Self-Reflections after a Year and a Half

Living in Lesotho, in my village, has really changed me, which was something that seemed very scary when I first signed up. I don’t think I have necessarily become a “better person.” I’ve become very un-politically correct, am no longer horrified by corporeal punishment at the schools, nor am I necessarily a nicer person. If I see a man eagerly coming over to talk to me, my first response is to ignore him, then to be rude to get him to leave me alone. I’ve just had way too many experiences where I am treated like an object that someone wants, or as someone who has money to give away. I’ve also seen too many projects, great ideas not take shape because no one bothered to show up. I’m afraid I’m becoming cynical. And I am ashamed to admit: I have littered. Having said all that, I do truly love the people here, there is a friendliness and openness that I haven’t seen anywhere else. And they have helped change my perspective, for the better, about many things.

I think most of us that come here in Peace Corps do it just as much for personal adventure as to altruistically help a community. I hope I have helped (and will continue to help) my community, but it is nothing compared with what I’ve gotten from being a part of them. And that is the biggest change I’ve seen in myself – seeing the “reality” of how people live here and what really matters, it’s the people. Not the work, education or accomplishments, but the relationships you have with people and a real community that supports and entertains each other.

Peace Corps has given me a lot of time for self-reflection, I know myself better than I had ever hoped, or even really wanted to. I have a self-reproach/guilt that drives me, that I was only ever faintly aware of before. I have had such a happy, golden childhood and life, I’ve faced so little hardship and pain that it doesn’t really seem fair. I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to deserve the amazing family and friends that I was born into and the advantages I grew up with. While I am, in general, very happy, I have a subconscious drive to atone or make myself worthy of it all, which has unwittingly motivated me in so many of my decisions. Joining Peace Corps is one of the most obvious ones, but it hasn’t assuaged the guilt, in fact it has made me think that I am even luckier than I did before. I’ve struggled some while being here, it certainly hasn’t always been “golden”, but if anything it has motivated me more. I don’t think I can go back to what I was doing a couple of years ago.

I still have 8 more months left.

Stories from ntate moholo

I have been recording the stories of a few of the oldest people in my village. It has been fascinating, especially the stories of one ntate moholo, who could not remember his age. He vividly recalled political fights, where he and other men of the village had to hide in the surrounding mountains. There were times when he was afraid to sleep. When he returned to the village, the women has stories of being threatened and forced to drink twenty liters of water as punishment. He said this went on for a whole year, though he can’t recall which year or even how old he was. The fighting ended when Basotho soldiers came to protect them and ended the political fights. Maybe he was 60, but no his wife was alive, maybe he was 30. He estimated that he’s in his 90s now (but claimed to be born in 1988…)
He talked about woven baskets, clay pots and animal skins that his family used to make and use, that have almost all disappeared now. Replaced by plastic buckets and cotton t-shirts.

He talked about times of fighting and peace. Although we are currently in a time of peace, he preferred some of the old times. Now he doesn’t have cows for plowing fields. He still has fields but no one helps him hoe them by hand. In those good times he live4d in Nqobelle, on the steep mountains beyond my village. The chief came and moved them, the dozen families that lived in that small village because it was land designated only for cattle. He remembered being forced to move as a very sad time, and spoke about it with a husky voice. They had to leave their houses and build new ones, gathering all the thatch grasses, trees and mud for them. He remembers his old village as where life was good and noy hard. The cattle could graze next to the house. Now when the river is full he can no longer get to the mountains to graze his cattle (maybe he meant his relatives cattle).

Part of the reason I am doing these interviews is to see how life has changed with the recent developments in my village. He said getting electricity did not change his life, he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have money to pay for it, and he likes candles better anyway. He didn’t think the village had grown, he claimed it used to have more people, a lot have died. He thought the mill in the next village over was an improvement. Women used to grind maize on a large stone, using a smaller stone, and would take the whole morning. And if you wanted to have a celebration you would invite many bo-‘me (women) over to grind all of the maize meal, laid out on cow skins. He remembered mornings when his mother would grind maize meal then make papa. He would roll five balls of papa and take them with him out in the mountains to look after the cattle for the day with the other herd boys. None of them went to school.

They wore animal skins when he was young. The men wore cow skins and the women wore sheep skins. And shoes were made from the skin on face of the cow. He demonstrated how he wore the animal skins—wrapped around his middle and covering his upper thighs. Though he had nostalgia for the old traditional skin clothes, I noticed that he didn’t have any. He wore an old sweater and pants, and shoes with holes in the toes.

When I asked him about the new paved road, he told me about a time before there was even a dirt road. The people had to walk to Ha Khabo, 17km away to get to a dirt road that eventually led to town. People in the village would wake up at 2am to start the walk, or ride on a donkey if they could borrow one. If you couldn’t get to town and back in a day, you would stay in the thatched cattle posts overnight (normally built and used by herd boys). Having a donkey meant you were rich in the village. Even though the paved road now makes the trip to town only take an hour and a half, he rarely takes it. It costs money and there are small shops in the village now.

I was surprised by a lot of what he said, development did not seem to have touched his life as much as I had thought. He still lived in a couple of mud-thatched rondovels with his one remaining son. The modern concrete houses and electric radios sprouting up around him were bought by the younger families. He is one of the last of his generation, and in this rapidly developing village, it seems that some of the history, the stories and traditions may go with him.

Gender Equality? But I love you too much!

Growing up in a liberal college town in the U.S., I never faced much discrimination based on my gender, at least that I perceived as affecting my life. Coming to live in a developing country, where women only gained the right to own land several years ago, I was in for a bit of a shock. In my life skills classes I teach a couple of sessions on gender, and some of the responses I have gotten have alarmed me and my liberal American upbringing. According to some of my students a woman’s place is in the home, raising children and obeying the man, the “head of the household.” And if she isn’t being a good wife (such as spending all day doing chores and doing anything the man wants) a few thought it was acceptable for him to beat her – “if you don’t beat your wife it means you don’t care, which is worse.” This was a pretty heated debate, surprisingly with boys and girls on both sides. Trying to introduce gender equality, I told my class that I had gone to school in the U.S. to learn how to design buildings, so could I help build one of the traditional houses here? There was no debate on this, it was unanimously no. That was work only for men, I could smear the mud on the finished hut. I’m not used to being forbidden from doing something because I’m a girl, and the list of things is pretty long here. Also the fact that I’m 24 and not married or have any children is looked at as a bit incredible here, and I don’t think they believe me half the time. I must have some children squirreled away somewhere.

The chauvinism can be seen in too many conversations I have with men here. Below is a typical conversation I have almost every time I leave my village, and which sadly, varies very little (I have not put my side of the conversation in since it does not seem to matter what I say, and it reflects how I’m treated as an object rather than a talking, thinking, equal human being.) :

-What is your name?
-Ah! Limpho, a Sesotho name! Where are you from?
-You stay in a village? No, really?
-Where are you originally from?
-America! I have a question I want to ask you.
-How can I go to America? How much does it cost to go to America?
-Ah, Limpho, that is too much! What can I do?
-How can I visit you?
-No I must visit you, I love you too much.
- Are you married?
-Ah, I am the one!
-Why not Limpho?
-No, but why? Why will you not marry me?
-Ah, I do know you, you are ausi Limpho from Tsehlanyane.
-What is your phone number?
-But how will I contact you? How can I come and visit you?
-Ah Limpho! Come on, I must have your number.
-Ah Limpho, come on. Fine, goodbye.

I once was proposed to by someone resting, hidden behind some bushes. It seemed as if the bushes were offering me its surrounding cattle to marry it and couldn’t understand why I said no.
While I have several friends that are men that treat me as an equal, with respect, it is not typical. But I have never felt myself in danger of any physical harm. While it can be a nuisance, these interactions are harmless. I guess I should consider myself lucky, but it’s hard to feel that way while I talking to some of these men. Maybe I’ve given some something to think about, a woman who refuses them always seems to baffle them. But with tv and radio programs, I have a feeling that times are a changing.

Our Ha Mali Community Center

We are only a month away from opening the Ha Mali Community Center! The idea for its creation came from hearing all the different problems facing the families in my village when I went door-to-door for my household survey. My work at the schools didn’t seem to touch many of the problems the people in my village complained of: not having easy access to a clinic, not having jobs or training for them, the number of orphans living with elderly grandparent and sanitation issues. What seemed to be needed was a center for outreach and skills training within the village. World Vision recently built a pre-school, the only communally owned building in my village, and one that fit the outreach/ community center scheme perfectly. Maliba Lodge’s Community Development Trust was equally enthusiastic about the idea and agreed to help with the funding and applied for another Peace Corps volunteer to help make it a reality.

The progress started pretty slowly. It was winter, not the right time to start gardens or to motivate people within the community. As spring arrived, so did our new volunteer, Maggie, who has extensive experience with eco-tourism and project management, and the project quickly got underway. As of this week, we have started 9 small garden plots, with 18 of the 30 orphans in the village. Chickens, and chicken tractors, are planned to arrive next month to provide eggs and protein for the orphans. Chicken tractors are a type of free-range chicken run, placed directly on top of the plots to fertilize them as well as removing grubs and weeds before they are planted. It seems pretty fun, we have a chicken tractor building session planned for the village next month, using locally found materials.

There have definitely been set backs. The recent number of funerals in my village, five in the past month, reveal the real need for clinic outreach and HIV workshops. But culturally you cannot dig or touch soil when someone is being buried, which has been every weekend this month. The more funerals there are the more eager we are to get our program going, but the slower the progress actually is. However, we have been making progress. The building is starting to take shape after several repairs and coats of paint. Soon it should be ready to host after-school literacy and business classes, as well as a monthly clinic outreach program. There is so much that the center could potentially do, it’s very exciting! Whatever the current issues the people within my village see themselves facing, we now have a place to hear them and hopefully address them, or better yet—give them the skills to address those problems themselves.

My Daily Walk

I have an hour till class. I put down my book, I grab my worn, patched bag, I head out.
Down the slope, passing dry grass and old corn stalks, my shoes turning a brown to match the dirt.
I pass a baby goat, chewing sideways, showing its small pink tongue.
The wind blows at my skirt and I pass small children calling me. Where am I going, where is the candy, my name over, and over.
At the bottom, I stomp off some dust as I start down the paved road. My shoes crunching the uneven tarred gravel, dodging broken glass and manure scattered on the road.
Next I’m going up a steep hill, I hear the rush of white noise and turn to see a car, but it’s just the river, the wind carrying its sound up the hill.
Bo-‘me wearing blankets and carrying buckets, saying hello as they work to keep everything balanced on their heads.
I go on, passing mud and thatch houses, a glimpse of the fading past, then concrete and metal ones, attempts at an idea of modern life.
I pass some cows, rambling down the road, trailed by a tan, wrinkled calf and a whistling herdboy in oversized white boots.
I wave at a group of old women sitting, laying in the grass, soaking in the sun, wrapped in blankets to keep out the wind.
More houses, more children, more waving, greeting.
Going past mixtures of cows, goats, sheep, sometimes a dejected donkey with a load, all heading out to pastures in the mountains, followed by their herdboys and their tuneless songs.
I pass a couple of chickens pecking away at debris in the ditch beside a curve in the road. It’ll be full of water soon.
At the outskirts of the village, I pass the school, with children shouting, running, playing, in their matching black sweaters showing holes from wear.
Now it’s just me and the road, surrounded by mountains in varying shades of green, patched with narrow, dusty rows of corn stalks.
I can still hear distant cowbells and calls, but the wind blurs it and blows me along. I have to stop to fix my skirt again.
Around another curve, I step aside to let the speeding taxi-van pass me, its horn sliding into dissonance as it rushes past.
Up a gentle slope, my feet are tired from the pounding on the road, step after step after step.
Some bird, high above, soars past me, riding on warm wind pooling and rising between the mountains.
The last incline, the mast curve, and then I’m there. For a couple of hours of teaching, rephrasing, gesturing, drawing, trying to get them to understand.
Then it’s back out, down the road, everything in reverse but for the growing soreness in my feet and the number of children calling.

Journal Excerpt from Sept. 1

[An excerpt from my journal for these past couple weeks]

Well I’ve been super busy, with 2-4 things to do every day for these past couple weeks. Today I had a meeting about the community center in the morning (and building a seed bed) and two lifeskills classes at different schools this afternoon.

The community center is really coming along. We’ve dug beds for 10 plots, 19 out of the 30 orphans showed up last Saturday and worked so hard, digging the stiff, weedy soil. It just looks like mounds of dirt, but I’m proud of the kids. I wonder what motivates them. It’s nice to think they’re invested in this project, growing food. We’re planning on planting the seeds this Saturday. The cabbage seeds are already in the seed bed. Regular watering is going to be a challenge. And we’ll see it the schedule to fix up the building this week actually holds. Next week we’re getting the gardening tools. It will be nice not having to borrow and carry them around (my shoulders are soar from carrying all those spades yesterday).

It’s warming up, I can sleep in normal pajamas and a single sleeping bag again. The peach trees are blossoming. It’s nice, still cool and the muddy rains haven’t started yet, I’m not looking forward to that.

A ‘mme [woman] that is somehow related to my family is staying here for a month with her tiny newborn baby. [It’s a Basotho custom for a woman to go home to her mother’s house for a month to give birth and recover.] It’s a nice custom. And he is so cute and tiny, and hardly ever cries.

I’ve been so busy, my garden has been on hold, but hopefully I’ll finish the last of the stick fence this weekend and plant the seeds next weekend (it’s reconnect and all-vol next week!). I’ll be staying at Lauren’s on Sunday night, and we’re going to watch a movie, make mimosas and shepard’s pie, yum!

Life is really good. I feel settled, at home. It’ll be so weird leaving. These chapters of my life seem so disconnected, they don’t blend together like normal life changes. Coming here (and leaving) is such a drastic, abrupt change. My life here is so completely, utterly different. Different in every way I can think of, from how I brush my teeth and get a drink of water to how I get from place to place and what I consider a work. I really wish I didn’t have to choose one or the other, here or there.

Makoenya [my dog] is lying beside me, stretching from her nap on the rug, it’s already too hot out in the sun. And at least she’s away from that pig. They fight all the time, usually over food, and then sleep cuddled up together on my doormat outside (giving Makoenya his fleas, I pulled six off her today), It’s so strange to raise a pig as part of your household for six months and then eat it. We have so much distance from our food in the US, although they certainly don’t cuddle with it before they eat it. Other volunteers refer to my village area as the Lesotho version of the American Appalachia. We eat pet cats (and mice) out here, skin them and then wear cat-fur hats. For some reason I’m proud of it, that we’re considered real earthy people. Though I don’t think I myself am integrated enough to eat the pet cat (but I’m looking forward to that pig). But I like to think of myself as part of a community that really knows what it means to get by, to survive.

Village Children

The children are the best part of my life in the village. Even though many of them have very little, they have such a joy of life. Their toys are similar to what my grandparents played with: rolling tires with sticks, jacks (but with rocks), hopscotch, and ball. No tv, no board games and definitely no video or computer games. They often have to make their own toys, making little animals out of clay and playing house with old tin cans and milk containers. And yet they seem happier than many American children. I think part of it is because almost everyone here has the same things, the same handmade toys and clothes filled with holes. They don’t see all the many, many other toys, games and clothes that they don’t have, the ones that American children are constantly exposed to, designed to make them always want more. I myself feel this dissatisfaction in the US that I don’t feel here. It doesn’t matter if I have burn holes in my skirt (I sit too close to the fire in winter) or if I wear the same thing every day. There is a sense of wanting more here, but it seems more wistful dreaming and easily pushed out of mind. And there is even less of it in the children. You might want a tv, but you know you’re never going to get one, so why waste time pining for one?

Adults and children alike spend all day outside, chatting, doing laundry in the river, cooking on the outside fires, gardening, etc. People really only go inside at night and when it’s raining. And it’s the same with the children, playing all day outside. The kids here have a freedom to roam, to go anywhere. Parents usually don’t know where their kids are, but there isn’t much worry, they’ll come if you shout their names loud enough. I think this freedom, along with how much tougher life is here, make the children mature very fast. I don’t think there is a single whiny child in my village (certainly not the case with me growing up). A very common sight is to see a two year old baby tottling around alone without any pants on, holding a knife yelling the new word he’s learned “thipa!” (knife) (Boys especially don’t seem to wear pants regularly until at least five.)

Life is also hard for children. Boys are expected to spend all day herding animals in the mountains, often being expected to sacrifice going to school for it. And girls do so many chores, it seems endless. My host sister is 12, she takes care of me, helping me with laundry, washing my floor and getting water from the river. She does at least half the chores in her own house as well, after spending all day at school. One day I saw her playing with a doll and was shocked. She seems like a care-taker to me, it seemed so strange to see her acting like the young girl she actually is. But she also gets more joy out of a free apple or game of hopscotch than I think any American 12 year old could.

Children in the village can be the most frustrating part as well. A year later, they still like to come to my door and stare at me through the bars, all day long if I’d let them. They also are still constantly asking me for sweets or money. After a year of not giving out ANY candy or money, you’d think they’d give up hope, nope. The kids here have a hope for the future that they often sadly lose at the end of primary school when they see what their future most likely will really be. It’s a hard life here, but the children's continuous laughs and shouts give the village a contagious, joyous energy.