Learners Got It Bad

I'm stuck in a session so I'm going to use my time productively and write a little editorial about how much is going against the kids here.

In Namibia, children in school are called 'learners' and students outside of school are called 'worthless', 'failures', 'damaged heads', 'small minds', or things more profane in either English or a native language. Even when they are in schools, the learners are still called 'stupid', 'small minded', 'failures', or even 'hopeless fools' by the administration. When the Education Director of Kunene came to my school, he told the learners that if they would not study then they should go home. When he went to Carl's school, he called the grade twelve learners 'hopeless fools'.

Starting from grade one, the solution to a learner failing is to beat them. I was in a staff meeting one morning and the floor was open for the teachers to bring up any questions, concerns or announcements. One teacher asked, "I am wondering what the other teachers are doing when a learner fails a test." Another teacher replied, "Oh, I just beat them." The first teacher said she had tried that but was puzzled by the fact that it didn't seem to work. I verified the question, just to make sure that I had heard correctly. She wounded what I did and was a little confused by my suggestion of extra help and a little extra home/class work. It really drove home the problem with learning motivation. If the primary motive for passing is so that you don't get whacked in the hand with a stick or ruler, it will do just enough to get the grade that prevents abuse.

I explained the flaws of this to another teacher one time in the sense of how a student who is motivated by punishment will not do as well as a student who is motivated by reward. She seemed to understand my point but was unwilling to go through the work to change her methods. Her pass rate was less than fifty percent this past term.

Aside from the beatings, there is a formulaic pattern for the learners every day. I can appreciate this strategy for discipline since it does keep the learners in check. The aftermath is that the learners never learn effective problem solving and critical thinking skills. Every moment of every day has to be outlined for these kids, otherwise they just sit there. Even when I have every step outlined on a lap procedures sheet, they ask how to start and are content to sit there, tearing the margins off the paper and eating them. There really is no independent work.

This lack of motivation continuous from the learners straight up to the highest administration. The most consistent pattern in the behavior of both official and non-official business is the importance placed on appearance. Your notes should have the date neatly written with a perfectly straight line under it. The form must be filled out neatly, even if the information is blatantly falsified. Your grades should fill the little boxes and be summed, averaged, and collated in triplicate, even when only ten students passed. Your school results should be graphed and categorized on nice paper with a snappy introduction and a conclusion that neatly highlights the poor performance of the teachers. Your pants must be pressed and your shirt wrinkle-free, even though you showed up drunk and late to class. Your car should have a new paint job and a sweet smelling interior, but don't ever change the oil. Your meeting should have a well organized schedule to talk about every concern, but avoid making any tangible progress towards solutions. Your online log should have visually appealing colors and archived posts, even though it has no meaningful content. Oh.

From the bottom to the top and in every aspect of the culture, the most important thing is that whatever it is, it is successful if it looks pretty. If the student writes an answer for every question neatly in pen and draws perfectly straight lines, they don't care if every answer is wrong. It looks good, and they will proudly paste it into their notebooks. And this is the pattern that the learners have grown up with, the teachers have known, and the administration has implemented for years.

The students have poor motivation, or none at all, at school. And the parents might not be a lot of help. The more traditional families are headed by parents who got by fine with little to no education and so they don't put much emphasis on it. Most school notes need to be translated by the learners to their parents. This is of course assuming that the parents are around. The family structure I have seen in Khorixas is usually a child being raised by the grandmother while the parents are off in another town working, drinking or both. It must be hard to check your grandson's english homework when you have been speaking Damara for four or five decades.

So, the odds are stacked against the learners at school and probably at home. The community is no help either. The most successful businesses in any town are for selling alcohol. By "most successful" I mean "only". Every few weeks, a new bottle store or shabin (unlicensed bar)opens and begins making money. It's impossible to avoid the raging alcoholism present in most communities. These stores will also sell to anyone who has money. I don't know how the boys get the money, and I don't want to know how the girls do. This has actually discouraged me from going out in Khorixas on Friday or Saturday nights. I just see too many of my learners. I know I've gone through this before , so I'm going to skip the Learners Drinking ramble. More to the point, the most successful business any learner knows involves selling alcohol. Hardly a motive for staying in school.

None of the learners seem to know how far they can go with a decent education. They were shocked when I said it is possible to go to Europe, America, or any country they wanted if they had decent grades and were willing to apply themselves. I guess if it was easy I wouldn't be here, but it can crush you to see how little value is placed on youth here.

It may sound a little cheesy, but here it is anyway: There was a calendar put out by Peace Corps last year that had a series of pictures of local Namibians with various quotes by famous figures. The pictures and quotes are decorating the walls in my kitchen and one keeps shouting at me every morning when I make toast:
"It is my firm belief that I have an inherent connection to the past and a responsibility to the future. I must keep trying, there is an entire generation ahead of me." -King Hussein of Jordan

Reconnect

The easter weekend began with Carl and I traveling to Outijwarongo to meet up with some other PCVs for an Easter/Pre-Reconnect party. We were able to find a free ride to Outjo with an Italian couple on vacation. After a small lunch at the RacistOutjo Bakery, we got a taxi ride to Outijwarongo. As we left Outjo, the taxi driver puts in a CD. I’m expecting the normal Namibian pop-music torture but oh, was I in for a treat. The 9’’ sub begind me hits the first three notes and Carl and I erupt with excited laughter. We listen to the debut Brittney Spears album for the one hour drive between Outo and Outijwarongo.

The weekend in Outijwarongo was similar to all the other weekends when a large number of PCVs get together. Stories are exchanged and everyone bitches about teaching, teachers, curriculum, syllabi, Peace Corps, corporal punishment, and anything else we hadn’t (or had) vented to other Americans in the past three months. We made tons of food in megan and Patrick’s small two-person kitchen. Everything from basic barbequed steaks to French Silk Pie (a big shout out to Amy’s family!). The facilities and common living areas of the house are made for two to three people, even though there are bedrooms for four or more. Between Good Friday and Easter Monday, we had twelve to fifteen people staying there and closer to twenty during the day. We split into groups during the day and came together for a few meals. During the evening, we sort of lined up on the floors of different bedrooms to sleep. It felt a little like summer camp, but the songs were more stupid. We had a lot of fun and I’d like to thank Patty-O and Megan for hosting the Group-25-Big-North-Pre-Reconnect-Staging Extravaganza.

Tuesday, we piled into a combi (volkswagon bus) for the three-ish hour drive down to Windhoek. In an effort to keep us safe, PC does not allow us to drive carsso we have to hitch hike in over crowded vehicles, that are in a sad state of disrepair, making dangerous passes on poor roads by semi-sober drivers. Ok, so it usually isn’t that bad, but at one point, another volunteer made the following comment after our combi overtook another vehicle with a little bit of oncoming traffic: “Dear God! Let me out of this fucking car!” After a couple more similar comments, we arrived in Windhoek at Jason’s hostel and were able to make that wish come true.

Jason is one of the two Information Technology volunteers in our group, and the only volunteer in Windhoek. He lives in the hostel of a Windhoek secondary school that is just outside the main down town center of windhoek. The hostel is four stories tall, with four person rooms. Each person gets a small closet and a twin bed. At less than US$3 per night, it’s hard to complain.

There were at least fourty volunteers there that night. A lot of us went out to a bar that night called El Cubano. It is a Cuban bar about a kilometer down the hill from Jason’s hostel. The famous mug of Ch was all over the all the staff wore the black beret with a red star. The walls were adorned with pictures of famous celebrities, politicians, and historical figures. There was no real pattern to the pictures and in any given section you may find Elvis,
Ghandi and Lenin all in a row. The bar was furnished with lots of couches so all the volunteers could sit and trade stories of our trials and tribulations.

As the evening dragged into the night and threatened to become morning, we made our way back to the hostel. With fourty volunteers there, most of which were awake and in an active state of mind, we were very vocal in our shinanigans. We had people playing guitars, playing soccer in the halls, yelling obsenities, and learning how to skateboard. Safe to say, we are probably not welcome to come back again.

Wednesday, we met at the PC office to board our bus for the conference center. To keep our typical bahaviour from starting an international incident, PC chose to put us up at theis conference center/hotel that is up in the hills surrounding Windhoek. The conference center is at the top of a large hill (mountain?) northwest of Windhoek and overlooks the city. The most noticible freature of this conference center is the apparent ADD that the architect suffered from. Walking through the different rooms is like walking through three or four different buildings. One dining room looks like the enclosed deck of a ranch or country-side cabin with creaky wood floors, thick support beams and water color paintings decorating the walls. Down the hall is a sitting area that is like a mixture of colonial furniture with high cloth covered ceilings that remind me of something out of an Arabian tent. Going out to the outdoor dining area looks like a veranda of a Greek royal’s home. White tiled floors with white pillars and dark furniture. There’s even fountains (not running) of lion’s heads and children pouring buckets. Since the center is on the top of a mountain, the layout is tarraced with winding paths connecting different hotel rooms and buildings with the common lifing areas. Most of the buildings have some odd layout typical to that building only. Corridors lead to small secondary rooms, there are steps up or down when moving in, out, or through a room. Outside, the paths intertwine running over natural rock protrusions, around random columns of white painted concrete, and under a misplaced grape arbor. Someone failed to mention that grapes don’t grow here. It looks nice next to the pool though.

Getting water up to this picturesque location requires quite a bit of pumping. Combine this with the spotty electricity, and you have a decent chance of being left standing in the shower soaped up and minorly burned from the scalding hot water that convieniently burned from the scalding hot water that conveniently shut off just as I put the bar of soap down. I contemplated using the water in the reserve tank of the toilet, but opted to go out and stand in the rain instead. One of the big advantages of being in Windhoek is that the weather here is something I am much more used to. Cloudy with showers and sun breaks! Wahoo!

But it’s not all about standing soaped up and naked in the rain looking out over Windhoek. We have lists to make! As with all PC training, reconnect is all about making lists. If you would like to hold your very own PC training, follow these easy steps:

1. Start by showing a list of the things you are going to talk about.
2. For the first point on you list, have the participants make a list about that topic.
3. Divide the group into smaller groups and hand out paper to each group.
4. The groups then make lists about a more specific point from the list in step two.
5. Groups present lists by reading them. Note: most groups will have the same answers. Make sure similar answers are read by each group to occupy more time.
6. When all groups have presented, make a list to summarize what the groups have in common.
7. Make a new list of things that should be followed up on.
8. Repeat steps one through seven until all points are covered, or the participants are digging holes in their theighs using pens.

In every training session, at least fourty lists should be made. This will insure that regardless of how bad a volunteer’s site is, they will be happy to return.

So, every day of reconnect is us making lists inbetween meals during the day and generally degrading the reputation of Americans at night.

Etosha Sucks

The following is not written by any qualified or mentally stable person and did not actually happen. The story is totally fictional. Carl, Matt, Anne, and Sisell are fictional characters and bare no resemblance to real people who live in, around, or visit Khorixas. Luckily, this fictional story is set in a time that is technically over three months after swearing in. So even if it is true (which it isn’t), Matt and Carl are allowed to be away from site one weekend per month. Peace Corps Staff should go back to doing real work now instead of trolling the internet for misbehaving volunteers.

Anne has a friend visiting from Norway for about two weeks and wanted to show her Etosha National Park. She invited Carl and I along last weekend for the ride. Both of us being fed up with our schools (I just got done grading papers which is the most depressing thing a teacher can do) decided it was definitely time to get outta town. Anne left mid week to rent a car and pick up her friend, Sisell, at the airport. She would pick her up at noon on Friday and drive to pick up Carl and I in Outjo that afternoon. All we needed to do was to hitch to Outjo. Bags packed, we went down to the petrol station to search for rides. No minibuses were around so we dropped the bags and started asking other cars. We kept an eye out for any plate that had something other than the Khorixas designations written on it. There were a lot present, but none that were going our way. We asked everyone from the little pickup truck with the sheep in the back to the luxury SUV with the tourist Afrikaaners inside. Finally, a gas truck drove up. As he was unloading cartons of oil to the workers at the petrol station, I asked if he was headed to Outjo. He told me to wait a minute. “Wait” is better than “No” so things were looking up. After he finished signing all the papers, he told us to meet him over by the slaughterhouse across the street. Why on earth a gas truck driver needs to make a delivery to a meat store is beyond me, but I’ll be careful when buying meat there from now on. Not speaking much English, the conversation with the driver was limited to easy things like, “How many years ?” and “Do you like ?” An hour half and all we got was “fifteen” and “yes” out of this guy. He got a call about three quarters of the way through our trip and had to take the truck out of gear since it was so loud in the cab. We slowly coasted down from our 50mph speed until we were going about 5 when the conversation was over.

We got to Outjo about two hours early so we sat around in the semi-racist bakery/restaurant/internet café for an hour. It is semi-racist because it is run by a bunch of Afrikaaners who make some great food and most are very friendly. All except the one that runs the internet and does the finances in back. We checked our e-mail from there and, in making conversation, told her where we were from. Her reply was, “Khorixas! Bah, nothing there but dust and Damaras.” She left out the “what a shit hole” phrase but English isn’t her fist language so I suppose things would have been a little more colorful had she been speaking Afrikaans. The tone said enough. Damara is the tribal group that dominates the Khorixas area and was heavily segregated, along with all the other tribes, during apartheid. I wanted to smack this woman across the face with one of her potted plants but it probably would have become lodged in her double chin. I made a mental note to speak KKG with her employees whenever she was around.

Carl and I moved onto the tourist shop next door. There was a sign on the door that said they have the right to refuse entry to anyone. I assumed they used this sign to cover up the previous one which probably read “No Darkies.” Inside we found a number of overpriced goodies that all had a little historical note next to them. Mask worn by Himba Queen. Mask Worn by Himba Warrior. Elephant Dung Paper. Hand Carved Wambo Cane. We carefully maneuvered under the Hand Carved Wooden Mobiles with our packs as we browsed the shop. As we neared the back we found the source of all these cultural artifacts. A man was putting the finishing touches on a Hand Painted Tapestry. A tall muscular man with tattoos. A tall, muscular, tattooed, white man. I held back the laughter as a bus load of tourists unloaded outside to come and buy the “authentic African artifacts”. Carl and I went outside to sit on the bench and wait for Anne.

We blasted up to the Etosha gate, an hour’s drive north of Outjo. Anne convinced the gate guy that we were all volunteers, which was mostly true, so that we could get the 50% off rate for Namibian residents. We pulled into Okaukuejo resort an hour and two dozen zebra later. I’ll summarize the rest of the trip since it is pretty repetitive.

The Etosha Experience is that you drive between different resort compounds in your car and take pictures of animals. There are a series of winding dirt roads that are all intertwined to inevitably lead you to either one of these compounds or a water hole where you can lean out your window and take pictures of whatever is drinking at the time. This is amusing the first time you see each animal up close. After those first dozen shots are taken of Mr. Zebra standing a meter from your car, he and all his friends get pretty boring. I’m sure it is more interesting during the dry season, but with all the rains, the animals are spread out far from the predictable water holes so all that you get to see are sprinkbok and zebra. Those are cool and everything, but after awhile you just want to see one of them get taken down by a cheetah or lion or trampled by an elephant. No such luck so you drive back to the closest compound for the night.

One cool thing that we did see in Etosha besides all the animals (which are nice despite my present sarcasm), was the Etosha Pan. One big salt flat as far as you can see. It’s like looking out at the edge of the coast but the water has been turned totally brown and frozen. It gives the impression that nature just got bored and stopped the world there. Beautiful in a sort of dry, desolate way.

When you enter Etosha, you sign a paper saying you promise to stay a certain number of days. Once your fee is paid, you have your choice of where you want to go and where you want to stay. Tons of choices, except they are all the same. Each resort is a bunch of bungalows, huts, condos, and campsites with a pool, a buffet, and a water hole to watch more animals. The tourists are carefully separated from the animals by a large fence, concrete walls, and a strict lock down schedule that says no leaving after sunset. The water hole at each compound has a big fence, benches, and lighting that would make most concerts shameful. The animals are put on display at every opportunity. If this sounds fairly artificial, it is.

Then there are the other residents. See the German Tourist In Africa post for a more accurate description. Fanny packs hold back bulging stomachs that threaten to bust the last button on safari shirts. Sandals are worn by those seeking a vacation while combat boots are worn by those truly “on safari”. In both cases, shorts never fall below mid thigh, and dress socks climb to the knees held up by the gods of Absurd Outfits. The pool is the worst possible place for relaxing in these places since when it is time for swimming, they don the swimming wear which is shorter than the safari shorts and leaves nothing to your poor, scarred imagination. They rumble to the pool and make slow efforts with each careful step down into the water as rolls of flesh block what little fabric is left covering their bodies. Getting out of the water is no better since immediately upon departure, the wooden lounge seat gets to creak under the straining mass of blubbery flesh that has been inflicted upon it. If I offend you, then put down the jelly doughnut, pick up a carrot, and go for a walk, chunky.

In the end, we saw a ton of zebra, sprinkbok, wildebeest, red hartsbok, oryx, a few ostrich, and way too many white people. We leave Etosha and drive back to the thriving town of Khorixas. The land of Dust and Damaras.

School’s Out

The first school trimester ends on the 14th of this month. To finish off the trimester, it is end of term exams at Cornelius Goreseb (The school I teach at in case you missed it. Yes, I do actually attempt to accomplish something here). How many days does it take to give each grade one test for each of their eight classes? Two weeks. How do you write such tests? Cut up old tests and then paste together the new test. I don’t mean pressing Ctrl-X and Ctrl-V. I mean you get out the scissors and glue and do this the old school method. That way, your students are insured to see at least three of the same question every year. I must admit that I am guilty of basing my tests off of old ones, but I will change the question and type it instead of making a direct copy of a question out of the book or from the previous year’s test. So, starting the week of the third we had to have our first round tests finished. We are testing in what is called a cluster system so there is a common test for all schools in our area. At first this seemed like a good idea so we could just cut the work load and rotate writing duties. Who knows, with any luck the responsibility of writing a test for three schools instead of one might make the tests higher quality. I am not a lucky person. The tests I finally got (two days late and two days before the test was supposed to be given) I got the tests for my grade 9 students. It had material from grade 8, 9, 10, and 11 tests. The test was 100 points. After getting clearance from our vice principal, the other science teacher and I cut out half of the test. So it was time for testing.

The most consistent thing in all of Namibia is that at one in the afternoon, everything stops and people go home to sleep. At three, things can start again. This includes any and all work except the market, the gas station, and small clothing store all of which are owned by Afrikaaners. After five, the teachers will also stop working. So, instead of hunkering down, writing all the tests, and making finals three days at the end of the term we make some of the tests in the week leading up to testing and the rest the few days before each test during finals. Of course, no government worker (all teachers work for the government) can be expected to work during the 1 to 3 siesta or after five in the evening. But all other times, we are at school teaching! Where will we get the time to make the tests? Ah, here we go, during the last week of classes, the time when it is essential to be doing review with the students, let’s not teach and make tests instead. Brilliant! We will have little to no instruction for one week, and then immediately test the students! They’re sure to pass!

When the students do get their tests, they take them with their Register Teacher. It’s a little like Homeroom. Before the first period of each day, the students have a short period with their Register Teacher where attendance is taken and any announcements from other teachers are not made. This is not a typo. During the teacher meeting, the other science teacher, Mr. Useb, will ask the register teachers to announce that he is having a science club meeting at three. No one relays this to the students so no one shows up. I used to use this method to not send messages to the Chess Club members, but then I figured out the pattern and chose instead to have two students go around during one of my free periods and read a note I gave them. Back to testing. The short of it is, the students take their tests with teachers who have no idea what the subject matter is. Luckily, I don’t have a register class, so I get to run around between my different classes popping my pasty white mug through the door and looking to see if anyone has a question. English is a problem, so there are usually two kids who don’t understand the directions and ask me. The other thirty also don’t understand but would rather leave the question blank and sleep. So that’s what the past two weeks have been at school. No one teaches, I review, help my students with math, or just let them study (i.e. sleep), and during testing period, I walk around the empty campus by myself leaning into snoring class rooms.

Concert Time

This past weekend, it was the biggest event in Khorixas. The Welwitchia (the Ws should sound like ‘v’) Music Tour 2006. Phura, Stella, Stanley, Baccos, and Killa B were on the bill. I’m pre writing this before the concert and I’ll fill you in on how it goes at the end of this post.

In the mean time, any Namibians should stop reading now. The music in this country blows. Everyone plays the same two or three songs until you can sing every word but you still don’t know what they are saying because it is in any number of local languages. It’s usually one guy with one girl doing backing vocals (saying the same two-word phrase over and over). The musak is provided by a drum machine and some idiot with a keyboard who can press the same four keys on cue. When the newest hit single arrives you can hear it in stereo from the bars, the bottle stores, passing cars, home stereos, shabins (illegal bars), and your students singing it during class. At first it takes a minute to realize that it is a new song since the crap smells exactly the same every time it comes out. I can understand if this is the local pop music, but you can’t find anything else. This is the ONLY music. And it all sounds exactly the same. I have a theory that there is one eleven year-old kid with a little toy keyboard sitting in Windhoek making all the back beats for these songs. His father has a tape recorder hooked up to the keyboard and sends the recordings to the producer who grabs the nearest woman off the street and tells her to say, “Leee laa de lee dee daaa”. With the tape and woman secured, he takes the only three “artists” in Namibia and figures out whose turn it is to release an album. Words are drawn out of a hat to decide the lyrics for the verses. With only the chorus left to do, the producer goes and listens to pop-rap from the early nineties in the US and pirates a phrase from there. This phrase is repeated in opposition to the “Lee laa de lee dee daaa” background. Repeat for another nine songs on the album. Take a few pictures of the “artist” in some silly outfits and video tape him lip-synching the new song in a house and a bar for the music video. Album finished. Total turn around time: 13 hours of actual creative work, mostly done by the 11 year-old with the keyboard. Is it obvious that I despise the music here? And yet I’m still going to the concert this Saturday night. I don’t know if it’s some sort of sado-masochistic thing I have started, or maybe I just want to see how a big concert goes in this country. Do people take to the ground and dance? Is there a pit? Is there security? Will the three of us (Diane, Anne, and I) be singled out as the only Oshilumbu (“white thing” in Oshiwambo) in the audience? Is there an after party? Is there even a band? These questions and more will be answered…

… Right now. Ahh, the beauty of my life being documented in three week segments. So from the one concert I have almost seen in Namibia, I can say this: People do take to the ground and dance. There is no pit or what can be thought of as security in the states. There are police officers, but they all sit in the back of a pickup. The two police that do go through the stands are looking for people who don’t have the tell tale stamp showing that they paid the requisite N$30. Both wear big over coats and one carries a sawed off shotgun. Crowd control…right. We did get singled out as the only white people, but that is pretty normal. Don’t know if there was an after party. The “band” had a small drum set and a guitar but I don’t know if they played it.

Here’s how the evening went. The posters for the concert listed 7pm as the start time. Assuming this was the biggest music festival to hit Khorixas in a long time, which it was, we thought it would be smart to at least arrive nearly on time. So we go and get there a little after 7. There is a stereo blasting the head liner’s music and many people are standing on the grass. No one is running security at the gate and with the large contingent of small kids, no one is checking for tickets. Then it all solidifies. The people on the field are the remnants of the soccer team that just finished their game. We take a seat in the stands, sip a beer (we brought our own), and watch the soccer team pack up. My experience has been that most concerts in the states are a little late and the big ones can be a full hour or two late. Adding in the “Africa time” factor made me think there was no way that this would start before 9:45 or 10. We slowly work through our beers as the crowd of soccer players and spectators disperses until the field is empty, the beers are gone, and we are the only people in the stands. The proverbial cricket chirps in the background. I feel that I have been had. It’s a little after 8 and we’re getting bored. Anne and I decide it’s time for a beer run. To avoid this in the literal sense, we hop down the stands and catch a ride with the last vehicle going into town: the Police pickup truck. It is just assumed that we need to go to town, so the truck starts driving. When prompted about where we are headed, we tell them to stop at the next bar. Khorixas’ Finest Taxi Service.

We get out at Blue Corner which is where one of my students lives. We first stop off at where they are selling the food. This isn’t really a kitchen, short order counter, or take out stand as much as it is a dirty half-oil-drum barbecue with a pot of cooked mystery meat on top. Well, I take that back. The meat is no mystery. It’s goat. Again. Anne asks me if I want a piece. I give her the “yer insane” look. She buys four pieces that range from six to eight dollars each (how decent is a hunk of goat that costs a buck twenty-five American?) While waiting for change, Anne tears into the dark grey section of flesh in hand. It appears to have all the tenderness of a boot and smells about the same. The wrong change is given, but it’s in our favor so we don’t argue and get our bag-o-goat. They’ve got three people assisting in this transaction, so I write it off as a penalty tax for none of them being able to subtract.

I step over the passed out guy on the ground as we walk to the bar section for drinks. Passing two more of my students on the way in, we step up to the counter only to find out two slightly disturbing things. First, the cupboards are bare, in an Old-Mother-Hubbard’s saloon sort of way. Second, yet another one of my students is the bartender. We leave to go to the next nearest bar which will, hopefully, feel a little less like the classroom from hell. Up the street is Fontain, the new bar in town that currently has the best pool table available. Students five and six are standing outside while student seven is ordering a beer inside. I stopped counting at this point so just assume that with every seven or eight lines of text, I see another student either drunk or at least visibly tipsy. Before anyone starts to wonder why I don’t express my protests to these sorts of extra curricular pursuits, I need to explain the adult role models these kids have. They don’t have any. Drinking in excess is as normal in this culture as donkey carts, Fanta, trash strewn streets, goat meat, funerals, and breathing. No one makes a fuss about the health hazards of excessive boozing when there are other real dangers like HIV, hunger, and getting hit by drunk drivers. So, telling my students that drinking is detrimental to their health might as well be reasoned by the threat of alien attack. If you kids drink, baboons will come and smother you with honey during the night! Telling them to go home is translated into, “Go to another bar.” Especially since home could easily be just another bar. I’ve equated a battle to get my students out of the bars to trying to save a sinking ship by drinking the water and peeing it over the side. A lot of time and effort to make no progress. So, I single them out in class on Monday, tell them it is against school policy that they consume alcohol at any time (the school rules are posted on my wall), and then move on with my lesson.

Back at the Fontain. We get our beers and start carrying them the three quarters of a kilometer back to the stadium. I carry the sack of supplies while Anne carries the bag-o-goat. Half way back it’s the last chance for a decent pee break and Anne takes it. The toilets at the stadium are bad enough we would rather walk into the snake, spider, lizard, and insect infested grasses to drop trou instead of use the “facilities”. We are within sight of the stadium so I try to call Diane to find out if she can see Anne crouched by the tree. Alas, Diane’s phone is in the bag I’m carrying.

Back at the stadium, Anne hands out the goat boots and we continue to wait. There are quite a few more people present now and what looks to be the performers. I don’t recognize any of them, but judging by the two or three people everyone was keeping an eye on, they must have been important. Eventually a truck arrives carrying sound equipment. Again, erase whatever you may imagine a concert team in the states bringing. This is six or seven amps, nine big speakers, five microphone stands, a guitar, a drum set, and a few mixers and crappy turn tables all in their original boxes as the packing equipment. I am immediately curious which one of these people is going to use a drum set and guitar. It’s a little after nine and nothing has been set up.

We wait. Slowly, the crew sets up the equipment up in the stands. I’m wondering what they are doing. Since the lights are directed on the field, shouldn’t the stage be down there? Hmm… After a while, the assumed performers leave. It’s 10.

We wait.

11:00. We wait.

11:30. We wait. If this doesn’t start soon, I won’t make it to the end.

12:00. We wait. The stage is obviously going to be here next to where I am sitting.

12:30. Enough speakers are up that they start playing a CD as background music. We wait.

1:00. I start sending text messages to other people to see if they are awake. No one writes me back so I wait.

1:20. Security ushers us down onto the field and I turn around to see that my predictions are correct. The lighting has made it so that the audience is looking at black silhouettes of the performing area, which is the first three steps of the stands.

1:30. Diane and I know we won’t make it through the concert. Both of us are getting pissed. This is now six-and-a-half hours of delay and yet the other audience members don’t seem like they care. No apologies from the microphone, no one saying that they are getting ready. It’s always the same guy yelling, “KHORIXAS!!! ARE YOU READY TO PARTY!!! ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME!!!” No you stupid asshole! I’ve been here for almost seven hours waiting for music I don’t even like! And yet I wait.

1:32. Diane goes to demand her money back. I wait.

1:34. Diane gets back and says she’s leaving. I’m close on her heels as she goes for the gate. We both get our money back from the gate guy (who is the janitor from my school and speaks about as much English as I do KKG). No more waiting

2:00. We get home. I pat myself on the back for making banana bread earlier in the day and eat two big pieces before going to bed.

Anne tells me the next day that the concert started a little after we had left and was still going on when she left a few hours later. She said the performers had a good stage presence and engaged the audience well. Still. Why did it take seven hours to get this ready? Was it a surprise to them? Whoops! We have to set up a concert now!

At least I got my money back. However, that is seven hours of waiting that I’ll never get back. No, wait! It was a daylight savings time switch last night so I did get one of the hours back. I can’t remember what day the switch is at home, but when it does happen we will drop from a ten hour difference to an eight hour difference. So noon in Washington will be eight in the evening in Namibia.

Independence Day

Since I am not allowed to travel during the first three months of service, I am going to write a fictional story about Independence weekend. The following never happened. It is a fictional story about fictional characters and bares no resemblance to my actual Independence Day weekend. In fact, this is a story that has been posted by someone that broke into Matt’s blog without his permission.

A fictional country in Africa (where only one or two letter pronouns are allowed) has its independence day on the 21st of March. This year, Independence Day landed on a Tuesday. Assuming no students would come to class on Monday, the schools in our fictional country remain closed, creating a four day weekend for students and teachers. Our hero, Capt. M, organized a ride out of the town of K for Friday afternoon. He rode with a government worker who works for the ministry of education and has family in OT, where M is trying to get to. The weather is rolling into the town of K and the government worker calls M to say it’s time to leave. They hop into the land rover that appears to be circa 1973. Despite being ten years his senior, M is surprised by the quality of the vehicle. The government worker informs him of the dramatic history of the vehicle. Originally intended only as a temporary vehicle for the worker, it was next on the list of vehicles to be sold off as scrap which would leave the government worker again with out a vehicle to do his work. The worker did not like this idea and so paid a motor pool worker under the table to overhaul the vehicle under different plate numbers. The government worker then spent weeks cleaning the dirty, goat stained interior until the land rover was almost as good as new. When the ministry wanted to impound the vehicle, the government worker asked, “why? This is a great vehicle in great condition?” The government agreed and let the government worker keep the vehicle for official work. The vehicle is still in great condition. Except for the part where the first and second gears don’t work making rolling stops mandatory. To start the vehicle, you have to start in reverse and then back it up an incline to gain enough forward momentum to kick in third gear. Never the less, when the land rover gets going, it putters and grinds up to speed and then rumbles down the road with great efficiency.

Capt. M and the government worker leave K just as the rains arrive. And oh how the rains arrive. The road is a pile of standing water and they pass through several sections where the rivers have grown beyond capacity leaving the pavement as the path of least resistance. With the rain pounding so hard, life passes as a series of still images. The pounding rain turns the world into mushed colors reminiscent of an impressionist’s paintings. When the wipers pass, clarity is achieved for a split second only to be covered again by the waterfall. Car in the distance. Nothing. Car closer. Nothing. Car closer. Nothing. Car in front of us. Nothing. Blurred flashing light. Signal indicating he wants us to pass. Nothing. Sound of car on the left. Open road. Nothing. And so it continues until the two are in the town of OJ, half way between K and OT.

They pass through the town with out incident and the rain fades. A clear shot to OT. During the drive, Capt. M begins to realize that the government worker does not get much company on this drive. M is given the full listing of all the short cuts the government worker knows in Word Perfect in addition to the ones he has created for government forms. M is captivated by such things as Copy, Paste, Undo, Save, \address\, \ministry\, and other wonders. After the benefits Word Perfect commands and short cuts have been fully discussed, the pair move on to the wonders of Excel formulas. And not just the normal SUM and AVE, but the more complicated COUNTIF and SORT commands as well. The two plus hours of driving just fly by for M.

All too soon, they arrive in OT where M and the government worker part ways. M expresses his gratitude and wishes the government worker a happy Independence Day. In OT, M meets HM and P at their house. Also staying at the house are W and A, who have come in from other cities for the weekend. P stays at home while the other four go out for dinner. HM is a health volunteer while W, A, and M are all teachers. Stories are exchanged and occasionally W, A, and M drop into too many teaching stories, leaving HM out of the loop. They all retire for the evening after dinner.

The next day (Saturday), W, A, M, and HM go to breakfast and plan the day. Other volunteers are coming into town and all were planning on going to the town of OK for an Independence Day party. After breakfast, they went about shopping and running errands since OT is the largest city available to them. At noon, they met up with B, C, and J who are also going to the party which is at C’s house. They go to lunch together and exchange more stories of their towns and teaching. Sorry HM. After lunch, W, A, HM, and M have to get their things from HM’s house to stay at C’s place. They part ways with the others, who go for party supplies. With everything packed, rides are secured and the whole group goes to OK. OK is about an hour east-south-east of OT for anyone looking on a map.

Technically, C’s house is not in OK but about three kilometres outside of OK. It was previously the whites-only suburb of OK which was abandoned during the 1970s. Large single story houses are arranged with dirt roads behind a large gate that used to make the entrance through an even larger fence. Nature took over when the colonists left and the fence is mostly gone now, over grown with pointy bushes that make a similarly efficient barrier. The only thing that is actually within grounds besides houses is a single bar. As with all bars in this country, it had a pool table that didn’t work and a small contingency of perma-drunk locals. If you wanted a drink, go behind the counter and get it yourself. Pay by leaving your money on the counter. If you want change, keep standing there until the bartender gets up.

C, J, and HM are friends with a volunteer doctor named DJ who lives near by. DJ had an even larger house than C with a number of beds so half of the party goers would sleep there the two nights they were in town. Shortly after the crew arrived, other party goers from other towns arrived. In total now there were eleven here for the festivities. The first night was general drinking and tom foolery in the house. Lots of stories being exchanged since most had not seen each other for several months. Anecdotes, frustrations, excitement, suggestions, and some tragedy were told over many hours and beers.

Later in the evening, someone suggested that the group go over to the bar to see if anything was going on there. Eleven white people going into the only bar within three kilometres late on a Saturday night during a holiday weekend. Yup, this is a good idea. The group got their drinks from behind the bar and left the money on the counter. The made for a table and were followed by a trail of locals ready to provide all manner of thoughts, suggestions, and questions. The group was quickly divided as each local paired up with one person from the group to converse with. Our intrepid hero was chosen by an average male of medium-to-large build and medium-to-larger inebriation. The man was deeply passionate about telling M that he must leave many babies in the country when he leaves. The thought of having several illegitimate children had not yet crossed M’s mind as a possible secondary project, but he quickly dismissed it since it is difficult to get government funding for such projects. M tried to convince the man he already had 200 children he was teaching and that should be enough to leave his “mark” on the country. The metaphor was lost on the man so he chose to start a debate with M about whether M was there for the experience or to help. The man could not understand the word “both” and, lacking a thesaurus, M shook the man’s hand and left instead of pursuing the conversation further. Sufficiently interrogated by the local community, the group returned to C’s house to finish off the night.

The next day, one more member of the group arrived with a friend from Britian. Grand total is now thirteen in the house. The party started when everyone arrived from the other house for breakfast. Lacking the necessary supplies for pancakes, M made French toast instead. The day continued as a normal Independence Day party. Baseball was played in the front yard using a broom handle and foam soccer ball. Home base was a crack in the driveway, first base was a rock, second was a big cactus, and third was a concrete pillar of the house. Stealing second is only for the brave and tagging up is based more on proximity than touch. People switched teams as needed to have someone up to bat and runners were usually thrown to instead of fielders since no one could remember who was on which team. If you weren’t playing baseball, you were usually playing Beer Pong. If you know what beer pong is you need no explanation. If you don’t know what beer pong is, you probably don’t want an explanation.

Some people made burgers on the stove while others just ate chips all day. M and CP played a game of checkers using bottles on the tiled floor. Despite playing chess with several High School students, M sucks at checkers. Some time during the day, one more part of the party arrived, a doctor from Cuba. The Cuban stayed for most of the day and into the night until he got the sneaking suspicion that he was being called. Since there is only cell service out in the middle of the driveway, he went out to check his messages. He had been called and had to attend to an incident. The conversation consisted of, “Hello? Yeah. A donkey cart? Is he still there? Ok.” The only thing stranger than being a volunteer teacher here must be being a volunteer doctor.

The night ended. The morning came again. All the teachers were up before seven out of habit and M got to make the banana chocolate pancakes he meant to make the day before. Some of the group had a long distance to drive, so everyone departed mid day on Monday. M, HM, W, A, C, J, B, E, and CP all went to OT. They had lunch together as one last hurrah before B, E, CP, and J had to leave for their respective towns. W, A, and M stayed at HM’s place that night to see the events for Independence Day on Tuesday.

The Independence Day celebrations in OT were held at a large field that had what every big government celebration needs: stands for the citizens to sit in, and a large field for the military to stand in. P leaves the house early to go to the event and W, A, M, and HM arrive later. The introduction performances by the military and the kids are over. The military is standing in the back ground guarding against an unforeseen foe while the children dressed in their dance outfits sit on the grass on the side. People come and go from the stands, cars drive around for no reason, and five guys pushing wheel barrows of corn on the cob sell it to hungry spectators. P is sitting in the crowded stands when the others arrive. W wants to photograph the events and goes down to the outside of the front row within the fenced in field. He is motioned over by the organizers to take a seat on the bench that sits front and center less than five meters from the podium. A, M, and HM are all subsequently gestured over to fill in the rest of the bench. They are now locked in. Sun blaring down on them, the only four with people in the audience (aside from P, but he is surrounded by locals) are looking straight at the rows of government officials sitting under the well shaded tent. They are offered seats under the tent, but thinking this would bee too preferential treatment, they decline. This would prove to be their undoing. First, a government official gives a three minute introduction to another official who will be introducing the highest government official who will read the official address by the President. The second government official gives thanks to the first government official and then lists off the resume of the next government official. This takes another five minutes. Finally, the highest government official steps up to the podium. The others are still there, along with the master of ceremonies who made a brief introduction of the first government official. So, with one podium, the highest government official stands with the second and first trailing and the master of ceremonies at the end. There are also two lower level workers holding umbrellas over the officials and a camera man videotaping the entire process. At first, you wonder why all the officials remain at the podium, and then it starts. The highest government official will read the five or more page speech by the president in four sentence segments in English. The second government official will read the same passage in Local Language Number 1. The first government official will read the same passage in Local Language Number 2. And the master of ceremonies will read the same passage in Local Language Number 3. This means that the whole speech will be read four times. The sun is burning. The speech is disconnected and covers the entire range of topics in excruciating detail. Education, health, corruption, women’s rights, diversity, tourism, AIDS, hospitals, youth, transportation, taxes, imports, exports, national pride, national defence, farming, rural communities, weather, housing, jobs, and the kitchen sink are all mentioned in what could be the most disconnected and poorly written speech of all time. Since it is done in four languages, there is no chance you could escape and in all likely hood, the locals heard it at least twice.

As the four sat, M watched the clouds approach from the north in desperate hopes that one of the clouds would sit over them to give relief from the sun. They never came fast enough, or stayed long enough for it to matter. Far to the east, M could see a wall of grey that would bring rain, a short circuit, and finally an end to the suffering. Of course, the clouds were just there to provide a taunting back drop and nothing came.

After what felt like an eon but was probably closer to an hour, the group could not take it any more and staged an escape. W would leave alone followed a minute later by HM. A and M would wait another minute and then M would act like he was answering his phone and leave together. Free from the mind numbing heat, the group goes to the outskirts of the surrounding stands to see if the speech will ever end. Just as they have given up and are about to head home, a miracle strikes. The president’s speech has run out of things to talk about and is over. Still, it’s time to bail. Back to the house for a braai (barbecue using wood) lunch.

Right after the lunch, W, M, and A have to leave to hike back to their towns. Since it is a holiday weekend, they find rides right away making it by far the easiest hike M has had to date.

Packing List for Group 26

It has come to my attention that several people interested in the goings on of Peace Corps Namibia have found this blog. I hope it has been at least a little bit entertaining and/or informative. A big thanks to the parents and friends of myself and other PCVs here who stay in touch and help us from home. You guys keep us sane and prevent any “doughnut making” that would most likely happen if we were totally cut off. What follows in this post is my personal suggested packing list for any person who is packing to be a PCV in Namibia. Keep in mind that this is only one person’s (completely warped) personal opinion. But, if I had a chance to pack it all over again, this is what I would bring. By the way, I am a science teacher stationed in Khorixas so a health volunteer that gets stationed out in Katima might have a slightly different packing list, but I think 90% of the list would be the same. I’ve heard that most of Group 26 (the group arriving this November) will be placed in the northeast so the clothing list might need to change slightly. However, this is just a rumor, and I am not in a position to verify this officially and I am certainly not qualified to make suggestions. But here they are anyway.

Clothing:
• Short sleeve shirts (casual) x5
• Shorts or really light weight pants x3. Outside of school you live in shorts and t-shirts so one set really won’t cut it.
• One cold weather top like a sweatshirt or a light fleece. “Cold” here is just 50s or 60s and that’s only in the earliest part of the day.
• Jeans. They are super comfortable and a nice thing to have but that much cotton is a pain to wash and rinse. Plus, they are just plain heavy in the luggage. Bring one pair of you can’t bear to be without them but not more! Otherwise, some lighter linen pants would be a much better casual choice.
• Socks: Five pairs of white and five pairs of dress socks. I brought way too many white socks but I suppose if I ever start running I’ll be happy to have them. Note to self, start running so that I can justify bringing all those socks…
• Underwear: Seven or more. That way, you can make it at least one week without doing laundry. I suppose this is more of a packing issue for the guys since our underwear tends to take up about thirty times more space than girls’.
• Dress Shirts: at least five. Teachers wear these every day except weekends so having five is the bare minimum.
• Slacks: Two pairs is the minimum, but you won’t be hurting for more. Wrinkle free is the thing to get here. Quick drying is nice, but if you leave them alone on the line and go plan a bunch of lessons, they will dry on their own. However, a bunch of wrinkles will take time to iron out so I say the wrinkle free is more important. Girls, Peace Corps says to bring a bunch of skirts or dresses for formal wear. My experience has been that most female teachers make a fifty-fifty split on pants versus skirts/dresses so don’t worry about what the PC packing list says. Just bring enough things to make up five semi-casual outfits. (Ladies from Group 25 or 24, please make comments on this to confirm or deny this.)
• Ties: one minimum but you don’t really need more than that. Most of us didn’t wear ties during training and almost all of the teachers at my school wear ties only once a week, if at all. Have one that goes with a nice shirt and slacks for the swearing in ceremony.
• Dress shoes. One pair is enough
• Casual shoes. Have one really nice and long lasting pair of cross trainers or trail running shoes. I use mine for running (eventually), hiking, and general bumming around the country. It’s hard to find a decent pair of shoes unless you are in a big city, and when you do they are pretty expensive.
• Sandals: At least two pairs. This goes back to the shorts and t-shirts thing. You live in these and will probably go through at least one pair while you are here. Just like the other shoes bought here, decent ones are expensive and the cheap ones will be dead in a week.
• Raincoat. I know, it sounds weird but when it rains here, it pours. A light, three layer, water-proof/breathable one will be fine. Whatever thing you have for when it rains in the states should be enough for this.
• Swim suit. The lodges are nice and so are the pools!
• Towel. One is enough. A quick drying one is really great to have since they are easier to wash by hand. If you must have a cotton one, the ones they sell here are fine.

About clothes: Don’t bring anything that has a high thread density (heavy). They are just too heavy to pack and they take FOREVER to wash and dry. Again, wrinkle free stuff is more important then quick drying (except for the towel). Bags and purses get stolen and make you a target, so having at least one pair of pants and/or shorts that have a bunch of pockets are great for those Windhoek trips. The above list should get you through training comfortably. If you want more stuff, you can just buy it during or after training.

Camping Stuff:
• Sleeping Pad. I use a ¾ length bag for the weight savings and just pack clothes under my feet. If you are into that whole being-able-to-sleep-all-night thing, well… do as you please.
• Sleeping bag. Light weight and compact is the name of the game here. I took a synthetic bag that was pretty burly for the conditions but it worked out fine. Down packs better and I wouldn’t get anything rated lower than 20 degrees F unless you are a very warm sleeper.
• Light weight tent. I brought a two person tarp tent that has no floor and will probably let in a lot of bugs but it’s better than nothing. Two person tents weigh a lot and can take a lot of space so plan accordingly. If you are looking forward to hiking fish river or attempting to hike Kilimanjaro I’d say bring a tent. If you are not inclined toward these idiotic pursuits, just borrow a tent if you do end up going camping. Or, just buy it here. There are a number of camping stores in Windhoek ready to outfit all the whities in the country for any African car camping adventure.
• Sleeping bag liner. I know what you are thinking, “If I’m bringing a warm weather sleeping bag, why would I want a liner too?” During the winter (June to August) it is kinda chilly at night. During the summer, it’s bloody hot. This warrants having a light weight fleece bag liner for those summer trips or sleeping on the floor of another PCVs house (not that I’ve been away from site or anything…).
• Water Filter with an extra filter cartridge. Iodine is nice, but you’ll still be chewing mud.
• That pair of great cross trainers or trail running shoes. See “Clothing” section.
• First aid kit. PC provides you with a big kit that resembles the suitcase bomb you see in spy movies. It’s not the fact that this is extremely large, heavy, bulky and generally overkill for most circumstances. I just don’t like the color.
• A good backpack that can hold it all. This serves the dual use of being the best way to hike (that is, hitch-hike) in the country. If you fit the sleeping bag liner and a change of clothes in the bottom, which means you have a ton of space to fit groceries when you hike to a big town for shopping. It’s always to have two hands free when you are making dramatic arm motions during a debate over the price of a hike. (Again, not that I’ve left my site during the first three months.)

A few notes: You should buy a camping stove here to avoid the guessing game about which gas canisters they have available. Those international stoves they sell at REI for $100 or more just aren’t worth it. You can get a canister stove here for less than $50 American that uses cheap canisters. Plus, most PCVs who are finishing their service are trying to get rid of their camping stuff.

Other stuff:
• Pictures. You can never bring enough of these. They are the best things to have and will never seem like a waste of space in your bags. I cannot stress this enough. If you have a spare ounce in your bag, take more pictures.
• Music. More than you would ever think you would listen to in a life time. Those with iPods or other mp3 players should sell the one they have and upgrade to the highest capacity they can find. And tons of variety too. See the post about the concert if you want more information (i.e. me bitching) about the music situation here.
• Books. Enough to last you nine months. There is a decent amount of borrowing and trading that goes on between PCVs’ and other volunteers’ reading material, but you need a reserve supply to get you through the dry spells. As with music, variety is good here. I made sure to bring at least one selection from each genre that you enjoy. I took comedic fiction, fiction, memoir, non-fiction, and a classic that I was supposed to read in high school. If you are a science teacher, take the best intro books to physics and chemistry that you can find. Relearning chemistry from the text books here has been terrible. Especially when my students ask me a really great question and the only thing I can say is, “umm… I don’t really know.” A teaching methods book is also good along with some sort of home experiments book.
• Small portable speakers (battery powered). You can’t find these here, and they are a life saver when the power goes out (or is never on in the first place). They also make you a very popular person during training.
• Water bottles. Two or more of the Nalgene style are good to have. Make sure to put some personal stickers on them to differentiate between the thousands of other blue Nalgenes that roam the country carabinered to the outside of volunteer bags.
• Digital camera (small). Big cameras get stolen and increase the “tourist” look that lends to stealing. At least two memory cards and two rechargeable batteries are also essential. When you fill up one card, send it home and start on the other. When the first card gets back to you, it should be about time to send the second one back. Another thing, dump the pictures onto a computer, memory stick, or CD before you send it since the mail here is about as reliable as the utilities.
• Compact flashlight with spare batteries if they are weird. I have a small head lamp that can fit in the palm of my hand and I have been very thankful for it on late walks home in the dark after spending far too long setting up a lab.
• A short wave radio is nice but not essential. I enjoy mine but there are times when the rest of the world can just stay out.
• A roll of really great duct tape. The only thing that has been more useful to me other than duct tape is…
• A multi-tool. The best one you can find. I’ve made fences, cooking racks, keys, installed locks, fixed calculators, modified power adaptors, and rewired lab equipment with nothing more than my multi-tool and a rock. This might sound like a petty promotion, but thank you Gerber! (The knife company, not the baby food. The food was probably good too, but I was too young to remember it.)
• A lap top if you are brave. I did not bring one, but I’ve had to borrow many to write these blogs, make tests and worksheets, and keep track of grades. Keep in mind: this increases the frustration and sorrow possibilities of your stay here. People have had their lap tops stolen, the temperature sensor fail, the screen crushed, and a number of other things that are difficult if not impossible to fix in country. I have avoided these hardships by not having one, but it has also compounded the number of times I’ve felt like I am inconveniencing others.
• If you do bring a lap top, a really great encyclopedia would be good to have.

About electrical equipment: First off, batteries here seem to not last as long as they did in the states. This has been especially true of my rechargeable batteries. I don’t know if it’s because of the different voltage and frequency change or the heat or both but I feel like I’m charging more often. I think everyone else has found the same as well. On to the adaptor versus converter conundrum. An adaptor is simply a few pieces of metal that makes the little American plug you have fit into the honkin Namibian outlets. It does not change the voltage or anything else. It is just to make those rectangular pegs fit into the round holes they have here. A converter changes the voltage and frequency from 240 volts at 50Hz to 110 or 120 volts at 60Hz. Before you go running to Google to find out what a volt is and how many hertz are in a second (yay! Nerd joke!), look at the things you are going to plug in. All electronic equipment comes with a small label on it, or in the user manual, that lists the Input and Output. Look at the Input. If it says a range like “100-240V 50-60Hz” then you are fine without a converter. If it ONLY has something in the 100, 110, or 120 volt range and only 60Hz, then you need a converter. So long as it has 220 or 240V and 60Hz written on it, you’ll be fine with just an adaptor. For purchasing adaptors, I would suggest getting one or two adaptors that convert the American plug to the two round prong European one (no three prong!). The Namibian plugs are just plain weird and guessing which one is correct while you are in the states is a game of chance. Don’t pay attention to those designations that are listed on the back as “southern Africa countries”. What you want is the one that has two 2cm long round prongs about 4mm in diameter coming out of a 1.8cm long extension that has the shape of a rectangle squashed between two equilateral triangles. If you are confused, join the club. I had to rip apart an adapter here to fit the adapter I brought. Now if I unplug anything that is still drawing a significant current, I cause a big spark and half of the house goes dark.

Don’t buy until you get here (if at all):
• Cell phone. You might not even have service at your site in the first place
• Big speakers. When you do get them, buy from an electronics store instead of a pawn shop. My first set burned out the transformer. It might have been because I left them plugged in overnight and they got a lightening surge, but at any rate they smelled funny when they were plugged in.
• A suit. PC seems to think that a suit is important to have for formal occasions. The only formal occasion that happens is the swearing in ceremony and we all wore slacks, a decent shirt, and the one tie we brought. No sport coat. Basically, it’s a waste of space, weight and money.
• Tons of US cash. Just have an ATM card with a visa logo that is tied to a bank account in the states. US cash is just a novelty unless you go to Zimbabwe where you’d be better off with Namibian money anyway. But I would advise against going to Zimbabwe in the first place.

Whew, I think that’s about it. If you have extra space when you pack, bring more pictures or trinkets from home.

About Packing: Don’t worry about what PC says about size and weight limits for now. Instead, find out what domestic carrier will take you to staging and what one will take you to J-burg. This can be done by using a search with the arrival and departure dates as a guide. Narrow the results by using the fact that US law states that PC must use a US carrier and the most direct flight possible regardless of cost. This should leave you with only one or two possible flights, and those will most likely have the same size and weight limitations. Check the baggage restrictions of these carriers and pack according to them. Next, get the weight of your packed bag and prepare a couple of “dump” bags that are five to ten pounds each. This way, if you get to the airport and your bag is overweight you can dump these with whoever is taking you to the airport and have them sent later. They will arrive a month later at the soonest, so pack them accordingly. Also, have a carry on that is the maximum size possible, but loaded with the minimal supplies: just a book, music player, water bottle, and a change of underwear and socks. That way, you can drop your dump bags into your carry-on if you need to. They never checked the weight of my carryon. So long as you can get to staging without paying extra, the mass departure that PC does for the international flight avoids the splitting hairs game the airlines play over a few extra pounds.

If you are a future PCV reading this, congratulations. In the four months I’ve been here I have had more experiences than years in the states. Every day is an adventure and you won’t believe how fast the time flies. If you are unsure about coming, join the club. I still have no concrete answer as to why I’m here, but I’m glad I am. Existing PCVs and staff repeated one thing that has rang true for me: it’s a roller coaster. Some days are up, some are down. Sometimes it can fluctuate hour by hour. One period, your students give “rock” as an example of a gas after three days spent on the phases of matter. Life sucks. The next period, you’ll explain how to solve ratios, they will light up understanding it and give you a round of applause at the end of the period. I love my job. Ups and downs. I won’t wax on about this but instead make a suggestion. Just go. If you absolutely hate it after a few months at site, just bail. In reality, it is harder to make the decision to come home than it is to leave in the first place. I, along with the other 57 volunteers, have the utmost respect for the two from our group that have left. It didn’t fit them, and they knew it. Worst case scenario, you get to see a side of Africa that few even bother to stop their Range Rovers for.

Khori and Mina

It’s time to start preparing the students for their end of year exams so I have been fairly limited in my time. Not too much has happened either. Lessons made, lessons failed, teachers ignoring my suggestions, and students not understanding English. Instead of recapping a pretty boring few weeks, I’m going to give you an update on the latest news of our two dogs, Khori and Mina. I’m guessing it’ll be a bit more interesting than my normal rants (which will return next time).

The neighborhood and our house have both been terrorized by the dynamic duo since day one. The initial house breaking attempts were both fruitless and pretty pathetic in their execution. I might be mistaken, and I really hope I am, but to get a dog to stop defecating on the ground takes more than just putting some newspaper on a portion of the floor. Anne and Diane may have done more than this, but it was never brought to my attention or made apparent by a reduction in puddles. My guess is that the dogs held very high opinions of “The Namibian” and refused to degrade such a fine journalistic specimen. Whatever the reason, the dogs were both dubbed “outdoor” after the third container of bleach had been used up in cleaning.

Our house is surrounded by a modest fence. It is about four feet high and basic chain link with pounded in ground poles. It’s nothing compared to the fortresses put up by the Afrikaaners in our neighborhood but we only want to make it a minor inconvenience to enter our yard rather than a complete impossibility. I have yet to see a black knight or a band of wandering mercenaries on our road, but when they do arrive, our neighbor will be ready! Under complete assembly, our fence would be easily capable of holding in the dogs. However, our fence is part of our house, and there is nothing associated with our house that really works entirely as it’s supposed to. In all fairness, we really didn’t make much of an attempt to keep the dogs from escaping since we had been associated with a steady source of food so they keep coming back based on that motivation. The problem is that when the dogs do come back, they usually bring a nice house warming present.

We first started noticing Khori getting a little fat the first week that the dogs had been exiled from the house. Then Diane came home one day to find the source of Khori’s increased girth. Diane came up to the door to find Khori laying on her side on the stoop with the final leg and an unidentifiable piece of flesh left over from the chicken she had killed an eaten on her own. This explained the reduced number of free range fowl that normally wandered our small street. Khori had been going and killing the local chickens, bringing them back and eating them solo. The dog had gone from a healthy lean look to Louie Anderson fat in the course of about ten days. This also explained the reduced number of feathers that the turkey on the street had on its rear end.

The solution for all of this was to block up the underside of the gate so that the dogs could not crawl under it. Being avid diggers, the dogs just widened the hole at one of the other end so that they could continue to squeeze through. Thankfully, the hole was still small enough that it was only big enough to accommodate a dog and not a full dog-plus-chicken combo meal. I haven’t been keeping an exact tally on the number of birds in our area, but the chickens that remain have returned to the street. Khori remains rather… portly. I’m pretty sure the birds just out run her now.

By eliminating the fun of destroying the interior of the house, the dogs had to find a new source of entertainment. And what could be more entertaining than the colors, tastes, and smells of the trash. It’s like a giant bucket of sensory enjoyment! So one morning I am woken up by a large crashing sound. It isn’t glass, so it can’t be anyone breaking into the house and it isn’t followed by any other sounds, so I just write it off as something happening at the neighbor’s place. I get up a bit later to be met by the site of the entire trash bin dumped out and strewn across the back porch. Both dogs are looking through the window at me with huge grins on their faces and tails wagging. “Look what we found!! Can you believe someone was going to throw all this away?! Good thing we saved it.” I step back from the window and proceed to make breakfast along with a strong pot of coffee. Eventually, Anne gets up and tells me that she got up during the night and found the dogs after they had first done the deed. I don’t bother with the question of if she punished them then, I just grab a broom and start sweeping milk cartons, plastic wrappers and broken eggs across the porch while she picks it up using trash bags as gloves. After everything has been cleaned, Diane gets up and is brought up to speed on the morning news. Being the upfront and forward woman that she is, she doesn’t beat around the bush and starts demanding answers. From the dogs. “All right, which one of you did this? You’ve both been very naughty!” Both dogs are masters of crime and know not to say a word. She’s got no evidence! It’s just a shake down. We put the local detective force on the case and return to the daily grind.

Our solution to the trash problem was to hold down the lid using rocks. Much to my surprise, this was a solution that actually worked. With their inside source of trash eliminated, the dogs had to resort to external sources, namely the big pile of trash that is at the end of our street. There have been several days when I have been walking up the street on my way home from school only to see Khori in the distance standing on top of the trash heap looking at me. I whistle and she comes bounding down the street in a sort of indirect path that takes her to all the smaller trash piles that separate her from the house. When I arrive, she usually has a strange smell about her and might have a little green goo left on the side of her snout. Petting is not an option.

Where Khori prefers to dine in at the trash heap, Mina has become a fan of take out. She will go to the trash heap, choose the cream of the crap and drag it back to the house. The single dog-sized hole is big enough to pull an empty carton of juice or the bone of some unknown animal through. Khori, being the alpha of the two, usually ends up stealing whatever Mina brings under the fence causing Mina to go back for another selection. This has gone on for long enough now so that you can play connect the dots running from our back door to the street and up the street to the trash pile. Being that the crime lab is still bogged down working through the DNA results from the house feces incidents and the refuse bin dumping, I think this mystery will have to remain unsolved.

After several stints with collecting dead or soon to be dead things, the dogs began to move up to something a bit more exciting. I was working on some lesson plans one day when I heard Diane and Anne screaming outside. I walk out the door and the two neighbor kids, with sticks in hand, are huddled around a large concrete block that is perched across the back of our porch. The dogs are standing by barking and Diane and Anne are standing off to the side pointing and talking to each other. They fill me in on why everyone is so interested in this concrete block. An iguana had run under it to hide from the dogs and the two kids were trying to get it out. The kids were moving around the sides and poking the iguana with sticks while the dogs would dig and then jump back. I was about to try to lever the block out of the way when the iguana chose to bolt. It made a break for the fence as fast as its little iguana legs could carry it. Mina takes off in pursuit running much slower than her little dog legs can carry her, but fast enough to catch the iguana. Mina then trots off carrying the iguana in her mouth. Mr. Iguana does not like this and expresses his distaste by attempting to bite Mina. Mina is having none of this and gives the iguana a good shake every time he tries to bite her neck. Mina runs around the front of the house while the rest of us run around the other way (the side that Mina traveled on is covered by tall grass that makes easy cover for snakes). When we catch up with Mina in the front yard, she has dropped the iguana on the ground and it appears to be dead. Then it breathes just a little. One of the kids comes up and whacks it with a stick. I catch the stick on the back swing for round two and tell the kid that he needs to stop. I take the second stick and use both to pick up the iguana and move it over to the other side of the fence. As I drop it, it flips over and lands on its feet. Free, it takes off into the grass with the dogs running along the other side of the fence.

Ahh… dogs.