My neighbor, let’s call him Shiveli since he is the first born, is just days away from finishing 8th Grade. Lately, he has been too busy studying for his final exams to visit me, as he normally does. When he visits me, he does it in proper African fashion. That is, he shows up, he greets me, and he invites himself in. I admit that sometimes this peeves me if I feel too busy for conversation. But, each time my self-important busyness fades away when Shiveli shares his stories.
Story
My Poor Skin
StoryThere is a someone–or rather, a something–that has accompanied me on every journey. Yet, I have neglected to share that something’s story. I regret this, and I feel that it is time I acknowledged my poor skin. It’s been patiently waiting for its story to be shared.
My skin has strayed only a few times from the Rust Belt of the United States; that strip of land between lake and river sacrificed for American industry–for automobiles, airplanes, and railways. It knew different versions of this old place: Michiana, the Allegheny side of Appalachia, Green Mountains, and a Windy City; but versions hold similarities. My eyes are used to farms atop filled-in coal mines and the rusted mills where that coal was sent. My ears have always heard gun shots, demolition derbies, and the slow hum of tractors. My nose is accustomed to bonfires and summer sweet corn. My tongue knew goulash, halupki, pierogis, pepperoni rolls, and homemade maple syrup. But, my skin–my skin has felt many sensations.
It’s too Hot
StoryOne of the first tasks to undertake with my Ohalushu-based host mother was to do some shopping in Ondangwa. Ondangwa is the sprawling town just south of home via the B1 highway, which spans all the way from Angola to South Africa. After school ended, we met another teacher at the wheel of her massive pickup. Two primary school students were also present, and I heard them mention being sent to buy fish. The two little girls floated up into the covered truck bed, followed by my awkward and gangly self-hoisting.
Our first stop in the city was at a fish distribution center with the slogan “Power in Fish.” Only about ten customers were allowed to enter at a time, so our driver and the two girls took their places in line. I sat with some strangers and bargained for apples. After a small eternity, we continued on our journey. The truck bed received me, the girls, and four bags of frozen, salted fish.
Tornadoes and Crocodiles
StoryOn my second day as volunteer, one of my fellow teachers approached me with questions about the United States. In the past (cf. Tanzania), questions like “Is Canada a state?” and comments like “But you are European” annoyed me. However, my fellow teacher changed the way I feel about these seemingly ignorant questions.
The War, My Dear
StoryNot every story I hear is a pleasant one.
During last month a neighbor—I’ll call her Tina—often came to visit me and her grandfather, who was the patriarch of my homestead. Tina is fashionable, very intelligent, and runs a cuca shop a few nights per week. She also attends church in order to help fill seats, as she puts it. Tina’s most boisterous performance occurred while I was writing a lesson plan in a small, hot room on the homestead. She began with a question to engage me, her captive audience.
Our School
Story
This week, a fellow volunteer and I have taken charge of Grade 7, which was left without a teacher when another volunteer finished his two years of service. The Grade 7 learners (the official term for students in Namibia) are fascinating. They have achieved the impossible and are somehow simultaneously outspoken and shy. Eagerly, they shoot their hands into the air and snap for attention. Once they have been called on, then, they cover their mouths with their hands and whisper into their fingers. In total, the group is 38 learners, and this makes fitting into one room a challenge on its own.
The Best Language Teacher
Story
All the stories I have shared here on this blog have come from moments when I communicated with others in languages that I understand. I must admit that the following one breaks with that tradition.
Is that … German?
Story
The impact that foreigners, especially Germans and Apartheid-era South Africans, had on Namibia is still very present. It is tangible not only by the architecture of inns, biergartens, or barbed-wired watchtowers, but also by the living memories and oral histories that parents share with their children. It can also be felt whenever I meet a new friend, host family, or even teacher. If the first question is not about my possible identity as Boer, then it is as follows:
They are 657
StoryIn celebration of my host sister’s graduation from Grade 12, we threw a party at home. This consisted mostly of middle-aged women and their children dancing and eating as many different types of meat as possible.
Good Hygiene
Story
After a few days of being at the training site and shaking off the fog of jetlag, we’ve been able to communicate like real human beings again. Recently, some volunteers and I ate lunch with two of the Namibian trainers. My plate overflowed with game meat, butternut squash, and potatoes. We also drank some mango juice, and this prompted one of the trainers–a self-described “mixed chakalaka” who represents all of Namibia’s vast diversity in one person–to admit something to us.
Tim the Nomad 