Back With The Inter-Web.

I’m back with a semi-regular internet connection so it’s time for some updates. This will be divided into different posts so I don’t feel so long winded. First on the hit parade: Fun With Clicking

Khoekhoegowab (KKG) uses four clicks as letters in words. They are usually at the beginning, but may occasionally be placed after the first syllable. They are written as follows (this is from the Basic KKG grammar paper written by Jon Isom, a former PCV):

/ is formed by putting the tip of your tongue just behind your front teeth and pulling your tongue back from your teeth while pulling a little air in. It should be soft and sound a little scratchy.

// is formed by touching the sides of your tongue to your sucked-in cheeks and pulling in a little air. The sound should be louder, lower, and scratchier than /.

! is formed by starting with the tip of your tongue on the ridge just behind your front teeth and with your mouth shaped like you are saying the letter o. Your tongue should come off downward, and follow through to the bottom of your mouth (the sound is made as your tongue leaves the top of your mouth.) It should sound low and be a popping sound. You can fake this one by smacking your tongue on the bottom of your mouth with your mouth in an ‘o’ shape.

# is formed by pressing the front few centimetres of your tongue against the area of your mouth that is behind the ridge right behind your front teeth. Hold your tongue stiff so it doesn’t change shape, and pull it away all at once. You should feel your tongue touching your back top molars through the entire process. This click should be higher pitched than !, but also sharp.

Now stop clicking to yourself before someone sees you.

If they all sound the same, keep in mind that we spent two to three days constantly clicking just to get them so that our language instructors could tell the difference. Even longer for the general public to start to understand. After the end of the second day, our other training sessions were filled with random clicks from the audience when one of us would start practicing again out of habit, or just got bored.

Some examples:

· /ons – name eg. “Matits /ons ha?” What is your name?
· //gan-I – meat eg. “Tita ge piri//gan-i ra !hui” I hate goat meat.
· !goas – morning eg. ”!Gai !goas” Good morning.
· #nu – to sit eg. “Sats ge ni #nu” You will sit!

The first letter that follows the click is usually inaudible or almost inaudible. Of course this makes the difference between various words based entirely on context. The difference between the words to sit and to eat is an almost inaudible ‘n’ sound. I guess it’s ok if I say I’m going to eat in the chair, the problem is when I accidently tell people that I would like to sit some rice.

If this wasn’t enough fun, there are three ways of pronouncing each vowel: Normal, elongated, and nasalized. This also can completely change the meaning of a word. For instance, #nu with the ‘u’ elongated is the color black while the same word with the ‘u’ nasalized is to sit.

Since we technically work for the democracy inflicting Dubya cambaign, I thought it would be fun to learn the following phrases,
“//Na !oas go di os ge terorigu ni dan” – If that happens, the terrorists win.
“//In ge !norasasib !hui ha” – They hate freedom
I’m still working on how to click like a Texan.

Even with all the difficulties, this has been by far the most fun I’ve ever had learning a language. Aside from the various volunteer organizations in the country, there are no white people who speak this language to the locals. So, the native people do a double take when I greet them in KKG and any Afrikaaner (left over colonialist) who is within earshot, which is usually never, gives me this weird look.

This is also my opportunity to go on a minor rant about Afrikaans. Colonialists in the country made Afrikaans the official language right up to independence. Even though it was the forced language of apartheid, the whole country still uses it since they’ve been forced to learn it for so long. Take German, mix it with a dash of English and change the pronunciation so that it sounds as ugly and dirty as possible. In my humble opinion (which is complete fact) it is an awful language with an awful history. It sounds like Rosanne Barr is dragging screaming cats over a chalk board while singing the highest notes of the Star Spangled Banner in German.

At any rate. The native speakers get a huge kick out of hearing a white person make an honest attempt at their language, and the tourists or Afrikaaners in the country think you’re insane for bothering to learn a dying language.

The rule in the classes is that English should be the only spoken language. This is part of the school system to ensure that English will eventually be developed as the official language in more than just on paper. So, I don’t really speak KKG during class, but I will answer them or interject in English when I do understand what they are saying. I guess this would be a good segue into…

School

The first days of school in Namibia are about a week of disorganized chaos where the students usually know more about what is going on than the teachers. The registration process begins on Monday when students begin showing up to pay the school fees that they still haven’t payed from last year, and delay the payments for this year. Yes, the free education is about N$300 per year ($50 American). The teachers sit outside at desks with a stack of lists of every student from the previous year. Students then make a huge mass in front of the first teacher in the line who tells them that they have to pay fees from last year. The student then goes to the payment teacher and tells them that they have no money. The payment teacher sends the student back to the first teacher to find out how much they owe. The first teacher is now frustrated with seeing the student for the second time and cuts them off before they can explain, sending them back to the payment teacher. The student returns to the payment teacher who is also now frustrated with the student returning with no new results. The payment teacher sends the student to the Principal to apply for a deferment of payment. This is a form that goes something like this:

________ will pay fees on the ___ of _______ 2006 in the amount of _________

Then at the bottom of the page there is a sentence, “Please adhere to this promise”. This is all scribbled on a half sheet of paper with what I am told is the Principals signature on the bottom. Tons of paper work and none of it is reliable.

Since the Principal is also dealing with newly applying students and other issues, it takes the student a solid fifteen minutes to get his or her half sheet of payment promise so when the student returns to the first teacher, the teacher thinks something has changed. The student hands the first teacher the note and the teacher records that the student will pay more money later. The student then moves on to the registration teacher to is supposed to check off the student when they have arrived and when they have payed. Yes, that’s correct, the person who checks to see if the student owes any money is different from the person who checks off that the student has payed money. This is repeated for about 400 students over the course of three days. Nothing but registration.

Wednesday, the teachers are supposed to be teaching, but registration is still taking place and new students are arriving every day. Therefore, the teachers do not know what they should be teaching, or which students will be in the class. What do I do? I have them all make name tags and make up class rules for Thursday and Friday.

Monday, the teachers are back and I still don’t know what classes I will have that day. During Model School (see “The OKB”) I perfected my art of “winging it”. Probably not the best way to teach, but it’s better than just opening the door and then leaving school (which is what many teachers do). Thankfully science has a huge math base that’s required, so I gave a math assessment test on Monday. That was an eye opener. Doing basic arithmetic with decimals (they use commas here, which I’ll never get used to) is not possible for anyone except about half of the eleventh grade, and fractions are sinking in the same boat. Algebra with more than one variable is a lost cause, and solving for that variable is still impossible for anyone except the same half of eleventh grade.

The maturity of the students is the same as it is in the states, but the knowledge base is about four, or more, years behind. My 11th graders take jabs at me and my culture, I send some right back and we have a few laughs. The 8th and 9th graders are arrogant and try to push my buttons with all the little things we used in 8th and 9th grade: mock any word the teacher says that sounds different, sarcastically say, “yes sir”, speak out of turn, get up and leave in the middle of class, the list goes on. This makes discipline sort of… well… creative fun. Students have it ingrained that they must answer even if they do not know. They must say something in English and if it is wrong the teacher will tell them ‘no’ and let them sit down. Of course if some crazy American shows up and uses this almost dogmatic behavior to his advantage, then it becomes a disciplinary tool. Someone does something I don’t like, they get to stand up. I stand about two feet away from them and start questioning. These are answerable questions related to the subject at hand, and about ten students in the class know it immediately, but I won’t let them help. Instead, the perpetrator gets to stand there frozen out of stage fright while the other students who know the answer laugh at him (it’s usually a guy). When the first answer is wrong, they start to sit down and I tell them to stay standing while I continue to rephrase the question and give hints until the entire class is about to leap out of their chairs with an answer. Finally I can’t explain it any further and I say, “someone help him out” and the entire class blurts out a torrent of correct and semi-correct answers. That student is usually done for the rest of the period.

There are several little procedures here that none of the students will break from and I’ve had to learn how to work around them. If I ask if students understand, they will always respond with a resounding (and usually syncronized), “yes sir”. It has been engrained that the correct answer is not the honest one, it is the one the teacher wants to hear. They also will not volunteer information unless they have a memorized answer for the question, or they are called on by name. This is easy to get around, but it makes it hard when I spend ten minutes showing how to measure a length and no one stops me to say that they use commas instead of periods as decimal place markers.

Nothing is done before the teacher says so. Students will not enter the class unless the teacher says so. This made the first class I had pretty fun since I just sat in class filling out paper work waiting for my first class. Then I started wondering why they were just whispering outside, so I went out and they were all lined up perfectly waiting for me to come outside to officially let them in. I still have to yell, “come in! come in!” before every class or else they will just poke a head inside and wait. Of course, once they get inside, no one will sit until I tell them. For that matter, they won’t take out a notebook, pencil or pen until I tell them to. Once they do, they won’t write anything unless I first tell them the date, and whether or not they must make a line between what they wrote last time and what they are writing now. I don’t dare say “yes” to that because then they have to get out a ruler and draw a perfectly straight line first with pencil, then cover it again with pen. If they don’t have a ruler, they won’t write a single thing until they borrow one from another student. This line business has caused me to second guess any time I write a line on the board because I know it will delay the lesson an extra two minutes for each perfectly drawn and redrawn line. Ponder how long it takes to draw a simple XY intersection for graphing data. Draw the vertical line once. Erase it because the ruler moved. Redraw the vertical line again. Draw the horizontal line. Make dots at perfectly even intervals for the numbers. Ask the teacher how many numbers to make. Remake any previously done dots, and possibly redo both axes again. Use the ruler to make the small hash lines for the numbers that the dots marked out. Draw one hash line at a 87 degree angle instead of a 90 and redraw half of the axis as a result. Write over everything in pen, still using a ruler for all lines. Mix up one number on one axis in pen. Start over. It’s like playing Candy Land with only four spaces and no way to finish.

Of course, when I see how they are being taught in normal classes, it’s a wonder that I can get them to move around at all. When I have a free period, I use it to get various school errands done. I’ll make copies and plan lessons, or go get demos from the lab. When I’m walking past other teachers’ class rooms, it’s always students with their heads down madly copying whatever is written on the board, the book, or what the teacher is saying.

Even with all the hurdles, this job is a blast. When a lesson does come together and I can see that the material actually stuck, it’s great. Even when they only retain a small portion of what I was going for, it’s still satisfying. I know that this is at least one class where they don’t spend all period sitting and copying information off of the board. In every lesson, my main goal is to get at least one person involved every minute and the whole class involved every five. The material is covered more slowly, but they retain it more and at least school is enjoyable. Ok, I just read all of that over again and it sounds kinda arrogant and sappy. Just know that these kids are a lot of fun and I spend more time telling you about the bad stuff because I think it’s more entertaining. So, with that in mind, on to the lab.

I have a lab in school that all the other teachers stay away from. I don’t know why, but in addition to myself, there is another physical science teacher and a biology teacher. When I mention the lab to them, they nod their heads and say, “Ahhh… mmmm…” and other noises that convey that they will never spend more than enough time inside to verify that they don’t want to be there. Fine by me. It took days to clean up the lab into working order, and I found lots of cool stuff that I don’t want anyone screwing up. Not to mention a whole mess of chemicals I don’t have any idea what to do with. For all the chemistry students out there, is 18M Sulphiric Acid dangerous? What about 20% concentrated Nitric Acid? Should I be worried that my list of compounds not to mix together is incomplete? The bottles with faded labels and unknown chemicals inside, I can just classify those based on smell, right? I washed all the old containers out by hand, why do my fingers tingle when they are exposed to sunlight? And what about disposal? Should I use the leaky drain, or can I just dump everything outside in the dirt where the donkeys can eat it? Yes, I do have donkeys that will occasionally eat what dried grass is left outside of my classrooms.

Don’t forget, the United States Government has deemed me fit to teach small children in foreign countries.

Oh! I totally forgot to mention our brief stint in…

Windhoek

On January 4th, we all piled into busses with all of our junk and drove to Windhoek for swearing in as Peace Corps Volunteers. PC put us up in a sweet hotel just outside of town (making the cab rides double from the normal N$6 to-anywhere-in-the-city fair). We arrived about mid day and threw all of our stuff inside of the rooms and piled back into the buses for a mad shopping spree at what can only be described as the Namibian version of Wall Mart. Our “settling in” allowance was N$1800 ($275) but some people spent as much as N$3000. Since I’m living with other volunteers and I’m replacing a volunteer, I didn’t need to get much more than the basic stuff: sheets, pillow, a little clothing, a French press, and a kilo of coffee. Of course then I got here and realized I could really use a rug and speakers for my CD player. Yep, roughin it.

So, done with shopping, (the stores closed) we had a free night in Windhoek before we got sworn in as PCVs the next day at 9am. Hmm, what do we do in Windhoek? Call the people who know the town. Namely the 20something friends of my host parents from the OKB who live in Windhoek, and their mother who still thinks she is 20something.

While I was at CBT training in Okambahe (the OKB) Mandi, my host mother, had two of her friends from back in high school come and visit her. In America we would call this a mid-life crisis. For these women, it’s having a good time. They drive little sporty Volkswagons and have the maturity level of 25 year-olds although they are in their fourties and fifties. So, I call Lorraine and get a loud yell with what sounds to be a riot in the background.
“Matt!! Where are you?”
“Windhoek, at the Safari Hotel”
“Ah! We are at a club, I will come and get you! Wait, how many of you are there?”
I do a head count. “Four”
“Ah, no problem. We will come and get you.”

Lorraine’s car can fit the driver plus three short adults and one midget. She said “we”, so that means there will be at least one other person in addition to the four non-short adults she is picking up. I hope her friend is a midget.

Lorraine arrives and her friend is not a midget. Her friend is actually her niece. So we cram five full grown adults into her little car. To do this, everyone must sit half on the seat and half on the person next to them. Fourth person into the back, take a deep breath in, and shut the door. Thankfully, Lorraine also drives like a 20 year-old so we don’t spend much time in the car.

We drive to the mall where there is a small bar with a ton of people. Lorraine’s other two companions are there: her daughter and her niece. The bar is similar to any decent bar you would find in the states: cold drinks, slow service, and high prices. We get one drink order in before I get a text message from another bunch of people from our group saying that they are at a bar somewhere. They only give me half the name, Chez-something, and don’t have any idea how to get there. I show the text message to Lorraine. “Ah! I know that place. We will go there when we finish our drinks.” At least that’s what I think she said. We were at opposite ends of the table and I saw her mouth move and her head nod, so I guessed we were in business. After being introduced and forgetting everyone’s name, we started yelling about how we liked Namibia, how they wanted to see the states, what we were doing there, blah blah blah.

Drinks done, names forgotten, and we are about to leave when Lorraine looks at Mike. Mike is wearing shorts, sandals and a Zion National Park T-shirt. “They will not let him in with those clothes.” I’m cringing thinking about the drive back to the hotel with two more people plus the other two friends who have shown up to the bar. I’m wondering who gets to ride on the roof when I find out that someone else has a car and we’ll be in two groups. Whew.

I go with Mike, Lorraine, and what I think are her nieces back to the hotel. Mike runs inside, and comes back out in the same Zion shirt, nylon hiking pants, and running shoes. I’m about to offer him a collared shirt to borrow when Lorraine says, “Good, now we go.” What? He’s changed from summer hiking wear to spring hiking wear and this is now comparable to the trendy things that they have on? Oh well, maybe it’ll take some of the attention off of my pasty white skin.

When we get to the club, I realize that we will never blend. The club is set up with a bar on one side, opposite the front door. The other two walls are occupied by the DJ booth and the bench seating with some rickety tables. The atmosphere is very “clubby” with loud music, colored lights, and a bunch of people on the dance floor. There is a second floor balcony that looks down onto the first. I spot one person from our group, then two, then three, then I see that most of the people dancing so badly in the middle of the dance club are from our PC group. The occupants of the balcony? All Africans talking and pointing at us. Sweet, I can now make an ass of myself internationally. After several hours of destroying any remaining thoughts that Americans had rhythm, we returned to the hotel to crash. By the way, “we” changed from four to about twenty when we got to the club. Some of the trainers were there, and they organized two minivans and a taxi to shuttle us all back. Drank two liters of water for insurance, and went to bed.

Up at 7 to clean and eat before swearing in. The ceremony was the same as any graduation. All the trainees on one side, all the trainers on the other, some families and members of the community in the audience, and a bunch of important people we’ve never met standing up front giving speeches. We stand and swear our oath in English and in whatever language we were being trained in. A nice reception with lots of food followed.

At the reception, I meet the transportation coordinator for the Kunene region, which is where Khorixas is. He says we will be leaving very shortly and I must pack my things now. This message is also conveyed to just about everyone else since their drivers also wanted to leave soon. We run around packing up our things, change clothes, say our goodbyes to our friends and pile into the mini van. Our stuff is crammed in the back of a truck and will meet us in Khorixas. This looks like a good place for a break.

Bacon Was a Bad Choice

There are five of us in the group to Kunene, Suzy, Amy, Chad, Luke, Carl, and me. When I wrote about the “rainy season” in Namibia I was totally wrong. When it rains here, it is torrential. When we left Windhoek it was dumping rain, the kind of rain that only happens for about ten minutes during the summer in Washington. This rain lasted for hours. Later, we found out that it caused massive flooding in parts of Windhoek and actually washed away some people’s homes due to poor flood control. This, plus some additional shopping for supplies at home, caused us to be several hours behind schedule. The plan was for all of us to make the drive to my place in Khorixas and stay the night there. Carl would be picked up by a teacher from his school the next day, and the others would continue north to Opuwo which is near the Angolan border. It was getting dark and still raining which means stopping for large animals crossing the road becomes more of an art form than a science. I was fine with continuing at a slower pace, but that’s because I had my own house to look forward to. The others (particularly Suzy) wanted to stop in Outjo, about 120km outside of Khorixas. Another night with hot water sounded fine with me, especially since PC was picking up the tab. We found a bed and breakfast to stay at, and crashed for the night.

In the morning, I got the last hot shower I would have for three months (my house has no hot water hook up, we use the stove in the winter). Breakfast was scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and, my favorite, spring-bok sausage. Leavin the bok behind, I ate the remaining food. The bacon was a little under cooked, and this would prove to be my undoing later. On to Khorixas.

At my house, we met up with the truck that had our things. I grabbed my biggest bag and went to unlock the door. Brian, the PCV before me, had left me his keys so getting in the house was no problem. I knew that Anne and Diane were not home, and Anne had told me that a friend, Willemsa, would be house sitting for her. I was expecting someone in the house, but I was not expecting the reeking stench of stale beer that hit my nose as I came through the door. Carl was right on my heels with a bag of his. The guest bed is also a couch in the living room, so Carl walked in there to put his bags down. He came back out and said, “Dude, there’s a girl sleeping on the floor in there.” Things are beginning to come together. I walk down to my room to find a guy sleeping on what I assume is my mattress. Still in his clothes, he looks up at me, “Mmm…. Uh… Hi… I’m Willemsa.” Sweet.

Eventually, Willemsa and Girl-I-Don’t-Know get up and pack their things as Carl and I are unpacking ours. The others leave for Opuwo. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer remind me why I enjoyed not living in the U-District during college. I also feel a slight hint of nausea coming on. I write it off to the smell of the house. Willemsa makes a point of telling me that he’s been here during his entire holiday as a favor to Anne. Well, thanks for dirtying up my house and throwing a party. Now get out. I bite my tongue and wait for him and whatserface to leave. A little while after they leave, I start to feel really out of it. The bacon cometh.

For the next three hours, I throw up anything and everything. At first, I think it’s dehydration again. So, I start trying to sip some water, but everything I put down comes back up. The digestive track south of the border is not producing anything solid either. I call the PC Medical officer and tell her my symptoms. She says I have food poisoning (I’m guessing it was from the bacon) and I should call her in another hour if I vomit again. Fourtyfive minutes later, I call her to say I’ve hugged Mr. Toilet twice since we spoke. She tells me to go to the hospital. No argument there.

I call, Timbo, the driver who dropped us off. He lives in town, and switched drivers for the others to Opuwo, so he is in town. I tell him I need a ride to the hospital. He will send a car now. I go sit outside with Carl, who told his ride to come back tomorrow and would stay until Sunday with me. Carl is awesome. Carl and I sit outside for fifteen minutes. The car never shows, and I know that if I don’t start walking now, I’ll have to wait another twenty minutes before I vomit again and feel good enough to walk. We exchange what we can remember of how to say, “Where is the hospital?” and “I vomit five.” I know roughly where the hospital is, but we ask just to get the fastest route. Of course, asking directions involves calling attention to ourselves, which means that the locals try to sell us their little trinket key chains. They take acorns and carve poor renditions of zebras and elephants into them. They get a small strip of leather as an attachment point and then ask you your name. They’ll then carve your name in to the acorn on the spot and try to guilt you into buying one. Carl did most of the talking for me, but one of these acorn guys came up and asked for my name. I told him I needed a hospital and to fuck off. This is why Carl was doing the talking.

The hospital was about a fifteen minute walk and I called Timbo again to tell him to cancel the driver. He says he will send him to the hospital to pick me up when I am done. At first, I was skeptical, but in the end the driver did show up.

In the hospital, Carl and I wander around what can only be described as one of the creepiest places I’ve been. The hospital is almost totally empty and has no lights on. The building we are in seems to be a large waiting room with a mini pharmacy behind a counter. I’m tempted to just hop the counter, call the medical officer again, and start asking which drugs to look for. Not wanting to get kicked out on my first day, I opt for the more appropriate option. There are five people sitting outside who don’t speak English and only point when we ask where the doctor is. We find a cleaning lady who takes us to a separate building where there are some nurses walking around and some guy groaning on a bed. We are told to wait on a bench in the hall. The hall is still totally empty except for a nurse or patient who will occasionally wander down the hall. I can’t see any medical equipment except for a blood pressure band from the sixties sitting behind the receptionists desk. When I go to heave into the trash can, I pass by a room with one person lying on a bed and another standing next to another bed. They both look at me with the same sickly puzzled look I give them. Back to lying on the bench. Carl gets one of the nurses to get me a towel so that I can hold some cool water on my face for a while. The nurse tells us that the doctor is on his way because the guy groaning down the hall got stabbed and needs to be stitched up. Well, at least I don’t have a stab wound. I ask the nurse why we keep hearing the man thrashing around and she says that he doesn’t want to be stitched up. She also tells me that she can’t do anything until the doctor gets there. I had just heaved a little, so I was feeling pretty good for a while, and what she was saying sounded alright. I was just happy that I didn’t need any stab wounds stitched up. After seeing sanitation procedures at the hospital, I won’t be going there for any wounds unless they are squirting. The nurses will frequently walk out to the phone with their plastic gloves on, record something on a note pad, dial a number, talk on the phone, dig around for another pad, and then return to the stabbed guy without removing or changing gloves. And, I’ve figured out why. Sanitation is not to protect the patient, it is to protect the workers from whatever blood born pathogens the patient has.

Eventually I get to see the doctor (a little over an hour after I arrived) and he prescribes a shot and two sets of pills. The pills are an antibiotic and something to make me stop vomiting later. The shot is to make me stop vomiting now. We go back to the creepy building with the mini pharmacy and the nurse gives me the pills. Then we go over to another room for the shot. She takes out the syringe and needle and then stands behind me.

“Can’t I just have it in the arm?”
“It will hurt.”

Carl and I both laugh. Peace Corps has stuck us with so many needles that she would have to pull out a two liter bottle with a sword on the end to make me contemplate nerve densities.

The driver that Timbo sent did show up and we got a ride home. Sunday, I was feeling great so Carl took off to Braunfelds, a boarding school 30km out in the sticks. I spent the rest of that day cleaning up the party that I didn’t have. Monday, it was time for registration at school.

I think that covers most of it. If you read this all in one go, you should find a better hobby. With the cheap internet at the Namibian College Extension I should have more regular posting. Also, if anyone can receive text messages on their cell phones, it’s uber cheap for me to send quick notes. E-mail me your cell number if you want to see if it works. Other volunteers have said that they can reach Sprint, Cingular, and Verizon customers, but this has yet to be confirmed.

I hope everyone is well. Cook your bacon and stay away from chemicals!

In Khorixas

This is just a fast post to tell everyone that I am now moved in at my permanent site of Khorixas. I will be relying on a room mate for internet access and she will be out of town until the 29th of this month, so no updates for a while. I am still reachable by phone, and I recently learned how to text message back to the states. I think I posted my phone number earlier, but here it is again:

264-81-203-8769 (264 is the country code). I have a landline, but it's shared with the house so I won't post that number here.

There is another PCV from our group who is running a much more consistent blog on his webpage if anyone is interested: www.mindofjason.com

Hope everyone is having fun times! Remember, when a student goes running past you holding a half meter long metal spike, don't ask questions. Just be happy he's not bringing it in your class room.

Christmas... Namibia Style!

Not much has happened the past few days, so this will be just a bit about what Christmas has been like, and any other thoughts I come up with. It’s the heat of summer here, which also means the rainy season. Now, “rain” seems to vary culture to culture. If memory serves me right, “rain” in the northwest is the months between september and may (or at least that’s what we tell the outsiders). “Rain” in Namibia appears to be several days of intense heat and humidity with 7 to 13 single droplets of water interspersed along the way. During the hottest part (all) of the day, you just sort of ooze sweat. I can’t understand why we see all of these European tourists driving around on vacation, which brings up an image I would like to paint for you: the German Tourist in Africa (GTA).

The GTA is a fairly common occurrence around Namibia during the holidays since the country was originally colonized by the Germans and still retains a fair amount of German heritage in the larger towns. The GTA male is typically 1.75 to 2 meters in height and always overweight, as shown by the bulging gut hanging over the belt. Footwear is either leather sandals or dress shoes accompanied by black dress socks pulled up to full height around mid-calf. Socks may rarely be white, but will reach to just below the knee when this color is chosen. To aid ventilation in the hot climate, shorts never stray below mid-thigh and are always a dark green or gray to accent the intense white of said thigh. Shirts are either button down or polo, but must have a “desert feel”. This can mean anything from a leopard print pattern to a full on safari shirt with three vents, six extra straps and thirty pockets. The main requirement of the shirt is that it must never reach all the way around the gut. Instead, the standing GTA male must have at least one centimeter of gut skin visible to viewers sitting at a pic nic table trying to eat. For aerodynamic purposes, gut hair is essential in this area. A hat is optional, but when used it must have a town name or country displayed in large letters. This way, the GTA male can initiate conversations with other GTA males regarding superiority based on places they have purchased hats. The GTA female has much of the same dress as the male, but is required to keep her hairy gut covered as display of purity.

The GTA can smell their own, and do not associate with other species. This allows German trinket shops to sell carved wooden pens, nut shell key chains, glass shard necklaces, and elephant dung lotion to GTAs at 400% markup above the already over priced cost that the shops pay the locals. The places where the GTAs stay also follows this pattern. Since the GTA cannot leave the comfort of their tourist bus or rented Land Rover, they stay in game lodges where the wildlife is held captive with them. These game lodges are a series of buildings set within a very large, fenced in compound. To prevent the wildlife from wandering off away from the photograph, it is held in by a primitive fence system. the fences are between six and twelve feet tall. These are not necessarily to keep the animals from escaping, but instead to make it more convenient to stay closer to the lodge. With the targets kept within range, the GTAs are free to experience the wildlife of Africa, pool side.

Anyway, back to the heat of the moment, Christmas. Our Christmas celebration was a white elephant gift exchange and a bonfire. Gifts ranged from fun to practical. Our cost limit was fifty dollars Namibian or less. This is less than ten dollars American, but you can get a lot for N$50 here. I gave a squirt gun cell phone and got a “magic pot” which is really just a tea pot with the tea filter already inside. Now all I need to do is start drinking tea. Other highlights were hand carved canes, baskets for clothes, flatware, and African jewelry. The bonfire was nice since it hadn’t been hot outside for about three minutes and we could get back to that burning feeling. We attempted to roast marshmallows on the fire, but the size of the fire dictated that we use sticks seven feet long to maintain a slightly painful distance from the flames.

Christmas day, we rose at 5:50am to go “climb” Mt. Omaruru. Note, this is not the actual name of the mountain but what we have dubbed it for simplicity. The last mountain the OKB 5 went up during CBT (see previous posts) had a a strange name that made it so that we had to call it the OKB mountain. The Mt. OKB name in Khoekhoegowab is “llHaneb”. The word for the smell of dried urine is “lHanab”. So, if I screw up the click at the beginning of the word I will say, “I walked up the smell of dried urine hill.” I’ll save the fun with clicking for another post. It took us about an hour to get to Mt. Omaruru. The hike up was uneventful. The group spread out based on speed and people were at the top of the mountain in an hour to an hour and a half. Lots of pictures at the top, and I passed out the victory fruitcake (thanks Dad!!). We all started down together, but speed made it so that some of the group got back to camp earlier than others. Some exciting points: this was the first hike of it’s kind for a few people in our group, and one woman celebrated her 63rd birthday the next week.

New Years:

New years eve at the Omaruru Rest Camp was a pretty cool night. We started off with a talent show. Acts ranged from some comedic skits about training thus far, song and dance routines, and even a small opera solo from our certified opera singer, Pam. Lacking any real performable talents, I made a few cameo appearances in a skit or two. The last act was done by all of the trainees as an appreciation to our two IT guys who make it so that we can all post on our silly blogs and get e-mails. A few girls in the group wrote a song to the tune of “Under the Bridge” by Red Hot Chili Peppers and two of our guitar players in the group provided music. So, for the final act all 56 of us stand, up leaving the two IT guys sitting in the audience alone, and sing the song... badly.

After the talent show, we had another bonfire, similar to the one we had a Christmas. We brought some speakers out and had the tunes blasting for most of the night. For a visual, just take any typical college party and put it on a beach.

Woke up at 8ish and climbed Mt. Omaruru again with two other guys. And that brings you to today.

Since I have some actual free time now, I’ll be trying to write a little more. Check back soon for posts on clicking and other fun observations about the land of Namibia