Four Women and an Elephant

I had a lovely rest of my vacation. I was sad to see Matt and Ashli go home—we had managed to pack in as much as was possible in the six short days they were here, but it's never long enough. Then my mom, Alex, and Barbara arrived and a new adventure began. They too came to Omatjete and met teachers and students. The girls played with Alex's hair and taught my family some basic words in Otjiherero. Funa was fascinated with Barbara's camera and nearly cried with excitement when she let him take a picture with it.

And then we were off to Etosha again. My mom bravely learning to drive on the left side of the road and patiently enduring our back-seat driver comments every five minutes. We arrived in one piece (though not without a few close calls) and Etosha was the same as when I'd left it. There were springbok galore, hundreds of zebras, wildebeests, ostriches, oryx, and giraffes. We even saw a few lions every day that we were in the park.

And then there were the elephants. Matt, Ashli, and I had spent a lot of time looking for elephants and only managed to see them on our last morning in the park. My mom, Alex, Barbara, and I had elephants coming out of our ears. There were few waterholes where we stopped and did not see them. The slow, wrinkled giants who are so much fun to watch. As long as they don't get to close. Our first near-Elephant experience involved a few mothers and their babies. Sitting in our rented Corolla they began to leave the waterhole and decided that the path between our car and another was the perfect route. We watched awestruck as they trudged through about ten feet away from us. Mom's on either ends—babies in the middle. One female turned and looked straight into our car, expanded her already enormous ears with a fierce whoosh. My heart clenched a little, but she moved on, having imparted her warning that we were to let her calves pass unharmed.

The mothers turned out to be the warm-up act. Later that afternoon, driving along a deserted, tree lined road we met the largest, oldest bull elephant I have ever seen—one we later dubbed Gandalf the Gray. Gandalf was on the edge of the road munching on leaves and branches. My mom spotted him and slowed to a stop, turning off the car, not wanting to startle him as he was so close to the road. At this point we were still about fifty to seventy-five feet away. Alex took this opportunity to exclaim excitedly, "Get closer Mommy!" I couldn't help but hope that she would. But my mom steadfastly refused. As if he had heard my sister, Gandalf turned and came out into the road, his large ears having noticed our presence after all. At first, we all thought he was going to cross the road and we would get an incredible view. Oh, no. Gandalf, in a determined gait, strolled up to the car. As he drew closer, my excitement faded and fear set in. He was easily eighteen feet high, very old, with broken tusks on a massive wrinkled head, and suddenly I felt so small and our "safe" car became as flimsy as the tree branches he had been chomping on.

(Gandalf)

Gandalf walked closer and closer and closer until he was right next to the car, blocking us from going ahead if we'd decided to. He stopped, towering above us, his trunk investigating our tires and front end. We had all stopped announcing our fears at the point—all too afraid now to even speak. I kept waiting for his foot to crunch down on the hood or his trunk to swipe the side. That's when he expanded his ears with the same whoosh we'd heard that morning—only it was louder andand I had turned away by this point—very scared and staring out the other window—the one that was free of a six-ton animal. Then Gandalf moved along the right side of the car until he reached the back—sniffing all the way. Finally, he seemed to decide he had frightened us enough and he continued his walk down the road. A large collective sigh of relief permeated the car. My mom turned the car on and we continued our drive, though very shakily, laughing hard—all incredibly relieved and not wanting to think about the reality of our close call. far more terrifying. I did not see him do this. His head was too high

(sandboarding fun, pups included)

Though more than a week was left of their trip, not a day passed without us talking about Gandalf. He remained with us as we traveled down to the coast, went sandboarding, climbed Dune 7 (one of the tallest dunes in the Swakop area) enjoyed the beach, and now he is just another story to tell. . He went from terrifying, to beautiful, to funny, back to terrifying. Sometimes the friend who let us go, other times the battle-scarred old warrior we'd escaped by sheer luck.

I returned to Omatjete three days ago. Back to reality. Originally we were supposed to start school this week, but in the middle of break the government suddenly decided to give us a week longer due to the holiday, Africa Day, on Friday May 25 ^th. A faint cry of joy could be heard from volunteers all across the country). I went to Walvis Bay with another World Teach volunteer and stayed at a Peace Corps volunteer's house for a few days before making the long trek back. Waiting for me on Wednesday was an extremely dry village that had had no water flow for two weeks. So long that I couldn't even buy bread at the town store because they had no water to make the dough.

And here's what I have discovered about the water: it's there. The problem is not its existence. The problem lies in the pump that brings it into our "water towers" and subsequently into the pipes. The pump needs diesel to run and the residents are responsible for contributing seven dollars a month (1 US dollar) to buy the diesel. However, some residents decide not to pay at all, and then a standstill begins between those who have paid and those who have not. And the pump remains determinedly frozen throughout the face-off. The longest I've gone without water is four days. Clearly, this was a new record. Frustrated I asked my neighbor Ms. Ikorua if the police could not make them pay. She laughed bitterly and said, "It can be that the police are the ones who are not paying." Great.

Then on Thursday, as I was contemplating where I was going to get enough water just to boil some dinner, I saw Ms. Ikorua running across our neighbor's yard to a spigot sticking out of the ground. She was carrying numerous plastic containers. I felt my stomach leap with joy and grabbed my own empty pails to follow her outside. Everyone in my neighborhood was outside at the spigots, anxiously filling every jug, pot, bucket they owned before the self-inflicted drought returned. It was faintly amusing watching us all run around like frantic ants, grateful and thirsty. It reminded me of the waterholes in Etosha that drew in the animals with the magnetism of moisture.

I'll give you one guess as to who managed to have the water turned back on. Yes, indeed it was Queen Kahanga, having just returned from a (surprise) two week vacation. She somehow convinced the diesel supply man to turn it on for just the afternoon. We'll be out again until Monday.

School starts then, and I will attempt to muster up the energy to both discipline and teach. It has been a wonderful break though—a special thanks to all who came to visit me—who braved fifteen hour flights, twelve hour delays, Dune 7, VW chicos, the wrong side of the road, and even Gandalf the Gray.