Half Time

Next week marks the halfway point in my contract with the Ministry of Education. Six months until I pick up my last paycheck. I feel that I should reflect on my time as a volunteer, muse about all of the things I have learned, and plan what I will do with the last half of my year. That is what rational people do, I think.

But I’m having a hard time reflecting because I have onion juice in my eye, and frankly I can’t think of a way to be insightful without sounding like a total a-hole.

So, I will ignore what rational people do. Because I do that sometimes.

I will instead enlighten you as to the contents of my wardrobe. Because that is what really matters here.

First of all, there is a dead lizard in there that I am scared to get out. It is the size of my hand. It’s been there since I got back from holiday. But let’s move on.

Hanging on the right side of my “cupboard for clothes” (the word wardrobe is not widely known here) is my school uniform—a black skirt, perpetually covered in white chalk, and a pink men’s dress shirt, 2 sizes too big for me and sporting a purple paint stain from art class.

Next is my lined jacket. Everyone thought I was an idiot to bring a jacket to Africa. Well, joke’s on you, little ice cube people. An arctic penguin could survive here in the morning. Remember, it’s winter.

A dwindling assortment of tops and bottoms, much more stiff and threadbare from hand washing than they used to be, are shoved onto the top shelf. Everything that was once white is now grayish brown. Everything that was once a vibrant color has faded in the sun. Everything is falling apart.

(Except for a new shirt that I treated myself to last weekend because I am finally getting paid.)

Below are my socks and underwear. And half of a bathing suit. The other half has probably been eaten by an unsuspecting kudu in Northern Namibia. But let’s keep this PG, ladies and gents.

On the bottom shelf, my shoes. First, the rain boots that I was told I would need and have NEVER touched since being here (My learners think they are the shoes I use for tending to my cattle. I didn’t correct them.). Next to them, my good ole running shoes that I have just begun to make use of once again. A pair of $3 faux-denim faux-Keds and two pairs of sandals, completely dilapidated from the amount of walking I do, cap off my shoe collection.

Also in my wardrobe, for safe keeping of course, I put any medicine I have at the time, an extra toothbrush, some books, and my salt. People always be tryin to steal my salt.

Looking at the wear and tear on my clothes makes me simultaneously annoyed that I will have to replace most of these clothes within the next month and amused that my clothes got the worse half of the lets-live-in-the-Namibian-boonies deal.

That’s not to say Adventure: African Bush has been a cakewalk for me. But I’ve held up more substantially than my garments.

And I can’t complain. In this place, my situation is well above average. In this place, I’m comfortable, even if I sometimes have to force myself to be. And here, it is always, always interesting.

Plus, if my clothes do all turn to scraps of useless fabric in the next week, I can always walk around naked.

At least I’ll fit in with the Himba and Zemba.

Perhaps my aspiration toward public nudity is how I’ve changed. If that’s not insight, I don’t know what is.