Before coming to Namibia, the thought of Africa conjured two images: HOT and DRY. These days, there’re only two words on my mind: WATER and FLOODS. Northern Namibia is currently experiencing the worst floods ever recorded. According to an article I read, the water levels are 8 cm higher than the previous record floods in 2008.
Just as most other things, it isn’t exactly as you’d imagine it. “Flood” makes me think of rivers overflowing their banks and sweeping away cars and houses, but this kind of flood is different. Since there are no dams, levees or river re-routing, this is a “natural” flood. On one hand, this flooding is expected – north central Namibia is essentially a floodplain.
But on the other hand, flooding isn’t a yearly event. From what I’ve read, 2 to 3 major floods occur in each 20 year period (data from the last century). But this is exceptional - in the last few years, we’ve already met this quota with floods in 2008, 2009 and 2011. This makes me fear that global warming will cause years of terrible flooding and terrible drought, therefore terrible suffering, in this area in coming decades. Climate change truly is a global issue.
The progress of the floods has been slow, not dramatic: an entire weekend of rain caused the oshanas (shallow, ephemeral lakes) to grow larger and larger and eventually link together. But the main culprit is not the localized rainfall, it is the water from Angola. All of this water slowly moves southward and settles into the Etosha Pan, and Owamboland just happens to be in the path.
So, for the past week, we’ve been walking through the flood waters. At times it reminds me of canoeing the Crystal River in central Wisconsin. As I walk through the water, I often catch a glimpse of little silver fish darting in and out of weeds that are bending under the gentle current. But then there are moments that I’m knee-deep in murky, mucky water wondering what type of animals (snakes) or parasites (schisto) might be living in the water.
I’m lucky, though – I only live 1 kilometre from the main road and the school, so I’ve had it easy. The majority of my students have to walk for an hour or more, sometimes through waist-high water. Not only is it inconvenient (walking through water takes twice as long), but it’s dangerous. According to an article, 21 students (throughout Namibia) have already drowned. Because of this, many schools (including mine) have temporarily closed until the water recedes.
As it became apparent that more and more PCVs were under water, PC decided to move us to a nearby city before the water got so high that it would be impossible to evacuate us in an emergency. So now we wait in limbo – water refugees. (Though I’m not complaining – it’s great to have electricity, a hot shower and TV. Plus, I can watch movies on my computer and read books without being watched! Though I'm sure this won't last for long.)
Monday, March 28, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
You're never alone...literally
A year and a half ago, as I began my final semester at Point, I worried about loneliness. All of my close friends had graduated, as had the majority of my acquaintances. I was no longer president of my college’s chapter of the American Cancer Society, meaning I would be much less involved and, in fact, my schedule didn’t even allow me to make the meetings. And I was moving into a two-bedroom apartment with a random roommate, a mile from campus. As it turned out, however, loneliness was not at all a problem; between school (with its cursed undergrad thesis) and work (coaching levels 4-8 at the Y) I stayed completely occupied.
The year 2011 has again brought of thoughts of loneliness...or the lack thereof. I’ve always heard that Americans are strangely solitary and independent, but I’d never thought anything of it. How can you when you’ve lived your entire life in a culture that embraces those characteristics? Now I’m beginning to grasp a better understanding.
Each day, I search for ways to be alone but invisible. It’s more challenging that you’d think.
During the school day, there’s a steady stream of distractions: lessons to teach, students with questions, copies to be made, teachers to chat with, library books to be checked out, make-up tests to be administered, re-teaching and pre-teaching and, my biggest frustration, a near-constant group of teacherless students running about the school yard, playing, fighting and generally making a ruckus.
I’m also keenly aware that I’m being observed all the time. Even at school, where I’ve been a constant figure for 14 weeks, I often still feel like a zoo animal. It’s usually the primary school children that camp outside my door, staring in or lingering for an unnatural amount of time as they walk by. But even the older students are watching. Yesterday I was told by my host sister that one of the girls from her class reported back that I was eating eembe (berries) and drinking tea in my office. I can only imagine how quickly word would spread if I was eating a pizza and Skyping with friends in America!
The interest in my every movement is not just confined to the schoolyard. At home, as I’m preparing rice for the next day’s lunch, baking banana bread or washing my dishes, I often have an audience. The little girls from my house sit in the chairs and watch me work, even though they’ve seen me cook and clean many times before. One Saturday I was helping cultivate mahangu, and the next day another teacher told me she’s seen me out in the fields. Twice now, I’ve taken five or ten minutes in the morning to pick eembe from the tree to take for lunch and later come home to find a bowl of them in the sitting room, a gift to me from mekulu. How she knew that I was picking berries in the morning, I have no idea. I’m usually the first up and the first to leave, so no more than one or two people could have seen me.
Even my Namibian colleagues take note. If I go for a whole day without stopping by their office, they joke about my antisocial behaviour. I once tried to explain the American need for solitude to one of my younger but very opinionated colleagues. Our conversation ended with her declaring that the overabundance of alone time is why Americans spend so much time with psychiatrists.
My natural introvertedness has further compounded this issue. By the time I get home from school each day, I’m exhausted. It’s already 6 or 7 o’clock, I have a bit of cleaning and cooking to do, and then I just want to read or write and go to bed. Even THIS gets noticed. I’ve had people tell me that it’s not healthy or natural for one to sit alone in their room (maybe they think I’m just sitting there?). When I read outside, however, it’s internally more stressful than being inside: instead of relaxing, I’m worried about what the others think (I’m sitting and reading while they’re working) or I’m trying to figure out what’s going on (as they chatter away in Oshiwambo).
In an effort to cope, I attempt to find less conspicuous ways to be alone. One is staying after school. Once 4:01 hits and the schoolyard has emptied out, I can finally clear my mind enough to think, reflect and plan. A dark, cramped office with little air circulation and a hard wooden chair are hardly conducive to divine inspiration, but it works. I even spend many of my weekend hours at school. Another cherished ritual is my walk to and from school each day. It’s 20 minutes of near-solitude. Just me and my iPod. I’ve actually turned down free rides home in order to preserve my time alone. Although I cherish sleep more than nearly anything else, I purposely choose to wake up early in order to enjoy the cool morning air in peace and quiet. The other only other escape I’ve (begrudgingly) agreed to is a workshop for Life Skills teachers next week. I hate missing school but it’ll probably be good to get away, if only for a bit.
In the end, however, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. Despite my occasional (though sometimes urgent) longing for an apartment of my own or an isolated hut in a field, life on a homestead has offered me so many experiences and opportunities I wouldn’t have had otherwise. It’s given me a Namibian family and clearer picture of everyday Vambo life, both a big part of the reason I came here in the first place.
Now if only I could remind myself of that the next time I feel like a living museum exhibit.
The year 2011 has again brought of thoughts of loneliness...or the lack thereof. I’ve always heard that Americans are strangely solitary and independent, but I’d never thought anything of it. How can you when you’ve lived your entire life in a culture that embraces those characteristics? Now I’m beginning to grasp a better understanding.
Each day, I search for ways to be alone but invisible. It’s more challenging that you’d think.
During the school day, there’s a steady stream of distractions: lessons to teach, students with questions, copies to be made, teachers to chat with, library books to be checked out, make-up tests to be administered, re-teaching and pre-teaching and, my biggest frustration, a near-constant group of teacherless students running about the school yard, playing, fighting and generally making a ruckus.
I’m also keenly aware that I’m being observed all the time. Even at school, where I’ve been a constant figure for 14 weeks, I often still feel like a zoo animal. It’s usually the primary school children that camp outside my door, staring in or lingering for an unnatural amount of time as they walk by. But even the older students are watching. Yesterday I was told by my host sister that one of the girls from her class reported back that I was eating eembe (berries) and drinking tea in my office. I can only imagine how quickly word would spread if I was eating a pizza and Skyping with friends in America!
The interest in my every movement is not just confined to the schoolyard. At home, as I’m preparing rice for the next day’s lunch, baking banana bread or washing my dishes, I often have an audience. The little girls from my house sit in the chairs and watch me work, even though they’ve seen me cook and clean many times before. One Saturday I was helping cultivate mahangu, and the next day another teacher told me she’s seen me out in the fields. Twice now, I’ve taken five or ten minutes in the morning to pick eembe from the tree to take for lunch and later come home to find a bowl of them in the sitting room, a gift to me from mekulu. How she knew that I was picking berries in the morning, I have no idea. I’m usually the first up and the first to leave, so no more than one or two people could have seen me.
Even my Namibian colleagues take note. If I go for a whole day without stopping by their office, they joke about my antisocial behaviour. I once tried to explain the American need for solitude to one of my younger but very opinionated colleagues. Our conversation ended with her declaring that the overabundance of alone time is why Americans spend so much time with psychiatrists.
My natural introvertedness has further compounded this issue. By the time I get home from school each day, I’m exhausted. It’s already 6 or 7 o’clock, I have a bit of cleaning and cooking to do, and then I just want to read or write and go to bed. Even THIS gets noticed. I’ve had people tell me that it’s not healthy or natural for one to sit alone in their room (maybe they think I’m just sitting there?). When I read outside, however, it’s internally more stressful than being inside: instead of relaxing, I’m worried about what the others think (I’m sitting and reading while they’re working) or I’m trying to figure out what’s going on (as they chatter away in Oshiwambo).
In an effort to cope, I attempt to find less conspicuous ways to be alone. One is staying after school. Once 4:01 hits and the schoolyard has emptied out, I can finally clear my mind enough to think, reflect and plan. A dark, cramped office with little air circulation and a hard wooden chair are hardly conducive to divine inspiration, but it works. I even spend many of my weekend hours at school. Another cherished ritual is my walk to and from school each day. It’s 20 minutes of near-solitude. Just me and my iPod. I’ve actually turned down free rides home in order to preserve my time alone. Although I cherish sleep more than nearly anything else, I purposely choose to wake up early in order to enjoy the cool morning air in peace and quiet. The other only other escape I’ve (begrudgingly) agreed to is a workshop for Life Skills teachers next week. I hate missing school but it’ll probably be good to get away, if only for a bit.
In the end, however, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. Despite my occasional (though sometimes urgent) longing for an apartment of my own or an isolated hut in a field, life on a homestead has offered me so many experiences and opportunities I wouldn’t have had otherwise. It’s given me a Namibian family and clearer picture of everyday Vambo life, both a big part of the reason I came here in the first place.
Now if only I could remind myself of that the next time I feel like a living museum exhibit.
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