Sort of getting into the swing

Written Saturday, March 23:

So, I'm sitting in my room, listening to the rain. It's the end of our first full week of training, and we just got back from Windhoek (I FINALLY HAVE A PHONE...and some very tasteful t-shirts that I am hesitant to post here but can certainly tell you about). As the recent pictures have shown, I am now living with my home stay family. I'm living in a part of town called Smarties. “But why is it called Smarties?” I assume you all want to ask. So I'll answer you. Picture a package of Smarties candies, those little sugar pills that came in different colors. That's what the houses here look like, all colorful. The house itself is nice, and with the window open at night, not too hot. I will say this, though, I am very happy that I grew up in a country where having easy access to cold water was not a concern. Here, my family only seems to drink juices and sodas, and though I can fill my bottle from the tap, the fridge can't seem to keep up with my thirst. Especially because every day when I come home, my host brother and sister immediately come at me to get my football so we can all play rugby with all the kids on the street (see Facebook for photos of some of these games).

My host mom is a born-again Christian. This led to an awkward exchange when she asked me about my Judaism and couldn’t understand that Jews don’t believe in Jesus. However, she is very nice, and extremely helpful and generous (I usually eat a piece of fruit for breakfast, and because the kids ate all the apples, she got me my own container to set some aside, and then got me some peaches just for myself, since I mentioned I like them a lot). She has 2 older daughters in Windhoek, one who is working and I have not met, the other is in in 12^th grade, and is actually home this weekend. Her son, Brodi, is 14. He’s a lot of fun, and always smiling. We talk about Chelsea a lot, and every day when I come home, the first thing he does (after giving me a minute or 2 to change) is ask me “can we have your ball?” I have a football, and we use it to play rugby and American football. We’ve also played soccer with a ball made of shopping bags (yes, I know it’s cliche, but I enjoyed it). The youngest child is Peggy, who turned 8 yesterday. She’s super sassy and a lot of fun. She loves playing with my djembe and watching me play it. Meaghan and Courtney will be happy to know that she tortures me by listening to Miley Cyrus a lot (her favorite artist). She and Brodi can’t comprehend that I’ve never met any of the celebrities they see on TV, since they, like me, are from America. There is no father; he died of cancer a few years ago.

Of course, the home stay isn't the only thing going on in my life here. Classes are really getting into the swing of things. I'm learning Khoekhoegowab (KKG). For those of you who don't know about this language, it's spoken by the Dhamaras and Namas peoples, and features 4 different clicks. As hard as it is, I actually feel like I'm learning this language a little (granted, since everything we've been taught can be responded to with “!gai a” or repeating what was said, maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself. My host mom has also been using the time we spend preparing dinner to teach me about food. Food here in the house tends to be very simple. Some form of meat (generally chicken, beef, or sausage) with a little veggies (enough for flavor, but not really a full serving), and either pasta/rice or porridge. How do I go about describing the porridge? It’s a staple of the diet here, and is a lot like grits, but made of corn meal and a lot thicker. Though my host mom always gives me silverware, when you eat meals with the porridge, you generally eat with your hands. This takes some getting used to (after all the years of being told it’s bad manners to eat with your hands), but I’m getting the hang of it.

We also had a day of learning about the history of this country on Namibian Independence Day. That was brutal, though very interesting. We've also been learning about HIV prevention and basic health to keep ourselves safe. Soon we'll start learning about actually trying to fight the disease in this country. The most interesting class (other than language) was one on Peace Corps model for development.

So, how do Namibians celebrate their Independence Day? Well, actually, not too differently than in the US. They have a day off from school, and many spend the day with their families. Many families have a braai. A lot of people drink. There are some festivals/parties. And people apparently drive around with Namibian flags tied to their cars.

For those of you wondering, no, my bag still has not arrived, and yes, I am finally starting to get angry. While I've recovered a decent amount of wardrobe (though the N$1200 Peace Corps gave me didn't come close to covering the cost of the 3 polos, 5 pairs of boxers, 2 pairs of pants, 2 undershirts, and 4 t-shirts), it would still be nice if South Africa Air would find my bag. Honestly, I'd advise anyone out there to avoid that airline at all costs. I'm not the only person who lost a bag, and it really seems like their making absolutely no effort to find it (I've had to send in descriptions 3 times so far). Sorry if I sound like an arrogant American, but I paid extra for that bag, I think I have every reason to expect it to reach this country, or at least for them to give me regular feedback on their efforts to find it. Or even SOME form of update. I know Peace Corps wants me to be a good ambassador for my country, but this is beyond acceptable in my mind.

Okay, angry rant over. While I could go on forever about classes, I'm pretty sure I'd just bore you. So, instead, I'll just talk about Windhoek, the capital city. Our first stop was Heroes Acre, a cemetery for national heroes, originally formed to honor the heroes who lost their lived in the war of independence. After a stop at the mall to buy cell phones (sorry Kellie) and grab lunch, we went to a graveyard in a formerly black part of the city where they honor the victims of a massacre. It was during apartheid, and this neighborhood, mostly inhabited by blacks, was to be a whites-only neighborhood. As one might expect, the blacks were not particularly happy to be forced from their homes, so many refused, and the 1959 massacre broke out. After a stop at the Herero Mall, an open air market (where I got some super yummy meat called outete and a bag of spices), a stop at a shabine (a word I probably badly misspelled, but is basically a metal box operating as a bar), and a drive through a less than pleasant part of town, we returned to Okahandja, just in time to beat the rain that just stopped falling.

So, while I could continue in great details, I think it would be better if I stopped here. Not that the rain has cleared, my host brother is impatiently waiting for me to come make teams for another rugby match, and, besides, let's be honest, if I keep going, I'm just going to bore you all. So, if anyone wants my phone number, just ask on Facebook or send me an e-mail. Incoming calls are free for me. And with that, I will talk to you later.