ombwa wandje

I was bitten in the calf by a dog last week. The incident prompted the following.
[Will limps up to homestead]
Will: “Moro!”
Dog-owners: “E?”
Will: “Ombwa wandje!” [Will points at bleeding calf]
Dog-owners: “E?” [dog-owners start laughing]
[Will stomps off]
I later took the matter up with a fellow teacher whose “father is the brother of the father” of the woman who owns the dog. Apparently ever since his grandfather died things haven’t been the same.
“Now a woman runs the family. It’s not like in the old days. In the old days we would have killed the dog for biting. The next day we would kill the dog. It’s not like that anymore.” Mr. Tjiriange told me. I also learned that when I said “ombwa wandje” I actually said “my dog.”

My interactions with the non-school community are still fraught with difficulty. Babies still cry when they see me. Nowadays I will say something in Otjiherero which will confuse them even more. I’m not the only white Herero around Otjituuo anyways. I’m still getting used to being addressed from over 30 yards away. You need some lungs on you growing up around here. I still can’t get over some of the little ten-year old girl belting out something in rapid-fire Otjiherero to a distant figure on the horizon. One time I was in the middle of a lesson, literally writing at the chalk board. The door was open and I heard my name from afar. I could make out the principal on the other side of the school. A whole city block away. “Teacher is calling you,” one of the learners offered. I excused myself from class and made my way over to the principal. Turned out he wanted me to make sure that he had added up a row of numbers correctly.

I’ve been here long enough that I’d say I’m known, not “integrated.” Like between the five minutes of walking to the computer room, I’ll have attracted a retinue of at least ten kids. Some kids live really far away from school and can just sense that it’s go time. They are there within minutes. It reminds me of the way that prisoners in jail might communicate using signals. It really is uncanny. In another way that word is spread is in that there are no more “hellos” from females in the community after hours. I put the word out through Motata not to propose any more ladies on my behalf. I asked Jared about this. Jared is the previous volunteer. He now lives in Myanmar and can’t communicate because his emails are checked by the authorities there.

I hang out with the police sometimes. They are really competitive volleyball players. Here volleyball is regarded as a lot tougher than in the states. Our police force is going for vindication in Otjiwarongo for the district finals. Sometimes I can get a hike to town in the back of the police bakkie but recently it’s been in the shop (someone put in regular gas instead of diesel).

I would have to say that over all my shock value has experienced a marked decrease from my continual exposure. My recruiter told me that running around with an iPod wouldn’t be culturally sensitive. Maybe. But I can tell you that after weeks and weeks of seeing me I no longer attract a string of kids running behind me like some faux-inspirational Nike ad. I can’t even get a double take from old men sitting at a shop when I zoom by in the back of a pickup with a cow and some kids. I had started to take some pleasure in saying “boo!” when kids would stare while I tied my shoe on my front porch. There are some kids (who still wear a leather loincloth and nothing else) who live in the bush with their parents and haven’t seen me yet. I can still scare those kids.