Posting of WEEK OF March 14th

This is all you will hear of this blog for sometime. Future posts will be irregular. I have to write more med anthro stuff! As I am going to write more now of what is in line with research. Here is a pic of me in the Kitchen in a dance vest

This is an image from my birthday on Feb 25th. I have to go now, to talk with my grandparents via skype - it is amaizing how technology is effectively bridging distances.

Friday

I was a writer. That is how I introduced myself at the registration desk at the conference of the HIV clinicians society and the Medical Association of Namibia. “So did you already pay,” was the query from the lady who gave me to sign on the registration sheet. “What payment? I did not know about any payment, I just spoke to Elizabeth.” I said flustered and honestly. “Elizabeth, he says he is a write do you know him?” asked my interrogator and Elizabeth replied affirmatively. Yes she did know and I am a writer. I was thought and the conference was awesome. Thanks to the New Era newspaper for publishing my first work on “Bread and Health” the day after my birthday.

After the conference, I was not sure where I would go back to the youth group where I used to go. Thoughts of what transpired the week before kept me indecisive. What do I do there? They have issues with my unashamed homosexuality, I have issues, we differ and so forth and so on. Then I realized I could just give in. I could give in and imagine that nothing happened. I would just walk in and be how I was before this whole discussion we had last week there. But I was still ambivalent and so I just walked home, past the church, after shopping at the store across from the place of worship. On the way I met Geneva. A woman , young like, but in youth ministry unlike me. I walked back with her. She was warm, the fact that I was asked to stop speaking about my homosexuality did not come up. We were just friends and we walked. There was no tense, subdued air, it was all cool and it moved swiftly between us when I decided to run uphill to the church, so that my hamstrings would be warm by the time I reached there and I could stretch in the church (as I have before, many times before). Then a car honked at me and I turn to look as I run “Its Patrick Sam! A guy that went to the United World College in the US and a Fulbright candidate who I helped with the GRE Math Section, in his van, the one he uses to go the afterschoo mentoring program that he runs. “No Patrick I am fine,” I said wagging my head from side to side as I caught my breath.

When I got to the Church I was out of breath and I entered panting. “Do you know where is the restroom?” I asked breathing heavily to Ester who was seating next to pastor John in tranquility. Just over there she said and Pastor John moved to stand up and greet me. He shook my hand with an ecstatic smile, the type you give to a mentally unstable person, so that you put them at ease and don’t do anything crazy, but that type that betrays your unease. “You like making jokes huh, you like being funny? You have been to the youth so many times and yet you don’t know where the restroom is?” He said in his firm handshake. At first I denied it “No I am not trying to be funny, I need the toilet,” then I realized that indeed, I did want to be funny and I said “yes sometimes It try to be funny, because humor is good.” And he let go of his grip on my hand I went to the toilet, to which I recall I had been before. I went to stretch in the classroom (this church has one attached) just across from the toilets. I felt I did not want to draw to much attention to my awkward position, body strewn on the floor, with one foot in the hand, close to the head. It was great! I was happy, I was stretching and I was grateful to the Lord!

I want to write about the discussion we had later in the youth group, about sexual purity and how an American lady on the National level of the Highlands Assemblies of God Church (which is part of the international Assemblies of God Pentacostal Churches) said that one can sublimate sexual feelings and if one claims it is not possible, then one is not sowing the right seeds and how I did not really agree, because the way I saw, masturbation means to “till the land” and so I was sowing seeds, but I will leave that out.

Thursday

The hanging cross of Jesus against the white buglar bar of my window draws my eyes to it. That Jesus I know, nailed to a tree, “Oh were you there when they crucified my Lord? Where you there when they nailed him to a tree?” This maybe a Negro spiritual, but we have sung here at our Church in Namibia, though not for a while.

I was singing this song to myself on Wednesday morning. I just did sang to remember that I could and that perhaps I should. “Oh it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble” comes to me know the chorus. I know that tremble from the dance the Ovahimba in which I partook almost two years ago. The whole body trembling as we stood sparsely near the trees and the barrel drum was beating. “Mooi” was Vemui the head of the village-family told me, meaning beautiful in Afrikaans.

I was not strong enough to overcome mis deseos. It is lent, a time to repent, but only after I felt the orgasmic tremble of my body, lying on my back with my member in my hand. The cross of St Benedict at the window, with Jesus hanging, just looked on. Finding a new way to abstain, I guess I need that.

Wednesday

I went to Spanish lessons. I guess this was the high point of my day. I sit next to a man called Hoy, ( I doubt that is how his name is spelt, but I did not ask him ?cómo se escribe?, perhaps I should. ) We were supposed to ask ourselves the questions we had heard on a tape, where a woman in Spain was being surveyed. I memorized the opening lines in addition the questions. I had to! I am into the language and plus I worked for the health facility census last year and I learnt a lot about surveys and the demographic and health survey, I should download CSPro, the software used to collect and do some basic…Alright enough! Back to my point. So I being

¿Buenos días señor estamos haciendo una encuesta sobre la familia española, puedo hacerte algunas preguntas?

“Um what?” he says, clealry he did not understand that so I just go in straight for the questions?

“ ¿Cuantos años tienes?, ¿ A qué te dedicas? ¿Tienes hijos, hermanos? ¿Y tus padres qué hacen? He answered me to best of his ability and when it was his turn, he initialy spoke to me as if he was speaking to himself, with the wrong conjugations. I corrected him when I could, but I could not help noticing how different we were. He is from Korea, I am from Namibia. He finds Spanish difficult, speaking like a fish out of water, while for me it comes almost naturally. He works for the UN while I am an unemployed and I want to work for the UN. (I hope you chuckled at that last one). Indeed, I waited for my application, where I would even be shortlisted. Alas, me handing in a cover letter in English and in French was not enough to receive a callback for an administrative position that I could contribute towards to as a passionate person about the prevention , treatment and care about HIV in prisons while throwing an anthropological, molecular biological eye on the whole HIV thing. Well it’/s understandable, I applied and so did every cutesy twenty something year old professional secretary in Windhoek. Which one do you think they picked?