Going to the source!

For some time Alisan has been encouraging me to go and stay with a local family for purposes of having a ‘language intensive’. Finally, I acquiesced. I came to Odibo as a guest of ‘Omwene mOmakunda’ (Village Headman), Johannes Haikwiyu. Odibo (which means ‘walking stick’ or ‘sceptre’) is about 60km north of Ongwediva as the crow flies, but by road it is a journey of about 100km. It is basically on the border with Angola, and the centre of Anglican activity in Namibia.

Odibo would amount to nothing more than another African village, except for the huge ‘Mission’ that is comprised of a school, a hospital, and a church. In fact, there was a mini ‘seminary’ as well, but that was destroyed in the war against the South Africans as was the school. The reason? They were considered a ‘hotbed’ of political ‘free-thinking’! Since then the school has been rebuilt at mostly government expense and will celebrate its official opening on the 4th of November. The seminary has not been rebuilt – and this, in some sense, epitomises the lack of training and upcoming leadership within the Anglican church here. Many ministers of the current government (the SWAPO party, who were the previous resistance movement) were educated at mission school at Odibo.

On day 1 I stayed overnight at the mission guesthouse. It was quiet and refreshing. I enjoyed an evening meal with Nancy Robson, daughter of one of the first missionaries there, Ian Robson, who was responsible for building much of the mission. She is a mine of information and history. On the first day I also met some white teachers from the States. They are volunteer teachers for a year. Initially, I assumed them to be Christians, but then discovered that he was Jew and she a lapsed Methodist. We had some good Christ-centred conversation.

On day 2, I waited for a long time for someone to collect me. I had forgotten to bring food for the day, as well as bedding, so Nancy helped me out with some sheets and snacks. Eventually found out where Johannes Haikwiyu lived, and began my walk. I had a shoulder bag of various books, and my sleeping gear. I walked about 2 km through the village before finding the appropriate homestead. One cannot help, as a ‘shilumbu’ (white person), standing out. It leads to many interesting exchanges.

My reception at the homestead was warm, and soon after I arrived I began watching members of the family play ‘Owela’ – which is a game you play with stones in the ground. It’s quite fun, especially if you don’t have the funds to purchase ‘Settlers of Catan’. One game can take 30 minutes so it is a great way to while away the hot afternoons in the shade.

The extended family at the homestead of Johannes (about 60 yrs) is as follows: His wife, Launa, 2 sons and 2 daughters of his 12 children (Philipus, Gabriel, Priscilla and Maria). Priscilla and Maria, both unmarried, have 2 children each. In addition, there are 3 grandchildren who live there, children of his deceased son. There was also an elderly uncle, who, because he had no papers, was unable to receive a government pension. So there are many mouths to feed. Nevertheless, I was given my own room (hut) with a bed. Very cosy.

The homestead is a collection of huts. Some made of bricks (hard sand) and some made of grass. All are thatched with grass, except one, which had galvanised iron, the main bedroom. It is very spacious! The huts are surrounded by a fence made from sticks and logs of various sizes tied together with a flexible kind of bark. There are also mini-granaries, sitting rooms, and a kitchen. Of course there is no running water or electricity, so the kitchen is just a hut with some food in it. All the cooking is done outside on an open fire.

Later that afternoon, I returned to the mission to collect my suitcase, with all my western necessities and clothes. I was not looking forward to the return trip – walking 2 kilometres with a suitcase on my head. However, less than halfway there, I was called aside to a cuca-shop (a sort of one-roomed pub-cum-corner shop) by someone with a car. We started speaking, and soon I was the beneficiary of a lift! It led to a great gospel conversation. Nominalism is rife in Namibia. People are baptised and confirmed, therefore presume they are Christian. There is not much concept of sin, its dire consequence of separation from God and the resulting eternal punishment. In almost every person I speak to, even if they are perhaps repentant, there is no assurance of salvation. Very sad.

Food at the homestead is more than sufficient. The bulk is always ‘oshifima’ – stiff porridge made from millet. The millet is “pounded” in a hole in the ground, so there is always sand in it – so don’t chew too hard! But it is usually served with some kind of tasty meat (just don't ask what kind of meat as even dogs are eaten around here). You eat out of the same bowl as your host – which takes getting used to – and you eat with your hand. You take a lump of porridge with your hand, dip it in the gravy and devour (you have all washed your hands before in a bowl of water). It feels very biblical – ‘“It is he to whom I will give this morsel of bread when I have dipped it.” So when he had dipped the morsel, he gave it to Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot.’ John 13:26.

What WAS hard to get used to, is the fact that I only ate with the host. The women and children eat separately in the ‘kitchen’ (an open area). I think conversation may have been more interesting if other people were around. Even the older sons ate in the kitchen – maybe this is because I am a white man and they are showing respect!

Sleeping was no problem, except for mozzies. I had bought a coil to burn inside the room, to keep them at bay. In the morning you wash in a big dish of cold water. It also takes a bit of getting used to, and I was glad it was not winter. We are so soft! Even compared to our forefathers, a generation ago! (By the way, all the water is fetched by the women and children of the house from a communal tap, 500m away. The buckets are carried back on your head!) I really expected to sleep badly – but due to the amount of walking I did, I slept very soundly.

The final evening of my stay was very warm, which did not bode well for me. Then, praise God, a wind started blowing which meant rain would soon fall. It did …. right through the thatched roof and onto my bed!! I moved the bed – and then it started dripping onto the bed in the new place. Again I moved the bed. And so on. Eventually I found a drip-free place for my bed in the middle of the room. The next morning, the subject of discussion was all about how we were all ‘rained on’ in the night!

On Sunday, I and Tate Haikwiyu went to church (the big Anglican church at the Mission). The boys are not interested in going, and the women stayed behind to do the washing (by hand, in cold water, in big buckets). Church is certainly falling away in terms of its importance to the culture. Perhaps in one generation Namibia will be no different from Australia – a ‘post’-Christian society?

Church was, unfortunately … interminable. The most enjoyable part is the singing, which puts us Westerners to shame with the energy, volume and variation. Still understanding little of rapid general conversation, one has to follow in a prayer, which can be mostly understood because it is in an Anglican format. However, the effort required is very exhausting and cannot be sustained over long periods. Church began at 10am and continued through to 1pm. I sat at the back with Tate Haikwiyu – at times I rested my head on my hands and my elbows were resting on my knees. I could doze like that a little, but soon Tate told me not to sleep.

Two of the occasions of the church service are the offering and communion. For the offering, you walk to the front with your gift. Without looking, you know that just about every eye in the church (of about 500 people) is trained on you as a shilumbu. As everyone has to walk to the front, offering takes long. You have to choose one of various baskets in which to put your money – each representing a different fund: Diocesan, your church’s fund and assistance of the poor, I think. On returning from communion, I walked down on the children’s side of the church. I smiled at them all staring at me, and winked at some of them, which caused much glee.

About an hour and a half into the service, fund-raising activities began for another church in Namibia – which involved auctioning the parish priest. Fun, I suppose, but maybe I had sense of humour failure at that point, and I found it irritating, and vaguely blasphemous. However, fundraising seems to be a very common thing in churches here. You generally have a choir who sing, and then get donations whilst they sing, in order to go to wherever they want to go, or for their new books or something.

In the afternoons, Tate took me with him either to collect his cows, or to visit his neighbours in other homesteads, which was all very interesting. He told me lots of things, sharing his life with me, his disappointments with his kids, and the lifestyle of Owambos. His father was the first wagon driver of the mission, and apparently its first convert. He was a good man to be with, because he knew everyone, and introduced me to everyone, wherever he was. Soon I was his ‘oshiveli’ (firstborn).

He seemed to enjoy having male company, someone who was genuinely interested in him and what he had to say. Much of what he said to me was in a mixture of English and Afrikaans. I had to keep asking him to speak Oshiwambo. And then when he did, I would often not understand. So then he would have to speak very slowly – and I was often still lost in my ignorance, he would have to revert back to pigeon Englikaans.

Monday (day 4) brought a new adventure. It was pension day. That means that everyone (past retirement age), from surrounding homesteads and villages (probably a 20km radius) come into Odibo to collect their government pension. Odibo is transformed into a hive of activity – a lively market outside the mission, and a hoard of elderly people within. Through the village I was on guard for ‘bochochos’ (lowlife who would generally bag snatch) – but I think there were very few there. As I walked through, people would greet me and ask what I was up to. I would respond that I was off to collect my pension. It does not take much to get the Owambos to laugh. They though it hilarious that this ‘rich’, ‘young’, white person would be off to collect his pension!

At the mission itself, there must have been at least 1000 people sitting around waiting their turn to collect their N$150 (about AU$30) for the month. Again, all eyes (which could see!) were trained on the young shilumbu. If you acknowledge their gaze as you walk past and exchange greetings, you have ample opportunity for conversation. Luckily, I had brought many Oshiwambo gospel tracts with me – and though my language ability leave much to be desired, at least I could sow some gospel seed in this way. Africans are very receptive to anything which is handed out. So if they see someone receiving something, they also want one, and so my tracts (at least 100 of them) disappeared very, very quickly. I was very flattered by the mission director, who came and joined with me for a while in conversation. “Oh you speak such good Oshiwambo – with such a nice accent and good grammar”. One of those little encouragements God sends me ……

Later that day I spent some time at a cuca shop (bar) – I played pool with Philipus, Tate’s son. Everyone, because of their temporary wealth, was enjoying their beer (purchased from brewery), omalodu (traditional beer made from Sorgum – quite disgusting – an acquired taste I guess), or otombo (Owambo liquor – very yummy – just like whiskey or some kind of liqueur). Many people here in the North are ‘enslaved’ to alcohol.

I asked Alisan to pick me up on Tuesday (day 5) – I missed my family too much. I made genuine progress in hearing the language and enjoyed learning more about the Owambo culture and traditional way of life. It is ideally something which should be done with my family – perhaps for a month or 2. Except that is a logistic impossibility at this stage. But still, I am thankful for my time, and the love and hospitality with which I was received. I hope to visit the Hiakwiyu household again.

I feel genuinely richer for the experience. I realise how far I am from the experiences of the original missionaries up here and in other parts of the world. Nevertheless, they have passed the baton on to us in some sense. May we be faithful to continue the work they have begun in training local leadership.