First and biggest is the slightly-off-kilter feeling of being in a
place that isn’t that different than the place I’m used to being, but is different
enough to be noticeable. It’s like
walking up stairs that aren’t exactly the same height. It’s not difficult, but you do have to pay a
bit more attention.
I have amused myself tremendously with the observation that the only difference
between Namibia and the US that has really freaked me out so far is that
Wilhelmina kept bananas in the refrigerator.
You don’t keep bananas in the refrigerator! You can’t
keep bananas in the refrigerator! And maybe no one else in Namibia does – one of
my PST colleagues said her host family was astonished
that she ate vegetables raw, as in a green salad with tomatoes and green
peppers and carrots. That family always
cooked their vegetables, and she thought maybe all Namibians did the same. The rest of us assured her that we got raw
vegetables in our salads – drenched in mayonnaise, sure, but raw.
Curiously, one of the ways living here is like living in Ireland is
that people generally don’t keep eggs in the refrigerator. In Ireland the butter was usually on the
counter, too, but it’s too hot for that here.
It’s too hot during the day, but in Okahandja in July, nights get
chilly, and there’s no heating indoors.
Ireland had indoor heating but to a much lesser extent than in the
US. So in both countries, I spend at
least some of my indoor time bundled up in multiple layers, shivering lightly
for warmth as I study. That’s another
one: constant studying. And in the matter of heat, there’s also the
hot water. That was the first point of
similarity that really struck me. In
Dublin, if I wanted a shower, I would switch on the hot water heater about 30
minutes ahead of showering time. Same
thing at Wilhelmina’s. If I just want to
wash my face, I would/do boil water in the electric kettle and pour it into the
wash basin. Tiptoeing down the hall
after Wilhelmina had gone to bed, chilly, over-read and carrying the kettle to
the bathroom, I sometimes thought I was 27 again.
Renée, my landlady/housemate/friend in Dublin, had an automatic clothes
washer. Wilhelmina does, too, but
knowing that I almost certainly wouldn’t have one at my permanent site (and I
do not), and concerned by the cost of all the water the machine uses, she didn’t
offer it to me. So I washed my clothes
in her laundry sink, and then hung them on the line.
 |
| Wash on the right, rinse on the left. The slanted sides are ridged for scrubbing. |
Giant difference between Namibia and Ireland: though I
line-dried/line-dry my clothes both places, in Namibia they dry fast and
reliably, hung out in the heat and sunshine.
In Ireland, good laundry days weren’t hot and sunny – there were no hot
and sunny days – but windy. With enough
wind, even hanging out in the light drizzle that descended almost every day,
clothes would get at least close to dry after ten or twelve hours. In three months I’ve been here, I’ve felt a
few drops of rain twice in Windhoek (the capital) and once in Swakopmund, which
is on the ocean and gets quite misty.
 |
| In Dublin the sky would be lower and less blue; the greenery less abundant and flowerier. |
Ireland and Namibia are both left-hand drive countries, so you have to look right, then left, before crossing the road. In Namibia, drivers seem to have the right-of-way at all times. I don’t know whether it’s legally theirs, but I know they take it and they’re bigger than I am. In Ireland, motorcyclists would sometimes drive up onto the sidewalk and almost brush against pedestrians, parking inches from an astounded American's kneecaps.
I’m kind of broke-ish in both countries, although in Namibia I at least
have some financial cushion in the form of real estate on the other side of the
Atlantic (and of the equator).
Nonetheless, I took myself out for afternoon tea one day in Ireland, and
the Shelburne Hotel on St. Stephen’s Green fed me so much cream – on the
scones, on the cakes, on the cocoa I had instead of tea, and cream cheese on
the sandwiches – that I felt a midge queasy for hours afterward. Apple pie came with whipped cream, as did
most other desserts. Renée kept cream
for her coffee. I haven’t seen whipped
cream for three months here in Namibia (there’s some ghastly Cool Whip-like
substance in some bakery cakes that tastes acidic and chemical; one thinks of
battery acid though one has never tasted battery acid).
I’m writing poetry again, and eating from dishes on which the soap suds
have been allowed to dry, unmolested by rinse water. However, I haven’t had a sip of whiskey nor
been near a pub after sundown. Perhaps I
should see what I can do about that.
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