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.