September 14, 2007

As of last night, I live in a house in a neighborhood called Khomesdahl. Khomesdahl is an area that was reserved for coloureds during apartheid, wedged between Windhoek city limits and Katatura, the black area. I have two wirey and adorable little sisters, another little brother at the university, a stay at home dad that drives me to school as part of a seven kid carpool in a five seater, and a mom who, despite all of my initial awkwardness, made me feel instantly comfortable. This home stay is looking like it will turn out to be one of the best things that has happened to me since I got to Namibia.

Our families came to pick us up one by one. We’d all received short descriptions of our families, so whoever happened to be glued to the window at when a car pulled up would shout out “Okay! Who has a mom and two teenage sisters?” our program’s student intern would shout up a name, and then we would rush down the steps to meet our new families.

My host parents are trying to teach me a couple words of Nama, which is one of the most gorgeous languages that I have ever heard and will never be able to speak. The clicks don’t click on my lips, and, according to my housemates, when I say the word for good (/Kaya) it sounds like I have a serious Brooklyn accent. Not exactly what I’m going for. My host parents have had something like ten students before me, and I’m the second Californian they’ve had. Arnold Schwarzenegger, much to my embarrassment, has already come up. George Bush did, too. I’m starting to think that, as an American abroad, I should just starting wearing a pin that says ‘No! I do not support the Bush administration.’ I feel like it would put a lot of people at ease, and get that inevitable conversation out of the way from the start.

We had a conversation that I’ve had too many times since I’ve been here, which basically boils down to me explaining that I actually only speak one language. It really does make me realize how ignorant and culturally isolated that makes me, because the question that then begs to be asked is how do I communicate with different people? Good question.

My parents are born again Christians, and a good chunk of the evening was spent with the girls watching a cartoon version of Adam and Eve. I already told them that I’m not religious, but that I would be happy to come along to church, and I meant it. I’m just anticipating some uncomfortable situations. On my last home stay in Soweto I was flat out told that I was going to hell and that, yes, I should be scared of eternal damnation.

The two little girls are still pretty frightened of me. I caught them whispering in Nama (I could hear the clicks behind their hands) and I just smiled and told them that they didn’t have to whisper. I couldn’t understand a word.