Riding in taxis

So I was riding in a taxi on the way to the Peace Corps office this morning.  I think I am one of the few volunteers who often rides taxis instead of hitch hiking.  For me, it's just more convenient to use a taxi to come into Maseru from my house.

Anyway.  I was riding on a taxi.

I think I've mentioned this to you before, but taxis are incredibly uncomfortable in Lesotho.  They aren't your typical "yellow cab" type of taxi.  They are beaten down, dirty, stuffy, hot, smelly, and jam-packed with people.  I'm a bit smaller than your average Mosotho woman, so I'm usually shoved into the last row, against a window which doesn't open, between two incredibly large people. 

Many of the taxis here also have names.

Along the same idea of listing off to you the names of local stores (I'm still adding to that list, by the way), I'd like to let you in on a sampling of some of the taxis I've either ridden in or driven past.

• Cheese Boy
• Let Them Cry
• Innocent Blood Transfusion
• Afghanistan
• Taliban
• Fuck Love
• Sorry Guys

I have absolutely no idea where they get these names from.  I've got a list going that I keep in my phone.  It keeps me distracted while I'm riding in the back row of one of these taxis with some woman's fat upper arm on my shoulder.

into the wild

                I was speeding down the highway at nearly 70mph, swerving left and right to avoid deep potholes that sporadically dotted the asphalt in both lanes.  Heather had the road map sprawled out on her lap, frantically flipping through the pages and trying to decide exactly where we went wrong.  We were lost and we were late.  The sun was slowly dropping below the horizon, and we didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of a game park at night. 

                After twelve hours of driving, sight-seeing, defeating hang overs, getting lost, speeding, and completely scratching up the rental car, we were ready for bed.  But alas, the safari was not over yet.  It was dark, and there were hyenas creeping alongside our car, and Heather was screaming, and I was rolling down the window and coaxing them towards me.  To put it simply: it was awesome.

                 We had woken up especially early that morning to get into the park as soon as we could.  Unfortunately, the Black Labels that we drank the previous night got the better of me, and we were an hour late to the park’s opening.  I was furious with myself.  Going on a safari has been a dream of mine since middle school, and I was going to be hung over for most of it.

                We wolfed down a quick breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee and hit the road.  We were loaded with more beers (yuck), binoculars, snacks, our iPods, and a half-tank of gas.  Heather was perky and optimistic; I was crabby.  But not two minutes into the drive, while I was slumped over the steering wheel, I noticed a dark shadow in the bushes on my right.  I slammed on the breaks and Heather whipped out the binoculars.  There were two enormous rhino grazing quietly in the brush next to the road.  They were massive.  It was absolutely incredible to be so close to such a prehistoric-looking creature; I had to keep reminding myself that we weren’t in Jurassic Park.

                Within the next few hours, we had seen a small herd of zebra cross right in front of our car, giraffes grazing in the distance, wild dogs sleeping under a tree, lots of gazelle, a beautiful thing called a kudu with long, curly horns, warthogs scampering and snorting in a ditch, and a baboon that begged for food near us while we picnicked at a rest stop.

                Later on in the afternoon, we made a bold decision and began driving towards the far end of the park.  We wanted to make it from one end to the other in a day, and besides, there were far less cars the deeper into the park we drove.  It was much more peaceful.  It’s not to say that the other park visitors weren’t friendly; we were stopped on numerous occasions by Afrikaners to “check out the wild dogs sleeping under the tree just a-ways back!!!”  Afrikaners must really like their wild dogs. 

By this time, my hang over was subsiding and I was on a roll.  We were chatting animatedly and driving aimlessly through a windy dirt trail, windows down and music blasting.  We stopped and got out a few times to take pictures at “look out” points along the river.  But the sun was disappearing, and we thought it best to be responsible and head in for the night.  Just when we made a sharp turn around the bend to head towards home, Heather screamed and scared the living daylights out of me. 

There was a massive giraffe not two feet off the road, eating leaves from a tall tree nearby.  We raced for our cameras and rolled down the windows.  I brought the car to a slow creep, and we were soon close enough to reach out and touch the giraffe.  He looked at us uninterestedly and kept eating.  It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.  We sat there in the car for a few minutes watching him until he wandered further into the bush. 

We were finally on our way home.  We snapped a few photos of a beautiful sunset and decided to speed up a bit to make the 6pm gate closing time.  We far underestimated how long we had been driving into the park; I was soon speeding along the paved road while Heather fidgeted in her seat and kept wondering out loud what would happen if a large animal wandered into the road.  When we turned a corner and came across another herd of zebras trotting along, Heather described them as “fucking terrifying”.  A few minutes later she concluded that all animals terrified her at night.

We were half an hour late, and the gate guards made it quite apparent that they weren’t pleased with us.  They asked if we were held up by animals in the road; we lied and said yes, there’s a huge zebra crossing just down the road!  The darned things wouldn’t move for half an hour!

I think both of us slept harder than we had in a long time that night.  I fell asleep and woke up in the very same position.  We still had another three jam-packed days left in our Great African Road Trip Safari Adventure. 

back to reality

                Waking up from dreams is the hardest.

                I usually dream about people.  Sometimes about places, but mostly people.  After I wake up, I feel as if the person was just here, as if I were just talking to them.  As if it were all real. 

You know how certain people have things that you especially notice?  Like a particular freckle on their face, or an old pair of shoes that they always wear, or that way that they fidget around idly when no one’s watching?  I notice those things in my dreams, too.  It makes the people in my dreams all the more real.  It makes waking up nearly impossible. 

I remember when I first arrived in Lesotho.  I had these dreams all of the time.  It was awful.  I’d wake up and open my eyes and for a few frightening seconds I’d forget where I was.  In my dreams, I was just talking to an old friend in the bar down Elizabeth, having a Sunshine Wheat after school on the patio.  Suddenly, I was awake and cold and staring at a tin roof with a rooster howling outside.  It’s an awful feeling, in case you’ve never had it.  It’s confusing and scary until reality shatters your dreams and you’re back to where you’re supposed to be.

I’m having these dreams again. 

I’m still waiting for the day that I start to actually have dreams about Lesotho.  It hasn’t happened yet.  It would sure make it a lot easier to wake up in the mornings.  Of course, it will happen right as I get home, and I’ll be confused all over again.

I might be in a melancholic mood tonight because I just arrived home this afternoon from a week-long safari vacation with Heather (more on that to come later).  It’s really hard coming back to village from vacations.  For a while, I felt like I was in America again.  I drove a car!  I ate McDonald’s (in the drive thru!!!)!  I took a shower every day!  I slept in a normal bed!  I spoke English for five days straight!  I cooked food on an electric stove!  I saw so many white people that I lost count! 

I also saw lots of animals, like this one.

Pretty cool, right?

Then, I came back.  Upon crossing the border gate (literally), I was hassled for money and candy.  I was overcharged for a taxi.  I was touched by strangers.  I didn’t understand anyone around me.

Welcome home!

Needless to say, I’m ready for school to start again in a week.  I’m ready for the monotony of waking up every day at 6am and getting home every day at 4pm.  I’m ready for monotony.  I need monotony in my life.  When you’re without it for a while, monotony can be nice. 

the things people say

                I studied a language in college, so I’m quite partial to funny translations and things that people say while speaking a second language.  I do it all the time in Spanish.  I’ve embarrassed myself on a number of occasions by saying something accidentally which didn’t come out as it should have.  For example, on our first family trip to Mexico, I was chatting up our cab driver who drove us from the airport to the hotel.  When he asked how many years I’d been studying Spanish, I responded with “one anus.”

                That being said, I love hearing the funny things that my students come up with while testing out their English speaking skills.  I’ve already told you about the great openers they use in their essays.  The stuff they say out loud is even better.  It’s hard not to laugh when they say these sorts of things.  I want my students to feel no shame when they’re speaking English.  Even if it comes out wrong, at least they’re trying.

                Here are a couple of great things I’ve heard around the village.

·         “My shoes are tomatoes!” (Explaining how his boots were slipping in the mud after a rain)

"

·         Teacher: “Where do bees live?”

Students: “In a bee house!”

·         “Good morning!” (This is the typical greeting at any time of day.  A typical response? `“Yes!”)

·         “This year, we must pull up our socks and work hard!”

·         “I don’t know why they keep the church unlocked.  Anyone can go in, defecate, and go out.”

·         “You must have the laundry done and the food cooked when the man comes home.  If not, he will beat you.  With his wet socks.  He will even beat you with the loaf of bread!”

·         (Sign in a women’s bathroom): “Ladies: please do not flush pads down the toilet.  Please put them in the waste ‘she’ bin”.

·         Teacher:  “Speak English!”

Student:  “I am terrible, sorry.”

"You can now see that it is snoring.  When it is snoring, we must wear our coats and hats to school."  (My principal; she meant to say that it is 'snowing'.)

"You must cut off your heads!" (My principal--"You must cut off your hairs")

"You are working very hard, like a man in the toilet."  (My principal, again, in a pep-talk to the students)

Names of stores are also hilarious to read.  I’m sure I totally annoy my fellow volunteers anytime I’m in a car with them, because I love reading the signs out loud.  A couple great places I’ve seen around Maseru:

·         Grandma-Baby Car Wash

·         Fruit and Veg Store: Where Supply Meets Demand

·         The Cheapest Supermarket

·         The Friendliest Supermarket

·         The Reliable Supermarket

·         So Close, Yet So Far

·         Casino (this is a roadside shack made of scrap metal)

·         Just The Guys
·       Armpit-Dallas Aluminum
·         The Bar-Bar Shop
·         Effective Hair Salon

·         And some of the more original shacks will just say: food is here

I’m blanking on some of my favorites, but I’ll keep adding to my lists.  Sometimes I bring a notepad and pen to school just to write down all of the things that I hear.  The funny part is, I’m picking up on a lot of these things.  When someone calls out “good morning!” to me before school, it’s hard to catch myself before I call back “yes!”.  

sick in Africa

                Being sick in Africa is nothing like being sick in America.

                Imagine running back and forth between your house and your stinky outdoor latrine (unless you go the bucket route, which, depending on the illness, could get a little messy), no cold water to cool off your forehead, no TV to watch while you’re bedridden, no moms to make you soup and rub your back…

                Getting sick here is definitely a test of strength of character.  We’re equipped with a Peace Corps-issued medical kit, filled with anti-diarrheal pills, Tylenol, oral rehydration salts, and the like.  We’re told to “self-diagnose” when we can.  Since there are so many elements which can contribute to one becoming sick in Africa (was it some dirty water?  That cheese I left out for too long?  That weird meat-looking stuff I ate last night in village?) it’s sometimes harder than it seems.  Just a few weeks back, a fellow volunteer thought he had malaria, when it really turned out to be a bad flu.  Maybe.  Sometimes, once you feel better, you don’t want to think of what the causes might have been.  You’re just glad it’s over.

                A few weeks back, I got really sick.  Going-to-the-hospital sick.  Vomiting blood sick.  I’ve never been so sick.  All I wanted was to be in a comfortable bed in a quiet room in a first-world country.  Is that really so much to ask? 

                But I was in Lesotho.  In a tiny, hairy, rat-ridden hut.  Throwing up outside on a rock.  Not one of my high points of Peace Corps service.

                I was picked up from site by Peace Corps and taken to Wilie’s Hospital right outside of Maseru, after a few barf stops along the way.  I couldn’t keep anything down.  I was glad once the driver noticed that I was really sick and started hitting 100kph.  We were there in about an hour.   

                A particularly well-loved Peace Corps staff member was waiting for me at the hospital entrance.  I couldn’t have been more relieved to see a familiar face.  He literally picked me up like a baby from the car and carried me into the hospital.

                We were met by a doctor from Ghana who, in my opinion, was all too eager to chat with us before giving me a diagnosis.  He wanted to know where exactly I threw up en route to the hospital.  At which junction was it?  Oh, yes, he was familiar with that junction.  His family lived nearby it, actually.

He finally led me into his office, where he had gospel music videos playing on his computer screen in the background.  At least it distracted me from any more throwing up. I was told that I’d need to spend the night in the hospital and be monitored until I could get enough fluids back in my system to be sent home.  Apparently, I was just too dehydrated.  So after a few attempts to put in an IV (my passion for needles and blood led me to pass out in the examination room), I was sent upstairs to a private room for the night.  I turned on some South African soap opera and immediately fell asleep.

                A nurse woke me up at around 8:30pm to feed me dinner and move me to another room.  I was secretly disappointed; it seemed completely unnecessary.  I think the nurses didn’t like the idea of walking up and down a flight of stairs all night to check on me, so they moved me into a room right next to the doctor’s office.  It was clearly time for bed; I was literally tucked in up to my chin by three different nurses (who also chose the television channel for me.  It was a Christian exorcist-type show.  They said I needed to watch it and then spread the good word.). 

                I was too paranoid of the thought that moving around a lot would cause the IV to rip open my skin, so I didn’t sleep much.  I got up once and the IV started going backwards, so some of my blood came up the tube.  That was real fun to watch.  I’m actually cringing right now as I write this, so I’ll just end it by saying that it was an uncomfortable night. 

                The next day, after a sponge bath and a hot breakfast (and another relaxing IV), I was itching to get out of there.  The rest of my training group was at a hotel for a week-long workshop, eating fancy meals and sleeping in big, warm beds.  My hopes were crushed when the nurse came in around 10am and asked what I wanted for lunch.  I didn’t need any more treatment, I told them!  I felt fine!

                Alas, the doctor finally waddled in a half an hour later and told me I was free to go.  What luck!  I think I skipped out the front door.

                I’m going to try not to do that again.  I’ve got plenty of medical supplies in my little Peace Corps kit at home.  I’d much rather be stuck getting sick in a bucket.