On the 28th of August, this year, myself and four other volunteers started the day by dropping into the Fish River Canyon. A steep downward trek kicked off a five-day hike, which ended in Ai-Ais. Fish River Canyon is the second largest in the world, after the Grand Canyon of the U.S. It is roughly 180 km long, 90 km of which is trail beginning in Hobas.

This was my first big hike and needless to say I have learned a great many lessons, the most important being what shoes to wear (or not wear). We awoke early Day One to catch a ride from the campsite to the actual trailhead, as NWR does not provide any (news to me at the time). I was separated from my group on the first day and hiked those initial 10-12 km with an Israeli couple who moved like gazelles on the open plains, leaving me huffing and puffing behind them.

Day Two we hiked as a group (the couple, with an earlier start, was looong gone). Insert here second slip and fall of the hike, resulting in a lovely bluish purple right knee (no permanent damage caused fortunately). The end of Day Two marked a significant change in the landscape, which began to flatten out. We were fortunate at the conclusion of Day Three to eat our dinner (my favorite part of the day) with a handful of wild horses who may or may not have been as fascinated by us, as us with them.

With the help of some fellow, more experienced hikers we realized how necessary the shortcuts were. Without them you could easily add a whole extra day of hiking. Our last day was the shortest, bringing us into Ai-Ais before noon. The heavenly shower and Hansa draught awaiting us were worth every step of Fish River. Without further ado, a photo tour:

View from the trailhead:

All in green:

Lovely photo made possible by pulling up the rear:

Second of 3:

These beautiful flowers were prolific:

Almost there!

El fin:

June 14th-16th was Round I of Namibia's NID Campaign. This meant thousands of nurses and volunteers (even a couple helicopters) went out into the communities to distribute the polio vaccine, Vitamin A, and Albendazole. The first one is obvious but why Vit A and what is Albendazole? A vitamin A deficiency (VAD...yes, it has an acronym) can lead to childhood blindness and increases the risk of severe illness. VAD is considered a public health problem in many countries worldwide, including some in Sub-Saharan Africa. Albendazole is for de-worming and was provided during NID in 200 and 400 mg doses. Providing de-worming tablets reduces the incidence of diarrhea and means kids gain weight like they should. It's easy to take and easy to administer, so community workers can do it without parents having to get to a clinic or hospital. The picture below is a classic "post-Albendazole" face I saw quite a lot of.

Immunization and vaccination is provided in order to reduce under 5 mortality in children. Based on information from UNICEF, the under 5 mortality (probability of a child born in a specific year or period dying before reaching the age of five,) for Namibia was 48 out of 1,000 live births in 2009. Depending on where you get your information, this number varies. In a press release for the campaign this year, the under 5 mortality was listed as 69 per 1,000. The reason this number is so important is based on what it can mean taken in a larger context. Under 5 mortality, as well as infant mortality, life expectancy, and a host of other demographic indicators, can tell us about child health and overall development in any given nation. When it changes, it means something. In Sub-Saharan Africa HIV/AIDS has changed it, providing insight into pediatric cases of HIV/AIDS.

Needless to say, this was a wonderful hands on experience. While I could hardly communicate with the mothers, grandmothers, and handful of fathers that brought in their children, I enjoyed the brief interaction and found that my camera took the post "you-just-stuck-that-pill-in-my-mouth" face away in an instant. Below are a few more pictures from the past two days.

The building where we administered the above mentioned goodies, or as the nurse I worked with called them, "sweets".

Nurse Marta calling in the next group of women and children.

Vitamin A capsules.

Community volunteer administering polio drops to an infant (that's tucked inside that scarf somewhere!).

There are opportunities at any point to begin a conversation that can go quite literally, anywhere. There are days when we just don’t feel like talking. Like getting into any conversation that requires the use of more than two brain cells. And there are adventurous days, where you know when you open your mouth; you will get into it with someone. For better or worse. The other night, I felt like opening my mouth.

More volunteers than not are based with schools in the villages around the handful of towns in Ovamboland. Life is different in the village. That’s not surprising. It’s refreshing to visit after being in town for so long. One thing it is not, though, is in a hurry. Not in a hurry to change, get anywhere on time or be anything other than what it is right NOW. Where does development fit into this kind of lackadaisical grasp of time? Perhaps it doesn’t.

Development, as a concept, and development work, as a field, are sticky topics. They invariably lead to disagreement about what works, what doesn’t and why the hell are we here anyway? This leads to me the book I am currently reading and currently obsessed with: The World is Flat. Thomas Friedman has written a couple books and also writes regularly for The New York Times. The inside cover of the jacket says the book is an “account of the great changes taking place in our time, as lightning swift advances in technology and communications put people all over the globe in touch as never before” (ahem…insert the Blog). No doubt this is true. I can skype with my parents, record the youth center dance club and post it on youtube and check gmail on my pocketsize Nokia, something by the way I never did in America.

Development is everywhere. Civilization is unbounded. There are fewer barriers and therefore quality of life is better because information is accessible anytime, anywhere, a million different ways. But what are these barriers? How can we, as a global community, be even more efficient? Even more connected? A passage from Friedman’s book is part of an interview with Michael J. Sandel of Harvard University. I quote part of it here:

“But a flat, frictionless world is a mixed blessing. It may, as you suggest, be good for global business. Or it may, as Marx believed, augur well for a proletarian revolution. But it may also pose a threat to the distinctive places and communities that give us our bearings, that locate us in the world. From the first stirrings of capitalism, people have imagined the possibility of the world as a perfect market- unimpeded by protectionist pressures, disparate legal systems, cultural and linguistic differences, or ideological disagreement. But this vision has always bumped up against the world as it actually is-full of sources of friction and inefficiency. Some obstacles to a frictionless global market are truly sources of waste and lost opportunities. But some of these inefficiencies are institutions, habits, cultures, and traditions that people cherish precisely because they reflect the non-market values like social cohesion, religious faith, and national pride.”

And therein lies the unavoidable and at times unchangeable brutal truth: education can clash with culture, tradition can clash with advances in medicine, time can clash with development. Any number of integral aspects of development can clash with any number of nuances and subtleties encompassed by culture and tradition, each different from the next, not only across borders but even within them. Add to this a system of international aid that has created dependency (albeit not always) and expectations, which change as quickly as donor priorities. There is friction everywhere, as Sandel says, and some of it ain’t going anywhere.

As with most things, there simply is no one size fits all. And ultimately, I would argue, resolution lies in balance. Condoms may be taboo in one community but the threat of HIV infection bears heavily upon our choices and will, for many, ultimately effect their decision to use them or not. We desperately want to keep what we value most and yet integrate what will propel us towards the future and our success (and our children’s success). Sometimes this happens. Often it does not.

In Namibia, these decisions were made for the local people before independence. Apartheid determined what was “valued” and what was not; local Bantu languages, for example, certainly fell into the latter category. With independence comes the ability, and the burden, to define those values without colonialism breathing down the necks of the people. It is in this phase of redefinition that certain values, we as foreigners feel, are misplaced or forgotten. Why is it that education is not valued the same way? Why do teachers and learners seem to care so little? What is missing? This process undoubtedly takes time, and with help that arrives in a spirit of collaboration, not control, can and will take it’s own individual shape.

To scare myself with my own desert places. Robert Frost

The Namib desert is one of the oldest deserts in the world and luckily enough home to a dear friend and fellow volunteer. The desert is just over 31,000 square miles (about the size of South Carolina and Rhode Island combined).

The wildlife here have adapted in unusual ways to continue existing in a harsh and isolated place. A tenebrionid beetle adopts a head-down position to allow condensing fog to trickle down into its mouth. Another beetle, Lepidochora discoidalis, is known to build trenches to trap fog. Even the black-backed jackal has been observed licking condensed fog off of stones. One of the most famous plants in the desert is the Welwitschia, some of which have been estimated to be 2,500 years old.

Desert lizards are extremely well adapted so that they have the lowest water-loss rates of any desert organisms. For example, the web-footed gecko has a translucent body and bloodshot eyes, and holds itself high on the surface of the dunes, leaving leaf-like prints with its web feet. Its predators include dancing white lady spiders, hunting spiders, and sidewinding adders.

The area of the desert I was fortunate enough to visit is home to NaDEET: Namib Desert Environmental Education Trust (http://www.nadeet.org/). Here, learners (students) from all over Namibia learn about conservation in an interactive way: solar cooking, learning to read water meters and making fire bricks out of recycled paper.

The desert is a lot of things. Including a great place for sundowners. Nothing beats watching the sunset over the mountains comfortably perched on rolling red dunes.

Salud!

Lizard:

Solar cooking and baking:

Camelthorn tree:

Beetle:

Jon, Trevor, Karley and I:

The ketchup and mustard hotel next to our digs: Afrika Stadt Haus. Don't mind the pile of trash.

NamCol: Namibian College of Open Learning.

Take a left! I have it on good authority this STOP sign is never obeyed.

Laundry mat. The "opening soon" sign has been there for over a year.

Mr. Lizard!

My office. Can't miss it.

Just in case you need a bite to eat, while getting your car washed after a trip to the salon with a cold beverage: shebeen, restaurant, salon and car wash complex.

Mail & Guardian online - Namibia in Flood After Heaviest Rain in 120 Years:

http://mg.co.za/article/2011-04-08-namibia-in-flood-after-heaviest-rain-120-years/

CNN - Record Flooding has Affected Half A Million Namibians, Red Cross says:

http://edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/04/15/namibia.floods/

As unrest continues in Northern Africa and the Middle East, I find myself on the receiving end of questions about safety in Southern Africa. In Namibia, I feel completely and utterly safe. I believe that with traveling comes an understanding that cities are cities and people are people; keep your wits about you regardless of what corner of the world you find yourself in.

Unrest in Africa seems part and parcel of current events. But unrest has its roots in forgotten histories, as does peace. I have provided the BBC video: Namibia- Genocide and the Second Reich (if you are unable to watch it you can go to google or youtube). There are histories here not commonly studied or appreciated by many of us. I hope this serves to inspire even the smallest flame of understanding.

I have mentioned before that free hiking (not mountain hiking) is part and parcel of day-to-day travel here. Most people do not own cars and therefore rely on combis (large vans that seat up to 18+ people) and private cars that willingly pick up folk from informally designated “hike points”. I feel the need to address the topic again because of a recent hiking experience that spans two days and six hikes.

Act I:

I was in Windhoek looking for a ride. A car with dark tinted windows (red flag) stopped and offered me a ride. I instantly assumed they would want money and dismissed the young male driver. He offered again. I can’t pay I said. It’s ok, he told me. I got in the car with two other hikers, a young Oshiwambo woman and a man who didn’t say much from the ride to Okahandja from Windhoek. Before I knew it, and much to my elated surprise, a discussion on local politics and the reign of Mugabe in neighboring Zimbabwe ensued.

It was wonderful to hear Namibians speaking of accountability and the demands they have of their own government: more infrastructure and a better education system. As one of them described it, We just stopped. This was in reference to the fact that Namibia has indeed come a long way (as far as development in Africa is concerned) but upon reaching a level of achievement, has plateaued. I left the car in Okahandja wishing we had more time to speak, but I needed another ride to a different destination and we parted.

Act II:

I waited no more than 10 minutes for this hike with a gentleman who lived in Tsumeb and was heading home after being in the south for work. While I cannot recall his position he owns his own company that does something with construction. He had previously worked in supervision with the diamond mines, though, and was full of stories about corruption. We discussed theft and he went into great detail about the reward and punishment system in place for stealing diamonds in the mine.

At one point he told of an employee that used an old broke down vehicle on company property to transport diamonds inside a hidden compartment within the engine. NamDeb and the like use employees as insiders to reveal any plans for diamond theft and reward those who pinpoint individuals with enough money to retire then and there comfortably.

Act III:

I started walking out of Otjiwarango towards Outjo. Nothing but taxis stopped but I was feeling lucky and decided to hold out for my third hike of the day. Finally, an Oshiwambo meme stopped. I went to sit in front but she was transporting the large mushrooms that are widely available (and very yummy!) during rainy season. So I sat in back, and was chauffeured to my next destination. The ride went from good to great when Dolly Parton began blasting out of the car speakers. I had the opportunity to tell her about Dollywood, which seemed to amuse her. We parted ways in Outjo and she continued on her way.

Day Two.

Act IV:

The next morning I had to get back to Otjiwarango and the B1 in order to make it to O-land. Two Damara gentlemen gave me a lift to town. They were an entertaining pair as one was excessively chatty, especially when it came to comparing the Namibian and American landscapes, while the other sat quietly, only speaking when the other mentioned something in their native tongue. They were very polite and dropped me at the exact hike point to go north.

Act V:

This is my favorite…hike that is. It is not uncommon for tourists in nice cars to pass you by as you wave your arm out into the air. They often look at you, slightly bewildered, and continue on in their AC filled vehicles. I had received one hike from visitors in the past, and this was my second. I got into the car with a couple and their son. I hadn’t yet determined their nationality, as I was mostly just happy to get a lift so quickly. It didn’t take long, though, to realize their mother tongue was not English. I would drive the next several hours and even lunch with the cutest French couple I have ever met.

Given the language barrier there was a lot of pointing, nodding, and general gesticulating that made for interesting (if not necessarily substantial) conversation. I did determine that they travel quite a bit and had been to Kenya the previous year. The wife at one point managed to tell me that she has two children, not one. With this comment she nodded towards her husband who was driving and participating in childish shenanigans with their son (these mostly included making monkey noises and talking about baboons).

Before arriving in Tsumeb, where they left me on their way to Etosha National Park, we stopped for lunch at an Afrikaaner run restaurant. On our way out the man behind the bar stopped me and asked where I was from. I anticipated the next question, as we must have seemed an odd collection of individuals. I told him I was a volunteer and that the French couple was giving me a free lift to Tsumeb. He nodded understandingly as he dried a beer mug. “I was wondering why you were with a bunch of Frenchies”. And with that, we were on the road again!

Act VI:

Standing at the Tsumeb hike point is a bit intimidating. It’s further outside of town than most and lands you slap in the middle of NOTHING. You can see down the road, north and south, for what seems an immeasurable distance. Cars went by and storm clouds rolled in. Never a good combination. Finally a black Mercedes stopped. It appeared to be an Oshiwambo couple that then offered me a ride to Ondangwa (only 30 km away from my site and a cheap taxi ride home). I happily piled in with my pack just as some light raindrops began to fall. The driver lived in Swakopmund, on the coast, and worked for a Chinese company as a geologist. I took the opportunity to excitedly confirm that one can indeed find gems hidden in the dunes outside of Swakop. We discussed minor other geological topics, which involved a lot of question asking on my end (I have mentioned the landscape/geology of Namibia twice now because it is actually quite fascinating. One of the oldest deserts in the world is here! For the nerdier of my readers, it’s a subject worth investigating).

I came discover that the meme next to him was also a hiker, in no way related to him. I introduced myself and made attempts at conversation that got me nowhere. So I stuck with geology. We arrived in Ondangwa quickly and safely. I was home from there in no time!

That brings me to the end of our performance today. I would love to provide some relevant photos but alas they have absolutely nothing to do with hiking. Below are some photos of a torrential downpour, sunflowers at the Oonte OVC Center in Ondangwa, and a view of Windhoek from Heroes Acre. Random, I know. Au revoir!

“What is it about language that makes people so passionate? The answer is that there is almost no aspect of our lives that is not touched by language. We live in and by language. We all speak and we all listen.” The Story of English.

In Namibia there are three language groups: Bantu, Indo-European, and Khoisan. Though languages can more or less be grouped geographically, due to colonization and resettlement, languages are spread all over the country. English is the official national language but it is not the English known to Americans, the Brits, or even the English of other African nations. English, spoken and written, can easily be considered the medium of globalization. It exists in many forms, pidgin and creole, and with many accents, Irish, Australian, etc. It is not necessarily the most practical global language, but a global language it is, nonetheless.

I have chosen ‘language’ as the topic for this post because quite recently my colleagues have taken up speaking to me in Oshiwambo again (a Bantu language). Almost a year at site and I am rooting around in my brain to find the words I once made flash cards for. The basics are there: Wa lala po? “How are you?” (in the morning); Tangi, “thank you”, and the like. But anything more complex has long since fled my mental dictionary.

Language is an intimate part of any culture. It is the medium for stories, family histories, entertainment and tradition. When it is lost, it does not come back. Dead languages remain dead. Oshiwambo is spoken by less than a million people. It is not necessarily considered endangered but there are plenty of those around. According to UNESCO, there are currently 3,000 endangered languages worldwide (there are varying degrees of endangerment but at the minimum, children are no longer learning the language as their mother tongue).

The spread of English has turned many people bilingual (often even trilingual); they speak their native tongue, but business and education happen in English. The marriage of different languages has created some interesting means of communication, namely creole and pidgin. Pidgin develops when groups from two different languages need to communicate. It is a simplified language and back in the day was a common result of traders coming into contact with one another. Creole develops when a pidgin becomes the native tongue of the next generation, as part of a process called nativization. Many of the creole languages today arose in the last 500 years as a consequence of European colonization.

In the words of Salman Rushdie, “English, no longer an English language, now grows from many roots; and those it once colonized are carving out large territories within the language for themselves” (The Story of English). English has it’s own lilt and accent here but also has it’s own meaning. While in the states we say, “I’ll be right back”, the same meaning is expressed as, “I’m coming now”. Instead of saying “Really”, people say “Is it?”. This latter example is easily one of my favorites and I’ve noticed quite popular with most volunteers.

To conclude this post, I’d like to add a piece of useless, albeit interesting, information: here and in other places, shebeen means “an illegal drinking establishment”. It comes from the Gaelic seibe, meaning “a mug”. Below you’ll find a few photos of these establishments, which are scattered all over the north (and in Namibia in general).

Note: this is an extensive post. You may consider grabbing a drink and getting comfortable before taking a seat....

December 12th: up at 6 am to finish packing and begin our journey. The first leg of our adventure began in Windhoek, with a brief flight to Johannesburg. K and I booked our flights separately, and therefore planned on asking a kind stranger to switch seats so we may enjoy the flight (and in flight beverage) together. The gentlemen sitting next me to, though, was interested in no such acts of kindness inspiring me to glare sideways for most of the flight. We arrived in Jo’burg safely and flew through the passport checkpoint with no problems. Upon collecting our luggage, K discovered that money from her bag had been taken. We promptly reported it and attempted to continue in high spirits. I must preface here that the next ten plus hours were spent between the Jo’burg airport and central bus station because we dared to split our travel modes for greater adventurousness!

Jo’burg airport provided little in the way of the fascination (other than a delightful bakery that sells day old bagels for a pittance). Early afternoon took us to the Jo’burg central bus station. We had been informed by the kind information booth man that the bus station was indoors and safe. Initial inspection hinted otherwise. We made “camp” with our backs against to the giant windows upstairs and began the wait. From here, things got….interesting. K made a trip to the bathroom only to be shoulder checked by an aggressive young man coming out of a bar (to be fair, not too out of hand, but the excitement has only begun). I take my turn next, and head to the ladies room, which by the way requires a two rand coin to pass through a metal turnstile. I am occupied with finding the cleanest toilet with the most TP when out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman, with no pants, legs wide putting on what appears to be a diaper. She is casually speaking with the bathroom attendant as the pool of blood between her feet increases. I quickly conclude there is a rational explanation for everything, use the toilet, and depart.

As our evening departure approaches we de-camp and make for the restaurant. We sit outside and are greeted by a very nice waiter who brings us a couple beers to nurse. After an hour, maybe more, there is a hubbub from inside the restaurant. A man on the floor is being kicked in the head by another man standing above him. The kicks are short and fast. People watch. They do not move. Finally a staff member intercedes and the “victim” leaves. As far as we can deduce he had spilled a beer on the man’s female companion, prompting the outburst. At this point, we are ready for the bus and a different country.

10:00 pm: we begin to board. Just before stepping on the bus an Intercape staff member asks to see our Mozambique visas….uh, our what? Research informed me that visas could be purchased easily, albeit expensively, at the border. He informs us they can be purchased there, but if there is a wait, we will be left at the border, which is still a couple hours from our final destination; Maputo. We calmly board the bus and cross our fingers that the customs line will not be prohibitively long. The drive is long but we sleep. The mounted televisions are playing some B movies from the states. Movies I am certain most Americans have never seen, let alone heard of.

December 13th: Mozambique! And now begins a mad dash. K and I find ourselves literally running across the border to purchase our visas in time to still take the bus. The immigration officers are kind enough but spend the better part of ten minutes fiddling with the computer and the digital camera to take our photos. This prompts an unnecessary, “Can you hurry?”, from my mouth. The officers are oblivious though and finish the task in their own time. Our photos picture tired, frustrated travelers ready for the beach. We make our way through, though, and continue with the bus. Success.

We make it to our backpackers in one piece and immediately set up camp. The afternoon is ours and we begin with a trek to the fish market. We are given directions to “keep going this way for 10 or 15 minutes”. The direction is correct but the time is, shall we say, off. Almost an hour later we arrive at the market. It is bustling and full of all kinds of fish you pick for a local cook to prepare for you. We are found by one such cook who helps us navigate all the choices. In the end: prawns and a medium sized white fish (the name of which escapes me now). After a relaxing wait eased by tall bottles of Laurentina beer, two massive plates of food greet us. In vain I attempt to eat slowly and savor each buttery, garlicky bite but eventually give in to hunger and inhale what is left of the fish and chips. Perfecto! Should you ever find yourself this side of the equator in Africa, the fish market of Maputo is a MUST.

December 14th: up early. With the sun to be exact, which rises around 5 am. We begin the day with a trip to the bakery. Food is cheap here and incredibly good. We make our way around the city enjoying the sites, getting lost, and spending time in the downtown market, where everything from shrimp to bracelets can be found. Honey, cashews, and mangoes are all in stock, a nice change from Namibian markets. To our pleasant surprise a kilogram of mangoes (about 4 or 5) costs only 30 mets (less than one US dollar). We are to bed early per travel plans to leave early the next day for Xia-Xia (shy-shy).

December 15th: up early. Again. Morning takes us to the combi stop for those heading up the coast. We arrive and our taxi driver helps us find suitable transport leaving soon. The engine won’t start but with a bit of tinkering and patience we are in business and on the road. The drive out of Maputo was easily one the most interesting sites. It contrasts so greatly to Namibia: full on color, greenery, significantly more bodies everywhere, and loads of fruit for sale on the side of the road. We pass open fields neighboring a huge dumpsite, which in turn is neighboring a large football stadium. The day is cloudy but the rain doesn’t begin till later. As we near our destination traffic comes to a halt. There is a line of roughly fifty vehicles in front of us. Two men leave the combi to investigate: there is a car accident ahead. K and I exchange glances, imagining we will be spending the night here, on the side of the road, NOT on the beach.

No sooner are we both mentally (and unbeknownst to one another) noting potential campsites, than we are on the move again. We pass an overturned car and many onlookers. The road has been cleared quickly and any injured are already gone. Xia-Xia is not much to look at as far as a town but we quickly make our way to the beach campsite. The day is still overcast and we are doubting the choice to stay in this small beachside town. Nonetheless I follow my companion, a professional camper in comparison to myself, and assist her in setting up our home for the night. Our neighbors, predominantly South Africans on holiday, look on with curiosity. Our tent is a fraction of the size of the others with no kitchen, electricity, or…well, anything.

One neighbor approaches and kindly offers assistance. We take him up on his offer of a large tarp (just in case the rain persists). At last the tarp is up and we decide to enjoy the window of sunlight that has opened up. The beach is warm and the sandy dunes approaching the water are steep. Unlike the Atlantic, the Indian Ocean is a perfect temperature, neither too warm nor cold. The afternoon fades and we enjoy a long walk with our Laurentinas.

We are to bed early again so that we may rise at daybreak and look for transport to our last destination: Tofo.

December 16th: Hiking in Namibia is fairly easy. You may wait a bit, but in the end you will get to where you are going. Our attempt to hike was laughable and at one point involved just holding a sign with TOFO written on it. Finally the locals took pity on us and directed us to a bus stop. After a wait the bus approached and equally as unceremoniously, departed. The man next to us said, “that’s the bus….and it’s full”. A young boy that had taken to following us waved down a crowded combi and we were, many hours later, on our way yet again.

Happy to be on the road to Tofo, we relaxed. We began the journey with perhaps 18 people in the combi with us (I mention this now because the number changes). Crowded by some standards (a combi has seats for around 13 people) but not by local standards. In Africa full means people are hanging out the open door as the driver proceeds with (some) caution. We hadn’t yet reached that point. We made many stops but we were on our way, and that was ok. In the last leg of our journey K and I counted 27 people in the combi, including us, comfortably scrunched in the back corner.

We disembarked in Inhambane and boarded yet another combi to Tofo beach. We had booked ourselves at a place I chose based solely on some pictures I saw online. You can imagine how successful that was. The “camping area” was nothing more than a sand patch behind the much nicer dorm and single rooms where leftover pieces of wood and miscellaneous items were stored. Without a second thought we decided to cut our losses and search for other accommodation. Back on the main road we realized the next place might be a distance and, as tourists often do, we pulled out a trusty map. No sooner had we done so than a car stopped and the driver inquired if we were lost. Why yes, yes we are. Alas, we were marching along in the wrong direction. He kindly dropped us in Tofo town and we checked into a place conveniently located smack dab on the beach.

December 17th & 18th: The next couple days involved an abundance of sun bathing, beer drinking, and market shopping. Tofo has a wonderful beach and plenty of places to sit and enjoy the view. The market was small but a quick combi ride to Inhambane allowed the ambitious shopper to explore more local crafts and foods. We went to the larger market one afternoon and stumbled upon a kind stranger who directed us to the smallest of restaurants tucked behind the fruit stands. The restaurant entailed, in total, a small kitchen, two tables for customers, and about six chairs. We sat down and enjoyed a massive plate of beef in peanut sauce, rice, and a large coca cola (which I promise you tastes better here than at home).

Another afternoon found us boarding a large raft headed out to sea in search of Whale Sharks. Whale Sharks are the largest fish in the sea and can be found almost year round off the coast of Mozambique. Upon spotting a female shark we somewhat gracefully slipped into the water with our fins and masks and followed alongside. These fish seem unperturbed by the presence of humans; they are clearly not as fascinated by us as we are by them. After a few minutes she tired of this newfound fan club and dove into the depths. Boarding the raft is an even less graceful process and involved-at least for me- an excessive amount of arm work and substantial flailing. No bother, once aboard we went out in search of more. All in all, we spotted two sharks and then headed back to shore.

Our last night in Tofo we decided to splurge on one more delicious seafood meal. On recommendation by the gentleman at the juice bar (yes, there is a juice bar in town) we stopped at Tofo Tofo. The downstairs is a small convenience store selling juice and bread, with a kitchen in the back. Upstairs is the seating, about six tables. The line fish I ordered was prepared with garlic butter and served with the Mozambique equivalent of oshithima, called shima. Needless to say, I spent the next several minutes in absolute nirvana, attempting to savor every bite down to the last.

December 19th: Departure. We fortunately made the acquaintance of a fellow camper who offered us a free lift back to Jo’burg, thereby saving us the journey from Maputo on the Intercape. The drive was long but the scenery through the mountains as we entered South Africa, made it worthwhile. Driving through these parts in a private vehicle is a different experience and definitely worth the time and money, should you possess both (or find yourself a generous traveler to give you a lift!). We arrived safe and sound in Jo’burg and promptly passed out.

December 20th: Our flight did not depart until later that day so we took advantage and explored a bit of Jo’burg. The city has the unfortunate reputation of being extremely dangerous and we were warned many times before not to explore the city alone. While there are no doubt hot spots of crime within the city, it is overall, quite safe and easy to get around. The greater Jo’burg area accounts for almost 15% of South Africa’s GDP, is home to nearly 10 million people, and is loaded with all aspects of the country’s history. We drove aimlessly, passing strip malls, parks, museums, small neighborhoods, and busy streets. We made our way back to collect our things and then found ourselves, one more time, in the Jo’burg airport.

We arrived safely in Windhoek that night, concluding a perfectly executed, if not perfectly planned, vacation to the east coast of southern Africa.

As this post has reached a natural conclusion, I will say briefly that Christmas and New Years were just as delightful. My days were spent in the company of good friends, eating good food, and spending (yet again) a fair amount of time on the beach.

Happy New Year everyone and best wishes for the months ahead!

Below: (1) Downtown Maputo; (2) Road leaving Maputo; (3) Fish!; (4) Laurentina and I catch the Xia-Xia sunset; (5) Monkey at Xia-Xia campsite; (6) Somewhere on the beach; (7) K and I on the beach in Tofo; (8) On the beach in Swakopmund for Christmas and New Years; (9) Seafood braai (=bbq); (10) View from the top of Dune 7 in Walvis Bay.

The holiday is almost upon us and in the true holiday spirit, I’m skipping town for some R&R. Southern hemisphere Christmases (a superior way to celebrate, in my opinion) involve a lot less snow and tree decorating and a lot more swimming at the beach and enjoying an icy cold beverage.

First stop: Mozambique. Moz lies along the southeastern coast of Southern Africa and is roughly twice the size of California. The Portuguese colonized Moz in 1505 and in 1975 the country received its independence. It is divided into 10 districts, which are subdivided into 129 districts. The country is home to dozens of national parks and conservation areas, one of the most well known of which is the Limpopo National Park. The south, where the capital Maputo lies, is more developed and tourist friendly, whereas the north remains rugged and difficult to traverse. The pre-Christmas Day adventures will include lots of exploring in Maputo, delicious seafood, camping, and snorkeling (with any luck we’ll spot a Whale Shark!).

Second stop: Swakopmund. Tourist town! The beaches are beautiful and reminiscent of Southern California. Prices are higher though, and the city stands out from the rest of the country due to the presence of so much colonial architecture (it was founded in 1892 as the main port of the country when it was still considered German South-West Africa). There are loads of activities and the area is known for its sand dune sports and gem hunting. My primary activity? You guessed it…beach side with a beverage (are you noticing a theme?).

Third stop: The Namib Desert. A little peace and quiet in the desert with just one other volunteer, the dunes, and local animals is the perfect way to wrap up what is sure to be a wonderful holiday. The Namib Desert is considered one of the oldest deserts in the world. Part of the desert is reserved for the Namib-Naukluft Park, one of the largest national parks in Africa. The desert is about 1,000 miles long and anywhere from 30-100 miles wide (depending on where you find yourself). There is a wide variety of plant and animal life, as well as geological formations. Pictures will most definitely be provided in my follow up post.

On that note: Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year etc. etc. Catch you in 2011!

Allow me to first address the subject of my last post: the office (in which I am currently sitting) never closed. Our new MD has decided to keep it open for the time being. The month or so of limbo before that final decision was far from enjoyable but knowing I am here for good is quite settling. I have relocated from home stay to a flat with a fellow volunteer. A very nice place, with very little furniture. But it's home!

Since that is cleared up, onto a story:

Not long ago I went to visit my friend Anna. I had to give her an early birthday present before she left for the village to visit her family. Anna lives in Ongwediva, but like many young people she is from the rural area and is living with extended family. This is very common and understandably so, there is more opportunity for work and hopefully education in a semi-urban town like Diva. Anna works and studies and clearly enjoys the town life.

One of her many cousins, Aily, was visiting and as she worked on her homework they kicked off a conversation about the quality of education in Namibia in rural versus urban areas. Aily insisted that rural kids don’t study enough and even if their teachers are poorly qualified (especially for English) they should simply work harder. Anna agreed that yes, anyone can work harder, but where is the motivation if your teacher doesn’t enforce the lesson or even bother to teach in English (as they should as school kids get older)? Her last point was the inspiration for the title. She explained to Aily that urban kids are exposed to more media; in the village, she said, “you won’t meet a TV like that, my dear” (as she pointed to the TV set in front of her). And it’s true. Urban kids are exposed to significantly more English, which surely cannot be dismissed.

She walked me part way home and then went to visit another friend. As I walked down my street to my house I realized how very urban Diva is in comparison to so many other parts of the country. If the roads were paved, you might confuse it for a small town in any other country. But they are not. And the fact is, they won’t be anytime soon.

And now for something complete different: I am overdue to post pictures from Opuwo for you kind folks. Enjoy!

Surprisingly, pa•tience has only become an issue or subject for deep consternation as of late. I recently (relative term for me these days) returned to site after three and half weeks of in-service training, called Reconnect. The purpose of Reconnect is to provide technical training that was not addressed in pre-service training (PST). The merits of, or those lacking, will not be discussed in depth here but needless to say the aforementioned noun was of great use. We covered the gamut of useless to utterly engaging, and to be fair it is certainly no small task to make all sessions engaging to a group of nearly 30 volunteers in all parts of the country. On the very up-side it was wonderful to see friendly faces from PST and renew my enjoyment of the afternoon jog, which has since fallen by the wayside (I’ve tried to return to my morning jogs but utter darkness at 6:15 am inspires few….let’s just say it’s a project in the works).

But I digress. Our noun: patience. Patience implies that the situation at hand is frustrating, demanding, or challenges one’s sense of boundaries. I am most closely referring here to boundaries, specifically boundaries of time. For patience is to wait. In words much more eloquent than mine: “Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting. That is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience.” I mentioned earlier that this was surprising. This is because the first three months of service are typically classified as slow and hard. The post-reconnect flow then kicks in and you are in gear! I have had the opposite experience. In my first week at site I was looking into a sea of blue Namibian police recruit uniforms talking about HIV. Last week, and this week, I have youtubed more music videos and googled more random facts (did you know Macau is a special administrative region of China; one government, two systems) than I care to admit.

It has been slow because my office here in Ongwediva is closing its doors come the end of this month. As many of you know, NGOs are run on donor funding, and as such, are subject to the comings and goings of donor $$$. One of our programs, Corridors of Hope, has come to and end. In lieu of this (and possibly new funding for a different program) an entire restructuring of the organization is taking place. Where am I moving, you ask? No clue. Our office is receiving a visit from the current managing director (MD) and the incoming MD next week so let’s hope (cross those fingers) I’ll have insight into my impending move by next Friday.

I don’t want to give “slow” a bad name. Slow is great, let’s say, when roasting a chicken or on vacation. Speaking of which, enjoy some photos from a recent romp through the Okavango Delta. A re tsamaye!—Let's go!

Here are a few photos of this past weekend. Jay (the groom) and his fiance (Katrina) picked several of us up in Oshakati and drove us out to the village. The drive was beautiful and upon arriving we were greeted by family, friends, and dancing. Weddings are a multi-day affair. They typically involve three days of celebration with one day being spent at the bride's home and another at the groom's. After the church ceremony, the bride and groom returned to the homestead where they were met by dancers and women playing drums and harmonicas. They were taken to a large tree on the homestead and seated beneath it. A prayer was said and gifts were presented. Finally, people filed into large tents to eat food that had been prepared for days leading up to the wedding. Owambo weddings are full of customs and symbols that have been apart of the culture for hundreds of years. Oddly, they also incorporate many Western traditions, as well, such as throwing the bouquet (which was subsequently ripped in half by two women). Also, the church ceremony was conducted both in English and Oshiwambo, to accommodate both foreign and local guests. The weekend was amazing but truly exhausting. All day Sunday was spent in bed with a book recuperating.

There are many things I looked forward to upon arrival in Namibia; a day that simultaneously seems impossibly far away and just yesterday. One thing in particular stood out: hiking. Not American hiking, but standing by the side of the road waving your hand at passing vehicles hoping and praying for someone, anyone, to stop. I had my first experience hiking long distances this past weekend (the day before Mother's Day). I was nervous and excited. Imagining both the best and the worst of possibilities, but willing myself to focus on the latter more often than the former. We didn't wait long on the B1 and then there we were, in a comfy four door pick up, chatting with our driver and companion for the ride to Otavi. All started well. At this point you are probably thinking something is going to go horribly wrong or I will have you in stitches laughing so hard you will have tears streaming down your face. Instead, the conversation turned to a quite mundane, expected topic: being a volunteer and what do health volunteers do anyway in Namibia? This led, again quite naturally, to what our driver does. She sells nutritional supplements created by an American corporation that cure, well, anything. That's right, even HIV. How convenient! And to think, we were all here doing work on prevention and awareness when we could simply be handing out these pricey, yet very effective, nutritional supplements. We can go home. Problem solved.

I give myself, and my fellow PCV, credit for not only keeping straight faces (difficult) but for even kindly probing the topic without once mentioning the word "whackjob" or "crazy" (much more difficult). What it comes down to, is that I forget sometimes: I forget because I am surrounded by information ALL the time and when not surrounded by answers, I am asked genuinely interesting and insightful questions about HIV. I truly believe in our work and the work being done by volunteers all over the world to raise awareness and increase prevention efforts. But that does not erase the nay-sayers, opportunists, and delusional crackpots that also fill the world with nutritional supplements that can cure everything.

It is a reminder. More importantly it is a challenge.

So, there are no pictures of an amazing traditional wedding. But do not worry! I may have missed this one (diarrhea is really no fun) but I am attending (for real this time) a wedding next weekend in Oshakati. Promise, promise pictures this time! In the meantime, here a few photos of, in no particular order, traditional dishes made during PST, swearing in ceremony, and the open market in Oshakati.

Last week I started work at my permanent site. As I mentioned quite a while ago, or at least what seems like a while ago, I work with SFH (Society for Family Health). Wednesday and Thursday I observed and (hesistantly) co-facilitated a training session for a peer educator group from Oshakati. About twelve women attended the training, which covered the materials they use when working in the community to teach young women about HIV, STDs, and safe sex. It also covered all the reporting they are required to submit in order to guarantee continued funding for outreach.

Most, if not all, the information was basic HIV/AIDS and STDs, though, the best conversations were always revealed during tangent conversations. For example, are condoms really, really only one size fits all? Some of the women were adamant that this simply is not possible. Arguments half in English and half in Oshiwambo ensued. Eventually my colleague was forced to end the conversation and simply told the women who were not on the one-size-fits-all band wagon that they needed to open a condom at home and figure it out.

Going from pre-service training to a long weekend in Windhoek to actual work was like going from zero to sixty in no time. Though, I felt unprepared for the peer education training it was nothing compared to the outreach I attended and co-facilitated these past two days. SFH has several programs that reach different populations and one of them is police officers.

Enter 700 plus new police recruits based in Ondangwa. And three SFH staff armed with DVDs, condoms (male and female), games, a wooden penis, and a model vagina (not a la 40 Year Old Virgin, more like a paraplegic mannequin….it’s hard to explain). Disaster was averted largely because my colleagues are ridiculously experienced field officers and also because the recruits were surprisingly well informed, active participants. One of the most common questions we had came up during our intro activity which entailed breaking into small groups and identifying whether different modes of transmission are High Risk, Low Risk, or No Risk. The debate was whether a person could get HIV if they drank from a glass that an HIV positive person had also drank from. The second came at the end of the day during open Q&A: does prayer cure you of HIV and AIDS? At first the latter question surprised me but I reminded myself that the wealth of information on HIV/AIDS in this country is still somewhat new. More importantly, though, is the fact that people who were once dying left and right from HIV (this is before ARVs were introduced) are now living long and relatively normal lives. How is that possible? Well, it’s not prayer, but it certainly could seem that way if the entire process is not understood.

Needless to say, I have been kept busy. And enjoying it! This weekend I am attending a neighbor’s wedding out in the village. I will be sure to take loads of photos and post them on my still very empty blog page.

First, I must acknowledge that I inadvertently deleted my last post in an attempt to post some photos. Fortunately, the latter effort was successful. Unfortunately, I also deleted some other info. There is an address in a previous post but this one also works:

Shawn Peterson

US Peace Corps

PO Box 6862

Ausspannplatz

Windhoek

Namibia

Also, the other day our APCD informed us that the post office is sick and tired of volunteers being refered to as Sister and Father. No, we are not missionaries though many of us had read that this is a successful deterrent to prying customs officials. Instead, please feel free to “decorate” packages with biblical verses.

And now for something completely different: two Fridays ago was the Supervisor’s Workshop at the training center in Okahandja. Before meeting our supervisors we sat separate from each other: us looking at them,them looking at us; Im sure each wondering, “Who will I be working with for the next two years?”. Peace Corps’ ingenious way of merging the two groups involved us, the trainees, calling out the names of out supervisors till we found them. Fun.

I posted the website for my organization on facebook but for those non-fb subscribers check out Society for Family Health (SFH, formerly SMA) online. They are an offshoot of Population Services International (PSI) and focus primarily on HIV, TB, and Malaria prevention. I could not have asked for a more interesting or appropriate assignment. So, after the workshop some trainees hit the road for their sites while the rest of us went home to pack.

On Saturday I left for the north, to Ongwediva, with my supervisor, Mike. The trip was roughly six hours and involved a complete change in geography and language. The north is flat (like NOLA!), has palm trees, loads of muhangu fields (they look like corn), traditional homesteads (photos pending), and roaming cattle. It was not uncommon for Mike to lay on the horn every half hour after we crossed the red line while a large cow casually meandered across the road. Ah....home!

I stayed with a colleague of mine, her 11 month-old baby Robby, and the nanny near our office. Ongwediva is growing fast and is indiscernible from the next town over, Oshakati, which is larger. There is a community center, a newish women’s center, and a secondary school all in a stone’s throw distance from the house. Alas, I do not have much to report on my actual office duties, as that part, crucial though it seems, is still vague. Or as I like to say, flexible. I did have the chance to go to Oshikango with Mike and get a tour from the staff at the office there. Oshikango is on the border with Angola and, like many border towns, it is bustling with people, businesses, and plenty of traffic.

There is a complex of Chinese wholesale vendors called the Golden Dragon. A free shuttle will take you from the border to the complex to do your shopping. Something that is so glaringly obvious in Namibia is the stark contrast between rich and poor (I have mentioned this to some of you who I have spoken with so forgive me if I repeat myself). One turn off the main road took us into an informal settlement of small tin houses that sat near a pond so polluted by trash and refuse, the water was barely discernible between glass bottles and an assortment of wrappers.

Back in Ongwediva I had an interesting cross-cultural exchange with a taxi driver who took me home from Oshakati. It went something like this:

“You want a black man?”

“Excuse me?”

“We will get married and make babies.”

“I don’t like kids.”

“Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.” (dirty lie...I was praying the rest of the ride that the cell phone stashed in my bra wouldn’t betray me)

“I’ll buy you one.”

“Cell phones are overrated.”

After such an eventful week, it was time to head back to good ol’ Okahandja. Another trainee in Oshakati, and I, traveled back together in a combi. We arrived at the combi stop around 8:30 am and left about 1:30 pm. We didn’t make it home till after dark. C’est la vie.

It’s good to be back for now. Three more weeks and permanent site actually becomes permanent.

I have counted socks, shirts, and underwear until I can count no more. Which brings me to my first point: if you (my faithful readers) have any packing advice/tips/must-haves, please do not hesitate to say so.

My favorite purchases thus far include all things foldable, portable, and compact. This includes, but is not limited to, a giant microfiber towel (which literally folds into nothing), waterproof jacket, and down sleeping bag (really, how do they get so small?).

I depart Wednesday for D.C. and then onto Windhoek via Johannesburg. If you want postcards, packages, and other awesome miscellaneous gifts please please please send me your address.

For those of you who have no clue why I started a blog, where I am going, or why I think microfiber is the next best thing since sliced bread, here is an outline of my assignment for the next couple years:

What: Community Health and HIV/AIDS Program (CHHAP)

Where: Namibia (get a map)

When: February 2010-April 2012

Ever so Brief History: Namibia achieved independence in 1990 and diagnosed their first cases of HIV in the late 1980's. It is estimated that 15.3% of adults (ages 15-49) are living with HIV/AIDS and 61% of the HIV cases occurred among women. By the end of 2007, it was estimated that 14,000 children (ages 0-15) were living with HIV/AIDS.

Needless to say the demand for volunteers is quite clear. Other interesting, and less dire, country facts include:

1.In 2006, Brangelina had a baby near Swakopmund.

2. The population of Namibia is just under 2 million people and they live in an area that covers 500,000 square miles (in other words, it is one of the most sparsely populated countries in Africa).

3. It's neighbor, South Africa, is home to the 2010 World Cup (ok that one isn't about Namibia but you get it).

4. Mushrooms the size of your head grow on termite mounds and are a delicacy served like steak, sauteed in butter (apparently goat head is quite popular as well...take that Anthony Bourdain!)

Moving right along. My address in country is:

Shawn Peterson

US Peace Corps/Namibia

20 Nachtigal Street

Ausspannplatz

Windhoek, Namibia

This is just a start. I hope to update you as much as possible with fun stories and tall tales. Stay tuned!