All good things come to an end, and so too with my time in Namibia. It ended, for those of you who don’t know, with more of a whimper than a bang. For several months in the beginning of 2008, I worked at the library in Outapi doing a job that wasn’t particularly necessary. Every day I saw my former students walking to Canisianum, and I missed them. I wanted to find a way to stay for another full year, perhaps teaching again. Unfortunately, the Ministry of Education couldn’t find a spot for me. So, with many regrets, I decided on April 10 to come home. Just a few days later, I accepted a scholarship at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University, for a one-year degree in Public Administration. Just a couple of days later, my mother fell ill and went to the hospital with a serious lung infection. I was in the capital city when this happened, and luckily had my passport with me, so I boarded a plane and headed straight home. Fortunately my mother has recovered, as much a testament to medical science as to stubbornness and strength of will.
Because of the process I described above, I didn’t really have a chance in Namibia to say my goodbyes, both to the people that I worked and lived with for 16 months but also to the experience itself. What did those 16 months in Namibia mean to me? What lessons did I learn? That’s what I’ll be trying to answer in this final culminating blog entry. This entry will be unlike previous entries, which hopefully were tasty morsels of life in Namibia liberally seasoned with policy and history and anthropology. This one will be navel-gazing, the sort of self-obsessive speculations that I tend to find dreadfully boring to read! So, please continue at your own risk!
Why did I go? For one, it was a life-long dream. In high school I learned about the Peace Corps from my friend Carrie, whose parents had met in Ethiopia in the 1960s. That summer, stoked to become a Peace Corps Volunteer, I refused to use my air conditioner because I was “in training.” However, during college I encountered a few roadblocks and some dreams faded to be replaced with new ones. With my theatre major in hand, I went first to England and then to New York, in search of greater perspectives and a life as an actor.
The dream began to resurface after I had become a teacher. Inchoately dissatisfied with teaching in New York, the pull of the developing world began to reassert itself. I looked at Peace Corps again and also at graduate programs in public policy, where graduates tended to work with exciting institutions like the World Bank, the U.N. Development Program, and the International Red Cross. Several grad school advisers recommended that I get the international experience before enrolling in a program; it made sense to see if I liked working abroad before committing to such a course of study. With no small trepidation about leaving behind family and friends, off I went to Namibia to see what the developing world was all about, and what my place in it might be.
The short answer, about what my place in it might be, is that I love working in the developing world. I love being immersed in a different culture, in trying to figure out what’s going on, in challenging myself to learn a new language. For all the frustrations and hassles or working in a developing country, it is immensely rewarding. The volunteer community became a place where I felt at home, reveling in the shared sense of purpose and an appreciation of other cultures and simpler ways of living. But I also felt very detached from my friends and my family back home.
So what lessons did I learn in going abroad? Some might be transitory lessons, and others may stay with me. Yet other lessons may remain vague for now, only to be realized at a later time. Nonetheless, this is what I think I’ve learned so far.
First, I learned to love a simpler way of life. In Namibia, there wasn’t much going on. There weren’t a lot of people. A good Friday night consisted of making dinner with a friend and then hanging out at his or her house. A good Sunday started on Saturday night, when I would put my clothes in my wash bucket to soak overnight. Then on a slow, luxurious Sunday morning, when the students were in church and I had the hostel to myself, I would hang my laundry in peace and quiet, write or read, go for a run, and then do a little work for school. By not trying to do too many things, the few things that I did became much, much more enjoyable.
This lesson might be transitory. Life moves much more quickly in America. Last night I met up with some new friends from my program – including two returned Peace Corps volunteers. We had dinner, dessert, and then a movie in just a few hours. That would have been a full weekend’s worth of excitement last year. When we did an activity on resource scarcity this week in class, one group of students pointed out that our scarcest resource right now is time. Last year in Namibia, there were many scarce resources, like telephone credit or cheese, but time was in abundance. I’d like to keep this sense of simplicity, but am not sure how to do so in America. If you have any suggestions, let me know.
Along these lines, I came to appreciate living outside a city. This lesson is, I fear, the most transitory. Right now I would love to live away from a big city, on a farm somewhere near enough to a job that I don’t have to commute for ages. It’s possible, especially if I stay in education, to get a decent job in a rural area. But my friends and family are all concentrated in the U.S.’s first and second cities, New York and Chicago. My good friends sent me a birthday card last year which said that anyone who moves far from their friends is, well, just plain stupid! In many ways they were right, and yet I can’t see living in a big city anymore. What’s the advantage? I think acting on this lesson will be one of the hardest for me to do.
Another thing I learned was that I can indeed enjoy teaching. In Namibia, I taught at a good school with smart, motivated students and a dedicated and ethical administrator. It made all the difference from my time teaching in New York City. It made the work fun, and yet, I’m still reluctant to commit fully to a life working at educating our nation’s youth. The big advantage of it, as I can see, is flexibility. I could work in big communities or small ones. I could work all over the country, and could easily go abroad again. But do I want to educate 16 year-olds for the rest of my life? When I decided to return from Namibia, I certainly had the option to go back into the classroom, and even though I had a very positive classroom experience last year, I didn’t do it. If I’m not a teacher at a high school, what else will I do?
Finally, and probably most up in the air for me now, is trying to figure out what role international work will have in my life. On the one hand, I really love being abroad. It’s hard, sweaty, difficult, and nowhere else do I feel as alive. On the other hand, I don’t want to be that far from my family for that long right now. Once I’ve started a family, if I can convince them to come with me, it would be a different story. So what can I do that builds on my interests in policy and education, international work and development, but allow me to live near my family in Chicago? That’s the question for this year.
Certainly, living abroad I learnt many lessons: simplicity, appreciation of a rural life, knowledge that I need to balance my need for exploring other cultures and worlds with my need for family and friends, and some further appreciation of teaching as a career. The question becomes now how I’ll apply these lessons. Can I find a place to live in the country that’s still close enough to my family? Can I find a way to balance the thrill of living in other countries with staying connected to my family? As so often happens, these questions come down to the concept of balance – how does one organize his or her life to keep things in balance?
So, after 16 months and 45,000+ words, it’s time for me to wrap up this blog, this journey we took together. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and to give me your comments, your emails, your critiques and praises. I hope that I’ve been able to crack open a window onto another world for you, a world that I loved inhabiting. Many people have asked me if I’ll continue to blog now that I’m back in the United States. I wasn’t planning on it, especially because I’ll be in grad school this year. Most entries would go something like this, “Woke up. Studied budgeting and/or statistics and/or economics. Went to class. Did group work. Studied more. Ate. Slept.” That probably wouldn’t be a very interesting blog. But thanks for your attention over the past year and a half, and I hope to have the chance to explore another world for you sometime in the future.
Peace out.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
More Tread than Brains
Unfortunately, my laptop has been stolen, and with it all my pictures. As a result, in this penultimate blog entry, I’ll try to paint a picture of our adventure into the Kaokoveld, the wild, undeveloped territory of the Himbas.
It began with the four-day weekend that honors Namibian Independence. If I were a true cultural observer, I would have stayed at home and seen what Namibians do on this day. I asked what Namibians did to celebrate, and the answer was, “Not much.” As a result, I felt free to join my friend Ant and three of his friends on their adventure. Ant is a short, stocky Yorkshireman with an easy laugh and a hard accent. There’s a picture of him pretending to dive into a pool of flooded water somewhere earlier in this blog. Rose, his friend and future travel partner for his trip home, bubbles with stories and humor in an archetypal Irish fashion. Laura is a tall, blond Dutch woman whose thin lips easily break into a smile or compress into disdain. Edna, a short Canadian, is the quiet one in the group – she would rather read her book than even watch the scenery out the window.
Part of the motivation for this trip was for Ant and Laura to test out their vehicles, both 4x4’s which they claimed yearned for the unpaved road. Ant has a cherry-red Jeep Wrangler, the consumer version of the Army jeeps which plied the roads of Europe during WWII. Laura had a little Suzuki 4x4. In the past, I had always thought that people who went “Off-roading” as a leisure activity were just silly, and that it was just a wasteful motorsport. I still do, but now I’ve learned it’s a hell of a lot of fun too.
The first day’s drive was easy – just about three hours on tar roads and ‘good gravel’ to the city of Opuwo, the jumping-off point for the Himba hinterlands. We camped that night at a beautiful lodge in Opuwo, where a kidney-shaped ‘infinity’ pool overlooked the spartan, dusty mountains of the Kaokoveld. With the sun setting over these hills, a pool in front of us, a casual game of scrabble going on and a drink in hand, there seemed no better place in the world.
The next day we headed off for Epupa Falls, a waterfall on the Kunene river 75 miles north of Opuwo. Driving those miles took seven hours. The first 30 miles of the trip were on relatively decent gravel roads despite a light rain. About 10 miles out of town, we picked up a Himba man who had been walking on the road for over three hours already, and took him the next 10 miles to his destination. He was quite lucky that we picked him up; he told us that in three hours, only two other vehicles had passed by. Even by Namibian standards, we were on a very infrequently used road.
First, a few words about ‘rivers’ in Namibia. If you look at a map of Namibia, you will see that it has no rivers that run permanently through the country. There’s one, the Kunene, that divides Namibia from Angola. Another, the Orange River, divides Namibia from South Africa. That’s it. However, if you look carefully at standard road map, you will see faint, dashed blue lines all over the country. These are ephemeral rivers, which usually flow for a few days on and off during the rainy season. Some of these rivers, especially in the dryer part of the country to the south, may flow only every few decades. Because the rain is so infrequent, no bridges have been built. When it does rain, however, the roads can become impassable for hours or days. During my first year in Namibia, even during the rainy season, I never saw an ephemeral river with water in it.
After an hour we reached Okungwati, a medium-sized village with several shops and a school. It lies at the foot of a large ephemeral river, but there was nothing ephemeral about it now. A wide, sandy plain, perhaps 30 metres across, was covered by 3-6 inches of flowing water. Standing in the river was perfectly safe, but the wet, heavy sand was a car killer. To the side of the road, a huge overland vehicle listed like a sinking boat in the sandy muck. These trucks are ex-military transport used for the tourist trade, with tires four feet tall and engines strong enough to win a tug of war with elephants. When we came upon the truck, a crowd of Namibians with shovels were trying to dig it out, and two of its wheels were completely buried in the wet sand.
Now, sensible people would have seen this as a bad omen and back-tracked to dry land. Not us. Armed with the confidence that comes from naivete, we plunged ahead. Laura’s car bogged down almost immediately, but fortunately we were in a town. All the local men and boys who had been working on the truck ran over and pushed her little SUV out in just a few moments. So, no problem.
As we continued north, however, the road deteriorated. We had to climb over small rocks in the vehicles and pass through several lightly-flowing rivers. Most of them were no problem, which bred overconfidence. With just about 18 miles to the campsite, we finally hit our nemesis.
At yet another unnamed river, I drove Ant’s car through it first. Driving in first gear the whole time, never slowing down for fear of losing momentum, his little Jeep did fine. Laura’s car, however, bogged down right in the middle of river. No problem, we thought, because we had a tow rope. I backed Ant’s car up to Laura’s and he attached the tow rope. Then, with one car on damp sand trying to pull out another car on damp sand, I put the Jeep in gear and it promptly sank six inches into the muck. Both of the vehicles were stuck. We had just learned our first lesson in backcountry driving: never, never endanger your second vehicle to rescue the first.
We spent a good three hours in that river, trying to find a way to free the vehicles. This was one of those situations where the ‘A’ that you get for effort is completely useless. We jacked up the car, and the jack sank down in the mud. We dug out underneath tires to lay stones underneath the treads, and the car sank even further. We tried to dig a trench to siphon water away from the car, and quickly could see why building large canals costs thousands of lives and millions of dollars. After two hours, not a single car had come by, and I started to think of our alternatives. We had about two and half hours of daylight left. I could run to the campsite, but it was 18 miles away and I couldn’t get there before dark. We did have our tents, however, and there was water nearby to drink.
Fortunately, before we had to put any of those plans into action, the cavalry arrived. Coming over the rise of the next hill, a pickup truck laden with Namibians slowed down as it approached the river. The men piled out, and with fifteen bodies pushing, we freed both vehicles quickly. We gave the men some money and bread, and watched as they all walked across the river and let the pickup drive across with a light load. Lessons number two and three about backcountry driving: there’s safety in numbers, and lighten your load before crossing a river. After that, we made the final 18 miles to the campsite without incident.
The next day, after hiking up and around to see the waterfall, we returned down the same road. We picked up as many hitchhikers as possible to have extra manpower in case we got stuck. Before each river, all the passengers piled out of the cars. The river that had foiled us the day before proved no problem just 18 hours later. We were learning our lessons.
Halfway to Opuwo, we turned toward the east and began heading along a rutted, wet, muddy track to the Kunene River Lodge. In this normally dry section of Namibia, the desert was blooming. Flowers were everywhere, and the air was laden with humidity. Brown plains had turned lush and verdant. Occasionally, a springbok or other antelope grazed off in the distance. For an hour’s drive, green replaced brown, water replaced sand, and the hills in distance looked inviting, not menacing.
We reached a section where the road crossed a wide river, perhaps five times wider than the one we had been stuck in previously. Daunted by the size of the crossing, we took no chances. We unloaded the heavy items from the vehicle. We positioned people along the route, a few feet from where the car would go, ready to run up and push if need be. But before we tried our longest river crossing yet, in typical tourist fasion, we decided that we should document the entire event on video. Unfortunately, the video was lost when my computer was stolen. I’ll do my best to paint the pictures, however.
The first video was Ant’s version of a BBC African Safari documentary. Camera in hand, he walked the entire route that the car would take, narrating which parts were sandy and which were rocky, and describing the strategies that I would use to drive across. Then, Ant placed himself right in the middle of the river to film the car’s progress. Inside his Jeep, I took another camera and strapped it to dashboard with tape, so we could have a ‘cockpit’ view. Then, we were off.
Ant’s video shows his car starting on a hill about 10 feet above the water. My video captures the nerves in my voice as I talk to myself, prior to putting the car in gear. The car plunges into the water, and the outside camera captures the powerful arcs of water as the wheels plow through a flowing river. Inside the car, the camera rocks crazily as the car bounces from rock to rock, yet I never slow down. Outside, Ant is audibly praying “Come on, Josh. Come on, Josh!” The car slows a bit in a sandy patch, then rushes past Ant’s vantage point in the center of the river. Hitting harder ground, the Jeep begins to climb toward the opposite shore, and I keep up the speed until it is safely on solid land, 15 feet from the water. On the inside camera, I warble a nervous “Woo-hoo!,” while the whole crew cheers on the outside camera. Success! We made it!
After Laura drove her car across, a convoy of five vehicles approached to cross the river from the other direction and to burst our bubble. These were the serious off road vehicles: LandRovers with snorkels for driving through four or five feet of water, Jeeps with extra tanks of gas hanging off the sides, and Toyota trucks with clearance so high they could leap small buildings in a single bound. These guys slowed down for about ten seconds, looked at the river from the height of their big rigs, and then just drove on through. So much for walking each crossing first!
Nonetheless, after a little more gnarly driving, we finally reached the campsite along the overflowing banks of the Kunene. After two days of hard driving, none of us really felt like cooking, so we took advantage of our hosts’ dining room and a well-deserved treat.
By the end of the trip, we had covered over 500 miles on rocky, sandy, flooded roads. It was wasteful, noisy, messy, and bad for the environment. Unfortunately, it was loads of fun too. I know that I shouldn’t, but if a chance for a 4x4 trek comes my way in the future, I’m in.
It began with the four-day weekend that honors Namibian Independence. If I were a true cultural observer, I would have stayed at home and seen what Namibians do on this day. I asked what Namibians did to celebrate, and the answer was, “Not much.” As a result, I felt free to join my friend Ant and three of his friends on their adventure. Ant is a short, stocky Yorkshireman with an easy laugh and a hard accent. There’s a picture of him pretending to dive into a pool of flooded water somewhere earlier in this blog. Rose, his friend and future travel partner for his trip home, bubbles with stories and humor in an archetypal Irish fashion. Laura is a tall, blond Dutch woman whose thin lips easily break into a smile or compress into disdain. Edna, a short Canadian, is the quiet one in the group – she would rather read her book than even watch the scenery out the window.
Part of the motivation for this trip was for Ant and Laura to test out their vehicles, both 4x4’s which they claimed yearned for the unpaved road. Ant has a cherry-red Jeep Wrangler, the consumer version of the Army jeeps which plied the roads of Europe during WWII. Laura had a little Suzuki 4x4. In the past, I had always thought that people who went “Off-roading” as a leisure activity were just silly, and that it was just a wasteful motorsport. I still do, but now I’ve learned it’s a hell of a lot of fun too.
The first day’s drive was easy – just about three hours on tar roads and ‘good gravel’ to the city of Opuwo, the jumping-off point for the Himba hinterlands. We camped that night at a beautiful lodge in Opuwo, where a kidney-shaped ‘infinity’ pool overlooked the spartan, dusty mountains of the Kaokoveld. With the sun setting over these hills, a pool in front of us, a casual game of scrabble going on and a drink in hand, there seemed no better place in the world.
The next day we headed off for Epupa Falls, a waterfall on the Kunene river 75 miles north of Opuwo. Driving those miles took seven hours. The first 30 miles of the trip were on relatively decent gravel roads despite a light rain. About 10 miles out of town, we picked up a Himba man who had been walking on the road for over three hours already, and took him the next 10 miles to his destination. He was quite lucky that we picked him up; he told us that in three hours, only two other vehicles had passed by. Even by Namibian standards, we were on a very infrequently used road.
First, a few words about ‘rivers’ in Namibia. If you look at a map of Namibia, you will see that it has no rivers that run permanently through the country. There’s one, the Kunene, that divides Namibia from Angola. Another, the Orange River, divides Namibia from South Africa. That’s it. However, if you look carefully at standard road map, you will see faint, dashed blue lines all over the country. These are ephemeral rivers, which usually flow for a few days on and off during the rainy season. Some of these rivers, especially in the dryer part of the country to the south, may flow only every few decades. Because the rain is so infrequent, no bridges have been built. When it does rain, however, the roads can become impassable for hours or days. During my first year in Namibia, even during the rainy season, I never saw an ephemeral river with water in it.
After an hour we reached Okungwati, a medium-sized village with several shops and a school. It lies at the foot of a large ephemeral river, but there was nothing ephemeral about it now. A wide, sandy plain, perhaps 30 metres across, was covered by 3-6 inches of flowing water. Standing in the river was perfectly safe, but the wet, heavy sand was a car killer. To the side of the road, a huge overland vehicle listed like a sinking boat in the sandy muck. These trucks are ex-military transport used for the tourist trade, with tires four feet tall and engines strong enough to win a tug of war with elephants. When we came upon the truck, a crowd of Namibians with shovels were trying to dig it out, and two of its wheels were completely buried in the wet sand.
Now, sensible people would have seen this as a bad omen and back-tracked to dry land. Not us. Armed with the confidence that comes from naivete, we plunged ahead. Laura’s car bogged down almost immediately, but fortunately we were in a town. All the local men and boys who had been working on the truck ran over and pushed her little SUV out in just a few moments. So, no problem.
As we continued north, however, the road deteriorated. We had to climb over small rocks in the vehicles and pass through several lightly-flowing rivers. Most of them were no problem, which bred overconfidence. With just about 18 miles to the campsite, we finally hit our nemesis.
At yet another unnamed river, I drove Ant’s car through it first. Driving in first gear the whole time, never slowing down for fear of losing momentum, his little Jeep did fine. Laura’s car, however, bogged down right in the middle of river. No problem, we thought, because we had a tow rope. I backed Ant’s car up to Laura’s and he attached the tow rope. Then, with one car on damp sand trying to pull out another car on damp sand, I put the Jeep in gear and it promptly sank six inches into the muck. Both of the vehicles were stuck. We had just learned our first lesson in backcountry driving: never, never endanger your second vehicle to rescue the first.
We spent a good three hours in that river, trying to find a way to free the vehicles. This was one of those situations where the ‘A’ that you get for effort is completely useless. We jacked up the car, and the jack sank down in the mud. We dug out underneath tires to lay stones underneath the treads, and the car sank even further. We tried to dig a trench to siphon water away from the car, and quickly could see why building large canals costs thousands of lives and millions of dollars. After two hours, not a single car had come by, and I started to think of our alternatives. We had about two and half hours of daylight left. I could run to the campsite, but it was 18 miles away and I couldn’t get there before dark. We did have our tents, however, and there was water nearby to drink.
Fortunately, before we had to put any of those plans into action, the cavalry arrived. Coming over the rise of the next hill, a pickup truck laden with Namibians slowed down as it approached the river. The men piled out, and with fifteen bodies pushing, we freed both vehicles quickly. We gave the men some money and bread, and watched as they all walked across the river and let the pickup drive across with a light load. Lessons number two and three about backcountry driving: there’s safety in numbers, and lighten your load before crossing a river. After that, we made the final 18 miles to the campsite without incident.
The next day, after hiking up and around to see the waterfall, we returned down the same road. We picked up as many hitchhikers as possible to have extra manpower in case we got stuck. Before each river, all the passengers piled out of the cars. The river that had foiled us the day before proved no problem just 18 hours later. We were learning our lessons.
Halfway to Opuwo, we turned toward the east and began heading along a rutted, wet, muddy track to the Kunene River Lodge. In this normally dry section of Namibia, the desert was blooming. Flowers were everywhere, and the air was laden with humidity. Brown plains had turned lush and verdant. Occasionally, a springbok or other antelope grazed off in the distance. For an hour’s drive, green replaced brown, water replaced sand, and the hills in distance looked inviting, not menacing.
We reached a section where the road crossed a wide river, perhaps five times wider than the one we had been stuck in previously. Daunted by the size of the crossing, we took no chances. We unloaded the heavy items from the vehicle. We positioned people along the route, a few feet from where the car would go, ready to run up and push if need be. But before we tried our longest river crossing yet, in typical tourist fasion, we decided that we should document the entire event on video. Unfortunately, the video was lost when my computer was stolen. I’ll do my best to paint the pictures, however.
The first video was Ant’s version of a BBC African Safari documentary. Camera in hand, he walked the entire route that the car would take, narrating which parts were sandy and which were rocky, and describing the strategies that I would use to drive across. Then, Ant placed himself right in the middle of the river to film the car’s progress. Inside his Jeep, I took another camera and strapped it to dashboard with tape, so we could have a ‘cockpit’ view. Then, we were off.
Ant’s video shows his car starting on a hill about 10 feet above the water. My video captures the nerves in my voice as I talk to myself, prior to putting the car in gear. The car plunges into the water, and the outside camera captures the powerful arcs of water as the wheels plow through a flowing river. Inside the car, the camera rocks crazily as the car bounces from rock to rock, yet I never slow down. Outside, Ant is audibly praying “Come on, Josh. Come on, Josh!” The car slows a bit in a sandy patch, then rushes past Ant’s vantage point in the center of the river. Hitting harder ground, the Jeep begins to climb toward the opposite shore, and I keep up the speed until it is safely on solid land, 15 feet from the water. On the inside camera, I warble a nervous “Woo-hoo!,” while the whole crew cheers on the outside camera. Success! We made it!
After Laura drove her car across, a convoy of five vehicles approached to cross the river from the other direction and to burst our bubble. These were the serious off road vehicles: LandRovers with snorkels for driving through four or five feet of water, Jeeps with extra tanks of gas hanging off the sides, and Toyota trucks with clearance so high they could leap small buildings in a single bound. These guys slowed down for about ten seconds, looked at the river from the height of their big rigs, and then just drove on through. So much for walking each crossing first!
Nonetheless, after a little more gnarly driving, we finally reached the campsite along the overflowing banks of the Kunene. After two days of hard driving, none of us really felt like cooking, so we took advantage of our hosts’ dining room and a well-deserved treat.
By the end of the trip, we had covered over 500 miles on rocky, sandy, flooded roads. It was wasteful, noisy, messy, and bad for the environment. Unfortunately, it was loads of fun too. I know that I shouldn’t, but if a chance for a 4x4 trek comes my way in the future, I’m in.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I'm Famous! My 15 Minutes in the Blogosphere
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!
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!
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Water, Water Everywhere
As I sit in my new apartment in Outapi, enjoying a day off after two weeks of solid travel and conducting workshops, the thunder crackles. The tin roof pings with rain, and occasionally lights flicker when a good bolt of lightning threatens our electrical system. This sort of day has become common this year, during a particularly heavy rainy season in Namibia.
This year, since the skies first opened around mid January, hardly a day has gone by without rain. Sometimes it’s just a few drops, others it’s a late afternoon or evening thundershower, and occasionally we have a couple of days of rain without end. Because of the flatness of the landscape, I can see huge thunderclouds slowly advancing on Outapi, the borders of the dark cloud stretching for a few miles either side of the city. When a storm passes by, you can see the flashes and forks of its lightning as is creeps to the east. For a country with an average 300 days of sunshine per year, I don’t think we’ve had more than three days in the past 35.
Because of all the rain, the landscape is completely, utterly transformed. Normally, Namibia is a landscape of earth tones: white rocks, light brown sand, the occasional scraggly, withering tree. But this year, because of the good rains, the palette has changed completely. It's green everywhere. Fields that were just dry sand changed in a week to shallow pools with grass growing in them, and they look almost like rice paddies from southeast Asia.
The oshanas¸ large, shallow depressions in the terrain, have completely filled with water. Although the water is rarely more than waist-deep, the oshanas look like lakes, stretching sometimes a mile or two in length and nearly a mile wide. Getting anywhere can be a challenge. It’s common now to see women with their dresses bunched around their thighs, walking through what looks like a lake. Men will roll up their pant legs or just wear shorts to work. I spoke to one principal who lives in Outapi but works at a school perhaps 7 miles from here. He and his teachers were leaving for work at 6am, because walking there through the oshanas would take over two hours.
The roads in some places have become impassable. The nearest WorldTeach volunteer, Jocelyn, is at a school 10k down a gravel road. The road has washed out in at least four places, when oshanas on either side of the road linked up. Driving to town after work one day, their pickup struck stalled out in one of these sections. The water was so high that the bed of the pickup flooded, and everyone had to get out and push. Now, most of the teachers have just moved into the village because they can’t go back and forth. For a few days, even the main tar road between Outapi and Ruacana flooded!
I’ve also heard about one group of teachers who were walking back from school one afternoon through an oshana. One of them saw something floating on the water. Thinking it might be a dead cow, he wandered over to investigate. Just a moment later he shrieked, and tore off at full speed, running through the water. The others followed him, terrified, until they reached dry land. What they thought was a dead cow turned out to be a live crocodile!
Now, I think that story might be more of a ‘rural legend’ than a true story. However, I’ve asked several colleagues about it, and while none of them could confirm if this story was true or not, they all acknowledged that it could be. They say that when the rains are heavy enough in Angola, just about 15k north of us, then the Kunene river can flood its banks and the crocodiles escape into the oshana system. The oshanas, when full, actually flow like slow rivers. The oshanas link together and eventually flow into the Etosha pan if there is enough rain. This year, from what I’ve heard, there’s enough rain. I’ll be checking it out this weekend, but keeping a careful eye out for crocs!
This year, since the skies first opened around mid January, hardly a day has gone by without rain. Sometimes it’s just a few drops, others it’s a late afternoon or evening thundershower, and occasionally we have a couple of days of rain without end. Because of the flatness of the landscape, I can see huge thunderclouds slowly advancing on Outapi, the borders of the dark cloud stretching for a few miles either side of the city. When a storm passes by, you can see the flashes and forks of its lightning as is creeps to the east. For a country with an average 300 days of sunshine per year, I don’t think we’ve had more than three days in the past 35.
Because of all the rain, the landscape is completely, utterly transformed. Normally, Namibia is a landscape of earth tones: white rocks, light brown sand, the occasional scraggly, withering tree. But this year, because of the good rains, the palette has changed completely. It's green everywhere. Fields that were just dry sand changed in a week to shallow pools with grass growing in them, and they look almost like rice paddies from southeast Asia.
The oshanas¸ large, shallow depressions in the terrain, have completely filled with water. Although the water is rarely more than waist-deep, the oshanas look like lakes, stretching sometimes a mile or two in length and nearly a mile wide. Getting anywhere can be a challenge. It’s common now to see women with their dresses bunched around their thighs, walking through what looks like a lake. Men will roll up their pant legs or just wear shorts to work. I spoke to one principal who lives in Outapi but works at a school perhaps 7 miles from here. He and his teachers were leaving for work at 6am, because walking there through the oshanas would take over two hours.
The roads in some places have become impassable. The nearest WorldTeach volunteer, Jocelyn, is at a school 10k down a gravel road. The road has washed out in at least four places, when oshanas on either side of the road linked up. Driving to town after work one day, their pickup struck stalled out in one of these sections. The water was so high that the bed of the pickup flooded, and everyone had to get out and push. Now, most of the teachers have just moved into the village because they can’t go back and forth. For a few days, even the main tar road between Outapi and Ruacana flooded!
I’ve also heard about one group of teachers who were walking back from school one afternoon through an oshana. One of them saw something floating on the water. Thinking it might be a dead cow, he wandered over to investigate. Just a moment later he shrieked, and tore off at full speed, running through the water. The others followed him, terrified, until they reached dry land. What they thought was a dead cow turned out to be a live crocodile!
Now, I think that story might be more of a ‘rural legend’ than a true story. However, I’ve asked several colleagues about it, and while none of them could confirm if this story was true or not, they all acknowledged that it could be. They say that when the rains are heavy enough in Angola, just about 15k north of us, then the Kunene river can flood its banks and the crocodiles escape into the oshana system. The oshanas, when full, actually flow like slow rivers. The oshanas link together and eventually flow into the Etosha pan if there is enough rain. This year, from what I’ve heard, there’s enough rain. I’ll be checking it out this weekend, but keeping a careful eye out for crocs!
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Sixth-Grade Slut
When I arrived back in Namibia at the beginning of the year, my first job was to help conduct the teacher training for the incoming group of volunteers. There were just under 20 new volunteers, and all but two had no experience whatsoever with teaching. My task was to try to get them ready to teach in just three weeks. We began with basic pedagogy, and ended with the Grade Six Slut.
While at first this would seem to be a ridiculous job, on reflection they received far more teacher training than I ever did. Most teachers in the United States go through a formal teacher-training program, but I began teaching as an “Emergency Certified” teacher in New York City during a severe teacher shortage towards the end of the internet bubble. In those days, anyone with fiscal sensibility jumped on the internet bandwagon, and as a result schools were having a very hard time getting staff. As a result, the certification process back then involved finding a pulse and checking to see if the applicant was breathing. As I qualified on both scores, I was immediately hired.
The training process for emergency certified teachers was just as rigorous as the interview process. My supervisor, the Assistant Principal for English, came to my apartment about a week before I started. She gave me a box of books, some sample end-of-year exams, and a key. “You can teach any of these books you like,” she said. “Get the kids ready for this exam. Oh, and here’s your room key. Good luck!” That was it.
Compared to such a brief orientation, the three weeks of training for World Teach volunteers seems length! It does raise the question of how valuable and necessary teacher training is, however. In what other profession would governments hire unqualified, unlicensed people for professional positions. Can you imagine hiring someone as a doctor just because he took biology in college? What about hiring someone to build a bridge because she liked to build with lego when she was a child? It does say something about the relative worth that our society places on education.
Those concerns aside, we began our teacher training in Windhoek, Namibia’s capital, with a week of classes on classroom management, writing lesson plans, educational theory, and so forth. For me, the training went much, much better than last year. The group of volunteers was very eager and attentive. I was much more confident, having already taught this curruciulum before. But the biggest reason was that I had a year’s worth of teaching in Namibia under my belt, so I could speak with some authority about issues of critical importance in schools here, like whether or not school policy allowed girls to wear hair extensions. The answer varies with each school, but for most the answer is no, because principals believe it will cause conflict between those who are rich enough to afford extensions and those cannot.
After just a week dealing with thorny educational issues like this one, the whole group traveled up to Omungwelume, a small village about 30km down a gravel road from Oshakati, the biggest city in Ovamboland. Last year, two of my closest friends, Dan Bartha and Jennica Planisek, lived there. This year, another married couple, Dan & Kathryn, are there. It’s a really nice village of perhaps 2,000 people. It’s just the right size – you don’t feel isolated, but there’s no feeling it being a city either. As an outsider, people are curious about you but you don’t have to worry much about theft or other hassles.
For the new volunteers, this was their first time in the North, what I would consider the ‘real’ Namibia. Gone were nicely paved streets, replaced instead with dusty and hot dirt roads through the town and the surrounding bush. Gone were chain stores from South Africa with wide ranges comfort foods. Instead, there are a half of a dozen cuca shops and shebeens, and two general dealers that stock basics such as flour, onions, sugar, oil, and canned goods. But in contrast to the image that many people have of Africa, the small village also sports a clinic, a post office, several schools, and a police station. Most people live in simple houses made of concrete bricks, topped with a zinc roof which is defeaning when it rains. Most of the children are healthy and have enough to eat. It’s poor, but it’s not a dysfunctional, crumbling society. It’s working quite well, in fact.
One challenge was to convince the kids in town to come to our ‘School’ for a week, because this was at the tail end of their summer break. We did have several things gong for us, however. First, there really isn’t much to do in Omungwelume, so school with a bunch of iilumbu (white people) seemed pretty interesting. Second, we gave out snacks at the break and promised a certificate at the end of the week. Namibians are mad for certificates, for reasons that I have never been able to figure out. Finally, I help in the marketing department. The first day in town, I had made friends with several kids when I went out for a run. The next day, I loaded them into our field director’s car and we drove all around the village, spreading the word. I would first explain in my halting Oshiwambo, “Okuya osikola nena! Oto li unene.” (Go to school. You are eating a lot). Then my helpers would explain, fluently, that kids should come to the school because there would be snacks and certificates.
For the new volunteers, working with real kids was invaluable, as was having a chance to see what the north was all about. Even though they were just team-teaching two hours a day, many found the work tiring, because managing 20-40 hyper kids is hard! After a week of ‘classes’, we briefly met with the King of Ndonga, one of the Ovambo tribes, and then took a well-deserved rest in Etosha National Park, Namibia’s biggest game reserve. Every visit to one of these places is different. Last year I visited visited three different game parks but never once did I see a lion. But this time, we saw a lion just ten minutes into the park! We also saw an ostrich run in front of our bus for a kilometer or so, loads of kudus, impalas, and springboks, and two adult elephants mourning a dead juvenile elephant.
After the break of Etosha, we had a few more days training in Windhoek, and I tried something new. Although the practice teaching was useful, most kids who came to our ‘school’ were younger than the kids volunteers would be teaching during the school year. Also, they were generally really good kids, and I didn’t feel the volunteers had much exposure to some of the classroom management problems that can happen. The volunteers broke into two groups, one for grades 5-7, and one for grades 8-12. In each group, volunteers had to present a lesson that was specific to their content level, while the other volunteers pretended to be students. For each lesson, I gave one of the volunteers a slip of paper detailing a behavioral problem they should have during the lesson. I tried to choose the most common classroom management problems: students coming late, being talkative, refusing to work in groups, falling asleep in class, and so on. Though I was worried the volunteers would think this exercise a bit stupid, it turned out that everyone was always waiting to see what the ‘problem’ would be each time, and that volunteers really loved playing the ‘bad’ student.
The best ‘problem’ that happened in class was in the grade 5-7 group. That group of volunteers played their roles as learners to the hilt by talking in high, squeaky voices, stealing each other’s pencils (sometimes unprompted), even pretending to pick their noses in class. One time, I pulled aside Kathryn (Dan’s wife) and Weslie, and asked them if they could ‘pretend’ to get into a fight during the next lesson. They agreed, and I awaited the next lesson eagerly.
During that lesson, I had my back turned when suddenly I heard the fifth-grade Kathryn shout at the sixth-grade Weslie, “You SLUT!! How could you? You slept with Dan!?! That’s my husband.” Kathryn lunged across the table at Weslie. Weslie picked up the first thing she saw, a glass full of Sprite, and dumped on Kathryn’s head. Katrina, the poor volunteer who was teaching at the time, was taken completely by surprise but still managed to separate them. When we all finished laughing and Katrina finished shaking, we debriefed how to handle a situation like this one in the classroom. It doesn’t happen often, but still, it’s good to know what to do when it does. Educational theory says that active learning is far more effective than passive learning, and I bet those volunteers will remember just what to do when a sixth-grade slut steals someone else’s boyfriend!
While at first this would seem to be a ridiculous job, on reflection they received far more teacher training than I ever did. Most teachers in the United States go through a formal teacher-training program, but I began teaching as an “Emergency Certified” teacher in New York City during a severe teacher shortage towards the end of the internet bubble. In those days, anyone with fiscal sensibility jumped on the internet bandwagon, and as a result schools were having a very hard time getting staff. As a result, the certification process back then involved finding a pulse and checking to see if the applicant was breathing. As I qualified on both scores, I was immediately hired.
The training process for emergency certified teachers was just as rigorous as the interview process. My supervisor, the Assistant Principal for English, came to my apartment about a week before I started. She gave me a box of books, some sample end-of-year exams, and a key. “You can teach any of these books you like,” she said. “Get the kids ready for this exam. Oh, and here’s your room key. Good luck!” That was it.
Compared to such a brief orientation, the three weeks of training for World Teach volunteers seems length! It does raise the question of how valuable and necessary teacher training is, however. In what other profession would governments hire unqualified, unlicensed people for professional positions. Can you imagine hiring someone as a doctor just because he took biology in college? What about hiring someone to build a bridge because she liked to build with lego when she was a child? It does say something about the relative worth that our society places on education.
Those concerns aside, we began our teacher training in Windhoek, Namibia’s capital, with a week of classes on classroom management, writing lesson plans, educational theory, and so forth. For me, the training went much, much better than last year. The group of volunteers was very eager and attentive. I was much more confident, having already taught this curruciulum before. But the biggest reason was that I had a year’s worth of teaching in Namibia under my belt, so I could speak with some authority about issues of critical importance in schools here, like whether or not school policy allowed girls to wear hair extensions. The answer varies with each school, but for most the answer is no, because principals believe it will cause conflict between those who are rich enough to afford extensions and those cannot.
After just a week dealing with thorny educational issues like this one, the whole group traveled up to Omungwelume, a small village about 30km down a gravel road from Oshakati, the biggest city in Ovamboland. Last year, two of my closest friends, Dan Bartha and Jennica Planisek, lived there. This year, another married couple, Dan & Kathryn, are there. It’s a really nice village of perhaps 2,000 people. It’s just the right size – you don’t feel isolated, but there’s no feeling it being a city either. As an outsider, people are curious about you but you don’t have to worry much about theft or other hassles.
For the new volunteers, this was their first time in the North, what I would consider the ‘real’ Namibia. Gone were nicely paved streets, replaced instead with dusty and hot dirt roads through the town and the surrounding bush. Gone were chain stores from South Africa with wide ranges comfort foods. Instead, there are a half of a dozen cuca shops and shebeens, and two general dealers that stock basics such as flour, onions, sugar, oil, and canned goods. But in contrast to the image that many people have of Africa, the small village also sports a clinic, a post office, several schools, and a police station. Most people live in simple houses made of concrete bricks, topped with a zinc roof which is defeaning when it rains. Most of the children are healthy and have enough to eat. It’s poor, but it’s not a dysfunctional, crumbling society. It’s working quite well, in fact.
One challenge was to convince the kids in town to come to our ‘School’ for a week, because this was at the tail end of their summer break. We did have several things gong for us, however. First, there really isn’t much to do in Omungwelume, so school with a bunch of iilumbu (white people) seemed pretty interesting. Second, we gave out snacks at the break and promised a certificate at the end of the week. Namibians are mad for certificates, for reasons that I have never been able to figure out. Finally, I help in the marketing department. The first day in town, I had made friends with several kids when I went out for a run. The next day, I loaded them into our field director’s car and we drove all around the village, spreading the word. I would first explain in my halting Oshiwambo, “Okuya osikola nena! Oto li unene.” (Go to school. You are eating a lot). Then my helpers would explain, fluently, that kids should come to the school because there would be snacks and certificates.
For the new volunteers, working with real kids was invaluable, as was having a chance to see what the north was all about. Even though they were just team-teaching two hours a day, many found the work tiring, because managing 20-40 hyper kids is hard! After a week of ‘classes’, we briefly met with the King of Ndonga, one of the Ovambo tribes, and then took a well-deserved rest in Etosha National Park, Namibia’s biggest game reserve. Every visit to one of these places is different. Last year I visited visited three different game parks but never once did I see a lion. But this time, we saw a lion just ten minutes into the park! We also saw an ostrich run in front of our bus for a kilometer or so, loads of kudus, impalas, and springboks, and two adult elephants mourning a dead juvenile elephant.
After the break of Etosha, we had a few more days training in Windhoek, and I tried something new. Although the practice teaching was useful, most kids who came to our ‘school’ were younger than the kids volunteers would be teaching during the school year. Also, they were generally really good kids, and I didn’t feel the volunteers had much exposure to some of the classroom management problems that can happen. The volunteers broke into two groups, one for grades 5-7, and one for grades 8-12. In each group, volunteers had to present a lesson that was specific to their content level, while the other volunteers pretended to be students. For each lesson, I gave one of the volunteers a slip of paper detailing a behavioral problem they should have during the lesson. I tried to choose the most common classroom management problems: students coming late, being talkative, refusing to work in groups, falling asleep in class, and so on. Though I was worried the volunteers would think this exercise a bit stupid, it turned out that everyone was always waiting to see what the ‘problem’ would be each time, and that volunteers really loved playing the ‘bad’ student.
The best ‘problem’ that happened in class was in the grade 5-7 group. That group of volunteers played their roles as learners to the hilt by talking in high, squeaky voices, stealing each other’s pencils (sometimes unprompted), even pretending to pick their noses in class. One time, I pulled aside Kathryn (Dan’s wife) and Weslie, and asked them if they could ‘pretend’ to get into a fight during the next lesson. They agreed, and I awaited the next lesson eagerly.
During that lesson, I had my back turned when suddenly I heard the fifth-grade Kathryn shout at the sixth-grade Weslie, “You SLUT!! How could you? You slept with Dan!?! That’s my husband.” Kathryn lunged across the table at Weslie. Weslie picked up the first thing she saw, a glass full of Sprite, and dumped on Kathryn’s head. Katrina, the poor volunteer who was teaching at the time, was taken completely by surprise but still managed to separate them. When we all finished laughing and Katrina finished shaking, we debriefed how to handle a situation like this one in the classroom. It doesn’t happen often, but still, it’s good to know what to do when it does. Educational theory says that active learning is far more effective than passive learning, and I bet those volunteers will remember just what to do when a sixth-grade slut steals someone else’s boyfriend!
Friday, February 1, 2008
Canisianum Scholarship
Give kids in Namibia a shot at a quality education -- help create the Canisianum Scholarship Endowment.
Canisianum RCHS in Northern Namibia is an excellent school, but unfortunately most families cannot afford the modest fees of US$100 a year. You can give more kids in Namibia access to a quality education by donating to the Canisianum Scholarship Endowment.
Why Canisianum?
Most schools in Namibia are struggling. Some lack resources, and many are staffed by unmotivated, substandard teachers. The passing rate for the grade 10 exams is less than 50%. Canisianum RCHS, where I have worked as a volunteer teacher, is different. The school, which is supported by both the government and the Catholic church, has adequate resources. It has an excellent teaching staff, comprised of motivated Namibians, volunteers, and nuns. As a result, Canisianum 's passing rate on the grade 10 exams was 98%, and the school was ranked 7th nationwide. For students living in the Ombalantu region, Canisianum is their best chance to get a quality education.
What Will Happen to Your Money?
The goal of this campaign is to raise enough money so that an endowment can be created to fund students at Canisianum in perpetuity. You will not be raising this money alone; Canisianum plans to raise funds in Namibia as well. Once the money has been raised, it will be invested through the charity wing of one of Namibia's largest and most reputable banks, Nedbank. A scholarship selection committee will be created at the school which will include the principal, teachers, and members of the community. This committee will select applicants based on financial need and academic merit. Students who are selected will be fully funded at the school from grade 8 through 12, provided their school work remains satisfactory. The fundraising goal set here should be enough to fund five students every year for the forseeable future.
Please think about donating now to help us give girls like those in the picture a quality education. Donate at whatever level is comfortable for you. Think about a $100 donation, which pays for an entire year of school for a poor child. All donations are tax-deductible! Please help us out today!
There are two ways you can donate. The quick & easy way to donate is on the internet. You can check out the fundraising page for this scholarship at http://www.firstgiving.com/canisianumscholarship. Click on the link or copy it to your browser. The only downside to this site is that they take 7.5% of your donation as their fee, which is kind of high.
If you want every cent to help out these kids, you can send a check to WorldTeach, the NGO through whom I am working in Namibia. They will process everything. Just write "Canisianum Scholarship" in the memo line, and mail your check to:
WorldTeach
c/o Center for International Development
Harvard University, Box 122
79 John F. Kennedy Street
Cambridge MA 02138 USA
Attn: Alix
If you have any questions about this scholarship endowment or Canisianum RCHS, please write me at joshua.kaufmann.72@gmail.com. Thanks in advance for taking the time to consider how you can help more kids in Namibia get a quality education.
Josh Kaufmann
Canisianum RCHS in Northern Namibia is an excellent school, but unfortunately most families cannot afford the modest fees of US$100 a year. You can give more kids in Namibia access to a quality education by donating to the Canisianum Scholarship Endowment.
Why Canisianum?
Most schools in Namibia are struggling. Some lack resources, and many are staffed by unmotivated, substandard teachers. The passing rate for the grade 10 exams is less than 50%. Canisianum RCHS, where I have worked as a volunteer teacher, is different. The school, which is supported by both the government and the Catholic church, has adequate resources. It has an excellent teaching staff, comprised of motivated Namibians, volunteers, and nuns. As a result, Canisianum 's passing rate on the grade 10 exams was 98%, and the school was ranked 7th nationwide. For students living in the Ombalantu region, Canisianum is their best chance to get a quality education.
What Will Happen to Your Money?
The goal of this campaign is to raise enough money so that an endowment can be created to fund students at Canisianum in perpetuity. You will not be raising this money alone; Canisianum plans to raise funds in Namibia as well. Once the money has been raised, it will be invested through the charity wing of one of Namibia's largest and most reputable banks, Nedbank. A scholarship selection committee will be created at the school which will include the principal, teachers, and members of the community. This committee will select applicants based on financial need and academic merit. Students who are selected will be fully funded at the school from grade 8 through 12, provided their school work remains satisfactory. The fundraising goal set here should be enough to fund five students every year for the forseeable future.
Please think about donating now to help us give girls like those in the picture a quality education. Donate at whatever level is comfortable for you. Think about a $100 donation, which pays for an entire year of school for a poor child. All donations are tax-deductible! Please help us out today!
There are two ways you can donate. The quick & easy way to donate is on the internet. You can check out the fundraising page for this scholarship at http://www.firstgiving.com/canisianumscholarship. Click on the link or copy it to your browser. The only downside to this site is that they take 7.5% of your donation as their fee, which is kind of high.
If you want every cent to help out these kids, you can send a check to WorldTeach, the NGO through whom I am working in Namibia. They will process everything. Just write "Canisianum Scholarship" in the memo line, and mail your check to:
WorldTeach
c/o Center for International Development
Harvard University, Box 122
79 John F. Kennedy Street
Cambridge MA 02138 USA
Attn: Alix
If you have any questions about this scholarship endowment or Canisianum RCHS, please write me at joshua.kaufmann.72@gmail.com. Thanks in advance for taking the time to consider how you can help more kids in Namibia get a quality education.
Josh Kaufmann
3 Months in 3 Paragraphs
Hello readers! Sorry for the long absence from the blogosphere, but work and life have sort of overtaken me during the last three months. I’ll try to catch you up on things in a quick summary. As I get time and/or gumption, I'll backdate a few entries to give the gory details. In fact, I've already done one on the barefoot marathon runners of Namibia.
At the end of October and beginning of November I traveled loads, going out of town three weekends in a row for trips to Walvis Bay (14 hours each way), Otjiwarongo (6 hours each way), and Windhoek (9 hours each way). The first was for the marathon, the second for a World Teach conference, and the final trip was to judge a debate competition. After that, there was just a headlong rush to finish marking exams and to set up a computerized report card system for my school before I flew back to the U.S. at the beginning of December.
Travelling home to New York and Chicago was very strange for me. At first I had a hard time adjusting, especially when I was in New York. Even though I was home for 3½ weeks, there was simply not enough time to catch up with everyone who I wanted to spend time with, and my head still spun a bit from reverse culture shock. I realized how much I missed my friends and my family. Chicago was especially hard—I’ve been away from there for so long that I feel like I’m starting to lose connection my family. I don’t like only seeing them for short visits once or twice a year. On top of all that, I struggled with the question of whether to stay here just until June, or for one more full year.
Coming back to Namibia was no cakewalk, aided by goofups in travel planning by my NGO and then by a cancelled flight from London to Johannesburg. The trip from Chicago to Namibia ended up taking four days, when it can really be done in 24 hours. Back in Namibia, I felt a bit out of sorts but eager to start working with the new group of volunteers. For three weeks the new volunteers had ‘orientation,’ a combination of teacher training, country orientation, and language classes. The training went really well, and only a week ago I got back to Outapi to start to do some projects developing libraries in the Omusati region.
At the end of October and beginning of November I traveled loads, going out of town three weekends in a row for trips to Walvis Bay (14 hours each way), Otjiwarongo (6 hours each way), and Windhoek (9 hours each way). The first was for the marathon, the second for a World Teach conference, and the final trip was to judge a debate competition. After that, there was just a headlong rush to finish marking exams and to set up a computerized report card system for my school before I flew back to the U.S. at the beginning of December.
Travelling home to New York and Chicago was very strange for me. At first I had a hard time adjusting, especially when I was in New York. Even though I was home for 3½ weeks, there was simply not enough time to catch up with everyone who I wanted to spend time with, and my head still spun a bit from reverse culture shock. I realized how much I missed my friends and my family. Chicago was especially hard—I’ve been away from there for so long that I feel like I’m starting to lose connection my family. I don’t like only seeing them for short visits once or twice a year. On top of all that, I struggled with the question of whether to stay here just until June, or for one more full year.
Coming back to Namibia was no cakewalk, aided by goofups in travel planning by my NGO and then by a cancelled flight from London to Johannesburg. The trip from Chicago to Namibia ended up taking four days, when it can really be done in 24 hours. Back in Namibia, I felt a bit out of sorts but eager to start working with the new group of volunteers. For three weeks the new volunteers had ‘orientation,’ a combination of teacher training, country orientation, and language classes. The training went really well, and only a week ago I got back to Outapi to start to do some projects developing libraries in the Omusati region.
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