Swakopmund

It was a return to easy life last week as I visited the beautiful coastal town of Swakopmund Namibia (locals just call it Swakop). The temperature was easily fifteen degrees cooler, the air smelled like salt, and the township was quaint and charming—two adjectives I’m certain I haven’t used since arriving. Even the Location—which I saw only briefly, while certainly poor, seemed more spacious and cleaner than the others I’ve seen, particularly compared to the ones in Windhoek and Rehoboth.

I met up with some other volunteers at a wonderful little backpackers which had clean sheets and hot showers. The first night we all arrived from varying directions we sat up late drinking tea, playing cards, and talking about our sites. Many of us hadn’t seen each other for two months, but in some ways it was like greeting old friends. Most of the volunteers had similar stories of frustration—lack of supplies, discipline problems, corporal punishment, etc. I found that they were luckier than myself when it came to company—most having other volunteers (Peace Corps or VSO) very close if not next door to them. But that I was luckier when it came to cell phone service. Some are already seriously considering extending for a second year which World Teach allows for free, while the majority of us are either unsure or certain that one year is enough. (I fall into the last category in case you’re wondering).

I felt most separate from the group when they discussed their love of teaching. I can honestly say that I truly care about all of my students. I can say that there are a handful that I am extremely attached to, ones that I would do anything for, students that help save me from the sense of powerlessness and fatigue that is almost impossible to shake here. But I can also say without doubt that teaching as a long-term career is not for me. More than that I am downright terrible at it—I get frustrated easily, tend to be impatient, and have a hard time articulating complicated thoughts in simple, straightforward language. I am glad to be here. I feel resolute in trying my best and finishing out the year, but at some point every day I think that these kids deserve better. They deserve the best teachers I had at school. Someone who knows what he or she is doing. There’s no practicing—every mistake I make counts. I found that was the greatest difference between me and the others in Swakop—they are teachers who happen to be volunteers. And I am a volunteer who is attempting to be a teacher.

Besides comparing notes on our sites, the break was spent at a very leisurely pace. All anyone wanted to do was relax, eat ice cream, watch the waves, and explore the bookshops (such stores are a genuine rarity in Namibia). And that’s exactly what we did. My favorite part of the trip was waking up early in the cool salty morning, pulling on a sweater (!!), and sitting in the hostel’s cozy kitchen with a cup of tea and a two month old New Yorker sent from the U.S. That was just about perfect.

Some of the volunteers joked that they were going through a second culture shock given the contrast of this touristy beach and their sites. Of course it was a deliberate exaggeration—shock far too strong a word. It was more like culture bump or culture nudge. You noticed things—mostly just how rich and, well—white, everything felt—the store front windows plastered with electronics and photographs of flawless, fair-skinned models, peppy bars, cafes with tables that spilled lazily onto the sidewalks, and looking around on the streets almost everyone was from a foreign country. A European country. I heard French and German the most. And English. Though I did not begrudge them their vacation, I wondered if the pale strangers I saw thought that this was Namibia; I wondered if they thought about it at all—if they realized that just half a mile away was the Location—a place that would shatter the fragile image of Western perfection they carried with them from shop to shop. I wondered if they went home and announced proudly that they’d been “to Africa.” As if Africa is a giant homogenous mass that can be experienced and understood within a two-week holiday.

I liked Swakop very much. Almost everyone in Omatjete who knew I was going exclaimed how beautiful and wonderful it was. Obviously, European tourists aren’t the only ones who benefit from the town. I do not find fault in its existence, and guiltily enjoyed all the pleasures that reminded me of my own rich life back home. But the truth is I think we all felt a little uncomfortable as we walked among those who looked like us—not because it is wrong to have, or to be white in Africa,but because their seemed to be so little acknowledgement of those who have nothing at all. Just a thin presumption that half a mile of separation is necessary, that it keeps you safe, that it is enough to render the illusion of exotic paradise complete.

I am back in the wilderness once again—back teaching—back sweating. But there is a familiar face on the horizon. Ken is coming to visit—and will in fact be here by the time I send out this email! Hardly seems real that I will have someone to share meals with—if ramen noodles are considered a meal.