Special Days IV: Coronation

Okahandja, where I did my Peace Corps training, is a town of about 20,000 in central Namibia, in the savannah that provides such great pasturage for the country’s world-renowned beef cattle.  (Okay, ‘world-renowned’ may be an overstatement, but Namibian beef is supposed to be highly valued in Europe.  You Americans do not know what you are missing.  A vegetarian for 30 years, with strong reservations about the meat-eating I’ve done in Namibia to integrate culturally and environmentally, I can acknowledge, reluctantly, that if I didn’t have moral qualms the Namibian beef I’ve eaten would be delicious.  It is like eating hot beef-flavored ice cream.)

Anyway, the oft-acknowledged leading experts of cattle rearing in this area are the people of the Herero tribe, whose word for ‘thank you’ is the title of this blog.  They moved into Namibia around five hundred years ago, and preferred the huge expanse of savannah to the more fertile northern area, where the Ovambo and other peoples did their farming and ranching.  So Okahandja was a center of their activity, and the site of some of the initial battles in what became the German genocide of the Herero in the early 20^th century.  Different sub-tribes continue to hold major events, celebrations and commemorations in the area, including the coronation of a new paramount chief, Advocate Vekuii Rukoro, on the first weekend in May 2015.

The Chief-elect and First Lady-to-be

I do not understand about the sub-tribes:  there’s something about green flags, white flags and red flags and maybe there are other flags as well.  I understand from the national newspapers that there may have been some controversy about the selection of Advocate Rukoro as paramount chief.  I don’t understand that either.  I do not know what source, if any, I could trust for an objective and accurate account of any of this.  So I’ll just note that there’s more to all this than I understand, and then tell you about what I saw on Saturday 2 May, when I attended the coronation on the big open ground near the new Okahandja Mall.

Presumably one green flag amongst the many red.  The two at the front told me to take their picture.
I don't know whether they thought I was from a newspaper or something.

All of us trainees convened at our training center, where we discovered that a few of our trainers are Herero, and were proudly bedecked in their tribal celebratory garb.  The colors for the day were red and black, and my Afrikaans facilitator, Isabella, was wearing the dress and headdress with which Herero women proclaim their heritage.  The dress, with big leg-o-mutton sleeves (puffed at the shoulder and tight on the lower arm), a high waist and gigantically full skirt that sweeps the ground, is apparently modeled on Victorian-era German dresses.  The headdress, an elaborately-wrapped turban with a horn sticking out on each side, and on special occasions a fancy pin or two, evokes the cattle that are so prominent a part of the culture.  They come up with some glorious prints and color combinations for the dresses, and headdresses usually match although sometimes you see a woman just in the grocery store or somewhere wearing something a little more clashy.

Isabella front and center; both men are also Herero.

The men’s clothing is not nearly so colorful or ornate; I would not be able to spot a male Herero by his outfit – nor a child.  There were a lot of uniforms on this special day, though; I've read that they're modeled on German cavalry uniforms but don't know whether that's true.

So we took the Peace Corps combis (vans) to the parade ground, and the place was packed with black-and-red-clad, dignified, mostly adults under numerous tents, in innumerable folding chairs.  One of our facilitators talked with an event official – I have no idea what she said – at length, and while they conferred a boy of maybe ten or twelve attached himself to me.   After some official-looking back-and-forthing, two men ushered us in front of the chairs lined up to face the dignitaries, including the soon-to-be chief, to sit on the ground.  Another official brought over a length of red carpet and unfurled it so we could sit on that, and we all shifted out of the dirt, smiling gratefully and trying not to block the view of the many people behind us.  The speaker seemed to be introducing us – he was speaking in Otjiherero, of course, but said, “United States of America,” and we got a lot of approving nods and smiles and a smattering of applause.

Before we set out for our special seating, I told my young companion that I thought he couldn’t come with, but in a few minutes he was pasted back to my arm.  I hope I was as comfortable a prop for him as he was for me.

Majorets, I believe.

The ceremony was almost entirely in Otjiherero, so I really don’t know what was happening.  Having arrived late, we missed the Namibian and African Union anthems, introductions of dignitaries, a few prayers and some welcoming speeches that would most likely have included prayerful commentary and many, many thank yous to many, many people, followed by the statement, "The protocol is observed."  This is standard procedure in Namibian speechifying events.

It was surprisingly comfortable, sitting there on the thin, red carpet in the blazing sunshine with an unknown prepubescent leaning against me, wondering about the history of these people, and trying to remember whether I’d put on any sunscreen at all that morning, and hoping for a glorious and noble future for this tribe that has known such suffering.  This is obviously (I hope) an over-glib comparison, but in fact it was a bit like watching a cricket game.  Great weather, ancient tradition, no idea what’s going on, happy to be here.  No Pimm’s Cup.  Smatterings of applause; join in when you hear it.

The shuffling, threatening approach to the chief-to-be. 
The crowd of approachers got much larger as it proceeded
very, very slowly toward the head table.

There were a lot of speeches; occasionally a few words of English broke out, but mostly Otjiherero.  Pretty frequently, someone would walk right up to the lectern, or the dignitaries’ tent, and take some photos.  I believe they were not official event photographers; it was just an okay thing to do.  A troop of boys in military-style uniforms, some a bit tattered, paraded past.  I think they were called majorets.  A group of Nama people performed a drama – a short theatrical performance based on various historical events in the long history of Nama-Herero alliance (which has included some turf battles, too, just to keep the thing from getting stale).  There was trouble with the P.A. system.  Then a group of majorets and men in military-style uniforms grouped together, standing very close and tight, and slowly approached the paramount-chief elect and his wife at their head table under the dignitaries’ tent.  I have no idea what this was about:  threat?  obeisance?  allegory?  More militarily-garbed youngsters, this time with a sprinkling of girls.  Then Advocate Rukoro left his tent and moved to a majestic chair in a smaller tent, and the informal photographers closed in, blocking the audience’s view quite effectively.  When he emerged, he was wearing a scarf that read, “Paramount Chief,” and he did a brief walk around waving and still being pretty well blocked from view by photographers.  There was the most beautiful cow you can imagine waiting to come into the main ceremony area, with several sheep following behind.  In terror that the next step in the ritual would be butchery, I fled.

That's he.

More majorets.  Note the fake beard on the middle one.

Rarely is one privileged to see a more beautiful animal.  Maybe it got a reprieve from the new chief.

I lost my little companion during the fleeing process, but saw him later as I walked home.  He flew across the street toward me and gave me a most tremendous and satisfying hug.  A few weeks later, we were in the newspaper, identified as a volunteer teacher and her pupil.  I only wish I had taught him anything at all.

Lower right - self and kid.

If this is 2015...

...then I’m probably not in Dublin.  That was a bit more than 20 years ago, when I hopped the Atlantic to study poetry.  And yet, I keep getting these flashes of déjà vu.

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.