State of the Village

Hello My Fellow Americans,

I have been here for two weeks now and find that every day I learn something new. I have learned that when you are foreign and strange there are essentially three kinds of people: those that want to take advantage of you being different and of your utter lack of knowledge, those who want to help you and make sure you're safe and taken care of. And then there are those who are curious, somewhat suspicious, and enjoy staring. In my short time here I have met all three kinds of people. The teachers have seen to it that I get rides into town with them to do shopping, that I received a table (an old desk from the school) for my lonely kitchen, and curtains for my screenless windows. Others have helped me find Internet, water-holding containers, and a teapot. But I have had beggars too—in all shapes and forms from boys pleading for money and bread to my neighbor, the fourth grade teacher, asking enthusiastically for $100.

I have learned that in the afternoon most people stay inside and nap, and that the early evening is the social hour—a time to sit out on your stoop, drink tea, eat biscuits (cookies), and chat with those who pass by. And that something is wrong with you if your door remains closed.

I have learned that American efficiency and organization is something to be cherished and appreciated. School started on Wednesday the 17 ^th, but I did not teach a single class until 23rd. I babysat the fifth graders, tried to earn their respect (I feel as though I failed in this endeavor), and attempted to keep their mischievous, and at times cruel, hands busy. I saw no books, paper, schedule or syllabi the entire week. When I asked about any of these important items I was told that they were on their way. Where are they coming from? That vague, unreliable friend, the government. I now understand why none of the clocks in the school work. It isn't a lack of batteries; it's that time here is not measured by something so accurate as a mechanical device—it is measured in patience and absolute necessity.

(view from my window)

I have learned that African children have the most beautiful voices in the world. Every morning last week (at 6:40am!) we gathered in the center courtyard. The children lined up in rows divided by grade and gender, almost identical in their blue and gray school uniforms, differentiated only by their feet: covered or bare. The days opened with a chorus of religious songs, some in English, others were recognizable tunes with indecipherable words. Last came the Namibian national anthem sung while a seventh grade boy slowly raised a tattered and faded flag. Many of the teacher's joined in at this point, their deeper tones resonating between the concrete walls and the metal roofs, calling out for a liberty they only earned in 1990—one that almost seventeen years later is not fully formed.

I have learned that my time here will not be easy. That I miss the comforts of home dearly, and you all even more. I miss our news, our streets and our small spiders. But I sense that I can do something truly meaningful here if I am willing to try hard every day, and if I keep my door open every evening with a fresh pot of tea on the stove.

Talk to you soon.