the toughest job you'll ever love

                I had chicken last night for dinner.  Eating chicken is really thrilling when you only get it every couple of weeks.  Even when it comes vacuum-sealed in a can with sea salt water. 

                I sautéed it with onions, garlic, a little bit of olive oil, and a handful of the first harvest of green beans from my garden.  Tossed it all together with brown rice and soy sauce.  I couldn’t have been happier.  Except, it’s not very exciting to have great meals when you are by yourself listening to the news on the radio and eating at a primary school desk.  So I celebrated by popping a Tylenol PM and reading in my bed, falling asleep by 9:30pm (It was a late night. Really.).    

                When you are applying for the Peace Corps, they say that it’s the “toughest job you’ll ever love”.  And they aren’t lying.  They say you’ll have “your highest highs, and your lowest lows”. 

                Today was a low.

                Not that I am not happy here, or that I am wishing I were somewhere else.  Hours or days will pass where I am on the brink of packing up my suitcase and saying, “F@#! it, I am out of here!!!”  But usually, if I wait it out, the feeling passes. 

                Yesterday, I got home from spending the entire weekend with American friends.  My friend Heather spent the night on Friday; we watched “The Holiday” and ate bean soup and chocolate cake and drank red wine.  For breakfast the next morning, we polished off the chocolate cake (this time, topping it with peanut butter) and sat around reading People magazine.  Saturday, we went to a “camping event” with two other volunteers.  We played Frisbee in a park and walked around collecting firewood to cook an early dinner.  We spent the night drinking quarts of beer and watching reruns of cartoons from the ‘90s. 

                Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed returning to my site Sunday morning, slightly hung over, and immediately bombarded by my students as soon as I stepped off the taxi.  I decided that I was going to shut myself inside my house all day and relax.  It sounds antisocial, but believe me, sometimes you just need those kind of days.

                Of course, it was the one day where absolutely everyone in the village decided they wanted to come and visit me.  A couple of times after hearing knocking at the door and turning my visitors away (“I am sick today my friend, so sorry!”) I decided just to ignore the knocking and lay down for a nap.  Twenty minutes after closing my eyes, I heard knocking again and the voices of girls whispering excitedly outside.  I didn’t move.  I figured that if I didn’t make any noise, they would think that I wasn’t home and turn away.  

                Nope!   They walked right into my house.  What the hell??  Not okay.  They were all smiles seeing me curled up on my bed, but their eyes got wide when I quickly hopped up and scolded them for barging into my house without knocking.  Looking back on it now, maybe I was a bit harsh…but, I didn’t even know these girls.  They weren’t my students; they were high schoolers who were probably just coming over out of curiosity.  I think I gave them a pretty good scare as I ushered them out and slammed the door behind them; one of them managed to squeak out a “I am so sorry, madam!” before she scampered away.

                I started off this morning with a steaming mug of Starbucks Mocha (courtesy of my latest package from Grandma!) and BBC World News on the radio.  I was at school on time, as were (most) of the other teachers.  Actually, all of the teachers except the one who really matters—the one I teach with.  Great.  The principal suggested that I wait around to see if my teacher would show up in time for class.  She didn’t. 

  

                An hour after school began, the principal announced that she needed to leave to go to the bank in town.  Cool.  I was left in the teacher’s lounge alone for the rest of the morning.  Luckily, I brought my computer and let it charge while I typed up a copy of a teacher’s guide I am writing for a novel in grade seven. 

                Lunchtime rolled around, and all of the other teachers filtered into the office.  For the entire hour and a half of lunch, they sat around and spoke rapid-fire Sesotho.  I sat in silence.  I understand that English is not their first language, but do you know what it feels like to be sitting in a room full of people and feeling completely invisible?

                 We practiced choir in the afternoon which lifted my spirits a bit.  I stood in the back row with my 7^th grade boys.  They were so funny trying to sing bass with cracking voices and dance to the rhythm of the song with awkward long legs.  They remind me of my brothers when they were 13- and 14-years old.  I pretended to tap some of them on their opposite shoulder while they were standing next to me, and they got a kick out of me trying to sing Sesotho songs in a deep voice. 

Suddenly behind us, two younger boys got into a fist fight, punching each other in the face and eventually rolling around on the ground.  The other teachers just stood by and watched until some students pulled them apart.  I was confused as to why the teachers didn’t jump in—but I wasn’t about to step in and separate the boys by myself.

                After choir, the boys were called into the office.  I was finishing up working on our new library when one of the teachers asked me to leave the room so he could “deal with these boys”.  I stepped outside, and a few seconds after they shut the door behind me, I understood why.  One of the boys started screaming as he got his punishment.  The other female teachers standing outside with me laughed it off, but I tried to distract myself by checking my Facebook on my phone and wandering a bit further away from the building.  I understand that corporal punishment is an inevitable part of schooling in Lesotho, but that doesn’t make it any easier to witness.

                Getting home this afternoon, I poured myself a vodka lemonade and popped in my iPod to some country music. 

                Two melancholic days alone is two too many.  I decided to walk over to my (other) principal’s house to talk about work stuff.  This principal is also my “introductory liaison”, or my go-to person for cultural questions in my village, since she lives about a half hour walk from my house.  I didn’t really need to talk about anything; I just wanted to hang out at her house.  She makes me feel like I am a part of her family.  Her daughter is my age and likes to talk about shoes and hair and boyfriends.  Her husband reminds me of my own Dad.  He is serious and stern, but occasionally, he shows his sensitive side—like when he gave me a tour of his chicken coop and explained in broken English how to raise a proper rooster.

                I found my principal sitting on the side of the road, jolly as usual, and eating a peach.  She immediately called over her gardener and ordered him to fill a bag of peaches from her orchard for me.

                I can honestly say that it’s been a long time since I’ve been happier to see someone.

                She explained that she’d been flopped on the side of the road for a half hour or so waiting for a taxi so she could go and visit her friend.  Obviously, she insisted that I come along.  I was hesitant at first; I didn’t want to get home very late, and I didn’t want to sit around in a room with more people speaking a language that I don’t understand. 

                But I couldn’t say no.

                Soon enough, a taxi pulled up, completely full, and as a last-minute attempt to escape to the safety and loneliness of my hut, I told her to squeeze into the taxi alone and that I would catch up with her later.

                “No!  We are going together!”

                The best thing that you can do for yourself when you are feeling lonesome is to get out.  Get out and talk, to anyone, or anything… luckily, here in Lesotho, that’s not too hard being a girl and the only white person within five villages of my house. 

                I’m so happy that I shoved myself in this taxi with my cheerful principal.  Once inside the taxi, I even met up with the lady who fed me a chicken foot the other day.  I didn’t understand what everyone was laughing about, but I’m pretty sure she was explaining to the entire taxi what my face must’ve looked like as I ate the foot toe by toe.   

                I’m home now with a giant bag full of peaches, BBC World News on the radio (again), and Ramen soup on the stove.  Except now, I’m alright with it.  I’ll eat dinner alone, again, at my desk.  I’ll be asleep by 9pm tonight (earlier—I’m tired from my late bedtime last night! Ha).  Maybe I’ll even finish the novel that I’m reading.  Now that would be really exciting.

                Even though I have my good days and my bad days, I know that the good days are going to fulfill above and beyond the dreams that I had of what my Peace Corps service would be like.  The bad days will help me appreciate that much more all that I have been blessed with back at home.  Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get home to a fat, juicy chicken from the grill on the back porch.  It’s just not the same when it comes from a can.