You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

One day you finally knewwhat you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shoutingtheir bad advice—though the whole housebegan to trembleand you felt the old tug at your ankles.“Mend your life!”each voice cried.But you didn’t stop.You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingersat the very foundations,though their melancholy was terrible.It was already lateenough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallenbranches and stones.But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burnthrough the sheets of clouds,and there was a new voicewhich you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you companyas you strode deeper and deeperinto the world,determined to do the only thing you could do—determined to save the only life you could save.

She walked to the door.  Below her the village of Dilepe spread out and swept towards the horizon.  It was a network of pathways and dusty roads weaving in and out between a tortured lay-out of mud huts, as though people whimsically said: ‘we want to live here’, and made all the little pathways and roads follow their whims.  A thousands wisps of blue smoke arose silently into the air as a thousand women prepared the evening meal beside their outdoor fires.  That peace, and those darkening evening shadows were to be the rhythm of her life throughout that year, and Dilepe village was to seem the most beautiful village on earth. She was really no longer lonely.

songs I listened to while typing this that you should listen to while reading it.because they’re awesome.  and you are too.:“el scorcho” - weezer“the concubine” - beirut“your english is good” - tokyo police club“sleepytime in the western world” - blitzen trapper“the breeze” - dr. dog“staring at the sun” - tv on the radio“all my friends” - lcd soundsystem“back to boston” - rosebuds“sunday morning” - no doubt“memories” - david guetta“everything about it is a love song” - paul simon“anti matter” - n.e.r.d.“solo impala” - the fashion“sir duke” - stevie wonder“catastrophe and they cure” - explosions in the sky (from their album “all of a sudden I miss everyone”…how appropriate)“buffalo soldier” - bob marley“young pilgrims” - the shins“horchata” - audiodax“free fallin” - the almost“live fast, die old” - frank turner what.up.Don’t feel neglected.  Because you’re not the only one that I’ve forgotten to write to…I’ve forgotten myself.  I haven’t really reflected on the past year as it is easier not to.  It’s not that the past year has been so awful that I don’t want to think about it…it’s been the opposite actually…but thinking about how much I’ve changed, what all I have done, how I only have a year left with these beautiful people, it just gets my mind going to a place that is a good kind of scary.  It’s strange how normal life has become for me here.  The distinct rattle of a donkey cart approaching is no longer exotic.  Namlish phrases have infiltrated my vernacular and waiting 4 hours when someone said they were coming “now” is expected.  These things have become normal, so now is different from when I first started posting on this thing.  Everything used be new and ridiculous, but now it’s just life.  Ok, like right now I’m sitting on my back porch with two Herero girls, one is in pre-primary and the other is in grade two.  As I’m sitting and typing on my computer, listening to The Fashion, they are playing next to me with buttons.  Speaking a language that I used to think sounded just like The Sims, they are trading, throwing, and chewing the buttons.  They hardly know any English, but they try.  “Miss, the baby did go.”  “Miss look.”  I used to be uncomfortable with small children always visiting my house.  They are cute and all, but I came as a volunteer teacher, not a volunteer babysitter.  Now, I consider them company.  Any time of the day when my front door is open, or there is any sign of life at my house, they’re over.  If I don’t have other work to do, I’ll play with them.  We color, play Memory, play made up card games (I’ve tried to teach them go fish and crazy eights, but the language barrier is quite the problem), and various versions of tag.  It is only when I stop to think just how crazy it is that the crazy isn’t crazy to me anymore.  Does that make sense?  Yeahhhhhhhhh… so I’ve been here a year.That’s insane.At the end of last term, my whole Peace Corps group travelled down to Windhoek and had a mid-service conference.  At some point during the couple days we were there, someone said that now, for the rest of our lives, we’ll be able to recognize the value of a year.  Truth.  I mean, before I left, I had just graduated from DePauw with an English writing degree and a deep need for an adventure.  I spent that summer ritualizing my good-bye, bumming around in Ohio, Indiana, and Chicago (not to mention the epic southwestern USA road trip), and spending too much money on booze and any and all food that I would have to go two years without.  A year ago in August, I had no idea what I had just agreed to do.  Pre-service training was full of my frustrations and stress migraines learning a click language, meeting so many new people, and trying to get all of my questions answered about this place.  Every question I had was answered with “it depends.”  While I hated that response, it was true.  That is how Namibia is…it depends.  This place is so ambiguous and most of the time an answer that you got yesterday is different today.   Oh wow.  Yeah.  Eleven months.  Uhh.  Ok…Let’s start with my first term of teaching.  In January, I moved out of that host family household and into my own house, the one that the previous volunteer moved out of.  Being on my own was so nice, and when teaching started, so necessary.  My first term of teaching, so my first three months really being here, were the most stressful, emotional, aggravating, and rewarding of my life.  Unless, you’ve done the Peace Corps it will be impossible to understand; however, I’ll do my best to explain.  My school is a farm school.  Seventy kilometers from the nearest town (well, technically Kamanjab is a “village” and Erwee is a “settlement” but for the purpose of understand, I’ll call Kamanjab a “town” and Erwee a “village), all of the learners who attend live at the surrounding farms.  Transport is a national problem in Namibia, but particularly a hinderance when it comes to getting learners to my school in time for the first day.  Especially after the long December holiday.  So the first couple of weeks of school are a cluster…you fill in the rest.  It is impossible to teach because for the first week of school, only about a third of the learners are there.  So, even if you wanted to start, you would have to repeatedly explain whatever you had covered.  Ok and even if I were to start teaching the first day, I’d be the only teacher doing so.  Trying to control one class while the rest of the school is running around going crazy, would not only be near impossible, but it wouldn’t be the most conducive environment for learning.  So, I spent those first couple of weeks doing diagnostic tests to determine the reading levels of my learners.  Having taken copious notes on all of my observations of each learner, the third week of school, when most of the learners were there, I thought I was ready.  I went over classroom rules (class is R.E.A.L.ly.F.U.N! Respect, speak English, Ask to move from your seat, Listen, and have FUN) and classroom procedures.  Introducing rules and procedures was my first indication that wasn’t going to be like any teaching experience I have ever had.  Read any book on teaching or ask any teacher and the most important thing they will tell you is consistency.  Nothing in Namibia is consistent.  Not even the grocery stores.  I’ll go to SuperSpar in Otjiwarongo to do my shopping and one week they’ll have chick peas, then they won’t have them for 3 months.  The time table for my school is outlined like this:6:50 morning staff meeting7:00 bell rings; learners queue up for morning assembly7:10 - 7:50 first period7:50 - 8:30 second period8:30 - 9:10 third period9:10 - 9:30 tea time9:30 - 10:10 fourth period10:10 - 10:50 fifth period10:50 - 11:30 sixth period11:30 - 11:40 second break11:40 - 12:20 seventh period12:20 - 1:00 eight periodPlease notice the extensive time alloted for passing period for the learners to walk from one class to the next.  Also, before the learners enter the school gate, they must queue up silently, by grade, from shortest to tallest.  Getting three hundred children to do this takes a while.  So seventh period, the class after the second break is frequently cut in half.  If the morning staff meeting happens, it lasts longer than ten minutes.  The morning assembly is always longer than ten minutes.  Between singing, singing the national anthem while finding the flag then raising the flag, praying, and morning announcements, it is not uncommon for first period to get cancelled.  Tea time is rarely only twenty minutes.  Instead of calling my school inconsistent, I’ll call it flexible.  The first term, the complete disregard to punctuality almost killed me.  But this is the system my learners are used to.  So, if I was going to have a successful classroom, I was going to have to get used to it too.  Instilling my classroom rules and procedures literally took the entire term and it is still not going as smooth as I would like.  But part of being here is rolling with the punches.  So I do.  With all of my pre-testing, I thought that the lesson plans I had come up with for the first couple weeks of school were level-appropriate.  With grade sevens, I started with writing stories based off of pictures.  I gave them verbs and nouns that would presumably aid in writing their stories.  After spending a week on this, a lesson which I allotted one day for, they turned them in.  That weekend, as I was reading them over, I quickly realized that most of them had no idea how to write a proper sentence.  Punch.  Rolling.  That same first week, I introduced nouns to both of my grade five classes.  I teach 5a an 5b.  Spending the entire week on Monday’s lesson, I realized that 6 of my 50 grade 5s can identify letters of the alphabet.  Double punch.  Trying to roll.  Oh and of the twenty eight learners in that 5b class, three understand English.  Knock out.    The backtracking to determine where is actually an appropriate place to start on top of the learner’s behavior broke me.  I spent much of that first month at school clenching my teeth, holding back tears, and nursing stress headaches.  I had never been that frustrated in my entire life and in turn I have never been that scared.  What the what was I doing here?  And for two years?  I definitely thought that I had made a huge mistake.  Everyone was telling me that it would get better, to which I always responded “when?”  I imagine this is what Kelly Rowland and that other child thought when Destiny’s child broke up Beyonce got huge and started dating Jay-Z.  I had decided to do this, had looked forward to doing this, only to have it suck so so bad.  The only recollection I had of learning the alphabet was “B” day in kindergarten with Mrs. Bingamin (or as we endearingly and creatively called her Mrs. Bingabutt).  I had my mom sew buttons on a sweatshirt dress.  Yes, a sweatshirt dress.  Dear 1990’s, what were you thinking?  Not only did I choose to publicly humiliate myself by wearing it to school, I five year old consciously decided to have it documented forever seeing as it was picture day.  As much as I have tried to repress the memory of my defunct fashion sense, that was all I could think of when I realized that I had fifty learners who did not know their alphabet.  The Ministry of Education is known for passing brilliant laws and regulations for the Namibian school system.  Transferring is one of them.  Transferring is the Ministry’s ingenious plan that basically stagnates the intellectual growth of the nation.  That may sound a little dramatic, but I really cannot find any other logical reason why they require it by law.  It says that no learner can fail more than once in a phase.  Grades 1-4 are a phase, grades 5-7 are a phase, and grades 8-10 are a phase.  Grades 11 and 12 are different where only learners that pass grade 11 can move on to grade 12.  For example, if a learner fails grade one, where passing is 30%, they repeat it.  Well, let’s say said learner fails again, welp, they get transferred to grade 2.  More than likely that learner will fail grade 2 because they were unable to pass grade 1.  Transferred to grade 3.  Fails grade 3.  Transfers to grade 4.  Fails grade 4.  Transfers to grade 5.  Now, without having passed a single grade for 5 years, that learners ends up in my grade 5 class not knowing the alphabet, not knowing how to spell his/her name, and not knowing his/her birthday.  The alphabet is as basic as I could think.  How could I teach material more remedial than the alphabet while still sticking to the syllabus which I am required to cover?  Namibian schools are more concerned with bureaucracy than their learners.  As a teacher in the Namibian school system, I am required to have files which are essentially binders filled with Ministry circulars and other needless paperwork.  Even if it is above my learner’s levels, like even if my learner’s cannot read or write, I am required to teach what is in the syllabus and required to document it in a year plan, scheme of work, and daily lesson plans.  Now, I have never taught in an American school, as I am sure in one form or another these things are required as well; however, the difference is in America (I think or I guess I hope it is this way) the priority is given to the education of the child, rather than the paperwork behind that.  It is the complete opposite here.  I made the personal decision that during my time here I am going too focus on literacy and not only the skills needed but to foster a love for reading in my learners.  Some of the learners do not have these basic skills.  So, I’ve made it my charge that by the time I leave most of my learners will have basic reading skills.  The most sustainable thing that I can do is be a positive role model and facilitate literacy.  If some higher-up from the ministry wants to come into my classroom and reprimand me for not teaching what’s laid out in the syllabus, I’m ready with my rebuttal.   Between figuring out what paperwork is required, where to start with the alphabet, and how to get my learners to class on time…be glad good reader that I didn’t post anything that first term.  Anything I would have posted would have made my blog go from PG to R simply with the expletives.  So I spent January to April with my grade fives on vowels and vowel sounds while I covered nouns and the basics of sentences and paragraphs with grade seven.  Four months and that’s all I could accomplish.  So I left Erwee for the May break extremely down and was ready to reward myself with a two and a half week vacation in Swakopmund and Cape Town.  May is fall down here, so even though the weather wasn’t ideal, the time with my friends away from school was amazing.  We spent a couple of days in Swakop, simply walking around, eating good food, drinking good drinks, and toeing the ocean.  From there we made our way down to Cape Town.  Since it has been done by several volunteers before us, we (myself, Shannon, Liz, Vanessa, and Ashley) decided to hitch hike to CT.  Like I said earlier, I was a graduate of DePauw University and the only thing I knew I wanted was an adventure.  So we eventually got down to Keetmanshoop, a city way way south in Namibia.  We overnighted with one of Shannon’s friends and got up really early so we could make it to the petrol station to try to catch someone going all the way down.  We talk to the attendants and tell them where we are trying to go and that, if possible, we’re trying to go for free.  No more than ten minutes later, one of them comes up to me, points to man inside and says, “He’s going.”  I ask him if he’s going to CT, he says yes, I ask if he’d mind taking me and me friends, he says no.  He’s driving a touring company van back to the headquarters and says that it’s policy that he cannot pick up hikers.  Understandable.  So, we head back outside and split up.  Ashley and I go to sit on the side of the road while the other three sit on the curb at the petrol station.  Five minutes later, Shannon is screaming “JULIE!!  ASHLEY!!  COME ON!”  Apparently the man decided to stick it to the man and disregard policy and take us anyway…for free!  Best hiking luck we could have asked for…hiking gods were definitely on our side that morning.  Ten hours later, we rolled into Cape Town and I was so confused because it was a real city.  I mean with people, tall buildings, and traffic!  I was feeling a little overwhelmed after we checked into our hostel and decided to check out the night life.  There were so many choices…choices on where to eat, on what to eat.  Did we want to go somewhere else for drinks or did we want to stay?  We could do either.  Though Windhoek is a big city compared to the rest of Namibia, it is nothing compared CT.  So having gone 9 months without having to make very many decisions like that, it took me a couple days to get used to.  Oh, and there was a McDonald’s!  Stateside, I wasn’t really a McDonald’s lover.  I was more a Taco Bell kid.  But those fries and the pump ketchup and the sesame seed bun…ooo girl, good stuff.  After that first night, we spent the next couple of days in Stellanbosch, a town just outside of Cape Town in wine country.  It is known for its wineries and for the university it houses.  Cute place that if it wasn’t in South Africa I would describe as Americana: brick sidewalks, sidewalk seating, parks, adorable.  We signed up for a wine tour through Vinehopper.  The bus picked us up at our hostel at 8:30am to take us to our first winery.  We did the tour and a tasting of five wines and collectively decided that wine is a perfect breakfast time beverage.  The next winery served us ten tastings.  Even though a tasting isn’t more than two gulps worth, ten in one sitting made us forget about the cold, rainy weather that was making us sit inside.  For the next six hours, we visited 4 more wineries.  If you ever find yourself near Cape Town, a wine tour comes highly recommended.  The rest of our time in Stellanbosch we ate good food (you’ll notice a theme during this ZA visit), went to thumpin clubs, and slept in real beds.  It doesn’t take much to impress me anymore.  If there is good food and a real bed, I’m happy.  For the next week or so we were back in Cape Town.  I saw two movies in real movie theaters, ate ice cream, window shopped, sent my clothes to a laundromat, basically did all the things I miss from America.  We also took a day trip to Simon’s Town.  My friend Stewart has a friend that lives in Cape Town and has a truck, so we borrowed it so we wouldn’t have to deal with the trains.  It was a beautiful drive along the coast but because before we left we put unleaded petrol in it’s diesel tank, instead of going to Simon’s Town and the Cape of Good Hope, we were stranded in Vishoek while the truck got towed and only had time to visit Simon’s Town.  What’s so special about Simon’s Town?  Beach penguins.  Yes, penguins that live on the beach.  They are the cutest and funniest little things.  We were pretty stressed out about the truck but an hour of googling over the penguins playing in the waves eased things up a little bit.  Shannon, Liz, and I climbed Table Mountain one afternoon.  A couple of friends of ours who had climbed it few days previous told us not to take this one route because even though it is the most direct route to the top, it is by far the steepest.  So, we get in a taxi at our hostel, tell him to take us to Table Mountain and we get dropped off at the entrance to one of the paths.  We thought we knew what we were doing and were positive that we didn’t make the same mistake they did.  Eleven minutes into climbing some of the steepest rock steps I have ever seen, we realize that we’re idiots.  So, instead of turning around and finding another, less challenging path, we just decided to stick with it.  Actually, I thought it wasn’t as bad as the others had made it out to be but I can’t say that Shannon or Liz felt the same.  Two and a half hours later, we made it to the top.  Cape Town is a beautiful city.  It’s a big city.  But what’s so special about it is Table Mountain.  Anywhere you go you can take in the skyline but the whole city is dwarfed by this enormous mountain in the background.  Mountain on one side, ocean on the other.  When you get to the top, getting down, you have two options, you can take the cable car to the bottom or you can climb back down.  I was too cheap to pay the eighty-five rand (=$12usd) for the cable car down, so I spent another two hours climbing down with Liz.  It wasn’t so bad at the time, but the next three days were painful.  If I were a learner I would say that “my legs were paining.”  Our room at the hostel was on the second floor and I tried to limit my trips down the stairs to twice a day, max.  Overall the trip was really refreshing, but during the 21-hour bus ride back to Windhoek, I was dreading going back to site.  I had left feeling defeated, depressed, stressed, and frustrated.  Going back to teach a second term seemed impossible.  But then, an unexpected thing happened.  To get back to my site from Kamanjab, you drive 70 kilometers down a gravel road.  More than likely, I’m riding in the back of a bakki and while I don’t get as car nauseous as I did when I was a kid, this gravel road will do it to me.  A pretty terrible end to a 7-hour trip from Windhoek.  So, as I’m exhausted from the day-long bus ride and trying to keep it together while the back throws me up and down and side to side, we arrive in Erwee.  Some learners were busy moving back into the hostel and whenever any car drives by the school, all of the learners stop and watch it until it is out of site.  So, when they saw me in the back of the bakki, it was a chorus of “Miss Julie!  Miss Julie!” accompanied by several high pitched “Aaaaaaaaah!”s.  Instead of feeling dejected and miserable, I was elated to be back.  I had forgot how much I missed the sound of learners’ screaming, how much I missed my library, how much I missed my tiny bed and foam mattress, how much I missed Erwee.  I wasn’t ready for that, to feel at home.  But, I am and the second term was nothing like the first.  I knew what to expect the second term.  I knew learner’s names and could actually pronounce them correctly (which literally took me the entire term to do for some…Tjozohongo, Iworonganisa, Muzomundu, Katunambata…see?).  I was comfortable with time inconsistency and have become really laid back when things do not go as planned.  Surprisingly, my learners know what to expect from my classroom and from me.  Not to say I didn’t have terrible days the second term where I would lock myself in the library for a cry or when I would just leave the school because I was so frustrated I had to go home…not my proudest moments…but overall, I would wake up in the morning ready for a good day instead of expecting an awful one.  Since school was no longer draining every ounce of my energy, I felt like I could take on some secondary projects.  I started reading with small groups of my grade sevens in the afternoons.  We met Monday through Thursday in groups of three or four and we would read a book in that week.  I would present an easy chapter book to them on Monday and say, “we are going to read this book this week.”  No fail, they would always respond, “oh no miss.  That book is too long.”  No fail, on Thursday when we’d finish it they’d say “miss, I didn’t think we could read it.”  Most of these learners have little to no self-esteem.  They entire lives at school and at home they are told over and over that they can’t.  So, that’s what they have come to believe.  It is so frustrating to tell them that yes they can and to have them look back at you so confused because they don’t believe you.  The second term, I was no longer as concerned with the surface-level things that were frustrating me—classroom management, learners’ reading levels, discipline problems—as I was with the real life these kids live.  I’ve come to care so deeply about these kids and to want to give them everything, to give them their childhoods as the carefree kids they’re supposed to be, that I am so aggravated with the things I cannot change, that I cannot control.  But I do what I can, I guess, to set them up for success rather than failure.  Thanks to my dad and Angie, I have begun to do that with puzzles.  My dad had sent me some puzzles in a package one time so I put them in the library on a shelf for the learners to play with if they were able to read quietly during their B.I.S. period (basic information science aka structured library time).  Much like the book a week idea, the learners did not believe that they were capable of putting all of the small pieces together to make one big picture.  But after some encouragement, they began to find pieces that fit together.  When a learner finishes a puzzle, his/her hand shoots up as he/she yells “Miss!  Miss!  Finish!”  They are so proud of themselves so much to say, “look at me, look at this.  I did it.  Not him, not her.  Me.  I, I did it.”  Pretty awesome.During the second term, I also started coaching netball.  Netball.  Think basketball, but on sand, without dribbling, and without the contact.  Kind of like a mix between basketball and ultimate frisbee, if you’re familiar.  Seeing as I played basketball for ten years and never mastered any sort of ball handling skill, netball is my kind of sport.  It all started when I went to one practice to help out my friend Joyce, the pre-primary teacher at my school who is my age.  There are some pretty particular rules about netball that took me a while to understand, but now netball practice is one of my favorite times of the day.  I’ve introduced such practical training games such as capture the flag and knock out to their exercise regimen as well as the all loving punishment of suicides.  We were invited to a soccer/netball tournament in Okaukuejo so we packed the girls team into the back of one bakki and the boys soccer team into the back of another and went.  Whenever I traveled to tournaments with AAU teams, it was always so much fun traveling with my friends and hanging out in between games, so I was really excited to chaperone the girls.  Unlike American sports tournaments, instead of staying in a hotel, all of the teams slept on the floors of the hosting school’s classrooms.  The coaches slept on the floor in the staff room and the coaches were also responsible for cooking for their teams.  I had no idea how motherly I could be until I was in co-charge of 10 girls for a weekend.  I made sure they were drinking enough water and staying out of the shade in between games.  I helped cook their meals in huge black iron pot over a fire and spoiled them by buying them Coke and sweets.  Oh, and I coached too.When my brother and I were younger, we were really involved in sports.  My mom and dad were super supporters and would sit through my brother’s 13-inning games and my insanely boring softball games.  They were both really vocal, but my dad was always one who liked to be heard not only by his children but by the umpires or referees as well.  This was always a little embarrassing, especially if he was asked to leave and I never understood why he would get so fired up over a game that was neither for a bowl or world championship.  Until, I coached my first netball game.  The whole tournament, there was this male coach who would make a big fuss over everything.  Granted, it was easy to hate him because he was the coach of the best team there, Warmquelle.  Instead, of letting these girls have a good-natured tournament which for most of them would be the only time this year to play against other schools, he always made something out of nothing in the coach’s meetings and called every ref into question.  Well, we didn’t have outside refs, just the coaches from other schools umpired the games.  Joyce was a ref because she played netball all through secondary school and at university and was even selected to be on the Namibian national team when she was schooling.  Well, at one of the coach’s meetings, I had asked the coordinator to write up a bracket for me so I can keep track of who we would be playing over the course of the weekend.  I had been filling it in throughout the course of the day and it was correct…keep this in mind.  Our team won our first game, so we advanced to round two.  As we got ready to start the second round, Mr. Big Mouth called all of the coaches together and announced that we were going to re-draw teams for the second round.  Now, I don’t know how tournaments are run in Namibia, so I kept my mouth shut for a while to see if maybe they do in fact re-draw teams every round.  As other coaches started to disagree, I realized that this is not the case.  This guy was going on and on and I was already sick of him, so I took out the bracket that the host school sports coordinator drew for me.  Oh, yeah, so at this tournament, not only was I the only American there, but I was also the only white person.  I got a lot of double takes.  So, in this impromptu coach’s meeting, I was definitely the odd ball.  Ok, so I took out the bracket, and said “There is no need to re-draw teams because the tournament should go like this.”  No one responded.  They continued bickering.  I don’t like being ignored, so I said again, “This is the bracket that the sports coordinator drew himself.  You don’t re-draw teams mid-tournament.”  Everyone stared.  I began to feel like I shouldn’t have said anything.  Then, Mr. Big Mouth grabbed my paper and said, “No.”  Do not tell Miss Julie “no” without good reason.   I get it.  I’m the outsider and Namibian men aren’t really used to being told what to do by a woman.  So, I guess culturally speaking, I could see why he wouldn’t want to listen.  But this is me being reflective.  Instead of letting it go, I looked at him and said, “Call him over then.  I guarantee he’ll say we don’t need to re-draw and he’ll draw this exact same thing.”  So he did.  The sports coordinator came over and drew the EXACT SAME THING THAT I HAD IN MY HAND.  So, since I was feeling feisty, I took both papers, put them right next to each other and shoved them in the guy’s face.  “Oh wow” I said.  “Weird, isn’t what I just showed you?”  To which he responded, “I wanted to hear the truth from him.”  “Him” meaning that he wanted to hear the truth from a man.  This was where I finally understood how my dad had felt all of those times he had stood up in the bleachers to yell at the ref for a terrible call.  I wanted to stand up for my girls, for their future.  I wanted them to see that is not right for a man to talk to a woman like that.  By this time, the whole ordeal had attracted a small crowd.  So, in front of everyone, I yell, “Look!  I was right the whole time and you just didn’t want to listen.  I may not be a man and I may not be Namibian, but I do know what I’m talking about!”  I got a few claps as I walked away towards my girls.  When I got to my learners, they were looking at me like it was their first time seeing me.  The argument and mainly my yelling became the talk of the netball team and soccer team…”And then Miss was yelling.”  I never thought getting in a public argument about a netball game would be part of my service, but Namibia can be pretty surprising.     So, towards the end of the second term, Joyce and I had gotten pretty close between coaching together and hanging out.  Like most farm schools, housing for teachers is a problem in Erwee.  I am lucky enough to live in a house that was built by the ministry, so it has electricity, three bedrooms, running water, and all that jazz.  But other than the three other teacher houses like mine, the only other option is a stick and mud hut.  Since Joyce arrived during term one, she had been staying with Sodina and Olin at their house, a teacher house near the hostel.  Three people living in that house became pretty crowded, so Joyce decided that she was going to take a room at the hostel.  Ok, the hostel is insane.  The learners are always so crazy and loud that even I could not imagine living there.  I had debated asking her to move in and weighed the options of having roommate versus living alone.  During the first term I needed to live alone.  There was too much crying, moping, and marathoning TV shows from my external hard drive to be social with a roommate.  But since the second term had been going really well and we had become good friends, I talked to Peace Corps and they approved so I asked Joyce to move in!  She did end up moving in all of her stuff until the beginning of this term so we’ve only been living together for about a week, but it has been really great.  I forgot how nice it is to talk to someone about my day over dinner or to have someone to cook that dinner with.  Oh, and as a housewarming present to herself, she bought a new refrigerator, a flat screen TV, and satellite.  So, now I have all those things, which is definitely an improvement in my quality of life.  But before the start of the third term, we had a small holiday.  My lovely group 30 had our whole group mid-service meeting, which even the name of the in-service training is mind-blowing to me.  After mid-service, my friend Sarah and I went all the way down to Luderitz for a couple days.  Two guys from our group live there and since it is so so so far away, we can never go there during the school term.  As it so happens, the national Hero’s Day celebration was going on while we were there, so we got to see President Pohamba speak.  We spent the rest of our time there eating fresh oysters and trying to infiltrate the hotel where the president was staying to meet him.  We never actually found him, but we had a lot of fun trying.  After Luderitz, Sarah and I split ways.  I met up with Ashley in Mariental and we headed up to Okahandja for the second week of our holiday.  We were selected to be resource volunteers for the training of the new group, Group 32.  So, I actually spent most of my holiday working and doing things for the Peace Corps, but it was definitely pretty fun.  Sunday night before Ashley and I were supposed to begin our sessions with the new group we were laughing about as a resource volunteer, we should probably know stuff.  Seeing as we had simply experienced living and working in Namibia, we knew a lot more than we thought.  I forgot how much I didn’t know when I was at PST (pre-service training) and how much I felt like I needed to know everything.  So pretending to be an expert on Namibia for a week was a nice legitimation of what I’m doing here and what I have done here.  Which brings me to now.  It is the beginning of the third term, so nothing’s happening at school as far as teaching in the classroom is concerned.  I’ve begun a reading incentive program in the library and have taught capture the flag to the rest of the school, but that’s about it from the school side (

if the folds of my brain could tell you the secrets of my time here…it would go something like this.

note: the first woman “long jumping” is my hod, sodina, and the man “long jumping” is my principal. 

turn left at the tree, past the donkeys, third house on the right.

my first christmas eve/christmas day/boxing day in namibia. (full explanation of slaughtered animals, feeding cows, and the namibian baby with his hood up coming soon)

i love this woman. (i present to you … my kkg pst language trainer)

While living in a village may have its downfalls (see: no grocery store, no post office, no tar road, and possibly more cows, goats, and sheep than people, etc), for me, for now, it is just what I need.  I have been able to think, really think.  I mean it is obvious that I was required to think a lot as a student at DePauw, if I didn’t I don’t think i would have graduated.  But those thoughts are not like these.  When I was there, even when I was writing or if I was enthralled by something I was reading, I always had a thousand and one other things going on in my head.  I was never able to sit and wallow in my thoughts because there was always something else I should have probably been doing.  But now, I’m here in this village with next to nothing.  I mean, I am taken care of as far as food and clothes and pictures and things that make me happy are concerned, but on any given day I can’t sit and watch 8 hours of the “Real Housewives of New Jersey” (which I admit, I did do when I was stateside…don’t judge) or get on the internet and switch webpages change every five seconds.  I can’t get in my car and drive to T-Bell for a Cheezy Gordita Crunch or go to Target to buy another pair of sunglasses I don’t need.  None of that.  So while that might sound like hell to some people, I love it.  I love that I’m really not responsible for much else other than myself.  I mean school and the school library are keeping me really busy and once I start teaching in January, I’ll have enough to do also.  But for the most part, I can think about one thought for hours, for days if I want, really reflect on it, and come to a conclusion.  I’ve been able to learn about myself because I’ve had the time to.  On several occasions, I think, that as busy students or working adults, this primordial concept is forgotten.  We study and drive and buy and work and sleep as this person with some title, some descriptor of who we are: teacher, accountant, coach, boss.  And for a while that is all we know because for forty plus hours a week, it is who we are.  So, we start to believe that that’s it.  We think about papers, projects, and deadlines so much that it is too exhausting to think about anything else even when we have the time to.  So, at some point, the who we are gets replaced with the who people think we are.  I don’t know, it is like all I’ve got here in Erwee is the bare bones without any other distractions and so now, I have the rare life opportunity to be able to sit, think, and write about stuff like that.During all this thinking, I’ve come to some pretty fulfilling conclusions and a couple of pretty extensive lists whose titles include, but are not limited to: “bucket list,” “future (near&far),” “places i want to live when i grow up,” “criteria for future jobs,” “if i could do anything, i would…,” and “what i need to be happy.”  That last one is probably the most important for me at the moment.  Because I’m happy.  I mean really happy…blindly happy.  For me, here, my bad days are great and my great days are perfect.  And I’m proud of myself for it.  For the most part, I made this decision completely on my own.  I mean I considered the opinions of my family and friends and I wouldn’t be here without all of their help and support, so I’m not trying to sound selfish when I say that.  But, I researched the Peace Corps.  I talked to Katie Gobel (the beautiful and talented woman who was a year ahead of me at DePauw.  She applied to the Peace Corps and joined as soon as she graduated also.  She is currently serving in Vanuatu.  The summer before I began my senior year and before she left, I met up with her at the Water Tower food court in downtown Chicago and talked to her for about four hours over soup and stir fry.  She inspired me to finish my application, to really join, to actually do it.  I’m forever indebted to her because here i am…).  I applied, interviewed, waited, and went.  Now, I’m here living out this decision that I made for myself and it is right.  It is so right.  Essentially, I’m so happy because I’m thinking, yeah, I know myself.  I actually trust who I think I am.  I’m twenty-two and I know what it feels like to be insanely happy with a life decision.  So, for the rest of my life when I meet my Prince Charming, when I move to Seattle (example from my “places i want to live when i grow up” list), when I choose a MFA program or take a job at a publishing company (selections from my “future (near&far)” list), I know if my decision was right or not based on how I feel right now.  And that rules…it’s amazing.  I cannot really describe it.  The only thing I can do is hope that the people that I love get the chance to feel this way at some point…and, of course, let me know when they do.

pst nostalgia (i): every morning during assembly, we sang songs and danced.  it was the perfect subtle introduction to figuring things out as an american in namibia.  collectively, we would belt out african words to songs, clueless of the meaning, but shaking and smiling all the while.  there were no wall flowers.  even at 8am, for the most part, everyone mustered up the energy to join in the chorus.  the trainers would stand in front and lead, laughing at our poorly timed dance moves, mispronunciations, and off-key caroling.  regardless, this was handily my favorite part of the training day.  ok, favorite part other than any of my time spent with auntie martha and the trips to spar (grocery down the road with an amazing bakery). brad from my group, along with his hiking boots, trombone, and chicken hat, also packed a small professional-grade sound recording device.  one morning, he coordinated a recording session so, as trainers and trainees, we could lay down some of our favorite tracks.  despite our arrangement in the video, on the average morning, we weren’t organized in this fashion.  rather, there would be chairs; the trainers (and on several occasions, shannon, myself, and a couple other pcvs as well) would be in a line facing us at the front; and there would be an equal mix of lethargy and shimmy gusto from the group.  but for the most part, for the 8-week PST training period, this was my Counterpoints (north central high school, indianapolis, indiana state-champ show choir)…this was my GLEE.

the saturday before exam week, sodina decided to throw a “shakeyshakey” (school dance) for the learners as a last hoorah before they “got serious” (got focused) about their “learning” (studying).  as a teacher, i got to chaperone. the dance is in the school hall and the woman in purple is sodina.

The other night, one of the grade two teachers was visiting at my home stay.  She is only contracted to teach at the school for this year because she was hired and placed by the ministry for the temporary position.  She is renting out half a mud hut across the dirt road from my home stay.  She is young, friendly, a genuinely good person who does her job (sometimes this is rare) and does her job well.  Anyway, on Saturday I had been at the school working on the library, so when I came home she was sitting outside on the cement porch with my host mom just talking and visiting.  Considering my host mom speaks minimal English, they were speaking in Khoekhoe.  When this happens, I can rarely ever participate, so I just listen and see how many words I can recognize and try to decipher what they might be talking about.  So, I sat in silence attempting to pick up on their colloquial sentence structure and watching the sunset, my mom excused herself to the kitchen to cook dinner.  The grade two teacher actually has a house in Outjo (about 2 hours away) where her immediate family and grade six daughter lives.  When she got the position here, she brought along her grade three son.  Knowing this position was only for a year, she had applied to teaching jobs in Otjiworongo, a city much closer to her home in Outjo than Erwee.  I asked her if she had heard anything about the job, if it was filled already or if she was hired.  We then started talking about her daughter and she told me that she has been away from her for three years.  The two years prior to her being here, she had been placed by the ministry at another school far away from Outjo.  I told her that I understand how that can be hard being away from her daughter for so long.  “I’m 22 and I don’t even like the idea of being away from my mom for just two years.”  I told her that I thought she was a strong lady and wished her the best of luck with the job placement.  We continued to talk about our families.  I talked about living with my mom and Craig and how lucky I am that my dad is only a three hour drive away.  I told her that my brother and I are really good at stressing out our parents, but we aren’t so ruthless that we do it at the same time.  When David moved away to go to school in Florida, I stayed in Indiana for school.  Then, when he decided to move back to the Midwest, I decided to move to Africa.  She laughed and reciprocated my previous compliment to her; she told me “you are strong too for being here.” Now, let me first explain that even though while in Erwee, she has been staying in a mud hut, she is by far the flyest dresser at our school.  She’ll come in on Fridays in fashionable jeans and a silk top complete with coordinating jewelry.  By looking at her, you would think she was visiting from the capital rather than living in a one room hut.  Anyway, she has three raised blister-looking swells on her arms which I had noticed whenever she sports one of her many American-esque hipster tops.  I didn’t really think anything of them, just thought that maybe they were scars from a fall or a car accident or maybe they were just birthmarks or something.  But, possibly seeing me so happy talking about my family, she decided to share some more about hers.  She continued to tell me about how “clever” (what Namibians say when they mean “smart”) her daughter is and how she was just selected as a prefect for next year at her school (a prefect is comparable to being on student council but with a safety patrol twist).  I’m not sure if it was because this was the first time since I’ve been here that we’ve had the opportunity to talk and share outside of school or what made her decide to say what she did next: “Their father is in prison, in Walvis Bay.  He’s there for a year and then has three years of what?  How do you say?  Probation or what.”  “Is it?” I responded with a Namlish phrase that has infiltrated my vocabulary, the first official sign of integration.  “Last year, he tried to kill me.”  She was looking down pushing back a cuticle when she spoke.  Still focused on her fingernail, she pointed to her arm, “that’s what these are from.  Some people when they taste those things, they just change, you know?  It’s a problem.”  Her boyfriend, the father of her two children, is an alcoholic.  Apparently, one evening sometime last year, he had gotten out of control.    Ever since my site visit in September, I had always thought of this teacher as a really cool chick.  She’s hilarious and has this deep, infectious laugh, one that if she wasn’t so happy all the time could be mistaken for an evil-up-to-no-good cackle.  But this how I feel now, finally at my permanent site.  I’m only at the surface.  I’m just sitting on the dock, with my toes in the water having no idea what fish or rusting auto parts are underneath.  I guess knowing these things only come with time, which is natural for someone moving to a new place.  But, here, it is a bit more intense.  So, I’m here, in Erwee.  My home for the next two years.  I’ve been here for a little over a month and much like my first two months in country, so much has happened.  During my site visit, I had met my host mother but she was the only one of this new host family I had met.  I was informed that she was married and that she had children, but beyond that I did not know much else.  So, when I was dropped off the day after swearing-in, I was greeted by two of her daughters, 25-year old Maureen and 23-year old Grace.  There was also another small girl there, Maureen’s daughter, 4-year old Sweetness.  For the first couple hours as I was unpacking my things, they were nice enough—accommodating, curious, congenial.  Then, they invited me to go with them to the shop.  My understanding of a shop is a place where you purchase foodstuffs and other essentials.  So, I agreed to accompany them as soon as I finished up organizing my things.  We had just left the gate of the yard, when Grace said, “Ahtata!  I forgot the cups,” and she went back inside to retrieve two silver tumblers.  Red flag.  I soon realized that we were in fact going to the shop to buy things, just that those things happened to be bottles of beer.  In Namibia, the drinking culture is much different than the states.  Anywhere in the states, it is commonplace to order a glass of beer with your meal or to buy a bottle of wine along with your groceries.  You can do so freely, without any worry of the cashier or your neighbors believing you are an alcoholic.  Well, that is not how it is here.  Especially in villages, you are perceived either as sober or as a drunk.  There are many Namibians that I have met, however, who do simply drink on occasion and not to excess, but it is not without taking severe discretion of their surroundings as well as taking measures to ensure the privacy of their consumption.  So, first day in the village (actually any day in the village), drinking at the shop probably would not have been the wisest decision.  The entire walk there, in my head I was trying to think of a way out, an excuse not to go that would not offend them.  Luckily, I didn’t even have to think of anything because just as we were approaching the shop, my great friend Rachy called and I was able to sit outside and talk to her as my diversion.  I described to Rachy exactly what was going on and collectively we decided that I needed to utilize the nap excuse.  It is a pretty standard and safe defense for getting out of just about anything, “I’m really tired for some reason.  I might be getting sick.  I had a long day yesterday and I’m going to go take a nap.”  No one can argue with that.  What are they going to say, “no, you can’t sleep.  I’m going to deny your desire to feel better by forcing you stay awake here with me”?  No.  So, that’s what I did.  As soon as I got off the phone with Rachy, I briefly went into the shop to request the house key from my host sisters and left just as fast as I had entered.  I was at home for a couple hours before they came back.  It had started to get dark and I was getting hungry so I’m glad they returned because cooking in a stranger’s kitchen is never a comfortable situation.  They were only home long enough to cook some rice and soup (aka sauce made from Knorr soup packets) before they left again to go back to the shop.  They left me there with 4-year old Sweetness and another girl who’s relation was unknown (standard of Namibian families to have random children that seemingly live at the house because they cook, clean, make tea when actually they don’t live there, have no relation to the family, and no one finds it important to explain this relationship to the guest…me).  The house is divided into two parts: my host parents’ “wing” and the rest of the house.  It is obvious that their section of the house was before, the entire house.  It is a large room with an adjoining bathroom—cement floors, wooden rafters on the ceiling that support the corrugated iron roof, and cement brick walls.  Then, at some point, they decided to add on.  So, they just built another building directly next to the one they already had.  This section is comprised of a kitchen, sitting room, and additional bedroom.  Because the house is essentially two separate houses, the door to the host parent’s bedroom and the door to the kitchen both lock.  And you cannot access one structure to the next without having to walk along the cement porch outside.  So, for myself, Maureen, Grace, Grace’s boyfriend, Sweetness, and mystery girl there was a single bedroom.  When they left for the second time, I wondered how this was going to work.  There are two beds in the bedroom: a queen size and a twin.  So, the first night, I slept in the twin bed while Sweetness and mystery girl shared the Queen size.  Then, around midnight when they others decided to come home, they banged on the door (walls are thin and there’s a gap between the top of the wall and the tin roof, so banging was unnecessary) for someone to unlock the door to let them in.  I refused to get up because if you know me, the only thing I hate more than bananas is being woken up unnaturally.  Mystery girl gets up and lets them in and Maureen enters the room and shares the Queen with the two other girls.  When I woke up in the morning, Grace and her boyfriend had made a bed of blankets on the floor of the sitting room.  Small space, many people, I wasn’t really ready for that.  Peace Corps Namibia has some pretty rigid rules when it comes to homestays.  The most important one is that the volunteer must have his/her own room with a door that locks.  They maintain that we must have our own space to retreat to and it must lock because even though Peace Corps trusts and approves the host families, no one knows who will be stopping by during the day.  As innocently and inconspicuously as I could, the next day I asked Maureen if she and Grace lived her all year round.  They said they did not and that they were just home for a couple of weeks in November.  Ok, so I figured this was only temporary.  That next week, another daughter came home, the youngest, Buella.  She came home from school because she was finished with her exams and was off on holiday.  I realized that this sharing the room thing was a bit more indefinite that I had anticipated.  At that point, I decided to mention something to Peace Corps about it, asking them what they suggest I do about the situation.  I mean, I didn’t want to kick these people out of their own room, but at the same time, I needed my own space and they knew the rules from the start.  I eventually played dumb and talked to my host mom telling her that “the Peace Corps called today to check up on me and they asked me alot of questions about my site.  They asked if I was sharing a room and I told them I was.  They said that I was not allowed to and that I must work something out.  Is there anything we can do?”  It ended up not being a huge issue like I was anticipating it to be (the worry wart coming out in me) and I’m back to having my own room that locks.  So, the situation mildly improved.  It improved even more when Maureen and Grace both moved back out leaving my host mom, host dad, Buella, Sweetness, and Sean (Grace’s son) at home.  Still a lot of people for a four room house.  Yeah, it is crowded.  Maybe it is that or maybe it is that the family and I got off on the wrong foot, but the situation has never really been rectified.  When I’m there, I constantly feel like I am in the way and they don’t really do anything to make me feel welcome either.  We don’t have running water, so we fetch it from a large drum about 200 meters away.  They have developed this intricate bucket system that I have only half-deciphered.  I know that the red bucket is for bathing and the yellow is for scooping water out of other buckets, but that is as far as I have gotten.  Instead of explaining the rest of their methodology, they just laugh and yell in Khoekhoe when I go for the wrong one.  Very frustrating.  I explained to the family that I would only be eating dinner with them at home, having breakfast on my own and lunch at Danielle’s.  So, the food I buy is the food we can cook and eat for dinner.  Not sure what was miscommunicated there, but it is not happening because the food that I for our dinners disappears to their lunches.  And if I want to eat dinner, I have to cook it, for myself and about six other people.  I don’t mind helping out, you know, doing the dishes, cooking a meal, but being at school all day and starting up running again makes me extremely tired.  So by the time I get home and bathe, normally it is 7:30 or 8:00.  My bed time is 9:00.  Since my host mother and Buella do not work and with me being gone all day at work, I would think that they would have the time and energy to cook dinner.  Not actually true.  Earlier, after about my fourth night in a row of cooking dinner, I got the feeling that if I didn’t, we wouldn’t eat.  I decided to test my theory by reading by the fire and not making any mention of dinner.  8:30, my host mother turns to me and asks, “aren’t you hungry?”  Perfect, I thought, she’s going to offer to cook something!  “Yes, I am pretty hungry,” I responded.  “Well,” she said, “what are you going to cook for us then?”  I’ve become an in-house extra hand to them rather than a part of the family.  I really think that they are nice people, maybe just not the host-an-American-for-two-months type of company.  I know that our relationship will be much better once I am out of there.  I still plan to visit, go over there once a week for tea, or bake for them or something.  For now, only a couple weeks left… But, a homestay is temporary.  Beyond all that, I am deeply in love with this place. Let me first give you the rundown of the logistics so that anything else I might say won’t confuse you.  First, a recap:Arrived to Namibia August 21.  Stayed with a host family (whom I’m obsessed with) in Okahandja during Pre-Service Training (PST).  Stayed in Okahandja for about 2 months and was sworn-in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) on October 16.  I traveled the six hours from Okahandja to my permanent site in Erwee (located in Northwest Namibia in the Kunene Region).  I will be teaching English (and possibly math) for grades 5-7 at Grootberg Primary School (GPS).  For my first two months here I’ve been assigned to another host family (whom, if you couldn’t tell, I’m not obsessed with).  There is a current PCV at-site whom I’ll be replacing.  Her name is Danielle and she leaves Erwee December 13.  The past two months, I have been observing her and learning the ropes of teaching at GPS.  I will begin teaching my own classes in January, when the new school year begins.…sorry for all the parentheticals, but hopefully if at any point you get confused you’ll be able to reference back to that paragraph quite easily.    GPS stats…number of learners: 300/number of learners living at hostel: 200/grades: 1-7/begin with all english instruction: grade 3 (grades 1 and 2 taught in learners’ mother tongue)/computers: 2 (1 of which has been pirated by the school secretary for her personal solitaire use)/grade 5-7 subjects: english, khoekhoe, natural science and health education, life skills, social studies, math/passing mark: 30%Let me first describe the Namibian school system a little bit.  The majority of schools in the nation are hostel schools, where learners board at the institution as well.  Since the population is so spread out, it would be impossible for the Ministry of Education to build schools and staff teachers in every remote village.  So, they build these hostel schools and scatter them about so people commute.  But, this is not the typical boarding school you may be imagining.  I can only speak for my school, but at GPS the resources are thin.  There are only enough beds or foam mattresses for grade seven.  The hall does not have tables, chairs, or indoor plumbing.  There are no toilets, other than the few in the hostel buildings.  While there are several physical deficiencies, in the past couple years my school has been blessed with luck.  GPS is on gravel road C-40, which is the main route to high-end tourist attractions like Palmwag Lodge and Grootberg Lodge.  About two years ago, there was a tour group from England traveling on that very road when they passed through Erwee.  Considering it is the only pocket of buildings for about 150km, naturally these foreigners were intrigued.  They saw the small sign and arrow pointing toward “Grootberg Primary School” and they decided to stop by.  School was in session, so they entered and asked the principal if they could look around.  Mr. Tjivikua being the overly congenial man that he is, decided to show them around, introducing them to staff and learners.  One of the men in the group happened to be a coordinator for the World Wide Schools program that connects schools in the UK to schools in Africa.  From this chance meeting, Mr. Tjivikua and this English lad continued communication and ended up developing a 2-year school improvement plan for GPS.  In the past year, English students have raised money for and visited the school purchasing cups, plates, school supplies, ceiling tiles and painting several classrooms and outdoor murals.  The contract is not up yet, and future plans call for further maintenance and more beds.  In another one of these fortuitous occasions, a tour group of elderly people from Canada came driving down C-40, saw the same rusting sign, and also decided to pop-in.  One thoughtful lady was so touched by the learners and the school that when she returned home, she began something extraordinary.  A master seamstress herself, she decided to use her talent to help GPS and inspire others to help as well.  She and several other Canadian women, some even strangers to her, sewed over 200 quilts to send to Erwee.  So now, even though every learner may not have a bed, every one has a unique blanket, with more than just the warmth of a covering.  So, I guess what I believe is that something out there is taking care of this place.  Maybe that’s why I’m here, I don’t know.  It is something I am having a difficult time getting used to thinking about, that these kids don’t go home.  Every so often, there are home weekends, where their parents are encouraged to pick up their child and take them home for the weekend, but that may be every six or seven weeks.  A 24/7 matron looks after the learners as well as the rest of the hostel staff that comes to cook or clean during the day, but it is not a mother.  The learners share rooms by grade.  So, whereas your classmates may be your best friends, they are not your sisters, not your brothers.  These kids don’t even have the luxury of answering “nothing” to the typical parental dinner table question of “what did you learn at school today?”  When I think back to my grades one through seven school days, I remember field trips to the zoo, sitting at my kitchen table spelling my vocabulary words out loud to my mother who was at the sink elbow-deep in soap suds.  I remember running to be first in the bus line so I could have the coveted back seat, and bringing home ribbons, certificates, stickers, and red-pen A’s to show my parents that I did it.  Every personal sentiment that I connect to my school days does not exist here.  I’m not saying that the teachers don’t care or that the learner’s accomplishments are neglected because that is far from the truth.  It is just exhibited in a different way, I guess.  Like I said, it is something I’m getting used to.Aside from the realities of the school, I am obsessed with my colleagues.  I work with nine other teachers, all of whom are genuinely nice, caring people who each have their own silly way of being who they are.  Sometimes, at our daily morning staff meeting, I’ll just look around the table and imagine what the sitcom would be like if these people were cast.  There’s the dominant male who’s jokes are subtle yet hysterical, the outgoing mildly overweight great aunty type, the shy guy who always has his hands behind his back and never looks you in the eye when you converse, the endearing married couple, the fly loud one whose eye rolls make it very apparent when she disagrees with something, and the white girl.  If we all lived at the same metropolis apartment complex in a generic big city or worked at some magazine or secret government agency, the syndicated laughs would be non-stop.  Regardless, of this crew I have made two very good friends: Sodina and Olin.  Sodina is the lower primary head of department (HOD, basically the equivalent of a vice principal) and Olin is the Khoekhoegowab teacher.  They live together in a house on the hostel grounds and have literally adopted me.  When I was at my lowest, my “I can’t take this anymore” phase with my homestay, they invited me over for dinner.  They feed me after church on Sundays and invited me over to watch “Big Brother Africa” eliminations over tea.  Somehow, as good friends just do, they know when I’m not in my best mood.  They are both intuitive and subtly, in their own ways, let me know that they’re concerned.  One day, Olin came into the library with a stack of exams.  I was busy labeling the spines of some books, killing as much time as I could before I had to go back home.  “May I sit in here and mark?” she asked.  “Of course,” I responded.  While she was in there, we didn’t really talk about much, nothing prolific that I can recall, but she knew, like a friend I had known for years, that I wanted someone there.  With the intuition of a mother, Sodina knows when something is up as early as our morning greeting.  We’ll shake hands, and if she suspects something, she’ll continue holding my hand beyond our “good morning” exchange.  She’ll maybe turn and begin a conversation with someone else, but she won’t let go until she recognizes that I understand.  It is nice to know I have this here, this comfort that normally takes a while to discover.  In a new place, in a new situation, this is the part where you have to admit to yourself that you are vulnerable.  For as independent and self-reliant as I like to think that I am, being alone, in Africa has brought me face to face with my weaknesses, my self-doubts, and my faults.  This part is good though.  It is partly why I decided to get on the plane in the first place, to figure these things out on my own.  While a little self-discovery is great, having these couple of friends here to take my mind off those things is pretty rad too.Beyond their genuine sincerity, I can only describe our friendship as exuberant.  Think back to when you were in like third grade and another teacher would come into your classroom.  With her arms full of papers and manilla file folders, she would enter, say something to your teacher and they would both start laughing.  To you, busy at your worksheet, the conversation would be imperceptible.  As this kid, you always wanted to know what they were talking about, what could possibly be so funny about school?  Those exchanges to you were about as peculiar and mystic as the teacher’s lounge or the machines that grade tests.  Sodina, Olin, and I are those teachers.  I’m finally on the other side of the fanatical.  With learners at our sides or even in their desks, we’ll point, raise our eyebrows, make sarcastic remarks, giggle, and carry on as if I have already been here for two years.   But, I haven’t.  I’ve only been here two months.  Like I said, I’m replacing a volunteer so during these last few months of school, I have not had a class of my own.  So, I’ve done some observations, gotten comfortable with the school schedule, and the idiosyncrasies that make this place special (i.e. morning greeting etiquette, tea break procedure, how to make copies using a machine that produces a “master roll” first, where the toilet paper is stored, etc).  But, what I have spent most of my time doing isn’t completely isolated to my work at the school.  In a way, it was therapy. One of Danielle’s secondary projects while she was here was starting a school library.  When she arrived, there was a dark classroom empty save maybe two piles of dusty books.  From there, she raised money and solicited donations for books and even got the ministry to bring shelves to the school.  Now, it is a favorite place among many learners.  Even the learners who do not know any English come in a flip though book after book in awe of the illustrations.  Like any library in the states, it is a magical space.  My mother works in an elementary school library and has ever since I was a student at that school.  I always enjoyed reading and can define my years in school by the books we read.  Attending DePauw University, I uncovered my personal passion for words and became and English Writing major, spending my study time in the best place for words, the Roy O. West library.  Needless to say, I was very enthusiastic to be taking over the library for Danielle.  With homestay being a total drag and having no place else of my own to really go, the library became my refuge.  I could stay in there during the entire school day, be there before, during, and after afternoon study.  Inside, I could control what was happening.  In about two weeks time, I categorized, alphabetized, and labeled every book.  I rearranged the shelves and cleaned out cabinets.  I wrote a training guide for library prefects.  I developed a reading program to be used for advanced lower primary learners or remedial upper primary learners.  I made a parts of speech game with rules that cater to any grade level.  As an outlet for my craftiness, from the parts of books ruined by marker, pen, or rip, I make a whimsical alphabet to be strung up and hung at the front of the room.  I could sit in there, all day, without stress, without thinking, and simply work.  I made progress.  Progress that I could see.  I felt like I was doing something.  And my time in there harkened back pleasant memories of the Hinkle Creek story pit and my days as a library helper there, as well as the more recent instances of my all-nighters as a serial procrastinator.   Beyond my minimal time at home and my extensive time at school, I’ve had some other exciting PC happenings.  The weekend before Thanksgiving in the states, I went with my PCV friend Michael Jones (who?!) to visit some other PCVs in the big city (sarcasm) of Otjiwarongo.  We had our own Thanksgiving cornucopia of fried chicken, corn on the cob, pumpkin seeds, mashed potatoes, and wine (ok, so, the pumpkin seeds were no pumpkin pie and the wine was definitely no merlot…but to me, it was a feast).  It was a much needed break from my time in Erwee and it was nice to see and experience a site so different from my own. PC/NAM has all these committees that PCVs can sign up for and be on.  There is one called Diversity Tour where the committee selects 40 learners from all over the country to take on a tour of the nation.  They visit places like Etosha National Park and coastal cities, places that these learners may never have the opportunity to see otherwise.  Pretty awesome.  There is another one that develops programming to empower girls and promote gender equality.  There is an HIV/AIDS committee and even a PCV compiled literary magazine of sorts.  All of these, you can sign up for and you’re on it.  There is one committee, however, that you must apply for and be selected to join.  It is called VSN or the Volunteer Support Network (DePauw people…depauw.year1 but in Namibia).  It’s basis acts as a peer-to-peer assistance system, where any volunteer in country can contact a member of VSN for whatever help they need, be it a professional dispute, personal problem at site, or even to ask a simply clarification on a wide variety of Nambiguities.  VSN members are that peer resource.  They also take on several other projects to make life easier for volunteers.  Anyway, if it is not obvious, I applied and was chosen.  There are four members from group 30 on VSN and I’m very excited to get started even though our first meeting is not until the end of January.  So learner’s took their last exam on Monday and school is out for teachers on the ninth.  The first day back is January thirteenth where I will officially be a teacher.  Kind of a scary notion, but I think I’ll be able to handle it.  What will I be doing in the mean time?  Those special holidays of Christmas and New Year’s are in there, and to be honest I have not thought much about the imminence of either.  Normally around this time, I would be cramming for finals, waiting until December 23rd to start my shopping, and wearing my blue puffy vest and green ear muffs.  Welp, I’m no longer a student, I’m seven hours away from the nearest mall, and it is ninety degrees.  So, to get in the spirit I’ve been reading a collection of Christmas stories that I found in the library and watching “Elf” (but if you know me, that is an all-year round cinematic masterpiece to me and not really conducive to the Christmas season).  I’m still finalizing where I’ll be and who I’ll be with for the holiday.  I’m sure where ever I am, I’ll eat, drink, and be merry, so don’t worry about me.  i leave you with two tasks: 1.  read “A Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote2.  watch “Elf.”  get to the part when Buddy gets hit by the taxi.  rewind.  watch that part again.  and again.  tis the season, one love, oh and if anyone gets to the bottom of tiger’s mysterious 2am car crash, let me know.peacekees, julie

the run-down of what went down. (full details of ceremony in blog post below)

this is not the africa you’re thinking about… there are three grocery stores in okahandja.  there is an “as seen on tv” store in windhoek.  my host family has a flat screen tv.  i drink water from the tap.  i have a flushing toilet, tiles floors, and a comfortable bed.  i pack a pb&j every day for my tea time snack and i’ve hiked rides with air conditioning. this is not the africa you’re thinking about… i tell you this because it’s not the africa that i was anticipating either.  from my preliminary youtube and wikipedia research of namibia previous to my departure, i read about millet, Himba women, and mud huts.  these realities are here; however, they are simply beautiful and are unique insights to the Namibian histories that contribute to the incredible diversity in this nation.  these past two months, every time i discover that namibia has something that i had anticipated being without for twenty-seven months, i am forced to re-evaluate my thinking.  who was i to think they wouldn’t have peanut butter, mercedes, and 3G networks?  perhaps, before i left, at home, surrounded by these conveniences daily, i didn’t think anywhere else could be like the states: the land of plenty, home of phones without buttons and invisible fences.  the country that invented reality television and has the ability to make soybeans taste like chicken nuggets.  i’ve been thinking alot back to what i was expecting, what i was anticipating, coming to realize i had been completely wrong. not to say that namibia doesn’t have its problems because like any nation, it does.  namibia has the largest wealth discrepancy in the world, with a gini index of almost 1.  something like four percent of the population possesses seventy percent of the nation’s money.  one in six namibians are hiv positive.  tribalism fuels discrimination and hatred.  but all in all this was not the africa i was thinking about. but, so so so much has changed in the past month.  for one, i’m not in okahandja anymore.  that’s right PST is over.  our swearing-in ceremony was on october 15.  the last few weeks of PST were bittersweet.  the day to day monotony of 4 hours of language training and afternoon sessions was getting very old.  but, the people weren’t.  i loved all of our trainers.  i became very close with an Otjiherero language trainer, Richard (as featured in “day in the life”) as well as my Khoekhoe language trainer, Auntie Martha (as featured in “eat”).  i rode in the combi to and from training every day with Richard and he definitely made my mornings.  it was hard to get up that early only to face the same exact thing everyday, and chatting with Richard waiting to be picked up every morning definitely made it worth it.  Auntie Martha.  what can i say about auntie martha?  her mannerisms are so precious and she has an amazing heart.  she is like the crazy little grandma on “golden girls.”  you know, the one who says inappropriate things not knowing exactly how funny she’s being.  except with auntie martha, she say these things in khoekhoe.  like, we’d be in the middle of a lesson say learning the vocabulary for different types of clothing.  each of us would make up a sentence with a new word saying elementary things like “i bought a shirt” or “she’s wearing black shoes.”  then, with a sly smile on her face, looking down at her twiddling thumbs in her lap, auntie martha would say something.  so we’d ask, “what did you just say?  what does that mean?”  still looking down, as innocent as can be, she’d translate her utterance.  “lho!khoa…naked.”  from these side notes, i learned some very important phrases for my next two years.  phrases such as “!kha !anhe, stabbed to death” and “ham #aidi, stinky feet.”  towards the end of training when we all started to realize our time together was ending, i would find myself spending my lunch breaks sitting with her on a bench asking her about her family, her past, and her plans for after PST.  one sunday, myself and two other people from my language class (Michael and Nikki) decided to stop by Auntie Martha’s homestay because seeing her everyday during the week was not enough.  we spent the whole day over there, just visiting.  she really felt like a grandma to me.  the last week, whenever we’d ask her “what are you going to be doing this time next week when you’re not here with us?” and her eyes would fill with tears.  cocking her head to the side and looking pensively in her lap, she paused before she spoke.  “i don’t know.”  and that would be it.  that’s all she would like to elaborate on the matter.  so we’d stop there, not wanting to upset her anymore.  but the height of our relationship came weeks earlier at our host family appreciation lunch.  it was on a saturday and a representative from each language group gave a thank you speech to all of the host families in the specific target language.  i gave the speech for the khoekhoe class.  i was slated to be the second person to speak, but when they started i was in the back of the complex busy frying up namion rings (onion rings namibia-style…aka not as good as outback steakhouse but good enough).  so another volunteer ran back to where i was and said, “hurry, the speeches started and they’re looking for you!”  so i grabbed my copy of the speech and hurried to the main room.  i came in the back and was told that i’ll just go at the end instead.  so, when it was finally my turn i walked to the front and before beginning the actual appreciation speech, i said “lUba te re.  Tita ge goro sâi,” which means “sorry.  i was cooking.”  the room full of Namibians, not to mention the peace corps staff, were not expecting something not scripted.  so i continued my speech, full of nasalized vowels, unnatural consonant pairings, and many, many clicks.  after each sentence, everyone was clapping, laughing, and expressing their approval by raising an arm and shaking their hand in the air.  it was the most immediate positive feedback i had ever received.  when it was over, as i was walking back to my seat, one of the pc coordinators stood up and did one of those high pitched “lalalala” song and dance numbers in approval, so i decided to join in with her.  the clicking and the “lalala”-ing were enough to earn me a high five from the country director.  i had been sitting in the back next to auntie martha when i was waiting for my turn and when i sat down after my speech, in her grandmotherly way she just patted my knee and nodded.  she left her hand there for a minute until she finally turned to me.  she had tears in her eyes and down her cheeks.  “i’m proud of you.”  she nodded her head, “yeah, i’m glad you went at the end.  you were having the best.”  language training had been so difficult and so frustrating that i felt like i didn’t even learn anything in those two months.  but after that, it really made the headaches and painfully boring sessions so worth it. from that weekend, we only had a week of pst left before swearing-in.  language training ended in a cumulative LPI, which was basically a one-on-one conversation with a tester from your target language.  the more you could talk about, the higher score you received.  since english is technically the official language of namibia, the LPI really didn’t have any bearing on your status within the Peace Corps (as it has more influence in other nations where English is not as widely spoken), it acted as an indication of what you actually learned the past two months.  the levels begin with novice and continue to intermediate, advanced, and superior with three sub-levels (low, mid, high) at each benchmark.  for my final LPI, i received a score of intermediate low!  so, i felt like i learned something and that solidified the fact that i did actually learn something.  that last week felt like the final days of school where you don’t really do anything except clean out your lockers, scrape sticky tape from the walls, and turn in your textbooks.  then there’s that weird feeling where like you are so excited for the summer so that’s all you talk about even though you’re actually feeling really sad that the school year is over and you’re getting older.  that’s never something you talked during the last days of school because you had spent the entire rest of the year complaining about homework, projects, unfair grades, and how much you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.  so, expressing an inkling of wanting to stay would be hypocritical and you’d probably be subjected to prepubescent ridicule as well.  yeah, that’s how it was during the last week.  the normal four hours of language training were over and we spent the majority of our time in exit interviews and pcV (not “T” for trainee but “V” for volunteer) administration sessions.  i’ll admit that i did my fair share of complaining and eye rolling, but i was definitely not ready to leave.  pc/nam group 30 is a collection of some truly amazing individuals whose company i definitely miss.  if i haven’t explicitly stated my love for the training staff enough, i want to explain how integral they were to my initial adjustment and positive attitude toward the rest of the country.  at training, i never felt helpless or neglected.  if i was having a bad morning or even if i was just tired, someone always noticed when something was wrong.  not only did they just notice but they wanted to do all they could to fix it and make sure whatever the was, that it would be taken care of.  needless to say that when the swearing-in ceremony rolled around, i was pretty bummed. before i get to that, i have to describe the most amazing farewell with my host family.  i had brought some gifts from Indiana along with me: a calendar of indianapolis, richard fields photography book of indiana, a PINK stuffed dog, a couple coloring books and crayons, an indiana t-shirt from an I-65 flying-J, an Indiana snow globe—with a scene that encompassed everything Hoosier: the state flag, a race car, a cardinal, and monument circle—and a stack of high school senior pictures of myself.  yes, senior pictures…of myself…courtesy of Craig Ryan photography…circa 2005.  but i had read on some other pc/nam blog before i left that namibians love pictures so my mom had found a stack so i decided to bring them along.  anyway, i had wrapped everything in newspaper so between bold and the beautiful and lorenzo’s wife, i brought them out in the family room to my family. “i have some gifts as a thank you for everything.” tears.  immediate tears.  both annelize and tamite couldn’t hold it in.  i guess it kind of goes back to the last days of school thing.  even though you never wanted to admit how sad you were, once someone did or said even the smallest something, “dude, guys…we’re going to be eighth-graders/seniors/in college next year,” once that first person puts it out there and makes it a reality, is when the real emotions come out.  i guess my Indiana gifts had that effect…because i started crying too.  oh, i also bought my mom a spatula.  completely unrelated but i had broken hers making french toast one morning so i found it necessary to provide a replacement.  i know, how do you break a spatula?  i don’t know, but I managed to do it somehow.  after the gift exchange and mini-sobfest, we ventured over to auma’s.   had been meaning to bring my camera to auma’s house every time i went over there, but of course i always forgot.  so the night before i left, i really had not other choice but to remember.  like i said, namibians love pictures and the only thing they love more than physical pictures is having their picture taken.  all of the pictures and movies from the nau-aib movie from auma’s was from this photo shoot.  in some of the pictures, you might see them holding what looks like little business cards or something.  those are my senior pictures.  every kid took at least one and auma and the other ladies took the rest.  so there are probably thirty wallet-size pictures of me floating around that house.  i had made the mistake of dancing with the kids the very first time i went over there.  so every single time i stopped by, that is all they wanted me to do.  a shabeen (small bar) is directly behind their house, so there is always music bumping through the house.  normally it is American hip-hop with the occasional Gazza, Mr. Makoya, or Gal Level (Namibian artists) jam thrown in.  see, these kids can dance.  i mean, they know how to get down.  they’re five and they’ve got $killz i ain’t never seeeeen!  ok you get it.  even though i can do a lot of things, dancing is not one of them.  those of you who have the pleasure of socializing with me in the past know i’ve got about three moves i like bust.  the first is like a modified box step.  i put my hands in the air, look down, and basically run in place with my feet, jabbing my right foot forward, then back, then repeating that with the left and so on.  it actually more so resembles some sort of born-again channeling a spirit than a box step.  the second way i like to dance is my shaking my money maker.  though my version is a bit more rigid than you may see on mtv.  i definitely got the junk in the trunk, but with julie-style booty bouncing, i keep your feet planted, extend my bows (elbows who don’t know the slang) up and out to the sides (think blocking out in basketball), and sway to and fro with my shoulders while twisting my hips in the opposite direction as my shoulders.  it probably looks like a scene out of a bowling alley birthday party, like i’m frantically trying not to loose a hula hoop contest.  and the last way i mash potato is new actually.  i picked up this jig from one of the afrikaans language trainers, magnus.  i just pretend that i am winding up my hips.  i put my fist down to one side and shake my bum a little bit while turn my arm in a counter-clockwise fashion.  all my shimmies are pretty attractive and all of them make Namibians crack up.  so after dance party number one at auma’s, annelize, tamite, and i went to a braai (cookout) at caroline and jakes’ house (caroline is annelize’s sister), where another volunteer from my group, nathan, was staying for his homestay.  let me bring to your attention that at this point, it was about nine o’clock at night and i have not even begun packing.  considering i was leaving immediately after the swearing-in ceremony the next day and was getting picked up at eight o’clock that next morning, i probably should have started packing prior to the night before.  but if you you know, this comes as no surprise.  in Namibia, dinner is sometimes at seven, sometimes at eleven.  so when we arrived at nine, the meat was just being put on the fire.  to pass the time, tamite, who is seven, put in a cd.  it was an eclectic mix of khoekhoe traditional music, afrikaans gospel tunes, akon, all saints, and beyonce.  one minute annelize would be holding my hands trying to lead me in the ways of dancing Damara and the next, tamite would be trying to get me to pop, lock, and drop it.  we danced before dinner and after we ate well into the night.  we didn’t end up walking home until about midnight and like i said, i still had to pack.  sure, i didn’t get much sleep that night, but i didn’t mind.  there had been times during pst where i would kind of forget i was in Namibia.  i got into my routine and logistically not much changed from day to day.  i got used to okahandja and made real friends who i was comfortable telling anything in my group.  but the prayer before dinner was one of the moments that brought me back to reality.  brought me back to what i’m here for.  by the time it was time to eat family from all over nau-aib had come over, so there were about twelve of us standing around the table, heads lowered, reflecting on the past two months.  caroline spoke in khoekhoe while annelize translated, “nes ge sa du oms…this is your home.”  they told nathan and i with tears in their eyes that if we ever needed anything, to call them.  they wished we weren’t going so soon, but they knew we were needed elsewhere.  the time had gone by quickly but its impact will not be so short-lived. the next morning was very interesting.  so for the swearing-in ceremony myself and some other volunteers decided to ask our host families if we could borrow traditional clothing to wear.  so i was borrowing a dress from my host aunt.  it was a big to-do.  auma is the only lady in the family who knows how to properly tie the traditional Damara head wrap so i had to go over there at 6:30am to get ready.  for damara women, the fuller the better.  so, under my dress i had on four extra layers.  since i was at auma’s so early, all of the kids had not gone to school yet.  so after i put on all five layers and auma tied the head wrap, i said goodbye to all the kids as they were leaving for school, since i wouldn’t see them before i left to my permanent site.  many of them were carrying a senior picture of me in their school uniform shirt pocket or in their knee sock.  tamite has such a sensitive soul and wouldn’t stop crying all morning.  so when i said goodbye for real, i watched her walk to school blowing her nose in a hankerchief and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.  heart-breaking.  so in my full Damara garb, i walked the two blocks back home to wait for uncle joe to pick up me and my luggage in the combi.  now, i’ve been the only white person to ever live on that street let alone the only white person to live on that street, speak khoekhoe, and wear a Damara dress.  i got some stares and some people laughed because they were in such disbelief that was the only reaction they could utter. the swearing-in ceremony was a great culmination of the two months of pst.  the country director, Namibian minister of education, as well as other predominant figure were in attendance.  not to mention, the room full of our host families, staff members, language trainers and community members.  before the ceremony even started, we were sworn in by a representative from the U.S. Embassy, so we took the foreign service oath which was pretty intense and made us all feel pretty important.  each gave speeches challenging us and encouraging to make the most of the next two years.  the minister of education made us understand that Namibia needs us, so what are we going to do to fulfill this need.  our training manager, linda, gave a pretty powerful speech that touched each volunteer.  she was the first sign of Namibia we ever received.  she sent us a letter describing pc/namibia and apart from logistics, welcomed us to the country.  so when we met her august 21 at the airport she became our literal caretaker.  if we ever had a problem at homestay, with language, or if we were ever having doubts, she was there to sort through the issue and resolve it in the most positive way.  oh, and she is absolutely precious.  at the ceremony, when she spoke, she told a story about a flower in the desert whose only wish in life was to bring beauty to that single corner of the desert.  then a hunter stepped on it.  but because it had lived its entire life prior to being squashed always thinking and acting on behalf of others, it was saved by the great spirit.  she asked us what do we want to beautify?  what are we here to do?  who are we here for?  it was a simple story that conjured provocative thoughts.  but the speech that most affected me was given by Matt Harrington, Deputy Chief of Mission for the U.S. Embassy in Namibia.  a previous peace corps volunteer himself, he discussed what he gained from his two years.  he reminded us that despite facing poverty so real, that we can make a real difference.  he advised that we will take away much more than we leave behind.  finally, he knows that what we learn during our time here will help strengthen americans perceptions of the rest of the world.  in particular, he talked about his own experience prior to leaving.  like most pcvs, he received mixed reactions about his decision to join from family and friends.  but, one college friend in particular told him two weeks before he left, “just don’t come back all weird.”  while i have been lucky enough to receive overwhelming support from my own family and friends, someone did say this exact statement to me.  to Mr. Harrington, he was surprised to see the ignorance in his friend thinking that being exposed to another culture would in turn change him for the worse instead of the better.  to him, it was an insight to how many americans live their daily lives always categorizing people as “us” and “them.”  however, i know for a fact the individual that said the same thing to me does not practice this mentality, rather was simply concerned that the julie leaving might not end up being the julie that comes back.  after being here only a couple months, i know that i’m not.  that would be impossible to be the same after living here.  i will change, but i’ll try my hardest not to become weird.  after the guest speakers, certain volunteers gave speeches in the target languages and we performed our pst anthem one last time as a group in front of everyone.  and yes, that means i got to publicly exhibit my “lalalala”-ing abilities yet again.  after the ceremony was very hectic.  there was a short reception then i was hustled off into a combi en route to my permanent site.  i’m still not sure if i was thankful for leaving in such a rush or angry for having to leave so hurriedly.  i was thankful because as soon as i did start crying from saying goodbye to a fellow volunteer or my host family, someone was there tactfully yet forcefully encouraging me to hurry up.  but because i didn’t have the proper time to say my goodbyes, i feel like i shortchanged my family by giving them a quick hug and a “see you later, don’t know when, but definitely later.”  either way, it was six hours to erwee and here i am. i’ve been here for two weeks and it has felt like another two months have passed.  drastic change came very quickly and i’ve hardly adjusted.  i’m not teaching yet, simply observing the current pcv in her classes as i’m going to be taking them over come january.  she leaves the middle of december, so until then i’m working on integrating in the community, practicing my khoekhoe, and observing teaching.  i have much more to say about erwee, about living in a village, and my thoughts on teaching but that will come later. in the mean time, i figure i’d answer some pressing questions that i have received from some of you… first, the weather.  ok so when i first got here in august it was the end of winter.  so, at night and in the early mornings it was freezing.  back then, the remainder of the day was pretty mild, tolerable i would say.  now, however, it is beginning to show signs of that excrutiating heat i have heard so much about.  the mornings and evenings are still cool, but at 1:00pm when school is out and i’m on my way home for lunch, it is very very warm.  we had the mini-rainy season already which was two weeks of rain every night, but the main big-time rainy season will come in january and february.  i’m definitely looking forward to that.  but, here in erwee, i’m lucky.  we’re in the mountains (ok they’re nam-mountains, so more like glorified hills) so there is always a breeze.  the constant wind makes everything very dusty, but at least we’re not baking. running…i wasn’t really able to run in okahandja because nau-aib was dangerous and there were so many dogs it made it impossible to really run anywhere.  so, i stuck to the track (as featured in “nau-aib”).  but, our days at pst were long.  generally, it was too dark to run in the morning and by the time i got home i was too tired from the long day that the last thing i could do would be to muster up the energy to run.  but here, the “trails” are amazing.  there is a seldom traveled gravel road that takes me to some of the most beautiful scenery i’ve ever seen.  behind my permanent house there is this insane network of dirt roads that to the non-resident seemingly lead to nowhere.  but, they’re actually a complex system of byways that lead to the various farms that only donkey carts drive on.  so, yeah…i’m back on the fitness train and loving it.  i’m planning to run the lucky star marathon next october.  it takes place on the coast from walvis bay to swakopmund.  i’ll keep you posted on the training.  internet…alright so i get the internet on my phone.  which is an extremely nice convenience and something i never had in the states.  so, i check my e-mail (jtheib@gmail.com) about thirty or forty times a day and facebook just as much.  i also have the twitter, depauwtrack.com, and the new york times bookmarked.  needless to say, if you want to get a hold of me send me an email or post on my wall and i’ll certainly receive it in a timely fashion.  responding is a bit more challenging.  even though i have the internet on my namcelly doesn’t mean it is an iphone.  nope, it is just a simply nokia boy so when i type i use t9.  predictive text is not only incredibly frustrating, but typing on my little keypad proves to be tiresome.  so for now, know that your messages are being received, that i am very grateful for them, and that i’m working on my response.  oh…and…um…i LOVE hearing from you.  ahem, i capitalized that word in particular for a reason.  if my subtly is not digitally registering with you, i’ll just say it: hit me up. keep the questions coming.  i’ll definitely answer them in time. for now, i’m out. happy birthday to someone! -julie

nau-aib is the former black location of okhandja. pre-independence (prior to 1990), during the apartheid, every city in Namibia was divided into two or three sections. each city definitely had a town and then each either had one or both of a colored location, and a black location. with these locations came restrictions, strict restrictions. people lived only where the government allowed. they built certain houses for certain locations. if you were white, you could live in town where the nice houses and affluent schools were. if you were colored (sometimes determined by the pen test: if a government official could run a pen through your hair without it getting caught, you were colored. if he couldn’t, you were black…regardless of your ancestry), you lived in the colored location. in okahandja, this section was named “vedersdaal.” it had paved streets, two-story houses (some with swimming pools), and front yards. if you were black, you lived where the government told you to live, and this wasn’t always in a house. if you were black and they told you to live in the black location, but there weren’t any houses to move into or if they wouldn’t build one for you, you had to build one yourself. build one for yourself with the money you weren’t making from they job the government would allow you to have. nineteen years after the end of apartheid in namibia, these structures still exist: boxes of collected corrugated tin used for walls, doors, and roofs. black locations may have a single paved road, as in nau-aib’s case, the rest being dirt or gravel. the houses that were built that some blacks live in are typically too close together to have any sort of yard and crime rates in these locations seem to be significantly higher than the rest of the city…more than likely because of the high population density. even though these were the mandated laws of decades ago, people still live within these confines. yes, the lines have been blurred. at least from what i observed in okahandja and what i am speculating is true for the rest of the country, town is not solely for the whites anymore. blacks have bought houses in town and in the colored location, schools are integrated, and jobs are open to all. yes, the lines have been blurred, but they haven’t been erased. i lived in nau-aib for two months during pst with my host family. despite the disturbing albeit recent history, lower standard of living, and being the municipality’s literal dumping ground, i loved it there. my host mother, annelize, wouldn’t let me walk anywhere alone, for good reason, and most of her extended family lived within two blocks of each other. since i love the concept of family and love it even more when they love me back, almost daily i would walk with my seven-year old host sister, tamite, to visit their homes. passing neighbors on my way to auma’s, it was clear i was known as the white girl who knows how to speak Damara (Khoekhoegowab). with tamite on my back, people would lean out doorways and windows yelling “Matisa?!” (“how are you?) awaiting my response of “!Gai a!” (“it’s fine” and yes, the exclamation point before the “G” is a click). after some giggling on their part, we would continue on. as i have said before, auma’s house was always crazy. it was a small house where twelve people lived, nine of them being small children. as soon as i would round the corner on their street, all nine kiddies, ranging in age from two to sixteen, would jump the gate and come running towards me yelling “julie!! julie’s here!!” it was a race to see who would be the first to make it to me. imagine: nine barefoot kids tearing down the straight like a herd of jekels coming straight for your kneecaps. yet, they were adorable jekels so i was never too frightened. i would walk from the corner to the gate normally normally carrying davie with the others hanging on my arms and tami still on my back. the ladies of the house would be sitting on the back porch cooking rice, washing clothes, or mending school uniforms. as i entered their gate, these women would pause for a simultaneous, “Mi re?!” again, waiting for my click response. Auma would always be inside, out from the heat, sitting on the couch sewing, watching tv, or just being. this video does not do justice to how amazing these people truly are. they welcomed me into their homes, to their dinner tables, and as cheesy and as much as it pains me to type this cliché…into their hearts. they were patient, tolerant, and they loved me as if i had always been in the family. they genuinely cared about my well-being. i never thought i could form a relationship so strong so quickly. while this truly meant alot to me, it meant even more to auma. she has lived the majority of her life hated, stigmatized, and abused by white people. a white person had never willingly came to visit her in her own home. she had never heard a white person speak her language or seen a white person wear a traditional Damara dress. to her, i was more than a visitor or a guest. i was a first. i was a sign that things have changed. a sign of hope that things will be different for her grandchildren. i was a relief. in nau-aib…these faces will always be family and these places will always be home.

so we sing songs every morning of pst during our assembly.  this little ditty is us singing “sianna marena”, our group 30 pst anthem.  about 2:00 minutes into the song you will hear a high pitched “lalalalalalala”.  that’s me.

typical day at pst. (please note: we don’t wear matching shirts everyday, just happened to take footage the day when we were.  also, take notice of the prevalence of bread in my diet, cell phone usage, language training with auntie martha and richard.  while the bread is integral to physiologically getting me through the day (without it, i would probably pass out).  however, i credit the latter three to psychologically breaking up the monotony that is pst.)

my kkg language class.  auntie martha is officially the cutest woman in the world.

i move to erwee 16.10.2009.  i begin teaching jan.2010.  this is will be my office.

everyday, uncle joe, our peace corps driver, takes myself as well as the other volunteers and trainers home from the center to nau-aib (the former black location).  i’m the second to last stop.  this is that drive.

“this world is not for quiet women” - angelika tjoutuku, pcalcc

“while it is impossible to bring everything on the packing list, many items are available in Windhoek.”  -PCNamibia welcome book when PC tells you that you can find whatever you need in windhoek, they’re not kidding.

bullethole host sisters, host mom & neighbor a friend dropped off a warthog for my family. we butchered it & ate it the next night for dinner.

home of... taxi ride payday at standard bank sometimes you want to go saturday adventure to windhoek

first sign of rainy season. a welcome change from the cloudless skies of the past month. has stormed every night for the past 3 nights…never thought i would miss humidity.

so, i’m in the back me a landrover type vehicle on my way back to okahandja from my site visit when the driver slams on the breaks.  namibian drivers generally suck, so since this is standard practice i did not think much about it other than i’d be stuck for another two hours with this guy without a seatbelt. but, instead of resuming his quest to top speed, he actually came to a complete stop. if i weren’t traveling with other volunteers, this would have been the moment where i would begin to plan my exit strategy.  instead, i looked up through the windsheild and there in the middle ofthe road was a GIRAFFE.  yes, a (expletive) giraffe.  you’ve got deer, i’ve got giraffes.

my future home front of school office back of school office classroom buildings library library with grade one learners morning assembly daily walk home erwee: grootberg ps & home