The Ridiculous Stephanus

For some reason the month of June has been a lot different than any of my other months of service. I assumed that my second year would be easier, because older volunteers say this to younger volunteers in their first year to give them something to look forward to. I guess this optimism is true, with some things. But recently I have found that after living here so long, and becoming so invested in the people, my friends,my work, the kids...that when things so astray it just hits me harder. With some hard weeks the change in mood is hard to decipher, but this week it was clear. There were four deaths in Kayanga, two old and two young in the last 5 days. It is weird to mention cause of deaths because it is considered such a taboo topic in my life here in Kayanga, but two of these deaths, like so many others in Namibia are due to HIV/AIDS. The question of how someone died is never asked, nor is it ever suggested that it could be due to the HIV epidemic (out of respect for the family) but it is silently, silently, understood.

One of the four deaths happened to be my friend Stephanus, I have mentioned him before in a previous blog entry, he is known as Kayanga's village crazy. I was very surprised how the news of his death hit me, not until about 5 hours after I heard did I break down. Everyone in Kayanga knew him and no one realized the impact he had on the community until after his presence was so obviously absent. I don’t mean 'impact' in a good way...and not in a bad way either. He was just crazy, like bat shit crazy, in a endearing, ridiculous, funny way, but absolutely, completely loyal to anyone in Kayanga, especially me. Actually, he was almost a genius, but he got drunk on 1 dollar traditional beer daily, so that really took away from his intelligence. He was the only one here that could directly translate everything in Thimbukushu for me.

I am going to miss the weird daily interactions with him. Who is going to scream at me while just having a normal conversation because he can't control the volume of his voice? Who is going to get kicked out of every village meeting after demanding he is going to call the president of Namibia to come to Kayanga? Who is going to randomly sing "Twinkle Twinkle" in probably the worst singing voice ever, ever heard while fetching water (like I said, he is ridiculous)? Who is going to help me collect firewood? Who is going to interrupt my morning pre-primary sessions to tell me he needs washing powder? Who is going to randomly come by my home demanding I eat his cow tongue?? Even every single one of my friends (and sister) who have visited Kayanga knew him, because he was always dropping by my home to say hi. One time, my Peace Corps boss visited from the capital and she was scared for me, thinking that a man who was very angry was coming by my home screaming my name, but he was just coming to say hi (like I said, he really can't control the volume of his voice). Half the time my name was Jackie and half the time it was just "my sister!!!" I don’t mean for this to sound like a eulogy or anything, its just that for people around me death is so terribly common, so the character that is Stephanus may not be commemorated the way that he should be.

Angolan Police Station

It is so typical Stephanus the way that he died. This past week a Chinese man was shot in a large village 30 km away from me (like I said, June has been a weird month). Since Stephanus loves to carry news and alert people of things, he took it upon himself to immediately go to Angola (even though it was getting dark) to tell the police man at the border to watch for any suspicious people crossing over that could be the culprits. After that no one ever saw him, they say that he either drowned or was killed by a crocodile. Normally if there is no body, there is not a funeral held, but I have a feeling that this will not be the case with Stephanus. He was way too well known by everyone to not have some sort of gathering, and maybe we will all sing “twinkle twinkle” because we all know he loved it (I am kidding, sort of).

insisting he help Christine cut the pumpkin

helping move my kitchen hut

A Necessary Gift

There are a lot of things we take for granted in America, things that don’t even make us spoiled because they are expected and deserved. Something that people may not think is a luxury turns into something that girls here in my village don’t even think are possible. Sanitary napkins are one of those things. Women and girls in rural villages in Namibia, and in many parts of Africa, use anything they can: leaves, old clothes, dried mud, and newspaper being the most common for their menstrual periods. One of my Namibian friends told me that girls don’t even bother going to school during that time of the month, just spending the whole day in bed. A Returned Peace Corps Volunteer recognized this need and created an amazing initiative to make and donate re-usable pads to rural areas that could greatly benefit. All I had to do was send an email with the number of bags I wanted and somehow get them to Namibia (enter the hero: Christine Gannon who brought them over!)

I sort of had a preconceived idea in my head of what would happen when I gave out the pads. I was excited to finally be able to provide something tangible, especially when they really deserved this. It also come in adorable packaging J I planned on having my women’s group do a health session on puberty to all school attending girls 12 years and older; the changes to expect, how pads work, proper sanitation, and then questions afterwards. After that, in an orderly fashion, we would hand out the bags that had each girls name written on it and take a photo. This is not how it went at all.

health session by Selma

explaining how the pads work

It was complete and total chaos; I have never seen the kids behave like I saw them that day. First, all the boys felt excluded since they were banned from the meeting. They all stayed after school to hang around and see what they were missing out on. Consequently, the pre-primary kids and anyone under 12 situated themselves for the 'show' once they saw the boys peeping in. The worst part is they didn’t just stand quietly outside, boys were literally climbing through the windows (the school windows don’t have glass). Once the pads and bags were handed out, girls were shrieking and jumping up and down. I was assigned to guard the door (they don’t lock or have door knobs) while my woman's group yelled for peace in Thimbukushu. Nothing would stop the madness. It may seem like yes, all these kids were misbehaving, and that's true they were terrors, but it just goes to show how excited they were to receive something that I had completely taken for granted.

the girls with their new pretty pad bags, hand sewn

my womens group, getting pads too!

Jackie and Dongo; Crime Detectives

In one week I learned two interesting ways of how crime is handled in Kayanga. Unfortunately, one I experienced first hand, and the second I was a very confused bystander.

The first was that this past week my kitchen hut was broken into. I have been fortunate to not have any theft in Kayanga, so I felt confused and betrayed that it would happen this far into my service. I got over these feelings rather fast because Dongo, my counterpart, and I became crime investigators pretty immediately. As I was looking for clues it reminded me of my childhood dream to be exactly like Harriet the Spy. Dongo was able to inspect the footprints in the sand right outside my hut, differentiating those from 2 days ago, the day before and that day. He says that he had to learn this when he was a cattle boy when he had to undoubtedly know which cattle belonged to his family and which direction they ventured off to. With his expertise we had a definite lead of the group of kids went into my kitchen hut. The group was later confirmed when they tried to buy fat cakes* with the Zambian bills they stole from my kitchen table. I realize that no matter how hard I try to blend in with people here, trying to live without the same amenities they live without, I will always be viewed as having more. And it's true, my kitchen posses exotic things to them...like peanut butter and... potatoes.

The second crime case was a stabbing (in the arm, minimal damage) that occurred in Kayanga. It is weird because Kayanga is a very safe and very small village, but yes, these two events happened in the same week. There was a huge village meeting about it, big enough that both Kayanga's headman and the Angola headman attended. It finally helped answer the question of what exactly a headman does. He decides the proper punishments for crimes. The village meeting tree is not in my normal route on a Monday, but as I was coming back from my pit latrine I was summoned over by some friends. They recapped the situation for me.

Apparently, for cases like this, the innocent party will be given permission to slaughter the cow of the guilty party. The use of cattle is not abnormal, cattle are usually used for payment for adultery cases, theft, and most other crimes. For more severe cases like this one, however, it is customary to then they smear the blood of the cow onto every part of the man's life; on his house door, on his children's doors, on his other cows, on his car (and if no car then perhaps his oxen sled) and maybe any other creative places they think of. Blood for Blood, I suppose. I couldn’t really decide if I was in favor of the punishment, to publicly humiliate the guilty party, or if I was just grossed out at all the cow blood I would soon be seeing. I would have loved to have direct, word for word translation on that meeting though.

*fat cakes are small, fried dough balls made here that are delicious and dirt cheap

AFREAKIN' ADVENTURE

Some photo highlights of the trip Christine and I took together. We hit 5 African countries in two weeks with no car: we stayed in my village in Namibia, we walked over the border to Angola, hitch hiked to Zambia and Botswana, and walked over the border to Zimbabwe to see Victoria Falls. Not a small feat...

 

In Kayanga

our elephant-BOB