The Slums of Outapi

I had a really interesting and somewhat surreal experience with one of the development studies classes today. Development studies is an interesting subject -- only 11th and 12th graders take it at my school, and it's a combination of history, geography, economics, environmental science and urban planning. The teacher for development studies is Jona, who is also Meme Monica's nephew. He invited me along on his senior class field trip to Ohnhimbu, our local shanty town, and then to the open market and the town council. The kids had been focusing on health issues in their class discussions, so they spent time examining toilets and areas for dumping garbage.

First, the class visited Outapi’s shanty town. In Onhimbu, there are shared community toilets, some shacks made of corrugated metal, and tiny houses made of poured concrete. It certainly was poorer than in the town proper, but I’ve seen worse. People get their water from communal taps, but the water is treated and safe to drink. Few houses here have electricity, but that is also true of the homesteads out in the countryside. There is a small market near a pond of rainwater which was becoming a bit stagnant. To be honest, I liked that it didn’t look orderly and westernized, but rather was a higgledy-piggledy jumble of small vendors.

While we were walking through Onhimbu, some of the students were vocal about how terrible it was there. I asked the kids how these houses differed from their own, and they indignantly replied “Mr. K, our homes have nice yards that are swept. And we have big homes. Not small ones like these.”

“How big is your home?” I asked one student.

“My home has nine bedrooms,” she replied.

“And how many are living there?”

“Oh, we are four.”

Oh, dear. There we were, 30 private school kids in nice uniforms and their two nattily-dressed teachers, wandering through the shanty town. It’s as if I were teaching in an affluent suburb of New York City, and took my students on a tour of the grittier areas surrounding my former school in Jamaica, Queens. On the one hand, it’s good to expose fortunate students to poverty. On the other hand, it just felt strange to me. Aren’t I supposed to be helping the people who live Onhimbu, not the ones who can afford a private education? And what about those who live in the much poorer parts of Africa, with per capita incomes in the hundreds of dollars instead of the low thousands?

After spending 15 or 20 minutes wandering through Onhimbu, we went to the recently constructed open market. This outdoor market space was clean and well-organized. It also had slabs of meat sitting unrefrigerated all day long. People there also sold a locally-made moonshine called tombe which was consumed out of a communal glass. To someone who grew up with western supermarkets, the carcasses hanging all day was just as disturbing as the poverty in Onhimbu.

Finally, we arrived at the town council building, which was a newly-built, modern structure. The students spoke to an environmental health specialist who worked for the council. The kids asked hard questions about why the city ‘allowed’ Onhimbu to happen, and the representative tried to explain that the city was upgrading its facilities as quickly as possible.

I wonder if this trip was a success, educationally. If wealthier students see how others live, will they be inclined to support policies which help the poor, like minimum wage laws or public health codes? Or will they be horrified, like some of my students, and harden their resolve to become rich and successful so they need never live in a place like Onhimbu?

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.