Hayestack

The final exercise of the week was to go in groups to different organisations to discover their views on Namibian education. My group had to visit the small but impressive Tsumeb Museum. It is run and owned by an elderly German couple and is stuffed with pictures and memorabilia from the German Second Reich which colonised Namibia at the end of the 19^th century. There is no hint that German occupation was a disaster for the Namibian people, Herero and Nama in particular. The German curators eyed us with suspicion at first but melted and even became outspoken when they realised this was not a post Second World War skirmish. Disregarding Basil Fawlty’s advice, we did, in fact, mention the war, the colonists’ war with the Herero and Nama people when the Germans slaughtered hundreds of thousands, pushed the remainder into the Kalahari desert and eventually sent the remnants to concentration camps and into slavery. I was surprised that there was no hint of this genocide in the museum, but the curators justified this by saying it didn’t happen in Tsumeb. Obviously, genocide or not, if it doesn’t happen in your back yard you are at liberty to ignore it. This species of Namibian ostrich was new to us. The curators were much more vociferous when we began to ask about education and the environment.

“Young people don’t want to visit museums. They get everything from the internet,” they explained.

“Do you try to make the museum more appealing to children?”

“No.”

“Do you go into schools or even send them promotional material?”

“No. We had a party of ninety children here once and it was too many. We had to split them into 2 groups,” they explained, and we could still see the stress in their eyes. I felt sorry for them.

You have to admit, children get under your feet. They pick their noses and touch things. They chatter, they bustle about and exert far too much energy. Museums should be reserved for the elderly where they can sit and muse upon how much better life was in the old days.

We mentioned the copper mine. Their countenance immediately changed. You could see them begin to seethe, their blood begin to boil. The mine shaft was in the centre of town, its tower providing an attractive landmark especially when lit up at night, much like the one built by monsieur Eiffel, though, of course, on a much smaller scale.

“It should be shut down,” they insisted, as if talking about Dachau concentration camp. “It is spewing out arsenic, heavy metals and asbestos into the environment and people don’t know about it. Don’t drink the water,” they warned. We, innocents, who had been drinking the water all week, felt suitably alarmed. We had felt fine and healthy before this revelation. Now we felt decidedly ill. We slunk back to our hotel and downed a large glass of Windhoek lager thinking this might be one of our last acts on earth.

The mine had been closed twice before with the loss of 500 jobs. Phoenix-like it has both times risento life. Maybe this explained why Tsumeb was a ghost town. Maybe all the inhabitants were being gradually poisoned. I had thought Tsumeb would be a great place to which to retire. Maybe, here, you would reach your final resting place sooner than anticipated.

Our second visit was to the Ministry of Youth, National Service, Youth and Culture. We were met by a large, black lady bustling around her office as if harassed by a wasp.

We were greeted with,

“I hope you’re not going to take up too much of my time!”

This came across as a command rather than a question and something told us that this “Big Mamma” would not mince her words. Half a question might be all she had time for. I stood by the open door ready to run. She was dripping with gold even to a couple of gold teeth which glinted in the sun, and she had a circular eruption in the middle of her chest just above her very ample bosoms. It looked very much like a bullet hole, and there was no doubt in my mind that someone had attempted to assassinate her, but only a gold bullet could do the job.

“I deal in crime, youth crime. I sort out peoples’ lives,” she asserted, warming to her subject. I imagined her to be a one woman rehabilitation centre. One word from her and the most hardened criminal would mend his ways forever.

“I’ll do anything to help my youth. I’ll sit with the magistrate, with the prosecutor, visit cells.” She leaned back in her chair with satisfaction and smiled at me broadly. Her gold teeth dazzled me. I felt like an insect before a praying mantis. My legs were jelly, I could not escape. I was a gonna. She had just to flick out her tongue….

“Come on, ask me more questions. I’m enjoying this.” Time was now no object. We were mesmerised.

We asked about school fees. She winced as though we had touched a nerve. The boiler inside her was building up pressure. Soon steam would be shooting out of her ears and nose.

“It was better before independence.” She snorted. If she had said “I am a witch and I eat children,” we would have been no more surprised.

I don’t want you to make notes about this,” she said to me imperiously. My note book fell to my side as thought in fear of its life. My memory cells creaked into operation.

“Education was free before independence. Talent was optimised, not wasted. I have not paid my school fees. The gold chains draped around her neck told us she could well afford to.

“The government promised us free education and they should keep their promise. I shall have to pay though.” She relented.

“I want to see my child’s report and they won’t give it to me unless I have paid the fees. There is too much bureaucracy, too much incompetence. You take a large group of children a long way to an event, a concert or something, and half way there someone says they have not booked the tickets, or they’ve lost the form to register for food. The children go back home disappointed.” She slumps back in her chair exasperated. The next second she’s up again giving me another beaming smile.

“Why doesn’t she just kill me now and have done with it,” I think.

“What is the state of education in Namibia?” She is so eager for questions she has started asking them of herself.

“Well, you know, the Government ministers send their children to school in South Africa.” She looks at us knowingly. We try to look disapproving. She seems satisfied. She wants more questions but it is time to go. Will the mantis release its prey?

“You know, my colleagues are jealous of me, yes, j_e_a_l_o_u_s.” She says the word with relish.

“They say I get special treatment. I get things done. I go over their heads. I go to the top. They don’t like that.” She certainly seemed like a woman who would stop at nothing to get things done. I tried not to stare at the assassins’ bullet hole, mesmerising though it was.

We eased ourselves out of the door and she followed us down the stairs. Were we in Tsumeb long? Was she going to ask us back for more questions? She was going down to Windhoek to sort out the protesting orphans of war veterans who wanted Namibian documents and rights that had been denied them. They were camped outside Parliament and were in for an interesting time. She would get things done. She would sort them out. We did not doubt this for one second.

A sad note

David, one of the more mature volunteers, received news that his father had been taken dangerously ill. A flight home was booked on the internet and he was driven back to Windhoek overnight. Unfortunately, his father died before he reached home. The news saddened us all.

What perplexed me, however, was the fact that 2 two of the volunteers were left to drive David to Windhoek, thereby missing some of the training, while the VSO staff seemingly sat around doing nothing. I hope I am wrong about this and that their continued presence in Tsumeb was essential. But it did not seem that way. This was not their finest hour.

Tags: German, lager, Rose, Tsumeb, VSO, Windhoek

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