Stress

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I like stress.

Often, I feel my best when I have a long to-do list and not a great deal of time to accomplish all of the tasks. And, even the thought of a long work day or all-nighter excites me.

But stress gets the best of me, I lose my calm and ability to think clearly. I can’t make good decisions and over react. I snap and throw hysterical fits.

This is our last week of teaching and we begin semester tests on Thursday (Friday is off for Hero’s Day, which is similar to our Memorial Day). I am trying to cram last tidbits into lessons and get my students ready for the exams. They, however, are already have a break mentality and just want to be done, fail or pass.

I am worried that I didn’t do enough to prepare them or covered all the material I should. I am worried most will fail. I am worried that I let them down.

On top of it I have other Peace Corps duties to finish before the month’s end. Winter is practically here and motivation for work is met with pangs of cold in my bones.

Also, there are elections on Saturday. We are on standfast, meaning we are to stay at site and be on alert. Although I am not too worried, this election seems to have a different tone and no one knows what will happen. I don’t want to think about another E, but the idea has wandered into my thought pattern the last few days.

In addition to other situations going on in village - things that I will not discuss on this open blog – I have been feeling very frustrated the last couple of weeks. It’s all led to a great deal of stress, and an extended crabby state.

I emailed another PCV about some of the things going on and the pressures of the end of the semester. She reminded me that this is my first time and I am not expected to know everything.

Then she said that the Basotho don’t stress. She is right, they don’t. When something goes wrong they just say, OK, and deal with it. They don’t run through ways they screwed up or stomp off in angry fits. They just let the situation be and know for next time.

That is a hard attitude for me to wear, but I am going to try. I can’t change what I can’t control, but I can change how I act. And really that is the best thing I can do to help my students and myself. Being angry and pissy doesn’t do any good. But if I mess up and smile, well then that is an extra smile to better everyone’s day.

America Time

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The Peace Corps Volunteer job comes with lots of frustration and loneliness and the best, sometimes the only, remedy is America Time.

America Time is when PCVs get together to watch American movies and television and cook meals that aren’t readily found in our village life. Many times it’s nothing more than a single night of beers and swapping stories from the work zone, but it’s often the refresher one needs to get through the next week.

In the last month I’ve been out of village exactly four times – two were sports days with my students (post on that is coming later this week) and don’t really count, one was a Peace Corps committee meeting and the other a movie date with Hannah. They were all day trips and didn’t extend beyond 12 hours. Like a new mother, I needed a night out.

Our country director, a former volunteer, is pretty great about allowing us an occasional night out of village for this precious America Time. Early last week I sent out a desperate message to my closest neighbors about the need for a get together. Thankfully for my sanity, they agreed and we made plans for that Friday.

When I walked into another volunteer’s house  – after getting lost along the way and being forced to give some bo-me my popcorn in exchange for a guide to his house – Grant and Evan were huddled around three screens: one with an early ’90s version of NBA Jams, another with Tosh.O and the third with some type of kung fu movie. I grabbed a Black Label and collapsed on the couch next to Hannah to share gossip and frustrations. Ariana showed up a bit later and the five of us spent the night discussing TV shows, books, the PC life and whatever else seemed appropriate at the time.

The next morning we woke up and headed to the mall in town. The mall seems like cheating in the hard-knock volunteer life, but I am fortunate to often have a small escape into the first world because I only live a few hours away. In two floors it houses an Apple Bee’s-like restaurant called Spur, fast food joints such as KFC, the best grocery store in the country, an Old Navy-type clothing shop, an office store great for markers and poster board, a movie theatre, a spa that I could never afford on my volunteer salary and a few house-hold item department stores. They also have an ATM, which allows me to avoid dreaded trips to the bank, and real bathrooms, which is a nice treat when you are accustomed to latrines.

Because it can be expensive, I don’t often eat at one of the restaurants and opt for something from the grocery store or a pizza. But it had been a long time since I was in town and with friends so we decided to stop at Renaissance, a charming café with decent coffee. We ordered up greasy breakfasts like the ones I long for from Fryin’ Pan or Cooks.

At 11, Evan, Hannah and I went to the lower level to catch the early show of “The Hunger Games.” I didn’t know anything about this movie (apart from that it is a book and there was a ridiculous explosion on Twitter and Facebook when it opened in The States) but anything is good in this theatre. Hannah and I’s first time there was to see “New Year’s Eve” – a likely terrible movie at home, but here it made us cry, laugh and deeply miss America. Movies treats that I will splurge on because they don’t make me feel so foreign and act almost like a temporary portal to home.

After the movie – which I did enjoy – we went to the grocery store. I browsed the aisles, dreaming of what I wanted to buy and I what I actually could on my volunteer salary. Still, I filled up four sacks, all of my necessities for the next month, including popcorn, lentils, ground coffee and soup packets. For some reason, like the movies, grocery stores make me think of home and wandering Hy-Vee at 11 p.m. on Sunday nights.

Once satisfied with the amount of retail therapy, Hannah and I went to the PC office to meet Grant and take advantage of the somewhat fast Internet. The office is the only place we can stream online videos so we watched “The Five Year Engagement” trailer because I am mildly obsessed with Jason Segel.

Before heading to our respective villages, the three of us went to a hidden gem we lovingly refer to as box-box and drank one more Black Label. We huddled into this small shelter built of sticks, plastic bags and boxes with some bo-ntate while a man serenaded us with cooing and light guitar.

In America all of these things are normal day activities, but in my village life they are luxuries. These 24 hours of American-like activities felt like a mini-vacation, one I desperately needed.

But, luxuries are only great because you don’t get them every day. As much as I miss some of America’s conveniences, I like the idea for an extended time away from them, living a life beyond the one I always knew. It makes me see the world in a simpler view and, when I do get to go to the movies, eat in a restaurant, chat in fast American English and shop in a grocery store, I am amazed and struck by wonder that these things were once the norm to me. And that’s kind of a fun way to live.

 

The launch of Taxi Tales and the second closest I’ve come to dying

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The Peace Corps uniform – usually consisting of worn khakis or Old Navy skirts and some type of sport sandals – has several badges of honor. One for the longest amount of time between showers, another for the sickness that forced remnants out both ends. You earn merits for overcoming work frustration, fashioning a neat shelf out of limited materials and eating food that doesn’t seem edible. And then there is public transportation.

Every Peace Corps Volunteer across the world since 1961 has a taxi story. The long waits, rollercoaster-like roads and crammed vehicles with passengers that refuse to open the window are as much a PCV rite of passage as crapping your pants.

The bulk of my insane moments in Lesotho happen on a taxi. From nearly dying to being use as attraction for potential customers to drunk men passing out on me, the taxi ride is equally frustrating and hilarious. I decided to start a new feature for the blog, Taxi Tales, where I will recount some of these moments in hopes of shedding a different aspect of my life here in Lesotho. I do not mean any harm with these stories and would hate to offend the Basotho, but some weird stuff goes down in these 15-passenger vans enough to make me almost miss a oil changes, car payments and the $40 a week major oil companies steal from me. Almost.

So, for my first Taxi Tale I will talk about the second closest I ever came to dying.

We had been at our sites for just a week and, despite being on the three-month lockdown, we were allowed a few days off for Christmas. A group of us, mostly volunteers located in the north, decided to meet in Katse, the home to a fellow volunteer and a very beautiful dam.

Hannah and I hoped to take a bus, but as newbies, we didn’t quite understand the workings of the public transportation system, especially on a holiday when many were traveling, and missed the bus. So, we took a string of taxis from one village to another, hoping we would finally get on the one that took us to where we wanted to be. Ranks were full of people trying to get home for the holidays and we were outmatched by the bustles. Conductors, seeing our confusion, would ask us where we wanted to go and, after our reply, would point us in the direction of a car. We’d get in the taxi, wait for it to fill, hold our belongings in uncomfortable ways and then realize we were only going a ways down the road when the taxi pulled into another rank and said we had to get a yet another taxi.

After the fourth taxi, we finally found the one that would take us all the way to Katse. We were getting nervous because it was already late in the afternoon and we needed to be at our destination by sundown. There was a long line of people wanting to get in the same small vehicle we did but we were able to sweet talk the driver into two places in the back.

Nestled in the back of the taxi, the car slowly pulled out of the rank, having a hard time even getting over speed bumps. Hannah and I looked at each other. Something doesn’t feel right.

The first hour of the trip was fine, despite the driver going faster around the corners than we preferred. We got to a village and they made us all get it out for a minute. Once leaving this village we wouldn’t see another for two hours. The landscape of the drive changed. No more rural villages with bo-‘me’ holding shopping bags on their heads or children standing along side the roads. On one side the earth extended high and the other it extended low. To reassure us was many warning signs with cars falling off the cliff.

The drivers’ speed and care did not correct itself for the dangerous terrain. We zoomed around the mountains as if go karts on a slick track. Our nerves started to rattle. We did not feel safe. The climbs and turns were endless but I tried to remain calm thinking we couldn’t have that much further to go. I was wrong.

A nasty climb met as after a turn around the mountain. Our untrusting vehicle started to attempt it, but not even half way, it stalled. It started to roll backwards and downwards, right for that corner which would be come a drop off.

Hannah and I start screaming and were half way out the window when other passengers too started yell. The car was picking up momentum and I envisioned our white van tumbling down the mountainside.

Much to my amazement the driver was able to stop the car and hold it in place with a few rocks. We all got out and waited while a few men tried to put the car is some working order. Sundown was coming fast but there was no place for us to go. We were stranded on a mountain.

Fixed, they called everyone back into the car but Hannah and I were reluctant. We didn’t feel safe. The car continued to sputter up the hill, attempting and even bigger one, and Hannah and I decided either we’d stay in that car or we’d live to see Christmas.

Days before two volunteers died in a car accident in Mozambique. The news flashed through both Hannah’s and mine mind and we didn’t want to be next. We screamed at the driver to let us out and said we didn’t want to go further. The other passengers looked at us crazy. You will get raped out here or hit by a car. We didn’t care. We needed to get out.

At about that time the car stalled again but the driver stopped it before the visions of our fiery death came back. It was now 5 p.m. We had maybe two hours of sunlight. We needed to get to Katse, but we had no vehicle and no idea where we were. Some private cars passed us by but we positioned on a hill and they weren’t going to stop. I started to tear up and a very sweet Mosotho lady, Angela I think, tried to calm us down and promised us we would make it to Katse that night.

We needed a plan and we needed one now. “I think we should call Peace Corps,” I told Hannah. And right as the words came out another van, our rescue taxi, came up the hill.

Still not convinced this one would die too, Hannah and I quietly said prayers to ourselves (“Are you praying right now?” “Yeah.” “Me too.”) until we were out of the most mountainous  spot and reached villages. We made it to Katse, met up with our friends at the lodge and calmed our nerves with beer as we retold the story.

We took an alternative route on the way home. Although our life wasn’t almost compromised, the bus did break down and we were stalled for two hours. Later a woman leaned over us to puke out the window.

Now, Hannah and I have a new rule. We no longer take sketchy taxis and we no longer sit in the back of a taxi together.

Give ‘em a break

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It had been nearly an hour since we walked to the road and impatience was showing – James was throwing rocks, I was singing to .38 Special and Hannah was tangled in a glaze. The only taxi to come our way was crammed with people and we were forced to wait. Wait, wait.

It was just after 11. It’s often a two-hour trek between Hannah’s and my village. Once in a taxi from her village I have to stop at a junction, where I’ve waited an hour before, and find another taxi to my village (PS, Hannah is my closest neighbor, if that tells you how far out there I am). I had hoped to get there before the post office closes at 1 p.m. to pick up a package. I have 1-9 win-loss record with the post offices and banks in Africa so I was sure I wouldn’t make it. Then, coming down the hill nearly a mile a way, there was a white box-shaped taxi. Two, actually.

They both hit our standing spot at the same time and as I walked to the emptier one the conductor of the first waved him off, basically saying, “These are mine.” I tried to exclaim back that the other one was less full, meaning more comfortable for us, but he didn’t have it. The car zoomed off, and the three of us were to squeeze into a 15-seat van that already had 14 passengers.

I was angry. “You are greedy,” I snarled at him. Hannah and I shared a seat while James had to stand, which is far from legal and safe. “O batla chelete haholo,” I hissed, which means “You want money too much.”

Less than 800 meters later, the taxi stops and at least four passengers got off and we each had a seat for the duration of our trip. Also, I got another ride quickly at the junction and made it to the post office at 12:45 p.m.

Hannah gently reminded me that if I had more patience I wouldn’t have felt the need to blow up at the taxi conductor, which I felt bad about later. Yes, I know patience is practically a synonym of Peace Corps, but it’s sometimes hard to get past the surface of situations and realize there is something deeper.

There is one particular person in my village that I’ve been struggling with. I often find this person lazy, unmotivated and careless and have already deemed him worthless to my service efforts. It’s frustrating because this villager is one that is supposed to help and guide me and I was let down. (Sorry for the vagueness but I want to protect the party involved.)

One Saturday morning this villager was passing my house and saw me outside washing dishes and decided to pay a visit. Our chat was friendly, even nice. We talked about several parts of work and life and a piece of information was revealed that changed my outlook. I had been judging this person, looking only on the outside, and didn’t realize what was actually going on. Instantly, I was ashamed at all the curse words I said about this person under my breath and to other volunteers. I thought I understood, but I really didn’t.

It seems like I often react to the first sign of trouble and I fail to recognize that there could be more to the story. There is always more to the story. I do need more patience and I need to learn to give people a break. My lack of patience and hot temper are two areas in my life that I am working on, and struggling with, here in Lesotho.

Yet, the other lesson is that I need to give myself a break. So I yelled at the taxi conductor and it didn’t feel good. I’ll know next time. And when I see the villager again I will have a new respect for that person and try to focus on the good things done despite the situation, not the bad.

The amazing thing about Peace Corps is that you don’t learn more about the world, you learn more about people. I am truly learning.

My Lesotho Life

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I have a new blog goal, blogoal if you will. I realized that in all these postings I don’t actually talk about Lesotho that much. I describe stories and my thoughts and feelings (so many feelings), but do not really get into the specifics of what this place is like. My posts can be rather intense but I am an intense person. However, to lighten it up, I want to throw in more posts about actual Lesotho information and maybe a few less about my internal struggles.

Don’t worry, that emotional dribble will still be around.

That being said, this post isn’t really about Lesotho. It’s about me. But this is my blog so I think that is acceptable and this post is about my everyday life in Lesotho so it’s kind of about Lesotho too.

You may ask yourself, “What does Heather do everyday there in Africa?” I like to picture you, my blog readers, brushing your teeth in front of your vanity mirror wondering about my life. You do do that right? Well, I hate to think that your curiosity is unmet with knowledge so I will tell you.

My day typically starts at about 6 a.m. give or take 10 to 15 minutes depending on how many times I want to hit the snooze button. In the summer I am up usually an hour earlier so I can run but, with the winter sun hitting her own snooze button, there is not enough light for a run before school. So, I wake up, do the daily hygienic beauty routine and then eat a breakfast of oatmeal and coffee while checking my Google Reader and listening to the BBC. Even in Africa, I like to keep my brain over stimulated.

Just before 7, I am out the door, greeting herd boys and women huddled around pots on an open fire as I walk the 10 minutes to school. The hour before school starts, which is 8 a.m., is reserved for morning study. Students, no matter how far they walk and some are about an hour away, are required to be there at 7 a.m. They aren’t all there everyday but some do make it and I open the library for whoever wants to study or read there than in their classrooms. Most of the time I finish lesson plans, catch up on emails or read. At 7:45 I usually round the troops up for assembly.

Morning assembly is how most schools in Lesotho start the day. At our school, we begin with national anthem, followed by a scripture reading, the Our Father, a hymn and then any announcements. I am often the first teacher here so I tend to lead the assembly, but other teachers do it as well.

My schedule varies on the day. My busiest days for teaching are Thursdays, when I have double periods (80 minutes) of everything I teach – Form B English, Form B Life Skills and Form E.  Wednesdays are a bit more slack and I spend most of that day in the library working on other Peace Corps projects.

We have two breaks throughout the day – 10:40 a.m. and 1 p.m. During the morning break the teachers are served hot water for tea, which is really nice right now. And the teachers, along with the students, will buy fat cakes, fried bread dough, from bo-‘me in the village. I am trying to stay away from unhealthy carbs so usually drink a couple cups of tea or bring some vegetables to snake on.

The other break is out lunch. Some schools serve lunch and others do not. My school does, but because it is a fairly poor school the meals are great but it is at least food to keep the students going. On Mondays and Wednesdays the menu is samp, which is similar to creamed corn. Tuesdays and Thursdays is papa (maize) with mereho (vegetables, typically Swiss chard covered in salt and oil) or papa and beans, which is my favorite of the entrees served. School lets out early on Friday so we don’t have lunch that day.

The school day typically ends at 4:20 p.m. On Thursdays and Fridays we are done with class at 3:20 p.m. for our designated sports time and the students go off to the respective fields to practice football, netball and volleyball.

After school on Mondays and Wednesdays I walk to the shop near my house. In the back room is a tailor’s shop and I teach an adult English to the tailor and a few other women. At the end of the day, I am tired and hungry and usually don’t want to go to this class, but I always have a blast. These women are so eager to learn and ask me to define all kinds of words. They also beg for homework. THEY WANT HOMEWORK. I wish that gusto would rub off on my secondary students.

On the way home I drop into little kids soccer games or serenade the kiddie-bumpers (my father’s term, not mine) with karaoke to their radio, which is often playing sexually explicit American hip hop music.

When I am do not have the adult English class I usually try to squeeze in a run before the sunsets. On the other days I do yoga with a podcast and candlelight.

The last bits of sunlight are reserved for chores, such as washing dishes, drawing water or sweeping my rondavel. Or, I put it off till the next day where I will likely chose to put it off till the following day. My Lesotho and American selves are so similar.

Every night at 6:30 p.m., I have a standing date with my host family for “Rhythm City.” “Rhythm City” is this fantastically awful South African soap opera. It’s like American soap operas with the drama turned up 10 levels higher. We constantly “ooh” and “aah” and the traumatic events that happen to the families of Jo’burg. We laugh and make predictions. Sure, it is a gathering around a TV, but it’s fun and we have a lot of special moments in that half hour.

After the drama I go back to my hut and cook dinner. I usually cook lentils, beans or popcorn. Just like in America, I’d rather eat popcorn for dinner three nights of the week. I then spend the night reading, writing or occasionally watching something on my iPod. I do always right in my journal before bed and thank God for the opportunity to live such a life.

So, now you know my everyday life and you can think about more important things while flossing. But why would you want to?