Volunteers

It was a quiet week here in Omatjete. I watched happily as February turned into March, and as we received a bit of rain (looks like all of your thumb holding paid off—thanks!). The first batch of books from my book drive arrived and the children eagerly flipped through the pages excited to have something new in front of them. And after a month and a half, my wardrobe was finally delivered. I, at last, could fully unpack.

March 21^st is Namibian Independence Day, and unlike at home where we set aside a single 24-hours of barbquing and fireworks to celebrate two-hundred plus years of democracy, Namibians get five whole days to celebrate seventeen. Five days of no work. Five days of braiis (Namibian bbq) and singing and flag waving. And five days of no school. Yes, I am ready for the break.

A few volunteers have talked about getting together in Swakopmund, a beautiful coastal town in my region, known to Americans as the birthplace of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s baby. I am looking forward to it, looking forward to seeing somewhere different, to getting away for a bit, to cooler temperatures, a breeze, and fewer mosquitoes. But mostly I am looking forward to seeing other volunteers.

I am half ashamed to admit this, but it will simply be nice to be with people who are like me. I came to Namibia in part to meet those different from myself, to experience life from an alternate perspective, and already I am thankful for what I’ve learned. Though our common humanity is more obvious than ever, I have also come to understand that culture is very real, very solid, and assimilation is not easy. I’m not even sure that it’s possible. When I first arrived in Omatjete, I remember feeling isolated by my skin, but now that has faded into feeling isolated by where I’m from, by what I have and what my neighbors do not, and even by my own memories.

I remember years of family dinners, so as those around me eat alone in their rooms as is often done in Namibia, they cannot miss what I do. My colleagues and students have no memory of snow at Christmas, leaves that change colors in fall, Nickelodeon, movie theaters, the Babysitters Club, ham biscuits, grits, fried okra, Central Park, or prom. But (minus the southern food) many of the volunteers do. And that’s why—here—we take care of one another. Because they are the only ones who are going to comprehend a reference to the Daily Show, who know what pizza is supposed to taste like, who know all the lyrics to Piano Man. Because eight thousand miles away from all that you have ever known, a little understanding, a flicker of recognition, feels like family.

There seems to be an underlying code that rooms (well, okay, a floor) are always available, food always offered, and kindness at least attempted when a fellow volunteer shows up at your door. About three weeks after my arrival in Omatjete, I went to the nearby larger town of Omaruru to email and shop for food. There I came across Christopher Nelson, a Peace Corps teacher.

(dry Omaruru River Bed)

Coincidentally, I had run into him once before at a café in Windhoek during training. He’s around my age and teaches at a hostel (meaning the students board there) secondary school in town. Immediately, he offered his place if I ever wanted to hang around for the weekend. Then he politely mentioned that there were two other women volunteers at his school and maybe I’d feel more comfortable staying with them.

So I met Caitlin and Wendy. Wendy’s in her forties, friendly, exceptionally blunt, and radically opposed to the U.S. government (which I found so strange and somewhat amusing considering where her pay check comes from). Caitlin’s my age, round and pretty. And calm. It struck me how relaxed and content she seemed. But she didn’t ask me too many questions—apparently too comfortable to make friends.

Still, they gave me food, a sleeping bag, Newsweek magazines, and a genuine welcome—something that I sorely needed when I met them. Even if they were women I had little in common with, even if at home we wouldn’t necessarily have been friends, I will always be grateful to them for that afternoon—for that brief moment when they said, “Hey, you’re one of us. Please come in.”

Many of the World Teach volunteers have text messaged me periodically throughout the last eight weeks, asking how I am, sharing any particularly outrageous anecdotes from their sites. All of us eager to impart the message we most want to hear: you are not alone.

There is another, less appealing, aspect of volunteer culture that I have encountered as well. And that’s the sense of one-upmanship many volunteers display—especially ones who have been in Namibia a year or more already. Who knows the most Afrikanns, or Oshivambo, who can accomplish even the simplest clicks in Quay-Quay (some of the many languages here)—who has managed to hike for free—who no longer flinches when they see a giant spider or a mouse inside their house—who has stopped missing the comforts of home—who never missed them in the first place.

It goes deeper—among some their seems to be an attempt to disavow themselves from all things American, a belief that your success or failure as a volunteer hinges upon your ability to become a “native.” This strikes me as pretty pointless. Of course we have to adapt. Of course things that are shocking at first (monstrous millipedes, river beds without water in them, teachers hitting students) inevitably lessen in effect. But we are who we are. And part (not all) of the reason that we can do some good is because we are outsiders, and we come with our own set of ways and traditions and thoughts. That we have as much to share as we do to learn. After all, this is a year of trading, an exchange of knowledge and songs, of stories and ideas.

I am always going to miss home (and all of you). I am never going to casually ignore giant spiders. But nevertheless, I hope that by December I have found my own way to be a good volunteer.

Talk to you soon!