changing classes

In most schools, there is a buffer between classes.  First bell rings, which means the period is over and you walk to your next class.  There is a 2- to 3-minute window in which to travel.  Second bell rings, which means no more walking, no more talking, you’re in your seat and the next period has begun.

In Namibia, one bell rings and one bell only.  So there’s no way to determine if a student is late.

Worse still, the bell is hand-controlled, so if the secretary is busy or not around, the bell just doesn’t get rung.  That means I could have prepared my lesson and timed it exactly so that it’s finished in 40 minutes…but all of a sudden I have seven extra minutes on my hands and I’m wondering what to do with 35 kids.

Seven unplanned minutes with 35 kids is a lot.

Here is what it looks like for students to meander on to the next class.  I do sorely miss the fastidious schedules of most American schools:

not the best way to spend a Friday night

taken last year at one of the many pageants we hold at our school – but at least that one involved older girls

I loathe basing a woman’s value on her appearance.  Worse still is doing it to a young girl.  Worse still is being an official judge for the beauty pageant known as Miss Newcomer 2012.

Here are these young girls—13, 14, 15—getting leered at by people of all ages.  Countless men were there holding up their cell phones for pictures and videos.  The swimwear competition was actually the girls walking around in their bras, because most of them apparently don’t have swimsuits.  I realize a bra is no more revealing than a bikini top, but it feels so much worse.  I didn’t want to look.

I don’t know what the worst part of the evening was.  Was it how the tickets say it starts at 7, but it didn’t start till 8:45, nor finish till 11:30?  Was it how a performance of this simple, repetitive dance style they all love makes the kids scream as if it’s Elvis’ pelvis…when to me it looks utterly boring?  Was it how some of the catwalks were agonizingly slow and we just wanted to get on with it already?  Was it how the dining hall has wooden floors and every sound echoes, so you can’t hear what the girls answer for the question segment—the only part worthwhile, to me?

No.  I know what the worst part was.

It was our very own “wardrobe malfunction” a la Janet Jackson at that old Super Bowl performance.  I thought I was uncomfortable just watching underage girls in their bras.  Little did I realize how much worse things could be.

(Some of these kids are from the Himba tribe, where women are topless all the time.  Moreover, Namibians have explained to me that shoulders, cleavage, and even breasts are no big deal—but when you show leg it’s really scandalous.  Nevertheless, the audience was mortified.  The poor girl had no idea her strapless dress had sunk too low.  As I was averting my eyes from her, I was watching the reaction of everyone else.  That’s how I could glean that, Himbas or not, this was horrifying.)

The icing on the cake was at the very end, when the same girl with the wardrobe malfunction thought she’d been called as one of the ten finalists.  So she started to come forward before realizing her number had not been called.  And thus her humiliation was complete.

I rushed home as soon as the show was over and wished I could go to sleep and never wake up.  Before I fell asleep, though, I prayed the prayer Jesus warns against:

“God, thank you thank you thank you that that’s not me.”

(Luke 18:11, AP)

panorama of the village

In this 360-degree view, you can see what our students do for fun on free afternoons, the hostel where the kids live, how close our teacher housing is to our principal housing/office building/school blocks, and even some guys doing construction on the pavement near our assembly block.  Just another day in the life….

new year, new hope

sunrise over Otjiperongo, Sunday, January 29

I’ve been back at site for three weeks now.  It’s strange how much changes from one lifestyle to the other.  Now, the advertisements I see online implore me to “Become an American—get a green card” and remind me, “Do not miss your chance to live and work in the USA” as it shows a Statue of Liberty holding up a STOP sign.

Now, I have to stop and think before I say a catchphrase like “The buck stops here.”  I was in a meeting with my principal and wanted to use the term “benchmark,” too, but didn’t know if it would translate.

What a difference from one place to the next.  You’ll recall the passport official in the U.S. airport, who refused to say “hello” back to anyone who greeted him.  Compare that to the passport official in the S.A. airport, who asked me how long I’d be staying and offered me the keys to his place.

Coming back felt like a fuzzy, bad dream in some ways.  I hated being confronted with all those old worries related to food, transportation, and safety.  Big worries—basic parts of life.  …You know how, when someone you love dies, there is that occasional morning where you wake up and forget for a moment–but then you remember?  It was a little like that.

But, I am coming to believe that with God we can have hope.  And there are many blessings to be grateful for about my return here.  We now have a big antennae for better cell phone reception.  I have screens on a couple windows and no mosquitoes.  Chatting and joking with fellow teachers has become easier and easier.  This year I get to teach mostly just 9^th and 10^th graders, which means we have lively classes with quick conversation (as the kids are, after all, about 19 years old).  Our school received even more new equipment, like a giant copy machine that I adore.  Best of all, I’ve done this before.  So I’m not as scared about discipline problems and I somehow have gotten more respect.

As always, your comments on these entries help me carry on.  I’ll keep you posted in the new year!

reuniting with my gal pals

my favorite time of day

After lunch, a quiet settles over the village.  It is baking hot outside, so people take naps inside.  No one is walking around except the goats grazing.  My shirts have dried in the sun and it’s time for me to take them in to fold.  I walk out with my wash basin to gather the warm clothes and pins, and I just stop to bask in the quiet.  All my movements become slow and contemplative.

Although I love early mornings when it’s still dark and I can write or pray, I also love bright afternoons, when the simple life shows its beauty:

practicing marching

The Herero tribe is full of pride about its role in Namibia’s struggle for independence, and rightly so.  These eighth grade boys probably learned how to march from their fathers & grandfathers, or any veterans in their family.  Although they made some mistakes in this video, they are very good at their coordination and I loved watching them step in sync:

the donkey cart continues its journey

Here’s a young boy who makes me smile because of how often he smiles.  Below is a translation of the conversation you hear between us in this video:

me: What is your name?
him: Tjarirove.  (In his head he’s probably thinking, Why is she asking me a question she already knows the answer to?  Because we have been friends for awhile…but for the sake of my viewers I thought I should ask.)
me: Tjarirove, okay.  What are you doing?
him: [something about] water.  (He’s fetching water?  Looking for it?  Something something water.)
me: Oh, water.  Are you thirsty?  …Where are you going?
him: There.
me: “There”?  Where?
him: [something unintelligible]

When I listen to that video I’m ashamed that my voice sounds fake or condescending the way you baby-talk to a child.  I definitely have to slow my speech down in order to be understood in my village, but I don’t have to use such a girlish high pitch.  I’ll have to work on that.  New year’s resolution: low voice, assertive tone, don’t be such a child.

welcome home

To my new home, that is.  If you’re curious where I’ve been living since October of 2010, here is my place:

What is lack?

When I left Namibia, it was spring.  I arrived in the U.S. to their autumn.  While I was here, it turned to winter.  Now that I’m going back, it will be summer.  That about sums up the emotional rollercoaster that such a visit can be.  I will admit that the transition home was easier than I anticipated, in some ways, but also as hard as I anticipated, in others.  And harder.

Something I expected to happen, didn’t.  The things I thought would make me happy…my big plans to eat luxurious foods?  Well, most of the time I didn’t even have an appetite, and when I did…they were no big deal.

Then other things that I didn’t know to expect ended up becoming luxuries in themselves: getting in a car all by yourself, driving straight to the destination you choose, putting on music you want to listen to, having a seat belt, knowing there are police around to enforce D.U.I. rules and speed limits….  That is a Godsend.  Now I’ll go back to cramming into the bed of a pick-up truck with nine other adults and everyone’s groceries.

Expectations were thwarted all over the place these past four weeks.  When I went to a coffee shop and noticed that there were about 20 white people and 1 minority person…I didn’t expect to notice that.  I then wondered how that 1 person felt and whether he also noticed.  That was new for me.

My biggest expectation did get fulfilled, though, and that was how family time was so huge, during this trip.  More than any “perk” of American culture.  Yes, it’s great to indulge in strong coffee or buy a leather journal or know what people around me are saying.  But basically nothing compared to what the conversations and walks and games were like, with my family.

I was sad when I flew to Namibia the first time.  I’m sad in a different way as I fly there a second time.  I just hope that I can get outside of myself and be a good teacher to these kids who have already formed a relationship with me and who expect me to come back.  Throughout all these seasons and emotional rollercoasters, I somehow keep forgetting Who I am doing this for.  But as I look to this new year, I think (or hope) that maybe God can transcend my sadnesses and use me in spite of myself.

Catch ya on the flip side.

Question Box in reverse

Today I spoke to seven high school social studies classes and one Fellowship of Christian Athletes group.  The best part was the kinds of questions American youth have about Namibian youth.

1. Is it like you see on charity commercials, where all Africans are skinny and starving?
2. Do teenagers go to shopping malls or have brand-name clothes like Aeropostale?
3. How do they treat foreigners?
4. Are there zoos in Africa?
5. What do they eat?
6. What classes do they take at school?
7. Is Namibia a peaceful country or are there wars?
8. What is practicing religion like there?
9. Have you ever been attacked by a student/animal/stranger?
10. How well do you know the local language?
11. How do they celebrate Christmas?
12. What does the interior of their houses look like?
13. Was your brother mean to you, growing up?

(That last one was because my brother is their history teacher, and it was his classes that I took over for the day.  It is neat to see the rapport he has with them.)

One similarity I see between the students I teach abroad and the ones he teaches over here is that they all have inquisitive minds.  I like that about this age bracket.  I like that they are curious about things and I hope they keep that even as they become adults.

flooded

This visit has brought with it quite the range of emotions….  Maybe I’ll just focus on the positives for now.  Here I am with my new nephew, Torrence:

He's so precious. When I hold him, he makes me happy. I wish you could see his dark gray eyes.

I love this photo because of how small Torrence is in his grandpop’s arms:

They're comparing hands.

Can you believe this kid is five days old? Five days old! (In this picture.) He must be mature for his age.

We celebrated Christmas on the morning of Christmas Eve, since we had church that night and again the following morning. I got Dad a hand-carved wooden chess set from a market in Zambia. The pieces are all African animals. David is pretending to be bored/asleep.

Mom got me a book called /The Artist's Way/. It provides lots of fun exercises for enhancing your creativity, especially through writing. After flipping through it, I decided it was my favorite present -- I can't wait to start a creativity journal to use with it.

New dad Jon has been so fun to watch and talk to. He invented a "hiking technique" for getting Torrence to stop crying. Torrence and Jon bounce up and down on a rigorous imaginary hike. It works! I got him to stop crying by holding him while climbing up and down the stairs, up and down the stairs. Plus it was good exercise for me.

About that range of emotions….  Let me just say, it was definitely wise to spend the first two weeks of in-country life in Alaska, which is not quite America when you get right down to it.  Ohio has gotten very fast and built-up, and the drivers scare me…so it takes some more adjusting just to be here.  When does life ever stop being in transit mode?

unto us a son is given

Torrence and mommy Sherry

T-Dawg is named after his grandmother’s maiden name.  (Sherry’s mom)

Torrence and daddy Jon...a very tired dad

Torrence and uncle Charles, who together with Elizabeth will be welcoming their own newborn in May. Charles is also tired, because he has been pulling overtime double dogsitting duty while Jon & Sherry have the baby. Poor guy. He's the one who's had the hardest job here, I'd say.

Torrence and Liz. Good practice carrying a baby. You're already a pro, Liz!

When I talked to my brother on the phone to congratulate him, we agreed it’s extra-exciting for our family to get to see the newborn next week (as we’ll be flying from Alaska to Ohio).   “Yeah,” he said, “it’ll be fun.  You can hold him, play games with him….  Just be sure you let him win.”

Even stressed and fatigued, he’s still got a sense of humor.  Congratulations to the happy couple.  :-D

more pictures of visit home

It feels kind of funny to be posting these entries on my Namibia blog when they have nothing to do with Namibia….  Everyone does things gratuitously when a baby’s involved, I guess.

This kid is one day old but he already looks like he's two weeks old. Maybe that's 'cause he was two weeks overdue! Dad sees the knuckles on that hand and predicts he'll pitch for the Phillies or something. (I wasn't really paying attention as he went on about it.)

His name is Torrence David Martindell.  Isn’t that so regal?  I’m gonna call him TD/Touchdown, for short.  But I don’t think his parents want him to have nicknames.

We feel a torrent of love for little Torrence.

we quickly put this Christmas ornament together and on our tree, so now here are our two favorite ornaments side by side (Torrence with his uncle Charles)

playing Scrabble with the family, which was mostly just during breaks from trying to use the camera timer to take a picture of us playing

taking a walk on Bishop’s Beach with a church member who has become a dear friend

learning to knit socks (two at a time and toe-up) from Rieta

decorating cookies with our church organist, who has also become a dear friend

snowshoeing atop the mostly frozen Victor Creek, about a three-hour drive from home

frozen waterfalls

My glasses were fogging up from my overheated face, and to top it off they kept getting snow on them. Well, by the end of the hike, I took 'em off and later realized I'd dropped them in the snow. I knew where I could find them, but by that point I was cold and wet and it was getting dark, so I decided not to turn back to look for them. The Peace Corps will provide a replacement pair. Thanks, everyone, for your tax dollars being put to good use.

I had to wear a helmet in case I joined my brother and his friend for ice climbing. I opted not to join them, though. But I kept wearing the helmet 'cause helmets always make you look cool.

This visit has been really nice and I don’t like to think about going back.

O come let us adore him

My new nephew:

being held by my sister-in-law, his mother Sherry

No name yet, but I did give him a nickname: Prime.  His birthdate is all prime-number digits: 12/21/11.

family time and first impressions

(The climate of Alaska is slightly different from the climate where I’ve been living the last 16 months.)

I’ve been in the U.S. for a week now, and it has been quite the treat.  Spending time with family is so valuable.  As is the simple experience of daily life in this setting.  As I’m eating a grilled turkey & cheese sandwich with homemade broccoli cheddar soup on the side, I can’t help but say, “God bless America.”  Or as I’m eating clam chowder.  Or as I’m eating my belated Thanksgiving feast of turkey and stuffing.  What an enjoyable vacation.

Some of the people reading this blog have expressed an interest in what I notice about life here after having lived in Sub-Saharan Africa for over a year.  To be honest, one of the first things that comes to mind is what I see as a lot of waste.  I might not have picked up on that prior to living in an area where you have to conserve every precious resource.  I cringe at how a paper napkin gives a quick swipe and then gets thrown away.  I feel guilty using toilet paper that resembles a quilted blanket.  I almost cried when I tried to print double-sided and the printer ended up spewing out all sorts of extra messed-up pages.  It is so easy to take resources for granted, and I guess I feel newly sensitive to that.

It was the easiest thing in the world for someone to make a copy of choir music for me to join in their singing.  It was so easy.  When I go to make a copy, I first scrounge around for one-sided pages, so I can print on the back side.  And I might shrink whatever I’m going to print, to fit more pages on one paper.  Here there was none of that.  I flipped through the one-sided pages and felt guilty.  The original choir music was smaller than a regular piece of paper, so there was a big black border where the copy machine didn’t have anything to copy.  I felt guilty, wasting so much ink.

Gee…there seems to be a trend here.  Guilt.

Well, that’s just one aspect of this transition, and that’s just for the first week.  That emotion doesn’t define my entire stay.  I am making a conscious effort to appreciate the small moments here and take everything in.  We’ll see how the rest of the visit plays out.

Stay tuned!

Coming to America

I’m in line at customs.  The lady ahead of me greets the passport official with a “hi.”  He says nothing.

I really want to try to greet people in the States like we do in Namibia.  I admire the custom and hope it can potentially brighten someone’s day.  Maybe it could even get the silent man to crack a smile.

When it’s my turn, I ask him, “How does it feel to be working in an airport over the holidays?”
“Horrible.”  His face is dead.  His voice is dead.
I chuckle nervously and shake my head.  “I can’t imagine.”
“Every holiday season.  Twelve-hour days.”
“And during this shift, too!”  I check my watch: 6:55 a.m.  “My gosh.”
He finishes checking my passport and wordlessly hands it back to me.
“Well…” I say.  “Have a good day.”  He is silent.

Welcome to America.

As I walk away, I remind myself, Not everyone in America hates their life.  …Maybe just the ones who work in airports.

With an eight-hour layover in D.C., I wander around the huge airport.  I can tell we’re in a recession because I pass only four Starbucks on the way to my gate.  With an old gift card, I purchase one coffee beverage after another.  I deliberately get high, then continue walking around dizzily.

Cranky customs man is outnumbered by other friendly people, like the gentleman who accidentally heads into the women’s restroom (don’t worry, he wasn’t friendly like that), or the cashiers who say, “Hi, how are you?” (even if it is in a rushed voice).  I notice there are a lot more “thank you”s than I’m used to overseas.  (I will say my students are getting better about using the phrase, though.)

I like how often Americans say “thank you.”  I like laughing to myself at how ridiculous some American accents sound (I don’t want to point fingers, but I did have a connection in Minneapolis).  I like the feel of these funny bills in my hands again—the currency is all green and it’s big, as opposed to what Namibia’s money looks like.  Things are both familiar and new.

After five flights and about 48 hours of traveling, I hug my family again.
I’m not sure when I cried more—the time I said good-bye or the time I said hello.
I’m home.

And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day.

Snowflake sweater says it's gonna be a good day.

one last post from Namibia

About a month ago, I had a memorable dream.

My Peace Corps term had recently ended, and I was back in the United States, at a job that had a cafeteria in the building.  It was our lunch break.  I went into the cafeteria and was floored by what I saw.

Long, long lines of people — crowds of people — and long lines of banquet tables.  There was an endless variety of food to choose from, with servants at each station, ready to explain what each dish was and spoon out an amount for you.  There was a meat station with a dozen different kinds — meatballs, chicken, steak, pork, ham, turkey, venison….  I was overwhelmed by all the food.

And then I overheard someone say, “There’s nothing to eat here.”

I felt awful.

I felt so sad…that this was my life now.  I was back in a place of unimaginable abundance, but nobody was aware of it.

Today I start the long journey, halfway around the world, to visit the U.S. for the first time since August 2010.  As excited as I am, I also feel real fear about what it will be like to be back.  (Maybe that sounds overdramatic, but when a fellow volunteer visited home — even sooner in her term than I am — she reported back in a dazed voice: “Everything was…so…fast.”)  So I am a little worried.  There may be reverse culture shock.  I may struggle with judgmentalism.  And, I may even turn into the person who voiced that complaint in my dream: I might start to take it all for granted again.

I pray God will surround me with safety, an attitude of gratitude, humility, and openness during the next month.  I will likely need a lot of grace.

I really can’t stay…I’ve got to go ‘way….

When I hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” these days all I can think of is Namibian men.  That duet perfectly captures what it’s like to try to fend off a Namibian man’s advances.

One day I was exiting my yard when a stranger–a man–passed by.  I’m not used to strangers in our village, first of all, and although it’s not very Christlike of me, I have to admit: I don’t like strangers.  This guy was already holding out his hand to shake mine and I didn’t want to–but I feel that refusing to shake someone’s hand is as bad as slapping them in the face.  So after delaying for a bit by fiddling with my gate closure, I shook his hand.  And so it began.

“Could I have your phone number?”
“No,” I said, walking away.
“Why not?  I’m a bit interested,” he said to my backside.
In my head I thought, Gee, only a bit?  I’m offended!

I hated that he knew which house was mine and could even be waiting there for me upon my return.  I made up an excuse to have a learner walk me home from school that day.

As a general rule of thumb, a “no” is only an invitation to persist.  I’ve had guys from the census bureau, who got hold of my phone number, send me pleading text messages about how they’re interested in me and want to talk to me–then follow it up with numerous phone calls.  It got to the point where anytime I answered my phone and it turned out to be my brother Jon or something, I’d heave a big sigh of relief: “Good, you’re not a stalker.”

So, this Christmas season, I have new respect for the poor girl who tries to escape the guy’s clutches in that beloved old Christmas song.  It’s not so romantic to me anymore.

But one last note–I want to state for the record that the male teachers at my school have never, not once, made me feel uncomfortable with any advances.  They have shown the utmost courtesy and have treated me like a friend–nothing more.  Did my principal scare them all into silence before I arrived?  Or are they just good people?

I like my colleagues a lot.

things I’m looking forward to

1. getting a haircut

2. taking a hot bath

3. cooking/baking for/with the family (or just eating what they have cooked/baked)

4. hiking in the snow

5. buying new undergarments

6. real coffee, real cheese, real milk

7. getting different music so I can change the songs that have been on my iPod the last 1 1/3 year

8. attending Advent church services

9. singing with Heather

10. using a dishwasher, microwave, toaster, vacuum cleaner, blender, electric mixer, coffee maker, and WASHING MACHINE

11. playing a piano again

12. giving presents after having missed birthdays and Christmas

13. the fireplace’s smell, sound, and feel

14. cradling my brand-new very first nephew

15. driving, if someone will let me borrow their car

16. recycling (I reduce and reuse out the wazoo here, but I miss a formal recycling system)

17. laughing with family members, especially about Christmas inside jokes (for example…Charles: our divergent “Gloria” harmonies…Mom: your recycled Christmas card with Dad)

18. wearing the sapphire ring I purposely left at home

19. sewing with Mom/playing chess with Dad/playing board games with sibs & their spouses

20. Alaska’s wintry sunrises and sunsets, which last for hours

Less than a week until these dreams can come true!

how to talk to Americans

A lot could go wrong during my upcoming travels from Namibia to

Alaska. Let’s say I get stuck in the Anchorage airport overnight, and

I need to borrow a passerby’s cell phone, to let my parents know. This

worries me.

I forget how to talk to Americans.

Because here, I would have to first greet. It’s disarming, in a

good way. “Hi, how are you?” It proves that I care about you. I’m not

just there for business.

In the States, getting right down to business was, in itself, the

way to prove you care about someone. You know their time is valuable

and you don’t want to waste it on small-talk or a superfluous

greeting.

When I lived in the U.S., I’m pretty sure if someone walked up to

me and said, “Hi, how are you?” I would think, “Okay, what charity are

you trying to get me to donate to?” Or I’d think, “Are you about to

ask me if I know what my eternal destination is?”

…Is that just me? Am I the only one who would get suspicious if

someone walked up and opened with “Could I talk to you for a few

minutes?”?

I don’t know how to talk to people anymore…. Especially when it

comes to approaching strangers: I don’t want to put them on edge. I

don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to scare them away.

“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve been living in Africa for

the past year, so I don’t have a cell phone, and now I missed my

flight, so my family will be waiting for me — do you mind if I use

yours? I would offer to pay for the minutes I use, but I also don’t

have any American money. Would that be okay? Also, are you saved?”

Anyone reading this who could advise me on how to make this

transition? You’re more than welcome to offer suggestions.

now stay

     I like to think I do a pretty good job of keeping my homesickness
to myself -- not burdening colleagues with complaints, nor unloading
on learners as if they're my peers. But a few weeks ago, I just
couldn't take it anymore. Maybe it was because we teachers were
discussing the end of the term, which got me thinking about my travel
plans. Maybe it was because I was wearing my giant Alaska T-shirt.
Maybe it was because in the morning, I had taken off another link on
my countdown paper chain. Whatever triggered it, I put my head down on
the table and moaned, "I miss my family!!"
     My coworkers' voices immediately took on a tone of soothing. One
fellow teacher said, "Don't worry, you'll be with them now."
     But that's just it. In Namibia, "now" means any number of things.
"I'm coming now" can mean "I'll return in about an hour." "I'll be
with you now" means "You'll have to wait a bit."
     Will I really be with my family "now"? In Namlish, yes, but in
Amlish, no. I came of age in 21st-century America, where you truly CAN
get something "now" -- fast food, movies streaming online, instant
news updates, not waiting for a radio to play your favorite song
(because you have it on your iPod instead), a message from a
friend.... Living in Namibia for over a year could not erase a
lifetime of being spoiled by instant gratification. And right now, I
want this now.
     I picked my head up off the desk to show them I was only being
melodramatic -- not truly crying or anything. I did appreciate their
reassurance.

     Another little language difference in Namibia is how you don't
talk about where you live...you talk about where you "stay." A kid
might say, "I stay with my mother in Okongue" or "We stay with our
grandmother just outside of Okakarara." As for me, I say, "I stay in a
little village about 130 km from Omaruru."
     Your home is where you stay.
     With that is the implication that you don't go astray.... Because
when I hear "Stay," I think, "Stay put." Perhaps someday I can say
confidently, "I stay with my family." But for now I can only say,
"They stay in America. I stay in Namibia."
     I am grateful for what I've learned by living here, believe me. I
know, too, that I'm not done learning. But at the moment, it's time
for me to take a break and get back to my roots. Fifteen more days.

     Happy Thanksgiving to those who stay in my heart. I will be with you now.

Gimme a Break

My last post expressed how I felt two months ago, as I wrote it on
Sep. 17. How I feel now is slightly different. See, next month I get
to visit home, setting foot on good ol’ American soil after nearly 1
1/3 year away.

I can’t believe it. I can’t wait. As I count down the days, I think
about what I’m most excited to experience…and what I’m most eager to
leave behind.

Here’s one list.

THINGS I WON’T MISS THIS DECEMBER:

1. being stared at or sexually harassed as the novelty foreigner
2. water being shut off for 48 hours at a time
3. transport always being up in the air — a round-trip excursion to
the grocery store takes about eight hours
(…I recently dreamt that I got a ride directly from the store
to my village, a ride that was guaranteed to leave right then, and I
was so excited: This meant I could buy a carton of ice cream! It
wouldn’t melt!! Talk about a fantasy.)
4. trudging through sand while wearing dress shoes on the way to school
5. a monotonous diet of Corn Flakes, long-life shelf milk, and
artificial coffee’s artificial substitute
6. feeling like a dunce when it comes to speaking the local language
7. my only regular internet access being from a little phone, where I
type one character at a time (such as now) and consistently lose
drafts because of poor network
8. buzzing flies, whining mosquitoes, and speedy cockroaches

Of course, I’ll miss some things this December, too:

1. my guitar
2. a slow, quiet pace that I can’t adequately describe
3. being able to tune out virtually every conversation around me, as
they’re almost all not in English
4. certain birds and their songs

…Feels unfair to have the two lists be this uneven…but I don’t
care. I’M GOING HOME IN 22 DAYS!

You know you’ve adjusted to Namibia when…

1. You have to convert American currency into Namibian currency (instead of vice versa) in order to conceptualize the amount.
2. You hold on to someone’s hand after a handshake, lingering longer, standing there naturally, still holding their hand.
3. You share food without hesitating, caring, or even noticing.
4. You walk at a more leisurely pace, especially if accompanying someone somewhere.
5. You get offended if someone doesn’t open a conversation by first greeting you and asking how you’re doing.
6. You’re comfortable with long periods of silence.
7. You say “mmm” several times during a lecture—sort of a “preach it, brother” noise.
8. You see two-ply toilet paper and think, “Now isn’t that a bit excessive?”
9. You find yourself saying “Is it!” to mean “Really!” or “You don’t say!”  (“I love your outfit.”  “Is it!”)
10. On the day before he flies back home, you say good-bye to a Volunteer who has been here two years.  And as you hug him, you don’t feel jealous of him.  You actually feel sorry for him.

Note on # 3: That’s only by the grace of God.  I hope the phenomenon continues and I can keep that up when I return to the States.
Note on # 5: It’s really jarring.  Freakin’ pisses me off.
Note on # 10: I’m still in shock that that’s how I felt.

{written 9/17/11, one the eve of the 13-months-in-country mark}

gym class

        This summer, I introduced my Phys. Ed. students to an exercise video (which my parents had sent me with a not-too-subtle hint).  I teach P.E. to grade 8 & 9 girls.  As we participated in the activities, the girls were convinced they were being watched.  Surely the women exercising on the video also somehow had a camera connection to us exercising.  The lead model, the main woman demonstrating the exercises, would say, “You’re doing great, ladies!”  And the learners would say, “She’s watching us!!  Miss, can she see us?”
        “No, she can’t see you.”
        “But how did she know we were all ladies?”

Just a good guess, I suppose.  Perhaps it’s a universal cultural thing that only women are ridiculous enough to do indoor exercising videos.

final Vic Falls post: Zimbabwe side

The future cover of our first CD.

I’m on top of the world!

                 Least favorite moments of the trip: seeing all American cash in the register drawer of a Zimbabwe grocery store, a blatant reminder of the unrest in that country…feeling creeped out (by men of multiple races, for the record) on a sunset cruise…the time I deliberately didn’t shake a salesman’s hand (because I didn’t want to get hounded by him)—which I felt really guilty about…any sweaty waiting inside a border patrol office…and so much calculation among different currencies. 

                Favorite moments of the trip: listening to a French couple (who are bicycling across Africa) play accordion long into the night…sipping iced tea flavored with mint while chatting with a fellow volunteer…thinking of loved ones back home and buying specific gifts for them…seeing sign language between deaf Zambians…dashing through a labyrinth of crafts stalls to find the cheapest, most colorful fabric before our ride could leave without us…holding hands with friends as we tiptoed across the top of Victoria Falls before jumping into Angel’s Pool…finishing a huge pizza myself, then further stuffing myself by eating crepes filled with chocolate custard and topped with vanilla ice cream…hearing the pig-sounds coming from hippos underwater…jogging with a buddy through the early-morning streets of Livingstone…listening to a drum circle outside the hostel…the way the Southern Cross follows me wherever I go…and—the beautiful familiarity of being back in Namibia when it was all over.