Today, a strange thing happened. White people came into the library where I work. And not just one, but five. Up in the north where I live, there are less than a dozen whites in a town of over 7,000 people. Seven live at the hospital, including my friend Ant, two German doctors at the hospital and their two children, and a Russian doctor and her obnoxious American husband who calls himself “Indy”, as in “Indiana Jones.” Dr. Jones he is not. More like Dr. Whine. Then there’s my neighbor Carly, an Afrikaner couple who just opened a butchery and restaurant, and one lady who works at the bank but lives far from town. With the exception of the Afrikaners and the bank lady, all of us are only here temporarily as volunteers. It’s so unusual to see white people in town that if one happens to stroll through the open market, or sit outside a bar having a drink, I too will stare at them. Who is this white person in my town, I wonder? Often it’s a volunteer from deeper in the bush, one who I’ve met at a party somewhere, so I’ll go over to say hello.
But the other day, as I looked up from work in the library, I saw five eager, rosy-cheeked college students from the U.K., minded by a Namibian guide. The students were in Namibia as part of a course they were taking on international development at their university, and their two-week visit to Namibia was the ‘experiential’ part of their course. They started asking questions about the education system and religion in Namibia, and before I knew it I was a teacher again -- explaining everything that I knew about the place to an eager audience. It was clear that I had a need to talk about it, and they wanted to learn. So, we made plans to meet up for drinks later the next evening.
As it turned out, a couple of volunteers from nearby villages were coming to stay with me overnight, and my friend Ant also came out with us. So at the bar, we were a combined total of nine white people sitting around a table. It might have felt comfortable to the five students, but to us volunteers it just felt completely weird. There’s so many white people here, we all thought. For the most part, black Namibians ignored us until the night wore on, when several drunkards came by to insinuate themselves into the conversation, as Namibians are wont to do. The five college students were a little freaked out so my friend Jocie, who knew the owner of the bar, asked for the security guys to move the interlopers on.
The highlight of the evening was when two of the students started whispering to each other while glancing at me furtively. Finally, one of them shyly asked me, “Do you write a blog?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied, surprised that someone outside my circle of friends had read it. “Have you read it?”
“Just a little bit. We found it before we left, and really just looked at the pictures of the flooding.”
Surprised as I was that they had found the blog, I was a little disappointed that they had only glanced at it. Later, however, Jocie told me that they had asked her a whole series of questions about me to determine if I was indeed the blogger they read: was I a runner? Did I visit South Africa during my time? Did I teach at a Catholic school? They had read the whole darn thing! For a day or two I walked on air, excited that people beyond my circle of friends were reading the blog and that it was useful for them. Since then, I’ve actually had several other people contact me via the blog, usually researchers or volunteers who are interested in Outapi. And each time I get such an email, a silly smile spreads across my face. So, if you’re one of those people, let me know!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
What Am I Doing Here?
Many people have asked me, “What exactly are you doing there this year?” I hadn’t been able to answer that question very well when I was back home in December. Although I knew that I was doing a project involving libraries in Omusati Region, my precise role had not been defined. But the The Ministry of Education, which runs libraries, had indicated that they had a project for me to develop school libraries in the region, so I figured that’s what I would be doing.
When I got here in January, it became clear that the Ministry of Education didn’t have a very clear idea of what I was doing either. They attached me to the Outapi Community Library, which is the main library for our region. This particular library occupies one room in the Youth Center, a large building with a weight room, pool table, meeting room, craft center, sewing room and computer lab.
The library itself is overstaffed: there are four people, excluding me, who work full-time in a one-room library that’s only open from 8-5, Monday to Friday. They are currently advertising for one more clerk as well. The head librarian is Gregentia Nakwalondo, a squat, quiet milquetoast of a manager who is often resistant to change and indecisive. Underneath her are the two library assistants. Meme (Miss) Emily is a tall, smart, broad shouldered woman with a sweet daughter named Steffi who attends Power Station Christian primary school. There’s no power station nearby, so I assume the name refers to the power they get from God. Meme Pea (pronounced Pay-ah) is a sweet, short, chubby woman who is quite friendly but picks up on some things a bit slowly. Finally, there is Tate (Sir) Sackaria, the cleaner. He’s a nice guy, enthusiastic about his dead easy job. Each morning he opens the windows and sweeps the library, then sits around reading books and playing with the computers until it’s time to close down. There is also an adorable three-year old named Ntipiwa who hangs around the library all day long. Her mother works in the youth center, but this little girl seems to love hanging out in the library. Sometimes I read her a story in English or Oshiwambo. She also loves playing spider solitaire on the computer, although all she knows how to do is watch the cards deal themselves out!
Meme Nakwalondo didn’t seem to have much of a plan for my work, which is unfortunately a fairly common problem here for non-teaching volunteers. Volunteers who are doing administrative, community health, or youth development roles frequently complain of not having much to do. It’s as if the various Ministries of Education, Health, and Youth all want the cachet of having a volunteer without having a specific task for them to do. My Peace Corps neighbor, Carly, is struggling with the same issue. She is also based at the youth center, but many days just sits in the library reading books. Anyway, after spending the first two or three days with no direction, I began to develop a series of workshops to train teacher-librarians in the my state, Omusati.
In Omusati alone there are 271 schools, and each one supposedly has a library. A few of these libraries are nothing more than a box of books. Most are comprised of maybe 300-500 books in a dark storeroom. Some lucky schools actually have a classroom which has been converted to a library. In almost all cases, none of these teachers had received training in how to run a library. Well, to be honest, neither had I when I was appointed the librarian at Canisianum last year. But I knew what the Dewey Decimal System was, I knew how libraries were supposed to work, and I reread many times the usefully-titled book, How to Run a School Library.
My colleague Emily and I planned eight one-day workshops in different parts of the region, with about 35 teachers invited to each workshop. Getting from Outapi to each workshop site was an ordeal. The workshops were all located between 15 and 60 miles from Outapi, but several were on gravel roads far off the main track. The Ministry allocated me a 4-wheel drive bakkie, or pickup truck, which was great. The only problem was that the starter on the truck didn’t work. At all. Each morning, the staff of the youth center had to push-start me so I could get to the workshop. If I couldn’t get it started on the first push, the men would mutter about how the oshilumbu (white person) didn’t know how to push-start a car. Each afternoon, the workshop participants push-started me so I could go home. Although I would have liked to do a little shopping on the way, once that bakkie got was running there was no way I could turn it off until I reached my destination.
The workshops themselves went very well, although it was a little scary to see how little the participants knew about libraries. I always opened each workshop by asking people to tell us their name, school, how long they had been the teacher-librarian, and what they wanted to learn from the workshop. Several times, an experienced teacher-librarian said, “Today, the one thing that I really want to know is what the difference is between fiction and non-fiction.” Seriously.
During each workshop, we created a small library in the confines of the meeting hall. We brought about 60 books with us, and taught the participants how to classify them, arrange them on the shelves, check them in and out of the library, and so on. By the end of the day, we had a mini-library in each workshop room. Judging from the workshop evaluations, I’d say it was a success.
After the workshops finished, however, I was at a bit of a loss. At first Meme Gregentia had nothing for me to do, but when I suggested that I design a database to help them keep track of their books and circulation, she thought that was a good idea. As a result, I’ve gotten in a bit over my head in programming a database for the library. I’m making progress, but it’s slower going than I hoped. I’m no database programmer and sitting in front of a computer all day is driving me crazy. While it would be nice for the library to have a database on the computer, it’s not really essential. I keep feeling that what I’m doing this term is just not very necessary.
On a final note, this is my first non-teaching job since March of 2001, and I’m finding it pretty hard to adjust. I don’t like the slow pace at the library, and to my complete surprise, I even miss students. The first weeks in particular were very hard, when I would see students from Canisianum and wish that I could be working with them. I like the lower stress levels, but it’s a bit boring too. I’m not sure if what I miss is teaching, per se, or simply feeling useful. Either way, something will have to change soon. It’s not worth being so far from friends and family to be spinning my wheels like this.
When I got here in January, it became clear that the Ministry of Education didn’t have a very clear idea of what I was doing either. They attached me to the Outapi Community Library, which is the main library for our region. This particular library occupies one room in the Youth Center, a large building with a weight room, pool table, meeting room, craft center, sewing room and computer lab.
The library itself is overstaffed: there are four people, excluding me, who work full-time in a one-room library that’s only open from 8-5, Monday to Friday. They are currently advertising for one more clerk as well. The head librarian is Gregentia Nakwalondo, a squat, quiet milquetoast of a manager who is often resistant to change and indecisive. Underneath her are the two library assistants. Meme (Miss) Emily is a tall, smart, broad shouldered woman with a sweet daughter named Steffi who attends Power Station Christian primary school. There’s no power station nearby, so I assume the name refers to the power they get from God. Meme Pea (pronounced Pay-ah) is a sweet, short, chubby woman who is quite friendly but picks up on some things a bit slowly. Finally, there is Tate (Sir) Sackaria, the cleaner. He’s a nice guy, enthusiastic about his dead easy job. Each morning he opens the windows and sweeps the library, then sits around reading books and playing with the computers until it’s time to close down. There is also an adorable three-year old named Ntipiwa who hangs around the library all day long. Her mother works in the youth center, but this little girl seems to love hanging out in the library. Sometimes I read her a story in English or Oshiwambo. She also loves playing spider solitaire on the computer, although all she knows how to do is watch the cards deal themselves out!
Meme Nakwalondo didn’t seem to have much of a plan for my work, which is unfortunately a fairly common problem here for non-teaching volunteers. Volunteers who are doing administrative, community health, or youth development roles frequently complain of not having much to do. It’s as if the various Ministries of Education, Health, and Youth all want the cachet of having a volunteer without having a specific task for them to do. My Peace Corps neighbor, Carly, is struggling with the same issue. She is also based at the youth center, but many days just sits in the library reading books. Anyway, after spending the first two or three days with no direction, I began to develop a series of workshops to train teacher-librarians in the my state, Omusati.
In Omusati alone there are 271 schools, and each one supposedly has a library. A few of these libraries are nothing more than a box of books. Most are comprised of maybe 300-500 books in a dark storeroom. Some lucky schools actually have a classroom which has been converted to a library. In almost all cases, none of these teachers had received training in how to run a library. Well, to be honest, neither had I when I was appointed the librarian at Canisianum last year. But I knew what the Dewey Decimal System was, I knew how libraries were supposed to work, and I reread many times the usefully-titled book, How to Run a School Library.
My colleague Emily and I planned eight one-day workshops in different parts of the region, with about 35 teachers invited to each workshop. Getting from Outapi to each workshop site was an ordeal. The workshops were all located between 15 and 60 miles from Outapi, but several were on gravel roads far off the main track. The Ministry allocated me a 4-wheel drive bakkie, or pickup truck, which was great. The only problem was that the starter on the truck didn’t work. At all. Each morning, the staff of the youth center had to push-start me so I could get to the workshop. If I couldn’t get it started on the first push, the men would mutter about how the oshilumbu (white person) didn’t know how to push-start a car. Each afternoon, the workshop participants push-started me so I could go home. Although I would have liked to do a little shopping on the way, once that bakkie got was running there was no way I could turn it off until I reached my destination.
The workshops themselves went very well, although it was a little scary to see how little the participants knew about libraries. I always opened each workshop by asking people to tell us their name, school, how long they had been the teacher-librarian, and what they wanted to learn from the workshop. Several times, an experienced teacher-librarian said, “Today, the one thing that I really want to know is what the difference is between fiction and non-fiction.” Seriously.
During each workshop, we created a small library in the confines of the meeting hall. We brought about 60 books with us, and taught the participants how to classify them, arrange them on the shelves, check them in and out of the library, and so on. By the end of the day, we had a mini-library in each workshop room. Judging from the workshop evaluations, I’d say it was a success.
After the workshops finished, however, I was at a bit of a loss. At first Meme Gregentia had nothing for me to do, but when I suggested that I design a database to help them keep track of their books and circulation, she thought that was a good idea. As a result, I’ve gotten in a bit over my head in programming a database for the library. I’m making progress, but it’s slower going than I hoped. I’m no database programmer and sitting in front of a computer all day is driving me crazy. While it would be nice for the library to have a database on the computer, it’s not really essential. I keep feeling that what I’m doing this term is just not very necessary.
On a final note, this is my first non-teaching job since March of 2001, and I’m finding it pretty hard to adjust. I don’t like the slow pace at the library, and to my complete surprise, I even miss students. The first weeks in particular were very hard, when I would see students from Canisianum and wish that I could be working with them. I like the lower stress levels, but it’s a bit boring too. I’m not sure if what I miss is teaching, per se, or simply feeling useful. Either way, something will have to change soon. It’s not worth being so far from friends and family to be spinning my wheels like this.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Road Rules
Compared to most other countries in Africa, Namibia has an amazing road system. Why? Well, for one, there actually are roads between all the major towns. Secondly, these roads are, for most part, paved. If they’re not paved, the major towns are at least linked by what in Namibia we would call ‘good gravel’ roads, which are wide, graded gravel tracks that cars can comfortably drive along at 50mph. Compared to countries like the Congo, which is larger than Texas yet has only 200 miles of paved highway, Namibia is doing quite well.
Nonetheless, there are a few quirks about driving in Namibia. Probably the biggest one is the animals. Once you cross the ‘Red Line’, which divides the privately owned-land in the south from the communal farming areas in the north, there are animals everywhere. Literally. The single biggest danger on Namibian roads are the donkeys, cows, and goats that use the road as their personal bedroom, bathroom, and grooming area. There are no fences to keep the animals in designated pastures. As a result, they wander everywhere, and drivers are constantly weaving back and forth to avoid animals.
There is a clear hierarchy to the road-going animals. Donkeys are the kings of the road, and they will NEVER move out of the way for a car. Not even, as occasionally happens, the car runs right into them. All Namibian drivers are afraid of donkeys. Rumor has it that the donkey’s black eyes make them invisible on the road at night. Next in the hierarchy are cows, who might move off the road if a driver beeps long and loud enough. They’ll not do it quickly, however, raising their heads to look placidly at the car, consider it, and then, perhaps, decided to slow amble out of the way. Last come the goats, who like to sleep together on the roads during the rainy season because the roads remain dry. The goats are the most skittish, and drivers barely slow down when they see goats on the road. Instead, they lay into their horn and the goats usually bolt out of the way.
Usually, but not always. Last year I gave my students a creative writing assignment, and one of their options was to write about a time that their father hit a goat in the road. Almost all of the kids chose this option, so I think it probably was a pretty common experience. The stories were remarkably similar, too. Driver hits goat. Shepherd wanders over and yells at driver. Driver and shepherd argue over the value of the goat, then finally agree on a price and the driver pays off the shepherd. Driver throws goat into the bed of his pickup truck, and the family has an unplanned feast.
Animals on the road are so common that one of my students last year related a ‘modern folktale’ to explain their behavior. The story went like this: There was once a pair of dogs who wanted to go town so they could do some shopping and see the sights. They talked to their friends, the donkeys, the cows, the goats, and the chickens. The cows were interested in going, just to see what was new in town. The goats were ready to go into town and blow all their money partying. The chickens had many little chicks, and little money, but needed to go into town for supplies. The donkeys were kind of dull, but they followed everyone else’s lead.
The next morning, this motley crew headed off down the path toward town. It was a long, long walk, and after awhile a farmer in a truck came along. “Please, sir, can we ride with you into town?” Dog asked. The farmer agreed. They chatted during the trip, and farmer told the animals that we was returning the same way that evening. He offered to take them back that night. They all agreed, and him that they would pay him for both rides on the return trip.
When the animals got to town, they split up to explore. The cows slowly wandered all through the town, chewing cud and gazing at all the sights, but not spending any of their money. The dogs played with their friends in town and had a couple of beers, but they made sure to save some for the ride home. The goats, however, just got drunk and partied and spent all their cash. The chickens, who were very poor, spent all their money on food their little ones. And the donkeys were too stupid to spend any of their money.
In the evening, as arranged, the farmer picked up the group and drove them many miles back to their home. When they arrived, the cows and the donkeys, having saved their money in town, paid exactly what they owed. The chickens, who knew they didn’t have the money to pay, jumped off the truck and pretended to drop their money in the dust, and then started pecking around as if to find it. The goats, who had blown their whole wad, jumped off the back of the truck and ran away. And the dogs, who didn’t have any small bills, gave the driver a $100 note. The driver took the money but didn’t give the dogs change, because the other animals had stiffed him.
That story explains how the animals behave today. The donkeys and the cows can stand in the road, knowing that they paid the driver the amount they were supposed to. The chickens are always pecking on the ground, pretending to look for their money. The goats run away whenever a car comes near, because they are afraid the driver will ask them for payment. And the dogs will chase any car they see, because they still want to get their money back.
And that’s how it is on the roads of northern Namibia today.
Nonetheless, there are a few quirks about driving in Namibia. Probably the biggest one is the animals. Once you cross the ‘Red Line’, which divides the privately owned-land in the south from the communal farming areas in the north, there are animals everywhere. Literally. The single biggest danger on Namibian roads are the donkeys, cows, and goats that use the road as their personal bedroom, bathroom, and grooming area. There are no fences to keep the animals in designated pastures. As a result, they wander everywhere, and drivers are constantly weaving back and forth to avoid animals.
There is a clear hierarchy to the road-going animals. Donkeys are the kings of the road, and they will NEVER move out of the way for a car. Not even, as occasionally happens, the car runs right into them. All Namibian drivers are afraid of donkeys. Rumor has it that the donkey’s black eyes make them invisible on the road at night. Next in the hierarchy are cows, who might move off the road if a driver beeps long and loud enough. They’ll not do it quickly, however, raising their heads to look placidly at the car, consider it, and then, perhaps, decided to slow amble out of the way. Last come the goats, who like to sleep together on the roads during the rainy season because the roads remain dry. The goats are the most skittish, and drivers barely slow down when they see goats on the road. Instead, they lay into their horn and the goats usually bolt out of the way.
Usually, but not always. Last year I gave my students a creative writing assignment, and one of their options was to write about a time that their father hit a goat in the road. Almost all of the kids chose this option, so I think it probably was a pretty common experience. The stories were remarkably similar, too. Driver hits goat. Shepherd wanders over and yells at driver. Driver and shepherd argue over the value of the goat, then finally agree on a price and the driver pays off the shepherd. Driver throws goat into the bed of his pickup truck, and the family has an unplanned feast.
Animals on the road are so common that one of my students last year related a ‘modern folktale’ to explain their behavior. The story went like this: There was once a pair of dogs who wanted to go town so they could do some shopping and see the sights. They talked to their friends, the donkeys, the cows, the goats, and the chickens. The cows were interested in going, just to see what was new in town. The goats were ready to go into town and blow all their money partying. The chickens had many little chicks, and little money, but needed to go into town for supplies. The donkeys were kind of dull, but they followed everyone else’s lead.
The next morning, this motley crew headed off down the path toward town. It was a long, long walk, and after awhile a farmer in a truck came along. “Please, sir, can we ride with you into town?” Dog asked. The farmer agreed. They chatted during the trip, and farmer told the animals that we was returning the same way that evening. He offered to take them back that night. They all agreed, and him that they would pay him for both rides on the return trip.
When the animals got to town, they split up to explore. The cows slowly wandered all through the town, chewing cud and gazing at all the sights, but not spending any of their money. The dogs played with their friends in town and had a couple of beers, but they made sure to save some for the ride home. The goats, however, just got drunk and partied and spent all their cash. The chickens, who were very poor, spent all their money on food their little ones. And the donkeys were too stupid to spend any of their money.
In the evening, as arranged, the farmer picked up the group and drove them many miles back to their home. When they arrived, the cows and the donkeys, having saved their money in town, paid exactly what they owed. The chickens, who knew they didn’t have the money to pay, jumped off the truck and pretended to drop their money in the dust, and then started pecking around as if to find it. The goats, who had blown their whole wad, jumped off the back of the truck and ran away. And the dogs, who didn’t have any small bills, gave the driver a $100 note. The driver took the money but didn’t give the dogs change, because the other animals had stiffed him.
That story explains how the animals behave today. The donkeys and the cows can stand in the road, knowing that they paid the driver the amount they were supposed to. The chickens are always pecking on the ground, pretending to look for their money. The goats run away whenever a car comes near, because they are afraid the driver will ask them for payment. And the dogs will chase any car they see, because they still want to get their money back.
And that’s how it is on the roads of northern Namibia today.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Benz O'Rama
When I finally got into my new apartment this year, after a homeless month sleeping on the floors of various friends, my first task was to get a set of good, heavy locks for the burglar doors. This mission led me on a quintessentially Namibian adventure.
There were no locks to be had in my town, so I had to wait until the weekend to make the 60-mile journey to Oshakati. I went to Benz, a hardware store which had a large supply of locks. It’s an odd store. It’s huge -- easily the size of a small Kmart -- but at the front a small semi-circle of wooden counters corrals the customers, keeping us out of the shelves. Only by speaking to an employee can a customer go into the shelves and look at the stock, accompanied by store personnel to make sure we don’t shoplift. After I spoke to someone and acquired my saleswoman escort, we quickly found a large display of locks. Not sure which of two locks was the right size, I asked her if I could buy them both, and then simply return one of them when I was next in town, two weeks later. She said that would be no problem. I happily paid my money, and went home to try out my new purchases.
Two weeks later, as promised, I was back in Oshakati to return the lock that I didn’t use. Approaching the counters, with my lock and my receipt in hand, I explained to a salesman that I needed to return the lock that I hadn’t used. “That’s no problem,” he said. “We can refund your money, and we only take a 15% restocking fee.”
“But when I bought these two weeks ago,” I replied, “I specifically asked the saleswoman if I could return them. She said yes, it would be no problem.”
“That’s right sir, it is no problem. We only are charging you 15% for restocking. No problem,” the salesman responded.
Trying to keep my voice dispassionate, I said, “Actually, it is a problem. I specifically asked if I could get my money back, and the saleswoman told me that I could.”
The salesman asked innocently, “Who did you speak to?” When I said I didn’t know her name, he looked around behind him, opening his arms wide to take in the entire store. “Well, where is she?” When I told him that I didn’t see her, he seemed to think that he had won the argument. But I persisted, and after five more minutes of arguing, finally the manager came over to smooth things out.
“Our policy is that we charge 15% for any items that are returned,“ the manager explained, “But I will try to help you out. How about we only charge you 10%?” When I refused, the manager dropped his offer to 8%, but then held firm there. He seemed to think that he was being extraordinarily generous to just offer that.
I had one more trick up my sleeve, but to explain requires a little digression into the state of the Namibian media. There are several country-wide newspapers. The most popular is The Namibian, an independent daily paper which criticized the South African-led government during the 1980s. At that time, it was a newspaper that Swapo, the rebel group, supported. Since then, as Swapo has come into power, the newspaper has remained stubbornly independent, and now Swapo blacklists it. Nonetheless, it is by far the most commonly read newspaper and has become the country’s ‘Newspaper of Record.’ It is just as likely to criticize as to praise the government, not caring whether the leaders are black or white. I love the Namibian.
At the end of 2007, the Namibian introduced a new section of text messages sent in by readers. It’s the same concept as writing a letter to the editor, except it has proven far more popular. People sound off about all sorts of problems. It’s not uncommon for a villager to send a text message about how his town councillor hasn’t been able to get water to the community, or from an angry parent if a child’s teacher has been lazy. One of my good friends even had her text message make it into the “SMS of the Day” section, warning Namibian women in a particular community to avoid certain unsavory men at a local bar.
So, I figured that if it was good enough for Namibians, it was certainly good enough for me. “Well, if you‘re not going to give me the full refund that your employee promised me, then I guess there‘s nothing else I can do.” I sighed, feigning a typical fatalism. Then, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “I suppose that I will just have to write an SMS to the Namibian to warn people about your business practices.” I started to compose the text message right there in the store. After I finished the first sentence or two, I showed it to the manager, and he quickly decided that he could find a way to give me the full refund after all!
Of course, the story doesn’t end quite there. After the manager Ok’ed giving me the discount, the employee who tried to process it actually gave me too much money back! It seemed the price of the lock had gone up in the past two weeks, and their system automatically refunded the current price, not the actual price. I pointed this out to the employee, and it took another consultation with the manager before the problem could be resolved.
Despite the long argument, everyone left smiling. It was, in many ways, quintessentially Namibian: embracing technology but not getting it quite right, inefficient and gracious, frustrating and rewarding. That’s Namibia.
There were no locks to be had in my town, so I had to wait until the weekend to make the 60-mile journey to Oshakati. I went to Benz, a hardware store which had a large supply of locks. It’s an odd store. It’s huge -- easily the size of a small Kmart -- but at the front a small semi-circle of wooden counters corrals the customers, keeping us out of the shelves. Only by speaking to an employee can a customer go into the shelves and look at the stock, accompanied by store personnel to make sure we don’t shoplift. After I spoke to someone and acquired my saleswoman escort, we quickly found a large display of locks. Not sure which of two locks was the right size, I asked her if I could buy them both, and then simply return one of them when I was next in town, two weeks later. She said that would be no problem. I happily paid my money, and went home to try out my new purchases.
Two weeks later, as promised, I was back in Oshakati to return the lock that I didn’t use. Approaching the counters, with my lock and my receipt in hand, I explained to a salesman that I needed to return the lock that I hadn’t used. “That’s no problem,” he said. “We can refund your money, and we only take a 15% restocking fee.”
“But when I bought these two weeks ago,” I replied, “I specifically asked the saleswoman if I could return them. She said yes, it would be no problem.”
“That’s right sir, it is no problem. We only are charging you 15% for restocking. No problem,” the salesman responded.
Trying to keep my voice dispassionate, I said, “Actually, it is a problem. I specifically asked if I could get my money back, and the saleswoman told me that I could.”
The salesman asked innocently, “Who did you speak to?” When I said I didn’t know her name, he looked around behind him, opening his arms wide to take in the entire store. “Well, where is she?” When I told him that I didn’t see her, he seemed to think that he had won the argument. But I persisted, and after five more minutes of arguing, finally the manager came over to smooth things out.
“Our policy is that we charge 15% for any items that are returned,“ the manager explained, “But I will try to help you out. How about we only charge you 10%?” When I refused, the manager dropped his offer to 8%, but then held firm there. He seemed to think that he was being extraordinarily generous to just offer that.
I had one more trick up my sleeve, but to explain requires a little digression into the state of the Namibian media. There are several country-wide newspapers. The most popular is The Namibian, an independent daily paper which criticized the South African-led government during the 1980s. At that time, it was a newspaper that Swapo, the rebel group, supported. Since then, as Swapo has come into power, the newspaper has remained stubbornly independent, and now Swapo blacklists it. Nonetheless, it is by far the most commonly read newspaper and has become the country’s ‘Newspaper of Record.’ It is just as likely to criticize as to praise the government, not caring whether the leaders are black or white. I love the Namibian.
At the end of 2007, the Namibian introduced a new section of text messages sent in by readers. It’s the same concept as writing a letter to the editor, except it has proven far more popular. People sound off about all sorts of problems. It’s not uncommon for a villager to send a text message about how his town councillor hasn’t been able to get water to the community, or from an angry parent if a child’s teacher has been lazy. One of my good friends even had her text message make it into the “SMS of the Day” section, warning Namibian women in a particular community to avoid certain unsavory men at a local bar.
So, I figured that if it was good enough for Namibians, it was certainly good enough for me. “Well, if you‘re not going to give me the full refund that your employee promised me, then I guess there‘s nothing else I can do.” I sighed, feigning a typical fatalism. Then, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “I suppose that I will just have to write an SMS to the Namibian to warn people about your business practices.” I started to compose the text message right there in the store. After I finished the first sentence or two, I showed it to the manager, and he quickly decided that he could find a way to give me the full refund after all!
Of course, the story doesn’t end quite there. After the manager Ok’ed giving me the discount, the employee who tried to process it actually gave me too much money back! It seemed the price of the lock had gone up in the past two weeks, and their system automatically refunded the current price, not the actual price. I pointed this out to the employee, and it took another consultation with the manager before the problem could be resolved.
Despite the long argument, everyone left smiling. It was, in many ways, quintessentially Namibian: embracing technology but not getting it quite right, inefficient and gracious, frustrating and rewarding. That’s Namibia.
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