Letsatsi le leng le le leng (Each and every day)

On the bad days…

…people scream “hieee!” and “ni hao,” and even those who have been educated ask whether all the Chinese are convicts and Lesotho acts as China’s Australia. A priest insinuates that you have no religion because you’re Chinese, and when he’s informed you are an American, he suggests that faithlessness is embedded in your genes.

…assuming your nationality, men on the kombi blame you for their lack of economic opportunity all the while proposing marriage. Then they stick their fingers between the seats to try to touch your ass.

…it is not a question of resources, but people come to your doorstep to beg for food and money, knowing you have none to spare. It continues to the point that you feel too scared to leave your house.

…co-workers sexually and verbally harass you, and you have nowhere to turn as you weigh the detriment to yourself versus the community you serve.

…those from other NGOs threaten their help to you and your community because you refuse to abuse your privileges or the policies that govern your opportunity to be in-country.

…a gaggle of bo-ausi, growing in number, trail you for an hour while whispering and giggling to themselves, unable to pluck up enough courage to actually communicate with you.

…after holding a pitso (community gathering) in which you promise the community you will try your best to serve them and ask for help during the life of a particular project, people grumble that you have no immediate solutions for starvation or subsistence farming and counter with the question, “how do you expect us to work without compensation?”

On the good days…

…a 7-year old girl finds fifty lisenti (equivalent to 7¢) and offers to buy you a drinki from the local shop.

…after hearing through the grapevine that you were pursued by a bunch of herd boys across an empty field, a ‘m’e accompanies you two hours to your destination. Upon reaching a stream heightened by recent storms, she takes mental note of your sandals to her gum boots, squats and commands you to jump on her back.

…following a wet trek back to site, you place your hiking boots on the porch for later clean-up. An nkhono sees your muddy shoes sitting out, stoops down and, with only her fingers and the puddle in front of her, she wipes them clean.

...without solicitation, several little boys gather stones 30 pounds each for two hours to help construct your keyhole garden. One of the bo-ntate gives you a couple bundles of thatch he had meant for building his rondaval.

…the kombi pulls over on the side of the road, backs in and out for the perfect angle. The driver gets out and personally lifts a man limp from HIV/AIDS from his seat to his destination.

…after returning from a smoldering 4-hour roundtrip, a ‘m’e invites you in and pushes a new umbrella into your hand, warning you that you need to be careful about getting too much sun.

Living in Lesotho: First of the series in three sketches

22 Sept. 2007

Since arriving at site, I have attended three mekethe. Mekethe are feasts that people throw, sometimes because of something special and sometimes for no reason at all. The whole village is invited, and they serve food from noon till evening with plenty of leftovers so that a mokethe could even spill into the next day or day after.
Usually on the night before, the hosting family will slaughter a cow or sheep. Although nama (meat) is the showcase of the next day’s festivities (Basotho love their nama), other side dishes and staples include all of the following: rice, semp, papa (like white polenta, only ground finer and looks like mashed potato), bread, carrot salad, beet root salad, moroho (usually Swiss chard or cabbage), sauce and either mashed potato or a potato salad. Every once in a while, there’ll be mokopu, a mashed butternut squash that takes hours to prepare well. Leading up to the coveted feasting time, the bo-ntate will chat and smoke outside while the bo-‘m’e are preparing each plate inside. At the first mokethe I went to, blue plastic dishes tiled the floor, and their geometry was reminiscent of a bubbling ocean splashed with thick oranges, choppy greens, yellows and striated browns. There were at least 40 dishes sitting in wait, and as each one was served, another took its place so that at least 100 people must have been fed during my hour and a half in attendance.
After the meal, two men entered the kitchen—truly the women’s domain—with the lingering smell of an unspliced joint they had smoked earlier. After paying their respects to the matron, they proceeded to spoon out snuff, followed by chewing tobacco, into each ‘m’e and nkhono’s (grandmother) cupped hands. I refused my share, to which one of the bo-‘m’e scolded me, why didn’t you just take it and then give it to me? And yet, of the 10-15 bo-‘m’e and bo-nkhono lining the bed where the matron and some young children sprawled, I saw only one of them snuffing it up. The rest divided plastic bags into pieces to wrap up their drugs, almost like party favors.
Next, they brought out the joala—Basotho-brewed beer. Joala is made mostly from ground sorgum, and as it takes no combination of big machines, unfathomable heat or any closely guarded secrets, most everyone makes it. It’s thick and actually a bit sour. The combination of texture and flavor masks the taste of alcohol, but regardless, it is disgusting.
Around 4:30 is when the bo-ntate have had enough joala to loosen up. The crowd will clear an area near a patch of 3-5 cast-iron pots, where food has been cooking all day, and someone will break out the radio. Basotho music is full of cow bell chimes and an overemphasized beat layered with a male vocal performing what closely resembles a recitative. But screaming. And on the dance floor are many more men than women who, if you can believe it, dance worse than the stereotypical white person. I had to stop and ask myself, am I really in Africa?
The second mokethe I attended was on the same day as the first, and the third was about two weeks after. A t the end of each day, the same, extremely plastered woman approached me.
"This is my husband," she told me, pointing to a skinny man standing nearby. In both instances, they were heading home. In the first, my ‘m’e and I were likewise heading home. After some unintelligible jibber-jabber, she grabbed me and kissed me on the lips. Twice. As though grabbing breasts weren’t already an awkward enough expression between women in this society, now a schnockered woman was also slamming me into her lips. After the last feast, there was an urgent knocking on my door, and there she was, as belligerent as ever, and her husband in the shadows. Thank God for Peace Corps’ requirement of burglar bars, I thought, because there’s no way she’s comfortably forcing her lips through those.
Every time I have prepared to go home from a feast, the host or hostess insists that I take something despite how much I might protest: I already have food that will spoil, I can’t finish a whole loaf of bread before it goes bad, can’t I just take half? Not an option. Their generosity is stunning and is a relief where everyday, I’m stormed by requests for food, money, candy, &c. despite my cries that I have none of these things, at least none to spare. I’ve taken to telling people that sweets are bad for the teeth, I never cook and that I’m just as poor without a salary—to the disbelief of all.
The best feasts have been when I have a relationship with the hosting family. As the Peace Corps volunteer, I’m expected to "grace" each mokethe, but it’s the best to see how the family members protect me from drunk bo-ntate and their banter, or how the hosting ‘m’e, who has been serving others all day, finally sits down to her own meal at 5 p.m. and how clear it is that underneath her exhaustion, she’s beaming.

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26 October 2007

Ausi Thebello is such a cutie-pie! She’s been creeping up on our yard for the last couple of days, always so shy. She visited once with Ausi Lisebo, one of the primary school teachers. I asked her how old she was, and she started hiding different parts of her face behind her hands.
The girl’s four. When I ask her, "Ho joang?" (What’s up), she freezes and smiles.
Today, she sat at the edge of our yard in the cold staring as I washed laundry. After about an hour, she had summoned enough courage to stand at the corner of my house and babble something incoherent. Ausi Thebello (te-BE-lo, means "expectation") picked up a FANTA pineapple can, came up to me and asked where my camera was. I told her I had no battery left, but if she’d buy me some, I’d gladly take her picture (my response to everyone).
"Shoota! Shoota! Joalo ka ena!" she said, bringing the brilliant yellow can to her eye. Talk about striking a pose. She charmed me and I instantly broke out the camera. Here was a four year-old teaching me how to work a shot!
I asked her if she wanted to learn how to take pictures.
"Tlelase ea pele," I declared. "Etsa matsoho a hau joalo ka na."
I spread my thumbs and index fingers, forming a box. Lesson one: framing. It took a while, and in the end, I don’t know whether she understood she should do the same for practice. My own very real camera died as I was recording her confused recitation.
Ausi Thebello helped carry my laundry in. She was cold, so I draped my blanket around her. She wanted to look at my books and found herself reading English and Thai upside-down, a skill I have yet to master. She asked me to play her music, so I played Ella Fitzgerald. I began to sing along.
"U rata ho bina?" I asked.
Ausi Thebello did not like to sing. She did, however, like to dance. I invited her to take the floor with a couple of random moves, a twirl. She smiled and jumped off the chair.
"Sheba! Sheba!" she cried, doing what resembled a hula dance. We traded moves for about 10 minutes before I started cleaning. She’d run in and out of my house, sit down and watch me clean, leap off her chair every once in a while and command me to "sheba" as she danced.
"Ausi!" I applauded. "U jaifa hantle! Brava!"
Then Ausi Thebello did a twirl. She wanted to dance just like me, she explained.

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17 Nov. 2007

We couldn't afford to do pizza, so we thought we'd go for one of those traditional Basotho dishes, where slabs of papa are stacked on high, flanked by a hunky side of nama. My friend and I entered a lijong (restaurant), our two other friends trailing behind, and I was immediately shocked: Here was a snake of a line connecting the front entrance, the produce section, winding around the food counter to the register and medicine cabinet, and composed entirely of Basotho. The ones dishing out the food—of which Basotho take great pride—were the most loathed group in Lesotho: the Machaina (Chinese).
It would be difficult to spot a storefront in Lesotho that isn't owned by the Machaina or Maindia (Indians). These two groups run supermarkets, cosmetic shops, warehouses, hardware and furniture stores, and the Machaina are especially resented for also being factory owners. In fact, the resentment is so pungent that political parties have attempted their presence as a rallying point—expel the exploitive Chinese from the country. Basotho grumble that Chinese own everything, yet do nothing to boycott Chinese-sold goods or start their own businesses.
The resentment the Basotho hold has transcended nationality to encompass anyone who looks East Asian. Peace Corps volunteers of East Asian descent are at a greater risk than other volunteers of being physically assaulted in public, being harassed, becoming the target of petty crimes as well as having cries of help ignored.
Before we were even close enough to place our orders, a Chinese man standing behind the counter approached us.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"No, Ntate. We're just waiting to order," we replied.
Then he turned to me. "You look like you're Chinese or something."
Or something? This has always proven a puzzling question to me, one that I am not sure how to answer when any Chinese approaches or lurks behind me, as they often do from the novelty of my fresh face. When I enter their shops, I’m uncertain whether to greet in Sesotho, English or Chinese, not wanting to presume their nationality, already knowing that most Machaina speak a pidgin Sesotho and being uncertain whether they have learned English.
"She's ABC," my friend answered.
"American-born-Chinese," I clarified.
Immediately happy to meet me, the man explained that he was the owner of the lijong, along with four of the grocery stores in Botha-Bothe Camptown. He was the president of Lesotho's Chinese Society and also held high-ranking positions with many other Chinese-centered organizations. All his shops were ones that volunteers in Butha-Buthe District frequent. Excited to meet this entrepreneur, we joked that he should open a shop stocked with Chinese items—sesame oil, soy sauce, cellophane noodles—all the things we are used to as Americans, as well as an actual Chinese restaurant. We'd be his patrons, we declared.
"Can't do it, no market," he explained. But he handed us his business card; if we ever needed anything, including Chinese food, he'd gladly bring it from Maseru or South Africa for us. We were stunned by his generosity and, to top it off, lunch was on the house.
I returned home that day and reflected on all the times that the Machaina have been kind to me, protective of me since I arrived in Butha-Buthe District. Those in the bedding store who gave me R60 discounts. A girl at the supermarket who overwhelms me with candy and trinkets she thinks are pretty, even once presenting me with a clock framed by a porcelain shepherdess holding a cane. So she can keep you company up in the mountains, the girl had explained.
There is a definite current of animosity between the Basotho and Machaina, and as a look-alike, I've been swept up in it. But the thing is, despite that I am caught in the whirl, contemplating identity politics has never seemed more pointless in any place I've been. The irony, of course, is that it should be relevant when the majority of the country staunchly shares one ethnicity. Rather, what I often wonder is just where I fit in. As Basotho scream at me, speak in nasally tones, jostle me on my sprints through the taxi rank, I yell back at them, "Ha ke lechaina." I am not Chinese. Why do I say it? Is it because I'm afraid for my safety, that I want to disassociate myself?
I was heading for a Machaina store once when I walked into a cluster of Basotho with a Chinese woman following close behind. "Lekhooa, Lekhooa (white person)!" some screamed. Others asked what my nationality was while the woman behind me was asked whether we were the same.
"Ha re tsoane," she said.
I entered the store, which turned out to be owned by the same lady.
"Of course we're the same," she told me. "I just said we're not because I didn't want them to harrass you."
But we're not, I thought. I wonder, when I tell people I'm not Chinese, whether it is fear that motivates me to attempt an idea the Basotho refuse to understand or whether I make that distinction because I am trying to communicate a principle that will likewise be a waste of breath: Diversity exists, and physical appearance is not a meaning within itself.

Puleng (In the rain...)

27 Sept. 2007

IMHO (In my humble opinion), Menkhoaneng is still the most beautiful place i've seen, second only to Tsehlanyane National Park in my few romps around Lesotho. As the Peace Corps volunteer, I am not only assigned to this village of 700, but many other villages in the area as well. Considering the plethora, i've chosen to focus on helping at least three other villages in Hlotse Valley: Mate, Ha Khabo and Lentsoaneng.
The peach trees started blooming a couple of weeks ago, adding much needed vibrancy to the drab yellows, browns and evergreens (there are pine trees, although not indigenous). In addition to these emblems of deep pink, yellow daisies are popping up all over and the willow trees are now shaggy with leaves.
In the last several years, Lesotho’s annual rainfall has been dropping to the point where last year, a full-blown drought was declared. Two weeks ago, the Menkhoaneng Council Secretary asked me, “Do you believe in God, Ausi Pontso?” Religion here is Christian and mainstream. Prayer is a daily part of Basotho life; they bookend every meeting, school day and workday. Ntate Sam had asked every person in his acquaintance to pray for rain two Sundays following, on Sept. 23.
God got the memo three days late, but when it arrived, the rain poured. Thunder roared for hours on end and lightning cluttered the sky. Those who had tin roofs set buckets under the gutters to collect water. Clouds bubbled over from the next stretch of mountains, and some of the closer wisps looked like kites melting into the sky. With a good drenching, all colors become lush, but in Hlotse Valley, it was really the reds that took center stage. Red brush stood at attention and pine tree nettle blended with broken grass to form a red, on-land plankton. Water, stained with red mud, plunkered down the rocky terrain as miniature waterfalls. Picassos and Klimts were illuminated in the cracked rocks. They were now as visible in the facades as the rose bud stamps, the little anime thought-bubbles and record grooves I see everyday, and were I an art connoisseur, I’m sure I would have spotted more.
The rain is not so kind to the roads. Hlotse Valley is incredibly hard to reach, making the task of attracting tourists to Menkhoaneng’s future cultural village even more complicated. After only a couple of hours of steady rainfall, the roads are saturated with enough water to transform it into mush. It makes transportation, even on foot, nearly impossible.
To the Basotho, this is a small sacrifice for long-awaited rain. In the past, the rainy season started in September and ended in April. What was once eight solid months of rainfall has been reduced to, at worst, half of what it could be. This poses a huge problem for a nation that largely practices subsistence farming and has not changed its farming practices in decades, despite new problems. The Basotho wait for rain to water their crops, employing no irrigation system or water harvesting practices. They do not know how to germinate their own seeds and sometimes do not have enough money to purchase them during planting season. They’ve used chemical fertilizer since the 1930s with no real understanding of its ill-effect. The most complicated farming technique employed is the burning of fields, which clears out brush and destroys diseases, but the Basotho do it out of tradition without realizing the point. The land is splotched with dongas due to overgrazing and soil has turned into dust. Yet, the most immediate threat to the Basotho is weather change. Since income in the villages is nearly non-existent, the Basotho will have great difficulty trying to deal.
The culprit? Possibly global warming—climate change—in which case we are witnessing only the beginning of the onslaught.

Rolling out the red carpet

12 Aug. 2007

Congratulate me. Like such greats as Grace Kelly, Princess Di and Julia Stiles, I have grown up to be every little girl’s dream come true. I am now royalty.
Last Monday, I went for a visit to my final site, Menkhoaneng: birthplace of the founder of Lesotho. After Tsehlanyane National Park, Menkhoaneng is the most beautiful place I have seen in Lesotho. Good thing they’re both off the same dirt path. Menkhoaneng, the Place of the Monkhoana Trees, has mountains that curve and dip, and these deep valleys tapering into dongas. Although they move at a trickle, there are rivers aplenty flanked by trees, bare from the winter cold.
My primary assignment is to help a council of four villages build the cultural village of Menkhoaneng that showcases Basotho traditions and history around the time of King Moshoeshoe I. The council hopes to market the village as a tourist attraction while at the same time making it into a safe haven for Basotho culture. I personally feel that the difficulty lies in cultural compromise. Every villager I have met thus far is extremely proud of Menkhoaneng’s historical and cultural importance, but culture is fluid, especially in light of cross-cultural interaction, and with tourists comes possible cultural compromise. Since their heritage is so important to them, I hope to steer a path between exhibition/income generation and the integrity of Basotho culture.
Anyway, on the ride over, I was given the chance to change my Sesotho name, Pontso, which means “revelation.” It has a great meaning, but shares homonyms with Chinese that are rather unflattering. It was the chance I had been waiting for since the beginning of Community-Based Training. Yet the brainstorm on my ride over yielded no new possibilities, and I was met with a more pressing issue upon arrival—every Peace Corps trainee’s worst nightmare—there was nothing in my heisi (Afrikaans word used to refer to thatched roof houses in a square rather than circular shape).
Peace Corps has certain housing standards for every organization vying for a PCV. Up to that point, I was under the impression that I had basic furniture comprising a bed, a table, chairs and a gas tank to fuel a heater and stove. In the process of acquiring at least some of those items, my supervisor recruited both the community counselor and my ‘M’e (title of respect, she’s my ‘M’e in particular because I will be living on her family compound), who turns out to be the mofumahali (the village chief).
We drove to the family compound where the previous PCV had stayed, and for the next two hours, my ‘M’e, supervisor and the community counselor haggled for three kitchen pieces. I had been instructed to stay in the car with the driver, who was blasting Sesotho music. For some reason, all Basotho drivers love to set their music at a deafening volume. I eventually decided to get out and play with the puppy tumbling over the corn pile. Its mom came up to me several times and would jump on me.
“What do you want?” I asked. “Na u batla ho jaifa?”
So I took its paws and began to waltz. It was such a laughing riot for the herd boys and children that I thought for certain my new name would be “Dances With Dogs.” In Basotho culture, cats and dogs are valued for their functional roles rather than as companions. It’s not unusual to extend your hand toward a dog and have it shirk away in expectation of a beating. But my guess is that the previous volunteer, ‘M’e Peggy, must have set the precedent that people who enjoy playing with animals are not necessarily perverse.
For the next couple of days, I meandered around the community and made myself accessible. In almost every encounter, I was met with the comment, “u monyane!” I hoped they just meant I was petite, but really, they were remarking on how young I am at 22. Their previous volunteer was somewhere in her 60s. At the very least, I knew that the age difference meant there would be no comparison between us. However, my age also suggests my abilities because the Basotho value old age rather than youth. Whether it has to do with a life expectancy of 40 due to the prevalence of HIV/AIDS, TB, &c. is questionable, as AIDS started its upward spiral only since the 1980s.
I had till Wednesday to settle on a name, as my ‘M’e had called for a community gathering to introduce its newest member and her newest daughter. She had wanted “Mpho,” which means gifts. I didn’t particularly like that name either. For the days I was at site, I introduced myself as Pontso with the qualifier that tomorrow I might be any variety of things, perhaps Lehapu Selebalo or Maquenya Selebalo: Watermelon or Fat Cakes. My ‘M’e suggested that my name be “Princess,” and for a bit, I thought it would be hilarious. Technically, for the next two years I am a princess as the daughter of the village chief. When else as an American would I ever again be royalty?
But ultimately it did not sit well with me. As much pleasure as I derived from the irony of the name, I think the American side of me kicked in—also ironic because I would never label myself patriotic. Unquestionably, I am blue-blooded, but since royalty does not exist in our country, the idea of having a name that indicates such sounded distasteful to me.
I am now spending my last couple of days in Maseru before we return to our sites. We swear in as Peace Corps—Lesotho’s newest volunteers on Aug. 15. Shortly following, I shall make the trek back to site as the newest villager of Menkhoaneng, Ausi Pontso Selebalo.

Sechaba

There are, apparently, two things that cannot be escaped in the world: pigeons and Coca Cola. Of the few billboards standing, every other is spouting Coca Cola. Paneled on every bar and lebenkele (shop) is a Coca Cola sign. Rather than alluding to American influence and globalization as the “McDonald-ization” of the world, I’d recommend adopting, “the world is cracking out.”
Having established Coca Cola’s limitless reach, I have to say that I’m surprised I haven’t yet seen McDonald’s. The international fast-food chain of choice in Lesotho is KFC. Literally, it has embedded itself as the national cuisine. In recounting the mugging of one PCV, another PCV explained to me, “well, he was carrying KFC.”
In Maseru, where we stay during the first and last weeks of Pre-Service Training (PST) and make weekly visits in between, there are few Basotho-owned storefronts. At one end of Kingsway, the vein of the city, are bank headquarters, Shoprite, Pep, fastfood—national chains, some of which come in from South Africa. Rather, most Basotho small businesses stake plot in the taxi rank in the form of booths or freight box boutiques and eateries. Vendors scan the streets and grab at would-be customers. They offer the standard tomato-onion-potato mix-and-match. Some sell mafielo, the traditional long grass broom. Others offer tailor-made lishoe-shoe, the traditional women’s dress showcasing puffy, Victorian sleeves. Turtle shells and hanging fowl mark the socially accredited chemists who sell traditional medicines. These tend to be the staple likhoebo tse nyane (small businesses) of any maraka a toropo (city market).
As I mentioned in another post, the traditional dress of the Basotho man is a beanie, gumboots and the traditional kobo. Ironically, both the gumboots and likobo (blankets, plural) are definitely manufactured in South Africa by South African companies. I do want to highlight that one thing I was extremely surprised about is the lack of variation from district to district, village to village. Bo-‘m’e (older women, mothers) and bo-ausi (younger women, sisters) dress alike, and tasks unfold in the same manner despite location. There are definitely different outfits, but a lack of diversity in dress and ethnicity. In a classically American tint, this is indeed negative, and many current PCVs are critical of Lesotho for it. In another light, it’s a fascinating opportunity. Lesotho is a country that is truly a nation-state. The people feel a strong sense of ethnic identity, and when encouraged by the government to don their traditional hats, they gladly do so in an effort to entice tourists. It is difficult sometimes to understand which traditions are inherently Basotho because so many of their beliefs have been encroached upon by European influence. At least to me, Basotho culture is not as vibrant as images of African cultures in general, mainly because the origins of these traditions are convoluted. Yet culture is always in flux, and as globalization increases, the different components and flavors of cultural distinction will probably melt away (at least slightly). What’s incredible is to witness a country whose people share a strong sense of belonging despite cultural fluidity.

Will the real Pontso please stand up? Yup, that's my name... (Early July)

Let’s get one thing clear: Africa is damn cold. Freezing, in fact. Imagine being scrunched up in a cold-weather sleeping bag with three heavy Aranda blankets piled on top. When I wake up at 6:30 in the morning, the air is still nippy at 37 degrees—inside. Unless I can remember high school physics to convert thermal energy into kinetic energy (I came up with the brilliant plan to create a heat-distributing fan powered by thermal energy from our gas-powered heaters), I will be dragging my heater everywhere like a dog on a short leash.
As far as I can see, Lesotho has been an agrarian society for quite a long time. With the onslaught of missionaries and other foreign influence coupled with the onset of globalization, the system seems to be buckling. It’s like watching a fight between an industrial and agrarian society. Who will reign supreme (sorry, I couldn’t resist)?
We are currently in community-based training, where we live in villages with Basotho families. The national outfit seems to be gumboots for men, boots for women (and a skirt), beanies and—their trademark—the traditional Basotho blanket wrapped around as a thick cape. Those things are very warm, and good thing, too. The other night, it snowed. In Africa.
My 11 year-old abuti (brother) would have made the perfect ad for Save the Children the other night. He was warming his hands against a paraffin lamp because they didn’t have enough paraffin for their heater and the store was understandably out in light of the sudden snowfall. His clothing was of little help in that freezing evening; his gumboots and pants had begun to resemble Swiss cheese.
But it’s nothing like Save the Children depictions. If you click on the television, it’s fairly obvious that Africa is showcased in the bulk of nonprofit ads. Scampering through them are emaciated children wearing rags and burrowing through piles of needles in search of toys. Narrators talk about orphans and vulnerable children, how at 90 cents per day, Americans can cover school fees and provide clean water. Narratives of Africa eliciting pity and guilt have become familiar to our international consciousness.
But being here, it becomes fairly obvious that there is little to pity, even in light of different societies. I remember my high school psychology teacher once sharing that in the days he was a limousine driver, he noticed that the rich think we of any other class are another species entirely. Similar, right? What I want to call into question is how we’ve embedded this scale to evaluate other people’s living conditions. We often forget how over-sanitized, over-immunized and under-tenderized we are to the forces of nature. The human body can handle a lot more than we give it credit for, just as a person living in California can feel as cold during a 45-degree winter as a person in Ohio at 25 above zero. Otherwise, how else would the Basotho have made it through so many winters?
It gets complicated when you then consider what we’re doing here. Yes, I would personally prefer the thermostat set at 75, and I think the stereotype (at least I assume it is such for PC) is to want to offer instantaneous relief when we see those in pain. How does that really help? We’ve inflated the pain they feel. It’s hardly noticeable to them and once at a certain threshold, a great many things are relative.
Consider the Basotho and dish detergent. It’s something that we Americans take for granted but is relatively expensive here. Basotho would rather spend their chelete (money) on other things, but when they do acquire a bit, they gun through it rather than spacing it out. Amenities come from economic wealth. When economic wealth increases, each culture decides its preference of amenities and their importance. Each culture adjusts to their choices with time.
When people immigrate to more economically wealthy countries, invariably, even at the lowest end, they often have more amenities at hand than they would have wherever they are from. It’s about understanding relativity, cost of living (what that means) and what is standard.
It’s interesting, though, realizing what constitutes rich in another country. One of the other trainees in Youth & Small Business Development, Abuti Thabiso Semethe (we all got Sesotho names) lives with a family with a water pump in their front yard. They don’t have to walk to the EU-funded pump across town to fill up their water buckets. Their roof is made of concrete and overlaid with a corrugated metal sheet, which means that the morning following snowfall, his tin roof did not rain on him. That’s right—it rained in our rooms. I must also admit that I found myself feeling jealous of his sibling’s soccer ball. A good number of families also have solar panels. Ultimately, though, the lack of electricity, running water and flushing toilets are the easiest things to adjust to when we take into account that cultural integration and cross-cultural communication will become crucial to our two years here.

Arrival in Lesotho (Late June)

Now that I’m in Lesotho, I’m realizing that this will be the make or break for me in regards to my relationship with journalism. During my last four years (in college), I primed myself for a journalism that I imagined must exist, and nearing the end of formal education, I realized that although I love writing and all the exploration journalism affords, I’ve never seriously considered any other skill set in my possession.
I designed my academic focus, but journalism was not a clear-cut choice. I was lucky enough to enjoy my college career every course along the way (except science, and one anthropology class), but I was a waffling perfectionist when it came to stories. Interviewing and researching were one thing, but the closer I came to deadline, the more that fear began to pile. I took writing too seriously, and every article insinuated my potential.
For as long as I’ve wanted to do journalism, I’ve also wanted to do Peace Corps. In fact, even longer—since my junior year of high school. The reasons have changed over time. Initially, simply because it was something good to do. Then because I wanted to do something significant for others and myself. At one point, I figured it would help me decide between the fields of journalism and anthropology. It was also important to know how the majority of the world coped with an unequal distribution of wealth, and not just to read about it but to see it on a regular basis.
PCV personalities run the gamut, from recent college grads to professionals. In our particular class—Community Health & Economic Development 2007—the ages span 21-38. Our reasons for joining vary from needing a professional breather, wanting to make an impact, craving an adventure to initiating a career change. Our fears as trainees range from lack of favorite cuisines, personal safety, ability to communicate, and (in my case), keeping abreast of global clam-digs and, of course, the Iraq War. I’m the second biggest fan right after Rumsfeld. No one in particular is worried about the lack of electricity, taking bucket baths, using pit latrines or sunsets marking curfew. Those have been the easiest things to adjust to. Waking up to roosters crowing every hour after 3 a.m., seeing them have sex on your front porch, &c. seem more like rites of initiation.
Some people are worried about the lack of structure when we get to site, whether there will be something for us to do or if our job descriptions will fall through the thatches. We’ve heard of amazing PCVs who are nearly fluent in Sesotho and work on both the community level—supporting small businesses, youth, doing HIV/AIDS education—and the government level, writing bills and grants. We’ve heard of people being bored, the loneliness during the first three months in lockdown, when we cannot leave site. The way some people feel—that if they were going to do nothing, they could have stayed in the States or that what they’re doing abroad is not worthwhile enough to outweigh being home.
Here’s what I figured: I might or might not make a difference, especially a sustainable difference. I don’t expect to make any significant impact on anyone but myself. If I do, that’s icing on the cake. I don’t expect structure and if in fact I get to site visit in time to see my job description disintegrating, the Western College Program has prepared me well to assess needs, identify key people and support a project. If everything I’ve tried has not panned out, then I play hopscotch with all the various reasons for being in Lesotho: to do something significant, to learn, to see rather than read, to have a cultural experience, to enjoy an adventure. I think that’s what will get me through the next two years: learning the value of flexibility. Basically, I’d like to say that I have no expectations, but that might be because nothing particularly strenuous has happened yet. I’m certain they’ll take a more visible form as they confront me one-by-one.
I also realize that although we’re on a two-year timeline, I need to view what I’m doing as exactly what I want right now, which it is, but in a way that I’m not entertaining my experience a s a stepping stone to something else. Everything else after needs to be put on hold. My life is not on hold so that I can do PC. And for my future, well I’ve figured this: I probably won’t be rich at any point in my life. Right now, the concerns I had as I was setting up for graduation seem so far away. Even if I don’t follow my best case scenario—move to Portland, be a waitress and part-time journalist, go to NYU for Cultural Critique & Reporting—I know that I have enough ingenuity so that whatever steps I take following Peace Corps, at least I will be happy.