The following was written in March.
I absolutely love the end of summer.
Mostly because people are shoving food at me.
Peaches. Corn. Potatoes.
Soon it will be pumpkins, maybe beans.
They want to share the fruits of their labor with me, and I am definitely OK with that.
The school day starts off with assembly every morning. The students line up, boys on one side and girls on the other, and recite the following, in order: the Lesotho national anthem, a scripture reading, the Lord’s Prayer, a hymn and, finally, announcements. The students are less than thrilled to be there, sort of like my high school classmates during the Pledge of Allegiance. The assembly is meant to be a reminder of pride, faith and their responsibilities as students. Some days they sing with full gusto, others mumble or skip parts.
Here are a few photos I snapped one chilly morning.
‘M’e Makhiba, my host mother
This was written in March.
The toughest mile in a marathon is not the first or the last. For me, doubt fogs my mind and my legs burn at mile 18.
At this point, I’ve come so far, nearly 70 percent of the way, but the remaining distance seems further and hillier. This is when I have to pull out every inspirational statement, every ounce of courage and push as hard as I can.
While training for the Old Mutual Two Oceans Ultra Marathon, I made several connections to running and serving in the Peace Corps. Sometimes, you want to give up, knowing what awaits you is a warm bed and a decent meal. But to drop out before the finish line is worse than the current pain.
It aches. You want to cry. You do cry. But if you can take one more step, then maybe you can take another. And then another. And another.
I am at month 18 in my service. Another eight months seems daunting, even more challenging than the year and half that I’ve already completed. Yet, home isn’t familiar to me anymore and it seems to have changed so much that I am terrified I won’t belong. Staying is scary but so is leaving.
During the last three and a half months, I’ve had to extract all of my motivation to just get out of bed. I’ve left school crying and devoured books to stop my mind from racing. It will be better tomorrow, I tell myself. When it’s not, I put faith into the next day.
It’s mile 18. My lungs seemed to have collapsed and the voice in my head taunts me, yet I still keep going. In the end, it will be worth it. This moment, more so than the others, will determine the person I become after this experience. For me, there is no other option. Just keep going.
The following was published in the Capital Journal.
It was mid-day when I heard my host sister Maseeng shout my name.
My heavy eyes had closed for an afternoon nap and my body was exhausted after a long run that morning. I didn’t want to answer her but she wouldn’t give up. I rolled out of bed, put on my shoes and went into the family’s house.
“Do you want to see my baby boy?” she said with a smile.
She had given birth just 10 hours prior and had just returned home from the hospital. I followed her into a room and found a beautiful baby boy lying asleep on a bed and encased in blankets.
My sister married in June and now gave birth to her first child. She was a single lady when I arrived last December but is now a wife and a mother.
Yet, in the short time that I’ve lived here, she isn’t the only one of my siblings to pass through major life events. My brother Thebe graduated from university last fall and my younger sister Moana is in her final year of high school and will take the national exam to graduate in October.
Two years, in the grand scheme of life, doesn’t seem like a lot. But it is. Many of my friends back in the U.S. have gotten engaged, married and had children while I was in Africa. I’ve missed holidays, birthdays, new jobs, graduations, new lives and deaths. Being so far while these things happen is no doubt the hardest part of this experience and it was can usually set me in a funk of homesickness that lasts for weeks.
Although I miss those special moments at home, I am still experiencing them here with my Basotho friends and family. I’ve been to weddings, funerals and graduations. I’ve congratulated friends on news jobs and wished them luck as they’ve moved to other parts of the country.
Many of these events come with their own cultural traditions and I tend to forget that I am not just observing another culture but partaking in someone else’s life, their big moment. I was one of the first people Thebe hugged when he came back to the village after his college graduation. I may help Moana with her English as she prepares to take the biggest exam of her life. Now I get to watch Maseeng develop into her new role as a mother.
Even though missing the big life events in the U.S. is hard, the same moments bring me closer to my loved ones in Lesotho. I am lucky that I have great family and friends who don’t mind sending emails and posting photos to the Internet so I can observe from far away, but I also get to deepen Basotho relationships just because I am here for those rites of passage.
That makes me feel less like a passerby in their lives, who stays for two years and then is never heard from again, but an actual participant who cared enough to want to be there. I am no longer an observer but a friend, a member of the family.
