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Native Tongue
I have just finished my book, and I am panicked. It was a book that I
had read before, but the characters and their lives throughout these 234
beautiful pages once again enthralled me. Characters spoke in
metaphors, and understood each other. Messages were transmitted
between the lines. Families were portrayed and landscapes described.
The simple things like drinking coffee, the not so simple things like
watching children grow up. In their world, it snows.
Waves of desire to return to this book would rush over me at
random times during the day. It was a safe haven to crawl into every
night. These people spoke my native tongue, physically, and mentally.
Do I dare admit that I enjoyed the company of fictitious characters than
that of my fellow Gobabebians? Will you think me mad?
Old Dog – New Trick
They have removed the fence that bordered my caravan for the past
9 months. David came while I was in Windhoek and cut the wire, pulled
out the most of the posts. I returned to my caravan that night, my eyes
sore from 5 hours of driving in the desert and I slipped past the rock,
stepping close to the chair outside my door to avoid catching my bag on
the chicken wire of a now non-existent fence. Only when I emerged from
my bed the next morning did I realize that I had no boundaries anymore. I
was free to roam where I wanted and yet I was so programmed to walk a
certain route, to be careful of a certain turn. I still felt as if I was fenced in.
I had come back from a two-week long vacation that was supposed
to change everything in my life. I had taken my parents on a whirlwind
tour of Namibia and I returned to work with the promise to myself that I
would not work the long hours I had been working before and I would
create physical space for myself at the station. I had been kicked out of
my original office in the first month of my stay and had been floating for
the last seven months. Virgina Wolf eat your heart out. I was going to
have a room of my own or die trying.
The first week went fine. I set myself up in the back lab and started
to finish the work I started ages ago. I refused to answer the phone. I
started to return emails again. I had posted two lists on my wall. Battles
Becca Fights. Battles Becca DOESN’T Fight. And the first list was
smaller. I was on the road to recovery.
Then the computers. Laura came in to tell me the computers were
switching off at random times. Rauna said her computer was cursed.
Emmaunel claimed he had a small problem with his laptop. I ran around
not knowing what to do. I soon discovered it was a generator problem –
the power was unstable and the computers couldn’t handle the waves of
power. What do I do? How am I going to fix this? I can turn off the
generator, change the oil maybe? Start the back-up. Then Thomas came
up and saw my panic. You don’t have to fix this Becca. You have
nothing to do with the power here. Let other people worry. Just shut the
computers off. You do not have to save the world.
They fixed the generator. I reinstalled what I needed to on the
computers. I left the station early that day and sat in front of my caravan
with a beer for a sundowner. I set my chair over the groove in the earth
where the fence had been, my feet up on one of the old posts. Not
saving the world. I could get used to this.
Braids
I bought them oranges, or the newspaper, or the rest of my half-
eaten chocolate bar. They teased me. If you keep bringing us such lovely
things we will never finish your hair!
I had asked them to plait my hair because I loved the way they
looked in their braids. Each pattern different from the other. I first leaned
their names because of their hair. Theopo had a short, tied back braid.
Anna had bright blonde streaks fitted in between the tight curls.
Ndinomwameni had long and complicated twists to her coiffure. I wanted
to be like them.
We called into town to have Lesley bring more hair with the next
supply trip. We need two new back-up CD’s, a loaf of bread, and hair
extensions. Color number 6. Be sure not to get ponytail texture. She just
laughed.
Jacobina would work on my braids after six – before volleyball, but
after the soap opera. I read our horoscopes out loud. One night, the
students had to meet about the paper they were writing. I was allowed
into the meeting, if I promised not to speak. I sat on the ground, as four
women surrounded me, tugging, pulling, fingers flashing in my peripheral
vision. They would stop momentarily, to argue a point or stretch their
fingers. When the last braid was finished, everyone stopped arguing and
clapped.
The braids lasted for three weeks. My scalp itched and Vivian put oil
on the ends to keep them healthy. They showed me how to secure the
dreads on my head to they did not get wet. We complained together
about how our braids were beginning to get old. I was one of them.
The summer programme was over by the time I had to take them
out, with the help of Sara and Adrian, my fellow Grinnellians. Adrian cut
and Sara and I unbraided. As these pieces of hair dropped to the ground
I thought about the student research programme I had been apart of the
last few months. Those students helped show me what it means to be
Namibian, and I helped show them what it means to do research. We
managed to twist our cultural and scientific threads together to shape
something less than perfect, but worthwhile in the end.
Long Showers
I think all of this confusion is because I cannot take long showers.
The water we use at the station is from the Kuiseb River, a river that
flows for only a few days a year. If it flows at all. To help save water, we
limit out showers to five minutes. Water on. Get wet. Water off. Soap.
Water on. Rinse.
There is no luxury of letting the water run and letting your thoughts
flow as you stand under the stream of water. And yet, the shower is
there. It is what makes it more confusing. It is so close to normal that you
forget that it is not.
The water is hot only when the sun shines. On sunny days,
even the cold is hot. You can only stick your head in or your body
burns. On foggy days the hot tap only gives you cold water. You shiver
as you clean your frozen body.
In town, you can get anything you need. Sometimes. If someone
remembered to order it. The phones start to break down in the rain. The
internet connection only works on days when it is below 75 degrees.
Everyone speaks English, but people rarely understand what you say.
You fit in. Almost.
Numb
Thomas is gone. I stand in his office and think of how it would be if
he were still here, inviting me for a quick chat, a funny story, a look at his
newest study subject. Yesterday, it was a scorpion. Today, it’s the
largest spider in the Namib, the White Lady. I don’t know why I am
taking his departure so hard. You would think I would be happy that my
office neighbour no longer harbours poisonous arachnids. But, no. I still
miss him.
Nina leaves next week. She helped me fix three flat tires, all three
within two hours of each other, on a 4x4 road 25km from the closest
farmhouse, and only two spare tires for replacements. I feel this incident
bonded us for life. A few weeks later, she found me in the strong room
crying into the wind records from 1965. She claimed that wind rolls made
her cry too. I couldn’t help but laugh.
One of my friends at home claims that I am too dependent upon
the people here. I have tried so hard not to get connected. To distance
myself from the people coming and going. But somehow, they sneak into
your life. And a few days later they drive right out of it. They leave
behind encouraging words, appreciative gestures, and current emails.
They also leave you behind.
All the scorpions stopped showing up at the station since Thomas
left. Sara claims they just wanted attention – imagine a little scorpion
throwing up his claws in disgust – No one loves me anymore! I think I’ll
be able to bear their absence.
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