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!
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