A pair of boys and another set of men gather around the bursting fire. They aren’t related, but they are because this is a village and more counts for family than blood. A black kettle, not unlike a witch’s caldron, sits atop of the flame cooking the group’s supper while the boys stick pieces of corn next to the thrashes of orange to flame broil their appetizer. My host father and his shepherd and herd boys have returned from their usual trip to the fields, looking after crops and livestock. This is their beer and TV time before bed.

I slyly turn off my headlamp to participate in their bonfire from a few yards away. Most nights I am cramped up in my rondaval with a book, but tonight I decide to sip tea and read outside. I hope the stars come out so I can gaze and just to be next to a fire, one that doesn’t consist of my trash. Enjoying the night is my attempt to savor the moment instead of wishing it would pass.

Despite the heavy thoughts ping ponging in my head, it had been a good day. I nearly out ran the sun as it climbed over the mountains. When I got home, two visitors were waiting and we cooked up breakfast burritos before they ventured on to their next stop. Bathed and halfway decent, I attended a village meeting that convinced me all the faith I’ve invested in the idea to do something good here might just pan out.

But my thought pattern has a remarkable way of taking me from the good in now and drudging up darker emotions. Doubt and self-abuse showed up and the passion from the morning was drained. I wanted to write, but it felt lifeless, these old friends an even greater advantage. I tried to busy myself with domestic work, my host sister’s baby, a novel and even meditation, but these feelings were too heavy to lift.

I knew the men would create the nightly fire, like cowboys moving from camp to camp, and thought immersing myself into the right now could help.

I sipped tea and listened to them chat in Sesotho. Here, the fire is a tool to cook, to sustain one’s self, but I’ve always regarded the open flame as a way to bring friends together, over summer stars and cold beer. Because I have little control over my thoughts, they left the moment and drifted to memories of fires of past and the potential for fires when I can again sit comfortably next to the warmth and share a conversation with the others present.

The stars refuse to come out this night. Instead, thick clouds have masked their beauty, threatening a fit. The wind picks up and embers are thrown into the men’s face. They find a large piece of metal to block the wind while their food continues to simmer.

As the men tend to their fire, I retreat to my house and tend to mine. There will be no stars or answers tonight, but sometimes I don’t always need them.

It was the noise that woke me first.

The whishing.

I thought maybe it was rain and then the smell came next.

With panic, I grabbed my glasses and flashlight and scrambled out of bed. The noise, as I had suspected, was coming from my gas tank. The tube connecting my stove and tank fell off and my small house was being pumped with toxin.

My awakening, at 3:07 a.m., kept me from an eternal sleep. I realized then, when I woke up a few hours later and now how considerably lucky I was. For reasons I can’t understand, God pulled me out at the right moment.

Later in the day, I was crying in the principal’s office. I’ve been stressed with the same class since the beginning of school, often storming out of the class or returning home early and broken. As the students I am were engaged in yet another struggle, I asked them if they wanted me to go home. To me, it seemed like they took no value in my presence and wouldn’t care much if I didn’t show up the next day. All it would take is a single phone call and it would be over.

The other teachers, confronting the main perpetrators, reassured me that I am not the only one having issues with this class. They all do. Still, I wasn’t sure I could continue.

Earlier that morning, I told a few of my friends about what happened with the gas. After my breakdown, I found this message on my phone:

Then I returned to my friend and saw this message:

“God has showed me through your experience last night that He is showing you you have a purpose. He woke you up for a PURPOSE. To me this gas leak is a sign of the adversities you are facing right now in your life. He is telling me to tell you: He will wake you up (get you out o the situation in His due time). Right now he is grooming you for a bigger purpose. Stay one with Him and He will keep you covered through these tests and trials. Just know that God is covering you still and one day He will wake you up from the trials and tests and everything will be good!”

Tears, immediately.

My friends Lindsie and Mike, http://www.stormingjericho.org, are walking across the country and completely relying on God’s grace to overcome their hurdles. When they are hungry, they pray. When they are tired, they pray. Then God brings them food and rest. Their faith is incredible.

I realized today that it is my turn to let go and have complete faith. Some days are so hard and I am not sure I can take one more step, but I will keep going. One day God will awake me. He showed me today that he always will.

The guilt of a Peace Corps Volunteer

These are the conversations I have with myself on a daily basis. Where is the line between giving too much and not giving enough? I still don’t know.

—

It is 2 in the afternoon and I am hiding under my covers, trying to nap off the exhaustion of a long run. There are voices outside my window. My house is in the crossfire between the main house and the one for the herd boys, so the yells of orders and names often float through my windows.

But these voices feel close. When I open my door, I find three herd boys sitting on my porch. My porch, which belongs to me.

It really doesn’t. My space is inside and I suppose the awning could be considered communal.

–

They are disturbing me. Their voices, not loud, taunt me. I don’t understand them but I know what they say. We are in your space. We are in your space.

–

Relax, I tell myself. It is a hot day and this is a shady spot. You can’t control everything.

–

Why do they have to be here?

–

Relax.

–

I go to get water and shoot them dirty looks, hoping they would get the hint. The attempt is completely lost on them. They do not greet me. I mutter something about why are you sitting here.

–

You shouldn’t be so mean. React with kindness. Stop being such a bitch.

–

What if I wanted to sit out on the porch and listen to the radio? This is the only place I have that is mine, that is private. Why are they encroaching on it?

–

They are not in your house.

–

I wish someone in my family would see this and tell them to go away. My family knows that I like to be private.

–

My host father comes home. He joins them.

–

Relax. Be nice.

The distance between my house and school is a 10-minute walk, although both are considered to be in different sections of the village. I am blessed with such a short commute compared to other PCVs or many of my students who walk hours one way.

My path is just two roads and both passable by car, or relatively speaking depending on how much precipitation we’ve had that week. I walk through the city center, which consists of the police station, the main gathering area for taxis that take people three kilometers to the main road, a few tin shacks that sell airtime and snacks and a big shop with basic items, such as oil, sugar, soap, tooth paste, buckets beans and flour.

Some days, though, I like to Robert Frost it and take the offbeat route. This one is marked by a series of worn grass and dirt pathways. It leads me past people’s homes as they fix cars, hang their fresh laundry and take care of children, leading me to wonder extensively about their daily lives and what they do when I am busy at school.

I go this way, although longer, when I want something different. It is interesting how simply changing the way we go to work or come home can force new thoughts. I used to do this when I lived in Pocatello, finding new routes to alleviate the dread of going to work, which ultimately was solved by getting a new job. Or when I lived in downtown Sioux Falls and commuted to Brookings. I experimented with different series of roads leading to the interstate to find the fastest that would allow for a few extra minutes of sleep.

In village, though, I am not looking for quick or even a change of attitude, just a reminder of how great this place is. And when I do take that less direct route and I am struck with the notion that I live in a village, a beautiful one at that, and I will likely never live in a village again. That is pretty unique. It gives me a fresh sense of blessing and renewed spirit for this life.

After I filled my bucket at the pump, I hoisted it onto the top of brick frame as an easier transition to my head than the ground. I put a little too much oomph into the gesture and cracked the bottom.

Later, I was rearranging my dishes and dropped my favorite ceramic mug, really only ceramic mug. A healthy cracked shot up the side.

An unlucky day, but breaks happen. That’s life.

Yet, it’s these little blows that can lead a good mood to a bad one. Now, I have to buy a new mug and a new bucket with the little money I get for food and other basic necessities – an amount that always seems stretched. Till I get paid next, at the end of the month, I will have to rely on one bucket, meaning daily trips to the pump, and an aluminum cup that looks like a prop from a scene of cowboys around a fire in an old Western.

Maybe I am overly emotional, which is a strong possibility, but I think many PCVs, in any country, get moments when setbacks feel like major life changes. We live without so much compared to how we were raised that we come to depend on the few things we do have. When they are gone, it feels like the universe is personally punishing us. If I get this worked up over bucket, heaven forbid if my iPod breaks. (Please universe, don’t take my iPod.) (Note: The universe took my iPod, see earlier post.)

Then, when I come down from ledge, I realize how silly I am being. Sure, my favorite mug is gone but I still have the comforting tea a friend sent and isn’t that more important than whatever device I use to drink it out of? Yes, it is.

As I learn to let these little things go, I am getting better at the bigger stuff. So, my students didn’t do their homework. OK, I just ran out of gas and it is dinnertime. And I bought a bus ticket for the wrong day.

I like to think that when I re-enter civilization, with calmer emotions (Please universe, let me have calmer emotions) I will be a pro at letting things go. Just as long as I have a good mug.