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Courage.
Courage. A recent run of mail and the word keeps appearing. The scent of altruism rolls out of these letters towards me and I become scared. Where has this sentiment come from? I applied to this position, came to Namibia for myself. I do not see any true hardship in my life here and can't claim to have sacrificed any more than bagels and cheap phone calls to friends by being here. I don't believe in altruism and am suspect of anyone who attempts to profess it.
Courage has not made a guest appearance in my life for some time. I remember my professor in Kenya said that one day while working in a community, I would surely be confronted with a man who did not like my suspected influence over his wife. In the two years that have that have passed since that conversation, that moment has not yet come. Here, I continue to bite my tongue, to watch quietly and wait for some other occasion. But I cannot wait forever. When will I turn to the man at Goâmus with his mocking "My Future, My Choice" shirt and tell him not to call his young granddaughter stupid? When will I ask Lorraine if her husband of two months is worth a few slaps across the face? Courage is not my word right now. I see a lack of courage in and for myself and wonder how I can offer to someone else what I cannot claim to have myself.
Afrikaans.
Before I came to Namibia, I bought Afrikaans language tapes. I really enjoy learning other languages, although it is certainly not my forte. Needless to say, I have not listened to my tapes once since I've been here, nor has Sara's Teach Yourself Afrikaans book been removed from the shelf since the week I arrived back in June. I gave up learning Afrikaans early on with an onslaught of excuses: I can't pronounce the words properly, the typical Windhoeker speaks decent English, lots of people in the communities would rather speak their tribal language, I can't use it out of southern Africa… But after spending part of November and most of December in the communities, I have changed my tune. I still haven't put much effort into learning but I can understand a basic conversation. I laugh at jokes at teatime. Despite this, my attempts to actually speak have been slightly less well-received.
A few weeks ago, I had to call the ¹Khoadi //Hoas Conservancy in Grootberg in an effort to track down Gabes and Arnold, my Desertification 2002 coconspirators. The man who answered the phone spoke only Afrikaans ("Praat Afrikaans!" he informed me, as though speaking English was a choice). Feeling infinitely proud of myself, I introduced myself in Afrikaans and said I was looking for Gabes or Arnold. He proceeded to rattle off a fully-Afrikaans, completely unintelligible by my piddly skills paragraph at top speed and paused only at the end to wait for my answer. Luckily he soon realized this tactic was not particularly successful and found Bob for me, one of the Environmental Shepherds at the conservancy who I know well and who speaks great English.
A few weeks later, I decided to impress Margareth, my coworker and friend with my newly developed skills by reading her the first paragraph of an article from the Afrikaans paper. I was doing alright until I hit the word slitelspikers. Within two tries, my pronunciation had her rolling on the floor laughing. She called Angi to listen to my flailing tongue. By this point, I was laughing too hard to speak myself. But half an hour later, I mastered the word. So now I walk around muttering "keynote speakers" to myself in Afrikaans, just to make sure I don't forget.
Frustration.
I used to be a Joint Board senator. I actually liked it - for awhile. After the five hours meetings, it got old. When I arrived in Namibia, I was warned about meetings, particularly the Monday morning staff meetings. I went through all the phases. First, they weren't so bad. Then they were so ridiculous funny, I'd have to hold my breath to keep from laughing out loud. Then I made rules: do not speak unless spoken to, do not bring up topics that will prolong the meeting, do not make eye contact with people who will induce laughter, sit next to someone with a newspaper. But now there's just frustration. "No, really the only possible time we can meet is 7am." I naïvely arrive on time. Everyone else arrives by 7:15. The meeting is over before 7:30. An hour of sleep missed for a ten-minute meeting. Next meeting. Mary leaves the supposed all-day meeting after an hour for another meeting. Chaos descends on the room. I offer grudgingly to chair the meeting. We have no agenda but piles of work to do.
One woman makes side comments about how she doesn't like the way I chair the meeting. Everyone else either leaves or starts arguing with the person across the room about something unrelated.
I think I've been in Windhoek for too long. Maybe I'll go on holiday next week. No, Friday meeting moved to Monday. Okay I'll go on holiday afterward. No, another meeting at the end of the week. Holiday moved back. First meeting moved back to Friday. Holiday moved again. I don't have to be at the second meeting after all. Holiday headache. Going to Gobabeb. Holiday cancelled. Not going to Gobabeb. Going to Grootberg. Too tired to think about holiday. Going to Gobabeb. Not going to Grootberg. Communication breakdown - surprise! Was supposed to be at the second meeting but am now going to Gobabeb.
Friends.
Emily is out of town; Margareth and I are trolling around Windhoek, vowing not to spend any more money, our third night out for the week. Margareth's friend Beauty calls on the cell phone (a ubiquitous appendage in Windhoek). "Come to Nora's NOW." So we go. Less than an hour later we are laughing in Nora's flat and I am more at home than I have been in months. I am back with my three childhood gilfriends. Margareth is Emilie, dancing around the living room, smoking cigarettes body on the balcony, head inside telling stories that force us to call her on the tiny kernels of truth buried within. Beauty is Erinnisse, matching Margareth word for word, standing on the armchair, telling her how it is. Nora is Keara, sitting back, laughing at the scene, always the host, always the mature one. The conversations are the same as home, the way you know a friend's life. The way that an otherwise quiet night and a bottle of Amarula is enough.
The Big Weekend.
The peak of the dune still seems far off and I am already panting. Nothing new. I take a deep breath, gather all my potential energy and book it to the top. Unlike most of the Gobabeb sundowners I have been to, I'm entirely surrounded by other people. There are trails running up the dunes, not solitary tracks like the tenebrionic beetles leave, but whole walkways appearing as nearly 50 people scamper up the slopes.
Every year at the end of January is the Big Weekend at Gobabeb where the GTRC (Gobabeb Training and Research Centre) and the DRFN showcase the projects and activities they're involved in to all sorts of dignitaries, donors and other interested parties. This year this VIPs included the Speaker of Parliament and his American wife, the Charge d'Affairs of the Swedish Embassy, a Minister or two and some hotshots from UNDP and other places. I was not particularly looking forward to the weekend. I figured it would be four solid days of work and a lot of unnecessary schmoozing. I was wrong, not completely wrong, but mostly wrong. We worked hard, played hard and disregarded sleep for four days.
Once on top of the Station Dune, I flit through the crowd chatting. Angi and Margareth, good friends from the Windhoek office; Richard, a Scottish economist friend working for one of the ministries and Eric, a local reporter; Robert, a German-Namibian coworker and James, the Tanzanian prof's son; Rauna and Snake, the Gobabeb crew. Mary is in her element, sitting with her beer, surrounded by faces, queries. She is talking about her place, introducing the desert to the guests at her ultimate dinner party. Everyone is talking, laughing and yet subtle awe surrounds us all.
Carmen from the Namibian, the English newspaper stops the office by a few days later to see if she can get some photos from us. Friday's paper comes out and there we are on the Seen Around page, sitting on top of Station Dune, knocking a few back.
The sun has slipped away in an instant. The last few seconds of the Namibian sunset seem so much shorter than at home. We begin to gather our empty bottles, caps from where they have been tucked into the sand. The descent is quick. A mad unstoppable dash down the steep side of the dune toward to the river bed. It's impossible to stop mid-stride for anything once you get moving. In an instant we are all children, gaping at how small we are compared to the endless waves of sand.
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