The Birth of the Yearbook

By Kyle O‟Neill

Lucky you.

In your hands now, rests a special edition copy of the WorldTeach Namibia Yearbook. Congratulations!
Like all great pieces of art, there is an equally worthy back-story to the creation, development, and publication of this
yearbook. Lives were never in danger, secret double-agents were not involved, nor was there a legal battle to decide
ownership. The story is simple. The story is uncomplicated. The story is Namibian.

The year was 2010, nearing the conclusion of the Aughts, and an assembly was called in the town of Tsumeb, Namibia. A
bold, idealistic, and inventive woman who partners herself with the Ministry of Education was the force behind the meet-
ing. Her name: Jocie Jungers. Her decree: an Assembly of Minds. Only the best and brightest need appear. Without
coincidence, a troop of a near twenty WorldTeach volunteers began to converge in Tsumeb. The best and brightest had
heeded the call.

After warm embraces and firm handshakes, story swapping, and the general merriment and excitement in being with the
company at hand, the meeting was ready to commence. The group gathered in Tsumeb had gradually built an intimate
relationship over the course of a year. The strengths of each individual were many, the weaknesses few. Like an intri-
cately designed pocket watch, the collective parts of the WorldTeach volunteers were meant to work together.

Once gathered and seated in the sacred hall of Martin‘s Backpackers, the Assembly of Minds was underway. Namibian
procedures were followed. An opening song, prayer, and singing of the National Anthem initiated the meeting. This was
followed by a reading of the agenda and opening the floor for apologies and additional topics for consideration. With that
finished, the agenda was closed and nothing further could be discussed besides the agreed upon topics.

On this memorable day, Ms. Jungers was having only a few words to say. ―Hello, WorldTeachers. I am having only a few
words to say,‖ she began. ―Today is the day we are having a meeting. I would like to thank everyone for coming and I
am hoping everyone finds the weather condition to be fine.‖ With her opening remarks completed, Jocie moved on to the
heart of the matter. ―This year I would like to form a yearbook for incoming volunteers to read in order to understand
more about the country and their potential experience before embarking to Namibia. Would anyone like to second that
motion?‖ It was seconded. ―Now, are there any volunteers to form the Yearbook Committee?‖

Abruptly, those gathered turned their attention to an eagerly finger-snapping young lady in the back of the room. Confus-
ing her enthusiasm to speak with a need for a committee member, Jocie hastily thanked her for volunteering. ―Wait,‖
she piped up. ―We can‘t just have a committee to create the yearbook. We need to have a committee to decide the
Yearbook Committee.‖ The room silently nodded in agreement. Committees are indeed vital for all decision making
processes. Quickly a motion was proposed and seconded to form a Committee to Decide the Yearbook Committee. Quiet
satisfaction fell over the hall, a near catastrophe had been averted. And the rest, they say, is history.

The story was simple. The story was uncomplicated. The story was Namibian. The story was also entirely fictional. In a
weak attempt to portray the value committees hold in the Namibian workforce as humorous, a similar committee forming
scenario very well could take place at your school one day. There will be a committee for anything and everything. So
don‘t be surprised when you find yourself volunteering for the Classroom Chair Counting Committee, the Tree Trimming
Committee, or even the Ideas Committee. Me, I have personally been a member of two of the mentioned commit-
tees. And that is not fictional.
 About WorldTeach

Based at the Center for Interna-

Message from the FD
Jocie Jungers Shilongo
WorldTeach Namibia Field Director
Namibia is a very special country
and no one knows that better than
WorldTeach Namibia volunteers.
The following pages commemorate
a unique, challenging, fulfilling
and unforgettable year for 21
amazing individuals.
In the span of 12 short months,
strangers became friends and
friends became like family. In their
pictures and words we can glimpse
their joys, heartbreaks and epic
memories.
tional Development at Harvard
University, World-Teach offers
the benefits of a well-established
volunteer organization, while also
providing more comprehensive,
personalized support and training
as a small NGO. In each of our
programs, volunteers are placed
in schools and host com-munities
in developing countries that spe-
cifically request WorldTeach vol-
unteers and would otherwise be
unable to afford or locate quali-
fied teachers. Volunteers receive
training, language preparation,
and field support, empowering
them to make an impact that will
last long after they leave.

It has been a supreme pleasure

working with them and witnessing
their profound impacts on their
host communities.

Much love to 2010!!

Fourteen people arrived in a land far away
They had no idea they would be such good friends
By the end of their stay
There‘s a man from Australia who loves to dance
A girl who wears big, shiny earrings
And bright turquoise pants
A funny husband and sweet wife
Still in love after many years
A trail hiker who has been places in life
A philosopher, continuously reading and thinking
A lover of the outdoors
Always up for drinking
A New Orleans magnolia, kind and free
A natural born teacher
Who, in her free time, surfs the sea
A gentleman, really a kid at heart
Forever making jokes
A girl who has mastered the meditation art
A curly haired book lover with an adventurous spirit
A big hearted smiler
Full of sass, who lets you hear it
And a redhead with an ear for tunes
Namibia, beautiful Namibia
A place where we all spent many moons

By Kristen Burrns
 Tina Baum
Brandberg PS

An adventure is only an
inconvenience rightly considered.
An inconvenience is an adventure
wrongly considered.
- G. K. Chesterton

Kristen Burns
U.B. Dax PS

Ashleigh
Enriquez
Okatope JSS

The most beautiful thing we can ex-

perience is the mysterious. It is the
source of all true art and science. He
to whom this emotion is a stranger,
who can no longer pause to wonder
and stand rapt in awe, is as good as
dead: his eyes are closed.

— Albert Einstein
 Julia Ho
Paulus Hamutenya PS

Jennifer
“Apple Juice”
Kimak
Udjambala JSS

Megan Linehan
Ponhofi SS
 Jim McNamara
Heroes Private School

Sharon
McNamara
Heroes Private School

Kyle O’Neill
Ndpona yaShikende PS

―what‘s all that churning

and bubbling? You call that
a radar screen?‖
- Dark Helmet
 Ari Renoni
Sitopogo CS

―We‘re not angels.

We‘re WorldTeach.‖

Kevin Ryan
Romanus Kamunoko SS

Jena Shellito
Namib PS
 Brent Stewart
Oshikunde CS

"If you wish to make an

apple pie from scratch, you
must first invent the
universe."
-Carl Sagan

Wes Weston
Eengedjo SS

―We‘re not angels.

We‘re WorldTeach.‖

It’s All in the Numbers

By Tina Baum

28/30 The number of people who say hello as I 2 to 23 The number of kids in the library on any given
walk by on my way to the store
afternoon
14/15 The number of people under the age of 18 who yell
―Miss‖ or ―Jefrau‖ (pronounced yefro) as I walk by, 2 to 15 The number of kids actually reading in the library on
only occasionally accompanied by other words any given afternoon
5/5 The number of times I have enjoyed the rain here
5/15 The number of adults who do the same
during the rainy season
3/42 The number of learners in my 5th grade class it takes
0/5 The number of times I have enjoyed the humidity after
to get the whole class out of control
the rain
7/42 The number of kids I can count on 100% to
99/100 The number of times the answer to the question ―how
cause problems in my grade 5 class every single
are you?‖ posed to a Namibian is ―Fine‖.
period.
8 to 30 The number of times a day I am greeted with ―so‖ or
1 The number of new students in my grade 7 class as of ―so, Miss‖ as a complete sentence, not followed by any
last Thursday other thought and not used as a conversation opener.
1 to 9 The number of notes I get to intercept every day in my
1 The number of new students it takes to send the
classes.
entire grade 7 class into an uproar.
98 The percentage of those notes that are love notes
 Tomas Gold
Bunya CS

Trying to get learners'

English on.

Bonnie
Holbrook
Nuuyoma SS
 Jennifer Lahn
Shaanika Nashilongo SS

Rachel Manley
Ogongo CS

Alana Vogl
Kasivi CS

―Our deepest fear is not

that we are inadequate. Our
deepest fear is that we are
powerful beyond measure.‖
- Marianne Williamson
Justine Rogoff
Kandjimi Murangi SS

Scott Karrel
Divundu CS
 Love and Math
By Alana Vogl

In, what seems like, my previous life working as a special education teacher and behavior
analyst in Santa Cruz, California I crossed paths with many professionals that had different
guiding philosophies. One such person, the manager of a group home subscribed to what
we called the "All you need is love" approach. He genuinely believed that prayer and love
would “cure” a 13-year-old boy with autism of his severe aggression and self-injurious
behaviors. As someone who had the joy of working really successfully with kids and ado-
lescents with autism by applying principles grounded in sound science and research, this
seeming naiveté was aggravating. It was consistency, positive reinforcement, clear contin-
gencies, and effective teaching that were going to change these kids' lives and futures, not
prayers and love.

Now, I am once again far away from home and questioning what I have known to be true
in life and school. I began my second year in teaching in Namibia on December 27th, mak-
ing the trek from the land of hot showers, soft beds, and endless supplies of green vegeta-
bles back to the rural village of Bunya in north eastern Namibia. Bunya is 35 miles from
the nearest town. It recently celebrated the arrival of the paved road, cutting the trans-
port time to a mere hour accounting for the frequent stops to let cattle and goats cross.

The journey home for the Christmas holiday made me question what I am doing here
more than ever before. I have fallen in love with this country, its land, and its people. It
saddens me to think about not getting to see the sunrise on my walk to school every day,
to not have throngs of little barefooted children to wave at, to move so fast through life
that I no longer think it important to stop and greet everyone I pass. But I am not Namib-
ian and I despite how comfortable I feel here, or how long I stay, I will always be just visit-
ing. How I can make the biggest impact here--what that means and looks-- like are in my
daily thoughts.

In addition to teaching grades 8-10, I started teaching grade 5 math this year. I was ex-
cited about this new challenge and my initial goal was just to make math fun. By the time
learners get to grade 10 they despise math so much it's hard to get them to do anything.
Get 'em in grade 5 and I felt like maybe we could turn this mentality around. Starting in
grade 4, classes are taught in English. So, my class of 48 learners is in their second year of
instruction in English. Grade 5 is also the first year when the classes go from being taught
by one teacher to being taught by subject teachers. The age range is as wide as it is in
grade 8; 11 year-olds sitting next to 17-year-olds. I have learned to speak slowly and ges-
ture, but those first couple weeks I might as well have been speaking Chinese. After six
months, for some I am still speaking in Chinese.

My grade 10 learners, most 20 years-old, have proved their worth and can carry their
weight in their family. They have made it that far. Their families are still painfully poor
subsistence farmers, living well below the $1 a day poverty mark, but while they struggle
to get money for school fees, uniforms, pens, and shoes, but they manage to get some
combination of them. In grade 5, they appear to just be another mouth to feed. They can
herd goats, cattle, fetch small amounts of water, but from appearances no one's taking
bets that they're going to make it. They wear their one pair of trousers everyday despite
the ripped crotch. If they are lucky, and from a more prosperous family, they have a shoe
or two (with or without a full sole). Their hair is full of dirt, leaves, or whatever else got
stuck in it while they were sleeping on the ground. They share broken pens, waving them
violently in the air to try to get the last drops of ink to surrender.

In the classroom, they are at the mercy of the teacher who will come to class 50% of the
time. They can be beaten for not finishing work they don't understand or arriving late. In
the first two weeks I sent six kids out of class for punching or slapping other kids, exempli-
fying learned behavior and a complete lack of impulse control. I felt overwhelmed with
where to begin to address these issues. I was trained well on how to change behavior--
increase desirable ones, decrease undesirable ones-- and help kids learn how to learn. But
I did this is nice building with running water and electricity. With two copiers and endless
supplies of paper and pens. There were people everywhere to share ideas with and pro-
fessional resources to turn to when stuck. I am not in Kansas anymore.

Six months later, math=fun is still a goal. But surprisingly, so is love. I come to love not at
expense of rules, routines, and clear consequences, but I have begun to appreciate that
these kids will be in a better position to learn if they feel like someone genuinely cares
about them. I don't have evidence to support this. Does love matter if you're hungry? I
don't know. I tell myself over and over feeding them, clothing them, giving them working
pens is not the answer. This isn't why I am here. I am here to teach. I will be gone in a year
and their bloated bellies would go back to grumbling, their clothes would tatter, their pens
would dry up. My goal is to leave them with something that will last much longer. I am not
naive enough to believe love is the answer to everything, but I am trying to believe that it
can't hurt. The punching and slapping is down. I don't know if it'll improve the all impor-
tant math exam results, but they have started to smile more, which I'll count as progress.
 Calling Things by their
Right Names
By Brent Stewart

I am a native English speaker. As such I am a valuable resource for a Namibian school. Al-
though English is the country‘s official language, it is almost no citizen‘s mother tongue,
and English is presently the only subject a learner absolutely must pass in order to pro-
gress in school. I have made myself available to all learners and staff members who have
any questions I may be able to answer. I have thrown all of my support behind the after-
school English Club, ―Voice of Change‖, which fines its members one dollar for speaking
Oshiwambo during the weekdays. Most learners, to put it mildly, struggle with English.
Nevertheless, one of the first things that struck me upon my arrival at Oshikunde is how
incredibly hard the learners work. Their living conditions alone would be excuse enough
for almost anyone to just coast by in class blaming their poor grades on early wake ups for
showers, almost daily clothes hand-washing sessions, multiple daily water fetching trips,
and late night scrambling to keep things dry if it ever rains on their ―hostel‖ tents. One
fact about myself that I quickly realized in Namibia is that I am a sucker for languages,
and I figured that if these young adults are willing to work so hard to learn mine, it is only
fair that I try to learn theirs.

At the end of my classes, if time allows I ask the learners to teach me one word in Oshik-
wanyama (the local dialect of Oshiwambo). I constantly ask staff members how to say cer-
tain phrases in their language, and my favorite ritual I have established is asking learners
questions while walking with them to the ondobe (watering hole) to fetch some omeva
(water). In Namibian culture it is a sign of respect to offer someone your assistance. It is
also considered rather rude to deny anyone the privilege of helping you should they ask to
do so. As a person who feels uncomfortable taking advantage of or unnecessarily relying
on others, this cultural more took some getting used to. I once returned from class to find
a learner exiting my front gate with a tub full of weeds that he had just pulled from my
yard. Every ounce of me wanted to say ―You don‘t have to do that! Please go study or
rest, you work hard enough as it is!‖ but I found that the right to perform an elder a ser-
vice is highly sought after. This means I have to swallow my tongue and simply express my
sincere gratitude as best as possible. A trend that quickly developed after learners saw me
walking anywhere with a bucket is that of learners asking to fetch water for me. Being
simultaneously averse to being disrespectful by refusing and by acting entitled by delegat-
ing learners to do my chores, I have negotiated with the learners that they may carry my
water if they allow me to walk and talk with them.

On these walks the learners ask me questions about 50 Cent, and Barack Obama, and Cali-
fornia, and other American volunteers they assume I know, and English grammar rules.
While walking I take every opportunity to point at anything and ask, ―Shike?‖ which liter-
ally means ―what?‖ and in context means ―what is that called in Oshikwanyama?‖

―Shike? Shike? Shike?‖ I say. I hope I don‘t bore them with this game, but their interest in
it shows no signs of waning. Giggles and laughs accompany my every attempt at their lan-
guage. If I make a mistake, it is funny. Oddly, if I get it right, it is hilarious. It took me
some time to figure out that I was getting anything right at all I was so confused by the
volumes of laughter. It may be obvious and banal to state, but communication is what
pulls people together. Cultural and language differences are substantial barriers between
people, but even if you speak a broken tongue, just trying to learn someone else‘s lan-
guage is one of the best ways to show someone that you want to connect with them be-
cause everyone can recognize and appreciates an earnest inquiry into the way they live.
 The Sum of Moments
By Tina Baum

There is no way I could sum up my experience here in Namibia, or even relationships and interactions that I have every day.
So here are a few quick stories of moments I have had in Namibia that help to sum it up.
Moment 1: Reading in the back of a classroom during my free period. I hear a little ―tap tap‖ and look over to see my favorite
small child (a little 2nd grade boy… we barely talk but he is always within a 5 foot radius of me. Never actually interacting… just
always close) waving through a window less than a foot from my face while he‘s supposed to be in class. I should not have encour-
aged this behavior, but I couldn‘t help but laugh.
Moment 2: Teaching grade 5 the electric slide for the last 15 minutes of art class today. It completely failed… they didn‘t learn
much and of course it‘s grade 5 so it was a discipline nightmare, but their exclamations of, ―Miss can dance!‖ were too funny and
they loved the idea of line dancing. I didn‘t mention they would fit right in at any wedding back in the states.
Moment 3: Talking about recycling in my natural sciences class. It‘s the first period of the day and most of my learners are still
half asleep. I look at them and ask, ―So why should you care? Why do we recycle?‖ (This is one of the things they need to learn.)
After a blank moment…I shout ―Alright, you don‘t care right now but I‘m gonna make you care!‖ and actually get a few laughs.
This is a joke they would not have gotten a month ago.
Moment 4: Sitting in the library today with some grade 3 learner I kind of know (as much as we can know each other without
speaking the same language). He is leaning on the opposite side of the table from me showing me pictures in a book and pretend-
ing to read. Has the biggest grin on his face and is missing his front two teeth.
Moment 5: At about 6:30 I was checking my email, trying to perk up a bit since today was very long and I was feeling burnt out
and a bit depressed (I used up all my happy at school). I was typing when suddenly the boys come in and tell me, ―Miss it‘s time
for eating.‖ I shut the computer and they put it away and bring out a plate of porridge and a plate of chicken. We prayed and
washed our hands in a little bucket of soapy water, then shared a traditional communal meal and talked about the day and tradi-
tional food. It was exactly what I needed to cheer up and was just too adorable. I cannot believe how attached I have gotten to
these boys…
Moment 6: Today I showed up to practice as the first and only female soccer coach that Brandberg Primary has ever seen. There
was a man who was seemed to have things under control so I told him to let me know if I could help and mostly sat off to the
side, watched and cheered (good practice learning the boys‘ names!). At the end I played ball girl for a bit while they were doing
shots on goal.
Then they called me up to shoot (―jefrau, jefrau di le jefrau!‖). Now, I played soccer for… oh… 11 years when I was younger, but
haven‘t touched a ball since high school. I have enough trouble keeping these boys respecting me without making a fool out of
myself in front of them, so I tried to politely decline. They would not take no for an answer so I stepped up… shot… and had possi-
bly the most beautiful score of the day. Their reaction was great- cheering, laughing, but mostly just exclamations of ―you can
kick the ball!‖

In Namibia I Can’t Live Without...

...my amazing learners
...the other WorldTeach volunteers (seriously).

...the wall spiders. (ooops it says can't…)

...water.

...my cup of Nescafe instant coffee before my first class of the morning!

...my sunglasses.
...smsing. A new venture for me. However, here I
have learned I can live without anything.

...a fan during the summer nights .

...the plethora of China Shops. One would simply not have sufficed.

...books. Its also fun to raid your school's library! ...Toppers.

 Field Trip, Namibia Style
By Ari Renoni

Last weekend, Julius and I led a field trip (second in school‘s

history) to the Mahango Game Park in Divundu, about 320km east
of the village along the Kavango river. Nine girls from grades 8-10
accompanied us to take charge of cooking. With them came 32
grade 4 kids. At 11am, promptly 3 ½ hours after the Ministry
agreed to pick us up that morning, we climbed into the bed of an
enormous farm truck-turned official Ministry vehicle for a ride to
Rundu. There, our mere two errands – the bank and grocery store
– took a mere four hours.

―We have 26 rooms booked‖ Julius told me as we departed

Rundu towards Divundu. With two beds per room, that was more
than enough. We pulled into the Frans Dimbare Youth Centre at
dusk at which time the director, predictably, informed us that all
the rooms had been booked. By others. What about our booking?
As if he didn‘t understand the question, he again said all the
rooms were booked. As a consolation accommodation, he led us
to two faded green tents, each of which held 11 beds. The kids,
completely unfazed by the drastic derailment of our plans, went
on to claim their corner of a bed. Similarly undeterred, Julius
and I left the kids, none of whom own flashlights, to their own
devices in their electricity-less quarters. Only in Africa is the
adjustment from sleeping in a bedroom to a tattered tent met
with such placidity. Then again it‘s not an adjustment if it‘s not
different from what you‘re used to.

Saturday, we headed to Mahango, where we saw hippos, a buf-

falo, ostriches, elephants, zebras and impalas, not in great num-
bers like Etosha, but a handful at a time. Upon entering the
park, we ran into a group of middle-aged Italian tourists. They
were eager to photograph the kids, who obliged happily. Pictures
to prove they indeed saw Africans in Africa between stays at
various four-star villas. But back in the car, the older girls
started making of them. ―Can I photo you?‖ asked Justhina mock-
ingly. ―No, very, very no!‖ chorused the girls, laughing.

When we finished at Mahango it was over 100⁰ and there was no

air conditioning in our 1992 Toyota minibus. Only a few km on
the way back to the Youth Centre is Poppa Falls, part of Na-
mibia‘s main national park network, so Julius and I told the driv-
ers to stop. At the falls, much to the drivers‘ chagrin, most kids
dunked themselves, making for a wet drive back. And a smelly
car the next day. But it was worth it, splashing around in the
water to cool off after hours in the car.

Back at Frans Dimbare, the girls began cooking lunch…at 4:30pm.

We had eaten breakfast at 7:30am.

Overall, a very successful trip, all credited to Julius who did all
the planning. I hardly lifted a finger over the weekend. Chaper-
oning, a demanding duty in the US, doesn‘t mean corral the kids
at each interval of the trip. Instead, when we stopped, the kids
ran freely, disappearing then reappearing just before we pulled
away as if they‘d received a telepathic message telling them to
return.

On Sunday I returned to Sitopogo with less than two months of

classes left and the grade 10 in the midst of Junior Secondary
Certificate exams. These exams are hugely significant as they
will determine what each will be doing next year. Will they be
finishing up grade 11 at a nearby Senior Secondary School, en
route to a coveted Senior Secondary School Certificate, the only
means by which one can get a stable job? Or will they be irrigat-
ing their family‘s small plot of maize?
 A Hitchhiker’s Guide to Namibia
By Wes Weston

Hike – n. An informal method of transportation utilized in Namibia by car-less travelers in order to get from one area to the next. Cars are filled to
capacity plus 4 before leaving for their destination, evading potholes, donkey‘s, livestock, and people (normal Namibian road obstacles). Fairs are es-
tablished at a set price determined by the distance traveled.

I walked out to the tar road, the only one which runs through the heart of Omungwelume, though the place is so small it‘s rather redundant to anthro-
pomorphize this dusty little utopia. What luck! I hadn‘t taken but a few steps next to the shoulder-less road when a car came roaring by. I flailed my
right arm and pointed in the direction of Oshakati, a major town (again, everything is relative) in northern Namibia. About once a week I make a trip
into Oshakati to run errands. I pick up groceries, go to the bank, print out pictures for my learners, and routinely eat a late lunch at KFC. The car came
to a screeching halt probably jerking forward the other passengers inside. It stopped about 100 feet in front of me and I could see the other people
inside shuffling around to make room. If I were anywhere else I probably would have run to the car with some sort of expediency. However, this is Na-
mibia and I‘ve done my best to gravitate towards the local pace of life. I leisurely ambled my way to the idling vehicle and opened the side door. I
climbed in and said hello to my fellow compatriots. Other than the driver, there were 6 other passengers inside. It wasn‘t as uncomfortable as it may
sound since 3 of the passengers were less than 3 feet tall. A husband and wife (I presume) were sitting in the back with me, with their two kids on their
laps. Another man was in front with another child that I didn‘t even notice till we got to Oshakati. The driver pulled the car back on the tar road and
we were off. After an arduous trip of a couple hundred yards the driver pulled the car back off the road and parked in front of Omungwelume‘s primary
mini-mart.

This is a vintage Namibian hike layover. Stops are frequently made, sometimes turning the shortest of distances into the most epic of journeys. Stops
are also made to fulfill the needs of a single person. It‘s an interesting facet of the transportation sub-culture that the needs of the individual super-
sede the needs of the group, those needs being getting to where we‘re going in a timely fashion. I‘m not kidding. I‘ve been on a mini-bus full of people
and the driver pulled over at an outdoor market so someone could buy oranges. Of course other people decided to get out as well since we were
stopped anyway, thus delaying the trip even more. On the contrary, one could also view this as an immaculate service for passengers. I‘m sure they‘d
pull over in some piddly-dunk town if I had the hankering to purchase something as insignificant as a button.

About 30 seconds later our driver reemerged from the store carrying a 40oz. of Black Label. He hopped back behind the wheel and sped off down the
road. With one quick motion he popped the top off with his tooth. I think it must be a rite of passage for most Namibian males to open bottles with
their teeth. I checked for my seat belt which was evidently out of order. There was a seat belt, just nowhere to buckle it.

Drinking and driving is nothing new in Namibia. Most countries throughout the world have their fair share of problems with this issue and Namibia is no
exception. I‘ve been in the car with several individual‘s publicly transporting people while either under the influence, or trying to achieve that state of
mind. The bottom line is that there's not much of a way around it. I could only hope that this guy was taking his medicine for the first time today. The
only thing that provided me with some level of comfort was the alcohol content of the beer. For a country that enjoys its beer, the drinks are unusually
weak. Just about all beers are 4% alcohol and believe me, I‘ve searched far and wide for stronger beers. And since I haven‘t been able to find them I‘ve
resolved to drinking cider, which is 5.5%.

After a few swigs our captain passed the bottle back to the man sitting on the other side of me. In Africa everybody shares. He took a couple nice long
sips and then held it out for me. It was an incredibly nice gesture. Who knew that I would have found a hike serving free drinks? I politely declined and
so did the man sitting in the front seat. The bottle quickly found its way back into the hands of the driver. I started to second guess my sound judgment
and thought we might have been better off if I had just killed the bottle with one chug. Probably would have been the safe thing to do.

(Later that day)

After filling my backpack with groceries I walked into the parking lot. There you find a number of taxis willing to take you anywhere in Oshakati for $8
(US $1). I told the guy I was going to the Omungwelume hike point. Throughout Oshakati there are designated spots for people to catch hikes depending
on where you‘re going. To catch a ride to Omungwelume I have to go to the Shell Station on the west side of town. I threw my bag in the trunk and
climbed in the front seat. On our way out of the shopping center we picked up two other woman, their destination unknown to me since they were
speaking in Oshikwinyama. People also share taxis in Namibia. If you‘re heading in the driver‘s direction they‘ll find room for you – capacity plus 4,
remember. The driver slowed a few other times to try and wrangle up a larger fare but no one else was biting. It was a short drive, maybe a kilometer,
so we were there in no time. While commuting to the hike point I usually try to mentally put together some sort of game plan for when I arrive. On this
day, however, I made a fatal mistake. My backpack was in the trunk. Therefore, the plan was to quickly pay the driver, run to the trunk of the car, and
dive-bomb on top of my backpack. I wasn‘t worried about the thing getting stolen. I just wanted to make sure the pack and I would be riding in the
same car.

A lot of times when you arrive at the designated hike-points you‘re greeted by a host of individuals waiting to take you to whatever town/village you're
traveling to. What‘s tricky about this situation is that there‘s no queue. It‘s first come first serve, every man/woman/child for themselves. A lot the
guys are not even the drivers of the vehicles. I think they are just there to help fill up the cars and receive some sort of kick-back in compensation. By
now most of the guys at the hike point know who I am since I‘m the only white person living in Omungwelume. I'm pretty easy to spot whenever my taxi
passes by the waiting cars with numerous drivers anxiously awaiting the next passenger. The taxi will usually drop me off just beyond the departure
area but as soon as I‘ve been made out by the masses there‘s usually about 4 or 5 individuals that‘ll chase down my taxi yelling, ―Eengedjo! Eengedjo!
Eengedjo!‖ (the name of my school). On this day I had about 3 pursuers and immediately after the car stopped they were pushing and shoving each
other to open the door for me. I handed the driver his money and he popped the trunk.

It‘s your belongings that you need to be careful of. These guys will use it as leverage to try and get you to go with their car. No joke! I once saw a guy
inconspicuously walk off with a child and put the kid in his car while the mother helplessly tried to protect her bags. She eventually saw the kid sitting
in the back seat so she walked over and set her stuff inside. It worked!

Once they heard the trunk pop they let me go and quickly ran to examine the contents inside. There was only my backpack so instantly 2 of the guys
began wrestling for it. Another guy came over and tried to peal one of the individuals off my pack. By this time, a 3rd assailant entered the fray, me! I
grabbed one of the shoulder straps and slid my arm through it. I pulled the bag closer, and with it came the two guys struggling for my business. At this
point I had 6 people crowding around me saying, ―Sir, you‘re going to Eengedjo. Come with me! Come with me now!‖

This situation is normal in Namibia and it was quite daunting when I was first exposed to it. I thought maybe this aggressive behavior was exacerbated
because I was a foreigner. However, other Namibians are treated the same way. Case in point – the guy who walked off with the woman‘s child.

After 7 months I‘ve became familiar with many of the faces at the Shell Station. I looked past the guys still trying to commandeer my backpack and
arguing with each other (they‘re usually not the driver anyway), and saw a guy I‘ve caught a ride with on several occasions. He was waving me over and
opened one of the car doors. I pushed my way past the melee towards his vehicle. The car was empty so I knew I‘d have to wait until others arrived. I
didn‘t mind being the first because that meant I could take the front seat. It even had a functioning seat belt. I hopped in the decrepit little 4-seater
and waited patiently for the next 6 people to arrive.

When I first heard about the public transport system, I thought it might be a cumbersome part of my living situation. However, I kind of enjoy not
knowing where or with whom my next ride is coming from. My favorite trips are when I get to ride in the open air from the back of a pickup truck.
There's something meditative about it. I know when all is said and done, its little things like this that I'm going to miss about Namibia.
 You Know You’re In
Namibia When...
 You hear hippos on the bike ride to
school.
 A group of random strangers can harmo-
nize.
 Donkeys outnumber the people.
 You begin to love that strangely comfort-
ing smell of grass, dust, and burning
trash, and it reminds you of home!
 Explanations, even long and seemingly
detailed ones, actually confuse the situa-
tion.
 You are ‗having‘ anything. Past, present,
and future.
 Three of the five infants riding with
you in the back of a truck are being
breastfed.
 Ketchup is the standard rice enhancer
 You look around and notice there are
more donkeys than there are cars
 People head to the bar at seven in the
morning, cars don't have seatbelts, kids
cruise around in donkey taxis, goats sneak
into classrooms and eat textbooks, and
learners idolize Akon.
You Are Fat!
By Jenn “Apple Juice” Kimak
“You are fat, Jennie.”
Huh? Excuse me. Did I really just hear you
correctly? Much of my life has been spent in
front of a mirror, pinching, poking and trying
to convince myself that I AM NOT FAT. Body
image among teenage girls in America is poor
and even the most confident woman finds it
difficult not to wish away a few extra pounds
here and there. Hearing this sentence, and
from a male no less, was like being knocked
face first in the dirt by a herd of 2 ton ele-
phants. Horrific. And painful.
In America, the sentence he uttered is a
sin. Calling someone Fat is the last real curse;
a taboo that most honor. However, here in Na-
mibia skinny is the curse and some would say
being called fat is a great compliment.
I see it as a fact, a statement. Like “You are
white,” it is an unavoidable observation. It is
not meant to hurt or help.
Knowing this is easy. Accepting it is a different
story. The first time it happened I felt embar-
rassed, like I had fooled myself all those years
and no one had been kind enough to set me
straight. After the fifth time, I realized that
nothing about me had changed. I was the same
weight whether I was being called fat or
skinny. I was still happy, no matter the label.
The perception here is often, fat means you are
happy and loved. I have heard more than once,
“When I am with my family I am fat, and we
might not even eat.” This is the opposite of
what I feel we perceive in America. Fat = un-
happy. There must be a problem if that person
has eaten so much, they must be depressed.
It is nice to hear this word from another per-
spective. No, not everyone here desires to be
fat, but most feel there is nothing wrong with a
few extra pounds.
 Easter In Owamboland
By Jenn “Apple Juice” Kimak

I spent Easter Weekend with a friend of mine from school, Aleta, and her family at their homestead. It was like living
in a moving picture. Or maybe more like if a display on early agriculture in the Natural History Museum came to
life. Picture Africa, before it became the Africa of disease, before it was the Africa of hunger, before it was Africa the
third world country. In essence picture Africa before it was ever called Africa. It was like a Disney ride, but better.

We left Thursday at noon from school and took a (hitch) hike to Oshikango where we stocked up on food. We then
backtracked to her mother's shop in Ohangwena. Her mother is a seamstress and we hung out in her shop for a while
and waited for Alleta's sister and cousin. Then the four of us (her mother stayed on) trekked off down the road to go
home. We were going to foot (walk), but Alleta found someone who could come and take us to the house.

The first night we cooked outside on a fire and sat around to wait for her mother to come home. We watched a movie
on my laptop and then moved to the sitting room. There we ate some meat that we had bought at the market and
porridge. There is no electricity, so we ate by candlelight. Her mother (who does not speak any English) gave me a
traditional Meme dress (think Mumu) that she made herself. And then we went to sleep.

We awoke the next morning to rain hitting the tin roof and stayed in bed as long as we could. The rain stopped at
some point and we went outside to search for beans and tomatoes and do other household chores. I mostly followed
them around like a lost child. But I watched and watched to try and learn something that once was common knowl-
edge to all humans, how to gather and pick the ripe foods. Her mother decided to slaughter a goat in my honor, so a
man (one of the many, many relatives to revolve through the homestead this weekend) came to help. I walked to the
pen and watched them pick which goat we would eat. Alleta's cousin, Nangula, said, "Enjoy your last moments" and
then the goat was breathing its last breath. Then they hung the goat on a hook and went to the house to put away the
tomatoes.

I did not see what happened to the goat next (though I can imagine) as we went to one of Alleta's friend's house to
charge the laptop. When we returned we at goat. I mean we ate THE goat. I ate goat head, goat feet, goat ribs
(which are good), dried goat, fried goat, boiled goat, goat kidney (which is great), goat liver. Basically they devour
every edible part of the goat. For me it was hard because I do not eat a lot of meat, so at some point I just got sick of
meat. I did not voice this to the Namibians. They would have sent me back to America for saying such things.

I ate lots of interesting, and not so interesting things during the weekend. I tried the mahangu before they pounded it
into flour. It smells, and tastes a bit like a little bit too sour, sour-dough bread. I had mopani worms (a type of cater-
pillar) for the third or fourth time. I had a traditional "Owambo potato." It looks like a gourd or squash. They are
light green and bulbous with the skinny part that curls over a bit at the top. When they are cooked and cut open they
look like a zucchini, but they are a little starchier.

I spent a lot of the weekend just listening to them speak Oshikwanyama. I don't really understand, but often I can pick
out enough words to understand the topic. I find it interesting to listen to families speak. The topics they choose here
are not too different from home. They talked a lot about other family members (of which there are enough to fill the
entire weekend with conversation) and work. Sometimes Alleta translated for me, sometimes I zoned out, sometimes I
started my own conversation when it got unbearable.

Sunday they dressed me up in the traditional dress of the Owambo. Her mother has a suitcase full of the Owambo
formal wear and they put it all on me. It is very very heavy, especially on the hips since there are about 10 separate
pieces. After dressing me up like a Barbie doll they took pictures of me. Here is one thing I will never understand
about Namibians. They love having their picture taken. And it must be taken in different spots. Over here, then
here, now in the sitting room, now in front of the hut, even on her mother's bed. It reminds me a bit of those awk-
ward pictures of women posing in some strange place i.e. on the bed just because there was a camera present. Alleta
kept asking me if I wanted to take one in x place. I didn't really care, but I pretended that I absolutely loved it and
that each suggestion was just where I was thinking I needed my picture taken. In pretending, I actually had a bit of
fun. Though I still hate having my picture taken.

We did not go to church on Easter. It was raining. This may sound like a lame excuse, but it is 1 km or more away and
the rain here is nothing like you've seen before. Also it tends to create floods in the flat flat sand of this country. We
did not go to church, but we talked about God and prayed and listened to the Easter hymns on the radio. Some were
familiar, just in a foreign tongue. So I translated the words I knew and hummed to the ones I did not.

Easter night I sat outside reading Traveling Mercies while they pounded mahangu. Their rhythm is amazing and it is as
beautiful as a dance to watch, so much of the time I just appeared to be reading. Or staring. The sun started to set
and it was beautiful. The underside of the clouds burned like dying embers and half the sky started to light up with
stars. I watched as each new star became visible. You have never seen stars until you have experienced them in com-
plete darkness. You can see them all, from the big to the small. It is absolutely amazing and you can see why people
were once convinced they were the holes to heaven. They also actually do twinkle.

I missed being home for Easter, but I got an experience I always dreamed of having and would have never actually
dreamed would come true. It was beautiful. It was Africa before it was called Africa.
 The 12 Days of
Chistmas...Namibia
Style!
By Megan‟s Grade 11 Class

On the ________ day of

Christmas my true love gave
to me...

12 diamonds shining

11 lions roaring

10 oshanas rising

9 plates of porridge

8 memes pounding

7 chickens squawking

6 springbok springing

5 donkey carts

4 mahangu fields

3 fat goats

2 sandy dunes

and a fimbi in a palm tree!

 The Day I Became a True Wambo Woman
By Rachel Manley

A few Saturdays ago, Charles, Imms and I spent some hours perusing the
open market in Oshakati. It took me quite a while to find the true gems
within this market. From one side of the street, a passerby would see a cul-
tural array of baskets filled with traditional grains, spices, and nuts with the
occasional stand selling fresh vegetables. From the other side, all that can be
seen is a line of venders selling imported trinkets – rasta necklaces, boot-
legged cds, socks, soccer paraphernalia, acrylic lingerie, lip gloss in every
color and god knows what else. It takes some expert navigating and forceful
refusals to marriage proposals to get into the heart of the market. Once
there, one can find anything from vibrant traditional dresses to dried cater-
pillars, which I tasted for the first time last week and found them surpris-
ingly bearable. I have sat and watched memes sewing on old school crank
machines and old men slaughtering and hanging slabs of meat twice my size.
Charles was on a mission to find the perfect gift for Jen. We were on our way
to Okahao to celebrate her birthday. Imms ran into a „sister‟ of his (aka a
woman somehow related to him by at least 5 degrees of separation) who was
selling beads and necklaces. I encouraged Charles to buy Omagwe, the tradi-
tional belly beads, for Jen. I bought some as well. We spent a good hour at
Jen‟s attempting to secure them above our large hips and debating the sig-
nificance of the beads. Here is what I learned……
All women wear the Omagwe beads from when they are a small girl, even in-
fants. They are worn right below the waistline, hidden from view and only
removed for adjustment as the girl/women grows. I have heard numerous
explanations for why these beads are worn.
1. They are fertility beads and are worn until a woman gives birth.
2. They are worn to keep away the witches.
3. They represent purity and virginity and are taken off after marriage.
4. Their only purpose is to keep women thin, with feminine curves.
5. You where them to show that you are a girl. White beads are worn until
you have a child and any color thereafter.

All of these have been proven wrong in some context or another, so I am not
sure what to believe. I think I will go with the fourth explanation until I get
further proof. Not sure it is a good alternative to Weight Watchers, but the
beads do make me feel pretty!
 My Weekend at a Homestead
By Ashleigh Enriquez

My learner invited me to stay at her house and I agreed. Her only request was that I bring popcorn.
The walk there was slightly uncomfortable for me. It was through an area of the village that I have not been to and therefore the locals haven't seen me. There
was a lot of cat calls from the men in the cuca shops (tin shack version of a bar) and hearing 'Oshilumbu' which means white person in Oshiwambo. This is not meant to be
racial mean or derogatory, but I still don't like it.
I get there and greet her family and her mother at a cuca shop. Greeting is an extremely important cultural thing. You must say 'hello, how are you' 'are you sure
your fine', to everyone. They say the same thing back. Her mother is the owner of the cuca shop. This doesn't help my nervousness. It is said that alcoholism is in above
50% of the population. Men constantly say they love you and want to marry you (somehow that is the only sentence they know in English). It is sad to me that white still
has status. I prefer this over being hated because of what has happened in the past with white people but..... it‘s hard.
I spend the evening with the kids around a fire that they built, watching them cook. Before they could cook though, they had to pound mahongu, the local grain.
This involves a large wooden vase, and a huge mortar (about 4 feet long). To get the job done faster two girls pounded at once. They each roll their bodies bringing the
mortar above their head, and then smashing it into the vase to turn the grain into floor. (This has to be done before every meal). It looks like a graceful dance between
the girls and the sound reminds me of a heart beating (lub dub, lub dub). Then they poor it out into a big basket, grab a handful and put it into a smaller more tightly
woven basket, and then they gently tab the bottom over another very very tightly woven basket. This separates the husk from the inside. It is beautiful to watch, and
reminds me of watching a water fall in slow motion. Each vase will hold about 4 handfuls of mahongu, which means they have to do all of this about four times to get
enough for a meal.
The 'kids' include Klaudia (grade 10), Rauna (grade 8), the last born Frieda (grade 3 - I think) and two of their cousins who also go to my school but are not in my
classes. We have some real talks, and some just funny exchanges. Frieda and I make faces at each other and make everyone else laugh. I also teach them the letters in
American Sign Language. Somehow language doesn‘t matter with little kids. The cousins have great English and we talk about religion and school.
It was interesting to watch how the kids take care of themselves. I never have, and still don't now, believe in corporal punishment or beating a child. However, I
now have a better understanding of where this comes from. At least in this family, and what seems to be the case in most children in this culture, is that children raise
other children. Adults have children for the sole purpose of having someone to take care of them when they are older and to look after things. Developmentally, children
don't learn to share until they are about 8, they cannot fully understand the concept; they do understand taking turns. Further children only understand immediacy. I
watched several times as Frieda would do something wrong and Klaudia would lash back. As a child, if you are hurt your response is to hurt the person back (especially if
there is no adult around for you to run to). So, children raise children who are never taught or shown differently and seemingly never develop beyond this stage. Further-
more, they have nothing to be taken away. No TV or computer or even overnights at friends. You can't ground a child, because then there is no one to cook, clean fetch
water, or do the field work. All of these things are done out in the community so they will see people they know and like along the way. All this leads to a society that
knows no other way than beating.
This is further emphasized in the fact that children are taught not to question what little there parents do teach them. This is essential in a society like this. It
isn't like the US, where you say don't run or you will fall and hurt yourself, and the kid still does. There is no hospital to go to if you do fall and hurt yourself there is no
medicine for pain. If you get hurt badly and don't die, but are somehow permanently affected (a limp, bad scars, unable to walk or carry something) you become useless
to the family and/or will not marry.
Side story to drill in the point of why people have children. Lamek, my housemate, was given to a friend of his father‘s when he was two. His father's friend was
40, had not married and had no children, and was complaining about not having someone to watch the cattle. So Lamek's parents, having plenty of children, gave him
away to this friend so that he would have a small boy to tend to the cattle.
Food is ready; because it is cold we eat it in her room. First we make a plate for her mom. Then we carry everything into the room. Which is a square hut about
the size of a king size bed. There is porridge in a basket, meat and sauce (which they call soup) in a clay bowl - where it was transferred after cooking in a modern pot.
We wash our hands in a large basin and eat family style. Grabbing a mouth size bit of porridge, rolling it in fingers, making a divot in it, and then using it like bread or a
tortilla to pick up meat and soup. Then, because candles are expensive, its dark, and they get up with the sun - it is time for bed.
I sleep with Klaudia. Yes, this was weird. No other choice really. I am in a square hut sharing a bed with a learner. The two younger girls sleep with their mom
when she comes back. I obviously didn't sleep well. I didn't want to move for fear of touching Klaudia, and I was extremely uncomfortable as the bed is flat medal bars
that make a large grid with a thin piece of foam (not bed foam, but foam you would use to put under flooring). Roosters start cooing at 3 am - not at sunrise like the
movies make it seem like. It was remarkable watching the sun begin to peer in from the holes in the roof that looks like a giant spider web folding down on you made of
sticks and covered in grass. I felt like I was really in Africa - yes sometime that thought still slaps me across the face.
Bright and early in the morning we get up and have bread and tea. The tea has so much sugar in it I don't want to drink it. Then we walk 1.5 k (about one mile) to
the watering hole (a well). Along the way we stop several times to greet other people (some I don't even see). We eat sweets and sugar cane - directly from the cane.
Klaudia and Rauna fill 5 gallon buckets. It takes two of them to lift it up, but somehow they carry them on their heads - without spilling. I am given a small oil canister of
water (that has been washed but to me still smells like oil) to carry back, and Frieda is practicing her skills at caring things on her head with a 10kilogram (22 lbs) sack of
potatoes on her head. Walk back is much quicker; we still greet but don't stop but rather say it as we are passing.
Then we go and greet her aunt who wants to meet me. I now know why the cousins have better English. They have more money. On their property is a real house
(meaning not a hut). The aunt is a teacher at a primary school. We are fed cookies and juice with excessive amounts of sugar. I am given nik nacs (they are like personal
bags of munchies) and a pumpkin.
Then we go out into the fields and dig up 'nuts', which are actually a type of bean but they call them nuts because there is shell that you have to break after they
are boiled before you eat them. I am quickly realizing that all they eat all day is sugar and only have real food for dinner. I think there taste buds are prone to craving
more sugar because there body is constantly searching for energy that can be used. They work hard and don't eat a lot.
In the fields, with a cousin and her baby, I learned how to pee. Or rather, was told what they do. Girls basically learn to control their stream so well that they
don't splash or spill on their leg. If they are wearing a skirt, they pee standing. They stand with their legs slightly wider apart than hips, reach under the skirt and push
their underwear (which they call pants) to the side without taking them down and pee. In subsequent weeks I have learned that this takes several years to develop be-
cause Frieda still hasn't learned. So what she does is kneels with her knees far apart as to reduce the distance. She is teased for not know this yet. Potty training is also
basically learning not to pee on your underwear, because they pee anywhere they feel like it.
Then I HAVE to go to the cuca shop to accept a phone call from her brother who wants to greet me. It is a big deal to have me there, for several reasons. The
whole family is smart and hard-working, he is currently in college in Walvis Bay, a town on the coast in the southern regions where there are more Afrikaners and there-
fore better schools.
About this time I also find out that I am not staying the night, but the weekend. I had a feeling from over hearing an Oshiwambo conversation but didn't want to
say anything. I am coaxed into it because her older sister (who has passed all but one subject in grade 12- a huge accomplishment here) is coming to greet me in person,
but she can't find a hike (ride) so is coming tomorrow. Then we have a mini siesta, and for me a sugar crash. We have to borrow water from another cuca shop because I
refuse to drink the well water, knowing it will make me sick.
Next day is pretty much the same except we have a big lunch in my honor. Something I know they wouldn't usually do. We have traditional chicken with broth/
soup (you can read more about in the section - another night in a homestead) on top of pasta and potatoes. Both cooked so thoroughly that they are basically mush.
(TWO carbs - oh no).
That morning, I visited a different uncle. They also had more money. Still lived in huts, but they are slightly larger, and there is only one kid sleeping in each one
rather than 2 or 3 and they have a cement floor rather than a dirt floor.
Oh, the labor for today is not digging up nuts but beating mahongu. It is cultivating time. All the mahongo (which looks like a combination of cat tails and corn
stalks) has had the grain part cut off. Then they separate it into two piles, some to plant next year and the rest to eat this year. The grain has to be separated from the
stalk. This is done in almost the same way as turning it into flower, except it is not in a vase, it is on a huge circular cement area with a diameter of about 10 feet. The
girls use the same mortar and then use their feet to mix the mahongu as they beat it. Other families have large poles and men to help. The men take the large poles (of
which I don't know what they are made) and raise it over there head and beat it down (the way you would beat the ground with a bat). The sound is a whooshing whistle.
Kornelia, the older sister is very smart and has great English. Her and I actually had a conversation about why she thinks it is so important that I am visiting their
house. She was at my school a few years ago when there was another volunteer here. That volunteer, according to the locals, left as soon as school got out on Friday and
didn't come back till Monday morning. It made the locals feel like she didn't like them. Particularly, it made Kornelia feel like the volunteer didn't like them because they
were poor. This was hard to hear. However, I think I was able to do some good; reminding her that it is hard to be so far from home in a different culture. It was a real
conversation and connection moment. These are few and far apart for me.
I start to get pushy about leaving. I need to get back for my weekly phone date with my family and usually it takes me a while to get into the school to get the
phone call because I am either locked out of my house, the school, or the school yard – it‘s a long story
We end up carrying a crate of empty beer bottles to get refilled. They are all 40 ounces and made of glass. They will be cleaned, refilled and caped and re-sold.
This is how most alcohol is sold. It is heavy. I am forced to wear a jacket because they are afraid the sun is hurting my white skin, and we are walking in soft, deep beach
sand in the middle of the day in hot desert sun.
There life is about survival, always working to get water, food, money, and somehow these girls still feel education is important- which is great but an under-
standably rare belief.
Frieda comes and visits me now after school, and we eat popcorn.
 A Strange Dream Come True
By Wes Weston

The chicken remained remarkably docile in my hand as it dangled upside down with my fist clasped around its abrasive legs. I lifted it up and peered into
its beady little black eyes, completely unaware that the light at the end of the tunnel was just around the corner. The learners from my 11C English class
gathered around watching as two of the boys undertook the task at hand. One boy, Jonas, was sitting in a chair while another, Sibolile, stood nearby with
machete in hand. One by one, the kids holding chickens would pass them to Jonas. He'd give it a little stretch and Sibolile would take hold of the small
head with his fingers. They lay the chicken down, stretched across a blood stained fallen tree, and with one swift motion of the machete the chicken met its
demise. There was no sound, or cry from the fallen chicken, just the thud of the blade hitting against the side of the tree. Sibolile would toss the decapi-
tated head into a pile of chicken heads close by. Jonas would fling the remains of the deceased back behind him into a grassy field. There it joined other
headless bodies in a whimsical dance of sorts. The bodies would flail back and forth, some jumping several feet off the ground. The expression „like a
chicken with its head cut off‟ finally had some meaning.

I‟ve never killed an animal before, at least intentionally. I‟ve never been hunting, or have been in a position where I must slay an animal for my own
survival. Like most urban dwellers I purchase my meat, frozen, and without a visual semblance to any sort of living creature. It‟s just a pile of brown
meat. And though it doesn‟t say much about me as a health or morally conscious consumer, I choose not to think about how the animal died.

The slaughtering of hundreds of chickens for our schools fundraising bazaar – Killing Day as one of my colleagues referred to it – was very real indeed.
However, these chickens were not to die in vain. The proceeds from their sold corpses would go towards the acquisition of the schools‟ first bus. Hard to
imagine back in the US a school without a school bus, but here we are, with over 700 learners and no wheels to go round-n-round. After all the learners
left the hostel to go home one weekend, everyone was requested to bring a chicken back with them upon returning. The chickens would be slaughtered,
cooked, and then sold at the three day bazaar. These fundraising events have been going on for some time now and I believe the school is finally getting
close to procuring the necessary money for a school bus. In total, just over 400 chickens were brought back to the school. Killing Day was now upon us.

What joy that my parents were here to witness such a spectacle. My family crossed the Atlantic to travel Africa with me during the school holiday. My
break was over and they graciously brought me back to school. They stayed with me for one night and then had to start making their way back to Wind-
hoek to catch their flight home. What better way to end a vacation than to watch the decimation of hundreds of chickens? And I know its every parents
dream to one day watch their child kill an innocent chicken. I didn‟t want to disappoint. Actually, I‟d been waiting for this moment ever since I stepped
foot on Namibian soil. Some of the other volunteers wanted to see a lion. Others wanted to sand board down Namibia‟s ridiculously high sand dunes.
But not this guy, I wanted to kill a chicken.

I remember at the beginning of the year talking about my dream with some of the learners. They were amazed that I'd never killed a chicken before. "Well
who slaughters your chickens?" they'd ask. "It's not like that," I'd tell them, "the majority of the food in America is industrialized." They grasped this
concept, because food in Namibia is also industrialized to some extent. There are supermarkets where you can buy your meat just like in the US, frozen
and lifeless. What I don‟t think they seemed to comprehend is just how non-agricultural the average American is, especially when it comes to subsistence
farming. My agricultural prowess – zilch. I know nothing about farms, except I once took a field trip to one, via our school bus, as a Middle School stu-
dent. In the US there are no villages and even the farms that remain seem to be consolidating. Maybe America has grown too fast for its own good, will-
ingly exchanging epoch‟s of survival instincts for the artificial underpinnings of a culture which eagerly embraces PC‟s, reality TV, and Starbucks.

After I scrupulously watched Sibolile slice and dice his way through several chickens, he turned and handed me the machete. The level of conversation
increased amongst the spectators. People were grinning ear to ear. It was a first for us all. I had never killed a chicken before, and they‟d never seen a
white person kill a chicken before. I grabbed the machete with a firm grip and gave it a good look. It was an old blade, perhaps a product of the 70‟s just
like me. Glancing beyond the tarnished silver directly in front of me I could see Jonas clutching our next victim. I brought the machete down to my side
and approached the chicken.

With my thumb and index fingers I snatched hold of the little chicken's neck. These chickens were small, their God-given size, and not the hormone in-
duced chickens I‟d been born and raised on. These beauties were all-nat-ur-al. However, their diminutive stature made me a little uneasy about wielding
the machete. My primary concern wasn't that I was ending a life, but that I could mistakenly slice off my fingers in the process. I tried to put it out of my
mind and hoisted the machete up above my head. There wasn't much force behind that first chop but I still managed to take the head clearly off. I dropped
the head in the pile with the rest as Jonas tossed the body aside, and before I knew it he was handing me another chicken. I kind of wanted to take a mo-
ment to bask in my triumph of the decapitation of a chicken. However, I had been thrust into the Killing Day assembly line. There was no time. Besides,
I don‟t think anyone really cared but me. With the next chicken I was even more reserved, and the end result was a miss-hit. The head remained loosely
attached by several nerve endings and blood was gushing out the side of the chicken's neck. I quickly raised the machete again and come down once more.
Still, not strong enough. Again – chop! Finally, on the third stroke the head detached from the rest of the body. There was a sense of despair floating
around the on looking group of learners. This time I did feel for the chicken. If you're going to end a life it should be done quickly. But I couldn't tell if the
learners felt remorse for the chicken or for me, whose shorts and shirt were now stained red with blood. Several of them were sure to point that out to me.
If anything, I certainly looked like an executioner.

In total I tallied up 5 chickens. After all the heads had been chopped off, one of the workers from the dining hall brought out a huge pot of boiling water.
All the bodies were tossed in the pot to soak for a while. By doing so this made the process of plucking easier. One by one, learners quickly grabbed the
bodies of the headless chickens and began plucking away. I passively pulled out a chicken and gingerly began plucking the feathers. Finally, a couple of
learners mustered up the courage to tell me that my plucking technique was too slow. If the chicken dried the feathers become more difficult to extract.
One of them began plucking out feathers with me until all that was left was a small naked carcass. The chickens were then tossed onto a grill and heated
for several minutes. I could only guess this was to heat up the insides to facilitate the process of gutting. A teacher overseeing the Killing Day festivities
took one of the chickens off the grill and demonstrated how the chicken was to be gutted. Most didn‟t seem to pay much attention since this seemed like a
procedure they were all too familiar with. Perhaps it was for my benefit? However, at this point my parents were anxious to get on the road since they
had over a three hour drive ahead of them. Also, I think they‟d seen enough death for one day. I excused myself from the revelry and walked back with
them to my house. My short lived dream of killing a chicken had finally come true.

I never gave the spectacle much thought until after my parents left that afternoon and I could gather my thoughts while sipping on a glass of wine as the
sun set. This being my moment of daily Zen. I thought I would feel some repentance for taking the life of a living creature, but I didn‟t. So what does that
say about me? Has village life hardened me? I don't believe in animal cruelty but to me the fate of these chickens didn't seem cruel. It felt more like a
natural process within Namibian village life. I feel more compunction for the animals that wind up in the giant American CAFO‟s where they‟re slaugh-
tered en masse. It seems to me our moral consciousness certainly discerns not only whether the animal is killed, but how it dies and the life it lived lead-
ing up to that point. Not only did I have no regrets but I actually felt good about the day‟s event. I felt that as a self-proclaimed carnivore aficionado, I
endured a right of passage of sorts. Some people believe it‟s hypocritical if vegetarians occasionally indulge themselves with meat, or perhaps they are
willing to eat fish. The line is certainly blurred. However, I for one think it‟s also a bit hypocritical for a meat eater to say they‟re unwilling to kill for their
bounty. I finally felt like I was worthy of eating chicken.

I thought the most unusual part of Killing Day was the feelings it aroused within me. I felt utterly disconnected from everyone there. I had no idea what
was going on, and therefore the focal point of unwarranted attention. But it didn‟t make me feel special that all eyes were on me, it made me feel stupid. I
was so far removed from a simple procedure of daily survival that seemed overtly natural to my learners. Perhaps this is the way they feel when I take
them into the computer lab and try to explain how a PC works? It‟s overwhelming. They are just as uncomfortable in my computer culture as I am in
their farming culture. Interestingly, everyone is striving to become a part of the former. I don‟t blame them. I‟d certainly rather screw around on You-
Tube for an hour than deal with the domestic duties of preparing a chicken. The day did make me appreciate how ill-equipped I am to survive out in the
wild. My survival instincts have all but evaporated and just about all of these kids would last much longer than I would if stranded out in the African bush,
unattended to by civilization. But still, I had taken my first baby steps.

Curious about what I saw that day, I did some snooping as to why the body of a chicken flails after its head is chopped off. Bear in mind this is according
to several websites. The brain of a chicken stems down into what we would perceive to be its neck. When the cut is too high, the nerves from the brain are
still attached to the body. What we witness are the last impulses of the chickens‟ natural desire to escape. Perhaps this may be accurate since another
website claimed that if the cut is made low enough, closer to the bulky part of the body, there is no reaction on part of the mutilated body. I guess I‟ll just
have to wait until I attend another Killing Day to find out for sure.