Motorcycle dog

Hello All.  No blog post this week.  I'm sick and just deleted a totally mediocre blog post.  It was for the best.  Tomorrow morning, I leave for a couple weeks of training in Windhoek.  I'll be standing on the main road out of Rundu at about 6AM trying to find a hike with two other PCVs.  In Windhoek, I'll be reunited with the rest of my Peace Corps group.  It'll be good to see them.  Over the next week or so, I'll do my best to involve myself in shenanigans sufficient to produce decent blog material.  I hope you are all well. 

Here's one of my favorite photos from last summer.  Motorcycle dog awaits the return of his owner.  Watkins Glen, NY.

Skirt Chasing in Oshakati

Last Friday, I took my first trip out of the Kavango region to a town called Oshakati.  Oshakati is about 300 miles west of Rundu.  I caught a ride with a nice gentleman named Habit.  Habit was on his way to Ondongwa, which is the town next door to Oshakati.  Habit is a husband and father of 3.  He’s a salesman, so we stopped a few places along the way so that he could call on some of his accounts.  We also stopped for every hitchhiker on the route, which made our progress glacial.  Most of the people we picked up were just going a few kilometers down the road.  The scene in the back seat was like a hitchhiker slideshow; a lone traveler in a suit with a clip board, a man and woman with three kids, two memes in dusty dresses with big baskets full of something heavy, a pregnant woman who needed to go to the hospital (we had to leave the main road to make that delivery), we were waved down by a man and his young daughter who I was surprised to find out was looking for a ride for only his young daughter (he paid for her and she jumped in the car and off she went with two adult men, both complete strangers), two old men dressed in well worn suits who we dropped off in front of a church, and many others. 

Near the halfway point (Okongo) we had three men in the backseat.  Habit had some work to do in Okongo and I followed him into the store to see what it was he was up to. Two of the men were still at the car when we returned, but the third had wandered off.  We asked the remaining men what had happened to #3, but they didn’t know.  I jokingly said, “Maybe we should check the bars”, which triggered a brief conversation among the men in some language I was unfamiliar with.  Habit told us all to get in the car and off we went to the area with the bars.  I stood watch over the car while the three men went out into a large sandy roadside lot that contained some permanent and temporary structures that contained small shops, restaurants, and bars.  The temporary places were just stick frames draped with dirty, tattered fabric.  I could see two of the men moving through the crowd and sticking their heads into the store-cubicles.  I then heard Habit yelling and turned to find him throwing words into the patio area of a grocery store when our missing traveler emerged holding a beer.  Everybody returned to the car and we all got in without comment and went on our way. 

The only thing we stopped for more than humans on this trip were farm animals.  The entire trip across the top of Namibia is through farming areas where herds of cows and goats roam in great numbers.  Donkeys and dogs are also common reasons for applying the brakes.  At one point we were at a dead stop with an enormous bull right in front of our car. It’s massive head and horns were turned toward us and though Habit was laying on the horn, the bull looked at us as if to say, “what the hell are you going to do if I don’t move?”  The sight of this enormous creature staring us down made everybody in the car chuckle.  Habit then said, “It’s the babies you have to watch for.  You never know what they’ll do.”  He then commented on how dangerous it was to travel at night here.  As a PCV, I’m not allowed to travel at night and it’s a rule I agree with 100%. 

Habit got a call shortly after we left Okongo.  It was one of his work colleague and he was calling to inform Habit that another colleague had died.  Death here is part of the landscape.  Rarely does a week pass that I don’t have somebody around me talking about a death or a funeral.  I imagine many are AIDS related, but those are the ones you never find out why.  Others are accidents or sicknesses, such as Habit’s friend who died from complications related to diabetes.  Habit was a bit quieter for the rest of the trip, though he still laughed every time he got a baby cow to run for its life.  The site really tickled him for some reason.

At 5:15AM the next morning, I woke up in a small studio apartment belonging to PCV Ashley with two other PCVs; Pam, and Samantha.  The reason for the early alarm was that Pam and I would be running in a half marathon that morning.  We were out the door at 6:00 and encountered a woman and a gentleman who were staying next door.  The woman was dressed to run and she looked legit.  I’ve seen some serious runners in my life and she looked like a pro to me.  We greeted each other and then they jogged off down the road.  It was the first time that day that I wondered if we might be a bit out of our league here, but I decided to keep my concerns to myself. 

After the typical Nam-Style delay, we were at the starting line with about 55 other runners at 7:10AM.  I checked out the crowd and they looked serious, save for a man in plaid shorts and a collared shirt and a meme in a long, heavy looking skirt.  I was somewhat comforted by the meme.  Along with the long skirt, she was wearing a purple blouse, and pretty silkish hat.  I arrogantly thought, “here’s one I should be able to stay in front of”.  Then I got a glimpse of the technical running tights she had on under her skirt and I got an “uhh ohh” feeling again.  As the announcer was warning everybody of the immanent start, the skirt wearing meme began to rock back and forth throwing her balled fist into her palm. 

The starting pistol went off and the 55 runners surrounding Pam and I immediately vanished.  It was as if we had been mistakenly entered into a greyhound race.  I felt like I’d just been stripped naked and was running for no other reason than get out of the stadium and away from all of the spectators in it.  The pack of runners ahead of us exited the stadium about twice as quickly as Pam and I, the skirt wearing meme with them.  The whole scene just plain confused me.  How could all of them be this fast?  My hope was that everybody in the race was just profoundly bad at pacing themselves. 

I could see a few people up ahead, so I pushed myself to chip away at their lead.  I passed one at 4km and then a couple more around 6km.  I then had my new nemesis in my sights, her skirt bouncing back and forth with each stride, mocking me.  It took until the 8km mark to catch the meme, just around the same time the front of the pack passed me going the other way.  I yelled, “you’re going the wrong way!”  None seemed amused.  Race faces on all of them.  My next goal was to pass the man in the plaid shorts and collared shirt.  I caught him at about the 12km mark.  I was encouraged by how much the people I was passing seemed to be suffering.  I still felt pretty good, so I pushed a bit harder.  I passed about 6 more people before pulling back into the stadium.  I crossed the finish line and stopped my watch at 1:33:13.  Pam did great too.  Having started from zero about 4 months ago, she finished her first half marathon in 1:54, well under 9 minutes per mile. 

After the race we headed back to Ashley’s place where we again encountered the woman we’d met that morning, this time with her bag over her shoulder ready to travel somewhere.  We chatted briefly and asked how she’d done in the race.  She said 1:08 (1:05:50 is the world record for women).  We noticed that her bag had Olympic rings and the Namibian flag on it.  I looked her up online a few days later and found that her name was Beata Naibambo.  She’s now in London to compete in the Olympics. 

After some pizza, we headed off to Samantha’s village Ongha where we would spend the next two nights.  Samantha’s living situation is pretty quintessential Peace Corps, so I was excited to visit and finally experience village life.  Her village is small.  There are a few shops on the roadside, but little else.  Off the road there are compounds spread about, each roughly a half mile from the other.  The compounds are little islands among sand, grass, trees, and mahongu fields.  Her compound consisted of about 10 to 12 buildings.  Some were brick and thatch roof living areas, some were small coops for animals, one was cement walled cooking area, one was specifically for pounding grain into mahongu (grain porridge), and a bird coup that they kept pigeons in (though I’m not sure what for).  Roosters and chickens followed by baby chicks wandered about.  A dog (Hoffa) and two puppies were also in the mix, though Hoffa had run away from another volunteer’s homestead.  Outside the fence wandered the occasional herd of cows or goats.  They had a small pig coup out there too, with a not so big pig in it. 

Samantha’s host family couldn’t have been nicer.  When we arrived with the runaway Hoffa, one of the first comments Sam’s host brother, Shakongo, made was “What have you done to this dog?”  Sam wasn’t sure what he meant, but I knew he was referring to the fact that the Hoffa was a boy, yet lacked testicles.  Shakongo knew that removing a dog’s testicles was something only a foreigner would do.  It was the first time I saw a Namibian look at, or speak about, a dog with anything that remotely approached actual caring.  I guess Shakango saw this as a line you do not cross.  Not even with a dog.  I can appreciate that. 

Pam, Sam, Ashley, and I settled into the cooking area and made some lentil and pumpkin stew with porridge.  The rest of the evening was just talking and laughing.  We spent some time sitting around the fire and then I slept like a baby.  The next morning, Ashley headed home, and Sam, Pam, Hoffa and I went for a run.  Our destination was the homestead of another volunteer, Nick. 

Nick is the owner of Hoffa.  He greeted us at his compound gate in the worn out clothing of a seasoned Peace Corps volunteer.  His time with the Peace Corps will be ending soon.  23 of his 26 months are now behind him.  He told us how his hut had no roof when he arrived, and about a job he was confident he would get in Gibraltar, and about the freak-out moment he had after arriving to his site for good for the fear that he wouldn’t be able to handle the situation, and about all of the medical red tape you have to go through at the end of Peace Corps service.  He said that since he was within 3 months of leaving Namibia that he wanted to stay close to his site, which I thought was cool.  I hope that I have a similar feeling about Rundu in two years.   

From Nick’s, we walked back to Sam’s.  Nick cradled Hoffa like a baby so he wouldn’t follow us.  We got back to Sam’s, ate lunch, and then I was invited to play soccer with Sam’s host brothers.  I was a bit tired from the half marathon and the morning run/walk, but how could I say no?  My first teammate was a 7 year old that was far more soccer savvy than I.  We played Sam’s host brother, Shakongo.  Later, other brothers and neighbors joined, all fresh and ready to compete.  It was a blast.

That night everybody ate together around a small campfire.  There wasn’t a moon, so the Milky Way was like a cloudy river above us.  The boys asked us to tell stories about home.  I was impressed by how well Sam could navigate the dark compound.  She said, “it’s only a problem when they plant new trees”.  When we were no longer able to keep our eyes open we left the fire and went back to our rooms and that was that for the day. 

We got up early the next day and headed back to the road to catch hikes home.  Pam and gracious hostess Sam stood on one side of the road, and I on the other.  We both found hikes simultaneously after only a minute of waiting.  We all smiled and waved to each other and started on our various travels.  After two short rides, I caught a hike all the way back to Rundu with a man named Shame.   Shame was a lab technician from Zimbabwe who took a job in Namibia after his wife was killed in a bus accident two years ago.  We talked about his work, and Zimbabwe, and his two children, and music, and about how quickly time passes.  He said he wanted to start his own business and that he would visit me at my office.  When we got to Rundu, he brought me to his work and showed me all of the instruments he works with and he told me that after 22 years of this work, he wanted to do something new.  He thought maybe an internet café that also does printing and copying.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to help him down that path. 

Thanks for reading.  Here are some photos from the weekend:

Pack Mule Jimmy.  We're on the walk from the main road to Samantha's compound in Ongha.

Some shots from Samantha's Compound in Ongha;

At Shame's work after returning to Rundu.  That's Shame with his hands on this hips checking out a malfunctioning machine.

Red Tape and Trashcans

There are parts of this post that aren't great for kids.

Friday the 13^th in a country that is really superstitious isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.  To many Namibians, an owl is a witch and snake is an agent Satan.  People here are killed by snakes sometimes, so I can understand the origins of that superstition.  But owls I don’t get.  They eat snakes, so they act as a sort of protector of the people.  I’ve had this conversation a few times here, but I’ve given up on trying to get Namibians to love owls.  I have, however, been having some success with punctuality.  I’m now working with 7 different aspiring entrepreneurs.  Most of my consultees’ business plans are coming along nicely and two of them have managed to get meetings with Bank Windhoek to discuss loans (at 30% interest).  Something that they’ve all learned is to show up on time.  You have no idea what a significant accomplishment that is.   

Two Fridays ago, I was sitting in my office when one of my counterparts entered and asked that I judge a debate between 7 schools on gender based violence.  I said ‘yes’ not knowing exactly what I was agreeing to.  If we had a debate team in my high school, I wasn’t aware of it.  I have never been to a debate and I had no idea what they entailed.  The next Monday, after a somewhat typical nothing-occurring-as-planned-scramble, which included a venue change and the event coordinator vanishing (he unceremoniously reappeared two days later, thank goodness), and two hours of chaos later, the debate started.  Since we were so far behind schedule, none of the judges were introduced.  I was shown my seat on the stage, given a stack of debate scoring forms, and a pencil.  My mother is hopelessly nice, and part of that has rubbed off on me when it comes to situations like this.  I gave each team better scores than I probably should have, but I figured as long as I was being consistent, it was still fair.  Each team selected one person from their team to speak about the issue of gender based violence, give examples, discuss whether they feel it is more of a social issue or a government issue to address, and finally their suggestion for steps that should be taken to address it.  Many used very recent newspaper articles as examples (no shortage of these).  Some even spoke about violence they’d witnessed.  Gender based violence is a big problem here.  News stories about girlfriends being murdered by jealous boyfriends are common.  TV ads are run to bring attention to the issue, as well as various other types of awareness campaigns. 

Another big issue here is teen pregnancy (70% teen pregnancy rate in the Kavango region).  The Namibian government and other volunteer organizations have been particularly focused on this problem recently.  Wednesday was “World Population Day” which is meant to promote the “Universal Access to Reproductive Health Services”.   The day started with a march.  I met the roughly 100 marchers at a local gas station.  The march was supposed to begin at 8:00AM.  I was not surprised when the March didn’t start on time.  I got to spend the 1.5 hour delay wading through the sea of learns, taking photos, and begging them to let me get a least a few shots free of gang signs (they learn that crap from American rappers, gang activity isn’t an issue in Rundu).  It turned out to be a fun day.  Here are some shots:

Getting ready to march

The Youth Center's traditional dance group performing for the Minister of Youth and other officials

The Youth Center's traditional dance group

In other news, my trashcan got stolen.  I got in a heated debate with the agency that handles Rundu garbage pickup when they told me I’d have visit their office in person after filing a police report if I wanted a replacement (it’s a trashcan).  I gave my housemate Gio the project as I hadn’t made a strong first impression with the Ministry of Red Tape and Trashcans.  I hoped that, for Gio’s sake, they wouldn’t mistake him for me.  I thought to warn him, but then figured ignorance is bliss.  We were almost through the two-week process of getting a replacement when, yesterday, somebody returned our stolen trashcan.  In Africa, random inexplicable things occur every single day. 

I often find myself thinking about what I was doing this time last year.  A year ago yesterday, I did my first half ironman (and, to date, last).  It was a nasty 90-degree day in the New York state wine region.  The race started on the north end of the enormous Seneca Lake.  A steady morning breeze had turned the lake treacherous, so the first 30 minutes of the event was spent swimming through 1 to 2 foot waves with the roughly 50 others that were in my heat.  The bike ride took us east to the shore of Cayuga Lake and then back again to Seneca.  The half marathon took us west out of Geneva into the vineyard covered hills.  After the event, I staggered back to my truck, drove back to Watkins Glen and spent the next 24 hours in bed except for trips to the bathroom.  So much has occurred in my life since then that it's hard to believe it was only one year ago.  I don't know why I'm even mentioning this.  It's just on my mind.  

My Google searches have gotten a bit strange thanks to my new responsibilities.  I’m currently researching how many eggs and chicks can be expected from 20 hens and 3 cocks in a 6 month period, market prices for dolf, cherry, and teak wood, quotes for lumber cutting machines, how many t-shirts can be produced from a $N635 printing cartridge.    I also had a conversation last week with the Bible Society of Namibia to get a price on a Rukwangali Bible (About $10 American if you were wondering.  Stocking stuffer?). 

Yes, this is a weak post.  The next few weeks will be busy for me as I’m finally getting traction on my next workshop (workshop for young out-of-school females who are interested in starting their own business).  I’m also working on some smaller side projects involving Rundu residents with disabilities and also on a project to construct much needed pit latrines and boreholes at some of the more remote schools in the region (this final project is currently in pipe-dream status, but I hope that some meetings this week will promote it to long-shot status). 

I hope you are all well.  Thanks for reading.  I'll leave you with a sunset photo near the Kavango river.  

my office theme music

no post today.  just a video from the youth center.  late most afternoon some of the youth gather outside and play hand drums and dance.  it's a great site as I walk out and head home.  i sometimes step in for a bit on one of the hand drums.  the singing is beautiful with a setting sun in the background it's all just very Africa. 

Don’t ruin that memory for me

On Tuesday, I was feeling lazy after work, so instead of walking home from my office I grabbed a cab.  Every cab here has its own personality.  What I noticed first about my cab this day was that it was immaculate which is hard to pull off in a city with so much sand and dust.  My cab driver called himself “Under Better” and he was listening to Michael Jackson. I asked him if he was a big Michael Jackson fan.  He said that he was and that he could sing like Michael Jackson and that he was saving money to record his own CD, but that his songs would be about safe driving.  He pulled a folder out from under his dashboard cover (most cars have heavy covers protecting their dashboards from the relentless sun) and handed it to me.  Under Better slowed his car to a crawl on one of the city’s main roads and watched me (and not the road) as I paged through his portfolio of photographs.  The pictures were all of himself at various crash scenes and other scenes of moving vehicle violations.  He explained each image.  “This is a picture of an overloaded boot (they call trunks “boots” here).”  “This car has too many people in it” “This is a car that was involved in an fatal accident.  The driver was drunk.”   “This is a picture of a man hauling a cooler on a tricycle with two children riding on top of the cooler.”  While he explained all of this to me, he drove about 10mph and was oblivious to the increasing line of cars piling up behind us and passing us, and to the ugly looks, shouts, and beeping coming from each passing car.  I looked at him as he spoke and watched a slow parade of angry faces pass behind him. 

Under Better said he wanted to get a dashboard camera and another camera with a zoom lens so he could capture images from far away.  I asked him if he took these photos while driving.  He said “yes” and then produced a camera from underneath his dashboard cover.  As he began telling me about the movie that he intended to make after his CD was finished, my phone’s text message alert went off.  Under Better began explaining the plot of his planned movie as I read the message that I received from my friend Nathan.  It read, “Someone just got attacked by a hippo in a boat.  flipped him out.  somehow was able to swim away and now stuck on one of the islands with hippos surrounding him”  My calm and mature response was,  “WTF?  Holy shit.  Are you watching this?” Hippos are extremely dangerous and responsible for more deaths in Africa than any other animal.  They’re big, mean, very territorial, and fast on land and in water.  Nathan lives on a part of the Kavango River that many hippos also call home. 

At about this time I realized that Under Better had taken a detour and I inquired as to where we were going.  He said “just here” and gave no further explanation.  He then stopped in front of a house with a car in the front yard that had been involved in a front-end collision.  He explained that the driver of this car had died the previous weekend and that he had been drunk.   He said that he wanted to see the senseless deaths on Namibian roadways stop.  As Under Better pulled away from the crushed car, my phone beeped again.  Nathan had responded “Yeah at the water.  They have no idea what to do with the guy.”

Just this past Saturday, I passed the scene of a multi car accident while running.  One car had rolled many times and both cars were damaged enough to make me wonder if occupants in one or both were killed.  The crash victims had all been removed, but a crowd of well over 100 remained.  The Thursday prior, our youth center van was involved in an accident and one of our Youth Officers was also involved in a separate two-car accident that resulted in the death of the person driving the other car.  Earlier last week, a young girl was struck and killed while walking to school. 

I’d been laughing at Under Better in my head, but then in dawned on me that he might be onto something.  Drivers here (in Rundu at least) are reckless yet seemingly oblivious to their own recklessness even though they are constantly surrounded by the consequences of it.  I saw that he wanted to launch a sort of awareness campaign that he would act as the singing spokesman of.  It’s not a bad idea.  I’m not sure if Under Better is the appropriate man for the job, but he couldn’t have picked a more appropriate city. 

My funeral-precession-pace ride home with Under Better came to an end just as he reached the exciting climax of his movie description, where he was being put in jail for having had too many moving violations.  Under Better put his turn single on (A highly underutilized device in Namibia) and carefully pulled to the side of the road to let me out.  I paid him and wished him luck on his plans and encouraged him to come visit me at the youth center if he wanted any help.  He seemed confused by my suggestion and reminded me that his name was Under Better and that if anybody ever introduces himself to me as Under Better that that person would be him.  “If anybody ever says to you ‘I’m Under Better’, that will be me.”  I left it at that. 

I continued my text conversation with Nathan.  He was with a pack of community members on the river’s edge.  He said he could hear the man yelling for help, but that any attempt to save him would have to wait until the morning.    It was already dark in a place where hippos own the night.  Taking a boat out through a pack of them would be suicide. Eventually, Nathan headed home, as there was nothing he or anybody could do.  The next morning he got word that the man had been rescued, but received no further details. 

Odds and ends;

I’m currently locked in an epic struggle against the Namibian tendency to be very late to absolutely everything.  To address this, I started a “Punctuality Club” at the Youth Center.  The benefit of being in my Punctuality Club is that members will be able to join me on tours of local schools where I will give presentations on MCP (multiple concurrent partnerships), HIV/AIDS, and alcohol abuse.  The club members would then do a quick play (or drama as they call them) to illustrate my message.  The youth here really love this sort of activity and I thought it would be the trick to getting a few to show up on time.  The only club rule is that you must show up to the weekly meeting on time.  Showing up to meetings late (or not at all) is a big problem here.  It’s generally accepted that no meeting will ever start on time (or even close to on time).  I’ve written entire blog posts sitting in rooms waiting for meetings to begin.  It makes planning a full day impossible and brings productivity to a standstill.  My hope for the Punctuality Club was to instill some good habits in just a handful of Rundu youth and to then release them into the world and hope that their new respect for punctuality would slowly spread.  We had our very first meeting on Tuesday and not a single person that signed up showed.  The adults here are no better about showing up on time and I believe I may discover a flying pig before I find a punctual Namibian.  I’ve decided to accept defeat in this.  There’s a difference between quitting and knowing when you’re beat.    

It’s clear skies every day here.  Sometimes there will be a few clouds near sunrise, but they vanish soon after the sun arrives and you’re left with an enormous dome of blue throughout each and every day.  It’s winter now. Our mornings and evenings are cool and our days are warm and short.  My highpoint this week was finding a huge bag of oranges (about 35 in a bag) for N$20 (about $2.50 US).  They’re the best oranges I’ve had in a long time and as I often lament the lack of fruits and vegetables here, the past few 5-to-6-orange days have been a nice break.  Before coming here, I didn’t fully appreciate the enormous bouquets of swisschard I used to get at Wegman’s, or the big bags grapefruit and pears or throw pillow sized bags of frozen blueberries or jars of hot salsa or big scoop bins full walnuts and raw almonds.  I used to buy four big low fat cottage cheese tubs at a time, one of my training diet staples, but it doesn’t exist here.  Nor do boneless chicken breast (or boneless anything).  A friend tells me that the lack of enormous chicken breasts here is due to the fact that Namibians don’t turn their chickens into hormone enhanced steroid freaks that are unable to bear the weight of their own body on their tiny chicken legs.  That may be true, but even if “those things can’t even walk”, it doesn’t make me miss them any less.  Thanks for reading.