It's been almost a year since I arrived in Lesotho, and it feels like time is really flying. I've been traveling around the north of Lesotho for the last 3 weeks. I'm happy to be gone from site (although I miss my friends and co-workers at site) because it's freezing up there and snowing. At first I went to Butha-Buthe to paint a mural for PSI. The mural is kind of a big condom ad so it's not something I'm dying to show everyone, but it was good practice in case I want to paint some murals of my own. The mural took a week. Then their was a security threat in Maseru (that actually turned out to be nothing) so I was told I couldn't travel through the capital to get home to Qacha's Nek in southern Lesotho. I took that opportunity to visit some of my other friends in the north who I don't see very often—and some new volunteers too. It was good to get some fresh perspectives from other volunteers, particularly a new volunteer who is in her 60s and doesn't waste her time here because she left a beautiful family to come to Lesotho.
Now I'm in Maseru doing some research for a few training sessions I will be holding for the brand new Community Health volunteers that just arrived a few days ago! I'm trying to find some concrete information on the laws affecting women's equality. So far I've found out that married women gained equality to men in 2006 which means unmarried women (no matter their age) are minors according to the legal system in Lesotho. Lesotho is a strange country in that women are more educated and literate and responsible for almost all matters of the family (including financial), yet culturally Basotho men have all the power. A funny thing about this power struggle is that Basotho men are small, skinny, and often intoxicated while the Basotho women are traditionally large. They could easily physically overpower their smaller male counterparts, but because the culture states that men have the power they succumb to their husbands' and fathers' abuse.
Anyway, it's about that time again to go on vacation! JJ, my good friend and previous boss, is already on Robben Island off Cape Town working on a penguin project. I'll meet up with her in Cape Town after the project is over and explore the biggest, coolest city in Africa! More on that later! Miss you all!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Basotho Time
Patience is definitely one quality I’ve improved since arriving in Lesotho thanks to… Basotho time. Patience can include many things: patience with language misunderstandings, with kids asking for money and candy, or just slow work progress in general. These are important in developing patience, but I’m talking specifically about just sitting and waiting. When our volunteer group arrived in Lesotho we were warned about “Basotho time,” but it’s still a major cultural difference that is difficult to tolerate. Basotho aren’t just late; sometimes they are ridiculously, unbelievably, inexcusably late. I spent all of last week in a rural area of Lesotho with my PCV friend Pam in her village, and it seemed like the whole week was run on Basotho time.
I traveled to Pam’s village with PSI in the back of a covered pick-up truck. They said they would pick me up at my village bus stop at 10 or 11am. I knew this meant after 11, but like a silly American I arrived at the stop at 10:30am. I sat on my backpack on the side of the road for three hours waiting, reading a book, texting PSI with no response. After the first two hours I got a little worried, maybe they weren’t coming, and I decided I would go home at 2pm. Finally though, a little before 2pm, they showed up. Then we drove for five hours on dirt roads over mountain passes before reaching our destination—but at least it was a free ride. :)
A couple days later Pam and some other volunteers hosted a Children’s Health Day at their village clinic. HIV counselors/testers from the hospital were coming from the camptown. The event was scheduled to start at 8am. The counselors arrived at the clinic at 11am, prepared their test kits until noon, and then some of them took their lunch breaks. It was really frustrating, but we weren’t paying them so there wasn’t much we could do but wait. Hundreds of Basotho women with babies and toddlers strapped to their backs were waiting too. Somehow we managed to see almost all of the children thanks to the dedicated clinic staff.
Later in the week I went on outreach with PSI to a high school in a rural area. Outreach involves HIV/AIDS education, then voluntary HIV testing and counseling. We were supposed to start at 10am, but that’s when we left the lodge where the counselors were staying. We arrived at the high school at about 10:30, but the school wasn’t ready yet. The teachers had to gather the students, and then we could begin. An hour and a half later we started the general presentation. That’s Lesotho. While the students were lining up to test for HIV after the presentation, I did some educational activities with small groups. Then I showed them male and female condoms and how to use them. Most Basotho are sexually active by age 15 so I always show high school students how to properly use a condom.
The day we returned to Qacha’s Nek I thought we were leaving at 10am, but a co-worker showed up at my friend’s house telling me to be ready at 8am. We were leaving early? Heavy clouds were rolling in, so I assumed we were going to try to beat the rain. I met my co-worker at 8, and we proceeded to visit her family’s homes in the area. We weren’t being picked up until 9am, but my co-worker wanted me to snap photos of her and her family members. That sneaky b****. Then we actually got picked up at 9am. We didn’t leave yet though. First we went back to the lodge where the rest of my co-workers were packing. I waited until 11am, then I climbed into the back of the truck with all the luggage and a lamb carcass. Then off we went, home to Qacha’s Nek. Basotho time = lots of waiting.
I traveled to Pam’s village with PSI in the back of a covered pick-up truck. They said they would pick me up at my village bus stop at 10 or 11am. I knew this meant after 11, but like a silly American I arrived at the stop at 10:30am. I sat on my backpack on the side of the road for three hours waiting, reading a book, texting PSI with no response. After the first two hours I got a little worried, maybe they weren’t coming, and I decided I would go home at 2pm. Finally though, a little before 2pm, they showed up. Then we drove for five hours on dirt roads over mountain passes before reaching our destination—but at least it was a free ride. :)
A couple days later Pam and some other volunteers hosted a Children’s Health Day at their village clinic. HIV counselors/testers from the hospital were coming from the camptown. The event was scheduled to start at 8am. The counselors arrived at the clinic at 11am, prepared their test kits until noon, and then some of them took their lunch breaks. It was really frustrating, but we weren’t paying them so there wasn’t much we could do but wait. Hundreds of Basotho women with babies and toddlers strapped to their backs were waiting too. Somehow we managed to see almost all of the children thanks to the dedicated clinic staff.
Later in the week I went on outreach with PSI to a high school in a rural area. Outreach involves HIV/AIDS education, then voluntary HIV testing and counseling. We were supposed to start at 10am, but that’s when we left the lodge where the counselors were staying. We arrived at the high school at about 10:30, but the school wasn’t ready yet. The teachers had to gather the students, and then we could begin. An hour and a half later we started the general presentation. That’s Lesotho. While the students were lining up to test for HIV after the presentation, I did some educational activities with small groups. Then I showed them male and female condoms and how to use them. Most Basotho are sexually active by age 15 so I always show high school students how to properly use a condom.
The day we returned to Qacha’s Nek I thought we were leaving at 10am, but a co-worker showed up at my friend’s house telling me to be ready at 8am. We were leaving early? Heavy clouds were rolling in, so I assumed we were going to try to beat the rain. I met my co-worker at 8, and we proceeded to visit her family’s homes in the area. We weren’t being picked up until 9am, but my co-worker wanted me to snap photos of her and her family members. That sneaky b****. Then we actually got picked up at 9am. We didn’t leave yet though. First we went back to the lodge where the rest of my co-workers were packing. I waited until 11am, then I climbed into the back of the truck with all the luggage and a lamb carcass. Then off we went, home to Qacha’s Nek. Basotho time = lots of waiting.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me...
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Lesotho Kaofela
Last week I returned from a mini-vacation around Lesotho. First I traveled all the way to Butha-Buthe, the northern-most area of Lesotho, from southeastern Qacha's Nek. I met my friend Jen there at her home before we planned to head to Johannesburg to see a big art show and stay with Jen's friend Saffron. Unfortunately when we went to the taxirank to buy our bus tickets, I realized I had forgotten my passport at home on the other side of the country (a 10+ hour ride). I was devastated and admittedly embarrassed. In the words of Mike Bohley (who I told the next day), "At least it's good to know you haven't change much." I fear for my golden years if I'm already so absent-minded. Despite my major faux-pas, we wanted to do something fun together. Lucky for me, Jen is extremely flexible (and forgiving). We don't get to see eachother very often so we were happy to hang out no matter what we were doing. Plan B: we decided to go to Mokhotlong and visit the new volunteers there. Mokhotlong, the highest and most mountainous district of Lesotho, was gorgeous. It was cold and rainy, but it made for some beautiful low clouds around the mountain-tops.
After our unexpected mountain weekend, I said goodbye to Jen and headed for the capital where I had some business to attend to. I popped into the Peace Corps office of course, and checked in with my bosses. However, my main order of business was at PSI (Population Services International) Headquarters. I'm currently designing a mural to promote condom use that will eventually be painted on shops all over Lesotho. We discussed my latest concept design, and they suggested a few changes. Hopefully we can finalize it soon. Then the next morning I went to LPPA (Lesotho Planned Parenthood Association) Headquarters for the first time. Among other things, I needed to meet with them to discuss our need for transport in Qacha's Nek in order to reach the rural areas. All of the meetings went well, but progress is always slow in Lesotho so I don't expect much right away.
By this time it was almost Easter weekend. I met a few friends in Semonkong, a popular tourist site in central Lesotho. We stayed at the Semonkong Lodge, but I won't be going back there after poor treatment from one of the owners. Nevertheless it's a beautiful area because of a large gorge and the Maletsunyane Falls. Semonkong marked the start of a 3-day/2-night backpacking trip. With a topo map from 1981 and a Mosotho friend we began our journey. There were four of us--Todd, Rachel, me, and Fusi, a Mosotho high school student of Todd's. Our plan was to trek from village to village mostly along the bridal paths--so at every village we asked the locals the best way to get to the next village. It worked quite well. The first day, we noticed some unusual little cone huts in someone's front yard as we stopped to fill our Nalgene water bottles. We had never seen anything like them, so we decided to inquire. The woman who lived there welcomed us and happily showed us the strange structures, painted black with red and white spots. They were like tiny houses that could barely fit 2 people, who had to sit on animal-skin drums. We looked around and realized, to our surprise and delight, that the woman was a sangoma, or traditional healer (some would say "witchdoctor"). She took off her hat to reveal her red and white beaded hair. We snapped some photos and she asked me to send them to her. I said I would, and we said our goodbyes. As it reached mid-afternoon, some storm clouds were rolling in. We set up camp at a less-than-perfect site, but we had to pitch our tents and cook before it rained. So we collected firewood, started a fire, put up our tents, cooked, ate, and scurried into our tents. The rain never came. Weather in Lesotho is totally unpredictable. The next day we headed for the river which we hoped to cross that day. It took us much longer than we expected (multiple steep ascents and decents--and stopping to ask for directions), and we didn't reach the river until after 5pm. We were forced to stay in the village before the river, but needed to ask permission to stay on someone's land. Again gray clouds loomed over us ("pregnant with rain" as Basotho say). We found a decent spot and asked permission from the nearest family's home. The woman who lived there seemed confused, but said it was fine. We ended up buying firewood and water from her too because we couldn't find any. She was reluctant to sell us firewood, but she did--she probably traveled miles to collect it, carrying it back to her home in a large bundle on her head. We were quite the village spectacle--they probably had never seen tents before, let alone a group of white people. There were at least half a dozen villagers watching us at any given time. Again we pitched our tents and got inside. It looked like a small storm that would pass quickly so we waited to cook. It started to get dark, and again the clouds passed us by so we started the fire. It was dark by the time we ate dinner, but it was a gorgeous night. We enjoyed the star-gazing during our meal. In the middle of the night it finally stormed, lots of lightning and thunder. I didn't sleep a wink as it poured. Lightning is a very real danger in treeless Lesotho so I was scared, and the thunder roared overhead. It didn't last too long though, and I think I got a few hours of sleep. The next morning we broke down camp and boiled water for breakfast with the help of an insistent 'm'e. As we said goodbye to our temporary landlord, she informed us that there was a boat to cross the river, but the boatman wouldn't be there until mid-day. We had to get moving, so our only other option was to walk across where it was shallow. As we approached the Senqunyane River and started taking our shoes off, we noticed a man with multiple donkeys. Most of them were carrying crates of beer, but a few weren't loaded. Apparently Todd asked the man if the women could ride the donkeys across the river, and the next thing I know I'm balancing myself on a narrow donkey's back--they are not comfortable. With our large backpacks on and our shoes tied around our necks, Rachel and I crossed the river by donkey. When we reached the other side I awkwardly dismounted my noble steed and thanked the ntate. There, we waited for the guys to walk across the rocky river which took a little longer than our donkey ride. After that, we got a little bit cocky on our last day and didn't bother to ask for directions. We ended up taking the long way to get to the main road where we would catch taxis home to Qacha's Nek. The last day was hot and longer than we expected, but I felt great. I was excited to go home finally and see my friends and co-workers (but mostly to bathe and put some fresh clothes on). I can't wait to plan another backpacking trip.
I'm back in Qacha's Nek now, but not for long as my Dad is coming to visit this week-!!! :)
After our unexpected mountain weekend, I said goodbye to Jen and headed for the capital where I had some business to attend to. I popped into the Peace Corps office of course, and checked in with my bosses. However, my main order of business was at PSI (Population Services International) Headquarters. I'm currently designing a mural to promote condom use that will eventually be painted on shops all over Lesotho. We discussed my latest concept design, and they suggested a few changes. Hopefully we can finalize it soon. Then the next morning I went to LPPA (Lesotho Planned Parenthood Association) Headquarters for the first time. Among other things, I needed to meet with them to discuss our need for transport in Qacha's Nek in order to reach the rural areas. All of the meetings went well, but progress is always slow in Lesotho so I don't expect much right away.
By this time it was almost Easter weekend. I met a few friends in Semonkong, a popular tourist site in central Lesotho. We stayed at the Semonkong Lodge, but I won't be going back there after poor treatment from one of the owners. Nevertheless it's a beautiful area because of a large gorge and the Maletsunyane Falls. Semonkong marked the start of a 3-day/2-night backpacking trip. With a topo map from 1981 and a Mosotho friend we began our journey. There were four of us--Todd, Rachel, me, and Fusi, a Mosotho high school student of Todd's. Our plan was to trek from village to village mostly along the bridal paths--so at every village we asked the locals the best way to get to the next village. It worked quite well. The first day, we noticed some unusual little cone huts in someone's front yard as we stopped to fill our Nalgene water bottles. We had never seen anything like them, so we decided to inquire. The woman who lived there welcomed us and happily showed us the strange structures, painted black with red and white spots. They were like tiny houses that could barely fit 2 people, who had to sit on animal-skin drums. We looked around and realized, to our surprise and delight, that the woman was a sangoma, or traditional healer (some would say "witchdoctor"). She took off her hat to reveal her red and white beaded hair. We snapped some photos and she asked me to send them to her. I said I would, and we said our goodbyes. As it reached mid-afternoon, some storm clouds were rolling in. We set up camp at a less-than-perfect site, but we had to pitch our tents and cook before it rained. So we collected firewood, started a fire, put up our tents, cooked, ate, and scurried into our tents. The rain never came. Weather in Lesotho is totally unpredictable. The next day we headed for the river which we hoped to cross that day. It took us much longer than we expected (multiple steep ascents and decents--and stopping to ask for directions), and we didn't reach the river until after 5pm. We were forced to stay in the village before the river, but needed to ask permission to stay on someone's land. Again gray clouds loomed over us ("pregnant with rain" as Basotho say). We found a decent spot and asked permission from the nearest family's home. The woman who lived there seemed confused, but said it was fine. We ended up buying firewood and water from her too because we couldn't find any. She was reluctant to sell us firewood, but she did--she probably traveled miles to collect it, carrying it back to her home in a large bundle on her head. We were quite the village spectacle--they probably had never seen tents before, let alone a group of white people. There were at least half a dozen villagers watching us at any given time. Again we pitched our tents and got inside. It looked like a small storm that would pass quickly so we waited to cook. It started to get dark, and again the clouds passed us by so we started the fire. It was dark by the time we ate dinner, but it was a gorgeous night. We enjoyed the star-gazing during our meal. In the middle of the night it finally stormed, lots of lightning and thunder. I didn't sleep a wink as it poured. Lightning is a very real danger in treeless Lesotho so I was scared, and the thunder roared overhead. It didn't last too long though, and I think I got a few hours of sleep. The next morning we broke down camp and boiled water for breakfast with the help of an insistent 'm'e. As we said goodbye to our temporary landlord, she informed us that there was a boat to cross the river, but the boatman wouldn't be there until mid-day. We had to get moving, so our only other option was to walk across where it was shallow. As we approached the Senqunyane River and started taking our shoes off, we noticed a man with multiple donkeys. Most of them were carrying crates of beer, but a few weren't loaded. Apparently Todd asked the man if the women could ride the donkeys across the river, and the next thing I know I'm balancing myself on a narrow donkey's back--they are not comfortable. With our large backpacks on and our shoes tied around our necks, Rachel and I crossed the river by donkey. When we reached the other side I awkwardly dismounted my noble steed and thanked the ntate. There, we waited for the guys to walk across the rocky river which took a little longer than our donkey ride. After that, we got a little bit cocky on our last day and didn't bother to ask for directions. We ended up taking the long way to get to the main road where we would catch taxis home to Qacha's Nek. The last day was hot and longer than we expected, but I felt great. I was excited to go home finally and see my friends and co-workers (but mostly to bathe and put some fresh clothes on). I can't wait to plan another backpacking trip.
I'm back in Qacha's Nek now, but not for long as my Dad is coming to visit this week-!!! :)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Happy Moshoeshoe Day!
Last week on March 11th, Basotho and Sotho South Africans celebrated their most notable hero: King Moshoeshoe I (1786-1870). Most Basotho attribute their country's independence, freedom, and peaceful nature to King Moshoeshoe I. Lesotho is a small country completely surrounded by South Africa. It is much poorer and weaker in many ways than its larger neighbor South Africa. Many people are surprised that Lesotho is not a province of the RSA, but Basotho are very proud to be independent and thank King Moshoeshoe I for it. In the early 1800s when white European settlers were taking over southern Africa, King Moshoeshoe strategically placed his army in the unforgiving Drakensberg Mountains of Lesotho. Living in these steep, towering mountains, the Basotho led by Moshoeshoe were able to fight off the British. There were many battles atop Thaba-Bosiu (now a historic mountain in Northern Lesotho), but the British never defeated Moshoeshoe and never took Lesotho. Also King Moshoeshoe never let the white settlers tear apart his people as they did in South Africa. In South Africa, different tribes were separated from each other creating hostility and competition that did not exist before the Europeans. Moshoeshoe welcomed other clan leaders to unite with the Basotho to fight the British. Lesotho celebrates King Moshoeshoe I as a man of peace, wisdom, and strength--the hero and pride of Lesotho. Learn more about King Moshoeshoe.
Basotho celebrate Moshoeshoe Day much the same way Americans celebrate Independence Day. Most of the young professionals in the camptown saw it as an excuse to drink and be with friends on their day off from work, and the school children and families rallied together for the activities. The festivities last many days and include athletics and traditional dancing. Each school is represented by a few students from each grade in running races for athletics. Barefoot, the students ran around the dirt track in the Qacha's Nek camptown in long and short distance races. It was easy to tell which schools were wealthy because they had matching uniforms. Otherwise the runners wore the closest thing to their school colors as possible. The girls wore mostly skirts which was strange, and they did not wear sports bras which looked uncomfortable. The primary (elementary) schools raced on a Friday, and the secondary (high school) schools raced on a Saturday. As I watched the races and the participants, it reminded me of when I ran cross country in high school. Each school stretched and warmed up in groups and cheered for their classmates. It was an exciting and fun day for all of the Basotho in my area. Traditional dancing competitions are also held in honor of Moshoeshoe Day. Boys dance and chant in groups, and so do the girls. Most of the boys' dances are characterized by an exaggerated stomping of their feet—like a high-kick with the knee bent and then stomp it on the ground. The girls' dances, however, are done mostly on their knees with their shoulders jutting forward and back. All of the performers where traditional costumes with some props. Oddly, there is always someone leading the dance with a whistle—I'm not sure why.
Because Moshoeshoe Day and Easter are both celebrated in March this year, people aren't really willing to work as much as usual. It is difficult to get things done during holidays here, so I took a vacation and saw some more of Lesotho instead. More on that next time. :)
Basotho celebrate Moshoeshoe Day much the same way Americans celebrate Independence Day. Most of the young professionals in the camptown saw it as an excuse to drink and be with friends on their day off from work, and the school children and families rallied together for the activities. The festivities last many days and include athletics and traditional dancing. Each school is represented by a few students from each grade in running races for athletics. Barefoot, the students ran around the dirt track in the Qacha's Nek camptown in long and short distance races. It was easy to tell which schools were wealthy because they had matching uniforms. Otherwise the runners wore the closest thing to their school colors as possible. The girls wore mostly skirts which was strange, and they did not wear sports bras which looked uncomfortable. The primary (elementary) schools raced on a Friday, and the secondary (high school) schools raced on a Saturday. As I watched the races and the participants, it reminded me of when I ran cross country in high school. Each school stretched and warmed up in groups and cheered for their classmates. It was an exciting and fun day for all of the Basotho in my area. Traditional dancing competitions are also held in honor of Moshoeshoe Day. Boys dance and chant in groups, and so do the girls. Most of the boys' dances are characterized by an exaggerated stomping of their feet—like a high-kick with the knee bent and then stomp it on the ground. The girls' dances, however, are done mostly on their knees with their shoulders jutting forward and back. All of the performers where traditional costumes with some props. Oddly, there is always someone leading the dance with a whistle—I'm not sure why.
Because Moshoeshoe Day and Easter are both celebrated in March this year, people aren't really willing to work as much as usual. It is difficult to get things done during holidays here, so I took a vacation and saw some more of Lesotho instead. More on that next time. :)
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