easter, which meant a long weekend break from school. Over the holiday, I went to Nakambale with Nicola, the German volunteer who also works at my site. Nakambale, located about 140 km from Outapi, was the site of the first mission to Ovamboland, founded by a Finn named Martin Rautanen. He came to Ovamboland around 1870 and spent the rest of his life here, probably because he had never seen so much sun in his life. Rautanen built a church and a mission school, and translated the bible into Oshiwambo. Today, the church and the graveyard remain standing. The old mission house has been rebuilt and turned into a museum detailing missionary life and Ovambo culture circa 1870. There is also a small campsite and a dilapidated traditional homestead.

When we first got there, Nicola and I were just hoping that it would be open, because we weren’t able to book in advance. Luckily we met Maggie, the extremely friendly manager, who showed us around and told us we could throw our tent down anywhere. The rest of the people camping there were mostly Finns, plus a couple of old Ovambo guys who were rebuilding the homestead. There were Finnish missionary students here on holiday, and another group of Finnish museum students doing an internship in Namibia. I had only met one Finn in my life prior to this weekend, and then I met ten of them. Life sure can be Finny sometimes. (Sorry, but I can't help myself. While volunteering here for low wages, I've been punnyless).

The museum museum was pretty interesting. It was built in the old mission house where Martin lived with his wife and his five children (or six, I can’t remember now) children, of whom only three made it to adulthood. Half of the exhibits were about mission life, which looked pretty similar to a pioneer lifestyle in the U.S. in the 1800s. Most of the furniture was practical and solid, made from rough-hewn wood. The missus used an old, foot-powered Singer sewing machine, and the wagon that brought the Rautanens to Ovamboland looked similar to a pioneer era prairie schooner.


The more interesting part of the museum depicted the Ovambos in the late 1800s. Just over 100 years ago, the people in Ovamboland looked very different than they do today. Back then, they dressed in animal skins, the women wore headdresses, and neither gender covered their chests. The land was more heavily forested and full of game; as a result, hunting with bows and arrows was important. Today, many Ovambos wear trousers or jeans, with t-shirts sporting images of favorite musicians such as Gazza and The Dogg.
What surprised me in the pictures was the similarity between the Ovambos of yesterday and the Himbas of today. The Himba are a very traditional tribe of pastoral herders who live in a very dry and rocky area just west of Ovamboland. Even today the men dress in animal skins, the women wear headdresses but are bare-chested, and the families live in small huts. In short, they look today like the Ovambos of yesteryear. Why did the Ovambos modernize while the Himbas did not? Why do the Ovambos drive 4x4 Toyota pickups while the Himbas still follow their cattle? Was it just that missionaries came to Ovamboland first? Did the remote nature of Himba territory impede diffusion of Western culture? Or are there other factors at work?

Still pondering these questions, Nicola and I left the museum and wandered towards the old graveyard and church. Then, the sunset came. I sat down and let the flaming sun fill my soul. When I was a little child watching sunsets over the water in Wisconsin, their beauty made me feel a connection to a higher power. Since then, I always try to catch a sunset if possible because of their beauty and their spirituality. The spiritual feeling is not always there, but sometimes it is. This night, after a good day of exploring, I was grateful to feel it again. It was a fitting way to observe Easter and Passover.

When we woke the next morning, Nicola celebrated Easter by eating a piece of boring cake with a chunk of chocolate on it. I celebrated by running for 85 minutes. After that we took a short walk, found a bar named for my hometown team, and prepared to go home. As we started to pack up, however, we were interrupted – by a wedding!

Indian Passover in Ovamboland

Several friends and family have asked, jokingly or seriously, what I was doing for Passover here. After the entry about slaughtering the goat, one person wanted to know if there was a Pascal lamb that I had my sights set upon. Although we are right now only halfway through the holiday, I can tell already it is unlike any other Passover I’ve ever had.

At first, I thought I would go to the main town in the north where a couple of Jewish Peace Corps Volunteers were gathering to have a Seder. Then, the host’s house lost electricity so we couldn’t cook, and the main organizing Jew backed out, so at the last minute I had no Seder at all. I was pretty bummed, and so I talked to my friends Robin and Nicola, who agreed to let me do a Seder at their house. But at this point it was too late to do one for the first night, so we agreed to do it a week later – still during Passover, but not on the first or second night like we are supposed to!

Next, for the first time in probably 20 years, I decided to try to observe Passover this year. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with wanting to find a way to establish an identity here that the folks at the mission can understand. They are religious, and they understand and respect someone else who is following the codes of a religion even if it is not their own. Or perhaps it is their example of devotion that made me want to do it. Or, perhaps, the bread I had was going moldy. I don’t know.

Anyway, adhering to the Passover rules has been fairly easy, although I’m not eating products that are rabbi-certified. For breakfast I’m mostly eating Morvite, which is a sugary instant sorghum cereal. It’s kind of like Cream of Wheat except you can add cold or hot water to it, and I discovered that it tastes really good when mixed with one spoonful of peanut butter. When I eat from the hostel, the staple is oshifima porridge, which is just ground pearl millet and water, so that’s fine.

One remaining questions was whether or not the rice, fish and veggies “pot of the week” that I made is Kosher. My friend Ronnie Broudo told me on the phone that my people, Ashkenazis, don’t believe that rice is kosher for Passover. His people, the Sephardim, believe it is. Immediately I responded, “Well, I’m south of the equator now, like a lot of the Sephardic Jews, so rice is kosher for me this year.” Ronnie is used to me making up my own rules about religion, and just laughed.

Yesterday was my birthday, and it was also Maundy Thursday and the last day of school before a four-day Easter break. I didn’t have big plans for the day because most of the teachers leave for their homes on long weekends, and besides, I couldn’t have a beer with them anyway! I had resigned myself to a quiet evening so when Sister Khotaram, my favorite of the Indian nuns, invited me to a small celebration after Thurday evening’s mass, I readily accepted. Then she told me that they were celebrating Passover.

Those of you who know little about Maundy Thursday, like me, might not have realized that Maundy Thursday celebrates the Last Supper, which was a Passover meal. So I was going to be able to have a form of Seder after all, even if it was with the Indian nuns. When 9 o’clock rolled around and the Mass and Adoration had finished, I grabbed my Maxwell House Haggadah and headed over to the Indian nuns’ house.

When I arrived, Sister Annie ushered me into a modest room, perhaps 15’x20’, that had several couches and about a dozen chairs arranged against the walls in a jagged circle. I chatted with Nicola, my German neighbor who is a volunteering here as an occupational therapist, and Father Joe, one of three priests here at the mission. I showed them the Haggadah, and was a bit embarrassed by the big sticker on the front of it which said:

Buy Maxwell House Coffee
(any can or jar)
GET ONE FREE HAGGADAH
while store supplies last

So much for making me seem particularly devout! Several of the Indian sisters moved about, arranging snacks and chairs. Sister Khotaram, who is my favorite because her eyes crinkle with humor, brought in an electric fan. Sister Daisy, who is serious but pleasant, solemly turned on a lava lamp.

Finally, the rest of the guests arrived. Altogether we were about 20. Two Indian priests were there including Father Joe and his younger counterpart, Father Byjou. Five Indian nuns were there, and then perhaps eight or nine Ovambo nuns came in as well. I don’t know the Ovambo nuns as well, because only one of them, Sister Kahala, is attached to the school. She is the matron for the girl’s hostel, so I don’t see her too frequently, and she scares me a big because she usually seems very stern. The party was rounded out by the ‘foreigners’: a Philippine woman named May, Nicola, and myself.



Father Joe began a brief service, explaining tonight they were celebrating how the Jews “passed over” into Sinai from the land of slavery, and also how Jesus helped people pass into heaven. I refrained from commenting that Passover meant when God passed over the homes of the Jews while slaughtering all the other first born. Then Father Joe read a short passage from Exodus, describing God’s instructions to Moses on how to observe the holiday. I didn’t know that you could eat either a goat or a lamb for the holiday, but there it was, right in Exodus.

Then Father Joe came to the, ‘matza,’ which looked like was a piece orangey-brown flatcake. It filled up a circular plate and the middle of it a small cross lay flat. Next to the bread was a pitcher of sweet milk on which floated another cross. In his sing-song Indian accent, Father Joe explained, “We are eating this unleavenèd bread tonight to remind us of the Passover that Jesus celebrated at the Last Supper, and of the sacrifice that Jesus made the next day.” It’s the first time I’d ever celebrated a Passover for Jesus!

Next, Father Joe broke the ‘matza’ and handed out small pieces to each of the guests, mentioning to them that if they wanted to more about the Passover they could ask me, because I was Jewish. Trying to contribute, I volunteered to say the Hebrew prayer over matza before we ate it. Father Joe was delighted and all eyes turned to me. I realized at that moment what a stupid offer I had made, because I didn’t exactly remember the prayer! The one I remembered was for bread, not matza! So, with about 18 devout Catholics looking on, I improvised, “Baruch ata adonai, elohaynu melech haolam, ha motzi lechem min ha matza.” Did I even get close?

Then we ate. For all of you who don’t like matza, you need to come to an Indian Passover in Ovamboland. The nuns’ version was a flatbread made of rice powder, delicately seasoned with Indian spices and then fried. It tasted like a potato bhaji, and is by far the best form of matza I’ve had. Then we had soft drinks and fruit. We talked about food, and I showed a picture of the Seder plate to the Ovambo nuns sitting near me, explaining the symbolism of the different items.

Finally, Sister Francis, the delicate-boned Indian nun who teaches math, asked if it was indeed my birthday. I answered yes, explaining how my birthday often fell during Passover, and how I hated that as a kid because it meant that I couldn’t eat cake. The assembled crowd, both Indian and Ovambo, thought this was hilarious, and one of the sisters brought over a peach and an apple for me. Father Byjou said, “Now you will have apple-peach cake!” and then the whole group sang “Happy Birthday.” I sat there, looking at the fusion of Ovambos and Indians, seasoned with a dash of German and Philippino, and marveled at my very special Passover.

Sports Competition at Okalongo Senior Secondary School

On Saturday, March 31 Canisianum competed in a tournament against 20 other senior secondary schools, and I wrangled a spot in the cab of one of the two bakkies (pickup trucks) that transported the teams there. As you can see from the pictures below, a spot inside the cab is a coveted place, reserved for elders. We drove with perhaps twenty kids in the back of each pickup for about 30 miles down a rutted, pockmarked gravel road to the smart-looking Okalongo Senior Secondary school.




The sporting tournament was an all-day event and at times felt like an outdoor carnival. A DJ/announcer set up his table and speakers facing the soccer field, and Namibian music, mostly rap and kwaito (township rap/reggae), played constantly. Kids from the school sold cool drinks, fruit, and potato chips, and an enterprising woman barbecued up some tasty pieces of goat and beef. There were also a variety of cuca shops nearby, and I suspect that many of the kids wandered away from the sports field when it wasn’t their turn to play, buying things and occasionally trying to sneak a beer.

Probably the best part of the whole day was seeing my principal, Mr. Kalipi, arrive at the tournament sporting a professional sports jersey. Take a careful look, and those of you from my home town may be in for a surprise.




In all, my school fielded three different teams: boys’ soccer, girls’ netball, and boys’ volleyball. Being an amateur volleyball player, I spent most of my time watching the volleyball team. Our team was excellent, despite being the shortest in the tournament. The reason that we are so short is that our school is private, and kids who fail a grade are kicked out. As a result, our grade eleven and grade twelve students are about 17 or 18 years old. At other schools, there are several students in their early 20s. Even though they were the shortest team in the tournament, they were by far the best organized. They almost always had three hits on the ball, and were very good at setting up smashes, even though some of the players could not even clear the net. The volleyball team won three matches the first day, and then the next day they came back and qualified for the final, which will be the weekend of the April 15.




The boys playing soccer also won their game the first day, although they did not score the winning goal. Their opponents, under only moderate pressure, tried to kick the ball to their own goalie. The ball bounced over the goalie’s head, right into the net for a score. The next day, when they came back to play the second round game, their opponents were not so helpful, and they lost a tie-breaker shootout 3-4.



The one game that I couldn’t get into was netball, a variant of basketball played by teams of six girls each. The girls aren’t allowed to run or dribble the ball, so the key to winning the game is excellent passing. As each girl caught the ball, she would whirl around, taking her one allowed step in a way that allowed her to survey the entire court to find an open teammate. Once a team managed to get the ball under the hoop, there was little competition. The girls are not allowed to jump to block shots, so it was pretty much guaranteed that, if they could get the ball downcourt, they would score. Unfortunately our girls lost by a score of 11-9.



At the end of 12 hours in the sun I was drained and exhausted, but the kids were exhilarated because both of the boys’ teams had advanced to the second round. As our overloaded bakkie came into the school gates, the players started a victory chant. It sounded like a traditional call and response song, adapted for sports use:

Leader: Aasamane!
Group: Ugh, ugh!
Leader: Aasamane!
Group: Ooh, ooh!
Leader: Canisia!
Group: Ugh, ugh!
Leader: Aasamane!
Group: Ooh, ooh!

When we debarked from the pickup, I asked one of the kids what they had been singing. “I don’t know what it means,” he answered. “It’s a song from South Africa…I think it’s in Zulu. We just heard it on TV” Once again, modern technology bumped its head into traditional culture and created something brand new.