Oh you fancy huh

Almost one year ago I was preparing to leave for Namibia and trying, and failing, to picture how my life would be. I assumed that every single day would be a constant reminder that I was away from the entire life I had built back in Rhode Island. Oddly enough, things have become really regular now, in a good way. It's pretty great that I can wake up at 7 am by the school kids singing their morning songs and instead of me walking out my dirt hut, to a herd of chickens pecking around my yard, being like "I'M IN AFRICA?"' it's more, "I'm late, do I have time to wash my feet??"

The other day, however, I was able to step back and think of how my someone back home would react to my situation if they were sitting their right next to me (hopefully collecting just as much back sweat as me as opposed to my fellow Namibians, who do not sweat!). It was during one of our monthly meetings when someone from the closest town comes in to check our reporting. To paint the picture: we are 17 in the project, all sitting in a circle on our shetenge skirts that double as mats on the sand, under the big tree waiting for the visitors. The visitors pull up in their car and we stand to start the welcome song. The two regular men hop out of the car, but with them is a lady wearing a fancy work suit. They go around the circle to greet each person individually, it takes 10 minutes. They sit on down on the straw mat (brought out just for them) and the fancy lady looks slightly uncomfortable. We find out that she is from the city and does not understand my project member's native tongue. The meeting starts with the opening prayer and then proceeds as normal, except this time I tried to see it through her eyes. There are babies...everywhere. All of us in the circle don’t ever watch the man who is speaking we just watch the babies play and eat sand in the middle of our circle. And then when one starts to cry the mother grabs him/her, and starts breastfeeding. Full breast showing. The man is going on and on and I never ever listen because the Thimbukushu is so fast there, the 3 or 4 times my name is said I perk up and just say 'ihii ihii' (which is like the 'hmmm hmmm yes'). And then a herd of goats interrupt our meeting. They don’t intrude just with their 'baaa-ing', they actually come running right through the middle of our circle. The lady jumps up, and I don’t blame her. One year ago I would have had the same reaction while searching everyone's eyes to see if anyone else is as weirded out as I am. But this lady is the only one even flinching. Andrias (a village man perfect in snake freak-out moments) takes control of the goats and herds them to the other side of the fence.

The meeting continues for another 3 hours until the closing prayer and the town group leaves. I am guessing that the woman is grateful to be on her way back to a her regular life. That is an emotion I am familiar with. Previously, every time I just felt uncomfortable or was being gawked at I wanted to go into town to be with friends or at least have an American buddy next to me to easy the awkwardness. But now that unfamiliar feeling is just my normal. And don’t get me wrong, I still face uncomfortable situations all the time or have the feeling that I need to get out of the village (and eat carbs!) but I always always am so happy to come back to my friends, my kids, the old meme's and ya, even the village crazy.

 

Kayanga Characters

If my life in Kayanga were made into a TV show I am sure of which people would get the most air time. The best part is that these ridiculous and wonderful people who I have met here have become such a normal part of my life that the bizarre interactions and conversations don’t faze me anymore.

First we have Stephanus, he is the good village crazy (yes, there is a bad one). He is also nicknamed "nam water" because he is constantly fetching water for anyone that will give him 2 Namibian dollars  that he then can go spend on traditional beer. He will come visit me to say hi, talk about something random, not let me speak, and walk away while screaming "you are my sister, Jackie. You are my family, we are Mbukushu!" Then once he is gone I can go back to what I was doing 20 minutes before he barged in. He can also be extremely helpful; offering to weed my yard to keep the snakes away, helping me fix my reed fence because goats are always scratching themselves against it or parading through, and on a couple occasions coming over just to demand I eat the cow tongue he is offering me or try to sell me "piggy meat". He walks around the village like he is a military Sargent, yelling random orders at people so you would think he was very angry, even the way he yells my name sounds like he is furious with me, but that is just how his voice is.

Another well known Kayangian is my host grandmother, Letesia. I knew when I first met her several months ago when I first got to my site, that would get along. It's sort of impossible for me to ever converse with her because her Thimbukushu is so old school/traditional that I can't grasp it. At any point in the day you will see her sitting under her tree, which can only be known as Letesia's Tree, sometimes selling the traditional beer or the occasional cow meat, but most times just sitting with chickens all around her. She will do random activities like swat bushes or rake the same spot over and over again. If I get bored I go and sit with her and she doesn't mind that we never talk much.

Entertainment is hard to come by. I get to spend countless hours hanging around the local shop after work while I sip a cool drink and people laugh at my Thimbukushu or even I just sit there and listen to their banter that I understand only 30% of. If I get tired of that I go and play with the group of kids always lingering around the shop. We play with the soccer ball they made out of plastic bags and a mere elastic band. Things are pretty simple here.

Letisia, at her tree obviously

New Year Resolutions

Now that I am getting settled into work again in the new year I have a little bit more freedom to decide which work I want to focus on, with almost a year under my belt. I think teaching at the kindergarten brings equal amounts of frustrations and joy. The kids gave me a quick 'in' into the community and even though sometimes I feel like a babysitter, nourishing kids while they're young is so significant, especially when I don't see education stressed in their home settings. Since I was able to get to know all the toddlers in Kayanga so well, I reap the benefits of every time I walk somewhere groups of them run from their huts to give me hugs. In this new year, however, I am slowly stepping back from that, to allow someone else to step up.

The problem with limiting my work at the kindergarten every morning is that I have more down time, which means I am expected to find my own work. My center is made up of a hut with 2 huge kettle pots and a half finished brick building, there is no boss to report to at 8 am, no clocking in, no emails to check, no fiddling on the computer to even pretend like I am working. So I am out in the community, having my meetings after school with my girls group and dance group, and out under the tree with my woman's group and then...everything else is up in the air. I knew this was part of the deal when I signed up for Peace Corps, never having the satisfaction that comes from job regularity. One could think that being a year into service I would be an expert in the way of my fellow Kayangians but still, there are times I always feel a step behind. For example, I expected the rainy season to obviously bring lots of rain, but what I didn’t account for are the hours and hours that go into plowing for the few morning hours when it is dry. Then everyone seeks shelter under their thatch roofs for the rest of the day. Literally no one is outside, and I can understand why, it is just down pouring the whole day. I guess this is Africa's version of a snow storm that the trucks can't clear by rush hour. My center is completely volunteer based and I can see the effort the women put in to the center when that is not their form of income, they completely live off their livestock and fields. Knowing that the woman are taking time out of raising their family, plowing their fields and all of their daily chores makes it easier to accept my role as a volunteer, we are all on the same page and all receiving the same benefits (aka no money and only personal gratification). It also makes the day better because they sing while they work. I shouldn't expect the woman to work at my convenience when every single year from Dec to April this is what they do. So I target the work that I can, and try not to beat myself over the things I can't control.

I won't sell myself short and say that I am not doing any work here, I left 2011 being proud of what was done and I am very excited about my ideas for 2012, but it's intimidating waking up and knowing the day will only be what you make of it. No one will reprimand me if I just read out by the river all day, or even if I take a trip to my friends place 20 km away. After weeks of that behavior my center would mind, but I essentially have the liberty of working what and when ever I wish. That's a lot of power that I could really abuse. When I was speaking to my dad the other day he said something that put me at ease, essentially living where I am is working. One of the goals in Peace Corps is exchanging cultures, so by me washing my clothes with my friends, listening to their stories or practicing English with the kids while I am at the shop, that is me working. It's certainly not a 9-5, but I am trying to find the balance between setting the bar too high, to avoid a big let down, but never feeling too comfortable with my efforts. 

Namibian Loyalty

I was forewarned that the months in between crop seasons brings tougher times for families in Kayanga. Those that didn't ration their food supply simply just...don't have food. As a result, there are more people getting sick and more people dying. Even knowing all this it is still shocking the amount of funerals just in my village. I have only attended about half of them, and still that is more funerals I ever thought could be packed into a four month period. Despite having attended countless funerals (I even mentally block Saturday mornings off for the chance they will come up), I have not felt personally connected to any of them. They were people that I saw, but no one I interacted with personally or regularly. That sounds heartless, but for me, wearing the traditional shetenges and walking to the river with the funeral procession is more feeling a unity with the rest of the community.

The reality of the season that we are in right now hit me last week when I was at a memorial service at the homestead right next to mine (homestead is where a group of huts in the same compound with extended family members live). We were all sitting outside with a candle in the middle, separating the men from the women, when my closest friend, Selma, abruptly left. I didn't think much of it, thinking she was called to help serve the food. Minutes later I found out that her aunt had just passed away. The deaths are back to back, and this was the first one I felt very affected by. Selma and her older sister, Isabella, were my first friends here and now are my closest friends. Their younger sister is one of the stars on my dance team. I teach their 4 children in my kindergarten. Their now deceased aunt, Miltread, first taught me how to carry water on my head and cared for me when I was sick with food poisoning. I have grown to really love their whole family, and they refer to me as their sister.

What I really have come to admire so much is the loyalty here. I am their sister simply because those that live, eat, grieve, and share with them are their sisters. I have long stopped trying to figure out the family connections. Everybody is family, whether it be biological or not. And in an area where polygamous relationships are common, this ideal is even more amplified. I come from a small town, where at graduation it is known that the kid sitting in the aisle seat is the one who puked at the roller rink in third grade, and the one next to me, I helped him after he broke his nose at the town's sledding hot spot way back when. We had schooled together since pre-school, there is history there. In Kayanga it is similar, except that history equates to family. Any money you make is shared, any food you have is communal, babies are raised by the entire homestead, and the people here are contained in a small pocket of Namibia trying to keep hold of their culture and their precious Bantu language.