The Rains, Teaching, Kwangali Culture and Other Updates from Kahenge
March 8, 2007
It’s raining torrentially again. I was told that the rain would stop in March, but so far, not dry. It has been raining pretty much every day since January. Then it abruptly stops, the water soaks into the sand, the stray dogs leave our porch, the young boys continue herding, and the brightest rainbow imaginable fills the sky. But soon the rains will stop and the land will be parched. It will hardly rain again until December, and it will just get hotter until then. I would love the nights except for the threat of malaria-carrying mosquitoes. It becomes cool and quiet. When the moon is hidden you cannot see anything except the brilliant stars and the rare and foolish nighttime drivers.
Malaria! It is the thick of malaria season. The Peace Corps tells me this is the most dangerous disease I will encounter in Namibia. But I have plenty of safeguards: a prophylaxis that mutes the symptoms, a trusty mosquito bed net, and killer coils that I burn at night. I’m doing pretty well: 1 or 2 bites a week, sometimes none. Still, it’s unnerving to know that a single bite could potentially be life-threatening.
Some people have asked about teaching, which is a relevant question. Teaching, or improving as a teacher, is pretty much all I think about. I live at a rural boarding school—there’s nothing else here except the school. All of my friends are teachers who live at the school. There are learners everywhere, always. I would have to be in my room, windows closed, shades drawn to not hear or see a learner. It’s all-consuming.
Teaching is usually difficult, sometimes rewarding. First of all, I’ve never been a teacher before. You just don’t appreciate the amount of time and effort it takes to get it all working seamlessly. It never works seamlessly. I’m getting better at it quickly, but my classroom is usually a loose ship. Second, the learners are taught in English, but they can barely understand it. Their speaking is worse, and their writing skills appalling. They are taught by well-meaning teachers whose own skills are only slightly better. A couple of other points: students and teachers (!) regularly skip classes, most of my learners cannot afford notebooks or pens or school fees, there are not enough textbooks or desks, the textbooks are outdated with the newer national syllabus, and the textbooks don’t contain sample problems or enough homework problems. Is the situation appalling? Maybe. At least the kids are healthy and fed enough and have a stable environment. It’s certainly disheartening. That’s why I cling to blind hope. Hope that somehow, someway, I am helping some learner. It’s too dangerous to have expectations, so I don’t. What keeps me going? The learners. The ones that care are about the sweetest, most disciplined, enthusiastic teenagers you can find. I think of them and my spirits rebound and I get back up with a little more passion.
Cultural Note: In traditional Kwangali culture, all land was communal. Anyone could build their house anywhere and farm anywhere. No one had an exclusive claim to anything although precedence for use was respected. The Kwangali chief and representative council would appoint permission for use and settle any land, monetary, or legal issues. As Namibia has moved into the 21st century and as a nation, this heritage has survived pretty well. Most land is now owned by the government, although the tribal chief and the "Kwangali Cultural Authority" still will arbitrate allocation or disputes. A Kavango resident can choose whether to have a case decided by a modern court or by traditional institutions. Most choose the traditional. As a legacy of apartheid, large tracts of land, usually of the best quality, belong to private farms owned by Boers or other white people. Namibians don’t love this, although the farms are profitable and create employment. On a more practical level, the communal lands mean that there are cattle and goats grazing everywhere. Goats run into our yard and into my classroom (sometimes). Small boys herd cattle past the office, through the soccer field and courtyard, and to the river for water. Our neighbors are growing millet just 50 feet from our house. Exclusive ownership is something of a foreign thing. If you have a bag of candy, it’s expected that you share it until it’s gone. People come to our yard to use the water tap, to dry their clothes on our laundry line. I will borrow my roommate’s iron without thinking twice about it. It’s not all a utopian dream. If something is owned by everyone, then it is maintained by no one. Learners work really well in groups, but then don’t think of it as cheating to hand identical assignments. Also, I’m not sure what the line is between a traditional cultural of communal living and the sharing that occurs out of poverty. Still, it’s fascinating.
Next weekend is Namibian Independence Day. I get 5 days off from school, so I’ll travel to Rundu and enjoy the celebrations and then go to the Mahango Game Park where I have been promised to see hippos and crocodiles and potentially over 200 species of birds. Passion for teaching or not, I need to leave Kahenge occasionally to recharge my batteries and get my bearing. As for now, I remain happy and healthy.
Keep those letters coming!
It’s raining torrentially again. I was told that the rain would stop in March, but so far, not dry. It has been raining pretty much every day since January. Then it abruptly stops, the water soaks into the sand, the stray dogs leave our porch, the young boys continue herding, and the brightest rainbow imaginable fills the sky. But soon the rains will stop and the land will be parched. It will hardly rain again until December, and it will just get hotter until then. I would love the nights except for the threat of malaria-carrying mosquitoes. It becomes cool and quiet. When the moon is hidden you cannot see anything except the brilliant stars and the rare and foolish nighttime drivers.
Malaria! It is the thick of malaria season. The Peace Corps tells me this is the most dangerous disease I will encounter in Namibia. But I have plenty of safeguards: a prophylaxis that mutes the symptoms, a trusty mosquito bed net, and killer coils that I burn at night. I’m doing pretty well: 1 or 2 bites a week, sometimes none. Still, it’s unnerving to know that a single bite could potentially be life-threatening.
Some people have asked about teaching, which is a relevant question. Teaching, or improving as a teacher, is pretty much all I think about. I live at a rural boarding school—there’s nothing else here except the school. All of my friends are teachers who live at the school. There are learners everywhere, always. I would have to be in my room, windows closed, shades drawn to not hear or see a learner. It’s all-consuming.
Teaching is usually difficult, sometimes rewarding. First of all, I’ve never been a teacher before. You just don’t appreciate the amount of time and effort it takes to get it all working seamlessly. It never works seamlessly. I’m getting better at it quickly, but my classroom is usually a loose ship. Second, the learners are taught in English, but they can barely understand it. Their speaking is worse, and their writing skills appalling. They are taught by well-meaning teachers whose own skills are only slightly better. A couple of other points: students and teachers (!) regularly skip classes, most of my learners cannot afford notebooks or pens or school fees, there are not enough textbooks or desks, the textbooks are outdated with the newer national syllabus, and the textbooks don’t contain sample problems or enough homework problems. Is the situation appalling? Maybe. At least the kids are healthy and fed enough and have a stable environment. It’s certainly disheartening. That’s why I cling to blind hope. Hope that somehow, someway, I am helping some learner. It’s too dangerous to have expectations, so I don’t. What keeps me going? The learners. The ones that care are about the sweetest, most disciplined, enthusiastic teenagers you can find. I think of them and my spirits rebound and I get back up with a little more passion.
Cultural Note: In traditional Kwangali culture, all land was communal. Anyone could build their house anywhere and farm anywhere. No one had an exclusive claim to anything although precedence for use was respected. The Kwangali chief and representative council would appoint permission for use and settle any land, monetary, or legal issues. As Namibia has moved into the 21st century and as a nation, this heritage has survived pretty well. Most land is now owned by the government, although the tribal chief and the "Kwangali Cultural Authority" still will arbitrate allocation or disputes. A Kavango resident can choose whether to have a case decided by a modern court or by traditional institutions. Most choose the traditional. As a legacy of apartheid, large tracts of land, usually of the best quality, belong to private farms owned by Boers or other white people. Namibians don’t love this, although the farms are profitable and create employment. On a more practical level, the communal lands mean that there are cattle and goats grazing everywhere. Goats run into our yard and into my classroom (sometimes). Small boys herd cattle past the office, through the soccer field and courtyard, and to the river for water. Our neighbors are growing millet just 50 feet from our house. Exclusive ownership is something of a foreign thing. If you have a bag of candy, it’s expected that you share it until it’s gone. People come to our yard to use the water tap, to dry their clothes on our laundry line. I will borrow my roommate’s iron without thinking twice about it. It’s not all a utopian dream. If something is owned by everyone, then it is maintained by no one. Learners work really well in groups, but then don’t think of it as cheating to hand identical assignments. Also, I’m not sure what the line is between a traditional cultural of communal living and the sharing that occurs out of poverty. Still, it’s fascinating.
Next weekend is Namibian Independence Day. I get 5 days off from school, so I’ll travel to Rundu and enjoy the celebrations and then go to the Mahango Game Park where I have been promised to see hippos and crocodiles and potentially over 200 species of birds. Passion for teaching or not, I need to leave Kahenge occasionally to recharge my batteries and get my bearing. As for now, I remain happy and healthy.
Keep those letters coming!
posted by Complacently Neurotic at 12:20 PM
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