Despite my role as a Community Health volunteer my involvement in health related activities has been periphery thus far unlike my fellow health volunteers who hit the pavement and walk door to door extolling the benefits of immunizations amongst other admirable activities.  Therefore I made a plan to ingratiate myself slowly… first my NGO and then the community.  They won’t know what hit them.  

Week One of Operation Ingratiation: The Food Program was a perfect training ground; while volunteers cooked we corralled the children into the youth center and I began my first lesson: Hand Washing. 

My Internet trolling revealed a bevy of information courtesy of Henry the Hand and after 10 minutes of forcing 100 children to quietly focus their attention I began my presentation.

WASH your hands when they are dirty and BEFORE eating (key as we prepared to feed them)

DO NOT cough into your hands cough into your arm (a demonstration ensued and I could not help but laugh as 100 children simultaneously coughed into the crook of their arm)

DO NOT sneeze into your hands sneeze into your arm 

DO NOT put your fingers into your eyes, nose, or mouth 

Yet, moments later, the children eagerly lined up to get their meal and I noted that the fundamental message was lost as many of them shoveled macaroni into their mouths with dirty fingers.  I suppose hunger outweighs hygiene.  Alas, hand washing will be a recurrent lesson in coming weeks. 

Apparently the accepted method of killing snakes in Namibia is with fire.  Imagine my surprise when I see a cloud of smoke that appears to be moving dangerously close to the house.  I nervously move closer to investigate and find that indeed, where there is smoke there is fire… mere feet from my house and the entire family is circling the charred ground with sticks and hoes with intent looks on their faces as they peer at the ground.  This peaks my attention as I tentatively squint through the thick haze of smoke.  I sidle over and gaze at the ground and innocently engage in the following conversation:

"We are looking for what?"

"A poisonous snake. I think it’s over there” pointing mere feet from where I stand.

I calmly back away trying not to look as though I am freaking out at the thought of a poisonous snake stealthily moving towards me.

"It’s only mildly poisonous."

"Oh, okay."  [As though that makes a difference.  So I’ll die more slowly.]  I think to myself.

I casually move 20 feet away, what I feel is an acceptable distance to run should the snake make a sudden appearance, and watch as they start moving rocks in search of the snake.  Unfortunately, the snake is nowhere to be found.  Apparently, he slithered away in the thick plumes of smoke.  Now we have to purchase more petrol and burn him out of hiding.  Ah, the joys of African wildlife.

Vegetarians are an anomaly in Namibia and the prevalence of meat is staggering.  Thus it is understandable that people who voluntarily do not eat meat perplex them.  Upon announcing to my host family that I was a vegetarian they looked at me with mystified expressions and said, “Do you eat fish and chicken?” I gently explained to them the many reasons that I am a vegetarian; the ethical, moral, and environmental ideals that I hold that do not match with eating meat.  In response, they tried to explain to me that meat was a tasty, tasty treat and I was missing out on the wonders of a juicy carcass.  I laughed and said I was fine thinking that this would be the end of the discussion. 

Alas, two months later… we are still having the discussion… EVERY DAY.  Meat is prevalent in my household and is eaten at lunch and dinner daily, and every day without fail I get the following comment from at least one person if not two, three, or six “Mmmm, this meat is delicious. Perhaps if you just closed your eyes and ate some you would enjoy it too.”  I would start my own drinking game with the number of times I am told to eat meat, if only I could drink. 

Recently my fellow vegetarian PCV had an encounter with a member of the Catholic diocese, Father “Peter”, who claimed that we are on a slippery slope to hell because vegetarianism is the devil’s trickery.  Apparently once you start questioning the validity of slaughtering animals for their meaty goodness then you get mixed up with those damned Hindus and Buddhists and you are in for a world of trouble.   He quoted Leviticus as to why Christians should take the moral high ground and bop baby animals over the head and eat them for dinner.  Clearly these were the ravings of a sane man.  I thanked my lucky stars that while my family badgered me daily to eat meat that they weren’t toting the Bible around and telling me that I was going to hell for my belief system.  Unfortunately, my relief was short lived. 

I suppose my family realized that espousing the pleasures of meat was not changing my mind and they were going to have to use an alternative route thus they attempted to put the fear of God into me.  The conversation went a little something like this:

“God wants you to eat meat.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yep. It’s in the Bible.”

Snort.  “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s in Genesis.”

“Well, where is it in the New Testament?  Of course they had sacrificial lambs.  They would kill their own kids in the Old Testament.”

“Son, bring me my Bible.” [Flips through Bible searching for completely random passage] “Ah, here, here.” [Quotes completely out of context verse in II Chronicles- which might I add, STILL IN THE OLD TESTAMENT] “There. You’re thwarting God’s will for your life.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“Honey, I think she was a backsliding Christian in the States.”

[Silence as jaw drops to the floor in shock at inappropriateness of comment and situation.]

Alas, I am now more than ever determined to remain a vegetarian for the entire two years that I am in Namibia.

Many of you have asked about the town, or rather village, in which I live and work.  You ask therefore you shall receive…

Otavi, a village in the Otjozondjupa Region of north central Namibia, population is approximately 9,000 people.  This is considerably dissimilar from my humble home in the States with a metroplex of one million people, approximately half of the entire Namibian population. 

However, what Otavi is lacking in numbers, the region makes up in natural beauty. The scenery from Otavi to Grootfontein is arguably the most beautiful in Namibia.  It is part of what is known as the Green Triangle, a lush mountainous region between Otavi, Tsumeb, and Grootfontein. 

Otavi’s main street touts a post office, two banks, two grocery stores, and a Pep clothing store. The shops are lively on weekends until 1 pm when everything closes and it becomes a ghost town.  I made the mistake of attempting to visit town at 1:30 pm on a Saturday afternoon and the town was eerily quiet and one could imagine tumbleweeds whirling down the drag as donkeys stroll lazily along. 

I find that walking to and from town results in the distinctive odor of dirt.  The aroma is difficult to explain as it is not the stench of grubbiness it’s merely the smell of the sandy soil that is kicked up, creates dust storms, and permeates every crevice of your being until it is impossible to smell clean… ever.

The remainder of town consists of a handful of streets lined with modest concrete homes and businesses and schools scattered throughout.  However, once you cross the railroad tracks you reach Location.  The former government created “Locations” in towns as a resettlement tool to institute apartheid.  Many towns have multiple locations with unique names; similar to what you might think of as a suburb, however Otavi is small enough that there is only one nameless Location. 

Location is virtually a town of its own with its own shops, shebeens, churches, community center, and school. The houses vary in opulence as well, there are modest concrete homes and informal settlements; homes of tin that are held together with whatever makeshift items could be mustered together.  Location is very much the heart of Otavi. 

There you have it. My little village in the green triangle where I will live and work for the next two years. 

When I am ready for bed at 7:42 pm has my life hit a new low?  Scratch that. I changed into my sleepwear at 7 pm but now I am actually considering turning off the light and going to bed for the evening.  Yet, mere months ago my days were chock full of excitement.  Ok, perhaps not “chock full” but my days definitely included staying up past 8 pm.

There are definitely things that I miss about my previous life.  Global dinners at Dream Café, dinners at Gloria’s, the Inwood, Watertower, Old 97s concerts, yoga, pub quiz, culture… However, in many respects I am glad to move on.  

Next week my former organization will close the books on its fiscal year with a limp, whimper, and a massive deficit.  The end of the season is always celebrated with an annual Black Tie Dinner however I cannot say that I will miss celebrating the end of another stressful fiscal year in a recession economy.  I cheerfully retired my black tie gowns and am glad that next week I will pull on my corduroy pants and t-shirt.

So perhaps my life is not nearly as exciting as it once was but it is also not as stressful as it once was either.  

It’s as though I stepped off the plane in Namibia three months ago and entered a second adolescence: tiptoeing around authority figures, surreptitiously drinking alcohol, flirtations with boys.  It’s all very high school.  I might as well be sneaking out of my window, hopping into a black Camaro and speeding down the highway with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

It’s not that I don’t understand the reasons for protocols.  I do. Completely.  However, it is maddening to be trapped in a small town with SMS to provide me with connections to the outside world with no more than Namibians to communicate with all day, every day.  I have yet to have a real conversation with any one in my community and that is not for lack of trying. Our lives simply vary in so many ways that it is difficult to move beyond the small talk that binds us to the customary greetings and questions about our daily activities.  There is not a common ground that makes it easy to broach friendship, as you would find in your own cultural setting.

Another frustration is the lack of social drinking.  You either drink or you don’t.  Drinking is stigmatized and alcoholism is so prevalent that it is virtually impossible to enjoy a glass of wine or a beer without feeling guilty about how alcohol plays a key factor in the HIV/AIDS epidemic.  As Otavi is such a small community drinking is out of the question.  Though I don’t need alcohol to make my day, week, or month bearable it would be nice to go out and enjoy a glass of wine every once in awhile without the fear of my community judging me.

Finally, two years with only a handful of male PCVs and Namibians is going to result in a) PCVs hooking up with each other, b) PCVs hooking up with Namibians, or c) PCVs going home very frustrated.  Thus far only one member of our group has managed to snag a boyfriend in country.  Supposedly a huge percentage of PCVs find spouses in the Peace Corps.  Perhaps that should be Peace Corp’s next ad campaign, ‘We have better odds than Match.com. Where will your life take you?’ …cut to a village in Africa then to a wedding chapel and the ensuing wedded bliss.  So, those of you looking to find a hubby, apparently all you need to do is join the Peace Corps, move to Africa, and bide your time, they fall from the sky here… I promise.  

“The most tragic thing I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living.  We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.” 

I recently traveled to the North and left my small town of Otavi for Rundu.  Although Otavi is in the North Central region of Namibia, it is south of the Red Line, which defines north Namibia. 

The Red Line, a veterinary control fence, was initially created to separate the commercial cattle ranches of the south from the communal subsistence lands of the north and prevent the spread of foot-and-mouth disease.  The fence bars the north-south movement of animals and animals bred north of the line may not be sold to the south or exported to overseas markets.  However, this line effectively created a boundary between apartheid rule, standard of the colonial regime in south Namibia, and essentially left the north undeveloped.

The difference is staggering; upon crossing the Red Line the landscape changes from lodges, quaint German architecture, and farms to dense brush, baobab trees, and mud huts.  However, Rundu, which overlooks the Okavango River to Angola, touts modern amenities, such as running water and electricity, which are still lacking in the small villages. 

Were it not for the threat of crocodiles, landmines, and administrative separation from PC I would have considered a cool swim across the river to visit the shores of Angola.  I did not count on the fact that Rundu is perceivably hotter than Otavi with a multitude of malaria-ridden mosquitoes vying for my blood.  Thank goodness I take my doxy diligently as a fellow PCV is now convinced he has malaria coursing through his veins.  My diagnosis? Hypochondria. Last month he thought he had TB.

Though my time in Rundu was pleasant, the trip itself was an experience of its own.  It was my first opportunity to freehike solo across the country.  As my supervisor is not enthusiastic about freehiking, I paid for a hike to Grootfontein and stopped for a quick lunch with a fellow PCV.  We then walked to the hike point and waited… and waited… and waited.  Apparently Groot is not as effortless to get a freehike as Otavi. 

Two hours later I scored a ride in a bakkie with three Owambo men who were not afraid to exceed the posted speed limit but were decidedly interested in livestock.  In fact we stopped the bakkie a couple of times to watch the herders walk the cattle to pasture.  They were a friendly crew but not particularly talkative and we made it to Rundu in record time despite the unscheduled excursions to gaze at our longhorn friends. 

My return hike was decidedly more interesting; I grabbed a ride in an air-conditioned Mercedes with a doctor from Katima Mulilo traveling with a female friend from Zambia.  He filled the three-hour journey with stories about his time abroad with the Red Cross in Asia, studying for his medical degree in Europe, and sharing stories about the preparations for the tourist lodge he was building in Zambia.  His friend, a sweet woman on vacation in Namibia for the week, invited me to stay in contact with her via email.  Who knows, when I’m next in Zambia, I may have a place to stay. 

It is trips like these that make me look forward to my future travel adventures. 

It’s strange the things that you never thought you would hear yourself say in your lifetime… such as

“Shoo donkey, move along now, that’s right, there’s the front gate, good donkey, run along home now…” OR

So you want that now, nownow, or nownownow???? OR

“Pap, mmm, delicious…  More? Sure, load that pap on my plate.” OR 

“I would love to spend 4 hours at church every Sunday morning praising the baby Jesus.”

There are some things that are certainties in this new life of mine. 

• There will always be pap (pronounced pop). It is the center of life.  It is inescapable.  It has the nutritional value of a paper bag but it fills the stomach.  Fortunately pap is typically not a dish all its own and is usually accompanied with a side of soup and meat (for the carnivorous Namibians). 
• Patience is a valued and highly utilized virtue.  Minutes stretch into hours, hours stretch into days, and days stretch into weeks here… and I am left to wonder whether the work I am doing today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or next year is possibly making an impact.

I am positive I will have more to add to this list by the end of these two years.  I came into this experience knowing that I would push my limitations and experience new situations, new foods, and new cultures.  After a month at my permanent site I am experiencing the expected frustrations, unexpected joys, and the growing pains of any job.  

I like nature… as long as it stays outside where it belongs.  It was not too long ago when I would have taken a shoe and beaten the shit out of anything creepy or crawly that would have come within 10 yards of me.  Now?  Eh… Unless it is going to send it’s poison coursing through my veins and dispatch me to an early death I am ok with it… again, as long as it stays outside where it belongs. 

This being said nature broke our uneasy truce the other night and ventured inside the inner sanctum, MY BEDROOM, in effect saying a big fuck you to my unspoken rule.  A lizard crawled across the wall and took up residence at approximately 9:15 PM. I know what you are thinking, “Why are you scared of a little lizard?  Aren’t those the cute animals that little boys and girls have as their first pets?”

And my retort is “Exactly.”  Lizards are gateway reptiles.  First it’s a cute little lizard prancing across the wall, then it’s a black mamba snake curled up in my armoire, followed by a crocodile snapping it’s hungry jaws under my bed hoping for a midnight snack. 

That is why you just have to say no to lizards.  JUST SAY NO.  They are going to lead you down a dark alleyway; tempt you with their forked tongues, their tiny three toed pointy jester feet, and their beguiling eyes.  But you must resist! 

I must tell you it was not easy getting that sucker out of my room without waking the house.  I coaxed, I swatted, I prodded; finally after almost two hours of glaring at the little bugger I managed to lure him over to the window and used my flip-flop to propel him out the window and to his destiny, hopefully as an after dinner snack for the dog.

Score: 1, Singular Girl

Score: Big Fat Zero, Nature

This, my second week at site, was a long holiday weekend.  My supervisor and his family attended a conference in Windhoek leaving me to fend against nosy neighbors, overly attentive gas station attendants, and the errant donkey… Fortunately two other PCV’s kept me company as I tactfully sent a meddlesome neighbor on her way day after day, fought off lecherous advances, and shooed donkeys from the front yard. 

Of course the PCV’s and I used this long weekend for an intensive brainstorming session to discuss vital development planning and formulate key tasks to undertake over the course of the next couple of months however during these critical talks we managed to throw in some fun in the sun. 

Our weekend went a little something like this:

• Look! It’s a badger! Go check it out! [Slowly creeping up to the supposed badger] Nope… it’s just a broom handle.
• Why are you systematically starving the dog?  Poor thing.  He’s getting excited just looking at our dinner.
• God, Heath Ledger is hot.  Too bad he’s dead and rotting in a grave.  Lucky maggots.

 Clearly our lives grow more exciting the longer we live in Africa.  Anyone ready to sign up for Peace Corps?