Village Security System

I was cautious about writing this entry because I don’t want to give the wrong impression about Lesotho and its people. It is a very peaceful country that revolves around the village communities. The focus of this entry is to show the very old, traditional justice system that is still in place in my village, one that relies on the community structure. It is not meant to dramatize an attempted burglary, which can happen anywhere. And in fact has happened to me in my American suburban home.

I had just come back from a wonderful week-long girls’ empowerment camp and was exhausted. I was napping when I heard a rustling at my window. Someone was moving my host mother’s flower pots. It wasn’t my host mom, who was working in the fields and had taken my dog along with her. When the guy at my window started to open it I got up to tell him to go away. I felt perfectly safe; I have bars on my windows and doors. When he was me he jumped over a wood pile and ran away. I thought ‘that’s odd.’ Then I noticed the lock on the bars was gone. I started to get really nervous, he had been here before and had broken the lock. I went through my stuff, but nothing was missing. The guy wasn’t very scary and clearly only wanted to steal something, not hurt me, but I felt very alone and worried. I am almost never alone here and it is usually such a treat, but at that moment I just wanted to be around people. I called the Peace Corps security officer and within half-an-hour several of my co-workers from Maliba lodge and Matt, my closest peace corps volunteer were at my house. I instantly felt much better. My host mom came home with my dog, and was furious. At first I thought she was mad at me, but it seems that it was just her anger at the situation was spilling out in rapid Sesotho. There might not be the same gender equality here as in the States, but there are some real strong women. No one would mess with my host mother, I’d be more afraid of her wielding a pan than of any burglar. A couple of hours later the chief of my village, the chief of the Tsehlanyane area, and the district police arrived. I felt very protected. And that was the start of the local justice system in motion.

My host mom woke me the next morning at seven, telling me to get dressed. The village crime committee was at my door (I didn’t even know we had one). The chief and several other well-respected men in the community had lined up four suspects. I hadn’t had breakfast or brushed my hair, and I was following them all over the mountain to the suspects’ houses to see if any of them had the clothes I seen the burglar wearing. It was odd meeting their mothers, who joined our procession. I was pretty sure I knew who it was, his hair, frame and clothes were just like those I remembered. And he seemed especially nervous. This procession is part of the system, to publicly shame those who might be guilty and discourage any further crimes. Your standing and reputation in the village is such a vital part of life here.

We walked for over an hour to the Tsehlanyane chief’s place where the suspects pleaded their cases and I told my story. It was narrowed down to two (because of their distinct hair) and I had to stand in front of them and point to the one I thought was guilty. This was by far the worst part, worse than the attempted burglary. I was pretty sure who it was, but what if I was wrong? I had been pretty non-committal so far, but it’s hard to be evasive when you point. Being part of the village community here you know the family of the person you are accusing. And you have to look them in the eye when you accuse them. The chief and villagers kept telling me not to be afraid, that I was safe, I can point to the culprit, but that was not what I was afraid of. The whole innocent until proven guilty beyond a doubt is a very American concept and ingrained in me, it is not the same out here. After I reluctantly pointed at the guy I thought was guilty the chief and committee discussed the case alone. They called us back in for their verdict, I had held it together pretty well until then. They forced handcuffs on the guy I had accused, who was sitting next to me, and I burst out sobbing, he later did too. My crying in public (which is rarely done here) was more upsetting to them than that I could be ruining a man’s life. But they knew his history, that he’d stolen before, and the justice system and that his punishment would not be too severe. There was more discussion and the police arrived in couple of hours.

The police asked what I wanted to do. If I wanted to press charges and go to court or to settle out of court (aka the police officers taking him to the station and giving him a serious talking to). I chose not to press charges. I was relieved that I wasn’t going to ruin this guy’s life or see him beaten (which I’d seen happen to an accused rapist, though I have to admit I wasn’t a bit sorry about that one). The whole incident was solved with the cooperation of the whole community, and no one got hurt. I got to see how a system like this has worked over the centuries, where police are far away and community members take care of each other. So many of my friends and neighbors came to check on me and asked how I was doing. I feel very safe. The people are the security system here, and I feel much safer than I would with any electronic one.

Public Transport

One of the most difficult and frustrating aspects of living in rural Lesotho is taking the public transportation. It shows how much a person can adapt, something that used to drive me crazy now seems perfectly normal and OK. But I’m lucky, being on a nice paved road, I don’t have the bumpy, often nauseating mountainous dirt roads that many other volunteers do.

What took the most getting use to was the speed. The driver usually drives leaning out of the window searching the hills for possible customers. Often a woman will be across the river or up a hill and we all sit and wait for her to take her sweet time to get to the car. Some people do rush, but it sure does not feel like the average. Even when we are off, on our way, we usually don’t go any faster than 20 kilometers an hour (12.5 mph) for the first 30 km. I’ve been passed by maize-laden donkeys, old men walking with canes, and one time a toddler, toddling down the road without pants on. For an American use to efficient, quick cars and buses, this was very hard to get used to. But as I’ve come to see, in Lesotho what’s the rush?

Another unpleasant part of the ride is the volume of the music, which would be painful even if I liked the music. And I have to admit, I’m not a big fan of the local music, famo. It’s something like shouting-rap set to accordion and bass. I think I would like it more if it was ever played at (what I consider) a normal volume or if I understood what they were saying. I usually just catch the name of a town or some local reference followed by the names of some farm animals.

The average public transport is a khombi. They are the size of a van and seat 15-16 people, 3 across except for the poor people in the back where they are squeezed 4 across. Getting a seat by a window is key, because you can control that window and the airflow. Even though it can get very hot and sweaty in the crowded khombis many people prefer to keep the windows shut, afraid it will cause them to catch a cold. Again something that doesn’t make sense to me and my American mentality.

Most of the khombis that work in my area are not in great shape, many are older than me. On one trip a door fell off, on another a window flew off (luckily it was a plastic replacement one). On a particularly memorable trip the khombi broke down and for some reason only worked in reverse, instead of paying another driver to take us, our driver drove the remaining 10 km to town all in reverse. One of the worst trips was when the driver drove the last part of the trip to my village with the front passenger seat flipped up, hammering something on the engine with a rock as he drove. It still broke down every few kilometers and I ended up grumpily walking the last bit home. But if I’ve been waiting for over an hour for a khombi I am thrilled when it arrives, no matter what shape it is in. And I have never been cheated on the taxi fare.

My favorite part of the khombis are the names. Many have large decal names on their windshields. The best (in my opinion) are: Slow Motion, Sorry Guys!, Later!, Dinosaur, and Cure Ball (misspelled curve ball). And the khombi named Nice One, really is a nice one.

To determine if it will be a good ride, for me there are three criteria: 1) a good seat by a window (and not squished, they often overcrowd the 16 seat khombis, one time I counted 26 people); 2) a good speed (faster than a donkey); 3) a good music volume (or better yet, no music). When I get two of the three I consider it a good ride, and all three—well it’s just wonderful.

Best Moments of the Past Year

I have not written in a while because I've been on a wonderful vacation with my parents around Southern Africa. So this is a post I've been meaning to do for a while, my favorite moments from the past year, some of the reasons why I have fallen in love with my village and its people.

One of the orphans that lives alone with her 2 younger brothers and very small sister, once came up to my house with some peaches from her fruit tree to give me, very happy to share with me one of the very few things she has.
An especially quiet, lovely afternoon washing clothes in the river with my neighbor women as my dog splashes around in the water.
One night when I was woken up to low, beautiful male singing from a late night ceremony.
When I ran out of propane my good friend and neighbor carried a full tank of propane(about 25 pounds) on her head back to my house.
One afternoon my host sister spent an hour telling me about HIV/AIDS and what I should personally do to stay safe.
My host mom had a party with all of the neighbor women, who all danced with babies strapped to their backs, and my host mom danced with my dog.
When I once told a woman that I liked her shirt and she started to take it off to give it to me.
When I walk home and tell the person I'm walking with that I am tired, they immediately stop walking, point to the grass beside the road and say "then rest."
A baby without pants peed on the floor in the middle of a meeting (you often bring babies to meetings here), the meeting continued without a pause, at the end the mother scooped up the baby and wiped off the floor on her way out.
Being greeted and asked how I am by everyone I pass whenever I leave my house (why ever did this stress me out when I first got here??)

But the best part of the past year is knowing the people of my village love me. And what can I give back to them that is better than that?

50 Chickens! Likhoho li teng!

After months of delay we finally got our layer chickens. The gardens of the community center have also really started to grow. The chickens are going to provide eggs for the orphans and needy of the village, along with vegetables from the gardens.

We wanted to have free-range chickens and demonstrate how you can raise chickens without building an expensive concrete building. We built chicken tractors instead, enclosed chicken runs that are portable. After the chickens have eaten all the grubs and weed seeds on one spot we move the tractor/run to another spot and the previous one is fertilized and ready to be planted.

Although the tractors/runs are pretty simple, it’s taken many, many hours to build six, we still have one to go. We got layer chickens from South Africa. The chickens are a couple of months old and have lived in cages their whole lives. They had never seen sun or had the freedom of running around, and apparently don’t know what to do with it. One mme (woman/mother) from the support group that we work with joked that the chickens were like us Americans here, since after four days they are all still clustered in the shaded ends of the runs, apparently afraid of the sun, rain, and not being in a tight pack.

We paid a neighbor with a covered pick-up truck to drive us to town to pick up the chickens. The chickens arrived four hours late on a huge semi-truck, packed into metal crates more densely than I would have thought possible. There were customers ahead of us that we were getting hundreds of birds and we sat and waited as they grabbed the birds two and five at a time by their feet and flung them into the backs of pick-ups, cages and boxes. It was a real site. When we finally got our fifty chickens and were back in village it was almost dark and we still had a giant hill to climb carrying all fifty disgruntled birds. (There are no drivable roads that go up to the center.) But quickly a group gathered to help us, and the chickens were surprisingly complacent about being carried, I didn’t get scratched at all. We didn’t have time to prepare and put them in the runs, so we put them in our office for the night. We had a real mess to clean up the next day, but with the village support group’s help we managed to get all the runs in place, with the birds inside, fed and watered. I was very encouraged to see how the group took charge of taking care of the birds, taking turns every day to climb the hill to feed and check on the chickens. If only the chickens were as cooperative and would start laying some eggs.

Christmas in Village

I stayed in my village over the holidays this year. I think it would have been hard for me to do last year, to be away from home, family and friends over Christmas. But I don’t feel alone any more, I’m surrounded by my host family and friends, and no longer notice many of the cultural differences that used to separate us. It’s very odd having Christmas in the middle of summer (which is the case in the southern hemisphere). It’s been hot and rainy, with the temperature well into the eighties. It might seem strange to miss snow, but I haven’t seen snow on the ground for more than a couple hours since 2010, the winter before I left the U.S. Christmas carols and other things that make it feel like the holiday-time aren’t very common out here.

The typical Christmas in my village involves weeks of cleaning, moving everything out of the house and cleaning it till it shines. I was told not to bother holding any classes or workshops in December because everyone would be too busy cleaning. For all of December. On the 25th most of the day is spent cooking a special meal, although none of the dishes are the same as what I would usually have for a Christmas (or Hanukkah) meal back in the U.S. It usually consists of rice, carrot slaw, beetroots and chicken. Like most holidays it is celebrated with drinking, which can make towns not as safe over the holidays, but in my village it is fine, though everyone does seem in especially good spirits. How safe I feel despite all of the drinking is a testament to how warmhearted and protective my village and friends are here. Presents aren’t very common, but all the children get a new outfit on Christmas day, which they immediately put on and walk around in groups to show off. I spent the morning handing out donated clothes to the orphans at the community center, very fun. I have to say I have never seen my village or the kids looking so good.

While I do miss home, especially on Christmas, I am happy that I got to experience the holiday time here. It certainly was less exciting and festive than my previous Christmases have been in the U.S. But just spending the day with my host family and friends here meant so much to them, maybe something is missing in all the Christmas hype back in the U.S. Here it seems to be all about just sitting with each other and sharing the time together, it doesn’t seem to matter that there aren’t all the presents, decorations or festivities. Not a white (or even red and green) Christmas, but a good one all the same.

Community Center Opening & Journal Excerpt

This week we had an opening celebration for the community center. And the following are excerpts from my journal.

The opening was a big success! Even though four organizations that RSVP-ed didn’t show. Kick4life brought four coaches and had great activities, teaching about AIDS and healthy living through sports. Almost everyone got involved in the games and had a really great time. We had about 200 people of all different ages come to the opening. And we didn’t run out of popcorn or fruit, and the drink mix was a surprisingly big hit and seemed to make up for the fact that there wasn’t any meat.

Before the opening I worked an American work schedule, 8 – 5 everyday, organizing the library, painting, and cutting, sealing and building the chicken tractors with the villagers. The design seems pretty simple, who would have thought they would turn out to be so much work? And we only finished one of the seven chicken tractors we have planned.

My home-life is going really well, I’ve had many little fun moments with my host family lately, like jumping rope with my host mom and sister and reading Where’s Waldo with my brother. Those every day little moments add up to so much. Also ausi Lebohang is back [in the village] and I spent a lovely afternoon with her, chatting and eating papa and meroho. She’s back on holiday from University, and is probably one of the few friends here that fully understands me and my American life. It’s great to have her back.

I just finished Daniel Deronda, my 57th book in Peace Corps, I’m not sure I’ll make it to 100 if I always pick such long books. And I’ve started running every morning again, now that both [my dog] Makoenya and I are back to being healthy. Although since it’s really hard to eat wholesomely here, I don’t consider myself as being really that healthy, but running at this altitude must help. And people have gotten used to my running and no longer stare in awe as I run past without an emergency or any particular destination.

The closer it gets for me to leave, less than seven months now, the less eager I am to go home. As different as it is, this has become my home. My life out here might be harder and certainly can be lonelier, but it has more purpose, more meaning, and more hard-earned joy. For some reason since happiness comes easier (at least for me) in the U.S., it seems less meaningful. But no matter where I am I know I can be happy. I’ll probably always miss or be nostalgic about some other time or place, but if I can focus on present joys and little fun moments, I know I can always be happy, not matter where I am.

Kea Kula - Donkey Transport!

I recently got some pretty severe blisters on both feet. And while not a serious injury, the blisters were bad enough that I couldn’t really walk, and was reduced to hobbling around painfully. Through my “injuries” I got to see a side of my village that was really beautiful. Word that I was “sick” (the Sesotho word kula applies for skin injuries as well as normal sicknesses) got around the village remarkably fast, everyone I passed asked how I was doing and if my feet were better or cured. It was heartwarming to have so many people concerned about my well-being. The village support group is a group of women in the village that assists orphans, elderly and sick people in the village, and who I have worked a lot with. Two member of the support group came by my house to check on me and see if there was anything they could do to help. My host mother brought me water so I wouldn’t have to carry buckets from the river. She also helped bandage my feet, while it may seem a bit strange and wasn’t really unnecessary, it was truly nice to feel so cared for. It made me feel like a real part of the community, being included in their system of caring for each other.

Since it’s only a week away from the opening of the community center, I had too much work to take time off for my feet to recover. For the first couple of days I couldn’t really walk, so I asked around to borrow a donkey. Every other family in the village has a donkey or two to carry grain to the local mill. Horses cost too much for me to rent as a Peace Corps volunteer, and if they aren’t trained well can be very difficult to ride. Falling of a donkey on the other hand is more comical than painful. I don’t think the guys I borrowed the donkey from trusted that I could stay on, on my own. And again, while unnecessary, it was very nice for them to escort me in case I should tip over and tumble off my little donkey. Admittedly, it’s not easy to ride without a saddle or reins (you steer a donkey by hitting it on either side of its neck with a stick). I’m teaching beginning English weekly at the community center, so more people try and greet me in English now, and called out to me “donkey transport!” It’s technically correct, but I didn’t really know how to respond, so I usually said something like “yes, I got a nice fat one today.”

After a week and a half, I am better enough that I can shuffle to work without needing a donkey. But the experience has allowed me to see how with such little resources the people of my village take care of each other. There may not be western medicine available to treat all their aliments, but there definitely will be a team of people there to help in any way they can and probably with some local remedy.