I see a lot of strange things out of my kitchen window. A completely naked man walked past my
house the other day. All he had
with him that he wasn’t born with was a t-shirt that he had slung over his
shoulder. He seemed unconcerned
and quite at his leisure. Possibly
drunk, possibly mentally compromised.
Mental health services don’t exist here, or at least the lack of
capacity makes them constructively non-existent.
A few days after the naked man’s stroll, there was person
sleeping inside of a discarded section of a large drainage pipe that sits
across the street. A day later,
two friends had moved in with him.
They slept practically in a pile and reminded me of how my dog and his
friend used to sleep on top of one another (the things that make you think of
home). The morning after that, my
drain spout neighbors disappeared, and a woman in dirty purple dress replaced
them. She didn’t look good. She was just standing there looking
around and talking to herself.
When she’d turn I could see that the back of her dress was torn wide
open. She looked like she was
maybe 20. I was considering asking
her if she needed help when two men in matching blue shirts arrived on foot. Behind them followed an older woman and
two children. When the men spoke
to the girl, she got irritated and started yelling in Rukwangali. I couldn’t make out much of what she
was saying besides “kembo” and “kapi tani diva” which means ‘home’ and ‘I don’t
know’. The men seemed flustered
yet mildly entertained by her while the older woman showed no emotion at
all. The girl appeared quite
drunk. A cab pulled up and one of
the men opened the door and the other took the girl by the shoulders and tried
to guide her into the back seat, which made her erupt. She fought and screamed and the men
laughed and retreated. They
appeared to be friends or family and no threat to her. The older woman just watched
blank-faced, as did the children who now stood atop of the abandon drainage
pipe. The girl walked away
crookedly, yelling while the men watched and smiled wearily and spoke to one
another. The cab pulled off and
the group stood there, obviously uncertain of how to deal with their
friend.
The other night I was walking home from a friend’s house
when a woman offered me a ride. It
was late, just after 11PM, but I was in a pretty safe part of town. Though I’m recovering from mono, I
still have moments of weakness and dizziness and about 3 blocks into my walk
the whole world started spinning and I had to lean against a wall and wait for
it to stop. She said she’d thought
I was drunk because of how I was walking, which is reasonable given the amount
of drinking that occurs in Rundu during the holidays. I explained to her I wasn’t drunk, but was just a bit weak
from a sickness. She was in town
to spend time with her sister whose son had killed himself the previous
day. She said she’d passed me in
her car and thought to herself that it wasn’t safe for me to be walking out
here alone at night and so turned around to come collect me. She spoke about Jesus and helping
others while I sat there feeling like shit and trying to maintain the
conversation through my headache.
Her name was Ester and she asked for my number and then texted me for
the next few days to see if I was feeling better. The fact that she was in town for such a reason as a family
member suicide didn’t shock me.
It’s not unusual to hear of the death of somebody’s friend
or family member. Pickup trucks
full of the mourning friends and family of some recently deceased person are a
weekly sight (and often multiple times a week). Car accidents and suicides top the list of the causes of
deaths that I’m actually told about, though far more often than not no
explanation is offered (likely meaning HIV). One day, I think in September, a gentleman came to my office
seeking help in creating a funeral program for his young nephew. The boy was only 7. After completing the program and
printing copies I told him I was sorry for his loss. He said, “These things happen”. I asked what happened.
He said, “He was sick”. I
left it at that. Life expectancy
in Namibia is 52 years, but in the Kavango, Namibia’s poorest region, it’s
42.
Coffin making is a big business here. There was a month-long coffin making
training just outside of my office window. They started it a few days after I’d hung a Halloween
skeleton in my window I’d received in a care package. The skeleton stood smiling and waving over the coffin making
students for a month and I came to see it as their school mascot. I probably should have taken it down,
but I didn’t.
For a kid, the death of a parent is often far more than just
an emotional hardship. Family
members sometimes swoop in to claim ownership of the deceased's property, the
traditional authority often supporting these claims (*a brief explanation of
difference between traditional and government authority at bottom of this post). Sometimes kids simply get kicked out to
find their own way. Recently, my
friend Anneke had a young girl (16 years old) staying with her for a few
nights. The girl’s father had died
and, since then, she’d been kicked out of three successive houses in a matter
of weeks. The girl then hiked to
Grootfountain, a town about 150 miles from here, to stay with an Aunt. Anneke hasn’t heard from her since.
One of my closer friends here, Klemi, lost her father when
she was 13. He contracted a lung
disease after working for many years in an uranium mine. While she, her mother, and siblings
were away for the funeral, her great uncle (and oldest male relative of the
deceased) emptied their house of all of their belongings except for their
clothing, which he left on the floor.
He found the father’s will and destroyed it. He then took claim of the father’s business, a restaurant,
and property. He even tried to
kick the family out of the house, but the community stepped in to stop
him. He left them with nearly nothing
and there was little anybody could do about it as the traditional authority
dictates that ownership goes to the oldest male relative. Klemi, her mother, and her siblings
would have been in a position of abject poverty if it weren’t for her late father’s
boss, who helped to support the family and hired her oldest brother to work for
him.
Klemi is part of the Kwanyama tribe, which comes under the
larger tribal group known as the Ovambos.
Many Namibian tribal traditions and ceremonies are beautiful, complex,
and interesting to witness and take part in. Then there are the customs that leave your jaw on the floor
in utter disbelief, such as Okufukala.
Okufukala is the Kwanyama tradition of taking 16-year-old girls and
parading them nude (except for a “tiny skirt”) in front of men who then choose
a wife from among the selection.
When the time came for Klemi to participate in Okufukala, she snuck from
her home and walked 30 miles to her grandmother’s village where she hid for a
month. I asked her what would have
happened if she had simply refused to participate. She said, “They would have come into the house and taken
me. You can’t refuse. Even my mother wouldn’t have been able
to stop them. The men would have
come and taken me.”
Klemi’s flight from Okufukala occurred 10 years ago. In recent years, Okufukala has become
the controversy it ought to be and its practice is diminishing. However, it still occurs in some of the
more remote communities.
That’s all for now.
I realize this is a bit of a dark post. Namibia is a beautiful place full of friendly, welcoming,
and often very happy people. I’ve
been treated well and have never once feared for my safety. There is, however, the poverty,
disease, alcoholism, and the sometimes-troubling aspects of Namibian culture
that result in a lot of despair for a lot of people. The frequency of tragic and otherwise life altering events is
greater here than in a more developed country. There is a great sense of stability in the states where, here, there's a constant churn in the foundation upon which people establish their lives. As I become closer to the people in my community and hear
more stories of their lives, I start to get a better sense of the often
treacherous and painful path of a typical life in the Kavango. Thanks for reading.
*Traditional Authority vs. Government
I am no expert on the complex relationship between tradition
and government authorities in the Kavango, but the basics go something like
this:
The three biggest tribes in the Kavango region of Namibia are
the Thimbukushu, the Romanyo, and the Kwangali (that’s my tribe). Within each of these tribes there is a
power structure (“traditional authority”) that is headed by a Chief, or “Big
Man” (except for the Thimbukushu Chief who calls himself the “Fumu”, which I’m
told translates roughly into “God”.
Historically speaking, men who call themselves God tend to be dicks. The Fumu is no exception. I’ll delve into that one on some future
post.) When it comes to who makes
the rules and who calls the shots, the Kavango is a bit schizophrenic. There is the established government
authority, which in the Kavango is the “Regional Council”, and then there are
the unofficial tribal authorities noted above. The Regional Council claims ultimate authority, but they go
to great lengths to keep the peace with the traditional authorities and often
work directly with them on development projects, protecting the environment and
wildlife, and health initiatives.
However, in cases regarding issues such as petty crime, property
ownership, land disputes, and disputes between families, often these things
fall to the traditional authorities to deal with.
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