Day in the Life

I worked abroad twice before coming to Namibia—once in China and once in Mexico. On both of these adventures, most of the pictures that crept online showed me playing: zip lining off the Great Wall China, cuddling baby jaguars, etc. The online portrait of my life in Namibia is following suit. This trend has led some of my friends and family to conclude that I don’t actually work. Now I understand most of the comments are just good-natured ribbing, but I feel defensive nonetheless. So today, in an effort to prove that I don’t spend all of time frolicking through sand dunes, I will walk you through my typical day.

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6:15 am Shoot arm out of mosquito net. Fumble until I turn off alarm. Roll over and try to ignore wooden slats pushing on my ribs through the thin mattress.

6:30 am Mental fog dissipates enough to remember that standing is more comfortable that lying down. Stumble to outhouse and check corners for snakes.

6:45 am Wash face in bucket. Take malaria meds and attempt to swallow horse pill vitamins. Gag shamelessly and try again.

7 am Eat breakfast. My favorite time of day. Includes cereal, yogurt, juice, fruit, and peanut butter. Sit contentedly for a few minutes rubbing my belly. Realize that I am late and wash dishes. Dispose of water on unidentified squash growing under window.

7:30 am Walk 247 steps to school. Greet all teachers, principal, secretary, janitor, and miscellaneous memes (older women) crossing the yard.

8 am Start teaching.

10:40 am Break. Inhale sandwich.

11:10 am Back to teaching.

2 pm Open library. Try to convince fourth graders to stand in line quietly. They convince me to shut up, go inside, and ignore them as long as no one draws blood.

3 pm Close library. Exhale stress from teaching classes of 40 students and depositing books on 52 unruly children. Start planning for tomorrow. Lessons must be simple, engaging, appeal to various learning styles, and address some element of the 14 page nationally mandated curriculum. If I’m lucky, the kids might even learn some English.

4:30 pm Call it a day. Walk 247 steps home. Verbally unload day on puppy and chickens. They are quiet though inattentive listeners.

4:45 pm Eat a snack. Relish every spoonful of peanut butter.

5 pm Run through the forest. Belt Miley Cyrus to scare cows and goats off path.

7 pm Occasionally bathe.

7:30 pm Harass host siblings to play with me.

8 pm “Help” make dinner. Try to stoke fire; children laugh. Try boiling water; children laugh. Try stirring pot of porridge; this job is simple enough to trust to me.

9 pm Eat porridge and meat with family around fire. Admire stars.

9:45 pm Strap on head lamp to make final out house run. Still no snakes.

10 pm Collapse into bed, tuck in mosquito net, and pass out.

***

3 am Wake up because rain is pounding tin roof. Stuff in earplugs. Out again.

***

There is little variation to this routine. Sometimes my host brother takes me bow hunting (I watch). And sometimes we slaughter a goat. Sometimes I’ll even open a roll of two-ply toilet paper as a special treat. My life is quite monotonous, but I love it. I’ll admit, however, that I am counting the 26 days until my next vacation. Plan on my bombarding you with more pictures of frolicking on sand dunes.

Planes, Trains, and Bakkie-mobiles

I get lost easily. When driving to the community center where I regularly played ping-pong as a kid and took yoga as an adult, I still almost always missed the street. You can then imagine my discomfort in the African bush where every tree and sand road looks identical. It took me two full months to feel comfortable walking the seven kilometers from my house to the nearest busy, though still gravel, road. Despite being generally disoriented, I managed to navigate over 2,000 kilometers in one month and return to my village intact.

My first experience with Namibian transportation was the combi. A combi is a van. Some are large, some small. Almost all are in some state of disrepair. In my first combi ride, I sat on an armrest that unfolded into an extra seat. It unfolded a bit too close to the seat in front of me. As a result, some stranger spent a cozy six hours between my thighs.  I later maneuvered into the back seat only to find it was not bolted to the car body. Whenever we went over a bump, which was often, the seat and its occupants bounced a few inches off the floor.

The second combi I rode in was more comfortable but had its quirks. Most combies pull a small open trailer for luggage. In a feat of engineering, the drivers load these trailers 10 feet high with bags, tires, furniture, farm equipment, and puppies. Yes, puppies. About three hours into an eight-hour trip the driver stopped to give us a brief break. I was merrily eating a popsicle outside when I heard a puppy barking hysterically from the depths of the trailer. I tried rearranging the furniture and pitchforks to find the puppy, but at risk of toppling the carefully balanced pile, I gave up. I still feel a little guilty.

Even the best, puppy-free combies aren’t all that appealing. An eight-hour combi trip costs about 20 American dollars. Admittedly an eight-minute cab ride in the U.S. costs the same, but on my budget that’s a week worth of groceries.

Enter hitch hiking. I know what you’re thinking: I was mildly horrified at the idea when I first arrived. However, it doesn’t carry the serial killer taboo here that it does in the States. Hitch hiking is common in Namibia. All I do is walk to the designated hike point, usually marked by a universally ignored “no hitch hiking” sign, stick out my hand and eventually someone will stop. Sometimes this process takes five minutes, sometimes a few hours.

I usually hike with my friend Derek. Our story is we’re married. This arrangement is mutually beneficial. I get to enjoy a hike free from unwanted romantic advances, and Derek gets a hike at all (drivers are more likely to stop for women). Our first hike together was particularly smooth. We were standing in the rain, looking pathetic, for less than 15 minutes when a semi-truck picked us up. The driver was reasonably safe, but he had a bladder the size of a walnut. We stopped 12 times in seven hours. Other volunteers who left an hour after us arrived at our destination before we did. Frequent stops aside; this was still much better than a combi. It cost five American dollars, and there was air conditioning.

Derek and my second hike together was equally memorable. We were attempting a multi-legged trip from the capitol, Windhoek, to the resort town of Swakopmund. The first car to stop was an Audi, which took us about half way. When it dropped us off, Derek and I remarked at our good luck and thought it unlikely we would ride in such luxury again. Forty-five minutes later a Porsche pulled over. It was easily the nicest car I have ever been in. The driver and his friend, named Silas and Elvis respectively, were young and very stylish. 

All in all, the December holiday and its travels were a blast. Namibian schools take another month long holiday in April. I will probably hike some, but I am planning a trip to Cape Town, a solid 18 hours away. As an early birthday present to myself, I am going to take the fancy tour bus. It has reclining seats, air conditioning, on-board movies, and—best of all—no puppies.

Animal House

The goats just had babies!

Before moving to Namibia, the words “African animals” brought to my mind the opening scene of The Lion King. In four months, I have seen only one giraffe, a handful of baboons, and the occasional roadside warthog. Despite my lack of exotic encounters, I have plenty of animal friends.

Some are more friendly than others. I am particularly close with my wall spiders Ofluffya and Owhiskas. The harmless wall spider is about the size of my palm, with a body that lies flat against the wall—a feature that makes it difficult to kill. My first night I threw a Chaco at Ofluffya. I nailed her, but she scurried away unscathed. So I gave up and adopted her instead. 

Ofluffya relaxing above my bed.

 A short time later I found her husband Owhiskas. Seeing that I can’t neuter a spider, I sternly warned them not to have babies. They promptly ignored me and now we have Osasha—whom I named after my late Siamese. While I am fond of this arachnid family, I will kill any more additions. I think Ofluffya and Owhiskas took this second warning more seriously: I haven’t seen them in a week.

The void left by Owhiskas and Ofluffya has unfortunately been filled by three roosters. My regular readers know that a few months ago I reluctantly slaughtered a hen. That ambivalence has evaporated in the African sun. I would gleefully strangle these roosters. Every night between three and five a.m. they take shifts crowing beneath my window. And every night I delude myself into thinking that if I ignore them, they will go away. They don’t. It always seems like too much work to leave my mosquito net, find my headlamp, and chase them away. But one day I will snap. Imagine me as Jack Nicholson from The Shining, ax in hand maniacally stalking the infernal fowl through a maze of huts. 

I hate this animal.

I might introduce my host family to Thanksgiving. There aren’t any turkeys, but the roosters will taste just fine.

Though I hate roosters, my affection for other farm animals has grown. Last week, my tate (pronounced “tah-tey,” means “dad”) surprised us with a calf. I initially named him Okamati, “little brother.” But in his first three nights he managed to wriggle out of two leashes and open three gates. My tate and brother found him tangled in the bush a kilometer away. I have since renamed him Okahoudini. Okahoudini loves me. Sometimes I love him too. This morning I opened my door to find him at my feet sleeping in a puddle of calf diarrhea. I did not love him then.

My host brother Absalom and Okahoudini.

Diarrhea aside, all the animals I have mentioned so far have been benign enough. But there is one foe lurking in the forest that I have fortunately not met: the black mamba. Before coming to Namibia, my knowledge of the black mamba was largely informed by Kill Bill. I was under the impression the venom could kill me instantly. However, my snake book says death can take anywhere between three and fifteen hours. Vague but oddly comforting—the nearest hospital is only thirty minutes away.

I have asked many people in the village about mambas, and there is a clear gender division. The tates (all men in Oshikwanyama are referred to as tate) boast tales of striking a mamba out of a tree 15 meters away using a single brick. The memes, on the other hand, say they have lived here their wholes lives and have never seen one. Call it gender bias or wishful thinking, but I trust the memes.

To be fair, Namibia is teeming with wildlife. I live about four hours away from Etosha National Park, where it’s common—I’ve heard—to see the Big Five African animals in a single afternoon. I hope to visit soon. Maybe I will load Ofluffya, Owhiskas, and Okahoudini into the pick-up truck and make it a family vacation. We can even bring the roosters: they’ll make excellent lion bait.

Oshikwan-what?

This is my desk where I spend countless hours studying Oshikwanyama.

There are many contenders for the title of most difficult language on Earth to learn. I have heard Chinese, English, even Navajo. I would like to nominate a new candidate--Oshikwanyama. This obscure African language doesn't have tones, clicks, even progressive tenses. Despite lacking the indicators of linguistics difficulty that are familiar to most Westerners, Oshikwanyama has one curveball--noun classes.

I am no linguist, but noun classes and their spawn, prefixes and concords, are the most mind boggling verbal constructions ever conceived. In English, to make a word plural, I merely add an "s" or "es" to the end. In Oshikwanyama, each noun falls into one of nine noun classes. Making the noun plural or singular depends on the noun class. For example, olukaku is shoe, but shoes is omalukaku. This is noun class two. Ear is okutwi, and ears is omakutwi. This is noun class nine. You may have noticed, as I did in my first 30 seconds of studying this language, that these words all start with O's and are around five syllables long.



This is a story from my Oshikwanyama book. It's about a cow stuck in the road.

Memorizing which class every noun belongs to is overwhelming. But Oshikwanyama is not done stomping on our minds yet. Many other parts of the language rovolve around which class the noun in question belongs to. For instance, I want to say "I saw two hyenas." "I saw" is "onda mona." "Two" is "mbali," and "hyena" is "olumbungu." But I can't say "Onda mona mbali olumbungus." No no, I must first scamper to my grammar book, look up plural prefix for noun class six (oma-). Then flip 24 pages back to find the numerical prefix for noun class six "a" to attach to my number. I can finally say "onda mona omambungu ambali." But what if I want to say "I saw two big hyenas"? Then I need to turn back to the end of my book to find the adjective prefix for noun class six (ma-) and tack it to the base word for "big," -nene. So my sentence now reads "onda mona omambungu ambali manene." I must also sprint along this scavenger hunt every time I want to use a possesive pronoun like "my" or a demonstrative pronoun like "those."

If you're exhausted, I don't blame you. I am too. So I will briefly describe the prefix's equally confusing cousin the concord. If "concord" only makes you think of supersonic jets or New Zealand, it's because English doesn't have concords. In English, to describe when an action takes place, I change the verb--I walked, I walk, I will walk, etc. To make the subject agree with the verb, I change the verb--I eat, she eats, etc. To describe the tense and to make the subject and verb agree in Oshikwanyama, I need a concord. To say "I love to eat traditional millet porridge," I say "ame (me) ondi (I in the present) hole (love) okulya (to eat) oshifima (traditional millet porridge)." In this sentence, "ondi" is the concord. This doesn't seem too confusing on the surface. But our friend the noun class also has its teeth in concords. Every noun class has six concords, one each for the past, present and future--for all active verbs--like "run" and "break." And three more concords for stative verbs, verbs like "be" or "feel." That brings us to a total of 54 possible concords all of which start with "O."


This a concord chart for noun class one. Yep, just one noun class.

Despite being daunting, I love Oshikwanyama. It occasionally surprises me with bursts of simplicity. "Now" is "paife." "Right now" is "paife paife." More than I love demanding my students study their pronouns now-now, I love the response of my neighbors and colleauges whenever I attempt to speak. Regardless of how much I butcher their lanuage, they cheer and clap like I recited the whole of Hamlet while standing on my head,

There are fewer speakers of Oshikwanyama worldwide than there are Mandarin speakers in one Chinese province. Why bother learning a language spoken by so few? Because if I can master noun classes, I can talk with my neighbors. I can ask them about their goats and how many cows they plan to slaughter their daughter's wedding. In short, I can be a real Oshikwanyaman. Provided I can evade the two big hyenas for the next two years.


My Oshikwanyama book. This is the one they give to first graders. Also still can't figure out how to rotate pictures, sorry.

The Bucket Bath List

I love baths. Whenever the opportunity for one arises, I pounce. Before leaving for Africa, I took a bath everyday for two months. I had a hunch this luxury wouldn't be available much longer. I was right. Now I bathe in a bucket. Today, dear reader, I will guide you through bucket bathing so that if you find yourself suddenly showerless, you won't be (too) stinky.

Step One: Select a suitable bucket. Mine is a large basin, This is good for catching and reusing water. You can splash as wrecklessly as you please and most of the water stays in the bucket. When your water tap is a couple hundred yards away, you want to keep water usage to a minimum. Some basins have pretty designs on the bottom. These are useless: the water will be opaque in one rinse.


Post bath water. Like I said, opaque.

Step Two: Heat one to two liters of water. Add cold water to taste. The exact ratio depends on the season. During the winter, hot water was the one small luxury I couldn't bear to skip.

Step Three (Optional, very optional): Shave. Fill a large cup of with water. Use this to rinse your razor. Don't use the basin, as you will needlessly mucky up the water.  When you rinse you don't want the water that was formerly on your legs to end up stuck to your shoulders. When finished shaving, dispose of the dirty water.

Step Four: Start at your head and work down. This step is crucial for women. Starting with your hair will reduce, not eliminate, the soap film that will permanently cling to your locks. Use your large cup to rinse. Don't try to dip your head into the bucket: you will get water up your nose. Do not lather and repeat--no conditioner either. You want to keep the amount of soap in the basin--and consequently, stuck to your body--to a minimum. Suds up the rest of your body ending with your feet. The heat, sand, and chacos are not kind to feet.

It's nice at this point to have clean water in another bucket to rinse with. The water in the first bucket will be extremely icky at this point. This step is also optional, however. Especially if reaching your tap involves a short hike.


View from my "shower."

Congratulations! You have just finished your first bucket bath. If your feeling fancy, spritz on your favorite perfume or bug spray. Now your ready to hit the village, paint the shebeen shanties (Namibian for bar) red, or maybe just curl up under your mosquito net and dream of hot water and claw-footed bath tubs. I think tonight I will choose the latter. 


Sideways picture of my basin and bucket. I couldn't figure out how to rotate it.

Like a Chicken with its Head Cut Off

Until August 10 I had never intentionally killed a vertebrate. I have remorselessly killed many insects. While I respect their ecological niches, if any chance exists they might crawl on me, I want them dead immediately. However, I feel more compassion toward vertebrates. They have highly developed nervous systems capable of experiencing intense pain, and I hesitate to cause them any.

Unfortunately, this approach has long been in conflict with my diet. I love meat. On the occasions I have opted for meatless meals, I always find myself envying my dining partner’s steak. Living in the US, it was easy to reconcile a cheeseburger with my distaste for gore. I understood mentally that meat processing involved carnage and pain. However, I didn’t understand it emotionally. When strolling along the aisles of a typical American grocery store, the meat is hardly recognizable as once belonging to an actual animal. The killing took place somewhere remote, and the result appears sterile. My attitude toward the individual animals was equally remote.

This distance ended abruptly during our Cultural Foods Day on August 10. It began with the delivery of two goats to our training center. Their lower bodies were restrained in bags, but they appeared calm. Undeterred by the prospect of eating these animals, the other trainees and I set about becoming attached to them. We petted, named, and sincerely tried to comfort them. I frantically tried to find an apple to feed them. I wanted them to enjoy a final dessert, but one of my Namibian coworkers stopped me. He said we shouldn’t feed them so soon before slaughter.

We had only two goats, and the Americans and the Namibians mutually agreed slaughtering a large animal was best left to the locals. We felt slightly more confident with chickens. I emphasize “slightly.” Someone placed a box containing several scrawny chickens in the corner of the yard and called for a few volunteers to kill them. I couldn’t bring myself to do the deed initially. I opted to hold the chicken while another trainee cut off the head with a pocketknife. The chicken was remarkably calm until its head was no longer attached, then the body convulsed wildly, and I had to muster all my self control to keep it pinned to the ground. Later, one of the other chickens freed itself post-decapitation and energetically illustrated the idiom “jumping around like a chicken with its head cut off.” They really do hop and flap. It’s simultaneously unnerving and funny.

I eventually marshaled the courage to slaughter a chicken. One of my coworkers pinned down the body and I pulled its neck taut. As I put the knife to it, I lost a bit of my nerve and closed my eyes, which—in hindsight—was a bad idea given the close proximity of my fingers. Regardless, I still felt the knife saw through feather and sinew and bone. When I did open my eyes, I was holding the chicken’s head in my left hand, and the beak was soundlessly opening and closing.

I was surprised by my reaction during the first few hours afterward. I was fascinated with everything inside the chicken. Eggs developing inside a chicken look like an alien embryo station. The shell doesn’t grow until late in the process, so dozens of exposed yolks grow in a spiral pattern along some sort of placenta-like organ.

Along with this anatomical fascination, I temporarily developed a macabre sense of humor. I would move the lifeless beaks and narrate little puppet shows for my co-trainees who, being accommodating souls, would giggle uncomfortably. I have included a picture below of me playing with a goat head as evidence of this phenomenon.

Since then multiple people have told me about faster, cleaner, and more humane ways to kill a chicken. I do not plan to implement them anytime soon. Not because I plan to maim chickens willy nilly, but because I don’t plan to kill anything in the near future. I still eat chicken. I still feel conflicted about it. Slaughtering a chicken did little to resolve my moral ambivalence toward eating one. I alternate between feeling fine about the experience and feeling disgusted. However, meat is an integral part of Namibian cuisine and is almost impossible to avoid. I may reconsider my dietary decision to eat meat when I return to the States. However, for the next two years I will continue to enjoy my KFC, because, yes, KFC is in Namibia.

Procrastination, Preparation H, and Packing

I am a chronic procrastinator. Like all other chronic procrastinators, I swear to reform after every episode. But despite countless college essays that were written more by caffeine than by cognition, I still haven't mended my ways. Nowhere is this habit more evident than in my suitcase. It is empty and I depart in one week.

In my defense, the only thing I know about my living arrangements is that they will be within walking, biking, or hitchhiking distance of a school. Seeing that Namibia is one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world, second only to Mongolia, I can deduce that this school will probably be somewhere quite rural--rural and full of mosquitoes. Despite this display of detective work, I haven't been particularly proactive about my packing research, which extends to a few suggestions from current volunteers and an episode of Man vs Wild. If I follow Bear Grylls' lead, I will wash up on the Skeleton Coast (Namibia's northern coastline littered with rusting, abandoned ships) with nothing but a bowie knife, empty canteen, plastic garbage bag, and my own teeth. The last item is especially useful for decapitating poisonous snakes. While this light list appeals to my sense of adventure and would save me the hassle and expense of dragging two 50 pound suitcases through multiple airports, I am sure the Namibian customs officials would immediately dispatch me back to the U.S. in a straight jacket.

Although I haven't begun packing, I have made a list. So at the very least, I know what will be hastily stuffed into my suitcases by next Sunday. This list includes--among other items--a silk kimono, Tide pens, hemorrhoid medication, my star finder, iodine tablets, crayons, and candy--lots of American candy.

Now if only I could find space in my luggage for Bear Grylls.