in my tribe…

One of my favorite things about living in Namibia is my host mother.

I don’t, however, spend a lot of time with her, or my host family… They’re forever watching TV… and I’m forever reading… Or marking.. Or sleeping… Our schedules clash, you see.

I woke up last Saturday to shrieking and praying and cursing. In a combination I had not heard since a snake invaded my bedroom and hid behind my jerry cans. I wandered to the front of the house to find my host mother pointing a hose at the roof’s overhang and thwacking the side of the house with a giant branch, still cursing and shrieking and praying..

I get her to cease watering the house, and make it out of the now drenched porch to discover what has frightened her so.

A walking stick. An ancient one, at that... At least, I assume so, considering it was 18-20cm long. The little beast had lived in relative peace until my host mother gave herself, and the poor bugger, a near heart attack.

In her tribe, she tells me, “… walking sticks mean death will come to your house.”

My reply was, “In my tribe, walking sticks like this mean ‘go run and grab your camera.’ ”

So I did. And I carefully coaxed the gentle giant into a bowl and transplanted him to a tree nearby. All the while my host mother is laughing at my brazen behaviour, cavalierly picking up the insect, despite its ominous presence. At this point she was watching from the sandy lane… A full twenty metres away…

  

Now playing: Settle | Disclosure

(Thanks B—)

how real is real?

It occurs to me that any well-intentioned individual or the like stumbling upon this random assortment of ramblings might mistake this for a collection of thoughts dedicated to my Peace Corps service. Though, probably only if they've misplaced their spectacles. I must admit, that while I do expel my frustrations by way of writing, I would never post them, in full, here. 

Or at least I haven’t yet.  Let’s hope I do not reach that point where I get to my passive aggressive meanest and make public my laundry list of vexations. Besides, I share those anyway in the daily morning briefings with my Namibian colleagues — I prefer being courteously aggressive. Not that all of my interactions are aggravating, but it seems, some days, that they slide that way.

That said. We all struggle, and rise to the challenge, within our service in very different, and yet sometimes strikingly similar ways… And one can accumulate a collective idea of what we experience by reading the assortment of writings from the volunteers that are stationed throughout the country; each with different living, working, and societal situations and pressures. At least that’s what I did after accepting my invitation within minutes of receiving it—without bothering to tell my family or friends first where I would be traipsing off to for two years.. Oops.

Wait. No. I staggered unseeing down the hall to A— C—’s office. And possibly M— L—’s. So, I was not completely impulsive in this. I think. It’s hazy. I remember getting celebratory organic maple bacon doughnuts afterwards at Do Rite Donuts..  (Gah, J—, T—, why’d you have to go and get me addicted?!)

Anyway. For those of you who don’t know, now you know.

So. Continue to wise up and feast your eyes on some of these excellent blogs from a few of my fellow volunteers in Namibia. Some are funny, sobering, hopeful, and others, admittedly with postings few or far between.

You can find a few handfuls of them here on the PC Namibia site.

And, here are a few more, but not all, of my favorites to check in on every once in a while..

Mohave to Kalahari

Education Matters

Life at the Intersection of Nothing and Nowhere

The Branch Will Not Break

Tell You When

Brendon in Africa

For the rest… you know how to Google.. Probably.

Unless we’re related and you've exceeded a certain age.

Enjoy the smattering.

Now playing:

15 songs | 54 minutes, 36 seconds

Smile | Nat King Cole

Wink and a Smile | Harry Connick Jr.

Sara Smile | Hall & Oates

Be Young Be Foolish Be Happy | The Tams

Jackie Wilson Said (I’m in Heaven When You Smile) | Van Morrison

Happy Jack | The Who

All Right Now | Free

Run On | Moby

The Happy Birthday Song | Andrew Bird

Smiley Faces | Gnarls Barkley

Just Might Be OK | Lupe Fiasco ft. Gemini

Raise Me Up | Hercules and Love Affair

Everybody’s Gonna Be Happy | Queens of the Stone Age

It’s Not My Fault, I’m Happy | Passion Pit

Somewhere Over the Rainbow | Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

Please keep all your limbs inside the carriage while the ride is in motion.

This has been the day’s public service announcement.  

zorro..

The masked man, he rides at night.

At least, he wanders at night. With a flash light, and a giant blanket doubling as a cape.

Or simply being utilized as a coat. Its almost winter and it’s freezing at night.

According to 'eye witnesses'—whoever they are—we have a marauder in our little village.

And during the April—May holiday, the masked prowler has terrorized this little hamlet.

Upon my arrival I discovered that my host family had condensed from their respective bedrooms, and are all camping in Mama J—'s room. A four bedroom house, and only two in use.

Here’s the trouble I have with the situation.

All the lights are left on. All night long. Forget excess energy consumption..

Having the lights on only prevents persons inside the house from looking out and seeing what they fear.

While granted, most of the curtains are pulled…

Anyone outside can sit back and relax for their viewing pleasure.

But don’t you worry.

The community is collecting money for a witch doctor.

I hear she(?) is pretty good.

Not so much on effectiveness of dispelling lurkers, but an excellent storyteller.

Unfortunately my Rukwangali is not (and may never be) up to par..

I’m kind of bummed I’ll be sitting there, in the dark when she(?) comes…

But my first witch doctor?
I will certainly be in the front row.

Now playing:

9 songs | 48 minutes, 51 seconds

I Put a Spell on You | Creedence Clearwater Revival

Believe, Belief, Below | Esbjörn Svensson Trio

Magic Spells | Crystal Castles

Devil’s Kicks | Drop The Lime

Nightlife | Amon Tobin

Escape | Amon Tobin

Sordid | Amon Tobin

Devil Music | Pharcyde

Me And The Devil | Gil Scott-Heron

It just seemed right. Happy Halloween..

in a row??

Let’s talk records for a second.

We all have two. Or twenty-four of them.

Like a personal best on responsible inebriation and the last time you've cast up your accounts — on account of your idiotic intoxication..  Thirty-two months ago.. Do not party with a C.P.A. … They will drink you under the table, my friend.

Or number of daily morning (6:40am) briefings I've been at least five minutes late to since I've started my job here in Africa... All of them, but… six? So.. Somewhere around 175…

Or… Amount of time you can hold your breath under water. I’m at about five seconds there, so… a little work in that arena might be a good idea.  (Unless I’m wearing snorkel gear, for some reason I don’t panic then)..

At any rate, this tangent occurs to me in combination of the fact I've watched too many (all of) Kevin Smith’s movies… and recently participated in a conversational game (suggested by A—, I think?) called, well, what it is, ‘First, Worst, Best, Last.’ As far as revealing party conversation games go, it is fairly innocuous, and takes only a handful of minutes, and you move on. Not nearly as banal or tedious as NHIE, or TOD or 7MIH… All of which are juvenile, embarrassing to witness, let alone participate in;  and rarely do anything to move the conversation along, because how could they, seeing as they are designed to extract unusually intimate information in the longest, most mind-numbing, method ever.  (Another aside: PC Kenya’s Instagram pics showing them playing beer pong on vacation, previous to PC service, terrified me with the prospect that I’d be stuck reliving a college experience ten years later. Thankfully, Namibia has not been quite so… scro. Miss you K—, M—, D—, et al.).

Anyway. The way I hear it is Elvis bedded quite a few ladies. He was, after all the King. But, as he shared a quite close relationship with his mother, his way of figuratively notching the bedpost — versus literally — was to notch a pair of jockeys so she wouldn't get wise. (See what I did there M—, you grammar-nazi?) Who knows if this is true, but it’s a rumor.

We all have a prime number. The King’s was everyone else’s prime number times 6 to the power of 25, or so. The standard rule of thumb is to take a man’s admitted number and divide it in half. And a woman’s number and double it. Because there’s a double standard. On everything. Or everyone could be telling the truth all the time. Who knows? It’s what we all least expect. (Or that’s what Steinbeck implies.)

But I keep thinking of mine. Blame it on serendipity (or Clerks), but this here is blog post no. 38. I've been staring at no. thirty seven for two days. And I've been living in SW Africa for 10 months, almost exactly, if the incessant/constant countdown by some of my other group 38 members is accurate. (Not that I wasn't just complaining to A— the other day about my own internal countdown that kicked in the day I got back to site)…

And my point is that living here in this place gives you a lot of time to think. Yes, we’re working our asses off, and according to the PC volunteer surveys, PC Namibia volunteers mostly work far and away in excess of the normal 40 hour week… But you still have a lot of time to really get to know yourself. This of course implies one might not already be acquainted with themselves; and some of us aren't fully. You even might chalk up the number of existential crises up to time spent alone with one's self, really... (As an aside, I think all this time alone might be solidifying all of my bad habits rather than breaking them…) But with all this time, we’re also trying to figure out what we want next.

So I’m thinking on my prime number. Have I hit it? Surpassed it? Can I even remember it? Maybe I’m just getting old?

Here’s what I know.

I’m twenty nine years old.

I've been in two serious relationships.

One, if I’m truly being honest. And I hope I am.

I've kissed more men than I care to count.
I have felt an inexplicable, physiological connection five times.
I've been in love three times.

I have the best, most amazing, friends than I could ever hope for, even if I am a terrible at correspondence. The antithesis of my mother, in that, at least. (Thank you all for loving me, anyway, guys. I appreciate it).

So next for me. Which side of my personality shall I embrace?

Becky Sharp? Or Anne Shirley? Just their finer points? Or those not so fine?

And, really. How did the number 37 take me on this unexpected mental ramble through the weeds?

Oh. First, worst, best, last.

Mother, turn away.

F/W Same guy. Ten years apart. 

(If you’re not, technically, counting California C—, which I do, really, but not for this application).

B/L Same (but different from the above) guy.

The exercise struck me as waggish the way life turns out when you don't bother to look ahead.. The introduction of random information, situational conversation, how it fires one’s mental synapses, and what it quickly reveals about us.

Now playing:

A Goldfrapp + Grace Potter + Haibe Koite + Hall & Oates + Hot Chip random mix.

Perfect. And unsurprisingly alphabetical. Love my Zune.

cast and crew..

A few of the PCVs whose mere presence helped make the holiday fantastic.
Note to self: Stop biting lip when taking selfies. No one needs to concentrate that hard on the shot.

Morris Brown | Idlewild | Outkast... still on repeat.

writer's bollocks.

In trying to gather my thoughts of the holiday..

I’m having trouble tacking down the happenings.

And the men..

Paradise. Experimentation. Surprises. Long talks. Short swims. An invisible lighthouse. Mayflies. Grueling overland travel.

The long talks were up there.

Especially with the Brit.

I never knew where we were going to go with it.

But we always circled back.

Having a series of long discussions with someone with a mastery of the language is an aphrodisiac after a long lull, having had subsisted so long on stilted half conversations.

Of note.. A—, N—, C—, C—, D—, B—, A—, and even M—..

Then again, if you can transcribe everything you felt and all that happened, perhaps you were paying too much attention, and enjoying yourself too little..

This holiday definitely topped the last.

Even with the overland madness.

Nevertheless, a list of notable firsts (those I can recall, that is)...

Climbed my first fence. Ever. (Cattle gates and corrals don't count).

An ambulance ride, as a hike.

Witnessed the madness of a mayfly swarm. As J— would, and did, say, "I hate it.."

Folded to peer pressure in taxi rate negotiation.

Slept in a hostel (discounting the Belgian Nunnery – it had private rooms).

Broke a rule in blatant disregard to serious repercussions. (I’m really quite straight-laced).

Spent half a month’s pay on a party dress. Happy belated birthday to me.

Beheld thousands of years old rock paintings. (Your facsimiles were poor, Field Museum)..

Traveled through a logging area for first time. Damn non-native pine species in eerie rows.

Wild eagles up close while straddling the bow on Lake Malawi.

Broke a terrible record. Enjoyed every minute of it.. Especially evening two.
Enjoyed a plate of greens mostly every night.. (Thanks, N—).

New locales: Zambezi (Caprivi) Strip, Zambia, Malawi.

Now playing: Idlewild | Outkast … on repeat: Morris Brown…