A Lesson Learned

The biggest lesson I learned from travel is that it is more than a checklist—it is a feeling, it is about people, it is food, it is communicating without words, it is about being uncomfortable, and it is about being open.

So, as my husband Jeffery and I prepared to set off for yet another trip to the continent of Africa, we did not really know what to expect. We've been to Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Zambia before, but this trip would include a new country-Namibia.

Many months earlier, I had reached out to a wonderful woman on a Facebook group page who was requesting school supplies for the school where her sister worked. As we have delivered what must easily be hundreds of pounds of school supplies over the years, this was a simple, very easy request for me to fulfill. After many chats back and forth on Facebook, we decided to communicate via WhatsApp to help make things more straightforward. After several conversations, there was a bag full of school supplies ready for delivery.

Thirty-four hours plus of international flights later, we arrived in Windhoek, Namibia. We were finally able to meet with Miss V the next morning, and she had arranged for us to visit the Golden Hills School where her sister worked to deliver the school supplies. As with many cities in Africa, there is a huge disparity between those who are doing even moderately  well and those who are marginalized. As we left the main part of the city of Windhoek and headed towards the outskirts of the city, the township begins. Initially, it looks more like sad, tired buildings that have long outlived their usefulness, but it quickly becomes a series of miles and miles of corrugated tin buildings with all types of rubbish strewn everywhere, and cattle, donkeys, and dogs walking in the middle of the road. What was once a paved roadway eventually gives way to a gravel roadway and eventually to just a dirt pathway. I began to question if Miss V’s small, little Toyota car  would be able to continue down the rutted, dirt pathway through the township. It did.

Finally, as we came over a small rise in the road with baboons running across it, there, on the outskirts of the township, was now a tent-city. No running water. No electricity. Just tents. Lots, and lots of tents lining the hillside. Then, there on the side of the road was the “school” with a wire fence surrounding it and a few of the tent township parents sitting at the entrance. As we exited the car, Miss V was instantly recognized, and we were welcomed with wide smiles. This had to be perhaps one of the most marginalized schools that we had ever visited. Every single classroom was being held in a tent with no electricity, in every kind of weather.  Volunteers were making a large pot of maize porridge for the one a meal day the kids would have. It was difficult to see so many children with so little.  I held my breath and put my “big girl” pants on and graciously met the teachers and the principal. We went to her “office” which was a converted shipping container. The only reason that her office  had electricity was because of a small solar panel on the roof. After chatting for a few minutes about what the school needs were, I felt that the school supplies that Jeffery and I had brought would be woefully inadequate. The school’s needs were, and are, enormous, far more than we could assist with during this short visit. However, the principal was ever so grateful for what we brought and could not thank us enough for taking the time to visit and meet with her. It was a very contemplative drive back to our hotel. All I could think about was an Anthony Bourdain quote:  “Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”  

This journey certainly changed me.