Wednesday, March 27, 2013

A Walk Down Main Street, Opuwo


Opuwo is a strange town, as I have mentioned. Taken in context (that is to say, being surrounded by straight up bush) it is a booming metropolis of adventure. Taken out of context, it looks like a small, dusty African town that simultaneously embraces the past and oozes itself into the cracks of the 21st century.  Among the rusty signs, dingy little pop-up shops, and network of street vendors, you will find fragments of modern life outside of Kunene. These “fragments” are usually being peed on by stray dogs or overrun by a pig family, but they are there nonetheless.

Allow me to take you on a hypothetical journey down the main drag of Opuwo. It’s not that long, but it certainly is an assault on the senses. At least the first five times. So pardon me if this entry is long, but bare with me.

You arrive in Opuwo in the back of a random person’s pick-up truck (or bakkie as they are called). After detaching yourself from the corral of goats, bags of everything you can imagine, tanks of oil, babies, Himbas, Hereros, and folks whose hair does not look nearly as mangy as yours, you exit the bakkie and find yourself in downtown Opuwo. Here you will find several banks, a supermarket, a pharmacy, a cafĂ©, and several other typical shops you would find in a larger town.

Now you will be attacked by people trying to sell you bracelets and necklaces and handing you their babies.

Why do they hand you their babies?

No really. That is a legitimate question.

Regardless, it took me two months of living here for this tradition to stop.

You begin walking towards the opposite end of town. You pass a soccer field, being occupied by regional leagues, and then you hit what appears to be the most random assortment of people, buildings, shops, and items being sold that you have ever encountered in your humble life. It’s a mass of confusion that will begin to unravel itself after say…several months.

I’m getting there.

The smell of grilled meat, onions, and fried dough hits you. Followed by the smell of the sewer system. Followed by the smell of your own disgustingness because you are a sweaty dirtball and you’ve only been there for 10 minutes. Get used to looking like that, Sweet Pea.

The sandy ground is littered with phone minute cards, rocks, candy wrappers, and broken bottles.
On the right, you pass a cell phone shop/barber/car wash. On the left, you pass a bakery/not-really-a-bakery-they-only-sell-chicken. China shops line the sidewalk, selling as much crap quality items as you can imagine. Clothes? You got it. Pots and pans, check. Kitschy plastic things you can’t identify, tiaras, and umbrellas? Please.

As amazed as you are of the number of take-aways that sell soggy french fries, fried chicken, and russians (a fat hot dog sans bun), you are more amazed by the overwhelming number of bars, many of them with a variation of the name Arsenal, the others with names like Facebook Bar and The Place To Be.

On the road are cars that honk and slow down as you are walking so the strangers inside can have a chat about how your day is going. A proposal and/or offer to run away together often follows. Smile, laugh, decline, and keep your cool. No harm is meant. On the street are people who do the same. Often yelling across more space than you thought a voice could cover. All this noise and friendly banter is complicated by several raucous Namibian songs playing simultaneously from different bars and shops, competing for first place in the What The Shit awards.

As you are passing the second, and less stocked, market, you are bombarded by a dust storm. Choking and tearing up, you continue on your way. Soon, the shops start clearing out and the streets are less densely packed. You pass the road where you would turn to climb up a mountain where you will find the elegant and ridiculously expensive Opuwo Country Hotel, gem to all tourists and the furthest thing you can get from Africa in this town. You pass a group of Himba ladies milling about on the street. To your left, children are cramming their faces through a chain link fence like little mush children and demanding that you give them “sweeties.” Still trying to blink away the dust and convince the kids that you don’t carry candy on your person like a creepy pedophile, you trip over a goat lying in the sand. People laugh. The cows look on in apathy.

Now you are in what is mainly the residential area, although there are still enough bars to get the whole of Cape May County drunk. Keep walking a bit further and you will encounter my and Ashley’s flat, almost outside of town. But you don’t keep walking because you are dehydrated, sunburned, and there is glass in your foot, and it is time to go to Arsenal VIP for shade, a drink, and a game of pool.

You go into the bar and order a drink over a counter constructed for giants and sit down only to remember that you forgot to get out money at the bank, and you now must walk back to the other end of town to go to the ATM. Such is life in Opuwo.

It’s a marvel to behold. 

Monday, March 25, 2013

More Than You Want to Know


I love getting rejection letters while vomiting in a guesthouse bathroom. It’s actually my favorite pastime. Which is lucky because that is what I’m doing right now.

I recently applied for a grant for my school to build a kitchen. However, I am just finding out now that it is a no-go for one of several possible reasons that were kindly disclosed in the letter. So, I feel like a slight failure right now, but alls well. I’ll figure something out. Although I’m not sure what yet. Give me a minute to sulk.

I also am apparently ill, as is indicated by things you don’t want to know about. I must’ve looked really pretty this morning after a night of strugglin’ (Remember, folks. I don’t have a toilet or running water in my house.) because my principal sent me into Opuwo to see the doctor.

Waited for the doctor. Four hours later, saw the doctor. Was given medicine and electrolytes. Funnily enough, electrolyte packets also make me physically ill. Fun.

Principal picked me up and dropped me off at the guesthouse. And here I be.

Recently, Ashley and I started renting a flat in Opuwo to save money when we come in on weekends. The guesthouse is nice, but gets pricey. Unfortunately, we were only given one key to the flat. And as Ashley’s place of residence is approximately 1½ hours outside of Opuwo, and she has the key, the guesthouse is my new temporary home. To throw up in peace. How nice.

By the end of this year, the doctor and the pharmacist are going to know more intimate details about me than anyone else in the world. Which is a little awkward considering the fact that me and my group of friends hang out with both of them.

Imagine sharing a drink with someone you’ve only known a few months, yet knows you are at that second having extraordinary problems with your digestive tract. Don’t even think about gracefully excusing yourself to go to the bathroom. They know what you are doing.

Sadly, this doesn’t bother me anymore. As far as I can tell, the word privacy doesn’t exist in this corner of the world. Of course, many other nice words exist. Like sharing and compassion and tradition and whatnot. Privacy, though. No. For instance, public urination. Obviously not a public offense, considering the policemen do it as well. I could give you so many more examples. But I have to go be sick.

Post being ill thought: I know I rarely write legitimate blog posts about my life here and what I'm doing. So to avoid more poop talk, you are welcome to leave a suggestion for something you want to hear about. Comment here, email me, Facebook me. Your choice. Otherwise, I will keep talking nonsense, as I'm prone to do.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Snippets of Charm



…in a generally stressful and hectic week

I don’t think I’ve ever been so resolutely productive in my life (that is meant as a hyperbole, not truthfully. I think the time I stayed up doing schoolwork for three straight days trumps this.) And I still have more to do. Mostly because here, in this odd and beautiful place, stuff never gets done the first 4 times around unless you do it yourself. Good natured persistence, my friends, is the name of the game. Try not to lose your rag on anyone. It’s not worth how idiotic you will feel.

Africa. Love it. Hate it…love it again.

But there were times this week when I thought in my little brain well gee, this is swell. Because I am Jiminy Cricket.

Examples are:

Skyping with my parents and sisters (plus one adorable niece)

Hearing a knock on my door and discovering that one of my learners had collected a tub full of weird fruits for me (they are the size of my fingernail, have a pit, and taste like apricot raisins. We will call them raisicots), which I am sucking down right now. Although for some reason the fact that I eat them sends my learners into a fit of hysterics, and they start talking about plastic bags on my head. Or at least that's what I gather. 

Also, eating a salad. You can only take canned green beans for so long.

Having a heated yet good-natured debate with one of my learners about the merits of vegetables. He was convinced they are the worst thing since Justin Timberlake had frosted tips (my words, not his)

Taking a 2 hour nap

After 2 months, having most of my Grade 6 finally understand what an adjective is

Showing some learners the lonely planet guidebook to Namibia. They were mesmerized.

Making it to Friday in one piece.

Here’s hoping I got me some good juju and get all my work finished by next week.

Now, for your entertainment purposes, some random photos.

My (completely looney) Grade 7

Teachers at the athletic competition

Runnin', runnin'

and the winner is
Principal announcing the winner





Saturday, March 2, 2013

Into the Northwest


It’s been an especially weird few weeks.

Good weird, bad weird, I’m-at-a-complete-loss-for-words weird.

Honestly, I’m a little bit stumped about what to write. So, I will just gloss over the bad weird and say school has been rather tough, as of late.


So, let’s move on to the freakishly surreal and crazed. This past weekend Ashley, who is another volunteer, and I went on an impromptu journey to The Middle of Nowhere with a friend from Opuwo, his father, and their cohorts. Like I previously suggested, it was a bizarre weekend. We were driving for pretty much three days straight. We drove out of town, then way out of town, then we entered Tatoine to visit the sand people (where are my Star Wars fans), and finally we fell off the face of the Earth.


Actually, we drove to the far Northwest corner of Namibia, to the Kunene River. You could practically ride a crocodile into Angola. Because that happens.



If you were to ask me where exactly we were or what we were doing there, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Mostly because I did ask and was consistently given a vague and generally unhelpful answer. Luckily, it honestly didn’t matter to me where I was. Generally speaking, I never know completely what’s going on around me at any point in my life. So, nothing new.

Allow me to describe the experience in short, incoherent, and badly formed sentences (because that is all I can manage right now). 

It was ungodly hot. We drove in one humongous truck and one less humongous truck. I fell in a hole. We belted out American Top 40, and I bobbled around to trance music in a way that resembled a drunk panda. I dropped a tire on my toe. At one point, I lost a shoe. Ashley also lost a shoe. We drank lots of fluids. We occasionally ate. We mined for rocks. I slept in a blanket on the sand (the Blanket Burrito is my preferred method of sleeping outside. It wards off scorpions). I danced on rocks. I showered in the river. We drank river water. I probably have worms. We got stopped by the police. We did not get arrested. We did not get eaten by the crocodillas, which is what my learners call crocodiles and which was also apparently an actual concern. But we did see giraffes. I was carried across the desert by Ashley because I did not have shoes (thanks, Ash.). The car broke down, and we got stuck several times.

We got back to Opuwo completely haggard, bumped, bruised, and dehydrated. But I will probably do it again.


All of you, my beautiful people

Put down the National Geographic magazine, and be ashamed. Because you should be on a plane to Namibia right now. I swear it’s possible to do it in more luxury, if you so choose. Just go.

(And if you do come, bring me Mexican food, please.)