Getting Lost(TM) at Ruacana Falls

This past weekend a holiday celebrating Namibia’s independence in 1991. As a result, the school was closed from Wednesday to Sunday, and I took the opportunity to visit Ruacana Falls with some other volunteers. I invited Nicola, a German volunteer who just arrived at Anamulenge, along for the trip.

Nicola and I left the mission on Wedneday afternoon, and we ‘hiked’ to Ruacana. Although I’ve only been here three months, ‘hiking’ seems totally normal to me and it was a surprise to experience it through Nicola’s eyes. To get a hike when you are between recognized hike points, you just stand on the side of the road and dangle your hand, limp wristed, when cars pass. If someone slows down, you ask if they are going your way and then jump in. Our first hike was just for three or four kilometers into town, and we only did that because it was hot and I was carrying a lot in my backpack. The driver was willing to drive us to the falls but at a ridiculous price, so we got out and found another taxi who would take us the 100km to Ruacana.


The picture above is of our gas station, and the hike point to Ruacana. I took some weeks ago, but it is one of my favorites that I've taken in Namibia so far! Anyhow, back to the story.

In short order, we found a taxi (which merely means a four-door sedan car), and I asked the driver if he was leaving, “Now now,” meaning very soon. He assured me he was, and when I climbed in, I thought there was a chance we actually would leave soon because there were three in the back and two up front. Even so, the car was not yet full enough. The driver cruised town looking for more fares, eventually adding two more, one up front and one in back. This seemed perfectly normal to me, but Nicola kept chuckling, alternating between confused and amused glances, and I realized that even getting from A to B is a little unusual here.

After we were loaded up, the taxi zoomed off, but shortly stopped to drive across a soccer field and deliver one of the passengers at a small cuca shop, which is a cross between a general store and a bar. By the side of the soccer field, I saw one of my students, watching the game, and waved. Then we were off again, Nicola shaking her head again in wonderment. The rest of the ride was uneventful, save for some unpleasant negotiations about price when our driver dropped us off. He thought I gypped him, even though I had clearly stated what I was willing to pay. Even when I upped the amount by $5 each, he wasn’t happy. On the way out of town two days later, he was miffed and wouldn’t give me a lift. I guess I that negotiation didn’t go as well as I thought.


We spent two nights camping at a lovely campsite called Hippo Pools, which is perhaps 1 or 2 km below the waterfalls on the Kunene River. The Kunene divides Namibia from Angola, and a hydroelectric dam just above the falls provides electricity for about half of Namibia. As a result of the dam and the inconsistent rains, the falls are sometimes vigorous and sometimes quite tame. We are still in the rainy season now, so the falls were strong. There are signs at the campsite warning people that if they hear a siren, they should to high ground because the water level may rise rapidly, and I’ve read that the water level in the river will vary with time of day and amount of electricity usage.

Those technical concerns aside, the campsite was great. We had a large, flat, sandy area to set up our tents, a large circular brai pit to cook our sausages, and an easy-to-climb rocky overlook from which we watched the sunset. The views from the ledge were great. In the pictures, you can see a small island in the middle of the river, and the lovely sunset we saw from the top of the ledge. In the distance, beyond the river, is Angola.


We spent the night making a fire and getting to know many of the Peace Corps Volunteers we were camping with. Many of them were from the southern half of the Namibia, so far away that I will likely never see them again, but it was interesting to hear how there experience differed greatly from that of volunteers in the north. They also dealt with poverty, but in the south of the country the Afrikaners hold the lion’s share of the land, causing much resentment among indigenous tribes. As a result, they must frequently deal with racism, both against whites and amongst different tribal groups. In the north, which is much more monocultural, there are few concerns with race.

I also met a crazy couple from England. They had just driven to Namibia from London on a motorbike. That’s right, a motorbike. And not even a big thing like a Honda Goldwing. Nope, these two were basically on a souped-up BMW dirtbike. They told me this was their third overland trip to Africa, but it was the story of their first trip that really grabbed my attention. On that trip, they drove from London to Capetown via the Middle East and eastern Africa, taking nine months for the trip. Then they packed the bike onto a boat bound for Buenos Aires, and drove from the southernmost tip of South America up to Vancouver. Then they packed the bike on another boat bound for Australia, where they worked for awhile because they had run out of money. Then there was one final boat journey to mainland Asia, and they drove home from there. Total trip length: four years!! I have no idea how these people supported themselves for this time, but maybe they are royal scions of some sort. They were interesting, to say the least.


The next day, we hiked about 5k to Ruacana Falls along the paved road. From the overlook, there are about 500 steps to get down to the base of the falls. More than half of these steps were constantly covered in spray from the falls, so by the time we got to the base, we were already soaked. When we got the base, we left our cameras in a small covered area and scrambled for maybe 100 metres over a section of rocks. There, we found a small area where we could go in the water, protected from the current. Rainbows were everywhere, created by the mist from the falls. At one point, I could see a rainbow and both of its ends quite clearly.


There were some buildings at the base of the falls that looked like they were built for a previous, and now inactive, power station. That area looked just like it was from the set of the TV show Lost. We were surrounded by spray and green growth, and in the middle of nature’s bonanza were strange, man-made structures which looked abandoned yet possibly still functional. When a different group of volunteers arrived, we joked about how we were “The Others” and which ones of their group we might take!




Overall, the weekend was a great break from teaching, a refreshing change of scenery from sand to green, and a good chance to make new friends. The Others aren't so bad as you think!

Carnivorous Doubts

Warning: The pictures in this post are graphic and may be unsuitable for children.

People in Ovamboland eat meat, and a lot of it. They eat chicken, goat, lamb, cow, pig, dog, fish, and frogs, and they don’t seem to care if they are eating flesh or bones. The only readily available meat that they don’t eat is donkey. Because most Ovambos keep animals, they do not need to go to the store to get dinner. Instead, they catch one of the chickens that is running around the homestead, or take one of goats from the kraal. They kill it, skin it, and cook it right away. When I went to visit Meme Monica (see earlier post), she honored me by killing a goat and roasting it for supper.

I began to wonder, “Could I do that? Could I kill my own meat?” If not, then I had no right to eat meat at all. Eating meat means killing animals, even if your source of meat is Jewel or Stop ‘n’ Shop. Could I do it, I wondered? Ten days ago, I had my chance to find out. My Peace Corps friend, Robin, bought a goat, and I asked if I could be present when it was slaughtered. As it turned out, I not only watched but helped.

Shikuma and Susanna, Robin’s Ovambo friends, arrived around 6pm with a medium-sized, brownish goat which cost about N$500, or US$70. Shikuma walked the goat into Robin’s yard, and we sat it down at the base of a tree while we gathered the knives and bowls we would need. Then he tied the hind legs together, and hoisted the goat upside down over a tree branch, so the blood would drain out quickly. He told us that there were two common ways to kill a goat: you could slice its throat or suffocate it. I asked which one was more humane, and he said the goat felt less pain from the cutting, so we decided to do that one.

Before we killed the goat, I asked if it was customary to say a short prayer first. That seemed logical to me, given all the praying that happens down here. They pray over everything. The kids have to go to church 10 times a week. The school week begins and ends with a prayer. When I went to a professional development workshop on debate, the we prayed. What could be more sacred than the taking of a life to give life? The Ovambos saw things differently. They roared with laughter at the idea of praying for the goat, so I said a little Jewish/Deistic prayer to myself, and then we got started.

With the goat hanging upside down from the tree, Susanna held the forelegs while I gripped the horns tightly in both hands. Shikuma took out the sharpest knife in Robin’s kitchen, which was a chef’s knife. He asked me if I was ready, counted to there, then sliced the neck. It was a clean cut, and within seconds the poor creature’s blood was draining quickly into a bowl we had placed under the tree. The little goat’s body twitched and spasmed several times, but it was all over in a minute’s time. I felt like I was on automatic pilot, holding tightly onto the horns and not feeling much of anything at the time. In fact, I felt some exhilaration that it wasn’t as bad as I had expected.

After about five minutes, when most of the blood had drained, Shikuma showed us how to skin the goat and then cut it into pieces. The killing done, this part of the work was oddly fascinating. The skinning process was pretty straightforward. He began with one long, very shallow cut down the belly, and then slowly worked the skin off as you go around the body. We held the edge of the skin in one hand and curled my other hand into a fist, working it between the flesh and the skin. That felt a little creepy – the body was still quite warm as I pulled the skin from the abdomen and back. Because many of the Ovambos use the skin to make shoes, Shikuma taught us that it was very important not to rip or cut the skin as we went.

Once the skin was off, it was time to cut off the meat and the organs. We started by hacking off the forelegs with a panga, a thick traditional knife approximately 1.5 feet long. Next we cut through the rib cage, and out popped all the innards. It was fascinating how quickly I could identify the various parts: the stomach, large and small intestines looked just like they do in biology textbooks. Shikuma taught us that in the old days, different parts of the goat were reserved for different people. For example, the neighbors got part of the chest, friends get a leg, and so forth. Now, however, those traditions are falling by the wayside.

When we were finished cutting the meat, Shikuma took the head, hooves, stomach and intestines, all parts that Robin didn’t want. We cooked up the liver and the kidneys immediately by pan-frying them with spices, tomato and onion. They were absolutely delicious, and I remember walking away feeling rather pleased that I had been able to help. Ah, I thought fondly, there are some good meat-eating days ahead of me.

The next night, my mother phoned.

I told her proudly about slaughtering the goat. She said that she could never do that, that she could never kill an animal.

“But Mom, I didn’t actually kill it. That is a different thing. I don’t know if I can do that. I only held the horns.”

Dryly, she replied, “Yes, that’s what the Germans were saying in 1945.”

Leave it to a Jewish mother to conflate eating meat with organized genocide. Nonetheless, over the next few days I kept looking at the pictures I took from that night. One in particular troubles me. It is the picture of the goat tied up to the tree and struggling. In the next picture, I’ve zoomed in on the goat’s face. He’s clearly terrified. It’s not clear whether he is merely in pain or if he knows what will happen next. But either way, the look in his eyes is hard to forget.

I’m curious to hear what readers’ thoughts are, especially because I know there are some vegetarians out there. Does this story confirm everything you feel is wrong with eating meat? What about the people here in Ovamboland, who subsist on meat because there isn’t enough rainfall to grow crops regularly? Is it ok for them, but not for those with a choice? My dear dedicated carnivores, have you ever killed your food? If so, how did you feel? If not, could you?

Ten days later, I haven’t become a vegetarian. Some days meat is completely unappetizing, but over the weekend I went to another brai and devoured several slices of beef. I’m still thinking about this whole event, and have come to no conclusions yet. Although I doubt that I'll give up meat, for now I’m really happy when the hostel serves butternut squash instead of fish or beef.

Miss Valentine's Pageant

Just a few weeks ago, many of my friends in States settled in to watch the Academy Awards, a spectacle of glitz and glam. A month earlier, the students of Canisianum also produced a spectacle of glitz and glam, the Miss Valentine’s Pageant. It’s taken me awhile to write about this event, because I was at a low point when it happened, and I viewed it in the worst light, as evidence of Ovambos rejecting their culture in favor of a western style. Now, while western styles are part of the pageant, I realize there are some uniquely Namibian elements to it as well.



Beauty pageants are a big deal here, probably since the Miss World (or Universe, I don’t know which) pageant was held here shortly after independence. The Miss Valentine’s Pageant at Canisianum lasted nearly four hours for a competition involving only seven contestants. Like the Oscars, it involved a variety of costume changes, strange musical performances, and waiting around for something to happen. Most of Canisianum’s 362 students, the teachers, nuns, Father Joe, and many community members came out to watch. There were a couple of students who were talented dancers, and a rap quintet that bravely carried on even when the sound system went dead.

But like the Oscars, the highlight was the fashion. Each of the contestants appeared in at least four outfits. The first outfit seemed to be an ‘urban hip’ look, which was frighteningly similar to U.S. fashion. Then there was Canisianum’s version of lingerie competition, with many of the girls wearing their bras on stage. Next was a ‘traditional’ look, featuring one or two girls in full traditional garb but most wearing a short skirt in a traditional print. Finally, there was an evening wear section. These girls must have spent considerable cash on their outfits, at least the gowns. The evening wear looked similar to what U.S. students would wear to prom. Because I know many of you probably care more about the fashion than I do, I’ll leave space here for large pictures of some of the more interesting outfits.





Beyond the outfits, there was a very minimal talent portion of the competition. Each of the girls came up to the stage and were asked one question, such as “What is the message that is most important for the people?” Yeah, the questions didn’t make sense half of the time. One of the brightest students in the school was the emcee. Her eyes rolled everytime an idiotic question was put to the students. Regardless of the actual question, if a contestant smiled and gave a confident-sounding answer in English, she earned points. Then again, I had been here only a month, and I was still having trouble understanding what my students said. So perhaps it was my comprehension, and not the contestants’ English, that was mangled.




One of the things which I found fascinating and disheartening was the prevalence of Western fashions. One of the boys was wearing his long leather trenchcoat. I think it makes him look like one of the students from the Columbine massacre, but he loves it. He even wears it with his school uniform! In the second picture, take a look at the five ninth graders. Although they are a little smaller than ninth grade African-Americans, in other respects they look just like my students back home.

When I attended the pageant, I was strongly disappointed that things were not more ‘different’ than back home. But looking at the pictures again, I can see how proud the kids are to compete, and how over two hundred people crowded into our hall to watch the spectacle. For the most part, the kids just had a lot of fun, cheering for their friends, ogling the fashions, and enjoying the performances (including an impromptu one by their teachers). And one of my students, a ninth grader named Anna Henok, won!





In many ways the pageant is indeed western in style, but that is only one aspect of Ovambo culture. There are indeed many examples of a headlong rush to modernize in this country. Hopefully, over time, the modern influences will meld with traditional Ovambo culture to create something new and wonderful.

Hangin' with the Principal and PCVs

The past week has been very full and busy, and hopefully I’ve started to find my balance a little bit better here. On Wednesday, I spent a day with Mr. Werner Kalipi, my principal, He is a tate kulu (respected male elder) who has been principal here for 20 years. He has a round face, close-cropped black hair speckled with grey, and a belly that often defeats his efforts at tucking in his shirttails. He’s a geography and Afrikaans teacher by trade who is fluent in Oshiwambo, and English as well, and is reputed to be a fierce disciplinarian. We spent the day driving all over Ovamboland, collecting signatures for government forms, running errands, and buying books for the school. Our school has a larger budget than the government schools, Mr. Kalipi bought many books for the staff that day.

It was interesting and a little uncomfortable to spend the day with him, especially because I have been feeling very mixed about my usefulness at the Canisianum, the Exeter of Ovamboland. I couldn’t tell Mr. Kalipi that, so instead, I asked him about teaching in the pre-independence days, when many Ovambo students ran away from home to fight against the South African Defence Forces. He said that he had supported the students, which surprised me. He seemed to be a man who follows rules, but in that case he definitely broke the rules by urging students to join the resistance movement in Angola.

There was one disappointing aspect of the trip with Mr. Kalipi. After a full day of running errands and shopping in Oshakati, the main town of the north, he decided it was time for lunch before we drove home. Then he got into the van and drove us to the one place I swore I would avoid up here: KFC! When he walked in, I followed as if on remote control, and walked away with a thigh and a leg, original recipe. What surprised me was that after eating that grease monster, I felt a little bloated and disgusting. My body isn't used to that much grease anymore.

***

This weekend, I traveled to a nearby town, Okahao, for a volunteer party. It was like the U.N. of volunteers: four different agencies and five different nationalities were represented. The bulk of attendees were Americans, working either through the Peace Corps or WorldTeach. Several other volunteers, from Britain and India, were there under VSO (Volunteer Service Overseas) auspices, and there was one guy from a Swiss NGO. A random Australian was also there, volunteering with one of the U.S. groups. In true Namibian fashion, we held a braii where we drank many pints of the local brew and grilled goat meat.

Talking with all the other volunteers, especially the Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs), was good for me. I had been feeling a little sorry for myself, feeling that I had too ‘cushy’ a work site. I found out that some of the PCVs were in much harsher situations, but others were living in comparative luxury. For example, I met several volunteers who are teaching at schools deep in the bush. They are living with host families on homesteads, and have a long way to go to town. However, most of them have a tap for fresh water, electricity, and their own small kitchen. On the other hand, there were several who are living in situations like mine, and at least one who has a posh apartment in Oshakati, the big city in the north. So the doubts of “Should I have done Peace Corps or WorldTeach?” were in some ways alleviated. The PCVs were a neat bunch. Many of them are happy to rough it, and their idea of how to spend their time off is to go camping or hiking. One guy is growing his hair out to look like Jerry Garcia, and they generally were gregarious and very laid-back. My kind of people.

There was one Indian volunteer at the party, Reshme, who is a social worker at the Okahao hospital. She was at the party wearing a traditional sari, and made samosas. I asked her what she missed most from home. She told me that she missed her friends, and her motorcycle the most. I asked, “a motorcycle, like a Harley?” She nodded. The image of this woman in a sari on a hog kept me chuckling for several days, until another volunteer told me that she had probably meant a moped. Drats.

Connecting with all the other volunteers helped alleviate the loneliness, and also gave me some perspective on my work here. Although I may be based at a comparatively affluent school, my teaching load is light and I have time for other projects. One idea that has been bouncing around my head is to help out with other school libraries in the area, which has become one of my goals for the following week.