For my final project I choose to do a spoken word performance of a poem I wrote integrating all of my classes (Religion, African Political Science & History) as well as my internship at Physically Active Youth. The writing was enjoyable and the performance was a bit nerve wracking but tons of fun. I feel it is a good closing post as it incorporates a lot of the issues I was faced with this semester. And although it doesn't answer many questions, that is because I have yet to answer them myself. Thank you to all those who read and followed my journey!

Is It Worth the Airfare?

Is it worth the airfare,
To impose on someone’s life?
To bring what I know, what he or she or we know
Into the light?
The answer is no more often than yes,
My money may be better of with a U N I C E F across its chest.
Yet who is to say, does the amount I learn,
He or she learns,
Outweigh what we might bring back someday?
It is so easy for us, the kids of wealth,
To visit Africa and return with this misguided passion,
Almost like a change in health.
Although our ideas may seem impossible and sometimes flight-less,
Screaming help at the top of our lungs just isn’t cons-cious.

Beneath the immediate emotions of missing home,
Missing family and girlfriends and boyfriends
We can’t text from the phone.
We must stay focused on what we want to know,
For we often learn the most,
When we are alone.
Speaking of phones, thank you MTC.
The signal was great,
I even got service under the baobab tree.
We did learn a lot, its in here somewhere,
I just hope I don’t leave it on the laundry line
Stuck in Jimmy’s underwear.
Forgive me if this is too wide, or I brush things aside, even misguide,
But please let me summarize what we learned from Outapi,
To Swakopmund’s tide.
Starting from the beginning, with Romanus as our source,
We learned of the colonizers and when the country changed course.
With the Germans came violence and new views of god,
Seemingly with no one to stop and say,
This is odd.
This is not our land or our traditional way,
But they felt confident enough to wipe the whole system away.
The sad truth and one often filled with hope,
Is Namibia’s past is right here,
You don’t need a telescope.

The turn of the century came like a tornado clearing the way,
With the only difference being, the oppressor just wasn’t as far away.

But are things better? In a serious way?
A multi party system? Bullshit to me,
Can no one see we’ve gone way past just the majority.
All the false hopes and lies they feed you,
Embedded in promises of a future that seems feasible,
To some an average income and a nice home seems just unreasonable.
So SWAPO, where is Namibia going?
Or are you all just waiting in line for the next showing?
Sorry to say, but when the curtain opens and the programs read,
Vision 2030, an epic disgrace,
People are gonna be looking around the theater for someone better to run this place!

Where Nikons vanish and Canons disappear,
In desperate efforts to simply persevere.

What happens when the place we don’t want to live,
Becomes the place we don’t want to go.
Its all luck of the draw,
Just don’t take a photo.
I love Katutura with all of my heart,
PAY taught me that success and failure are not far apart.
The children are screaming education, education, education!
While the only ones responding are the churches
With salvation, salvation, salvation.
It’s not my place to say,
I’ll be the first to admit that any day.
But do all the kids want to be Christian,
Are they even shown another way?
Christianity,
Constantly putting people’s morals to the test.
But it seems that most of the country
Only uses it on the day of rest.
I don’t know much about Paul,
But I would guess that’s not what he had in mind at all.

The North brought heat and the tempers to match,
Sam and I even learned those honey badgers are damn hard to catch.
Outapi, oh how to explain?
Oh wait I have a whole lineup of kids,
Ready to complain.
Beyond my family’s immense love,
And the food I was served,
The simplicity of life,
Is what I so attentively observed.
So, thank you meme, or should I say mama,
Until next time,
Kala po Nawa.

Illness took over and nearly shattered the group,
Then came Pick n’ Pay, oh my god “I have to Boot.”
Ya ya being sick is a good story and all,
But we almost lost Alissa before she got to the bathroom stall.
We returned home with bow and arrow and basket in hand,
And even with a better understanding of this land.
Upon first glance,
This place doesn’t have much,
But when one looks deeper,
Its rich to the touch.
Very few have wages they’d call sufficient,
I’m sorry did someone say GINI Coefficient?
With so much to share and so few to use,
Why don’t we see Namibia more often in the news?

Every season is a season of change,
And Namibia’s in her spring,
Even if my analogy is strange.
What she needs is a leader and somebody to watch,
Or we could start by getting everyone a Swatch.
Maybe I’m wrong or you simply can’t stand me,
But how come I can count the number of good speakers we’ve had
On less than ten phalanges.

“If it pays it stays” a speaker explained,
But where you do you draw the line between a loss and a gain.
For those who can pay and have paid are gone,
Leaving the country with no more than a welcome song.
Namibia is left in this grey area I guess,
Filled with pawns who don’t know the first move in chess.
This lack of knowledge in board games and such,
Leaves time to learn from the best, whom we trust so much.
When I say the best I mean the rest,
Those countries who have been through this distress.
They’ll send their love,
And maybe even a soccer tournament for motivation.
Until they find what they want,
Like minerals and diamonds and an oil foundation.
We are left behind with this burning sensation,
Of a country left,
With no occupation.

Why are we so lucky, as a group I mean,
We may not realize, what we have actually seen.
Being in the trenches of a country in growth,
Has been uncomfortable,
For you and me both.

One last attempt at poetry in motion,
And I thank you all for your attentive devotion,
August 14th, imagine us all dropping a pebble,
Into this lake we’ll call Namibia, filled with rubble.
Circles move outward, ripple after ripple,
Until the surface sits still,
Perfectly level.

We falter in trial, and in trial we grow,
We decolonize our minds from moving too fast to just slow.
We learn that our feelings should not be toyed,
Or void, and most certainly not destroyed,
But instead, employed.

Experiential is what they said,
At the beginning and end of the trip,
And with that I’ll agree,
For in between is where the memories sit.
So is it worth the airfare?
The last question I’ll pose to you.
Cause I don’t know the answer
And don’t think you do too.

Good Hope

With less than a week left in Windhoek, the semester is coming to an abrupt end. As often as I have wished to be home and with friends and family, I am left now with a feeling of understanding of how lucky I have been to have this experience in a foreign land. My Father came and went in a flash although he explained, “I feel like I have been here for a month.” I understand his feeling and have found that the heaviness and in-your-face experiences of Southern Africa can be both taxing and mentally straining. I do not mean to over-dramatize my experience, but do want to convey that many days are very intense while others are relaxing and spent by the pool in our enclosed and well-manicured CGE home.

My father was welcomed to PAY by Chacooley limping outside, bleeding from his ears and forehead. Chacooley, a really bright and friendly 10th grader, had gotten in a car accident earlier that day while on an errand for his mother. He was alone driving, in the ever-busy and always dangerous roads of Katutura. I asked Chacooley if was ok and replied with a sound yes and clarified that he was just going to go walk to a private doctor because the public hospital wouldn’t help him with any medication or even clean his wounds. My father was left silenced and saddened and I quickly assured him that standards are just different here. That said, I learned very early on to leave my western solutions and mindset at the door. “People are always bringing foreign solutions to an African problem” is a lasting quote from one of our many speakers. The rest of my father’s time at PAY passed with smiles on each of our faces. He had some great discussions with a few of the students and even held his own as a right-back on the soccer pitch. After a whirlwind tour of Windhoek and some great meals, we headed to Cape Town for a too nice and too luxurious weekend. After a Santos soccer game, a hike on the Cape of Good Hope, bike rides and drives up the coast (on the left side of the road) I was back on the plane to Windhoek. Cape Town was the most stunning city I have ever seen, yet everything seemed to be a step up from Namibia. These increases are seen in everything from division of wealth, retail opportunities, food, and violence. I loved the city but am a bit apprehensive about returning there in week with my group.

This week will be spent sharing and performing our Integrative Projects, which are creative projects that “integrate” all of our classes and experiences. Topics and ideas include documentaries, websites, constructing a Namibian flag out of beer caps, and of course Sam and my spoken word. I am very excited for all of them and hope that my years of listening to hip-hop will aid me in my first public lyrical attempt.

South

We just returned from a short trip to the south of Namibia where we focused on sustainable development. We did this by staying at a government-run, community-run, and private-run campsite. The different ways in which these campsites were managed was a great window into Namibia’s ever-present development and internal turmoil. The first night we spent at a National Wilderness Resort (NWR) about 3 hours south of Windhoek near Namibia’s largest dam. Hardap dam is an odd place where we often felt like we had been dropped on Mars to explore our newfound territory. The campsite was run down and had nothing to offer other than a few cold Tafels (beer), which we enjoyed while watching mysterious and enormous fish feed of the surface of the lake. The government shovels large amounts of money into NWR’s sites, yet nothing improves. The money is lost somewhere (think corruption) and the prices rise at the sites making them unaffordable for the locals. Between these problems and the lack of anything, Hardap campsite is closing shortly.

The community run campsite sat at the base of Brukkaros Mountain, which was at one time an active volcano. Not many communities would choose volcanic rock and thorny African bush for their visitors to sleep on, but the lovely people of Berseba did. The community is working hard to improve this campsite from what little is there now. Finances are tight and they are barely creating enough revenue to pay the man who works at the gate. We spent the day in Berseba visiting a school where we planted trees, cleaned, and shared a lunch with the students. As usual, the students and faculty greeted us with beautiful traditional songs as we watched clapping and moving our feet to the beat. Once they finish their set of songs, we, the Americans, are left choosing between “Take me out to the Ballgame” or “The Star Spangled Banner” to belt out of tune to smiling onlookers. Needless to say, American culture is lacking in certain departments.

We spent our last night at a privately owned, and well recognized, campsite called Kalahari Anib lodge. As you may guess, this one was clearly the nicest and most well operated. My group of friends and I were in charge of cooking dinner for the group this night. Trying not to be boastful we created a great chicken stir-fry type dish, which we put inside toasted pita rolls. And for dessert we made chocolate fondue over the fire! The meal was very well received. We had the chance to hear from a fifth generation Namibian who was a manager with the Kalahari Anib group. He shared with us the great achievement of Namibia in the world of conservation, but also the struggles of finding a sustainable way to grow a tourist business. “If it pays it stays,” he kept explaining. He elaborated on the Namibian wildlife numbers being higher than ever due to the tourism and hunting industry. Sort of ironic to think about I know, but since the hunting and tourism industries are so valuable to the country, Namibia has been taking care of and managing animals more than ever before. He also shed light on the reassuring fact that Namibia has only been around 25 years, making them sheer novices in everything from the tourism business to an educational system compared to those of European countries or even Northern Africa. Sam and I spent each of the three nights sleeping outside although often urged otherwise. The stars were magical and certainly some of the brightest I will see in my life. I often looked to the stars as I fell asleep and was reminded that I have experienced such a tiny fraction of Africa, and am already overwhelmed. With two weeks left of class I have learned enough to know that I wouldn’t begin to pretend I know anything about Africa. It is easy, even when here; to get trapped into thinking Africa is just one homogeneous place, whereas it is more rich and diverse than any chunk of land on earth.

We are on to soccer ball number 6 of the trip and still hop out of every van with the same vigor to share it. Not a trip or day goes by where we aren’t juggling and exchanging tricks with a group of children on the street. Joga Bonito!

Happy Halloween

I hate Halloween. Having to justify my distaste, and lack of costume, every year to a group of loud, camera happy, plastic mask smelling, hair sprayed friends, I have gotten pretty good at explaining my feelings. Like most deep-rooted hatreds, I had a bad experience. I was seven years old, Halloween night. We had just bought our current house, which looks over a nice park. My Father, in cahoots with my mother, walked us through the park looking towards our new home. Inside running through the large arching windows was my mother in an enormous white dress. I can’t remember if she was screaming but I always associate the memory with high pitched moans running through my head. Her hair was long and sprouting in every direction as her candlelit silhouette ran through our new house. My sister and I immediately began to cry and my dad quickly realized it was not humorous and he would potentially need to get the down payment back on the house. Little did we know the house was and still remains one of the scariest houses in the greater metro Denver. The second reason I detest Halloween is because I am allergic to peanuts. Unfortunately this has never hindered my consumption of candy, but on Halloween it does. At least 80% of the grub on the streets Halloween night contains peanuts or peanut butter. At the end of the night, I would be forced to shovel away nearly two thirds of my merchandise in return for flavorless Dots or something of the sort. This is most certainly not to be confused with me being deprived of any candy or food for that matter throughout my whole life, but one night every October, I was left to starve. I enjoyed some moments, it was just the idea of going out and dressing up like somebody I wasn’t and then asking for candy of all things, only to end up with 31 packs of Dots, a rogue Snickers and some Nerds at the end of the night wasn’t my idea of fun. Finally, I have an immense fear and disgust towards hair die. The smell makes me want to vomit and the appearance of a crusted vibrant color in someone’s hair has always deeply haunted me. I do not mean to put a damper on anyone’s Halloween, just wanted to say I didn’t like it. I find Namibia one of the more enjoyable places to not celebrate Halloween. First of all, there aren’t many people here, and I don’t think they know what Halloween is. Unfortunately, I live in a house with 22 Americans…

The Big O

Fall break came just at the right time and with an abundance of relaxation. It all began with the roomy and surprisingly comfortable accommodations of the Intercape Bus Service. Our Sleep-Liner bus had two levels and we each (6 friends) slept comfortably in our own row on the top deck. After a half an Ambien and some Cadbury Milk Chocolate I was at the South Africa border. We were picked up by our young yet weathered 25-year-old guide, Dylan, in a rickety Land Rover and taken to the Umkulu base camp. The base camp was beautifully situated between other outfitters, farms, and vineyards along the bank of the Orange River. The remainder of our week went by as perfectly as one could imagine. We paddled about 45km total over three and half days which resulted in lots of laying on the back of our inflatable boats and swimming when we felt warm. The river itself runs through the incredibly rugged, uninhabitable, and striking Richtersveld Mountains. We passed by hundreds of wonderful birds, including Fish Eagles, Goliath Herons and Giant Kingfishers. We also were lucky enough to see several wild horses, baboons, and plenty of sheep and goats. Our guides prepared superb vegetarian meals for us all week and we never had problems finishing our first and second servings. We spent our afternoons napping, reading and hiking and our evenings sleeping under the stars. Now back to my last few weeks of class…

The Watering Hole

Etosha National Park

• Throwing up 5 times on the way there, twice in a grocery store (bad)
o Getting to sit in the front seat of the air conditioned van to “heal”
o Front seat means great pictures on the game drive
o Getting sick all part of a photography plan

• Giraffes
• Rhinos
• Oryx
• Springboks
• Wildebeests
• Elephants
• Hyenas
• Jackals
• Leopard
• Lions
• Lots of Birds

•Our beloved soccer ball being stolen and ruined by Honey Badgers despite Passat running and yelling after them. RIP Soccer Ball, it was a good run…

• Last van ride home from an incredible, exhausting, challenging, and unforgettable two weeks

Fila

From our home-stays and Outapi, we drove a few hours towards the ocean and into the land of the Himba. The Himba people are one of the oldest groups of humans and remain almost how they were over 900 years ago. Many of you may have seen pictures of these beautiful people covered in a red paste with braids of thick red clay. CGE had worked out a complex deal with a chief, for only the second time, that we could camp next to his village if we brought some food and supplies for his people. This resulted in us staying within throwing distance of an ancient community for 3 days. First and foremost the Himba are the most beautiful race of people I have ever seen. The women, bare-breasted, wear ornate belts and anklets according to how many children they have and the girls wear brighter colored beads around the chest and hair. The boys wear loin clothes and minimal coverings but the modern dress is beginning to creep in as many boys wear torn shirts and shorts. Each night we would light a fire and eat dinner beside it as the Himba children and women would appear out of the darkness only to sit down peacefully next to our fire. When we gave them food, the peace was quickly put on hault and it turned into a scene of aggression and fury. The boys were responsible for all of this chaos, while the girls sat quietly and politely and would even wait for the boys to arrive to eat their food. We communicated with each other through body language and our hands and taught each other words in our respective languages. I spent both nights sitting and talking with a beautiful and bright 12-year-old girl named Fila. We exchanged words for star and the moon and told each other of our families. Fila will remain one of the main figures in my memory of this semester and I apologize for not being able to elaborate on that further. The experience of sitting with this community by firelight was nothing short of surreal and in that sense very hard to describe. I took walks at night and early in the morning guided by the fires of the different families and realized that this thousand year old community will be gone, certainly in this form, before I turn 50 and most likely sooner. We discussed as a group if this modernization is an avoidable, negative, and necessary thing? We didn’t come to any conclusions, but how could we, and most importantly how could they?

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.

Soccer in Swakop

The price tag read forty-seven Namibian dollars ($7 US) for a tacky South Africa soccer ball at the local Pick n’Pay. Sam gave me fifteen dollars, not half of forty-seven, and said we should get it. I didn’t feel particularly good about being sucked into paying for two thirds of the ball, especially since I would always be using it with someone at least twice as good as me at soccer. Needless to say, we got it, and it was magical.

The first test of our new ball took place immediately after the purchase. Sam and I walked down to the beach and began passing while the wind blew veraciously off the Atlantic. Our first soccer session ended with little excitement and we walked back up the streets to meet our group. As we walked a number of men would signal for the ball and we would pass it to them only to watch a few standard ball handling skills and then receive the ball back to continue our walk. We moved on with our tour of Swakopmund and soon enough we found ourselves running around, arms spread, celebrating goals we had scored on a make shift goal at an after school program Walvis Bay. The ball was already beginning to egg but it didn’t matter. The more the ball expanded into an oval, the more people it drew. After our last stop of the day, at another mine funded youth program, we started a game of keep away with a group of six or seven kids on the street. The streets on the coast of Namibia are wide and constructed with a mixture of clay, mud and dirt. We formed a large circle in the vacant street and began to pass around the man/boy in the middle. Style and skills were a must, for just passing it was far too easy, for them… I threw the ball in the air and tested my slowly improving soccer skills yet usually ended up in the middle. The young shoeless kids, maybe 11 or 12 would use all of their favorite tricks and cut quickly around the road, desperately trying not to lose the ball. The game went on for quite some time until we were called to get back in the van, only to sit there sweating as I yearned for Passat to drive faster so the wind could race through the window and erase the beads of sweat on my face. As the van pulled up to our backpackers hostel right on the water, Sam and I turned simultaneously and said “ocean.” We ran in and changed into our suits and ran down the street toward the freezing water and howling wind. Sam was a few strides ahead of me, as usual, and was in the water before I could feel the sand on my feet. Consequently I was standing there questioning if wanted to feel as cold as I could tell Sam was. That said, I jumped in and was it terrible but mostly enjoyable. People walking by looked at us like we had just figured how to get out of our straight jackets but it didn’t matter, when in Africa right… We then met a group of Namibian students who were in training to become teachers and also testing the temperature of the water on the beach. It was too cold for them and it quickly became Sam and my job to fill up their jugs full of salt water, which we were told had some special use in the rural north. And of course as our day had gone, we began playing soccer with the group. We juggled and laughed around the circle while the waves would rush up and usually wipe the ball away. You’d think we’d be “soccered-out,” as I was, but Sam still had some left and he spent the next hour juggling with the owner and a guest of our hostel. Our days in Swakopmund continued on pace with our first and in turn they were fantastic and full of new encounters and ever improving juggling skills. The power of the soccer ball and sports has struck me more than just in Swakopmund. I see it three times a week when I intern at Physically Active Youth (PAY) and I even see it in every day interactions at home and in Africa.

People often separate themselves by those teams or sports they support, yet it is only when we remove these divisions and rivalries that we find the true power of sport. Sport is universal, it is a language, it is a great insight into a culture while also being a great venue to enter one. This was never more apparent than the connection Sam had with a deaf man who supported his beloved Liverpool at our hostel. A group of us sat in front of the minuscule TV watching the red of Liverpool dash across the screen while the deaf man pointed to the patch on his shirt as Sam did the same. The two shared thumbs ups and smiles throughout the game, and although it ended undesirably, they both agreed silently, there is always next year….

Our soccer ball introduced us to probably 20 or 30 people is Swakopmund while at the same time it helps teach kids at PAY necessary life skills like honesty and how to lose. Ideally the purchase of our $7 dollar soccer ball will continue to be the catalyst of many more relationships and juggling sessions but most importantly it will hopefully even teach us a few life skills along the way.

Shebeen Scene

I apologize for not updating my blog for quite some time. I could tell you that I didn’t have good Internet or was busy but then I would be lying. After a month in Africa, which is hard to believe, Windhoek is starting to feel more comfortable and I’m actually growing quite fond of the place. It is small, yet extremely diverse and there is a lot to do. I spent ten days at an urban home-stay in Dorado Park, which is a good, not great, neighborhood in Windhoek. My little sister, Ndeshi, and I spent lots of time with each other and got a long very well. My host mother and father were gone for the entire 10 days, so Ndeshi and I essentially just made meals and watched the US Open on commercial breaks of her MTV shows. Nadal!! My older brother Victor was a wonderful guy, but was unfortunately only around for a day and half. We spent most of one day preparing for a braai (BBQ), where we enjoyed some wonderful spiced beef as well as some shrimp, which I prepared and no one had ever had before. The “prawns” were a hit. We ate the meal as we watched TV with their Oshivambo grandmother, from very rural northern Namibia, who was convinced that the people on TV could see her. Aside from her connection with the Namibian soap opera stars, she was quite disappointed that I did not speak Oshivambo and that I never brought her beer. She did although make me try her home brew of beer, which sat in a bucket in the kitchen bubbling at room temperature. Surprisingly it wasn’t terrible and was quite strong. There was a never a doubt in my mind that grandma could drink me under the table.

Victor, 23, owns a shebeen jukebox in one of the informal settlements of Katatura. He also owns his own shebeen (corrugated tin shack bar), but its doors have been locked due to a bad business partner. Most importantly, it was time to collect the money from his Juxebok, so he brought me along. We headed out in our tiny car (visualize my knees touching my chest), fully loaded with zebra print seat covers and home made cheetos on the dash. Immediately upon arrival to the shebeen and absurdly large bottle of Windhoek Larger was placed in my hand, it was cold and I had no problem with the excessive volume. Victor greeted the owner and proceeded to open the juxebox and grab the colossal amount of single Namibian dollar pieces. We took the box of change into the back room, someone’s home and bed, and counted out $874 Namibian dollars. No talking, all business, and then we left. Victor is a public prosecutor, seriously.

Classes are in full swing and are all quite interesting. That said, they are each four hours and without fail get boring towards the end. Class structure itself is very discussion based and it is rare if we don’t have at least one speaker each class. We also visit many sites and museums during class, which helps break it up.

My internship at PAY remains a source of joy and excitement. Not to mention getting out of the CGE house!! I am both enjoying and struggling through tutoring students at PAY. Most kids are eager to learn but aren’t always focused and are often more interested in joking with friends. It is not uncommon for me to have a number of students between grades 8 and 10 who cannot read. Each sports coordinator or volunteer at PAY has their own team which plays both soccer and basketball games. I am happy to report that I am undefeated as a coach and pulled out a tough victory against my rival coach Big Mike, who is the Namibian College MVP basketball player.

Today most of the group got in the van and drove out to this beautiful Lake Oanob Resort, about an hour away from Windhoek, and spent the day swimming and hanging out by the beach. No complaints…

Windhoekin'

Baboons on the side of the road were definitely not what I was envisioning when arriving in Windhoek, but sure enough there they were. The land (desert) is dry, rough and barren. Oddly enough there are a fair amount of hills and small mountains, which cause it to appear not that different from some Arizona landscapes. The town itself is quite nice and very small. In fact most of the time, it feels almost like a ghost town. That said, the nightlife is really fun and very active, yet once you leave the bar or club, you see no one. I am in a large Center for Global Education owned house in Windhoek West with 22 other students. It is very simple and safe with a great pool and lounging area in the back. We are within walking distance of the main streets and shopping center of downtown. The group feel is a bit overwhelming but something I’m sure we will all get used to it. We have no other choice. The city feels comfortable and manageable but not always safe. When it small groups it feels fine but walking alone to places seems very questionable. The people I have met here already are all incredibly nice and welcoming. I had my first day of work at Physically Active Youth (PAY), which is an amazing after-school program helping kids with academics, life skills and sports. After only one day I can tell the kids, staff and program will be a very important to me for many years to come. The kids are adorable and so eager to learn while the staff is just as eager to help and give it everything they have with very little in return. It has been inspiring at every turn. I start my 10-day urban home-stay tomorrow with a family of four. I will be staying with a them at their house in Dorado Park, not too far away from our program house. They have a 22 year old son and a 15-year-old daughter. I anxiously await my arrival and learning about everyday family life in Windhoek, and I hope to form a good relationship with my family. It is getting hot and I am still waiting to see my first Namibian cloud….

The Streets are on Fire

The first thing you notice about Southern Africa (in the winter) is the burned and blackened side of the road. Hundreds and hundreds of square feet of charred turf surround the streets. I immediately asked Moketzi, our driver, if they were controlled burns and he said sometimes but mostly they are from fires people build at night to stay warm, and do not put out. Evidently they aren’t as in touch with their fire prevention representative as we are with Smoky, but they certainly need to be. Once I began to look for burning fires and evidence to support Moketzi’s claim, the streets illuminated. Driving through fog in the mornings, fires would come into view like a lighthouse through a harbor. As we approach, outlines of people would appear huddled and tending to their fire. With my forehead pressed against the window I would try to discern how many people surrounded the flames until I could no longer see. The fires would be lost behind traffic as I turned to find the next one. In the evenings, we would return by coming over a bridge through the city and I would look down to see each corner rippling in flames. Yet another sign of poverty, that like the flames of a fire, you cannot help but pay attention.

PS. Inspired, as usual, by Lupe Fiasco "Streets on Fire"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7rBcFolAc

What Happens in Soweto

“What happens in Soweto stays in Soweto” Igi whispered in my ear. But what happened for me in Soweto is something I will take with me far beyond the crumbled brick walls of the sprawling township. We were dropped off at Florence Mondi’s Bed & Breakfast in Pimville Zone 1, which is more or less directly in the center of Soweto. Florence has been a host mother before and over the past few years with the arrival of the World Cup she decided to convert her home into a B&B. Florence, 57, was incredibly welcoming and eager to share her story with us. We spent the first evening getting to know each other and hearing about each other’s lives and families around the globe. Flossie’s side business was selling airtime, which is the equivalent of minutes for a cell phone. The doorbell would ring every 10 minutes or so and she would make her way to a little window by the front door where she would print out a receipt with a code for a certain amount of Rand (SA currency). Florence was a very powerful motherly figure both inside her B&B but also around the neighborhood. Many of the surrounding young men had been employed, scolded, or fed by Florence so there was always a healthy concentration of young men outside on the curb.

We awoke on Saturday to hear the news that we would be attending a funeral for a local “community pillar” as they called him during the service. We arrived and were seated first row, right beside the casket, with roughly 500 other Sowetans behind us. The service was entirely in Zulu and was vibrant and loud from the very fist word. The most breathtaking part was that the moment someone would finish his or her words, the place would erupt in song. There was a method to this beautiful music, an elderly lady would usually stand and belt the first line of a song while the rest of the room would fall into harmony to complete the song. This happened about 15 times and most of the songs ended with people dancing and waving their arms in the air. I felt so out of my comfort zone that I was comfortable being completely absorbed by the experience. I knew no one, I understood no one, but I understood the music and I understood the purpose of why we were there. In that sense it was all I needed to experience it, and because of that it was an incredible window into township culture. As the funeral ended I was immediately separated from Momma Flo and my friends and thrown into a stampede of dancing and singing Sowetans filing out a single door. I was taller than everyone around me but that did not stop the glare of lower eyes looking at me like what the hell was I doing there. That said, the reception we got from the people in Soweto, including the Funeral, was very special and welcoming throughout the weekend. After the service we went to a local shop for lunch, which exclusively made Quarter which is pronounced “Quottta.” Quarter is a quarter of a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with french fries, cheese, various meats, veggies, and ketchup. A massive amount of food for 8 Rand (there are 7.25 rand to a dollar). It was delicious.

The afternoon, and the rest of the weekend, began while we were sitting on the curb and were approached by some men from Pimville. The men had worked for Florence in the past and said they wanted to show us “the real Soweto,” to which we nervously obliged. Igi was a cop, Don (aka James Bond) was a manager of a cleaning service, Bona I’m pretty sure was a drug dealer, and there were twin brothers David and a name I never understood, who were drivers for a bank. We walked with the men, hand in hand, to various drinking and soccer viewing locations all around Pimville. Castle Lite was their beer of choice because they were convinced you could drink it all day long and never feel it the next morning. Needless to say both of the following mornings (afternoons) we didn’t see the boys until lunch time. We talked for hours and hours to these men all of whom could not have been nicer and more concerned with our safety and comfort. Each would take turns asking “You good nick? You ok golden eye?” And of course I was, it was amazing. We met dozens of people and discussed countless others from presidents and soccer players to beautiful women (ie. Maddie).

The two major parties in South Africa are the ANC (African National Congress), which is Mandela’s party that emerged and rescued the country from Apartheid, and the DA (Democratic Alliance), which stemmed from the National Party who was responsible for the Apartheid starting in the 50’s. The ANC today is riddled by corruption and getting very little done while the DA party is growing both in support and progressive anti apartheid ideals. The problem is that no one has the confidence to vote for anyone other than the ANC in fear of another Apartheid. That said, the ANC has gotten in between 65% & 75% of the votes the last decade. Our Sowetan friends acknowledged they agree far more with the DA and would love to vote for them but there is a colossal cultural blockade to do so. Igi the policeman also gave us great yet horrifying insight into the corruption of the police. He said in almost every situation they can be paid off which is why you see most of them riding around in BMW’s, like many of his friends we were hanging out with.

We went to a mega church the next day, probably 3,000, which was eye opening to say the least. Filled with singing and hands violently thrown towards god, my Sunday morning was filled with dancing and getting in touch with Jesus (we never talked). In the afternoon we were again greeted and taken around town by Igi and gang. We watched an Orlando Pirates game, one of the most popular SA teams based in Soweto, in a converted garage with a handful of other well-served vuvuzela blowing fans. After a few Castle Lites (legal at age 18 here) we headed back home, blowing our vuvuzelas and celebrating the Pirates victory, to have our last meal with Momma Flo. The van came to pick us up Monday morning and we told them to come back in an hour after we ate another huge breakfast with Florence, they laughed and we heard another honk an hour later.

My weekend in Soweto was one of those times that forced me to realize not only what we live for as humans but also no matter the race nor the economic status, we all live essentially the same. The vital things that emerge are the connections in life. Whether that be four grown brothers walking down the street holding hands or their generosity to take a few American boys around for the weekend, it is the relationships that are responsible for the joy in our life and in that way they bring us together.

Jo'burg

After 3 full hours at the extremely well done Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, we went to visit with a group call Khulumani. Khulumani is a local grass-roots organization, which works closely with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TNC), which fights for reparations and compensation for individuals and families that were affect by the Apartheid. The have compiled a database of nearly 30,000 victims that have filled out Khulumani’s forms and have shared their stories of how they were affected. Khulumani then takes this information and their donations to really focus on what the victims deserve for their losses as well as helping them continue to live their lives. When we arrived for our meeting with Khulumani they were ecstatic as they had just received word that were given 1.3 million dollars from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Tragically during our presentation, the group received a call saying that the letter they had received from the Gates foundation was a fraudulent and forged all in a ploy to steal money from Khulumani. Seeing this unfold before our eyes and how low people can go to obtain money appalled everyone and certainly changed the dynamic of the presenation. The good news is that the Gates Foundation is still reviewing Khulumani’s request and that the organization thankfully noticed that the letter was fraud. For more on Khulumani see (http://www.khulumani.net/)

This evening, we went out and had a few beers before we attended a play called And the Girls in their Sunday Dresses. The theater was very intimate with a minimal set, while the play consisted of two hilarious women who were waiting in a line for rice. They screamed and danced in several languages and even got a few of our “white American boys" to come on stage and dance with them. Of course Passat and Moketzi (our drivers) brought dates to the play, being the very urban and well dressed men that they are. Other than their incredible style, Passat and Moketzi are a main source of humor amongst the group. They are constantly communicating with all of Johannesburg through their car horns, which everyone seemingly understands. I’m off to bed as it is late here but more to come later!!

Johannesburg & Soweto

Hello all! I am here and overwhelmed but eager to share and at least write down a little of what I have learned and experienced here in Johannesburg. I would like to preface this entire blog by saying that I know nothing about this part of the world and will try not to pretend to. That said, all I can do is share what I see and attempt to convey how it affects me.

As South African Airlines flight 208 touched down in Johannesburg, after 17 hours of travel, a strong southern accent exclaimed from the seat next to me “after 17 hours in a plane, you bet your ass we’re not in America.” Although somewhat ironic, it was the first of many shocks to my system that I am in fact in Johannesburg, South Africa. We gathered as a group and met our two program coordinators Linda and Kristin, both of which have been in Namibia for over two years. Passat and Moketzi, our drivers, are the next two members of the Center for Global Education staff we meet as they dart up in two narrow vans followed by metal containers for our obnoxious American luggage. Immediately we are swarmed by what must have been 6 or 7 porters who are overly aggressive about asking me “their brodha” for tips. We arrive at our home for the next week called St. Peter’s place, which is essentially a church with guest rooms surrounding a courtyard in the heart of Johannesburg.

Our first full day in Johannesburg will forever remain one of my craziest first days of travel and also one of the most overwhelming days in my life. With the help of Molefi, a local friend and guide of the program, we set out to experience Soweto. Soweto is a sprawling township, with a population of 6,000,000 Soweto holds nearly 70% of the Johannesburg population. We started our tour by driving along the "government-enforced" route through the township, which is lined by quite nice houses only to be completely offset by the millions of shacks that lay behind them and in the distance. Initially, these nice houses were an effective way to show the world press that Soweto wasn’t as bad as it seemed, until people started exploring further in and realizing what was taking place.

After lunch we walked around a nicer section of streets in Kliptown which is a section of Soweto. Kliptown has very literally two different sides of the track. One side houses several Apartheid museums, Freedom Sqaure, as well as shops and restaurants. While the other side of the track is mind shattering. We walked over this very narrow rusty bridge as if we were climbing a latter into an entirely different world. As an American the first thing that stuck me was the smell and trash throughout Kliptown. The rock filled dirt pathways were lined with trash that was either at our feet or bobbing in the open sewage that ran downhill throughout the township. The moment I set foot in Kliptown two very young local boys accompanied me on my left hand named Piet and Dodo (not sure on the spelling). For nearly two and a half hours I explored, with the young boys on my hand, this incredible place that I am still having trouble digesting. For that matter I don’t have much to say about it but instead will try and post a few pictures that can attempt to capture my experience. What I will say is that the initial feeling is one of intrusion and guilt for stomping through this community, when it was clearly not our place. In fact a member of my group was feeling uncomfortable enough to ask if tours like ours were common, which our friend responded to by saying “well, we had a few Europeans through here last year.” I only share this to convey the curious, bizarre, and incredibly warm reception we received. Essentially Kliptown has been lost and taken over by poverty. After countless broken promises from the government, the residents are left begging for help. The most prominent government failure is surrounded by a document or policy called “The Freedom Charter” which was instituted by Mandela and the ANC when they came into power in the early 90’s (the document itself was actually created nearly 60 years ago, yet never brought to the forefront until Mandela). “The Freedom Charter” was an incredibly progressive document that would implement basic needs like water, education, housing, and electricity for all South Africans. Evidently, Kliptown and many of the other settlements have not seen any of these things happen. And in fact, for the first time I have begun to hear negative things about Nelson Mandela, who I thought was widely recognized as being such a hero to all. Yet much of the Kilptown community does not look at him that way at all, and instead as yet another person who left them behind.

Not only is the unemployment rate nearing 80% in Kliptown, but there is opportunity to change or improve their surroundings. They are, and have been, stuck in this haunting, static, gray area in which they are waiting for someone to flip the switch and let them live again. What I came away with from my experience to Kliptown was an oppressive feeling of sadness but more importantly the lack of opportunity for the residents to improve their lives. After talking to several residents the idea that seemed to resonate the most was that they do not want people to give them houses but instead teach them how to build their own.

View pictures above!