Tag Archives: Lesotho

Taxi Tales – The Curve

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The ride from my village to Maseru is unpredictable. Sometimes it’s great, when I can catch a lift from someone in my village or a passing car (more on hitchhiking in Lesotho later) or get a speeding taxi with a nice conductor. Sometime it’s a nightmare and we stop every 100 meters for five minutes and it takes two hours to get 40 km.

But the ride from Maseru to my village is nine times out of 10 awful. I have to walk through the busy rank full of questionable smells and meats being cooked on open flames. Men will yell, “Hello mamma!” or “Hiiiiiii” in a high-pitched tone. I fake a smile and head straight to my car, where I may have to wait five minutes or an hour. (More on the rank later. Also, remind me of all these “more on that later” remarks).

The conductor often fills the car to the max, or more accurately, beyond the max. Once I was in a van that legally holds 14 people but had 19 people squeezed in the rusted parameters, not all sitting and excluding the conductor and driver. There was also several packages of cake flour that added up to 100 kgs, a few giant bags of corn, 20 2 liters of soda and several bushels of carrots. It was a packed house.

If I can help it, I try to pick the least uncomfortable seat: behind the driver or next to him because they always make me sit in the middle upfront. I put in my headphones and zone out.

The worse part of the ride is the last 13 km. We pass the last turnoff and must go up a steep hill with a sharp curve, the only one of its kind along my route. I am not sure the year of these vehicles, but they often sound and look as if Henry Ford himself assembled them, so I don’t have a ton of faith in their ability to get from point A to point B, especially when giant hills are involved.

I always take a deep breath when I see the incline ahead. The van slows down to 20 to 15 mph and everything with a decent engine zooms pass us. My heart leaps when the car stops as the driver drops gears. After our incident to Katse, I always envision the car stalling and rolling backwards off the cliff. I imagine what my last thought would be as I fall to be fiery bloody death. For the first month after that trip, I would mutter the Hail Mary and Our Father under my breath until we were in the clear.

It sputters, wheezes and nearly comes to the breaking point, but the car always makes it up and we return to our jovial speed.

After reading several Bible passages about faith, I’ve realized that I need to not freak out each time I go up that hill. Yes, taxi drivers drive worse that 16-year-old girls and the cars would not be deemed drivable in the US, but these guys really do know what they are doing. They’ve done it for years and multiple times a day. And if something does go wrong, they know how to stop the car. Also, I need to give more credit to the cars. There is a reason they’ve lasted this long, more than any car I’ve had but, then again, I like to drive my cars through flash floods and ruin the engines. (Nope, no more on that later. If you don’t know the story, then I am not going to tell it because I look like a fool in it.)

If I need more faith in climbing a mountain in van, then there are certainly other places in my world that could use more faith. Mostly, I could have more faith in myself. Sometimes, I just have to let go. It’s OK for me not to know everything or control each detail. Maybe it’s even better if I shed the worry and stress and ride along.

Now, each time we hit that certain passage, I fall into a meditative state and repeat, “Faith. Faith. Faith.” I steady my breath and try to focus on the beautiful trees outside or the adorable baby in front me. And those things are so much nicer than all the worry and anxiety that if we did plummet to our death at least I left the Earth with one last pleasant thought.

But that isn’t going to happen. I have faith.

Shucking Corn

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The column was published in the Capital Journal in July.

One of the general stereotypes of Africa – a reality I’ve mentioned previously in this space – is living without the main First World conveniences.

It’s true that my water supply comes from a well and that I use a battery-powered headlamp and candles to guide my nightly activities. There are no machines to clean my clothes after I’ve fallen in the mud – yes, that happens – or keep dairy products cool so they do not spoil.

But, sometimes, not having all the gadgets of America isn’t such a bad thing. In Lesotho work is often social hour.

My host father is a farmer and has several acres that he uses to grow potatoes, pumpkins, beans and, the main staple of Lesotho, corn. Because it is now winter, he recently harvested his corn, using only a cattle-drawn cart and the labor of a few men. It wasn’t a great harvest because of the season’s little rain, but he managed to bring in a few carts.

Then it was the women and children’s job to shuck the corn so the kernels can be grinded into cornmeal. The cornmeal is cooked with oil and water over a flame to create papa, the Basotho’s main meal and often eaten three times a day with vegetables and meat. A machine does the grinding, but the shucking is sheer manpower.

For a week, a flock of small children – most under the age of four – and a few women pounded husks with flat rocks until all the kernels were knocked off. They did this for hours, never seeming to mind the unending pile of work or the occasional bit that knocked them in the face.

Every so often I helped. The children, to shy to say words, showed me the proper technique of hitting the husk and laughed as I beamed in glory after shucking an entire piece.

While we worked, the women traded gossip and I made faces to the children to get them to giggle. I’d use what little Sesotho I know to say things like, “The Basotho work so hard,” and “I am working like the Basotho; I am now a Mosotho,” which would usually earn roars of laughter. And, when we didn’t have anything to say, we sang sweet songs to pass the time.

There are machines in the developed world that can do this kind or work, and do it much faster. However, in Lesotho, efficiency is not a priority. A bulky machine, most likely too expensive for my village, would take away the simplicity of sitting and enjoying the company of others. It would remove that social element, which is far more important than the time consumed to do the task.

There are many more productive things that I could have been doing than hitting husks of corn with a rock, but not more meaningful. Doing this work, along with bloody knuckles, I gained sweet memories and the understanding that life slowed down, enjoyed each task at a time, is powerfully fulfilling.

Going Backwards

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Despite that there are more noticeable wrinkles around my eyes and mouth, Peace Corps has this funny quirk of reversing time.

Some days I think like a 16 year old. Why hasn’t she responded to the message I sent five minutes ago? Did I say something to make her angry? I bet I did. I probably ruined this friendship forever because of my giant mouth. Whatever. I don’t care that much. I really don’t need her as a friend. Oh, but I do. Why hasn’t she called me?

Some days my face looks like a 13 year old. Come to think of it, the last time I had this many pimples and my hair looked this awkward I was 13.

Some days my knees and hands look like that of a 10 year old. Bruises, scrapes and scars as if I still believed that I was invincible and it was really is OK to sit on my friend’s handlebars while flying down the largest hill in our neighborhood. Too bad these marks come from stupid stuff like wiping out in the mud in front of the entire village.

But, on the best of days, I have the spirit of a 7 year old. Yes, to all adventures and anything that seems a bit scary. Not caring what others think about me and dancing and singing in the street because it moves me.  Wearing mismatched clothes because it is comfortable and warm. And, you know what, I can be anything and do anything I want. All I have to do is dream it, and follow every cliché Mr. Rogers offers.

 

 

YOP – July

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It’s the end of July and I am trying to reflect on the month that was.

At so many moments, I felt being here was not only right but a union of every moment before this one to bring me to this exact spot as if something big is going to happen, the something that put me to sleep during dark hours. I said yes to new adventures, tried to break bad habits and just smiled at the simplicity of this life.

At the beginning of the month, I was hopelessly in love with Lesotho. I was making new friends and memories each day. I was proud of my work in the village and thought I was being “ a good volunteer.” I felt strong connections to other volunteers and content in this new life I’ve built.

But with the month gone, all of that seems reversed. My thoughts are lingering to home as I miss out on family vacations and celebrating my friends’ new adventures. I feel alone and am operating on the last piece of optimism that I have.

I guess that is why I started this whole Year of Presence project in the first place. They are times when all is right in the world and others when my head can’t stop running, but if I hold on long enough through the tough moments something spectacular, albeit small, will bring back the sunshine and rainbows.

I am happy in Lesotho, but that doesn’t mean each moment is good. There are struggles and tears.

And the present is good escape. When the world seems against me, I can stop, breathe in the mountain air and watch a child playing in the dirt. Slowly, I am learning to tune out the anxiety of things beyond my control and give into what I don’t know.

When I learn to be in the moment, life doesn’t seem so hard, even manageable. It’s something I need to remind myself for the upcoming months and challenges, but I know now I have the resources to trump frustrations, doubt, fear and loneliness. I must be present.

Taxi Tales – Tsotsi

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Taxi fare in Lesotho is fairly standard, compared to Niger where one could bargain a price. Most Basotho know the cost it takes to get from one place to the next without the fear that the conductor – the person who handles money and door operation – is trying to get a little extra.

However, as a white person, there are a few times when a conductor tries to squeeze a few extra Maluti out of me. It helps that there is a chart of the prices posted in each car so I can point to that, but I can also use my little bit of Sesotho to explain that I am not just some lahuoa. I know these ropes. Once a conductor tried to tell me I needed to pay more because it was a holiday, but I knew better. I argued and argued with him until I finally agreed to pay one extra rand. When I told my host sister this, she told me to just get out of the car the next time.

On my way back from vacation, I was faced with another greedy conductor. I had my large backpack – overstuffed with items I must have for holiday – but it was sitting between the driver bench and the first row on a small ledge designated for bigger items. I didn’t think much about it because I often toss my bag there and have no problems. I was sitting in the front between the driver and one of my students, zoned out to my music and the made-up world in my head. When it was time to give the conductor money, I handed him a 50 note and he quickly gave me back 20. It is common for the conductor to not give exact change right away. He may not have it and is collecting the fares of other passengers, but he will usually hand it over without me having to say anything.

But, the closer we got to my stop, I started to panic about the inevitable confrontation. I could see the bills in his hand; he was trying to cheat me.

“Ke kopa change.” I demanded he hand over the rest of my change.

“No. Bag. Too big.”

He had decided that my bag took up too much room and he should charge me for it. Nope.

“Uhuhuhuh.” I screamed at him. “Tsotsi, Ntate. Tsotsi.” I called him a thief.

He said he was not a thief and that my bag deserved a charge, but I wasn’t going to let him win. “Uhuhuhuh. Tsotsi. Tsotsi.”

The rest of the 15-passenger van joined in. “Tsotsi! Tsotsi!” I had won their respect and they were going to help me get my money back. Even the driver giggled and repeated the Sesotho word for thief.

Eventually, he relented and handed me 10 rand, one less than I deserved but I decided to end my victory there. And it was a victory.

If I was in America, I would have called that extra 10 rand a loss and shrugged it off. Here, though, I wasn’t going to be taken advantage of because of stereotypes associated with the color my skin. I take the same transportation as the Basotho, eat the same food and speak the same language so I am going to pay the same price.

From the outside it seems like I was the greedy white person, but the other passengers appreciated that I stood up for myself. That I fought the conductor the way they would. For all intense and purposes, I was a Masotho.

As the car let me out, I thanked the driver and turned to the conductor, “Ke tseba. Ke Masotho.”

I know. I am a Masotho.