Eyalo

Eyalo - "thank you" in Oshivambo

The task of summarizing or capturing my last two weeks strikes me as very daunting and even silly. That said, I am off for a week long canoe trip down the Orange River in South Africa so I feel I must write something. I spent my first week in the wonderful and loving home/village of my Meme (mother) Albertina. The village was just a few minutes drive from Outapi, which is in very Northern Namibia, close to the Angolan border. The home consisted of this beautifully enclosed maze of traditional huts and fireplaces all surrounded by head high sticks and posts. Also living within my home was my 22-year-old host sister Loide and cousin Valentine, my 17 year old brother Simeon, a 9 year old Oteale, and a 2 year old Eyalo. Eyalo was far and away the cutest and most beautiful child I have ever seen. Each and every one of them could not have been more quizzical, welcoming, and loving during my stay. None of them spoke English but my Meme and Loide knew enough to get me through the day and a few simple questions. Somewhere along the line, before i got there, they decided my name was Nicky and the removal of the “y” just seemed like too daunting of a conversation, so I went with it. Before I go any further, it was 110 degrees during the day and probably 85 degrees at night. The hottest I have ever been. No water or electricity, but I was given my own little jug of water to drink and wash with, which worked out just fine. The food was incredible and the best I have had since arriving in Namibia. The older women would spend most of the day cooking on the open fire and always prepared large amounts of everything. My favorite meal was freshly killed (in front of me) goat and chicken cooked with tomatoes and onions along with delicious pasta with home-ground nut oil from a local tree. To drink was the home-brewed beer, a thick and tangy concoction that sat bubbling in a clay pot with a plethora of bugs swimming on the surface, each trying to escape the taste of my nightly challenge. Not as bad as it sounds but it was no Stella Artois. The culture is very focused on males and their superiority, which manifested itself in the women not being allowed to touch my food and the rest of the family only being allowed to eat what I didn’t finish. Being the oldest male in the home was a very odd and uncomfortable situation for me. I felt immediately empowered while all I wanted to do was fit in. That said, when I was eager to share the meat and food with everyone in the family they were surprised and very appreciative.

The initial sight of these villages and collection of huts screams poverty, yet it is only once within the community and lifestyle that it shifts from lack of wealth to an abundance of tradition. What I mean by that is I viewed my home-stay family as traditional as opposed to impoverished. In fact, I found the lifestyle quite uplifting and humbling. Cooking everything over the open fire, eating by candlelight or no light at all, and no dependence on electricity. From a mere week of observation, my family and surrounding community was one of the happiest and uplifting ones I have ever experienced. The question, which I don’t have an answer for, is what does one busy electricity dependant American take from all this. No, you or I can’t just turn all the lights off and squat by the fire, but we can all spend a few nights under the stars talking with family and friends, escaping from our own heat of the day. I understand that cultures are different, it is what makes them so intriguing and important, but when you spend time in one that seems to have its priorities so in perspective, it causes you to question your own.

One experience that sticks out from my home-stay was driving a rickety pick-up truck full of young boys and water jugs to the closest tap. We drove in and out of the trees weaving past makeshift soccer pitches, nowhere close to a road or town, to a small cement structure with a faucet. We filled seven or eight 25 liter water jugs and then an entire trash can while all the boys stared at me wondering what I was doing there. I asked Simeon how much they paid and he said 20 bucks for all of it, roughly 3 US dollars. Another great “male” experience was walking with Simeon and usually a few other boys to go gather our cattle and goats, which were usually uncomfortably far away considering the heat. We herded them, Simeon and gang always barefoot, back towards their corrals and they always complied, filing into their respective pens quite smoothly. Simeon would often laugh at me if a cow got slightly out of the pack on my side but he also knew that he was eating whatever I didn’t, so he held off. I spent the nights sitting outside my room looking up at the brilliant stars and Milky Way, waiting for my room to dip below a hundred degrees. This waiting period was only followed by climbing into the cage that was my mosquito net covered bed. I would leave the door open against the wishes of my Meme, if not I may have passed, and would wake up very early in the morning to close it before she could notice. Our home-stays ended with a massive party of all the students and their families gathered under a tree eating, exchanging stories and songs. I left the next morning arms filled with everything from a traditional bow and arrow to a full cooked chicken and Papaya for my journey. As I left I received my last broken English exchange from my Meme and sister who explained, “we love you too much my child from America, do not forget us.” I am quite sure I won’t and hope I showed them half of what they showed me.