Merry Christmas!

Tired of the same old people at your holiday events? Want to change things up a bit? Want some small children to give it that fun holiday feel? Want to show you are concerned about the orphan situation in Africa? Want to be as cool as Madonna and Angelina Jolie without the media buzz and commitment?

Now you too can have your own African orphan, just for the holidays! Pick them up anytime, drop them off when you are finished. No strings attached. No obligations.

I visited an orphanage a few days ago, where I'm thinking of placing an intern next semester. I asked how many kids they have there and the woman answered, "30". I didn't see 30 kids, so I asked where the rest were. She responded that the Boers come and pick some up for the holidays. "Oh, but of course." I thought to myself very confusedly. As I was leaving, I asked if they all are just around for the holidays. She answered, "Yes. We made an appeal for people to come and take some of the orphans for the holidays, but very few pitched up, so here we are."

As I drove off I kept thinking about that. On the one level, "Why not?" These kids are overcrowded in this house, without that much adult attention. If you have a large enough house and not so many people, why not bring an orphan over for the holidays. I thought of my own holiday plans. I'm working most of the time - taking a few days off to run to the beach to chill very briefly. Why don't I just drag an orphan along to the beach with me? Let a shocked four year old travel to a strange city - overcrowded with vacationing partiers - with a woman who's language he probably won't be able to understand. Let her stay in my fancy hotel room with me and eat at some fun splurge style restaurants. Heck, I could even play Santa Claus and get some toys and things for him on Christmas morning. Then, we'll head back to Windhoek, I'll go back to work, and she'll go back to the orphanage. It just sounds like cruel and unusual punishment for these poor children who have already been through so much. If there was a screening process to make sure I wasn't a psychopath, that would make me more comfortable. If there was a commitment to make sure that I come back every few weeks and develop an ongoing relationship with the child, its starting to make sense. But just to pick up some orphans and hang out with them for the holidays and drop them off afterwards? It just sounds soooo odd.

So, anyway, I received the best holiday present from my boss yesterday. He resigned!

Last, Kafunda wants me to help him find someone in the States who is interested in going into business with him. He's drafted a great business proposal. He's well connected here and has lots of plans. He basically wants to start a business venture selling African curios in the States. As many of you know, I used to sell things for him on ebay. I wasn't very into it, didn't do a very good marketing job, but yet the things sold and sometimes for a lot of money. If there is anyone who would actually like to put energy into it and be creative with the idea, I think there is a lot of potential. Just let me know and I'll get you in touch with Kafunda. Or feel free to ask me any questions.

And finally, enjoy your Christmas - whether you are surrounded by small children or not!!!

Inhaling and Exhaling

The semester is finally over and what a semester it was. I now have about two weeks to get myself caught up on everything, before I head off for a travel seminar to South Africa and Lesotho on January 3rd. My sincerest apologies for dropping out of communication for the last few months. I've been quite busy, but hope to be able to resume email communication now.

So, all in all I had a great semester. The students were amazing and fantastic. As I alluded to, I have some serious differences with my boss, which was really the most major challenge of the semester, although it was a MAJOR challenge at times, but I won't dish out the dirty laundry here. Although the students were wonderful, they are tiring. Even on the "day off" in Cape Town, we had two students get lost on Table Mountain, one that had a puffy eye from bug bites and of course there are the never ending random questions that mistake me not only for a mother or a medical official, but now as they were getting ready to go back to the States, they also mistook me for a customs officer and a thousand other things in which I have no expertise.

It was definitely with mixed emotions that I bade them farewell. As much as I loved them, I looked forward to some peace and quiet. So peace and quiet I got. I went directly from the airport to a 3 day retreat at a yoga ashram in Cape Town. Look at the difference in the first two photos. As much as hiking around Table Mountain was certainly one of the highlights of my job, do the yogis not just beam with peace and serenity? Anyway, that was one of the smartest things I've done in my life and I reconnected with a sense of peace, calm, purpose and energy I hadn't felt in way too long. I visited this ashram in 2002 and it had a major impact on me. It was only on revisiting it that I realised how important it had been to my spiritual development. It was also amazing to come back after 5 years, and see familiar friendly faces that remembered me and said, "Has it really been 5 years?"

I just feel the need to share my Friday night because it was again a contrast. I came home from yoga and bumped (not literally) into Martin - my neighbor. He told me that there was a summer concert in Zoo Park with all the biggest names in Namibian hip-hop/Kwaito. As peaceful and sattvic as I was feeling, it sounded like fun, so off we went. Contrast these two photos. Tuesday night rocking out with the yogis and Friday night with The Dogg and Gazza. I love my life!

Okay, I'll post a more thoughtful post when I've had time to sit and process the semester, life, the universe, etc.

Life Update

Greetings all!

This is just a quick hello to explain why I haven't posted anything in ages, nor responded to your emails. Life has had me quite occupied. I'm insanely busy during the week. I like to do emails on weekends, but I've been busy on my weekends. So, what's going on? Well, mostly work. Busy busy. I'm looking forward to relaxing a bit at Christmas time.

But, I did have a nice birthday! Thank you to all of you who remembered and sent messages. At the last minute I decided to throw myself a party at the bar/restaurant near my house. Here's a picture of some of the people who came, as well as flat Carina who was visiting at the time (one of my student's project with a school in the US).

I moved! Yippeee! Okay, so I just moved from the room in the house downstairs to a tiny little flat, but its lovely to have privacy. I've been quite busy getting it settled for the last few weeks. While it was furnished, it was very minimally furnished, so I had to get a lot of stuff, do a lot of cleaning, do a bit of nesting, etc. Now its somehow home.

I'm leading a laughter yoga session tomorrow afternoon! A number of people have told me they will come, so we shall see. Quite exciting.

Otherwise, I think I'll just be in touch at Christmas time. Lots of thoughts and considerations that I would love to post. But it will wait... Happy Thanksgiving!

So what about the job?

First, a quick apology. I wrote this two weeks ago, but haven't had a chance to post it. Now lots of other things have happened in the meantime, I have unwritten posts in my head, but decided I should post this (without editing it first) and then write the future ones. Sorry its dated...

People keep asking me about the students, and I haven’t responded much because I haven’t really known what to say. I just spent the last two weeks traveling around with the students so now I suppose I should have something to say.

For the most part, I would say I love the job, I love the students. They are amazing and wonderful. Before I started, I did have my doubts about whether I really am that much older, more educated, etc than the students and whether I was really qualified to do this. Some of the students have very impressive resumes and I must admit being a bit intimidated. However, now that I have been doing it a bit, I definitely have started to see that while their resumes are impressive in certain respects and they are definitely very amazing in some ways, in many ways they are still 20 years old, undergraduates, and yes I do have a lot of life experience compared to them.

There have been a lot of challenges for me, but most of them feel like the kinds of things that I will get much better at with experience. For instance, the students view me as an authority figure. They ask me LOTS of questions. LOTS of the questions seem very silly and ridiculous and I feel like, “Why are you asking me this?” Sometimes I’m tempted to give silly, flippant responses, but then I realize they take me very seriously. In the past few weeks I’ve been asked, “Should I buy toilet paper?”, “Can I eat an apple?” “Is it okay that I ate a banana?” “Can you look at this weird mark on my leg?” “Should I tell my host family if I think I have malaria?” “What do I do if I lose my host family’s donkey?” “How long does it take to die if you are bitten by a venomous snake?” “Do you think this is ring worm?” “Can I get some water?” Among lots and lots of other more context specific questions. Okay, so the parents in my blog readership are probably all laughing at me now. I’m finally getting a taste of parenthood. But I guess I figured that these students are practically adults, most of these things they can figure out for themselves, or at least, recognize that I am not a dermatologist. But I’m trying to learn from this to see why they would feel the need to ask me permission to eat an apple and try to ensure that they feel a bit more empowered to make a few of these decisions themselves.

Along these same lines, I often found myself frustrated when we were in a hurry and they were not hurrying. Or I started walking some place and they didn’t come with me when they were supposed to. Or I started walking some place and they all started following me, when I wasn’t really going anywhere. I am learning to make sure I communicate more clearly what the plan is, what’s fixed, what’s flexible, etc. Flexibility in planning seems to really distress them, but I feel like that is part of living in Namibia, so maybe I just need to make it more clear that its an opportunity to learn about being flexible.

Given all of this, overall the students really are amazing and wonderful. They have asked some really insightful questions of our speakers, written some amazing papers, and generally really impressed me. Overall the group gets along and are a mature wonderful group of people to work with. Class discussions are always great and I’m learning a lot about how to facilitate a discussion without directing it too much, make sure the points I want to come out do come out, and that we stay more or less on topic. I definitely still have a lot to learn on this, but I’m learning.

There have been a few little issues with a few students which are more or less along the lines of what I expected I would have to deal with, and so I’ve been dealing with those issues. Surprisingly enough, the hardest part of dealing with these issues has not been the students, but it seems my boss and I have diametrically opposed philosophies on dealing with these sorts of issues. This has been extremely challenging for me and easily the greatest challenge of this job. Learning to be seen as an authority figure, learning to facilitate class discussions are all things I can see being old hat so to speak before long. But reaching agreement with my boss on how to handle certain student issues is extremely challenging. Partly because I feel very strongly about my position, and he does as well. Going along with this challenge has been the challenge of trying to present the faculty as a unified force to the students. Till now, I’ve basically completely failed in this regard. When the students ask me a question about a position that my boss has on something, if I disagree, I complete fail in pretending to support his position. My career with the US embassy has ended before it began. Ideally, I would really like our dirty laundry to stay behind closed doors and make it appear to the students that we are unified. But some of the dirty laundry I consider so dirty, I just don’t want it anywhere near me. And I just can’t pretend that I think its clean. I’m hoping to get better in both the regard of reaching comprises with my boss and coming up with politically correct responses to the students’ questions. The tactic I’m using at this moment is that while I may not agree with my boss, overall the center probably benefits from having this diversity of viewpoints. I’m trying to see his viewpoint as not wrong, but just different and in certain situations probably more useful and combined with my opinion and my other colleague’s viewpoints we probably are all a great match together. Plus, the big boss from Minneapolis is coming out next week, and I’m hoping he’ll be effective in helping us to negotiate some compromises.

For the most part, the last two weeks were great, cause it was mostly just me traveling around with the students. I’ll end with a funny story from our recent trip. I’m not quite sure how the students see me and this story gave me some insight. While on one hand, they definitely see me as an authority figure, they also call me by my first name, we went to the dunes together and they saw me doing somersaults down the dunes, they were reading Cosmo out loud in the kombi and made a comment about how maybe it was offensive to me and I made a possibly inappropriate comment to the effect that it would be difficult to offend me with Cosmo. So its funny cause some times they sort of treat me like another student, but other times they definitely treat me like an authority figure.

So, now the funny story. On the last night of our trip, we were camping at Okaukuejo in Etosha and having a bbq. An American guy apparently noticed this large group of Americans and came over to find out who we were. It turns out that he has been living in Namibia doing environmental conservation work for the past 8 years and runs programs with US university students somewhat similar to ours but with more of an environmental focus. It was really interesting to talk to him, learn more about his programs and conservation work and look for potential ways that our programs could benefit each other. So we talked for quite a while about our programs and during the conversation he mentioned that he and his colleagues would be in the bar later that evening if I wanted to stop by. We also exchanged our contact information. As he was walking away and I returned to my plate of food, I turned around to find a horde of giggling girls asking me if I was going to meet him in the bar that night cause he was "totally hitting on me because he wanted to get my digits and he KEPT telling me that he would be in the bar”. I explained that I was networking not looking for a date. They all laughed and said, “Oh, ‘networking’ is that what they are calling it these days?” They said that him hitting on me was sooo obvious, but that I was completely unreadable. I had no idea my conversation was under such close scrutiny. I know there is a really good analogy here for what I felt like, but I still can’t think of it. They were all sooo eager and excited for me to go to the bar and talk more to this guy it made me feel really weird. I had no idea my love life was of so much interest to them, as I had really avoided ever mentioning much of anything to them about it. Oh, so to end the story, I did swing by the bar later (without significant primping) but found only my students there. I promptly left. Even if he did show up, I couldn’t begin to imagine trying to have another conversation with him realizing that 40 eyes would be eagerly watching us. So I watched the giraffes for a bit then went to bed early. I’m not one for hanging out at bars after 9 pm anyway.

Country Roads ... Take Me Home...

So, I finally went to Tallismanis this weekend. Aaaah. I think I’ll tell this blog more as a story than a reflection. A long story. Let’s start by stepping back a bit.

Some of you may remember the host family I had when I decided to extend in Peace Corps and they made me repeat training. It was a mom, her daughter in grade 10, and sometimes her 1 year old baby. The mom was wonderful and very well intentioned, but had a problem with alcohol, budgeting and a violent boyfriend. I was supposed to be learning Afrikaans from her, but my Otjiherero was better than her English, so when we actually needed to communicate, or just plain got sick of Afrikaans (which was often) we spoke Otjiherero, which of course, made me feel cool. The house was infested with cockroaches – I found them in my bed, food, you name it, but I really bonded with this family more than most. Anyway, I wrote them a few letters after I got back, and never heard anything. I heard through the grapevine that my sister had not passed her grade 10 exams. In Namibia, this basically means the end of your educational career. So, a few weeks ago, I sent a letter to the school where my host mom had been a cleaner, hoping that one way or another I would track her or someone who knew her whereabouts down, all the while bracing myself for the worst.

Quick sidenote. I know the statistics about HIV infection in Namibia. Since I’ve come back, I’m always sort of nervous when I’m talking to someone and asking about people that we knew in common. But, I just keep hearing, “Oh, they are great. They are working at such and such a place, etc.” There are two people that I have learned that died while I was gone, one from a car accident and one from complications associated with working in an asbestos mine earlier in his life. (Another sidenote for those of you who were in Peace Corps with me. Brace yourself. I ran into Simon and was asking him about people. The person who died in the car accident was Eugene. Apparently he was driving to Cape Town, the car overturned killing him, his wife and kids. I can still hardly believe it.) So, I keep thinking that my luck is bound to run out sooner or later, so I was curious to see what I would hear from my host mom, given what I knew about her lifestyle, etc.

So, last Wednesday I got a call from her. She sounded fantastic. She is still a cleaner at the primary school. She sounded super excited to know that I am back in Namibia and can’t wait for me to come and visit. The 1 year old baby is now in Grade 1. She gave me the phone number for my host sister. I gave her a call. She’s living in the north and working at a grocery store. It was incredibly fantastic to talk to her on the phone, now I just need to find time to take a trip up north. She’s just an awesome human being and she makes me feel like a big sister.

So, on Friday morning I had the US ambassador speak to my students. Afterwards, I rented a car and headed out to Tallismanis. "What a crazy life" I couldn't help but think. "One minute hanging out with the ambassador, the next going out to Tallismanis." I was still super excited about the news from my host family and couldn't wait to see who I found in Tallismanis. I arranged to stay with my friend Mbanjanda, and had spoken to my friend Matuipi a few weeks ago, but couldn’t get a hold of her more recently. She was in a bad car accident a few months ago and said she would just be at her farm recovering, so I assumed that would still be the case. I went into the weekend excited to see Mbanjanda and Tallismanis, hopeful to see Matuipi, and optimistic that I would run into other people. Most of the other teachers at the school have now transferred to other schools or other employment, so it was difficult to say if I would see anyone else or not.

I have spoken to Mbanjanda several times while I was in the States, but he has recently shocked me with several new developments in his life that he forgot to mention. For instance, as I was planning the trip, I asked him whether he thought I could travel out there with a tiny little car or if I should splurge and rent a pickup. He said “Sure, get a little car, we’ll just take my pickup when we go to Matuipi’s farm.” He had never told me that he owned a car. We used to bond in our car-less “poverty” together.

He had some errands to run in Gobabis, so he came into town without his car so that he could accompany me on the way back, which I really appreciated. I can’t even tell you how excited I was getting as I approached Gobabis. Here I was passing all these places that I had google earthed so many times, that were so familiar to me for so long, and I could hardly believe I was back. I found Mbanjanda in Gobabis, talking to Katuuo. Katuuo used to teach at my school but has since transferred to a school in Gobabis. I can’t even tell you how amazing it felt to be standing on the street in Gobabis chatting with Mbanjanda and Katuuo. It felt so normal, like no time had passed, that maybe we were all hanging around, looking for a lift back like in the old days. But no, Mbanjanda hopped in my car, Katuuo went home, and we were off. Then Mbanjanda remembered that he forgot milk for his baby. “Which baby might that be?” My favorite girlfriend of his, Ri, had a baby when I was there before, but surely she was no longer a baby. Oh, he forgot to mention, she had another baby 15 months ago. Ah details. I’m quite certain that for more than 2 years now he has been telling me that he and Ri have been broken up. Funny how people have babies more than 9 months after they breakup. Whatever, that’s my Mbanjanda. He loaded all kinds of shopping in the car, including a big bag of tobacco. “Um, what’s this for?” “The guy working on my farm.” “Oh, of course. Mbanjanda! Since when do you have a farm???” “Oh, I didn’t tell you that either? Yeah, I’m farming out here now, I moved my cattle fromOtjozongombe (where his father farms) about a year ago. You mean I never told you?” “Nooooo. So how many cattle do you have now, if I can ask?” (Asking how much cattle you have is like asking how much money is in your bank account. It always used to crack me up to ask Mbanjanda that cause he was always so embarrassed by it. He had like 8 or something and felt emasculated by my knowing that, even though I couldn’t care less.) He now has over 50. He was much more confident telling me that. I was quite shocked that he had gone from 8 to 50+ in such a short period of time, and I’m embarrassed to admit, was actually fairly impressed. “You know you’ve been in Namibia too long when you are impressed by the number of cattle a man owns, even if you are a vegetarian.”

So, it felt amazing to be driving out to Tallismanis, chatting with Mbanjanda. I just forgot how long the drive was. Damn its far on that gravel road. I was going crazy just wanting to be there. But we finally arrived and I can’t even explain how it felt. Very little had changed. We parked the car at his place (he’s living in the school hostel) and walked over to Ri’s place to bring the milk for the baby. On the way, we passed my old house. Walking past the school, my house, everything, it just felt like I could start teaching tomorrow. Like I could walk in my house and find all my stuff there. After that, we went to the shop to get some dinner. The same drunks were hanging out in front of the shop. They remembered me and asked me to buy them a cigarette. One of them made extremely indecent proposals. In stead of being angry, I felt incredibly sentimental and bought them cigarettes. We went in, ordered dinner and then I kept knowing people coming in and out. Former students, drunks, etc. It felt amazing. The guy working at the bar in the shop was the same, and remembered my “usual”. Even though I don’t really drink anymore, sitting there with Mbanjanda being offered my “usual” I couldn’t help but take it. It felt so normal.

There was a big SWAPO (ruling party) meeting in town on Saturday. There were rumors that Tate Sam (first President) was coming to speak. Mbanjanda and I made a plan for the day. Visit Matuipi (if she isn’t coming to the SWAPO meeting), see Mbanjanda’s farm, visit Vesora (Matuipi’s daughter) but come back to Tallismanis whenever Sam arrives. Not that either of us are big fans of Sam at all, but I’ve never seen him in person.

So, we start cruising around asking people whether Matuipi is in town or not. Nobody has seen her so we stop at the shop, to get a “gift” for her on the farm. We ask what she’s drinking, they tell us and we buy a liter of it. You just have to love it! The bartenders know what everybody drinks, even if you haven’t been there in 5 years! It seems that Tate Sam isn’t coming after all, so oh well. We show up at Matuipi’s farm at about 10 am. Even though she had the car accident she looks pretty good. (That's her and her daughter Vavi in the picture. The picture below shows her daughter Waku in the center and Vavi on the right. Some of you met them when they were tiny babies. They aren't babies anymore.) She is still recovering but she’s moving around. She is thrilled with our gift, as she can’t get those things on the farm. She says she is just about to make lunch and we should just stay and eat lunch. Sounds great. She’s bummed to learn I’m still a vegetarian, but whatever. Anyway, lunch takes longer than expected and we eat around 3pm. In the course of the day, some other old friends stop by and its all just awesome. Of course, the first thing everyone does is comment on my appearance. Whether its, “Oh you are so fat!” or “Oh, you’ve now become thin!” or “Oh, you look exactly the same!” or “Oh, I wouldn’t have recognized you if someone hadn’t told me it was you!” It was pretty funny. Of course the next thing after that is, “So, are you married now?” and then “And why not?” Now, how in the world are you supposed to answer that question? “Because I’m so fat?” or maybe “Because I’m so thin?” or “Because I have a fear of commitment?” or “Because I’m looking for perfection.” At first Matuipi was not too talkative about that. She kind of said how impressive it was that Mbanjanda was driving me around all weekend and that he was looking at me with huge admiration and that women are always chasing after him, but she has never seen him treat a woman the way he is treating me now. She claims that he is usually just alone without a woman at all. I reminded her about the fact that he has a girlfriend, not to mention the whole story with him not marrying Ri (Matuipi’s cousin). “Whatever” she tried to convince me. But later in the day, her lips got looser and looser. Finally, I think she was basically trying to tell me that she was married to a loser and its not the end of the world if you marry a loser, especially if you have your own paycheck. I’ve always thought Matuipi’s husband is a royal loser and wondered what she was doing with him. I couldn’t quite figure out exactly what she was trying to tell me, but I had the feeling she was telling me to marry Mbanjanda and just be silent and accepting about the fact that monogamy is not in his vocabulary. Not that Mbanjanda is exactly proposing or anything. Anyway, by the time we finished eating and saying good-bye, it was about 4:30. Too late to go to Mbanjanda’s farm, so we go to see Vesora. Vesora lives in Matuipi’s house by the primary school. Waku and Vavi are in grade 1 and 2 now so Vesora is staying there while her mom recovers on the farm. Vesora was 12 years old when I was there before. She is now 19 and has a baby. (That's her baby in the photo above. The other people are other friends. That's Vesora in the hat in this picture.) She looks exactly the same to me. She certainly doesn't look old enough to be a mother to me. On the way back, we see a group of people hanging out at a bar. Mbanjanda sees that one is Kambatuku (one of the teachers at the school who is now working elsewhere) so I stop. (see photo below of Kambatuku and Mbanjanda) He was one of my favorites so, I have another big celebration. Finally, we head back into town at dusk. Somebody gives us the message that Ri had made lunch for us, but since we weren’t there at that time, we can still come over and have dinner. So, we head over for dinner. As a gift, she gives me a bottle of Amarula (available at the state stores in NH and elsewhere) I loved that stuff, and figure, “Ah heck, I had a Savannah last night, I’ll drink some Amarula tonight.” So, with our tummies full and our minds a little goofy, we finally head back towards the school, but stop at the shops first. Where we find my friend Kazarako! Another teacher from the school who is now a principal at another school. She didn’t know I was back. It was just so exciting to see her. She was one of my other favorites. Finally we call it a night after I get good and tired of drunk men harassing me, and other men debating the merits of Obama vs. Hillary with me when my mind is too goofy to think about such things. (See Mbanjanda, Kazarako and two drunk men in photo.)

The following morning at 6:30 am, Mbanjanda gets a message that the wife of the guy that works on his farm delivered a baby. So, he runs off to pick her up and take her and the baby to the clinic. After yoga and a shower, I wander around town checking out the changes and reminiscing and running into people. For the most part, we can easily say nothing has changed. There is a new small shopping center, with a bunch of new houses behind it. But please understand I’m using the term “shopping center” loosely. As well as “new houses”. There is a new kindergarten also. There is some crazy structure on the old soccer field and so there is a new soccer field. There is cell phone access and grid electricity. Otherwise, its pretty much the same. The people were mostly the same. I ran into just about everyone I was hoping to, and then some. I went into my old class room and saw this on the cabinet in there. It almost brought tears to my eyes. That’s not my handwriting.

Finally, I ran into Mbanjanda in town. The mom and baby are doing well and almost ready to go back home. So we head back to the clinic. I hop in the back of the truck with some boys who want to come out to Mbanjanda’s farm for the heck of it. The mom, baby and neighbor come out of the clinic and get in front. I can’t help but think about how this baby was born about 5 hours ago and here she is riding in the front of a pickup truck on a gravel road. I think of my friends in the States that I have visited recently when they had babies and how different their first trip home was. But since this baby was born at home, I suppose its not really her first trip. Anyway, along the way, we see Kandondo driving the other way (another of my favorite teachers who has left teaching to go into full time farming. Rumor has it that he has well over 600 cattle.) We can’t really chat, but anyway, its good to have seen him and make a connection. The boys in the back of the truck are cracking me up and pointing everything out to me that I should know about, so I decide to take their picture. Although it may look like a still-photo, this is more like a 50 mph photo. We get to the farm, the mom and baby go in their house. Mbanjanda very proudly walks me around his farm, showing me his cattle, shows me which ones are about to have calves, makes fun of me for not knowing the difference between a cow and a bull without looking really hard. He shows me all the improvements he’s made to the farm since he took it over and all the improvements he plans to make over time. During this time, the boys are catching the calves and smearing some sort of insect repellant on them. Catching them is a bit like a rodeo show and pretty amusing to watch. They really wrestle with them. One time, one of the boys falls and the calf rolls on top of him. Everybody cracks up. I ask Mbanjanda if they ever get hurt. He looks at me like I’m such a dumb city person from the States. “Mbue, Linda, this is what these boys grew up doing. This is why they haven’t learned to use computers, or ski or whatever. This is what we know how to do.”

Anyway, that was about it. The trip back was super long again. Mbanjanda had two friends who had girlfriends visiting for the weekend that I gave lifts to on the way back. They were fun to chat with, and in a very subtle way told me the same thing Matuipi did. One of them was telling me how she used to always look for equality in relationships, but then men were always looking for superiority, so there was always this clash. So, she finally decided to let him feel like he had the upper hand and since then her relationships have all gone smoothly.

It was funny hanging out with Mbanjanda. I always thought of him as a fairly westernized guy. But there were a few really funny moments. Like Saturday morning. He asked me what I wanted for breakfast. After a bit of discussion, we decided on eggs. He sent a boy to the store for eggs. When the boy came back, he handed them to me. With a half joke but mostly serious, he told me that I had to cook cause I was the woman. Then there was the constant joke about my driving. Whenever we met someone and the subject came up that I had driven out there, they always looked at Mbanjanda and asked how I did on the gravel roads. He told them that he was really nervous at first, but completely prepared to take the wheel if it became clear I didn’t know what I was doing. He said that I actually did quite well, except for my sound effects. (I have a tendency to say, “Weeee” when we hit deep sand and the car swerves when I didn’t plan for it too. Apparently it makes him uncomfortable.) I had no idea he was hatching this little plan to take the wheel from the woman who couldn’t drive on gravel roads. Fortunately, I can drive on gravel. But the funniest was probably the day we spent hanging out at Matuipi’s. Matuipi quickly enlisted me to make the salad. She got me an apron and put me to work. Her husband put a mattress in the shade for Mbanjanda. He proceeded to take a nap most of the afternoon. Here are the pictures we took of each other in our respective roles. She let me keep the apron in case I’m asked to cook at a party again and I’m not prepared.

One more reflection. I asked Mbanjanda about how it seems like the stories about HIV/AIDS paint this horrible picture, people are always talking about how everyone is dying, cemeteries are filling, etc. but that it just really didn’t seem like anyone I knew had died of AIDS. He said that yes, people are dying, but from a variety of causes: murder, car accidents, various diseases, old age and AIDS. He said that he has been to 3 funerals so far for someone who had died of AIDS, and although it seems to be a big deal in the news and stuff, really he hasn’t been terribly personally affected. He knows a few people that he suspects are on anti-retroviral drugs (they were super sick for a while, but then miraculously got better).

Now the other thing. I’ve been depressed today (Monday). I’m not sure why. Is it post-had-a-great-weekend-now-back-to-the-grind? But my grind isn’t such a grind, so that doesn’t make sense. Is it that my body just isn’t use to alcohol and its taking a while to detox out the Savannahs and the Amarula? (Incidentally, I went to an Iyengar yoga class tonight and couldn’t help but crack up about how one day I’m hanging out on a farm in Tallismanis (Mbanjanda hasn’t heard of yoga) and the next I’m hanging upside down on a chair with a bunch of white people in Windhoek. What a life.) Is it because it got tiring being asked 50,000 times why I’m not married and having people look at me like I’m some pitiful old maid whenever I answered again that I’m not married? Was it because that all happened while I was hanging out with Mbanjanda who frustrates me to no end because I consider him a great friend who is extremely attractive but that also has no idea what monogamy means, and is dating someone 8 years younger than me and the mother of his children. Who knows. Anyway, I’m hoping a few good nights sleep will make it all better.

The Forsythia is in Bloom!!!

So, it is definitely spring time in Namibia! I kept seeing the Forsythia in bloom and thinking, I need to get a picture of that! When I finally stopped to get a picture I thought, "Oh, I don't think that is actually a forsythia." But let's just pretend!

So, I had a request for outside pictures of my house. Here's one of the front of my house. That's my window to the left of the front door.

This is the little house on the right side of my house where some students at the Polytechnic live.

Here is a picture of the backside of the house. You can see the porch where I was typing the other day on top (above Martin's apartment). One of the apartments I might move into (where Marcus lives now) has the three little windows on the lower right. Martin's door is to the right of my landlady's new SUV. The other apartment I might move into is behind Martin's (can't see it). And another little house that some other Polytechnic students live in is to the left of my landlady's SUV. You can really just see the corner of that house.

Quick funny update. I was super tired when I came home from work the other day. I'm not usually so physically tired, so when I feel that way, sometimes I like playing it up and savoring it. So, I was groaning every time I stood up and slouching in my chair and stuff like that. Dumisa said, "Anytime you are too tired, just let me know and I'll help you out. I can do your dishes or whatever." I cracked up and asked him, "Would you even do my laundry for me?" He said, "Yeah. Well. I mean, I would if we were ... 'you know', and you were tired, and nobody found out." Change happens in small steps.

What's Normal?

I've been thinking a lot recently about at what point you are open to considering alternate “normals” normal. The students have arrived and they are to varying degrees adjusting to life in Namibia. They have had a variety of previous life experiences which I think affects their ability to be open to considering something “normal” which was not in their previous definition of “normal”. Its interesting to chat with them and hear their various first impressions of Namibia, and I’m really looking forward to watching that change over time. (By the way, I have lots of thoughts on my own adaptations to the role of “faculty member” which are still coalescing, when I get a firmer grip on these thoughts, I’ll write more about that.)

At the same time, I’ve started having funny conversations with my Swazi housemate, Dumisa. Dumisa is really friendly and we tend to cook dinner around the same time, so we end up chatting quite a bit. We are both about the same age and generally pessimistic about relationships, so there is sort of this undertone of the possibility of a relationship between us. I mean, we already live together right? Except there isn’t a possibility. Dumisa does the vast majority of the talking and sometimes what he says is so far away from my “normal” and he seems so committed to his “normal” that I don’t feel the need to comment. Instead I just laugh, because a lot of what he says is really funny, even if he doesn’t realise its funny. I think he has been interpreting my silence or laughter as agreement and is beginning to think we are a great match. When I started picking up on this, I decided that I need to start speaking up more clearly. So, one thing Dumisa feels strongly about is that he wants to marry a woman who knows her gender. By this he means a woman who knows that she should do the laundry and cooking and he will cut wood and replace flat tires. I have often joked with him that I don’t know my gender, but apparently he didn’t get it. So the other day he saw me walking out of the house with my laundry. I told him that I’m lazy and there is a machine at work, so I carry my clothes to work and do it there. Later, he asked me about this and I reiterated that I don’t know my gender. He said, “Look there are 3 types of guys you might find: the kind that thinks you should not use a machine because you have two hands, the kind that doesn’t care if you carry your clothes to work as long as the laundry is done, and the kind that will buy you a machine so you don’t have to carry it.” I asked, “What about the kind that will share in the laundry responsibility with me?” He looked completely dumbfounded. “What? That’s the problem with the world today! People who try to mix up what God has created. God made it very clear in the Bible what a man should do and what a woman should do.” “Where in the Bible does it say that women should do laundry?” “It’s there mon! I’m telling you!” (This is where he turns on his Rasta.) The more I try to question how women doing laundry became his definition of normal, the more resistant he becomes. The funny thing is, he does his own laundry. I guess its okay if you aren’t married. I started questioning him on why a woman who is capable of changing tires should get married, particularly if you have a gas/electric stove and don’t need wood chopped. It seemed like a pretty bum deal to me, suddenly the woman gets sacked with all the laundry, cooking and child care responsibilities, and all she gets in return is a man who can change tires, and how often do you really get flats anyway, and who’s to say he’ll even be in the car at that moment? By now he was very frustrated by my heresy and would have no more of this crazy talk. I think I pretty well convinced him that we are not a good match.

But all of this, juxtaposed with watching my students adapt to life in Namibia, and my boss who has no desire to consider new ideas which is way too long of a story to go into right now, has really got me to thinking a lot about what makes people open to consider “new” ideas which are not in their definition of “normal”. Does how many different varieties of “normal” you encountered before a certain age play into it? Is it just in your nature when you are born to either be open or not? Or does it depend on your motivation? ie. If you are a student that came to Namibia on a study abroad program, you are probably somewhat open to new ideas and see the need to adapt more in order to fully enjoy the semester. If you are the boss of a study abroad program in Namibia, you know everything and have no need to consider new ideas. Both Dumisa and my boss phrase all of their frustrations with these situations as being problems with other people, without ever expressing that they are considering how their own attitude or actions could be playing into the situation. They both know how “normal” should be, and if other people don’t match their understanding of “normal” well then those idiots better get it straight. If I point out inconsistencies in their definition of normal or ways that a slight change in attitude could make things easier to deal with, my comments are met with anger and a statement that I don’t understand the situation. Anyway, I would love if anyone has any thoughts on how one’s definition of “normal” comes to change over time and what makes one open to alternate definitions of “normal”.

Its funny too how I tend to consider myself open minded, but yet I of course do have my limits to what I will allow into my definition of “normal”. I’m sure its just a spectrum. But how do people get placed on the spectrum? And how do people move along the spectrum?

The Bike

I went back and was looking at some of my previous blog posts. I saw that in my first post I wanted to keep these short and readable. Well, sorry. As I also said, I hope for these to be less of a daily diary, summary of activities, but a reflection on events, how they relate to the world, and my mind. I’m realizing that in order to provide the reflection, I need to first summarize the events. Often there are multiple events, and it’s the co-incidence of these events that makes for the interesting reflection, like this multiple visits to the Café at Zoo Park, thus lengthy posts, not brief.

For instance, I bought a bike yesterday. I could just state that, describe its features and tell you that I went for a ride today. But that’s not so interesting as the events surrounding the purchase of the bike, for which I need to start several days ago, and explain a lengthy cast of characters. But seeing as how I now am sitting on this lovely porch area at my house, typing on my laptop, I’ll step back these few days and explain the cast. So, take your laptop onto your porch, get a cup of tea and lets enjoy together…

As I mentioned, there are several flats attached or nearby my house, all owned by my landlord. I think of all these people as “the people that live in my house”. Two of these people I think of as the “American bike guys”. They are two guys from the US who are here working with some bike NGO that refurbishes donated bikes from the US and turns them into bike ambulances or something. The one guy was an undergrad, here on some summer project and left Thursday. The other guy just finished undergrad and is here on a fellowship to travel around the world studying how people use bikes. He’s headed to Bangladesh, Vietnam and Tanzania after this. His name is Marcus. So, the night before the other guy left, he had a bbq. I went to it as I was quite excited to get to know my neighbors better. Martin was there. Martin lives in the house for free, because he’s the maintenance guy. He also gets paid for being the maintenance guy. He also is a student at the Polytechnic of Namibia, which works out quite well, as its about 2 blocks from here (if I had a password I could use their wifi from here). I met Victor at the bbq too. Victor is 19, just finished grade 12, but now needs to retake the examination for a few subjects that he didn’t do so well in, and hopes to go to University next year. In the meantime, he’s working at this bike NGO, and is some sort of a professional cyclist. He’s sponsored by the local bike shop. I have to admit I was a little surprised when I learned this about him. While I do see black people on bikes often, they usually look like they are on their bike for functional reasons. You know what I mean. They are often wearing regular clothes, and no helmet and look like they are trying to get from Point A to Point B. As opposed to a person on a bike for exercise, who has a fancy bike, a helmet, spandexy shirt, etc. So, I was impressed that Victor was such a serious biker and started thinking, “Cool, maybe the biking crowd in Namibia is more diverse than I had suspected.”

So, I had intended to buy a bike all along. For both functional and exercise reasons. It will come in handy for transportation sometimes, but it’s also a fun form of entertainment and exercise. So on Saturday I shopped around. I usually buy bikes second hand, but decided that I felt like getting a new one this time. I never seem to be able to adjust the gears quite right on the second hand ones, and just felt like getting something decent. I tried the cheap stores first. I could have bought a new bike for ~US$100 at Game (which is comparable to Target), but decided to blow the budget and get a decent one at the bike shop where they know bikes and provide service etc (see picture). Including accessories (helmet, pump, spare tube, etc.) it came to ~US$400. It was of course, a tough decision because the sales guys are always trying to convince me that the higher quality components of a more expensive bike are worth it, and its hard to know how much they are worth it for a Sunday rider, and not an extreme racer. But they talked me into it with the reliability factor. So they then handed my bike to the service guys who attached the pump, put air in my tires, etc. The service guys were black, everyone else working there was white. I was wondering how the service guys liked working there. I was wondering if they are like Victor and serious racers, so maybe this is a cool job. They get to work on bikes all day. But, this is the hardest part to explain, there is something in the way the sales guy spoke to them, that just makes me uncomfortable. Its no particular words, its just an overall sense. Its just this feeling that they are clearly the invisible menial staff. The tone implies no sense of recognition of the common humanity. I kept expecting the service guys to respond to the sales guy’s commands with a “yes baas”. The situation made me somewhat uncomfortable so I kept trying to smile at the service guys as they worked on my bike. I suppose its some sort of subconscious way of trying to say, “I see that you are a human there, working on my bike, and I’m so thankful that you are doing all of these things for me. Its quite helpful.” But I’m not sure the message was conveyed, or should be conveyed, or can be conveyed or needs to be conveyed. Its complicated.

So, I had taken a taxi to the bike shop, and intended to ride my bike home. But sometime around now, it started occurring to me that I had my purse with me. “Hmmm, it will certainly be awkward to ride a bike with a purse. But I suppose its manageable. Hmmm”, I thought. Moments later Victor walked in! I was so happy to see him. I asked what he thought of my purchase decision. He said that I got a good price on a good bike. I wish he had been there when I was making the decision, but at least he was kind enough to make me feel more comfortable about my decision after the fact. He then said that he was heading over to my house to visit Marcus and Martin. I noticed he had a backpack so I asked if he wouldn’t mind taking my purse. I love how things just work out like that sometimes! We chatted on the way back. He said that this bike shop was having there Spring Ride tomorrow morning at 9 am. He said it’s a fun ride, not a race, they have different distances to chose from, some for mountain bikes, some for road bikes. He strongly encouraged me to come. It sounded like a fun way to meet people so I decided to go. I confirmed the time and he said, “Oh, we are changing our clocks tonight, so its at 8 am not 9 am.” That evening I started to notice that my butt was a bit sore from the short ride from the bike shop to home (~2 miles, but a huge hill). I haven’t ridden a bike in a long time. I started thinking maybe I shouldn’t go to the fun ride. Maybe I should wait till I’m in better shape. But then I kept thinking how confident Victor was that it was a fun ride, and I would have fun, and I need not worry about how fast I am or anything and the fact that he said, “See you tomorrow” as we parted ways, made me feel like he was expecting me. But then it occurred to me that we are springing forward with our clocks. Why would the time be an hour earlier, when we are setting our clocks forward. That makes no sense. Hmmm. “Aaaah, whatever” I overrode all these misgivings and just decided to show up at 8 am and see what happens.

At 8am the white sales guy was there setting up tables and tents and things with the service guys. He tells me it starts at 9 am. Oh, I realize, Victor meant that it starts at 8 am if you forgot to reset your clock. But I didn’t forget to reset my clock. So I was there an hour early. So I had an hour to watch people show up. Everyone who showed up was either speaking Afrikaans or German. I sat idly by watching everyone. Nobody seemed particularly interested in meeting this new person, but to be honest I didn’t make an effort to meet anyone either. My favorite yoga instructor and her husband showed up, but even they didn’t seem interested in talking to me, other than to say hello. I noticed a colored guy also hanging out by himself on the edge of the crowd. I walked over towards him but he didn’t have a look like he cared to chat with anyone, so I walked away.

I did a lot of thinking. As I mentioned in my previous post, I am white, so why do I not feel comfortable hanging out with all these white people? Well, they are not speaking English is one reason. But they obviously do speak English, so that’s no reason. I had the urge to go hang out with the service guys as they set up tables, but they looked busy, and I’m not really sure they had any desire to hang out with me. So, why would I think I would be more comfortable with them, then all the white bikers? Is it because I spent 3 years primarily socializing with black Namibians, so it’s a societal group I’m more or less comfortable with, as opposed to white Namibians? But then I started thinking, maybe its more of a class issue. These white people are all wearing bike shoes that sound like tap shoes when you walk, spandexy shirts with pockets in the back, camel-backs, etc. I’m wearing my old tennies, and a T-shirt I’ve owned literally more than half of my life. I definitely feel like I identify more so with the proletariat than the bourgeoisie and white people in Namibia tend to be members of the bourgeoisie. I thought of things I had read about white life in pre-Apartheid South Africa. White people often felt completely disconnected from what was going on in the townships. As far as they were concerned, they could have been living in any US suburb. Now the sound system is set up and American 70’s rock is blasting for our entertainment. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how easy it would still be today to live in Windhoek and forget that Katutura is just over there. There was a nervous discussion recently before yoga class about a recent spate of men breaking the passenger window of cars driving through an extremely affluent suburb, reaching in and grabbing the purse off the seat. Part of me feels like screaming, “But don’t you see the insanity of living in a massive house with a pool and driving a BMW within miles of people living in tin shacks? How must your life look to someone in a tin shack?” But where do I fit in this picture, and do I have any right to call the pot black? While contemplating all of this, I thought of a conversation I had with Martin last night. I excitedly showed him my new bike and he was duly impressed. He said that he hopes to buy a bike soon too. He asked what I paid for mine, and I embarrassedly gave him a rough approximation that was a bit lower than reality. I told him that I justified it because it will save me money on taxis. He asked me where I take taxis. Again, I was embarrassed to tell him that I take taxis to yoga class. If I really needed to save taxi money, I wouldn’t be paying for yoga class. Later in the conversation and unrelated, it came up that he owes the Polytech ~$200. If he doesn’t pay it before the beginning of November, he can’t take the exams. He was apparently quite stressed about trying to figure out from where he is going to find $200 in two months. So while I may think of myself as a member of the proletariat, I spent twice on my bike what Martin needs to pay off for school. But then there’s my landlord, who decided not to buy the Hummer after all, but rather went for a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser. I’m definitely not in that economic class either. So where do I fit in a two class society? To a thief, I know what class they see me in. I may not have a BMW window to smash, and on most days they would probably be fairly disappointed if they ever stole my purse, but I resemble people who do have a lot, and while I sit here on my porch typing on my laptop, with a content post-lunch tummy, I recognize that I do have a lot of material wealth.

I need to clarify something here to ensure you reader is not generalizing, “So what Linda says is that black Namibians bike for transport and white Namibians bike for fun, with the exception of Victor.” No, that’s not it either. Its this event. It seems to have been advertised by word of mouth. The guys I bought my bike from didn’t even mention it to me. It wasn’t in the paper. Victor told me about it. So, who shows up to such an event? People in the owners’ social class. Its possible other black Namibians have shown up in the past and felt as or more unwelcome as I did. 6 weeks from today there is the big annual Namibian Cycle Classic. Its advertised in the papers. It’s a big event. I know several non-white Namibians who plan to attend. I just get the feeling the event I went to today was sort of designed to be separated. It was designed for white Namibians who want to forget that there are non-Whites in Namibia. Its an example of the subtle ways that apartheid is still very present in Namibian society.

Back to the bike story. So, finally, an hour is up and things are starting. Still no sign of Victor. “Geez I’m thinking, when I listen to my inner voice things always go smoothly (Victor showing up the day before to carry my purse. Getting this job. 1001 other examples I could give of my life working out wonderfully). But last night I ignored my inner voice, in fact I think I told it to shut up, and here I am with all these intense cyclists, a sore butt and no Victor. That’s it, when we start off, I’m going to just turn off quickly and go home. I shouldn’t have come, this is silly, I’m out of here.” Just then I see Marcus. I peddle over to him and ask about Victor. He’s waiting for him also. Everyone’s starting out so I ask Marcus how far he was planning to go. He says “not far”. I say, “Great, would you mind going together?” “No not at all.” So we head out. Suddenly Victor comes up behind us but he says he needs to talk to someone in front of us so he’ll talk to us on the way back. He flies past us. Marcus and I have a great time chatting, but it suddenly occurs to me that I was sitting there observing how all these people of other nationalities and economic classes hang together, and what do I end up doing? I’m riding with the other person from the US in an apparently comparable economic class! Anyway, we went a little ways, I got pooped, so we turned around and went home. Lesson learned.

So, I’m not writing all of this to depress you. I’m also not writing it so that I can show you how superior I am to white Namibians, and so that you as the reader might also feel superior. The point of all these stories, and one of the reasons I love living here, is that I’m not superior. As much as I observe racial interactions in Namibia, it opens my eyes to whats going on within my own head. (So far I’ve mostly written about race, but there are 5000 other things going on here that also help me to understand myself, which will come up in future posts.) The more I see other people doing things, the more I see the same things in myself. Maybe not always so explicit, or blatant, but these tendencies are there. And by making them conscious, I can work with them. I’m writing these things first because its therapeutic for me. I love the reflection process that arises from writing. Secondly, I’m writing in the event that my experiences help you to understand things going on inside you as well. I would love to have discussions with you about my posts, but some friends with blogs told me that they often got obscene comments in the comment section. So I didn’t feel like dealing with a comment section. So, feel free to email me and start a one on one discussion at least. I’m feeling like the only people reading this live at 18651. Which may be the case, which would be fine because as I said, I mostly write it for therapeutic reasons anyway.

Quick update on my previous post. I met up with one of my favorite learners a few days ago. He is also very economically secure because of being a tour guide. He’s saved enough money that he’s planning to go to study engineering in South Africa next year, and pay for it out of his savings. He updated me on several of my other learners. A few have become pastors, a couple are nurses, there are a few furthering their education. I think my principal was just feeling in a pessimistic mood or just doesn’t know about these other ones that are not in jail or looking after cattle.

The Cafe at Zoo Park

So, I had a realization for why I love Namibia today. Namibia, being so small is like a microcosm of the world. Things that are too large to see, or to complex to understand in the world, are under your nose, or in your face in Namibia. The connections and implications are often much more clear and easier to work with. I bought a salad spinner last week. (As many of you know, one of my most prized possessions.) Most of my time at work has been spent either visiting organizations for potential internship opportunities for my students, or reading articles to decide what will go in the course reader. After I bought my salad spinner, I read an article about Namibia’s sweatshop, Ramatex. My salad spinner cost what the average Ramatex employee earns in two weeks. That puts things in perspective. But at the same time, while I’m earning a lot more than a lot of people living within miles of me in tin shacks, I’m also surrounded by people living in mansions and driving BMWs and Mercedes, while I walk to work.

One day, I was reading an article about inequality and how racial apartheid is over, but class apartheid is stronger than ever. So, there is this nice little café with a pretty little veranda in a park called Zoo Park. I haven’t been there since I’ve been back but I’ve been wanting to go. So, that same day that I was reading this article about economic apartheid, I met a friend after work. He suggested we go to the café at Zoo Park. I was quite excited by this suggestion. We walked over there, and walked right past it. I said, “Aren’t we going here?” He said, “No, that one is too expensive. Let’s go to this one.” I forgot there is another little café in the back of Zoo Park, that’s not nearly as trendy. I asked my friend how much more expensive the first one is. He said, “I don’t know, but you can just tell its expensive cause its all white people sitting there. I’ve never been there.” And sure enough, it was all black people at the one in the back of the park. I was shocked by how explicit what I had just been reading about was demonstrated to me so immediately. I joked with my friend how ridiculous this whole situation is, and he laughed and saw how insane it was, but with a sort of resignation like, “yeah, whatever, of course that’s how the world is.” I think I’ve been a lot more tuned in to noticing which social groups are where and where they are not then last time I was here.

So, I found out that there is a yoga class 3 houses down from mine. I went there and liked it reasonably well, especially considering how close it is, I’ll probably become a regular there. But of course, like the other two yoga classes, its all white women also. There is also a meditation class a few blocks away from my house. It was taught by a white man. There were two white men, a black man and me in attendance. Compared to my yoga classes full of white women, the presence of men and one black men felt like massive diversity to me. While the guy who taught the class did chat with me before the class, while he was talking, he only looked at the white guys. He never once looked over and made eye contact with me or the black guy! I was floored! This from a “spiritually” oriented kind of guy. It just emphasized to me how much is going on at so many levels that its really hard to get in touch with all these levels of consciousness. But, because of how in your face so much of it is in Namibia, it really helps me to bring so much more to the conscious level where I can work with it. So, after the meditation class, I asked if anyone could give me a lift home (yes its close, but its after dark). The black guy was running out the door – wouldn’t blame him if he was thinking, “get me the heck away from these ‘spiritual’ people” – but one of the white guys gave me a lift. As we were driving out, we passed the black guy standing on the street, apparently waiting for a taxi. I started to say, “Oh, there’s Delvin!” because my natural inclination was, “Let’s offer him a lift too!” But before I could get the words out, we were flying past him. Wow. He’s apparently invisible.

So, many of you know Kafunda. My student who was originally from the Democratic Republic of Congo that I tried to raise money for by selling Namibian crafts on ebay. I’ve had the feeling recently that he’s doing a whole lot better financially , and I’ve felt really weird about my tear jerking plea for people to buy his stuff, because I had this feeling he was far from destitute, and that he was quite an entrepreneurial capitalist and doing quite well for himself. He’s working as a tour guide as his main employment, so I didn’t have a chance to see him till today, cause he’s been out of town. So, he called yesterday and suggested we meet for lunch today and suggested the Café at Zoo Park. I eagerly agreed, curious to see which café he meant. I was fairly sure he probably meant the trendy one, since he works with tourists, and he knows I’m a foreigner, but one never knows. So, as I was walking up, I saw him sitting on the trendy veranda, sipping a foofy coffee in a little white cup and eating a trendy desert on a big white plate where they dribble powdered sugar all over the plate for ambiance. Wow. This is my little grade 10 Kafunda. He’s not in grade 10 anymore. My favorite drink, appletiser, costs 50% more at this café than the other. But here it comes in a bottle and is served with a wine glass. At the other one it comes in a can with a straw. There you sit on molded plastic patio chairs and the tables have vinyl covers printed with beer logos. Here you sit on a fancy patio chair and the tables have linen covers. Anyway, it was great to see Kafunda. He’s doing really well for himself. He was telling me about all of his little projects and businesses (and how the African elephant calendar works!). I started putting things together and realizing that altogether he makes almost as much money as I do. For some reason, this made me feel threatened somehow. Wow! That’s an interesting emotion to get in touch with. Me, who claims to not care about my salary, just the work that I do, felt like, “How can my little Kafunda earn as much as me?” I think that feeling came from me being the benevolent rich American that helped the poor African by selling his things. I patronizingly loved to “help” him. How could he possibly be so far from needing my help? Fascinating. Apparently, I like the power that comes from being the benefactor, and don’t like it when the beneficiary surpasses the benefactor. I actually owe him a ton (in any currency) of money right now for things that I sold over the last year and was planning to give it to him when I got here. One of the reasons I was looking forward to meeting him was to discuss what would be the best way to get it to him (I don’t feel comfortable walking around with that much money.) So, I asked him how I should get it to him and he waved me off, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t need money, I’ll just spend it and waste it.” What??? My little Kafunda is waving off a HUGE chunk of cash? I must admit its been a nice padding in my account, but I would like to get it to him so that I don’t accidentally spend it. I decided I’ll just transfer it to savings and when he needs it I’ll offer again. He’s talking about building a house (he already bought property), so maybe when he starts building I’ll offer again. Alternatively, I could go through my old emails and dig up his account details and just put it in his account, but if he will just waste it like he said and he really doesn’t want it right now, maybe its better I hang onto it until he could use it. Anyway, so after we finish our meal, Kafunda told me not to worry about the bill. My little Kafunda, is buying me lunch at the trendy Café at Zoo Park! Wow! I think I keep referring to him as “My little Kafunda” in order to retain my power over him.

So, otherwise? I’ve started getting arrogant about my kombi driving skills. I’m been driving on gravel roads, busy roads, you name it, I’m no longer afraid. So, on Thursday the driver came back from holiday and offered to drive my colleague and I to a meeting. “Nah”, I said, “I can do it.” The parking lot was a little small, and so it was a bit challenging to turn the thing around to leave, especially without power steering, but I thought I was doing pretty well. I got the kombi halfway through the gate, when it stopped. I looked in the rearview mirror, we had been clear on the left, but apparently I wasn’t noticing that I caught the right rear wheel well on a cement block. Ooooops. I felt dumb. So, I started reversing. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t back up. Apparently, I hadn’t just hit this little cement thingy, I had really stuck it on it. Two guys were walking by and came over to help with my predicament. They were looking and pointing and telling me to move the wheel this way and that, but no luck. I was freaking out. Four guys came running over from a car dealership across the street and also started looking and telling me to move the wheel this way and that. Finally, the six guys just lifted up the rear end of the kombi and moved it over! I was so embarrassed but laughing so hard at the same time. It was like a parallel parking dream come true. "Can you just put the car where it should be?" My kombi-driving-ego dropped several notches.

I have this habit of shopping at a grocery store called Pick ‘n Pay. Its where I shopped before, so its where I’ve been shopping.Their produce selection has been disappointing, but whatever. Ironically, I noticed that there is a huge new store next door called Fruit & Veg City. Now, don’t ask why in the world I haven’t been there. Other than that’s its closed on Sundays and I usually grocery shop on Sundays. But for some reason, even with a name like that, I didn’t go there. So, I had heard that there is a German church that has an organic farmer’s market sort of thing on Saturday mornings. So, yesterday I got a taxiI have this habit of shopping at a grocery store called Pick ‘n Pay. Its where I shopped before, so its where I’ve been shopping. Their produce selection has been disappointing, but whatever. Ironically, I noticed that there is a huge new store next door called “Fruit & Veg City”. Now, and set off to find this church. I found it. I was quite disappointed. It was a bunch of Germans selling meat, cheese and bread. There was one person there with spinach, which I bought. I also let some friendly Germans talk me into buying some cheese. And some other friendly people convinced me to buy bread and marmalade. I was frustrated that again, it was all white people. Not sure what I expected at the German farmer’s market, but still. So, as I was walking away from there, I was thinking to myself, “So, self, just who is it that you want to be friends with? You go to all these places where white people hang out, apparently you like things that white people like, why do you resist making friends with white people? You are a white person you know, if you haven’t noticed.” “Yes, self, I have noticed. Its just that so many white people in Namibia are so explicitly racist, and it makes me really uncomfortable to chat with them. And well, okay, getting really honest with myself (and the blog) here, its an appearance thing. Many black people in Namibia assume that white people are racist until proven otherwise, and if I appear that I prefer hanging out with white people, they’ll assume I’m racist.” “Wow, self, so is what you are telling me that you want black friends so people don’t think you are racist, and you don’t want to be seen as someone who prefers hanging out with white people? That sounds a bit racist, self.” “Wow, self, I guess it is.” Hmmmm. Oh the complexity of race relations in Namibia. Anyway, I then got a taxi back to town and decided on a whim to go to Fruit & Veg City. It was amazing! They had a bunch of organic locally grown veggies! They had bulk dried fruits and nuts! They had smoothies and fresh squeezed juices! They had coconut milk and all kinds of previously hard to find spices. Of course they had a beautiful variety of tons of fruits and veggies. And, it was super crowded, with a broad cross section of Namibians! It was so beautiful I wanted to cry.

Okay, and I’ll end with some logistics. I got a battery charger The thing is, I never take it with me. Here is a picture of my bedroom (You have to love the safari theme. The whole house is decorated that way. It never ceases to crack me up.) and one of my cubicle (mine is on the left, closer to the photographer). Yes, the rest of the pictures are from google image searches if its not obvious. Let me know what other sorts of things you would like pictures of and I’ll try to remember to take my camera with me to take pictures. I also now have the ability to charge my laptop, so I can compose blog entries at home, and just post them at work. Which means I don’t have to wait till weekends to post. I don’t know when I’m heading out to Tallismanis. Mbanjanda keeps being busy, then I’m busy, so I don’t know when it will fit both of our schedules. Its bugging me, but hopefully it won’t be TOO long. I did go visit my principal. He was here in town recovering from knee replacement surgery. I asked him about tons of my students. Most of them seem to be either , so I can use my camera again.looking after cattle, in jail or wondering around unemployed. There are one or two that seemed to be doing something semi-constructive. The one that I had heard was at UNAM, apparently isn't actually at UNAM. My friend Mira (who was a PCV at the same time as me here) was here visiting coincidentally and was telling me about all her former students who are now at University and doing all these neat things. It definitely makes me wonder. I keep wanting to blame it on myself not being as good of a teacher as Mira. But then I remind myself that these kids have 50,000 other influences and it probably has nothing to do with my teaching versus hers. Then I want to blame it on tribalism. Her students are from the majority ethnic group which is perceived to be in control of everything. Who knows. Regardless, it made me feel a little better to see Kafunda today to see that, even if he’s not in University, at least one of my students seems financially secure.