airplanes in the sky

                This morning as I was walking to school, I noticed something very strange.  It had been awhile since I’d seen one, and I could hardly believe that I knew exactly what it was.  It seemed like it came from a completely different lifetime. 

                It was an airplane.

                It’s hard to imagine that almost a year ago, I got on what would become one of the most important plane rides of my life.  I remember small, unimportant things about that trip… sitting on the ground at JFK at 4am with our overloaded bags…the mean waitress in Philadelphia at what would be my last breakfast in America…the “toiletry pack” that the stewardess gave me on the plane, with dark green socks and a tube of toothpaste…all of the African-looking souvenirs at the Jo’burg airport….wondering if I could fill my water bottle from the sink…

                I used to love riding in airplanes.  Absolutely loved it.  An airport meant adventure.  It meant that you were going somewhere new and exciting.  You were embarking on a journey so great that it took an entire airplane ride to get there!  The door closes in one place, and when it opens again upon arrival, you’re met with entirely different circumstances: sometimes a blast of heavy, damp humidity, sometimes snow flurries creeping through the cracks along the jet way.  Sometimes the airport has signs that are in a completely different language.

                And the entire experience of riding on an airplane is such a treat!  I love beverage service.  I really love when a meal is included.  I don’t love the food, but I love how neat and organized it all is.  Everything is packaged in its own little compartment, and the butter is in a little box on the side, and when you’re finished you wipe up with a little napkin from a wrapper.  There is nothing better than a clean airplane, a friendly and timely crew, and decent food and beverage service. 

                How superfluous it all seems when I look up at this airplane in the sky while I wander down my rocky dirt road on the way to school.  I can’t believe I was ever so lucky as to be able to ride in an airplane.  I can’t believe I ever complained about slow service or unpleasant food.  When I tell my students and colleagues that I arrived in Lesotho on an airplane, they are awestruck.  They just assume that you travel everywhere in a car.  (When I tell them that an ocean separates Africa and America, they respond with “well why not use a boat?”) 

                Every day I am here, I am reminded of the things we take for granted in America.  Things you wouldn’t even notice you have until one day, they are gone.  Hot water from a faucet.  Water, period.  A flushing toilet.  A light bulb.  An unlimited supply of electricity.  Cold food and drinks.  Ice cubes. 

                I might complain about how “rough” it is here sometimes, but I’m so thankful for the humbleness it’s taught me.  Lots of people here are suffering, but they’re not complaining.  They’re usually singing (or getting drunk). 

Being unhappy or happy in a tough situation is a choice.  If you’ve exhausted all other alternatives, why not just settle for contentment…at least for the time being?  It’s a lot easier to live with than being frustrated all of the time.  I’ve dealt with plenty of frustrations—slow, crowded taxis, people making fun of me in a foreign language, awkward and rude cultural clashes—but getting upset over them only ruins my day and gives me high blood pressure.  I’m slowly learning to settle down and let things happen as they may.  And for the time being, I might even start to sing a little tune.  (Or get drunk). 

Snapshots

My house -- the kitchen

One of my dogs, Stinky, whom I've recently renamed "Frank" so it fits better with the other dog's name, Beans

Traditional Basotho clothes

My sisters!

My kids during choir practice

I guess Blogspot deemed this photo inappropriate and didn't upload the bottom half of it. Otherwise, you'd see me chopping a chicken's head off.

One of my teachers and I at sport's day

Drinking quarts on the ground with my favorite

A day in the life

                So I got to thinking.  I was thinking about this blog, and about everything I tell you, and about what you might like to read about. 

                And the thought came to me:  do you know what I do every day?  Sure, I am a teacher…I go to school…I have little kids running around after me all the time like you see in those Peace Corps “Life is Calling” advertisements… the usual. 

But you don’t know the little things.  The things that have become so average that I forget to tell you about them.

                So here goes.

                During the week, I wake up at around 5:45 a.m., which gives me an hour to get ready before I need to leave for school.  I’m usually too lazy (or too cold) to go outside, so I pee in a bucket.  Then I heat up some water on the stove for coffee and a bath (the baths have been happening less frequently…it’s winter.  No heater.  Three times a week is enough!).  I have to boil my water for three minutes and put it through a water filter before it’s safe to drink.

                So I get ready as usual.  I dump the bath water outside.  I schlep out to the latrine and empty the pee bucket.  I usually have toast and eggs or oatmeal for breakfast.  And then I leave.  I walk to my principal’s house which is in a neighboring village, about a 30 minute walk.  And from there, we either catch a taxi to school or get a ride from her husband.  School is only about a three-minute drive from her house.

                We have morning assembly, which is where the entire school lines up by class outside and sings, prays, and hears announcements from the teachers.  Assembly starts at 7:45 and class starts at 8 a.m.  I teach English to my 7^th graders first.  They are my favorite class.  There are 23 of them and I know and love each and every one of them as if they were my own kids.  My heart is swelling up just thinking about them.  When I walk in the room, they all stand customarily and greet me (“Good morning madam! How are you madam!”).  They have been working so hard to pass their primary school exit exam this October, and secretly I wish that they could stay with me just one more year.  I am so proud of them.

                The 5^th and 6^th graders are next.  There aren’t many of them (and we don’t have enough buildings at school), so their classes are combined.  It’s a difficult class to teach because of the difference in English levels between the two classes.  It seems as if my lessons are always either too easy for some or too hard for others.  I have mostly boys in the 6^th grade class, and they crack me up.  They aren’t as shy as the girls, so when they come up to my desk to get their homework marked, they like to reach out and touch my “slick” hair.  Since they’re so outgoing, we have a lot of dancing in our class.  They all know dance moves to identify whether a verb is in the present, past, or future tense.

                Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons, I teach Life Skills at the high school next to my house.  I teach Form A and B, which is more or less the equivalent of freshmen and sophomores.  They are absolutely naughty.  They think it’s funny to push my limits, to ask silly questions and to talk out loud without being called on. There are so many of them that it’s hard to control the classroom when they get excited (the first time I said “sex” in class caused a complete uproar).  My smallest class has around 60 and the largest class has a little over 100.  The desks are literally crammed wall-to-wall, and I have only a few feet to move around in front of the chalkboard.  It feels like being on stage.

                I get home from school anytime between three and four.  My house is usually a wreck, so I do chores:  sweeping, washing dishes (in buckets), fetching water from the tap (only about 15 yards from my house!) and watering my garden.  The neighborhood gang from the primary school likes to come over and play, so I keep them entertained with coloring books (thanks Grant!) and crafts (thanks Grandma!). 

                Sometime later on, I usually wander over to my host family’s house and visit with my host sisters and mom.  They have a TV and couches (!!), so if I make it in time after school, I watch Oprah re-runs with them.  When I go to leave and meander back to my house, Maphoka comes along and we sit outside on my doorstep and chat until it’s time for her to go back inside and cook dinner.

                Back in May, my boyfriend somehow got power installed in my house (some girls are courted with jewelry… I get electricity J) so when it’s dark, I don’t need to use a paraffin lamp anymore—I have one small bulb above my desk that is enough to light most of my hut.  I work on lesson plans for the next day, listen to BBC on the radio, and cook dinner over my gas stove.  I try to cook enough for two so I can put half in a lunch box for the following day.

                By 8:30 or 9 p.m., I’m tired enough to crawl into bed.  My bed is awful.  It’s been voted the Worst Bed in Peace Corps on several occasions.  If I’m lying down and cough, all of the coils inside the mattress vibrate.  I think that the mattress is only coils—no fluff. 

                Then I either read for a while or watch a TV show on my computer.  And I go to bed.  And I wake up the next day and do it all over again. 

hitching

                Before I continue any further than this first line…Mom, Dad, Grandma?  Don’t read this one.

                Hitch hikers in America are notorious for being murderers, crazy alcoholics, car thieves, and stinky bums.  If you let them in your car, they’ll probably reach around your neck from behind and hold you at knife-point, leading you to some hidden wooded area where they cut you up and later drive your car into a lake.

                Or so I’ve heard.

                Hitch hikers in Africa, on the other hand, are just people who are too broke to afford public transportation.  It happens all of the time.  It sounds racist of sorts, but white people are a scarcity here in Lesotho.  If you saw some white dude on the side of the road, carrying a huge backpack and looking for a ride, of course you’d pick him up!  You’d want to know what the hell he was doing here in the first place!

Do you know where I’m going with this already?  That white guy on the side of the road is probably a Peace Corps Volunteer.

                Yes, we hitchhike all the time.  Yes, I was just as thoroughly terrified of the thought of hitchhiking here as you probably are while you’re reading this.  When I arrived in Lesotho and volunteers were talking about “hitching” places, I thought to myself, “No fucking way; these guys are nuts.”  A week later, I was hitching back from visiting another volunteer a few districts away. 

Indeed, even Peace Corps staff doesn’t discourage hitching.  They don’t encourage it, but they say that “sometimes, there’s just no other way to get somewhere.”

Hitchhiking is also a great way to meet the locals.  I’ve had all kinds of hitches: silent awkward ones (especially if the driver doesn’t know English), really comfortable ones (Mercedes two-door with air conditioning), overwhelming ones (five unbuckled kids in the backseat crawling all over), exciting ones (cop car driving 100kph with a gun on the dashboard), and just… weird ones (in a semi-truck).

Some of my most interesting conversations with Basotho are in hitches.  During the elections last fall, I heard all kinds of political opinions.  One government worker offered to collaborate with the police “under the table” to find my stolen phone.  I met a guy once who spoke Spanish.  One lady drove my friend and I, quite literally, to the doorstep of our destination.  She said, “you are giving up so much to help my country; the least I can do is give you a ride.”

Once, I got a hitch with a family who was on a long road trip.  I think they ended up “adopting” me for the two hours I was in the car with them.  Every time they stopped at a gas station for snacks, they’d get me something.  We visited a family member’s new house along the way, and they brought me inside and introduced me as one of them.  I was almost sad when they finally dropped me off.  

Of course, I am always wary of what kind of cars I get into.  I prefer hitching with friends, although I’ve been lucky when I’m hitching alone and I’m usually picked up by a single woman or a family.

I’m really grateful for the perspective of Lesotho that I’ve gotten through hitchhiking.  Not many people here can afford cars, so it’s an entirely different culture from what I’m used to in my village.  I’ve been able to meet all different kinds of people and see so much of this country (and for free!) because of hitchhiking. 

After being on the “other side” of hitching, it makes me wonder about all of those guys in America, standing on the side of the road with their thumbs out.  If they’re all really stinky murdering ski bums, or if they’re just broke and looking for a lift and a good conversation. 

if you're moving to Lesotho...

So I think that by now, or close to now, all of the invitations for the 2013 Education volunteers have been issued. 

Yay!

If you are one of these oh-so-lucky invitees, congratulations.  I still remember the very moment when I opened my invitation packet.  I think the first thing I said was “where the @!#% is Lesotho?”

And then I think I started wondering what the hell to pack for the next two years of my life.  It’s not an easy question to answer.  I searched through countless blogs of current volunteers, even emailing a few of them (which was really no help at all), and I looked over and over the Peace Corps Lesotho “suggested packing list”.

Two suitcases for two years.  Shit.

Looking back now, I wish I wouldn’t have stressed out so much about this predicament.  You really don’t need as much as you think you do.  If I’ve learned anything while being in Peace Corps, it’s how to pack light.  And this is coming from Miss Can’t Wear A Going-Out Outfit Two Weekends In A Row.

But if I could give you any specific advice for what to pack, here’s what I’d recommend: 

·         Dark clothes.  All of my white and off-white shirts are now being used as kitchen rags.  After two or three hand-washes, they were trashed.

·         Electronics.  Specifically an iPod and a computer.  I don’t know why anyone would even consider leaving behind a computer.  Also, if you don’t have one already, an external hard drive with movies and TV shows.  I didn’t bring one, but I ended up having one send.  You’ll also make friends with in-country volunteers a lot quicker (if you bring me any Sex and the City, I’ll make you my new BFF).

·         Chacos or Tevas.  Again, I didn’t bring any but ended up having them sent.  Yes, you may look and feel like a woodsy lesbian while you wear them, but Peace Corps considers them appropriate work shoe attire (and these ones are actually pretty cute!)

·         A solar charger, if you’re willing to dish out the money.  One big enough to charge your phone and iPod is all you need.

·         A good set of knives, if you like to cook.  These are amazing and they never need to be sharpened.

·         A radio to keep you company.  I bought this one, and I really like it.  It’s kind of annoying to wind-up on cloudy days, but I never have to worry about batteries.

I hope this alleviates some packing anxiety.  Don’t be shy to email me (or any other volunteers) with questions you might have about packing.  We’ve all been there.  Try not to stress out much about it.  If you forget something, or regret something, you can probably find it here or have it shipped.  People love to ship things to you; it’s great.  It’s like Christmas repeats itself all over again with every package you’ll receive.

Happy packing!

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.