Recalibrating Expectations

This week will mark one full month at my site, and about a month and a half in Africa. It’s not a very long time, but long enough for me to realize that Africa is not what I expected at all. Like many Americans, when I thought of “Africa,” I had a few iconic images in my mind: noble warriors wearing loincloths and bare-breasted women pictured in National Geographic; desperate, starving children and mutilated bodies, victims of famine and ethnic cleansing, pictured in Time or Newsweek; and lionesses chasing down antelope on the open savannahs, from old episodes of Wild Kingdom. Africa, above all, would be different. It would be the complete opposite of everything I had experienced in America.

I was wrong.

I have seen no noble warriors, no starving children, no lionesses nor antelope, and no evidence of Namibia’s war for independence which ended 17 years ago. I have seen a bare-breasted woman, but only twice, and only because a traditional Himba woman from about 100 miles away happened to be in our town doing some shopping. (I don’t have a picture to put on the site because I was far too embarrassed to take one. I could barely look!). There has been no violence, although two learners did get into a fight yesterday over stolen soccer shoes. While there is no ‘big game’ in my part of Namibia, there are goats, cows, and donkeys are everywhere.

At times I am very disappointed by how ‘normal’ life here seems. For example, for breakfast everyday I eat granola with 2% milk, and for lunch I usually have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. For dinner, I have been making pasta or rice and putting in a can of mixed vegetables. It’s just like home, but without the benefit of a microwave. My little dorm room reminds me of the single dorms at college, although this one has a shower and toilet in the room. The water from the taps is safe to drink, and while the pressure is quite variable, I can usually rinse off the soap before the water runs out. The electricity is on here 24/7.

Moreover, Canisianum Roman Catholic High School where I am teaching is a selective academy and it seems to be a bastion of western culture. We have a fairly strict bell schedule, and ‘African Time’ is not an excuse for lateness here. Although corporal punishment exists, it is rare. More frequently, learners are given the onerous task of ‘weeding’ if they misbehave, which means they must cut grass with a small scythe. Learners are not allowed to use their native language during the school day, and all classes are taught in English except for their Oshiwambo class. Everyone here speaks English fairly well, so there is never a need to communicate in the local language. Though I am learning some of the language, my efforts are hampered by the English speakers all around me.

The school is western in other ways as well. Many of my students are from comparatively affluent families. Although it may not sound like much, they pay nearly US$400 yearly to attend. This figure is nearly 100 times the cost of attending a government school, and equal to the per capita income of Africa's poorest nations. When I asked my students to write letters in which they introduced themselves, many of them told me about their hobbies. Some students liked to go in the fields to cultivate mahangu (the crop that becomes oshifima), but others talked about how they like to read story books, watch movies, and play with their computers. One student wrote about how he loved his Playstation, and another proudly related that her parents were so pleased with her test scores last year that they bought her a cell phone and a laptop! What?!? These sound just like the students back home. Why have I traveled 7,000 miles, and what am I doing here, if the students were just like the ones I left in Queens?

Then I read an interesting passage in Lonely Planet’s Southern Africa guide, “In South Africa and Namibia, two societies/cultures (western and African) run in parallel, although they rarely cross. As you might expect, social customs in a western situation are similar to those in Europe, Australasia and North America…in the other countries covered in this book…the society and culture is predominantly African.” Great, I thought. I should be in Malawi. Here at the school and the Anamulenge mission things feel largely western.

I have not resolved any of these frustrations yet. Lonely Planet helped me to understand why I’ve been feeling frustrated. To some extent, I now have hope that there is an indigenous culture out here if I can only find a way to access it. On the other hand, I am fitfully recalibrating my expectations and trying to find out what role I can play in this partially developed country. Should I spend my time learning the local language, in the hopes of finding something that feels more “African?” Or should I accept that I am basically living in a poor version of the Western world, and work in that context? I don’t know.

Learning a Language is Good for your Stomach

In September of 2006, when I knew that I would be going to Namibia, I decided it would be a good idea to start learning one of the local languages before I left. Now, Namibia has at least ten different indigenous languages, but the most common is called Oshiwambo, which is spoken by nearly half of Namibia’s 1.8 million people. As a result, I decided to try to learn Oshiwambo.

My first step, like a dummy, was to browse the languages section of one of the worlds’ largest Barnes & Noble stores (sorry Leslie). Down the aisle I looked. There was Berlitz Guide to Italian, Easy Mandarin, Teach Yourself Polish, but nothing about Oshiwambo. Hm.

The next step was more successful. I rang up the Namibian Mission to the United Nations, explained my situation, and the secretary who answered the phone eventually agreed teach me Oshiwambo. Her name was Ester Mwale (Muh-wah-ley) and for the next two months, I spent an hour a week at the Namibian mission practicing basic greetings, counting, and learning to say that I was going to or coming from a dozen different places. When I finally got my placement in Outapi, I immediately called up Ester to tell her, and actually had a three-exchange conversation in Oshiwambo that went like this:

Me: Wa ley ley po, meme [Good morning, miss – although it was 3p.m. at this point]
Ester: Eh-yay. [Yes]
Me: Nawa? [Is it ok?]
Ester: Eh-yay. [Yes.]
Me: Ester, otandii koh Ovamboland. Otandii koh Outapi! [I’m going to Ovamboland. I’m going to Outapi]
Ester: [A combination of a shriek and a ululation].

It turns out that my site at Anamulenge mission in Outapi is where my teacher’s mother lives. As a result, I came to Namibia with a list of contacts in the capital and in Outapi. When I arrived for my first day of school, the first teacher I met was Jona Ndiloshini, who turned out to be Ester’s younger cousin. He was as amazed by the coincidence as I was, but I think Jona was even more impressed that I could count to 20 in Oshiwambo. For the next week, whenever he had a chance, he asked me to count for him. It was both flattering and felt at the same time like I was a trained seal performing tricks, but people seemed to like it.


Anyway, towards the end of the first full week of school, Jona and I drove out to the homestead of Meme Monika, his aunt and the mother of my teacher, Ester. This was my first visit to a traditional homestead. It was a large compound, with three squarish concrete buildings with beds, and several circular, thatched-reed huts that were used for cooking and other purposes. Someone may have slept there, but it was hard to tell.









The family living at the compound seemed large – there were about fifteen people there that night. I don’t remember all of them, but I did meet and talk to several. There was Solomon, a barrel-chested and smiling twenty-something who was the chef for the evening; Maria, a beautiful but shy young woman who was leaving the next day to go to university; Meme Monika herself, who caught up with her daughter on my cell phone; Ndanjey, an adorable younger sister, Meme Kooloo (Respected Ma’am) Ester, Ester’s very enthusiastic grandmother; and Tate Kooloo (Respected Sir) Peter, who was some sort of a village elder who stopped by to welcome me.


To celebrate, Meme Monika decided to have a brai, which is an adopted Afrikaans word, I think, for barbecue. Solomon, one of her sons, dragged a goat towards the back of the compound. About half an hour later he proudly showed me how he had skinned the goat, and the goat’s hide lay drying on the roof of one of the huts. Then, Solomon cooked up the goat over a small wooden fire, with a metal grille balanced on three cement blocks.





During the time it took to cook, I sat and listened to most of the family speak in Oshiwambo, and all I could do was nod. So much for my learning! We drank a fairly sour, cloudy, alcoholic juice that was a little hard to stomach, and then one of the younger children led us on a short expedition in the dark to catch frogs that had come out because of the recent rains. These suckers were huge! I held one for awhile until it squirmed and got away. They have a hard, thick, flat spine that feels like a flexible plastic ruler when you hold the frog.

When it was time to eat, we began with barbecued goat’s meat. Solomon brought out a large bowl with assorted pieces of grilled goat, and the adults sat around milk crate which served as our table and ate with our hands. My friend Jona made fun of me for not eating enough meat off of the ribs. He tried to show me how to do it, which involved tearing off the end of the bone with his teeth and then stripping off the rest of the meat. I tried, but couldn’t quite manage it.

For the second round, Solomon brought out a large bowl of osheefeema, which is a Namibian staple. It is made from mahangu, a grain which I believe is also known as sorghum. The grain is pounded and then made into a thick mixture which tastes like Cream of Wheat if you put in too much wheat and too little water. We scooped up handfuls of the osheefeema and then dipped into another bowl that had both meat and some broth in it. It was a yummy meal, and we stuffed ourselves until nearly 10:30 at night.

Jona and his brother gave me a ride home in the back of his pickup truck, and I was so stuffed that I couldn’t even think of eating breakfast the following day!

First Day at the Mission

I have been at my site, the Anamulenge Mission, for one full day now. Life at the mission requires an adjustment after the urban, totally westernized feel of Windhoek. In a day, we moved from the comfortable training environment into our job sites.

For myself and the 11 other volunteers in the northern portion of Namibia, known as Ovamboland, our transition started with a day-long ride in a ‘combi.’ A combi is simply a tiny van into which the Namibians cram a few more people than we would feel comfortable. Most of the ride was hot, cramped, and uneventful until we crossed the ‘red line’ which divides the northern 1/8 of the country from the bulk of Namibia. This line is a holdover from colonial days. It roughly corresponds to the malaria zone, and it marks the northern extent of white settlement. It is also divides the free-range grazing areas of the north from the commercial farms of the south, whose meat is certified for export.

At first glance, the north didn’t look like much. It consisted mostly of sparse fields, as the rains had not been good so far this year, and many goats, cows, and donkeys were grazing everywhere. We drove through Oshakati, the north’s big city, which seemed to be a collection of sandy, run-down strip malls. The roads were good however, and the biggest driving hazard was goats and cows wandering into the path of traffic.

When I finally arrived at the Anamulenge mission, it also looked grim. The mission is just about 300 metres off a small tarred road. It has the same sandy soil and sparse grass of Ovamboland, a modest two-story church, and perhaps a dozen single-story buildings and houses scattered around. My first thought, after spending 10 hot hours in a combi, was “I’m going to live here for a year?!?” A small but energetic Indian nun strode out to the combi and introduced herself as Sister Annie. She showed me to my room; the outside of my housing block is pictured, and I am currently in room 2. It’s basically a dorm room, long and narrow, but with its own bathroom and shower; I had been told to expect a house with a TV and A/C, so I was a little surprised. The first night was hard. The place was empty, without students, teachers, or the rest of the missionaries. A dog wanted to be friendly, but I held back because its scars suggested fleas or some other nasty beasts. I was hot. I wondered how I would survive a year here. The room was stuffy, but I didn’t open the windows because of the bugs. Thanks goodness that I got calls from my parents, my godmother, and Lynn that night!

When I woke up the next day, I resolved to explore the town which was two miles away. Outapi, my nearest town, is big by Namibian standards. It has two tarred roads, several markets to buy food, three banks, a post office, two gas stations, many shebeens (bars), and a hospital. Very little was open because it was Sunday, but I was able to buy a fat cake, a yummy piece of fried bread, from an outdoor vendor.

You can actually see Outapi if you go to Google Maps. You can find the town and then look at it with a satellite overlay so you can see houses and roads. The hospital is at the southern end of town, viewable on Google with a big cross. There are numerous sand streets where new government houses have been built, just north and west of the hospital. Each is a brightly painted concrete box, with a small yard and usually a fence. As you go north on the tarred road from the hospital, there are a variety of shops until the road comes to a T at another tarred road. On Google you can see a big building just north of this intersection; that is a ‘supermarket’ which sells everything from hats to noodles to bicycle parts. If you turn right at the ‘T’, and then follow the first left turn off the main road, you will be able to see the Mission. It’s just beyond the end of the tarred road.

Towards the end of the first day, though still a bit unsettled, I went running with Robin, a Peace Corps Volunteer who also lives at the mission. As usual, running set me right. We ran through open fields in the late afternoon’s sun, fading but still hot. A few animals wandered near our route as we ran through fields of grass and by small, seasonal ponds called oshanas. By the end of the run, having had some companionship and sweat, I felt ready to for the first day of school.

Training

Welcome to Outapi Odyssey, which is my record of my time as a volunteer teacher of English and math at a school in northern Namibia. I am working here as a volunteer with the nonprofit group WorldTeach, which places college graduates as teachers in developing countries.

The first official part of the WorldTeach Program takes place in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. It is a suprisingly modern-feeling city of approximately 200,000, but it has excellent infrastructure, water, electricity, and modern buildings. The whole group of approximately 20 is staying in a backpackers' hostel and we train in a shady area alongside the dormitories. The hostel is nice and the weather is actually quite pleasant -- not yet above 90, and a very dry heat at that. Evening is cool, sometimes requiring an extra layer even in the summer.

Because I have teaching experience, I was selected as a Teacher Fellow, which means that I share responsibility for some of the training. The first week of training has been pretty intense, because I'm teaching new material for the first time and feel somewhat underprepared. When the rest of the group is relaxing after training, I've been staying up late trying to prepare the next day's lesson. Of course, this is nothing new, but still. I'm looking forward to the next four days when my 'students' will now have some practice teaching sessions too. Soon, they will be feeling the stress with me.

The people in the group are very nice, though I don't feel like I've 'clicked' with anyone yet. We are nearly 20 people. There are three young couples, including two couples who got married less than six months ago. There is one more mature lady from Canada, Bonnie, who seems very nice though I don't know her much yet. Then there are a couple of late 20-somethings, Jesse, Kate, and Jocie, and then a small plethora of people just out of college. Everyone is very nice, but it's also very different of course. I'm a little lonely, and a little unsettled, and can't wait to get to my placement in two weeks so I can finally unpack.

Today we shift locations, going to Rehoboth, a smaller town an hour south of here, for praticum teaching. We also will spend a night on a farm to rest, and then a day at a dam where we can swim. New Year's, we went to a traditional Herero restaurant and were served german potato salad, green salad, rice, carrots, and many roasted goat heads which were carved in front of us. I ate some cheek, ear, and tongue. The tongue was the only thing that I really found palatable. Other than that, we are eating communally and I have not wasted away to nothing!