Lesotho wished me a Happy Birthday with the first signs of winter. Temperatures have dropped drastically, and it even snowed in the mountains last week (while I was in Maseru--ha!). I can even see my breath inside my house at night. I'm officially wearing my mild winter gear which includes: a beanie, scarf, long-sleeve t-shirt, long dress, hoodie, fleece (in morning and night), spandex leggings, light blanket wrapped around my waist (in morning and night), a long dress or skirt, socks, and tennies. In June and July, or harsh winter, I'll graduate to fleece vest, heavy blanket, down jacket, and hiking boots.
Also to prepare for winter I've cut my hair super short. It's something like a boy-cut pixie look that I did myself--I wish I could see my sisters' faces after reading that. Although I've been curious to see what my hair would look like so short, the cut was motivated by the cold weather and lack of plumbing and electricity. The less hair to wash, the less water I have to use and fetch. And of course my long hair took hours to dry, and wet hair really sucks when it's cold--thus the super-short 'do. :)
As a birthday present to myself, I bought two new blankets: one light blanket for wearing, and one heavy blanket for my bed. Already I've received a couple birthday packages and cards in the mail--a big thank you to all my friends and family who thought of me!! I can feel the cross-continental love from here!
p.s. I posted 2 blogs today at the same time. If you want to read about the funeral I attended, read the next blog down too. I didn't want to leave you with two depressing blogs in a row.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday
Funerals are on Saturday in Lesotho. Saturdays are busy days in Lesotho. Last Saturday, I attended my first funeral in Lesotho; it was for Baby Moletsane. In typical Basotho fashion I wasn't told where the funeral was or when it started, just that it was on Saturday, April 26th. According to what other PCV friends have said, I figured the funeral would start at about 1pm. I left my house at about noon and starting walking towards the village where I hoped to find the funeral (since it obviously wasn't in my village); my ausi stayed there with family sometimes. Ironically I hitched a ride in the back of a covered pick-up truck with a coffin. Just me, 2 old men wearing blankets, and a dead guy in a coffin... oh Lesotho. I got off near the school where my ausi teaches, hoping the people there would know her and point me in the right direction. There were three little boys playing in the road who told me where to go. They actually pointed me in the opposite direction of where I was headed, but a friendly old man showed me the right way and even found me an escort who was also going to the funeral. We walked about 20 minutes down the road, picking up a few people along the way, and made it to the house.
I didn't see my ausi, but a woman I didn't know immediately led me to a rondavel house. I walked right into what I would call a "cultural experience"--a group of women dressed in purple and white stood in the middle of the round room singing and clapping. One woman pounded a simple beat on a large drum covered in animal skin, and another played a bell. I sat in a chair next to my neighbor, the only person I recognized. At first it was a bit intimidating, but I soon got comfortable enough. There were about 8 or so chairs against the wall, the rest of the women sat on the floor on the other side of the room. In the back of the room, a man who appeared to be a priest leading the ritual stood behind a simple white table with a single lit candle on it. He was a thin, middle-aged man with long clean dreads. He wore a long purple robe decorated with some cheetah-print fabric details, fabric stars, and embroidery. His hat, also purple with a big white star on it, looked like a little kid created their own version of the pope's tall hat. His dress appeared very "tribal" except poking out from under his robe were clean old school Adidas sneakers. Western culture seeps into almost every corner of the world, no matter how remote. He welcomed me in Sesotho shortly after I arrived.
Eventually the group moved outside in a procession led by a few men carrying the coffin. A bouquet of fake flowers with the store-tag still attached lay on top of the tiny white coffin. The official ceremony began. The small coffin sat on the dirt floor outside, in front of a row of men seated in chairs. I could feel tears swelling up in my eyes when I looked at the baby-size coffin so I looked down at the ground for most of the ceremony and tried to think of something else. For once I was glad to not understand what was being said in Sesotho. The ceremony was similar to any other funeral I had been to, except that men performed almost all of the rites. Only one woman spoke, compared to about a dozen men. Then when the funeral was over we walked to the burial site--only a few minutes from the house. There are so many people dying in Lesotho that the cemeteries are scattered throughout villages near homes and roads without any demarcation. The tiny coffin was placed in the pre-dug hole in the ground and covered with a large animal skin (probably the animal slaughtered for the post-funeral feast)... more speeches and songs. Then all the men took turns shoveling dirt back onto the grave, like everyone had to help bury the body. A few women threw a handful of dirt on the grave too, including my ausi who nearly collapsed after doing so. It was the first time I had seen her for a few weeks, and she looked exhausted and distraught.
Then tons of people came out of the woodworks because the most important part of the funeral was about to take place--the feast. At all funerals and weddings, the host is required to have a feast for all the guests. While it doesn't seem unusual for such an event to serve food, paying for many funerals and feasts drains Basotho (and sub-saharan African) families' funds, leaving little or no money for school fees or healthcare. Finally I got to talk with my ausi while she was eating. I was happy to see her, but I knew she was suffering deeply. She said she felt better than the previous week, though, so at least she's healing. Then I said my goodbyes to everyone and headed home on a taxi with some other women from my village...
I didn't see my ausi, but a woman I didn't know immediately led me to a rondavel house. I walked right into what I would call a "cultural experience"--a group of women dressed in purple and white stood in the middle of the round room singing and clapping. One woman pounded a simple beat on a large drum covered in animal skin, and another played a bell. I sat in a chair next to my neighbor, the only person I recognized. At first it was a bit intimidating, but I soon got comfortable enough. There were about 8 or so chairs against the wall, the rest of the women sat on the floor on the other side of the room. In the back of the room, a man who appeared to be a priest leading the ritual stood behind a simple white table with a single lit candle on it. He was a thin, middle-aged man with long clean dreads. He wore a long purple robe decorated with some cheetah-print fabric details, fabric stars, and embroidery. His hat, also purple with a big white star on it, looked like a little kid created their own version of the pope's tall hat. His dress appeared very "tribal" except poking out from under his robe were clean old school Adidas sneakers. Western culture seeps into almost every corner of the world, no matter how remote. He welcomed me in Sesotho shortly after I arrived.
Eventually the group moved outside in a procession led by a few men carrying the coffin. A bouquet of fake flowers with the store-tag still attached lay on top of the tiny white coffin. The official ceremony began. The small coffin sat on the dirt floor outside, in front of a row of men seated in chairs. I could feel tears swelling up in my eyes when I looked at the baby-size coffin so I looked down at the ground for most of the ceremony and tried to think of something else. For once I was glad to not understand what was being said in Sesotho. The ceremony was similar to any other funeral I had been to, except that men performed almost all of the rites. Only one woman spoke, compared to about a dozen men. Then when the funeral was over we walked to the burial site--only a few minutes from the house. There are so many people dying in Lesotho that the cemeteries are scattered throughout villages near homes and roads without any demarcation. The tiny coffin was placed in the pre-dug hole in the ground and covered with a large animal skin (probably the animal slaughtered for the post-funeral feast)... more speeches and songs. Then all the men took turns shoveling dirt back onto the grave, like everyone had to help bury the body. A few women threw a handful of dirt on the grave too, including my ausi who nearly collapsed after doing so. It was the first time I had seen her for a few weeks, and she looked exhausted and distraught.
Then tons of people came out of the woodworks because the most important part of the funeral was about to take place--the feast. At all funerals and weddings, the host is required to have a feast for all the guests. While it doesn't seem unusual for such an event to serve food, paying for many funerals and feasts drains Basotho (and sub-saharan African) families' funds, leaving little or no money for school fees or healthcare. Finally I got to talk with my ausi while she was eating. I was happy to see her, but I knew she was suffering deeply. She said she felt better than the previous week, though, so at least she's healing. Then I said my goodbyes to everyone and headed home on a taxi with some other women from my village...
Friday, April 18, 2008
Dying Young
Bad news this week... I was told that my ausi's baby boy, Moletsane, passed away. I think he was about 20 months old--obviously too young to die. He's been a sick baby on and off since he was born. Really it's not surprising, but it's something that shouldn't happen. I'm not sure how or why he died. I haven't seen my ausi (sister) yet, and I'm really not looking forward to it. I can't imagine her suffering.
My poor ausi had to the rush to the hospital in town when her baby got really sick. She had to wait for a taxi in her family's village and take the slow public transport to the hospital--calling me along the way to give her his medical "bukana" at the road. Then when she reached the hospital, she found there were no doctors there so they couldn't help her (a common story). So she traveled to the next closest hospital which is over an hour away by public transport, then she had to cross the river in a rowboat with her dying baby. Just imagine. Then a day or two later, her baby died.
The worst part about Moletsane's death is that it's not a rare story in Lesotho. Babies and children die all the time from AIDS, malnutrition, and a long list of other curable diseases (even something as seemingly minor as diarrhea). The news of this death has caused similar stories (and worse) to surface--stories of sick mothers having multiple babies, all of them dying before they reach 2 years. Even pregnant women like this refuse to get tested for HIV (because they know they probably have it). Even worse these women keep having sex (with whoever), and continue to birth sick babies. The idea of contraceptives is slow to reach Basotho, not to mention the cost is excessive, although we are trying to educate and distribute them at LPPA. Other babies are born to very young mothers (one of my 7th graders is pregnant) who often don't know how to care for their baby and can't afford to keep it healthy. Routine post-natal care like vaccinations and check-ups is rare, especially in rural areas. Even births traditionally take place at the maternal grandmother's home, not at a hospital, making it hard to give infants proper care. All of these things lead to babies and children dying.
Death is a natural part of life, but death at a young age, whether its 18 months or 30 years, is always tragic somehow. HIV and poverty have shrouded Lesotho in death and suffering. Clinics are packed with people waiting, and cemeteries are full of those who were too late to seek help. Lesotho's working population (age 15-40) is slowly disappearing, contributing to the lack of human resources in the country (i.e. nurses and teachers).
I don't know if Moletsane died of HIV/AIDS, and I don't think I'll have the audacity to ask. Regardless it raises the issue that everybody knows about, but nobody talks about. I'm in Lesotho as an "HIV/AIDS Advisor", but I really don't know where to begin. The problems are so many and run so deep.
My poor ausi had to the rush to the hospital in town when her baby got really sick. She had to wait for a taxi in her family's village and take the slow public transport to the hospital--calling me along the way to give her his medical "bukana" at the road. Then when she reached the hospital, she found there were no doctors there so they couldn't help her (a common story). So she traveled to the next closest hospital which is over an hour away by public transport, then she had to cross the river in a rowboat with her dying baby. Just imagine. Then a day or two later, her baby died.
The worst part about Moletsane's death is that it's not a rare story in Lesotho. Babies and children die all the time from AIDS, malnutrition, and a long list of other curable diseases (even something as seemingly minor as diarrhea). The news of this death has caused similar stories (and worse) to surface--stories of sick mothers having multiple babies, all of them dying before they reach 2 years. Even pregnant women like this refuse to get tested for HIV (because they know they probably have it). Even worse these women keep having sex (with whoever), and continue to birth sick babies. The idea of contraceptives is slow to reach Basotho, not to mention the cost is excessive, although we are trying to educate and distribute them at LPPA. Other babies are born to very young mothers (one of my 7th graders is pregnant) who often don't know how to care for their baby and can't afford to keep it healthy. Routine post-natal care like vaccinations and check-ups is rare, especially in rural areas. Even births traditionally take place at the maternal grandmother's home, not at a hospital, making it hard to give infants proper care. All of these things lead to babies and children dying.
Death is a natural part of life, but death at a young age, whether its 18 months or 30 years, is always tragic somehow. HIV and poverty have shrouded Lesotho in death and suffering. Clinics are packed with people waiting, and cemeteries are full of those who were too late to seek help. Lesotho's working population (age 15-40) is slowly disappearing, contributing to the lack of human resources in the country (i.e. nurses and teachers).
I don't know if Moletsane died of HIV/AIDS, and I don't think I'll have the audacity to ask. Regardless it raises the issue that everybody knows about, but nobody talks about. I'm in Lesotho as an "HIV/AIDS Advisor", but I really don't know where to begin. The problems are so many and run so deep.
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