I have a confession to make. Before you assume that I’m over here in Africa “saving the world” and sacrificing my time for humanity’s sake, there’s something you should know about me—I watch Passions, a soap opera. I am not proud of this fact, but unexpectedly it has become a small pleasure in my life. Those of you that know me well can attest to my previous hatred of soap operas and daytime dramas, but living in Africa changes you. I’m pretty sure the episodes I see in Lesotho are a few years old, although I’m not sure because I’ve never watched it before. I’m even a “soapies” (as they are called in Lesotho) elitist—I only watch Passions. I refuse to watch The Young & the Restless after Passions. It’s just so unrealistic. But OMG, if Luis and Sheridan don’t get married soon I’m going to quit Peace Corps, and can you believe Kaye is pregnant with Miguel’s baby even though he’s in love with Charity and evil MADE him sleep with Kaye even though he thought it was Charity?! And poor Charity just had a heart transplant after her evil zombie twin almost killed her! Peace Corps Volunteers and bored housewives unite—I think I’m addicted.
But let me explain… Some of the wealthier people in my village (and by wealthy, I mean not dirt poor) enjoy the luxuries of electricity and television. Wealthy people in Lesotho are better educated which means they speak decent English which means they are automatically my friends. Thus some of my closest Basotho friends have TVs in their homes. Peace Corps Volunteers rarely get to watch television, so I watch it when I can, regardless of what is on. My best Mosotho friend, Nozipho, leads the youth group that we’re starting in our village and conveniently schedules the committee meetings at our friend’s house at 3pm so we finish just in time to watch Passions at 4:30pm. I blame her for getting me hooked. Although I’m unabashedly glued to the romance and drama and evil in Passions, perhaps my favorite part is that it’s set in Los Angeles, and, because I’m from Los Angeles, Basotho assume I lived like a steamy soap-star back home. Upon meeting me, some Basotho have even said, “Oh yes, Los Angeles, I know it. I have seen Passions.” Thank you, daytime television, for promoting wealthy American stereotypes across the globe. Still I don’t know which is worse—Basotho judging Americans based on soap operas or WWF Wrestling, another television favorite in Lesotho.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Harsh Realities in Lesotho
For the most part I’ve tried to paint a pretty picture of Lesotho in my blog (if not pretty, then quaint), but the reality is that Lesotho is a third world country steeped in poverty. The beautiful mountain landscape is littered with trash; women are treated as second-hand citizens (until just a few years ago women were considered a minority by law); and the vast majority of the population cannot access and/or afford healthcare. On top of everything, Lesotho holds the third highest HIV prevalence rate at 23.5% (though current statistics say it is probably higher) caused by alcoholism and promiscuity (fueled by a similar combination of boredom and desperation—caused by extreme poverty).
The peace in Lesotho and the friendliness of the Basotho people hold the country together and keep it afloat. Lesotho prides itself on being a peaceful nation. Especially compared to surrounding South Africa where racial tension still breeds hostility, Lesotho smiles and welcomes the few foreigners who venture within its borders. Despite the supposed national pride of Basotho, virtually every person born in Lesotho wants to get out—and who can blame them? Unemployment skyrockets at 40% according to statistics, but in reality it is much worse especially in rural areas. Government, whether national or local, is usually lazy and uninformed about its own people—and is at least somewhat corrupt (though not to the extent of some African countries).
As an ex-pat volunteer at the grassroots level in Lesotho it’s easy to see the suffering and needs of Basotho, along with the many problems that exist here. However living with Basotho in their villages, many Peace Corps Volunteers are also exposed to the Basotho’s high expectations of aid workers and low expectations of themselves. In other words, Basotho want international aid workers to give them money to build a clinic, start a business, or go to school, but Basotho refuse to hold themselves accountable if the money is squandered or the project fails—it’s not their money, why should they care? Basotho have developed a serious dependency on international aid. Money constantly flows into the country no matter where it goes or how effectively or efficiently it is used. As far as I can tell, organizations do little to follow up on where exactly their donated money ends up (i.e. receipts, surveys, names, etc.) The host country is not held accountable by the donating organization, and the organization is not held accountable by its donors. I encourage people who donate money to charities and non-profits et al to inquire about where the money actually goes. More importantly though, international aid organizations need to monitor the results and spending of their aid money. International aid has had a presence in Lesotho for decades, even before the HIV/AIDS crisis. I fear that if money is thrown at Africa (and the rest of the third world) like it has been in Lesotho, the entire third world will develop a dependency on foreign aid and lack the skills to improve and progress its societies.
The peace in Lesotho and the friendliness of the Basotho people hold the country together and keep it afloat. Lesotho prides itself on being a peaceful nation. Especially compared to surrounding South Africa where racial tension still breeds hostility, Lesotho smiles and welcomes the few foreigners who venture within its borders. Despite the supposed national pride of Basotho, virtually every person born in Lesotho wants to get out—and who can blame them? Unemployment skyrockets at 40% according to statistics, but in reality it is much worse especially in rural areas. Government, whether national or local, is usually lazy and uninformed about its own people—and is at least somewhat corrupt (though not to the extent of some African countries).
As an ex-pat volunteer at the grassroots level in Lesotho it’s easy to see the suffering and needs of Basotho, along with the many problems that exist here. However living with Basotho in their villages, many Peace Corps Volunteers are also exposed to the Basotho’s high expectations of aid workers and low expectations of themselves. In other words, Basotho want international aid workers to give them money to build a clinic, start a business, or go to school, but Basotho refuse to hold themselves accountable if the money is squandered or the project fails—it’s not their money, why should they care? Basotho have developed a serious dependency on international aid. Money constantly flows into the country no matter where it goes or how effectively or efficiently it is used. As far as I can tell, organizations do little to follow up on where exactly their donated money ends up (i.e. receipts, surveys, names, etc.) The host country is not held accountable by the donating organization, and the organization is not held accountable by its donors. I encourage people who donate money to charities and non-profits et al to inquire about where the money actually goes. More importantly though, international aid organizations need to monitor the results and spending of their aid money. International aid has had a presence in Lesotho for decades, even before the HIV/AIDS crisis. I fear that if money is thrown at Africa (and the rest of the third world) like it has been in Lesotho, the entire third world will develop a dependency on foreign aid and lack the skills to improve and progress its societies.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Dance Party Lesotho-Style!!
January 2008 was a party month for me. Of course there was New Year’s Eve in South Africa, but I have been to multiple parties since then too. You’ll all be happy to know I’m kind of a big deal in Lesotho this year. :) Each of my first two weekends back in Lesotho I attended a party. The first was a good-bye party for my friend ‘Me Refiloe, the Youth Coordinator of the Qacha’s Nek district, who sadly has been transferred to a different district. Because she works for the government (Ministry of Youth and Gender), many local government officials were there which was kind of weird—it would be like partying with your mayor and police chiefs in the States. I didn’t know too many people at this first party so I was glad Adam was there with me (especially when a very drunk man started hitting on me) and we left pretty early. The second party was thrown by my friend Nozipho and thus was a younger crowd. I was definitely the oldest person there for a few hours. I knew many more people at this party so I was much more comfortable and had more than just one beer like the previous weekend. I felt like I was being accepted into the youth community—I wasn’t exactly working at the house party, but I was breaking ground with the youth by proving to them that I could hang, which will help me in my work with the youth. First we had a braai (British English for bbq) at about 10pm after the electricity came back on. Then after we ate chicken and beef and papa, the dance party began. There are only two things Basotho do at parties: drink and dance. And damn are they good at both! Dance music consists of re-mixes of almost anything from Celine Dion to crying babies to Microsoft Windows sounds—anything you can put a beat on top of. Dance moves are just as eclectic—my personal favorite is a variation on the one-legged push-up. The all-out, all-night dancing is my favorite part about Basotho parties. In the States, people are so afraid and embarrassed to dance (especially the guys!). In Lesotho it’s embarrassing if you don’t dance. It doesn’t matter how old you are in Lesotho—when the music starts, your hips start swaying. Even adolescents going through their awkward puberty stage are not ashamed to dance like crazy! Parties usually rage on through the night until sunrise. I had mentally and physically prepared myself to be up until 5 or 6am. However the party was at a young guy’s house, and his mom broke it up at about 3am because she said she needed to sleep… lame. No, she’s actually a really cool lady and was awake with us the entire night laughing and dancing. One of the guys walked me home (my co-worker’s son) to make sure that I was “safe and protected” he said. Everyone there was very concerned about my safety while walking home which made me feel loved (it was only a 3-minute walk).
Then last week was the All-Volunteer Conference in Maseru where all the Peace Corps volunteers in Lesotho came together to discuss new policies and project ideas, etc. During the day we were all business at the conference, but every night was a party. It’s extremely rare that we all get together at the same time so we had to take advantage of the situation. Needless to say, many beers were imbibed. And one night we had a dance party—Peace Corps Lesotho style, which is a unique combination of American and Basotho music and dance moves. January has been the month of dancing. It was a good month. But seriously February will be the month of working… I swear. :)
HOST FAMILY UPDATE:
I cannot recall who I have told about my ntate so I thought I would write it in my blog because I have received a few questions about it. My ntate-moholo from my previous home, Ntate Makeka, passed away right before Christmas. I had not seen him for a while before his death, but thought he was doing fine because I had not heard otherwise. His oldest daughter didn’t tell me what he died from, just that it happened “very quickly.” He was an old man at 90 years old, the oldest in Lesotho as far as I’m concerned, and lived a fruitful life of many travels and many children. He was a devoted husband and father—an excellent role model for today’s Basotho men. He will be missed.
His son and his family now own the compound so it was good that I moved when I did.
Then last week was the All-Volunteer Conference in Maseru where all the Peace Corps volunteers in Lesotho came together to discuss new policies and project ideas, etc. During the day we were all business at the conference, but every night was a party. It’s extremely rare that we all get together at the same time so we had to take advantage of the situation. Needless to say, many beers were imbibed. And one night we had a dance party—Peace Corps Lesotho style, which is a unique combination of American and Basotho music and dance moves. January has been the month of dancing. It was a good month. But seriously February will be the month of working… I swear. :)
HOST FAMILY UPDATE:
I cannot recall who I have told about my ntate so I thought I would write it in my blog because I have received a few questions about it. My ntate-moholo from my previous home, Ntate Makeka, passed away right before Christmas. I had not seen him for a while before his death, but thought he was doing fine because I had not heard otherwise. His oldest daughter didn’t tell me what he died from, just that it happened “very quickly.” He was an old man at 90 years old, the oldest in Lesotho as far as I’m concerned, and lived a fruitful life of many travels and many children. He was a devoted husband and father—an excellent role model for today’s Basotho men. He will be missed.
His son and his family now own the compound so it was good that I moved when I did.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Starting Out the New Year
It’s late Friday morning in Qacha’s Nek, and I’m feeling good. November and December were stressful months because I was somewhat homeless and disheveled. Thankfully Peace Corps paid for a hotel stay, and when I didn’t want to eat hotel food Adam let me sleep on his floor and eat his food. I’m finally settling into my new home. When I first returned to Qacha’s Nek after vacation (more on that later), my family was still away on holiday. I was at my new home by myself and the anti-malaria meds gave me nightmares and paranoia so the first week was rough—I didn’t sleep much. My next door neighbors have been great though and made sure I was comfortable and safe. My ausi (sister) returned home yesterday so now my home feels like a home. My ausi is a young teacher who is still attending school (a sort of long distance college education from South Africa), and says I will have to help her with her studies. I told her I will do my best. I still have to meet many of my new neighbors and establish myself in my community, but so far I’m happy in my new home.
I was not putting in many hours at work during the move in November, and I spent a lot of time in Maseru and on vacation in December. The New Year for me marks a new beginning in Qacha’s Nek, not only because of my new home but I will be returning to work fully with some new ideas and energy. School re-opens at the end of January, and in February my counterpart at LPPA and I will begin giving presentations to high school students about reproductive health and their bodies. I will also be speaking to the prisoners in small groups at the Qacha’s Nek Correctional Facility; we will discuss HIV/AIDS at first, and then hopefully they will tell me what they want to learn about. PSI/Lesotho Headquarters has asked me to paint a mural in Maseru, hopefully the first of many—I’m looking forward to that.
Next week I will be back in Maseru for a Peace Corps Conference, then back to work in Qacha.
VACATION:My South African vacation was awesome. I spent almost every day at the beach, and almost every night at the bar. The bartenders at our backpackers hostel were fun and let us pick our favorite music. I don’t think I’ve ever danced so much in one week. I really enjoyed driving our little rental car too. Although disorienting at first, I soon got used to driving on the left side of the road and shifting gears with my left hand—I ended up driving most of the way there and back. We had the windows open and the music on loud—we were free! At the Wild Coast, I almost ran over some little monkeys that were crossing the road. We saw some zebras and ostriches from the road too, and we could see monkeys hanging out in the trees outside our backpacker. We got all dressed up for New Year’s Eve which was fun because most everyone else wore shorts and jeans. I put on make-up for the first time in 6 months. We all had a great time dancing and drinking, but most of New Year’s Day was spent nursing a hangover. Ho lokile (ho lohkeelay: it’s ok), I was still at the beach.
I was not putting in many hours at work during the move in November, and I spent a lot of time in Maseru and on vacation in December. The New Year for me marks a new beginning in Qacha’s Nek, not only because of my new home but I will be returning to work fully with some new ideas and energy. School re-opens at the end of January, and in February my counterpart at LPPA and I will begin giving presentations to high school students about reproductive health and their bodies. I will also be speaking to the prisoners in small groups at the Qacha’s Nek Correctional Facility; we will discuss HIV/AIDS at first, and then hopefully they will tell me what they want to learn about. PSI/Lesotho Headquarters has asked me to paint a mural in Maseru, hopefully the first of many—I’m looking forward to that.
Next week I will be back in Maseru for a Peace Corps Conference, then back to work in Qacha.
VACATION:My South African vacation was awesome. I spent almost every day at the beach, and almost every night at the bar. The bartenders at our backpackers hostel were fun and let us pick our favorite music. I don’t think I’ve ever danced so much in one week. I really enjoyed driving our little rental car too. Although disorienting at first, I soon got used to driving on the left side of the road and shifting gears with my left hand—I ended up driving most of the way there and back. We had the windows open and the music on loud—we were free! At the Wild Coast, I almost ran over some little monkeys that were crossing the road. We saw some zebras and ostriches from the road too, and we could see monkeys hanging out in the trees outside our backpacker. We got all dressed up for New Year’s Eve which was fun because most everyone else wore shorts and jeans. I put on make-up for the first time in 6 months. We all had a great time dancing and drinking, but most of New Year’s Day was spent nursing a hangover. Ho lokile (ho lohkeelay: it’s ok), I was still at the beach.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!
Once again the holidays have come and gone -- except this year I was in Africa. Christmas really doesn't feel like Christmas when you're halfway around the world away from your family and friends and home. Luckily I was able to be with some of my Peace Corps friends. Again I was at Kjessie's -- I visit her a lot. :) This time we killed two ducks for Christmas dinner, but I didn't do the honors. The ducks were delicious, and we had mashed potatoes and green beans and stuffing and home-made pumpkin pies (Kjessie's really good). We eat well if we try hard enough. We even watched "It's A Wonderful Life" in one of the classrooms on campus.
Christmas was definitely different this year. I missed all of you and was thinking about you, friends and family. I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays and has a fun New Year's Eve! I will be on a beach in South Africa! Happy New Year!
Christmas was definitely different this year. I missed all of you and was thinking about you, friends and family. I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays and has a fun New Year's Eve! I will be on a beach in South Africa! Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Cherries & Chickenheads
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
August, September, and October I stayed in Qacha's Nek at my site so November was the month of travelling. I went to three different volunteers' homes in different parts of Lesotho, 2 of which are across the Senqu (or Orange) River. When you need to cross a river in Lesotho, you either drive over a cement bridge if the river is low (and if a: your part of the river has a bridge, and b: you have a car). Like the vast majority of Basotho, Peace Corps volunteers do not have cars. If you don't have a car, your only option is a shabby rowboat manned by a malnourished teenage boy wearing only his underwear. People and luggage and any number of weird things have to cross the river by rowboat: heavy furniture, crates of beer, corpses (yup). Welcome to Lesotho.
For my first exciting "outing" post-lockdown, my fellow PCV friend and neighbor Adam Rosenberg took me to Ficksburg where a bunch of volunteers were meeting up for the annual Cherry Festival. Ficksburg is a border-town right outside the northwestern border of Lesotho. Four of us stayed at a volunteer's house near the border. It took Adam and I 9 hours total to get there: 7 from Qacha to Maseru, and another 2 to Leribe. The next day we all crossed the border from Lesotho to Ficksburg, from black to white. The strangest thing about going to the Free State (a province of South Africa) for the first time is seeing groups of mostly white people. In Lesotho (especially the mountains) I only see a small number of Westerners all of whom I know and recognize. It's shocking to blend into a crowd after being an obvious minority and spectacle for so long. The Ficksburg Cherry Festival was weird, but fun. It reminded me of a county fair -- white trash, old people, greasy food, bad musical entertainment. At one point there was a cherry pit spitting contest. The best part though was free samples of cherry-flavored alcoholic beverages (and other cherry delights). They were kind of nasty, but free. :) Some of the male volunteers decided to attend the event dressed as Boers meaning mullets and cut-off jean shorts. They fit right in. For lunch I had a huge curry meat pie (I've been eating a lot of meatpies since I got here -- they're everywhere and awesome) and a draft beer, or three. It was good to be out of Lesotho for a little while and forget about my job.
As previously mentioned I celebrated Thanksgiving at my friend Kjessie's house. She lives across the Senqu River, about an hour hike to the river and an hour hike to her house from the river over a mountain. She works at an agricultural college where they plant every produce imaginable. When you get to her campus it looks like an oasis, especially in the winter, because it's a beautiful green area full of vegetation and nice houses in the middle of nowhere. I like to visit her despite the river pirates. Andy (PCV friend who lives near Kjessie) and I stayed at Kjessie's house for a few days for Thanksgiving before heading to Maseru for some Peace Corps training. On Thanksgiving Day we tried to find a chicken to slaughter for dinner (turkeys are hard to come by) because in Kjessie's village you have to kill an animal if you want to eat meat. Unfortunately Kjessie's students couldn't find us a chicken in her village or the next village over. We were pretty disappointed, but Kjessie had secured a fish from her boss so we had a fish with stuffing instead. And of course, mashed potatoes (half a plate) and cranberry sauce. It was delicious, and we all stuffed ourselves like it was a real American Thanksgiving. Kjessie even made pumpkin pie from scratch which was impressive to say the least. Later that night after we had finished eating, one of the teachers at Kjessie's school said she found us a chicken...! Thanksgiving was over, but better late than never. We woke up the next day ready for Thanksgiving Round 2 and walked to a house nearby to purchase our chicken. We bought it for 40 rands (about $7) and carried it home. Kjessie used to work on a chicken farm and wanted to show us a trick where she hyptonized the chicken. During the trick the chicken got loose and started running around the campus. We had the three of us, Kjessie's co-worker, and 3 or 4 students running after our escapee chicken. After maybe 20 minutes of running around, one of the students grabbed it by the tail ensuring it's fate. After capturing the chicken we decided that I would be the executioner--this would be a good chance to experience where my food really comes from I thought. At first we wanted to be hardcore so Kjessie got an ax from the campus toolshed. It looked really cool (see photo), but we didn't really know how to use it. Instead Kjessie's teacher, 'Me Mateboho, showed us the Basotho way to slaughter a chicken. Basically I lay the chicken on it's side, stepped on his wings with one foot and his legs with the other. I won't go into the nitty-gritty details on my blog (email me if you want the full, PG-13 story), but I basically cut his head off with a hunting knife that Mike Bohley gave me. It felt really strange to kill an animal, but I wanted to have the experience of killing my own food. Luckily Kjessie used to work on a chicken farm so she knew what to do after that: 1) stick chicken in boiling water and pluck feathers, cut off feet, singe little hairs off, cut a T in the butt, pull out insides, rinse, stuff, bake. We also went for a beautiful afternoon hike in the next village. When we returned from the hike we baked the stuffed chicken for Thanksgiving 2. As we bit into the chicken we worked so hard to prepare, the meat didn't budge. The three of us looked at each other as we gnawed on the rubbery meat and burst out laughing. We called him khoho-moholo after that which means grandpa chicken. Our first self-slaughtered chicken was pretty disappointing, but it was a good Thanksgiving (2 days) nonetheless.
I hope everyone in America had a yummy Thanksgiving. I had a lot to be thankful for this year after living in Africa for 6 months. I'm thankful for all my friends and family back home too -- I miss you all! Thank you for all of your support!
August, September, and October I stayed in Qacha's Nek at my site so November was the month of travelling. I went to three different volunteers' homes in different parts of Lesotho, 2 of which are across the Senqu (or Orange) River. When you need to cross a river in Lesotho, you either drive over a cement bridge if the river is low (and if a: your part of the river has a bridge, and b: you have a car). Like the vast majority of Basotho, Peace Corps volunteers do not have cars. If you don't have a car, your only option is a shabby rowboat manned by a malnourished teenage boy wearing only his underwear. People and luggage and any number of weird things have to cross the river by rowboat: heavy furniture, crates of beer, corpses (yup). Welcome to Lesotho.
For my first exciting "outing" post-lockdown, my fellow PCV friend and neighbor Adam Rosenberg took me to Ficksburg where a bunch of volunteers were meeting up for the annual Cherry Festival. Ficksburg is a border-town right outside the northwestern border of Lesotho. Four of us stayed at a volunteer's house near the border. It took Adam and I 9 hours total to get there: 7 from Qacha to Maseru, and another 2 to Leribe. The next day we all crossed the border from Lesotho to Ficksburg, from black to white. The strangest thing about going to the Free State (a province of South Africa) for the first time is seeing groups of mostly white people. In Lesotho (especially the mountains) I only see a small number of Westerners all of whom I know and recognize. It's shocking to blend into a crowd after being an obvious minority and spectacle for so long. The Ficksburg Cherry Festival was weird, but fun. It reminded me of a county fair -- white trash, old people, greasy food, bad musical entertainment. At one point there was a cherry pit spitting contest. The best part though was free samples of cherry-flavored alcoholic beverages (and other cherry delights). They were kind of nasty, but free. :) Some of the male volunteers decided to attend the event dressed as Boers meaning mullets and cut-off jean shorts. They fit right in. For lunch I had a huge curry meat pie (I've been eating a lot of meatpies since I got here -- they're everywhere and awesome) and a draft beer, or three. It was good to be out of Lesotho for a little while and forget about my job.
As previously mentioned I celebrated Thanksgiving at my friend Kjessie's house. She lives across the Senqu River, about an hour hike to the river and an hour hike to her house from the river over a mountain. She works at an agricultural college where they plant every produce imaginable. When you get to her campus it looks like an oasis, especially in the winter, because it's a beautiful green area full of vegetation and nice houses in the middle of nowhere. I like to visit her despite the river pirates. Andy (PCV friend who lives near Kjessie) and I stayed at Kjessie's house for a few days for Thanksgiving before heading to Maseru for some Peace Corps training. On Thanksgiving Day we tried to find a chicken to slaughter for dinner (turkeys are hard to come by) because in Kjessie's village you have to kill an animal if you want to eat meat. Unfortunately Kjessie's students couldn't find us a chicken in her village or the next village over. We were pretty disappointed, but Kjessie had secured a fish from her boss so we had a fish with stuffing instead. And of course, mashed potatoes (half a plate) and cranberry sauce. It was delicious, and we all stuffed ourselves like it was a real American Thanksgiving. Kjessie even made pumpkin pie from scratch which was impressive to say the least. Later that night after we had finished eating, one of the teachers at Kjessie's school said she found us a chicken...! Thanksgiving was over, but better late than never. We woke up the next day ready for Thanksgiving Round 2 and walked to a house nearby to purchase our chicken. We bought it for 40 rands (about $7) and carried it home. Kjessie used to work on a chicken farm and wanted to show us a trick where she hyptonized the chicken. During the trick the chicken got loose and started running around the campus. We had the three of us, Kjessie's co-worker, and 3 or 4 students running after our escapee chicken. After maybe 20 minutes of running around, one of the students grabbed it by the tail ensuring it's fate. After capturing the chicken we decided that I would be the executioner--this would be a good chance to experience where my food really comes from I thought. At first we wanted to be hardcore so Kjessie got an ax from the campus toolshed. It looked really cool (see photo), but we didn't really know how to use it. Instead Kjessie's teacher, 'Me Mateboho, showed us the Basotho way to slaughter a chicken. Basically I lay the chicken on it's side, stepped on his wings with one foot and his legs with the other. I won't go into the nitty-gritty details on my blog (email me if you want the full, PG-13 story), but I basically cut his head off with a hunting knife that Mike Bohley gave me. It felt really strange to kill an animal, but I wanted to have the experience of killing my own food. Luckily Kjessie used to work on a chicken farm so she knew what to do after that: 1) stick chicken in boiling water and pluck feathers, cut off feet, singe little hairs off, cut a T in the butt, pull out insides, rinse, stuff, bake. We also went for a beautiful afternoon hike in the next village. When we returned from the hike we baked the stuffed chicken for Thanksgiving 2. As we bit into the chicken we worked so hard to prepare, the meat didn't budge. The three of us looked at each other as we gnawed on the rubbery meat and burst out laughing. We called him khoho-moholo after that which means grandpa chicken. Our first self-slaughtered chicken was pretty disappointing, but it was a good Thanksgiving (2 days) nonetheless.
I hope everyone in America had a yummy Thanksgiving. I had a lot to be thankful for this year after living in Africa for 6 months. I'm thankful for all my friends and family back home too -- I miss you all! Thank you for all of your support!
Saturday, November 24, 2007
"KEA MATHA!"
Again, a lot has happened since I last blogged. I have moved to a new house (almost all moved) with a new family and new neighbors and a new last name all of which I don't know yet. Peace Corps deemed my house too dangerous so they found me a new place on the opposite end of the same village. Nothing happened to me, but Peace Corps is keen on preventing violence before it happens so they wanted me to move -- don't worry! I was staying at hotels and friends' houses for the first 2 weeks of November while the logistics of my new house were being worked out. Then last week I went to the Cherry Festival in Ficksburg, South Africa with a big group of fellow volunteers. Then Thanksgiving at my friend Kjessie's house where I may or may not have slaughtered a chicken for dinner. Now I'm in the capital of Lesotho, Maseru, for more Peace Corps training. In my next blog there will be more details about my new house, how work is going, and how I'm feeling. But first I have a little story I want to share with you.
In Peace Corps Lesotho (and I imagine in Peace Corps all around the globe), no volunteer can escape the inevitability of diarrhea...
"Lockdown" was finally over--no longer confined to my district, my friend Adam invited me to go to the Cherry Festival in South Africa with some other volunteers. Excited to get out of Qacha's Nek for a few days I enthusiastically agreed. We got on a kombi to Maseru, the capital of Lesotho on the other side of the country, at 6am and prepared ourselves for the uncomfortably cramped and long 7-hour ride. In Lesotho (and many African countries), public transportation is an adventure in itself. Most kombis, similar to large vans for high school sports teams but bigger, are supposed to hold about 16 people safely and comfortably. But I'm in Africa, so a comfortable 16-seater transforms into a clown car for 25 or 30 people squished in the seats and the aisle crammed with others standing. Luckily I had a window seat so I could gaze out at the beautiful mountainous landscape along the way. Unfortunately the woman who sat next to me weighed a good 250 lbs and had a young child on her lap with a leaky water bottle. The seats in the kombi are small so I was forced to share some of my seat with the large woman next to me who freely rested her hands and bags and child on my lap at times (which is common -- Basotho don't believe in personal space).
Soon after the half-way point between Qacha's Nek and Maseru, my stomach started to hurt. At first it was no big deal, usually if my stomach hurts it goes away pretty quickly. Unfortunately this was not one of those harmless stomach growls, and it got a lot worse. As my insides got more angry I started to panic. I knew I would have to go to the bathroom soon, but I had another 4 hours to go and was in the middle of nowhere. A few outhouses flew by as I longingly stared at them out the window. I didn't know what to do. If I told the driver I needed to get out of the car because I was sick, he could just drive off without me, leaving me in the middle of nowhere without my luggage and few alternatives to get to the capital. I sweated it out for a half hour or so longer until I HAD to get off the kombi to take care of business. I slowly stood up in the back of the bus, stepped over the large woman and child, pushed my way through every man and woman in the aisle, and made my way to the sliding door. I said to the driver, "Kea kula. Ke hloka ho theoha honajoale. Kea matha!" Translations: Kea kula = I am sick, Ke hloka ho theoha honajoale = I need to get off now, Kea matha = I am running (you have to think about this one, it has more than one meaning). He stopped the kombi to let me off, and before I left the vehicle I asked him in English, "Ntate, will you wait for me?" with just a hint of desperation in my voice. He said yes and seemed to be genuine so I darted across the road down a little hill to a large bush and made sure no one could see me. Well, then you know what happened, the whole time thinking the bus could abandon me and take off for Maseru as I pulled my pants up. A woman walked over to my general area and shyly said "We are waiting for you" as I actually was buckling my belt. They hadn't left me! I ran back to the bus apologizing and thanking everyone. I was kind of embarrassed but moreso extremely relieved (in more ways than one). Most of the Basotho passengers were chuckling when I again inched my way through the crowd in the aisle to my window seat. The toddler on the large woman's lap burst out laughing when he realized where I had been. This time I let the big lady sit near the window so my insides weren't being squished even though that meant there was only room for one of my butt cheeks on my seat. Thank God I felt fine for the rest of the trip! In fact I even had a soft serve cone in the capital. Then it was another 2 hours up to our friend's house where we were staying near Ficksburg. Just a day in the life.
More to come in the next few days about Ficksburg Cherry Festival, Thanksgiving events, and more! See photo below from our Thanksgiving Day hike.
In Peace Corps Lesotho (and I imagine in Peace Corps all around the globe), no volunteer can escape the inevitability of diarrhea...
"Lockdown" was finally over--no longer confined to my district, my friend Adam invited me to go to the Cherry Festival in South Africa with some other volunteers. Excited to get out of Qacha's Nek for a few days I enthusiastically agreed. We got on a kombi to Maseru, the capital of Lesotho on the other side of the country, at 6am and prepared ourselves for the uncomfortably cramped and long 7-hour ride. In Lesotho (and many African countries), public transportation is an adventure in itself. Most kombis, similar to large vans for high school sports teams but bigger, are supposed to hold about 16 people safely and comfortably. But I'm in Africa, so a comfortable 16-seater transforms into a clown car for 25 or 30 people squished in the seats and the aisle crammed with others standing. Luckily I had a window seat so I could gaze out at the beautiful mountainous landscape along the way. Unfortunately the woman who sat next to me weighed a good 250 lbs and had a young child on her lap with a leaky water bottle. The seats in the kombi are small so I was forced to share some of my seat with the large woman next to me who freely rested her hands and bags and child on my lap at times (which is common -- Basotho don't believe in personal space).
Soon after the half-way point between Qacha's Nek and Maseru, my stomach started to hurt. At first it was no big deal, usually if my stomach hurts it goes away pretty quickly. Unfortunately this was not one of those harmless stomach growls, and it got a lot worse. As my insides got more angry I started to panic. I knew I would have to go to the bathroom soon, but I had another 4 hours to go and was in the middle of nowhere. A few outhouses flew by as I longingly stared at them out the window. I didn't know what to do. If I told the driver I needed to get out of the car because I was sick, he could just drive off without me, leaving me in the middle of nowhere without my luggage and few alternatives to get to the capital. I sweated it out for a half hour or so longer until I HAD to get off the kombi to take care of business. I slowly stood up in the back of the bus, stepped over the large woman and child, pushed my way through every man and woman in the aisle, and made my way to the sliding door. I said to the driver, "Kea kula. Ke hloka ho theoha honajoale. Kea matha!" Translations: Kea kula = I am sick, Ke hloka ho theoha honajoale = I need to get off now, Kea matha = I am running (you have to think about this one, it has more than one meaning). He stopped the kombi to let me off, and before I left the vehicle I asked him in English, "Ntate, will you wait for me?" with just a hint of desperation in my voice. He said yes and seemed to be genuine so I darted across the road down a little hill to a large bush and made sure no one could see me. Well, then you know what happened, the whole time thinking the bus could abandon me and take off for Maseru as I pulled my pants up. A woman walked over to my general area and shyly said "We are waiting for you" as I actually was buckling my belt. They hadn't left me! I ran back to the bus apologizing and thanking everyone. I was kind of embarrassed but moreso extremely relieved (in more ways than one). Most of the Basotho passengers were chuckling when I again inched my way through the crowd in the aisle to my window seat. The toddler on the large woman's lap burst out laughing when he realized where I had been. This time I let the big lady sit near the window so my insides weren't being squished even though that meant there was only room for one of my butt cheeks on my seat. Thank God I felt fine for the rest of the trip! In fact I even had a soft serve cone in the capital. Then it was another 2 hours up to our friend's house where we were staying near Ficksburg. Just a day in the life.
More to come in the next few days about Ficksburg Cherry Festival, Thanksgiving events, and more! See photo below from our Thanksgiving Day hike.
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