On Jolly Holiday

Just a note to those of you who use this blog as reassurance that I am still living…

I will be starting my month-long “holiday,” as they say here, on the 25^th of April. I’m still not sure where I’m going, when I’ll be there, and if internet is feasible.

So, perhaps there will be no blog posts. Perhaps there will be many. As with everything this year, I never really know what’s happening until it has already begun.

I’ll miss my new digs in Orotjitombo and Opuwo, weirdly enough (which doesn’t bode well for December). But I’m onto a month of continent-trotting with some WorldTeach gals.

Wish me luck that my bank account doesn’t spread itself too thin.

Here’s to hoping I see you soon in cyberspace. Cheers.

The Calm After the Storm

Folks, we’ve come to the end of term 1 at Orotjitombo PS. The school closed 4 days early due to the fact that the maize meal and the food budget were completely depleted. No maize meal, no food, no kids. So, away they went.

There was a flurry of activity, a mass of learners throwing their belongings into my closet, shouting, car engines stalling, and then…

Nothing. Sweet, sweet nothing.

Today, I walked to the entrance of my stuffy little house to find the school grounds empty. The students were gone. Most of the teachers were in Opuwo. There was no singing, no shrieking, no hysterical crying, no laughing, no “Miss, can I have a sweetie.” The only sounds I could hear were the wind whipping around the buildings, the creaking of my door hinge, and the sporadic clink of the flag beating against the flagpole. The dust swirled across the yard, and I realized how much I have missed the quiet.

I did. I love just standing there, surrounded by quiet. I know this is a freakish characteristic by many people’s standards. But I need it as much as food, water, and beer.  

As much as I love being around the learners, and as boring as “quiet” gets after 2 days, I thought I was going to have to stick my head in the sand, ostrich-style, if I didn’t get a break from ALL THE NOISE, ALL THE TIME. Endless. Children, teenagers, they are like energizer bunnies. Especially when there is no TV or videogames to distract them. And that’s a great thing. But baby-sitting 318 kids for 4 straight months is a little harrowing. One can only take so many times of being woken up by a hand reaching through their window asking for soap at 5 o’clock in the morning. Gives me a panic attack every time.

Tonight I went on a very short jog. It was short because it was impromptu, and I was wearing flip-flops. I was walking the 1 kilometer to get to the patch of sand where I get cell service, enjoying how the wind blows away all the sound from the village, and I all of the sudden decided I do enough walking, walking isn’t fast enough, screw walking. So, I took off my flippy-floppies and started Forest Gumping it down the road. I haven’t run in over 3 months. I used to run nearly every day. I don’t know what provoked it. Maybe the heat has made me more bat-shit crazy than usual.

I’m not saying this was some spiritual moment for me. I’m not even saying I enjoyed it. I couldn’t really, because the whole time I was having an internal struggle.

This is a nice thing. I love running. Let’s keep going…Someone’s staring at me behind a bush right now. I know it. And tomorrow everyone will be talking about how the white girl thought she was being chased by something. I should definitely stop. I can’t stop. I’m like an Olympian up in here. But I’m wearing my school shirt. This is ridiculous.

For a 7 mph moment, I felt like my normal (that's relative) self. Not the girl that only takes 3 showers a week, eats cold tinned beans for dinner, and is constantly and spastically waiting for another African-shaped curveball to be pelted at her face.

For the record, though, I’m good at navigated curveballs. And I like my life in Namibia. A lot.

But this place gets loud sometimes. And bustling, and crowded. And because my ears are apparently connected to my lungs, this cacophony of…life makes it hard for me to breathe. Also, sometimes it smells like poop at my school. This also makes it difficult to breathe.

I’ve got to say, I like the breathing thing. I’ve missed it.

It’s been a mind-blowing, mind-numbing first term. It went by in a storm of bewilderment. I couldn’t tell you why, but for some reason I visualize the word bewilderment as an elephant awkwarding itself down a Slip-and-Slide (Seriously, this image actually pops into my head. In cartoon form). This also aptly depicts my floundering through term 1. Not pretty, humorous, loud, ultimately good fun.

And now, for 2 more beautiful days, I will stare at my wall and do absolutely no more than listen to the sounds of nothing. 

Easter Break Shenanigans

Today was my last day of teaching for Term 1.

Let me clarify. I am required to be at school until April 24^th. However, the next 19 days will be dedicated to proctoring and marking exams, as well as a lot of sitting around and twiddling your thumbs. Or so I have gathered from my coworkers.

Regardless, I can say that I am happy to be finished with lesson planning and grading homework assignments for the next month or so. Yes, yes I am.

Now, last weekend was Easter weekend. A four-day weekend. So what does one do on a four-day weekend in Namibia?

Head to the coast.

Thank. God.

I truly did not realize how much I missed the ocean and less dusty air until we were cruising down the Western coast of Namibia, the road hugging that beautiful blue.

Sentimentality aside, we arrived in Swakopmund, beach town and home to many wonderous things. Like real stores and seafood and bars. Oh, my.

Day one went like this. Our friend and driver on this weekend bender, Louis, asked Ashley and I if we wanted to go ride his quad around on the dunes.

Obviously we did.

I even got to drive in a straight line on flat ground for about 30 seconds. I’m pretty sure I will be going pro soon.

This outing was followed by a few drinks and the question, “Do you girls want to go skydiving?”

Why is that even a question?

So, this happened.

Look at them nostrils.

Skydiving was awesome. That’s an insipid and generic thing to say, but it was.

However, I think I have some sort of adrenaline deficiency because not only was I completely calm for the entire ride up and fall down, the first thing out of my mouth when the parachute opened was not “THAT WAS SO COOL,” it was “Hey, what was that bit of weird red colored land that I saw on the way up?” My instructor and I then had an educational conversation about where they make salt.

Like I said. I think I need to throw myself out of a plane without a parachute to get those butterflies. Still, so much fun and totally worth the money. Thumbs up.

The rest of the weekend was a blur of good food, fun people, jumping around in the ocean, and das boot (If you don’t know what that is, I’m not going to explain it. It’s very undignified. But you can peek at the background of the photo on the right.)

The ride back to Opuwo was long and hot, as I was smooshed in between Louis and Ashley on a mattress on the center consol in the cab of the bakkie.

That was a lot of prepositions.

And I just felt compelled to make you circle them all.

I obviously need a break from teaching.

Uhh…well leave it at that. Much love to all y’all! And happy belated Easter!

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 21^st 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 café, 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. 

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.

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

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.)