A backlog of writing

Forever Family
Wednesday, 10 November, 2010

I moved out of my host family in February 2009, just 6 weeks after moving in. A wall of the house fell. I wanted to live alone, I felt like I never got to be alone living with a family. I visited everyday for a while because it was the only home I knew, but as I made friends, learned where other people lived, got busier with my job, I found myself going there less and less. I can’t even remember the last time I shared a meal with Helena – my host sister.

We would always greet in passing, always excited to see each other, but we had never developed much of a relationship because neither of us could confidently speak the others’ language. I always got along better with her two sons – Marando and Lita. Neither of them knew English, but it didn’t seem to matter. There’s a language little kids speak, and it doesn’t matter if you understand it or not.

Yesterday, on my way back from Mushinga’s house, I ran into Helena and I told her I wanted to come for lunch, which day? “Any day!” she yelled back. “Pick a day,” I told her, always more comfortable when someone knows I’m coming. “Even tomorrow!” she told me. “Great, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

So today I went to eat lunch with Helena. I don’t know why I even thought things would go smoothly – nothing ever does. She wasn’t home. Someone was sent to get her and she was psyched I was there, I guess she didn’t really believe I’d come! She quickly cooked lunch and I ate, she had already eaten. There were a few guys there and once they started talking away in Thimbukushu, it was easy. I could hear enough to ask questions, laugh in the right places – enough to be part of the conversation.

After I finished, I was already almost late for study, so I had to eat and run. I had brought sheets Stephania had lent me long long long back and I was finally returning them since I’ll soon be going. Helena gave me a big hug, told me, “I love you,” and escorted me part way back to school.

Nothing from the past mattered, it was only important that I was there today. I promised to go again before I leave, and I will. Even if we don’t have much of a relationship, she’s still, and always will be, part of the first family I had in the village.

The things I’ll miss
Thursday, 11 November, 2010

This afternoon, after one of the best days of teaching that I’ve ever had, I was completely paralyzed with the reality of leaving.

I’ll miss Kavindja asking “Why?” I’ll miss 6A responding to my “See you later alligator.” I’ll miss kids greeting me before I greet them. I’ll miss the big smiles on kids’ faces when I’m the only teacher in my classroom in the morning. I’ll miss kids knowing who Ziggy is. I’ll miss kids coming to my house to borrow any number of things. I’ll miss little kids coming to my door and yelling “HI!” I’ll miss Tinu coming to my classes and it being fine. I’ll miss the stars. I’ll miss the sun. I’ll miss the clouds. I’ll miss the sand. I’ll miss the layer of dirt that’s always on me. I’ll miss only cold showers. I’ll miss living in a one room house. I’ll miss Nicky. I’ll miss Kunyima. I’ll miss so many girls. I’ll miss even some boys. I’ll miss pounding. I’ll miss porridge. I’ll miss always worrying about snakes. I’ll miss the excitement of rain. I’ll miss the dry season. I’ll miss the heat. I’ll miss wall spiders. I’ll miss a lunch time nap. I’ll miss my lunch time nap being interrupted. I’ll miss a lunchtime shower. I’ll miss fresh vegetables from the riverside. I’ll miss the river. I’ll miss the simplicity. I’ll miss the hard work. I’ll miss living in a village. I’ll miss walking down paths. I’ll miss the wide open spaces. I’ll miss the gravel road. I’ll miss the noisy cars. I’ll miss the trees. I’ll miss the awful noise of chairs scraping on concrete floors. I’ll miss Monday and Friday singing in assembly. I’ll miss Sunday morning when everyone except me is at church. I’ll miss missing America. I’ll miss Oshikandela. I’ll miss maghumi. I’ll miss mahangu. I’ll miss maize. I’ll miss horrible haircuts. I’ll miss shitenges counting as appropriate clothing. I’ll miss eating outside. I’ll miss fires. I’ll miss the church bells. I’ll miss storing water ‘just in case.’ I’ll miss handwashing my clothes. I’ll miss one-Namibian-dollar-mangos. I’ll miss fat cakes. I’ll miss fresh baked bread. I’ll miss my cellphone plan. I’ll miss my lack of decent internet access. I’ll miss everything broken, but still working well enough. I’ll miss Ngasia. I’ll miss Sawahenga. I’ll miss Kambango. I’ll miss Mbamba. I’ll miss Rumapa. I’ll miss Ndara. I’ll miss Kashako – both of them. I’ll miss Kapapero. I’ll miss Kathiku. I’ll miss Kamana. I’ll miss Thimende. I’ll miss Shitunda. I’ll miss Tweya. I’ll miss Seglinde. I’ll miss Kamwanga. I’ll miss Sophia. I’ll miss Yondo. I’ll miss Shakadya. I’ll miss Muyevu. I’ll miss Mukerenge. I’ll miss Maria. I’ll miss Raffa. I’ll miss 7A. I’ll miss 7B. I’ll miss even grade 6. I’ll miss Matthew. I’ll miss Popay. I’ll miss Muyenga. I’ll miss Lannah. I’ll miss Lami. I’ll miss Kayoka. I’ll miss coins being worth something. I’ll miss Nicky again. I’ll miss the “ah-ha!” moment. I’ll miss hearing Thimbukushu. I’ll miss teaching new words in English. I’ll miss the laughter. I’ll miss the smiles.

I’ll miss this all too much – a billion much even.

A last
Friday, 12 November, 2010

Everyone tells you how hard it is to leave everyone and everything you know to move across the world to a million unknowns. The loneliness. Not being able to hear the language. No running water or electricity. Not knowing what to do in any situation, ever. That’s all to be expected. The tears come, and no one is very surprised.

But no one tells you how hard it is to move back. No one tells you that “home” doesn’t hold the same meaning anymore. No one tells you that 21 days until the end of the terms sounds like it’ll go by in a blink when 21 days to the end of last term looked like an eternity. No one tells you that all that alone time you needed before is now a burden and you’ll continually seek out friends to hang out with. No one tells you that you’ll cry just as much in the weeks leading up to your departure as those that followed your arrival. And if they try to tell you that leaving is easy, don’t listen – they didn’t do it and have no idea.

I looked around my house this morning at all the things I have. I have people in mind where most of that stuff will go. But some will come to the US with me. It’s hard, though, when the only “things” worth taking with me aren’t allowed to leave the country because they don’t have any form of identification, never mind a passport or enough money to buy a plane ticket.

I finished teaching all of my regularly scheduled classes for the term – no, for the two years I’ve been a teacher here. I woke up a little sad that it was finishing today. For all the frustrations in the classroom, it really has been an incredibly fun job.

I taught 6B for 2 periods, took some photos of them, a video of them singing a song I need to remember forever. I taught 7A for about 20 minutes – only half the time I was scheduled to teach them. I couldn’t even pretend to be excited about answering their review questions. I was focused on the fact that I’ll never be the math teacher on their timetable again.

They don’t write their math exams for another 2 weeks, so I told them I didn’t want to teach anymore and we could do more review when it’s closer to that exam. They liked that.

So I sat down and we started talking. About anything.

“Madam, what’s your nickname?” Ngasia asked me. I know I’ve told some classes this is the past.

“I don’t have one. But when I was little I did. Only my sister and brother used it. They called me Lulu.”

Laughter followed. I know a Lulu here – she’s the daughter to Gussi, who is the sister to Filo and stays at the same home with Nicky.

“Madam, you’re only having two names?” Kutenda asked.

“No, I’m having three. You know my surname.”

“Ghii. Schippers.”

“You know my first name.”

“Ghii. Lori.”

“And my other name is Nicole.” They all laughed and looked toward Nicky. “When my mom was pregnant with me, before I was born, she knew she was having a girl. And she always liked the name Nicky so she wanted to name me Nicole so she could call me Nicky. But she also had some friends who were pregnant and they were going to name their daughters Nicole, so she thought, ‘Uh-uh, there will be too many Nicoles. I’ll name her something else.’ And she picked Lori. But she wanted to call me Nicky.”

It’s no secret that Nicky and I are best friends, really are sisters. Everyone turned to Nicky with huge laughter, even Nicky was laughing. She’s heard that story. She’s somehow my mbusha – my namesake. I was meant to be here long before I ever wanted to join Peace Corps.

“Madam, you know Barack Obama?” Ngasia asked, full of last minute questions today that he had to ask before I’m gone.

“Have I ever met him, like greeted him and shaken his hand? No. I haven’t been in America since he was president, I left the day after we voted.”

“Madam, you have met Beyonce?” someone in the back shouted.

“No, she stays too far away.” This progressed into another terrible drawing of a map of the US on the board – an X to mark Massachusetts, an X to mark NYC and an X to mark Los Angeles. I also drew how big Namibia would be compared to my drawing of the US. I explained how long it takes to get from one to the next in a car and even by airplane.

“Heeey,” was their only reaction to how big the US is, or how small Namibia is.

“Madam, you have met Pohamba?”

“No, but do you know where he is today?”

“No, where?”

“In Katima! And also Mugabe is there too.”

“Hah! That Mugabe!”

“How do you know Mugabe, what kind of person is he?” I wanted to know what they hear.

“That man, he can eat too much!” one learner told me.

“That man, he likes money too much!” another yelled.

“That man, he doesn’t like white people!” a third shouted.

“Madam, why doesn’t he like white people?” someone’s attention was caught.

“Maybe because he thinks they are all too rich,” I thought of the book ‘When a Crocodile Eats the Sun.’

“Ghii. They are,” a learner agreed.

“Some, not all,” I hope I’ve showed them that.

“I have a question I want to ask you,” I said, trying to change the topic. “If you were going to visit somewhere else in the world, what would you bring to show the people there what Namibia is like?”

“Maghumi!” Kambango told me without missing a beat.

“Mutete!”

“Mudhika!”

“Mundere!”

“Mukerete! Madam, how do you call mukerete in English?”

“There’s no name for it, it’s not in America. But I know you call it bechemia in English here. I have another question for you, what will you remember forever that I taught you?”

“Long division!”

“Place holder zero!”

“NEVER ever ever ever ever add your denominators!”

“Find the common denominators!”

“What about something that isn’t math?” I really wanted someone to remember learning how to use a condom, but I guess at ages 13-16 they really shouldn’t be thinking about that in math class.

“English!”

Yesterday someone made a funny comment in English and everyone started laughing. I couldn’t understand what they had said, and as an explanation for me not understanding, someone else said, “Broken English!” I asked them if their English is fixed. “Ghii.” I told them they have the class with the best English in the school, and I really believe that. I can talk to any one of them and I don’t get a blank look on their face back – they understand everything I say. And if I use a word they don’t know, they have the guts to tell me and ask what it means. I can talk to a grade 9 learner and know they have no idea what I’m saying.

When the bell rang, ten minutes early, for break, we were still in the midst of a discussion and no one jumped out of their chairs to go. I would have stayed with them completely through break and kept hanging out, but hunger drives us all. I went home for a snack and it was all I could do to not cry, knowing that I still had to face 4 periods with no teaching to do.

On Monday, exams start and continue for over 2 weeks. The tears alone at night have begun and I know that on that final day of exams, I won’t be crying alone in my house, nor will I be the only one in tears.

It takes a village
Saturday, 13 November, 2010

It takes a village to raise a child.

My house is reminiscient of a dorm room. I have my own door, so can close off the world if I really have too, though kids have been known to ckeck through the curtains to see if I’m there, or even try the door sometimes to see if it’s locked. But I walk outside and I’m immediately in the same area as my neighbors – a family of 6. Next door, within shouting distance, are 5 more women, 3 of whom have their small kids living with them too. There’s a total 17 people within a 20meter distance to the west. We basically all live together.

Matthew and Popay are the two smallest and they’ve decided I’m a good one – they’ve all decided I’m a good one, but those are the two who are too young for me to ever turn away. This morning, Mulela was struggling to bring them both home in tears, carrying one on either hip. She’s only in grade 5, so not quite big enough to manage that. I was outside washing clothes, so I left those to go and help her. She was just putting them both down, forcing them to walk home, when I reached them. Popay reached back up to be held by Mulela and Matthew reached toward me.

I brought Matthew home to Siyanga, but as she turned to walk inside with him, he was reaching for me again and crying. So I went back and brought him to hang out with me for a few hours.

He ended up playing on my bed with Fluffy, who he renamed mbwa because she’s a dog and mbwa is dog in Thimbukushu, while I made feeble attempts at cleaning, organizing when I’ll give away and packing. Ziggy jumped on the bed and interrupted his play, so he was again needing to be held by me. I got a shitenge and tied him to my back. He immediately quieted down and was perfectly content to just be touching me.

I brought some things to Siyanga and Ndunda – books, my solar shower and some glasses – and attempted to offload Matthew at the same time. Nope, he was too happy attached to my back. We went back to my house and continued to play peek-a-boo, play with Fluffy and eventually tie him onto me again, hoping that would be enough to get him to fall asleep. He’ll be three in February, so he’s kind of heavy, especially since I’m not used to carrying a baby on my back all the time. So I was getting tired and lay on my stomach, him still tied to me back and started singing to him.

Nope. I got back up and went to wash my dishes, but noticed he was completely limp. I checked in the mirror and sure enough his eyes were closed. I brought him home again and untied him. Siyanga put him down on the bed with the Ugly Doll I gave him today and he woke up enough to know I was leaving him. I lay down with him until Siyanga was hiding me from him and I left.

Everyone is a parent or sister or brother to everyone else. Not only to my learners who I see 5 days a week and spend the most time with, but even the little kids who won’t remember me beyond six months after I leave.

RPCV Advice
Monday, 15 November, 2010

“Take every little moment in.”

“Let them surprise you.”

“Smile at all the little things.”

“Spend as much time as you can with the friends you’ve grown to love.”

“Just BE with them.”

I spent my lunch break with Nicky asleep on my bed. I made us pancakes and of course she woke up for food. I put syrup on both our plates and we ate on my bed. She didn’t use her fork. And she wished I’d put cheese on hers instead of syrup. We finished and sat around watching the visualizer on iTunes and listening to her favorite songs.

And that’s when it hit me – the most amazing thing about Nicky isn’t that she’s 14 and we can be friends; it’s not that she has learned what a sense of humor is; it’s not that she gets my sarcasm; it’s not that she tells me everything I need to know instead of assuming I can hear Thimbukushu; it’s not that she doesn’t NEED anything from me.

It’s just that our friendship is so NORMAL, in a place that’s so unlike any place I’ve ever been. We were listening to music while lying on my bed and I realized I could be doing it with anyone of the people I’m friends with in my old life, any of my American friends.

Walking through the village after study to go buy 1kg of sugar to make banana bread tonight and maybe some chocolate chip cookies in the near future, along with one last batch of fat cakes if flour can be found or another chocolate cake because it’s one of Nicky’s favorites, I was surprised by how many friends I really have here.

Nicky and I walked to the ka-small shop together. Nandu passed us and greeted us out the window.

Gussi was working there and Rustu, the security guard, told us in Thimbukushu in surprise when I walked up to the window behind Nicky, “When you see Nicky, you see Lori.” I agreed and he was surprised once again that I could hear his comment.

Ritha was leaving work at New Start so I joined her for part of her walk home.

When we parted ways, I saw Kolo and Etty and I exchanged a greeting and a joke about his corruption of the grade 7 girls.

I passed the home where all the small kids greet me but they were busy taking a bath and missed me passing.

I greeted the two girls in grade 9 from Owamboland. We have a little more in common than many other learners in the fact that we are away from where we grew up. We both said, “Afternoon” at the same time, and because I was talking when they greeted, I thought they told me, “Morning” so we had a laugh about that.

I passed Seglinde’s house, where I always wave, but she was running inside and didn’t see me.

I passed Dyakomba Engelberth, who I taught last year in grade 7, and we exchanged smiles and a greeting.

I passed Dimbindo and Shimbaranda from my register class leaving school just as I was getting back. “Is the classroom clean?”

“Yes!” they told me.

“Great! Thanks! See you tomorrow!” I told them with an everly excited voice so they’d feel my appreciation and be more likely to clean again next week. We were all smiling at meeting each other in the path even though we’d spent all morning together.

“See you,” they told me in a little bit of a funny voice.

“Ok,” I agreed, also putting on a silly voice.

“Ewa,” Shimbaranda said, making her voice a little higher than normal.

“Ewa,” I replied, in a slow motion and deep voice. Laughter ensued.

“Everyone wants acceptance!” they yelled as we both turned around to see each others’ reactions to their remembering what EWA stands for on the tshirts of those who attended a leadership camp called EWA.

“But don’t they?” I asked, as my final question to them for the day.

I really have made a life and community here that it will be incredibly hard to pull myself away from, not knowing when the next time I’ll be here is, and knowing that nothing will be the same upon my return.

The parties begin
Friday, 19 November, 2010

On Monday, exams started. Tuesday and Wednesday I was in charge of administering a standardized test to all of the grade 7 learners. There were 3 other teachers helping me, but it was nice to be in charge so I could make sure things got done right. When they finished writing on Wednesday, we still had about 30 minutes until the bell for break, so I hung out with 7A. Kids were asking questions I didn’t really have answers to like, “Why can’t we go now that we’re done writing?”

My only answer was, “When I grow up, I’m going to make my own school and then I’ll get to make all the rules!”

“When you grow up?!” Ngasia asked from the back in utter shock. Shock that I’ll grow up one day? Doubtful. Probably shock that I don’t think I’m a grown up. But either one is possible.

Our conversation continued and Kunyma, in the front near the door said, “Madam, we have to make a party when you go.”

“OK!” I immediately perked up. I had wanted this, but when I tried to get it started, there wasn’t excitement. Now that it’s coming from the learners themselves, they couldn’t care less about their exams. We got all of the grade 7 learners together and discussed some logistics – when will the party be, where will the party be, how much do we each pay, what do we need to buy.

Grade 6 heard about this party and during Thursday’s break, Kapapero came to me and told me, “Madam, we have to make a party for you for when you go.” Perfect!!!

My party line up looks like this: today with grade 9, next Friday with the teachers, next Saturday with grade 7, next Sunday with grade 6, the following weekend just Nicky and Kunyima, the following weekend my family in America, the following weekend a farewell party for Thea, the following weekend is Christmas and the one after that is New Year’s.

Yesterday I needed to find some vegetables – tomatoes seemed like my best bet. So I went to the small open market where you can never expect to find what you want when you want it. And sure enough, there were no tomatoes. But Helena was there and when she heard it was tomatoes I wanted, she brought me to her house and gave me a bag with 7 tomatoes. Of course I wasn’t allowed to pay.

Today I was with 7B while they wrote their natural science exam. There were several learners who would raise their hand and I’d go to their desk to find out that they were missing a page of the question paper! There were 2 extras, so using those pages, everyone ended up with a complete exam, but I wonder what other teacher they would have been brave enough to tell.

When learners finished early, most put their heads down on the table and took a nap. Mununga took out her bible and started reading.

At break, I didn’t eat because grade 9 is making a farewell party for me, which I just learned the nature of today. I thought it was just an end of year party. Nope. There’s a note on the wall informing me that it’s in honor of me. I even have to say my “last words” but I still have two weeks left! I walked into 6B to find Shimbaranda and Elina eating glucose biscuits and drinking water with brown sugar in it. After I checked it out, I turned to walk back to my desk and Elina called me back to take two biscuits. Fortune was sitting nearby too, so I gave one to him. Sharing is something else here.

After break, I have no idea why kids had to come back to school for another hour, but they did. My class of 6B was out of control with anger. They had also written their natural science exam, but they told me they hadn’t been taught anything that was on the question paper so everyone’s going to fail! Their natural science teacher is out on leave, has been all month, so it doesn’t REALLY surprise me. I went to the principal on their behalf. “I’ll look into it.”

But he won’t.

My class is still telling me that if they all fail because of this, it’s not fair. And I agree.

They got to be too much out of control, so I went to visit 6A for a little while. Someone says quietly, “Long time!” and I laugh. We greet. And we start talking about nothing. I also told them that when I grow up I’ll make my own rules and my own school. They all laughed. It’s always nice to walk into a class and realize the kids have been missing you because you’ve been busy with grade 7 responsibilities all week.

When the bell rang for lunch, Kapapero ran to get her dishirishiri and on her way back to the classroom, yelling for me not to lock it, she was singing and dancing. I walked home and on the way Yondo told me, as she sang and danced, “Our party will be too much fun!”

I was worried about all the tears I’ll cry in my leaving Andara. They’ll still come. But they’ll be overshadowed by all the memories I’m still making, the laughter I’ll share, the food we’ll eat together. This is shaping up to be a much better ending than I could have ever expected.

9A’s amazingness
Friday, 19 November, 2010

About a month ago, Lami came to my classroom with a note inviting me to her class of 9A’s end of year function on 19 November. I had to show my acceptance by contributing N$30. I never taught 9A much, so I didn’t know many kids in there, but an invitation is something you don’t say no to. And Lami is a good friend, so I paid up and went to the party today. All along, I’d thought it was just an end of year party. Well, it was mostly an end of year party. But there was a section that was specifically for me, their chance to say goodbye to me. I have a better idea of what next weekend will be like now.

At this party, there was a lot of food. I went before it was finished being cooked and hung out with the girls in the “kitchen.” We sat outside under a big tree and cooked on an open fire in big pots they had brought for the occasion. They cooked rice, macaroni, sauce for them and chicken. It’s something I’ve gotten used to here. And I enjoy it now, though I’d always rather have dimbombo. The food isn’t great, but that’s not what’s important. It’s the act of preparing it. The community or family aspect of eating and preparing food. The sitting together while the food was cooking, listening to their laughter, their jokes, their Thimbukushu that I couldn’t understand the words but got the meanings nonetheless. It’s being with that makes eating food that’s only OK such a wonderful experience.

At this party, Steven and Ngasia were the DJs and there was a big sound system that they felt the need to BLAST as loud as they could in a classroom. They would also yell into a microphone so that my ears are still ringing. These kids can DANCE. Maybe in a way that I found hilarious two years ago. But there’s no self consciousness in them when they’re dancing. They are part of the music. It’s impossible for them to sit when the music starts. So when the power went out for a little while, the party was put on hold.

At this party, Matthew showed up in tears on Maria’s back. Linda took him thinking that might help. I called her over not having any idea if I’d be a comfort to Matthew. I was. He spent the next couple hours happily in my lap observing the celebration, sometimes cuddling, and sometimes playing whatever silly game I came up with to entertain him. The party wasn’t about me yet.

At the party, the kids were just themselves – no one tries to be anyone they’re not. They were completely confident in everything they did from cooking, serving, cleaning, dancing, singing, whatever.

At this party, the end was just for me. Two boys read cards people had written to each other for Christmas, and many for me. I had seven, at least 5 more than the next highest recipient. Then Linda took the microphone and thanked me for coming, thanked me for everything I’ve done for the last two years at Andara. Max had picked out a song with lyrics about missing someone when they go and dedicated it to me. These kids are not the ones I know well. They don’t know ME well. But being part of their lives, letting them be themselves, accepting them, encouraging them, congratulating them, pushing them, enjoying with them, sharing with them, is so important. And it’s such a simple thing to do! While this song played, kids first tried to get me to dance. Not a chance. So Max came over and told me that the song was for me and he shook my hand in thanks to me. Kapapero Annafrieda from grade 6 came over next and gave me a big hug. Then everyone caught on and about 30 kids lined up and gave me hugs. Most of the 9A kids who had created the party and several of the other 100+ kids who were there just because it was something to do. When all those kids lined up, I was overcome with just how much they do care about me. I guess I've always known they do. But they don't show it. And I don't expect them to.

At this party, I was given the floor to say a goodbye. “Thank you thank you thank you for inviting me to your party and giving me a chance to say something. First, I want you to remember you still have exams to write and you need to please be serious. I want everyone from grade 9 in grade 10 next year. And also, I still have 2 weeks until I go, so even though this is a goodbye, it’s not the last one. Then, you’ve been thanking me for the last two years and what I’ve done. But I need to thank you. Even though you’re my learners, you’ve taught me more than any teacher has ever taught me. And one last thing, remember that first time I stood outside this door at assembly and you all looked at me and asked yourselves, ‘Hey, who is that mukuwa?’ No I can stand here and I’m no longer mukuwa. We’re all just the same, I forget I look different. So thank you for letting me be one of you.” Applause, even though I’m sure most of my meaning was lost of many of them.

It's hard, saying goodbye. And it's really started now. I've said a few goodbyes, but they didn't feel real because I still had over a month. And even though I'll see all these kids on Monday, it's real. This is it. This is the end.

If everyday was like today
Saturday, 20 November, 2010

I set my alarm for 9:20 to get to Nicky’s by 10, and crawled back into bed, 6:30 was much too early to be woken up on a Saturday. But I didn’t get the nap I wanted.

Knock knock knock. I had a pretty good idea who it was. I opened the door to find Nicky standing there holding Precious. “Tuyende,” she told me by way of greeting and explanation as to why she was there so early. I got dressed and we went.

“You pounded yesterday?” I asked, wondering if we were only pounding my mahangu, or her maize too.

“No. I didn’t find Kunyima home. And I thought, ‘If we pound, then Miss Lori will be angry.’”

“I would never be angry with you. But I’m happy you didn’t pound your maize without me,” I told her as I walked out the door and put my big bag of mahangu on my head for the walk to her house.

I was dripping sweat by the time we arrived, it was that much mahangu, and it was that hot already. Nicky quickly got the two kakundhu we would use and Mukoya went on a search for more than the one muto. We had a lot of pounding to do and pounding alone is just lonely. Filo, who is now 8 months pregnant, came over to check out what we were pounding. When the mahagu was poured into a basket, she and Nicky both said it was harder than the usual kind of mahangu so it would take longer. And it was a LOT of mahangu. Never let a white person go shopping for mahangu, they have no idea how much to buy!

Nicky and I started pounding, Nicky with a huge muto that was too heavy for either of us, me finally with the perfect size and weight muto. I’m sure I’ve used this one before, but maybe I’ve gotten stronger since the last time I struggled with it. Filo told me, “Madam, not like that. You have to pound stronger, like this,” she told me as she took my muto away and pounded with Nicky, both of them putting all of their strength into it.

“Stop stop stop! Please don’t pound when you’re so pregnant! You’ll have the baby too soon!” I took the muto back and put more muscle into my pounding.

“Yeah!!! Like that!” Now I was finally pounding like an Mbukushu woman.

Kunyima came back and by this time we had three muto for the three of us. Kunyima, being the strongest, used the too-big-muto and pounded in her own kakundhu for a little while, until Nicky took a break and I joined her.

I pounded so hard that I was dripping sweat when Nicky was completely dry. My hands became raw within half an hour and two giant blisters appeared. I put chapstick on them and I could still pound nearly pain free. An hour later, still pounding, one of the blisters popped and I didn’t even feel the change. I’d been searching for some kind of physical outlet for all the emotions of my impending departure – a long bike ride is out, I don’t have a bike; a run is out, I don’t have shoes besides nearly broken Chacos; a solitary walk is out, I can never get away alone. But pounding was exactly what I needed. I could feel the work of my back and shoulders, knowing I’d probably be sore later, but wanting that pain to come. I knew I’d be exhausted when I got into bed, and I needed that after struggling to find sleep all week. I kept pounding long after I usually take a break from exhaustion and blisters.

Pounding in your own kakundhu is lonely. But we were three, with two kakundhu, so do the math and you’d put two people in one and one in the other. Kunyima and I were pounding together and Nicky wanted to join. I’ve seen three people pound together before, two of them pound only every other time in the kakundhu, every other time they have to put their muto outside to make room for the third person. I’ve seen it work a couple times, and I’ve seen many many mistakes. Nicky wanted to pound mahatu – with all three of us in one.

Kunyima, with the extra heavy muto, was the one to pound inside each time. That meant Nicky and I had to figure out when we were pounding inside and when we were pounding outside. It took some mistakes, but we got it down. Then I had to teach Mukoya how to make a video. After many more mistakes involving the camera, we even had success with that endeavor! Then Nicky had to satisfy all the little ones around by taking their photos while Kunyima and I finished pounding.

We only pounded the mahangu one of the required three times, we’ll finish tomorrow after church. Then we moved onto the maize they had to finish pounding just once. It went fast, especially after the extra hard mahangu, and I sifted it after pounding. Nicky kept me company and got hold of my camera. I was sitting in the shade in the sand, concentrating on my job, knowing she was enjoying something with the camera – either looking at videos, taking videos or taking photos. My question was quickly answered.

“When your mother will see all of these videos, she will say ‘oh my daughter you know how to do’” she told me, with the camer facing me. “And then you will be strong if Sophia want to fight with you you will win.”

“Are you making a video?” I quietly asked, not wanting my voice on it if that was the case. She laughed and gave her normal affirmative response of a sharp intake of breath, raised eyebrows and a single quick nod. “Because everything you just said is on there!”

“Mmmm, and then they will hear it?” she asked.

“Ghii,” I confirmed for her.

“Ghii I like it,” she wanted my family to hear all that.

“Sophia and I don’t fight,” I told her, going back to her last claim about my strength.

“Maybe with Adrian, but he’s a boy.” I’m not sure if that meant I could never be stronger than him because he’s a boy, or we can’t fight because he’s a boy.

“Kadiko,” telling her that Adrian and I also wouldn’t fight.

“He will beat you,” she persisted.

“I don’t fight with my family,” I tried to end this line of conversation
“But if if if if Adrian tells you to stop doing something and then you don’t?” she asked, trying to give a concrete example of why we would fight.

“He will not beat me.”

“He will.”

“He will not kupumura me,” I clarified my used of the word beat, not knowing if she thought I meant to win or to fight.

“If…”

“Kadiko!”

“If,” she said more emphatically.

“Kadiko if,” I put all of the stress on if, with her accent even.

“Why not ?” she asked, her now overused question which is placed in conversation when it doesn’t even make sense and is usually accompanied by own response, but from her mouth.

“Yebo!” and we both dissolved into laughter at her loss of her own game of “why not.”

Kayoka was hanging out wit us, not something he always does. Suddenly he jumped up and said something about a shushwa, a chicken, and he took of running with Mukoya and Beshi. A chicken chase had started, a chicken chase for me. He was giving me a chicken.

They came back with the wailing chicken not long after they started and he was leaving it up to me with what to do with it.

“Bring me a knife, we’ll eat it for lunch. Make sure it’s a sharp sharp sharp knife!” I added as Mukoya went to bring one.

Kayoka helf the chicken with the neck exposed, Nicky videoed, and I apologized to the chicken and thanked her for her life and her meat, the closest I’ve ever come to saying a prayer before eating. I killed a second chicken. It wasn’t as traumatizing.

Nicky and Mukoya cut it up and Nicky cooked it for lunch. She told me I’d cook the dimbombo, then quickly told me, “Mbudhi,” it’s not true.

“I’ll cook, but you have to stay with me,” I’m always eating their food, and they’re always cooking for me, it was the least I could do – share my chicken, my mahangu and cook half of a meal!

Kayoka and I sat together while the chicken cooked and he was able to ask me more of the questions he seems to wait for me to ask.

“Madam, how do tourists who have never been to Namibia end up in Andara?”

“Madam, there are also people from Africa who can travel in America, you’ve seen them?”

We talked a lot about traveling, and I learned he was asking these because he wants to be able to travel when he gets a job after school. He’s planning ahead, he doesn’t know the next person who will be here to ask these questions to.

When the chicken finished, I cooked the dimbombo while Nicky put the mushungwa into the pot for me. All I had to do was stir. Over an open fire and not let the boiling porridge splatter onto my skin to create a third degree burn. I did it successfully, I’ve had plenty of practice.

When it was finished, Nicky got three plates and started dividing the dimbombo onto them.

“We’re eating separately?” I asked in surprise, we always share a plate or bowl – Nicky, Kunyima, myself and even their mom when she’s there to eat at the same time as us.

“For me mom,” she told me pointing to the first one, “for us,” meaning Kunyima, Nicky and me, “for Mukoya and Matjikos.” OK, we were eating together.

She then divided up the chicken pieces, putting the three biggest ones on a plate for the three of us. We sat in the sand in the shade and the first thing Nicky said after we were all sitting down and had flattened a “table” in the sand was, “In America, you’ll never eat like this.”

“I know…” I told her with a look of sadness on my face and a longing to eat only like this for the next two weeks.

The dimbombo wasn’t lumpy. The chicken was a delicious greasy mess with plenty of sauce for dipping the dimbombo. It was delicious and the dogs even ate well.

When Nicky’s mom came back from helping clean up after a burial, we said our goodbyes and went to my house where we cooked dessert – chocolate cake – and ate the whole thing while we watched The Lion King for at least the 90th time.

We made a short trip to the river, hoping to swim at dipupo, but dound no one there. Instead, Kunyima and I just washed our incredibly dirty feet. Nicky had showered at my house so she was the only one who was clean after sweating profusely all morning. On the walk to and from the river, they were both finding food on the ground – themba. It’s a seed covered in a white part they eat and an outer brown soft shell that they throw. I tried one, it’s much like a lot of the other foods they find and eat. It has little flavor and leaves your mouth feeling dry.

Back home, we switched from The Lion King to The Gods Must Be Crazy II. It was actually my first time to see it. And when it finished, it was time to go home. With Matthew on my back, we walked them half way home and turned around in the almost darkness.

If everyday could be as full and as fun as this, I’d really never want to leave.

Sometimes you just DON’T say goodbye
Sunday, 21 November, 2010

Church. One last time going to church for as long as I can make it last. I almost dodged church. Nicky usually goes to the 7am mass, and we had to finish pounding my mahangu after I went to church, but then it’d be getting later in the day. So when rain started about 30 minutes before I had to walk to church, I considered taking a nap and then going straight to Nicky’s when the rain let up. Well, the rain let up early enough to still go. Then on my walk there, I was still considering going straight to Nicky’s too. I got there about 10 minutes early, was very underdressed but decided God doesn’t care what I wear. I found Nicky and stood with learners. They’re the only people who don’t make me participate in awkward and forced conversation. We either talk easily or they talk to each other and I’m not required to do anything. Good thing I decided not to dodge.

We sat in the front pew, behind the benches. Every single word was in Thimbukushu so I got lost in my head as usual. I have no idea what the mass was about. But afterwards, all the kids had to stay so some of the adults could talk to them about starting a choir. Great! But really, couldn’t you do that ANY other Sunday? I really have a lot to do today and now you’re just delaying it.

I walked home with Nicky, Kunyima, Kayoka, Mukoya and Beshi – a normal group by now. We found Nicky’s mom making food for lunch and napping next to the fire. The rain and clouds had cooled everything off a bit and even though I was still wearing a tank top, Nicky’s mom was wearing a hat and jersey.

My mahangu was brought out, mostly dried, and put into one kakundhu. A second muto was found and I pounded while another was searched for. But the time Nicky and Kunyima came back, my massive blister from yesterday had opened and it was even too painful to just pick up the muto, never mind pound with it. I was delegated to sifting duty instead.

When the mahangu was pounded and sifted and ready to porridge making, it was separated into two baskets – a smaller one for me and a bigger one to stay at Nicky’s house. For all the food I’ve eaten of theirs, it’s the least I can do, even though Nicky reminded me yesterday that she also eats all of my food so it evens out in the end. Nicky’s mom wanted me to take the bigger basket, but I know more people need it at their house. So I walked back home carrying the basket of mushungwa on my head, walking down sandy paths in my green shitenge skirt. Nicky carried my camera and phone.

I had a lunch date with Christophine in another village. She had agreed that Nicky could also come. She sent her husband to pick us in her car and I got to see another part of Marudhi for the first time. Driving along a small dirt path near her house, Carlos Helena saw me in the car and shouted as loud as she could, “MADAM!!!” as we passed. I smiled and waved.

Lunch was marathon chicken and maize meal porridge. There were two plates – one for Nicky and one for me, Christophine and her husband had already eaten. Christophine was in and out of the house still doing some work and her husband sat on the couch and watched TV while Nicky and I enjoyed our food. I said quietly to her, “It’s funny not sharing a plate with you.” She laughed and responded, “Ghii, because we always use one plate.” We were even given spoons, but neither of us used them. We ate with our hands.

After lunch, Christophine brought us to her garden on the side of the river and picked me many tomatoes and a few pumpkins that aren’t grown in the US. But the main reason she wanted me to visit was to give me peanuts – ndongo. One of my favorite things.

Back from the garden, she brought a straw mat into the shade of a big tree and told Nicky to bring me a chair. Nicky turned to me and asked, “You want a chair?” knowing the answer already.

“Uh uh, I sit the way you sit,” I told her, confirming what she knew. Christophine laughed but accepted much easier than most other adults.

The three of us sat in the shade shelling peanuts that had been grown in the soil of Marudhi sometime in the last year. Conversation was easy, Christophine isn’t like other adults. She sees things the way I see them, or at least closer to the way I see them.

“The people I work with at the hospital, they just want money,” she told me. “But what will they do with the money? Our program is to teach them about nutrition and the best food for us is the local food, not the food in the shops. They just want NikNaks and hot dogs. But this here,” she indicated the peanuts we were shelling, “this is energy. Some of them found out that Mary donated money and they’re asking where it is. But they think they’ll each get N$10, N$10. But it’s for food so we can feed the members of the HIV support group when they have to take their ARVs. And the men, hey! They aren’t coming to the garden to work, they just want money!”

This turned into a conversation about the roles of men and women. Women work, case and point in us shelling peanuts, while men sit around and just eat. Recently, a teacher at school told me that men just eat and sleep. I compared them to babies.

Visiting with Christophine was exactly what I’d needed this afternoon. I was feeling tired. Tired of the anticipation of goodbyes. Tired of goodbyes. Tired of constantly being with people but not wanting to sacrifice any moment of being with someone to be alone, I can be along in America. Tired of my things somehow belonging to everyone. Tired of trying to figure out how to somehow fairly give away all my things. Tired emotionally and even tired physically. But Christophine’s perspective gave me energy to stay energized about everything I love here.

Back home with Nicky, she cooked one pumpkin and salted and roasted half of the peanuts. We were meeting Kaitlin on her way through on the bus to Windhoek. She’ll spend the next few weeks there, but has had to say goodbye to her home for the last 3 years. She needed to be able to say goodbye to Nicky. We brought her food in the ride I’d arranged earlier in the week so they could see each other one more time.

We got to the petrol station an hour earlier than the bus, but waiting around was fine. Nicky wanted a hot dog, which made me think of Christophine’s earlier comment. I got chips, which made me feel really sick. We shared a Sprite.

When the bus got there, Kaitlin was one of the first ones off and we were immediately hugging, giving each other the things we’d brought, and taking photos. We had about 15 minutes to talk and share each others’ love. When the time was becoming less, Kaitlin told Nicky she loves her, that she’s a special one, gave her many hugs and the tears started. Kaitlin’s first, then mine and even Nicky’s cheeks were wet while she tried to hide how hard the goodbye was.

I cried for Kaitlin, for all the goodbyes she’d already said, for this one, for having to leave her home. I cried for myself, for the goodbyes I’m starting to say, for this temporary goodbye to Kaitlin, for the hardest goodbye of all that’s coming – the one with Nicky. And I cried for Nicky. She’s better for having known me, for having known Kaitlin, for having had people who care and have shown her unconditional love and support, for having such positive influences in her life. But once again, she’s realizing that our physical presence in her life is temporary, that we are going.

The bus was full again, the drivers were getting back on and Kaitlin asked if they were going. Yes. It was time for her to go. Full of tears, all three of us, waved as she walked back toward the bus. But she couldn’t do it. She turned around and we were hugging again, crying onto each others’ shoulders. Finally, there was no more time to keep her there and she had to get on the bus. Nicky and I ran to the other side of the bus where Kaitlin was sitting so we could wave as she drove away.

Nicky and I sat and waited for our ride to come back. Neither of us knew what to say. We barely spoke while waiting and even less in the car. Nicky wouldn’t talk to anyone, I had to pretend to be fine when anyone came and talked to us.

We decided she’d sleep over at my house. She was too sad, I was too sad, she had a big bag of new things that she wanted to see and it didn’t feel right showing up at 9pm with them. It’d lead to too many questions. So she went through her new bag of loot, learning what some things were for, deciding who to give others too, trying on clothes.

“I’ll look at the sun everyday and then my eyes won’t work anymore,” she told me after she tried on an old pair of Kaitlin’s glasses. I advised against it. Those will probably go to the hospital.

There were some fun hats and we tried them on together, took a photo and sent it to Kaitlin.

I showered and climbed into my half of the bed, with Nicky already passed out on the other side. This is exhausting for me, but Nicky is also being tested.

The WORST fat cakes EVER!
Tuesday, 23 November, 2010

My hands are so blistered from last weekend’s pounding that I after washing my clothes yesterday in soapy water, the pain was too much to take and I couldn’t do the rinse “cycle.” I had to let them sit in water over night and ask Nicky to come finish for me at lunch. I cooked us banana pancakes since I made her work, though I would have cooked them anyway.

She likes hers with cheddar cheese instead of syrup.

Towards the end of our long lunch break, I told her I wanted to make fat cakes after study. Instead of waiting to see if the rain would hold off for us to cook outside, she started making the dough without me knowing. Any other day that wouldn’t have caused hiccups in our plans.

“Kadiko flour.” There’s no flour.

“I know, just finish the white flour,” I told her, not knowing she had already finished it.

“Ghii, but it’s not enough.”

“Oh, you put in a lot of water because you said you wanted to eat 15. Use another kind of flour.”

She added the self rising flour.

“Still,” she told me, meaning still not enough.

“Use the brown flour.”

She added the brown flour, even though one time we made fat cakes using just that and they were not good.

“Still. It’s all finished, now what?” she asked, having used the last of all my kinds of flours.

“Mushungwa?” Maize meal?

“Bring.”

It still wasn’t enough. And the bell rang so we both went to school.

I asked for permission to go to the hospital to fax Ziggy’s documents to the airline so he can fly to America the day before me. Permission granted. I used that time to go on a mission of finding more flour, any kind, and oil. I also had no oil.

The oil was easy to come by, just more expensive than in town. The flour…well…not so easy.

Nicky had sent message to Gussi asking if she had any flour. None. I went to the shop where Gussi works to buy flour. None. I ran into Filo by New Start (she’s pregnant with TWINS!) and asked if she had flour. None. They both told me to go to Augusta. I wasn’t so comfortable with that since she’s jealous of my friendship with Nicky. But by then Gussi had smsed Gigi to ask if she had flour. Yes.

I went home with Filo and Gigi and Augusta happily gave me flour. I promised to send fat cakes home with Nicky.

I added flour and mixed the dough while Nicky was finishing up study. She got here and added even more flour. Taste test, not enough sugar, “But leave it because I’ll add cheese.”

The rain was raining so we had to cook inside. I put newspapers on the floor to try to not make AS big a mess and we boiled oil. They didn’t stick. Good to go.

When we had enough dough for about 6 more, we added chocolate to make chocolate fat cakes. More sugar and it’s like a doughnut!

Except, not at all.

We’ve made normal white flour fat cakes. We’ve made not good brown flour fat cakes. We’ve overcooked some. We’ve undercooked some. We’ve made “thin” cakes when the water boiled and the yeast was killed. We’ve made Italian seasoned fat cakes. We’ve made perfect fat cakes. We’ve put honey on fat cakes. We’ve put cinnamon on fat cakes. We’ve put jam on fat cakes. We’ve put cheese on fat cakes.

These couldn’t be salvaged by anything.

They. Were. So. Bad. All. Of. Them.

We suffered through a few. Ziggy wouldn’t even touch the undercooked one I offered.

“What should we do with them? Just throw?” I asked. I couldn’t eat them anymore.

“Hey! Tomorrow I’ll eat with Thidjukwe and Sawajenda and Tunashwena.”

“You can’t give these to people! They’re so bad!”

“We’ll eat them.”

“OK.”

She got out her books and used my kitchen floor as her studying space for tomorrow’s social studies exam. I had withheld watercolor paints that she wanted to bring to study. Instead, I made her study for social studies then too. She studied, wrote Adrian a card and cooked chicken for Ziggy that he’d stolen from my neighbors several months ago.

As it started getting dark, I asked if she was ready to go and we got half way to her house, me recounting a bizarre dream I had last night, before she realized she’d left some candles at my house that she wanted to use for studying tonight. We walked extra fast but I was still coming home alone in the dark.