Friends, family, random strangers;
I hereby renew my commitment to updating this blog. It has been neglected over the last year and a half (ok, almost two years), not for lack of material or desire to write and inform, but because of my utter lack of patience with computers here in Lesotho. Or maybe my inablity to wait a minute for a post to be uploaded. Therefore I've devoted my entire morning to updating my blog with posts that were previously seen only on facebook (I will no longer be posting on fb).
I have some new stories as well, and if i ever find my thumb drive I'll upload them.
-ciao
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Old Post; Dec, 2010 Polish Christmas
Its that time of year again. Heat waves are surging through the country, fields of legal and illegal green crops are springing to life, flies and mosquitoes are provoking temporary madness and angry Afrikaners are protesting the black Santa at the Pioneer mall. Yes, my Peace Corps family, its starting to feel a lot like Christmas. Except it‘s not.
Orange county and swampy retirement communities aside, as Americans we have clear expectations of the holiday season. Snow, for starters, fat Santa’s and elves,decorated trees, itchy ugly sweaters, overly played ultra commercialized Christmas songs, the happy act of blowing ones budget on countless shopping sprees, and a vague notion of some Jewish guy named Jesus, whose barnyard themed birthday party has morphed into the colossal event that is Christmas.
Christmas in Lesotho can be tough, in that, besides the abundance of manger livestock, it feels and looks so wrong as to almost not exist. Last year in a desperate attempt to inject some holiday cheer into my life, I decorated an entire corner of my rondaval (just deal with it) with snowflakes, a plastic tree, Christmas cards and a Christmas themed pillowcase. It dawned on me one afternoon, as I lay sweating and staring at the paper and plastic display that it all looked like one of those curios shops that sells Christmas trinkets all year round; cheap and inauthentic.
I’ve never had a soft spot for the holidays before, but living a self-imposed exile life in a mountain desert prison can alter ones perspective and needs. And I needed Christmas. So I reached for something that was neither American (since I had no chance of drowning myself in retail therapy) nor Basotho (feasting on stamp, boiled chicken and black label could be saved for another day) and picked something better. A Polish Christmas.
A Polish Christmas contains all the necessary ingredients for a jolly good time.Gourmet cuisine (think borscht and potato pierogis), fine spirits (bulk-purchased vodka),the entertainingly intoxicated relative (probably all of them) and of course Santa arriving on Christmas eve to deliver presents while everyone partakes in eating the holy Jesus wafer (more on that later). Yet, I digress, the main point is that this mind-numbing cultural awesomeness was such a success last year in bringing Christmas cheer to ablistering hot Dec 24th ,that I’ve decided to share some key pointers to brighten your Christmas in Lesotho.
TIP #1
A burgundy colored beet soup must be present at the Christmas Eve dinner table, and each and every guest is obliged to savor it while proclaiming its deliciousness. Refer yourself to the Peace Corps cookbook for the excellent 5 spice beetroot soup recipe.
TIP #2
Download the latest Christmas songs from the #1 Polish Hits iTunes store (such as Rzeczkiewicz the Abdominal Snowman Goes to Warsaw, and Natasha and Boris hunt Rudolph the Red Nosed Moose Deer) and proceed to play them as loudly as possible in order to drown out any and all naysayers. Conversation may not be possible at this point, since many if not most of your uncultured guests will be complainers.
TIP#3
Never, under any circumstances should you allow guests shot glasses to remain empty.The key here is pouring half shots every fifteen minutes, and feel free to bully the light weights into drinking with friendly holiday taunts. The downing of the glasses should be done together with heartfelt shouts of “Na Zdrowie” (to your health) until everyone’s cheeks are glowing as red as the neglected bowls of borscht.
TIP#4
You must obtain a Jesus Wafer (doesn’t need to be holy) from an authentic source, preferably a Polish grandmother, and share it with all present. Bypassing the more complex and manipulative custom of hanging a mistletoe in order to seduce a potential love interest, the traditional Polish custom of sharing the wafer requires each person be approached, embraced and kissed. Thus allowing all interested parties to cop a feel, guilt free, and Jesus wafer sanctioned.
TIP#5
If you are feeling particularly authentic, feel free to throw in a few verbal jabs at any guest sporting either a German or Soviet heritage. However, make sure to keep a trusted multi-generational American nearby in case the calculative German or ill-trustworthy Comrade is tempted to overrun your fledgling Polish democracy, ehr, I mean dinner party.
TIP#6
Santa must deliver the presents on Christmas Eve. No exceptions. I’m sorry but I don’t make the rules.
So this year PC Lesotho, when you’re feeling down and aren’t quite sure how to boost your holiday spirit, take my advice and choose the best Christmas traditions for a most memorable 2010. Here’s wishing you all a very merry Polish Christmas and a Happy New Year!!
Orange county and swampy retirement communities aside, as Americans we have clear expectations of the holiday season. Snow, for starters, fat Santa’s and elves,decorated trees, itchy ugly sweaters, overly played ultra commercialized Christmas songs, the happy act of blowing ones budget on countless shopping sprees, and a vague notion of some Jewish guy named Jesus, whose barnyard themed birthday party has morphed into the colossal event that is Christmas.
Christmas in Lesotho can be tough, in that, besides the abundance of manger livestock, it feels and looks so wrong as to almost not exist. Last year in a desperate attempt to inject some holiday cheer into my life, I decorated an entire corner of my rondaval (just deal with it) with snowflakes, a plastic tree, Christmas cards and a Christmas themed pillowcase. It dawned on me one afternoon, as I lay sweating and staring at the paper and plastic display that it all looked like one of those curios shops that sells Christmas trinkets all year round; cheap and inauthentic.
I’ve never had a soft spot for the holidays before, but living a self-imposed exile life in a mountain desert prison can alter ones perspective and needs. And I needed Christmas. So I reached for something that was neither American (since I had no chance of drowning myself in retail therapy) nor Basotho (feasting on stamp, boiled chicken and black label could be saved for another day) and picked something better. A Polish Christmas.
A Polish Christmas contains all the necessary ingredients for a jolly good time.Gourmet cuisine (think borscht and potato pierogis), fine spirits (bulk-purchased vodka),the entertainingly intoxicated relative (probably all of them) and of course Santa arriving on Christmas eve to deliver presents while everyone partakes in eating the holy Jesus wafer (more on that later). Yet, I digress, the main point is that this mind-numbing cultural awesomeness was such a success last year in bringing Christmas cheer to ablistering hot Dec 24th ,that I’ve decided to share some key pointers to brighten your Christmas in Lesotho.
TIP #1
A burgundy colored beet soup must be present at the Christmas Eve dinner table, and each and every guest is obliged to savor it while proclaiming its deliciousness. Refer yourself to the Peace Corps cookbook for the excellent 5 spice beetroot soup recipe.
TIP #2
Download the latest Christmas songs from the #1 Polish Hits iTunes store (such as Rzeczkiewicz the Abdominal Snowman Goes to Warsaw, and Natasha and Boris hunt Rudolph the Red Nosed Moose Deer) and proceed to play them as loudly as possible in order to drown out any and all naysayers. Conversation may not be possible at this point, since many if not most of your uncultured guests will be complainers.
TIP#3
Never, under any circumstances should you allow guests shot glasses to remain empty.The key here is pouring half shots every fifteen minutes, and feel free to bully the light weights into drinking with friendly holiday taunts. The downing of the glasses should be done together with heartfelt shouts of “Na Zdrowie” (to your health) until everyone’s cheeks are glowing as red as the neglected bowls of borscht.
TIP#4
You must obtain a Jesus Wafer (doesn’t need to be holy) from an authentic source, preferably a Polish grandmother, and share it with all present. Bypassing the more complex and manipulative custom of hanging a mistletoe in order to seduce a potential love interest, the traditional Polish custom of sharing the wafer requires each person be approached, embraced and kissed. Thus allowing all interested parties to cop a feel, guilt free, and Jesus wafer sanctioned.
TIP#5
If you are feeling particularly authentic, feel free to throw in a few verbal jabs at any guest sporting either a German or Soviet heritage. However, make sure to keep a trusted multi-generational American nearby in case the calculative German or ill-trustworthy Comrade is tempted to overrun your fledgling Polish democracy, ehr, I mean dinner party.
TIP#6
Santa must deliver the presents on Christmas Eve. No exceptions. I’m sorry but I don’t make the rules.
So this year PC Lesotho, when you’re feeling down and aren’t quite sure how to boost your holiday spirit, take my advice and choose the best Christmas traditions for a most memorable 2010. Here’s wishing you all a very merry Polish Christmas and a Happy New Year!!
Old Posts: Nov 2010, On Lesotho n Smell
Hello esteemed friends and others, i wrote an article for our Peace Corps Lesotho publication and wanted to share it with you. The following is a true story.
MAY 2009
“You know, when I was living abroad, I bought a certain kind of perfume, and wore it while I lived there. Now, every time I smell it it brings back my memories of living in France. I think it’d be great if you did the same thing!”
I nod eagerly at my worldly and wise Fragrance Friend. That is exactly what I need for my upcoming crazy, life-changing adventure to Lesotho (oh, great small land of mystery!).
I am quick to take her advice, yet my tight budget and even tighter schedual before departure in June force me through the open doors of a RiteAid. Choices here range between Whiff of Brittney and Musk of Old Lady. After an agonizing hour of countless spray ‘n sniffs I’m starting to panic. My sense of smell has been completely obliterated and I’ve chosen nothing. Finally, my mother, tired of my indecisiveness picks out something along the lines of “Cool Woman” a fresh mature scent for the professionally minded. “Prepare yourself Lesotho”, I think as we drive away, “Cool Woman is coming!”
SEPT 2009
Three months in country, one month at site, and only TWO misty sprays of “Cool Woman” utilized to date. I hate the mature, fresh alcoholic perfume that leaves me smelling more like a cheap magazine than anything its label promises. This can only be described as a disaster. How am I suppose to remember my experience here in Lesotho without a personalized scent?! I’ve been agonizing over it for weeks now. Every time I look at my calendar, another day is lost to the unrelenting haziness of unscented memories. I test run “Cool Woman” one last time. The following week I give up on my RiteAid purchase and hand the hateful blue bottle over to my inquisitive ausi. Now I’m left with nothing, and a deep melancholy depression sets in. I bake bohobe-ba-metsi to appease my soul, and my new found carb-addiction.
MANY EVENTFUL MONTHS LATER, 2010
I embark on a journey back to the homeland. Great land of evergreens, Starbucks, the Pacific Ocean and some *expletive deleted* good food. Between stuffing my face full of spicy Thai food, drowning myself in micro-brews and eating a local pastry shop back into business, I find time to visit my Fragrance friend.
As I walk through her door, I am met by a lightly floral and citrusy aroma that is sweet, feminine yet delicate. Before I even see her a huge grin starts to spread across my face, as the happy memories of the time we lived together are triggered. Fragrance Friend is one of my besties and this new home of hers smells exactly like our old one.
Later on that day, over an expansive meal of sushi and wine, my mind wanders back to the conversation I had with my friend about perfumes and secured memories. Something I’d deliberately put out of my mind in the preceding months. I quickly realize that I’ve let an entire year slide by, and maybe now is my chance to save the second one. Once again, I’m semi-obsessed over giving my time in Lesotho a tangible scent connection. This time, however, I have a solid plan. I ask my Fragrance friend what kind of perfume she uses, because it really is quite exquisite. Turns out, it’s Dior, and comes with its own exquisite price tag. While I come with a rustic Peace Corps living allowance. I feel defeated once again.
***
I enjoyed the rest of my visit with Dior Fragrance friend and drove my barely functioning (yet still totally awesome) Suzuki Sidekick back to my parents house. On the way there, I decide to stop by an Albertsons, to purchase some candy, and was browsing the isles when I came to a dead stop in isle 7 (lotions/shampoos/feminine hygiene needs). A huge grin plasters itself across my face while realization dawns on me. I never needed a “special fragrance” for Lesotho, it already comes with a host of its own, one of which was wafting towards me in isle 7; cocoa butter lotion.
For those PCV’s unfamiliar with the cocoa butter craze of Berea district (and perhaps others as well, I wouldn’t really know I don’t leave mine), I plead with you to direct yourself to the nearest Machaena/Indian/local Shoppong and purchase a container of “Clere” brand (with a picture of PCV’s Irena’s face on it) cocoa butter. You and your changed life can thank me later.
From that isle 7 moment on, I’ve catalogued many different scents of Lesotho that are deeply intertwined into my (and hopefully your own) psyche. Of those, one of the most prominent is the musky, cool scent of the dining/classroom building in the T-center. Not much in life compares to the intensiveness of pre-service training and the rich smell of that building always brings me back to those first few weeks. There are some smells that will remind me of Lesotho, no matter where I am. The strong, sharp odor of a paraffin lamp, or the distinct reek of a gas stove will bring back images of reading and or/eating late at night, tucked cozily inside a rondaval.
The pungent, offensive and highly toxic smell of plastic set ablaze will never fail to pull at my heartstrings. As memories of gleeful trash burnings on a cool summer night are recycled to the surface of my awareness. I believe that if papa had a more discernable “food” smell, then I have no doubt that henceforth, anytime I’d come into contact with it, Lesotho would be on my mind.
These were some of the reassuring thoughts flooding my brain as I left the Albertsons that day. The matter felt finished, I had no more need to agonize over scents, memories and neural connections.
This story would’ve ended there had I not been an avid reader of free in-flight magazines. For better or worse, my stint in ‘Merica (oh great land of wonder and goodness) was over for the time being and I was on my way back to the land of my calling; Lesotho. Sitting in an expansive Boeing 7-something or other, I flipped through the pages of the duty free ‘Sky’ magazine. A carefully placed ad caught my eye, a set of the top-five best selling Dior fragrances for women, on sale now (special Atlantic routes only)! It took me only the better half of three minutes to fully scrutinize the ad. Did I qualify for this unbelievable offer? Woman? Yes. Atlantic route? (pause for map check) YES! That was the defining moment when I began to feel my new credit card burning a hole in my pocket.
Turns out these new planes come with a credit card machine built right into the entertainment system. I just wish that duty free purchases came with a complimentary phone call home, to alert ones significant financial other (in my case my parents, whose money I was now liberally spending) of ones high altitude impulse buys. For my part, I blamed it on the free beverage service, amongst other reasons (“but mom I’m going back to Lesotho!”).
So as these things go, Lesotho, you DO have an array of your own charming smells that will forever hold me close to you. However, just in case cow patties fail to wriggle themselves into my memory, I have a backup plan, five in fact. So far, this month has been colored by the smoky, yet deliciously sweet aroma of Dior’s Hypnotic Poison. Next month is looking pretty good for debuting Dior’s Addict.
Now that I have spent so much of my time (and yours too reader) obsessing over memories, I believe that I’ve compiled an impressive ‘sense memory’ package, in addition to smell that I’m inclined to gift to you.
I believe this mountain kingdom first and foremost tastes like papa, braii pork, Squadron and ginger beer, sounds like lil ‘Wayne, famu and electricity snapping through the air, feels like a crowded hot taxi speeding down a potholed road, or the lethargy that sets in after an especially long meditative stint staring at my wall, it most definitely looks like a khobo wrapped Mosotho, or a rewarding KFC sign, and it smells without a doubt, like duty free Dior.
MAY 2009
“You know, when I was living abroad, I bought a certain kind of perfume, and wore it while I lived there. Now, every time I smell it it brings back my memories of living in France. I think it’d be great if you did the same thing!”
I nod eagerly at my worldly and wise Fragrance Friend. That is exactly what I need for my upcoming crazy, life-changing adventure to Lesotho (oh, great small land of mystery!).
I am quick to take her advice, yet my tight budget and even tighter schedual before departure in June force me through the open doors of a RiteAid. Choices here range between Whiff of Brittney and Musk of Old Lady. After an agonizing hour of countless spray ‘n sniffs I’m starting to panic. My sense of smell has been completely obliterated and I’ve chosen nothing. Finally, my mother, tired of my indecisiveness picks out something along the lines of “Cool Woman” a fresh mature scent for the professionally minded. “Prepare yourself Lesotho”, I think as we drive away, “Cool Woman is coming!”
SEPT 2009
Three months in country, one month at site, and only TWO misty sprays of “Cool Woman” utilized to date. I hate the mature, fresh alcoholic perfume that leaves me smelling more like a cheap magazine than anything its label promises. This can only be described as a disaster. How am I suppose to remember my experience here in Lesotho without a personalized scent?! I’ve been agonizing over it for weeks now. Every time I look at my calendar, another day is lost to the unrelenting haziness of unscented memories. I test run “Cool Woman” one last time. The following week I give up on my RiteAid purchase and hand the hateful blue bottle over to my inquisitive ausi. Now I’m left with nothing, and a deep melancholy depression sets in. I bake bohobe-ba-metsi to appease my soul, and my new found carb-addiction.
MANY EVENTFUL MONTHS LATER, 2010
I embark on a journey back to the homeland. Great land of evergreens, Starbucks, the Pacific Ocean and some *expletive deleted* good food. Between stuffing my face full of spicy Thai food, drowning myself in micro-brews and eating a local pastry shop back into business, I find time to visit my Fragrance friend.
As I walk through her door, I am met by a lightly floral and citrusy aroma that is sweet, feminine yet delicate. Before I even see her a huge grin starts to spread across my face, as the happy memories of the time we lived together are triggered. Fragrance Friend is one of my besties and this new home of hers smells exactly like our old one.
Later on that day, over an expansive meal of sushi and wine, my mind wanders back to the conversation I had with my friend about perfumes and secured memories. Something I’d deliberately put out of my mind in the preceding months. I quickly realize that I’ve let an entire year slide by, and maybe now is my chance to save the second one. Once again, I’m semi-obsessed over giving my time in Lesotho a tangible scent connection. This time, however, I have a solid plan. I ask my Fragrance friend what kind of perfume she uses, because it really is quite exquisite. Turns out, it’s Dior, and comes with its own exquisite price tag. While I come with a rustic Peace Corps living allowance. I feel defeated once again.
***
I enjoyed the rest of my visit with Dior Fragrance friend and drove my barely functioning (yet still totally awesome) Suzuki Sidekick back to my parents house. On the way there, I decide to stop by an Albertsons, to purchase some candy, and was browsing the isles when I came to a dead stop in isle 7 (lotions/shampoos/feminine hygiene needs). A huge grin plasters itself across my face while realization dawns on me. I never needed a “special fragrance” for Lesotho, it already comes with a host of its own, one of which was wafting towards me in isle 7; cocoa butter lotion.
For those PCV’s unfamiliar with the cocoa butter craze of Berea district (and perhaps others as well, I wouldn’t really know I don’t leave mine), I plead with you to direct yourself to the nearest Machaena/Indian/local Shoppong and purchase a container of “Clere” brand (with a picture of PCV’s Irena’s face on it) cocoa butter. You and your changed life can thank me later.
From that isle 7 moment on, I’ve catalogued many different scents of Lesotho that are deeply intertwined into my (and hopefully your own) psyche. Of those, one of the most prominent is the musky, cool scent of the dining/classroom building in the T-center. Not much in life compares to the intensiveness of pre-service training and the rich smell of that building always brings me back to those first few weeks. There are some smells that will remind me of Lesotho, no matter where I am. The strong, sharp odor of a paraffin lamp, or the distinct reek of a gas stove will bring back images of reading and or/eating late at night, tucked cozily inside a rondaval.
The pungent, offensive and highly toxic smell of plastic set ablaze will never fail to pull at my heartstrings. As memories of gleeful trash burnings on a cool summer night are recycled to the surface of my awareness. I believe that if papa had a more discernable “food” smell, then I have no doubt that henceforth, anytime I’d come into contact with it, Lesotho would be on my mind.
These were some of the reassuring thoughts flooding my brain as I left the Albertsons that day. The matter felt finished, I had no more need to agonize over scents, memories and neural connections.
This story would’ve ended there had I not been an avid reader of free in-flight magazines. For better or worse, my stint in ‘Merica (oh great land of wonder and goodness) was over for the time being and I was on my way back to the land of my calling; Lesotho. Sitting in an expansive Boeing 7-something or other, I flipped through the pages of the duty free ‘Sky’ magazine. A carefully placed ad caught my eye, a set of the top-five best selling Dior fragrances for women, on sale now (special Atlantic routes only)! It took me only the better half of three minutes to fully scrutinize the ad. Did I qualify for this unbelievable offer? Woman? Yes. Atlantic route? (pause for map check) YES! That was the defining moment when I began to feel my new credit card burning a hole in my pocket.
Turns out these new planes come with a credit card machine built right into the entertainment system. I just wish that duty free purchases came with a complimentary phone call home, to alert ones significant financial other (in my case my parents, whose money I was now liberally spending) of ones high altitude impulse buys. For my part, I blamed it on the free beverage service, amongst other reasons (“but mom I’m going back to Lesotho!”).
So as these things go, Lesotho, you DO have an array of your own charming smells that will forever hold me close to you. However, just in case cow patties fail to wriggle themselves into my memory, I have a backup plan, five in fact. So far, this month has been colored by the smoky, yet deliciously sweet aroma of Dior’s Hypnotic Poison. Next month is looking pretty good for debuting Dior’s Addict.
Now that I have spent so much of my time (and yours too reader) obsessing over memories, I believe that I’ve compiled an impressive ‘sense memory’ package, in addition to smell that I’m inclined to gift to you.
I believe this mountain kingdom first and foremost tastes like papa, braii pork, Squadron and ginger beer, sounds like lil ‘Wayne, famu and electricity snapping through the air, feels like a crowded hot taxi speeding down a potholed road, or the lethargy that sets in after an especially long meditative stint staring at my wall, it most definitely looks like a khobo wrapped Mosotho, or a rewarding KFC sign, and it smells without a doubt, like duty free Dior.
Old Posts; Good Morning! True story
Saturday Morning, 6:30 a.m.:
Riiiiiiing, Riiiiiiing, Riiiiiing!!! My phone is going crazy. As I groggily roll over to grab the call I make two mental notes. “Damn! I forgot to turn off my phone last night” and “Ooo I hope its someone from America calling me, cause who else would call at this time?”.
“Hello?” I mutter.
“Hiiiiiiii. Its Tebello, remember me?” the voice squeaks. Oh no. random Mosotho morning caller. I’m still half asleep and not thinking straight. If I had I would have ended the conversations quickly.
“Noooo….” I draw out.
“Oh, well we meet in Ty, remember? Listen I need a job, please I need you to give me a job.” The caller is very earnest that I find her a job. I look again at the clock, 6:30? On a Saturday morning? Really? So I reply that I have no job for them, never will have a job for them and so on. She asks, “What are you doing right now?”
“Sleeping”
“What?”
“Sleeping”
“What?!”
“I’m SLEEPING, sleeping sleeping sleeping sleeping!”
Then there is a pause on the on the end.
“Why?” she asks.
I really should have hung up by that point. This went on for some time longer, her asking me why I would be sleeping (I must be a very lazy person) and me explaining the basic mechanisms of being “tired”. Finally she realized she was wasting her money on the phone call, and muttered something once more about a job and hung up. I rolled over, and did not go back to sleep. Thank you Lesotho.
Riiiiiiing, Riiiiiiing, Riiiiiing!!! My phone is going crazy. As I groggily roll over to grab the call I make two mental notes. “Damn! I forgot to turn off my phone last night” and “Ooo I hope its someone from America calling me, cause who else would call at this time?”.
“Hello?” I mutter.
“Hiiiiiiii. Its Tebello, remember me?” the voice squeaks. Oh no. random Mosotho morning caller. I’m still half asleep and not thinking straight. If I had I would have ended the conversations quickly.
“Noooo….” I draw out.
“Oh, well we meet in Ty, remember? Listen I need a job, please I need you to give me a job.” The caller is very earnest that I find her a job. I look again at the clock, 6:30? On a Saturday morning? Really? So I reply that I have no job for them, never will have a job for them and so on. She asks, “What are you doing right now?”
“Sleeping”
“What?”
“Sleeping”
“What?!”
“I’m SLEEPING, sleeping sleeping sleeping sleeping!”
Then there is a pause on the on the end.
“Why?” she asks.
I really should have hung up by that point. This went on for some time longer, her asking me why I would be sleeping (I must be a very lazy person) and me explaining the basic mechanisms of being “tired”. Finally she realized she was wasting her money on the phone call, and muttered something once more about a job and hung up. I rolled over, and did not go back to sleep. Thank you Lesotho.
Old Posts: Rats! March 2010
Unfortunatly the hospital where I use my free internet, has finally caught on that countless people are sucking up the bandwith. I arrived today to find myself locked out of their network, panicked. I can and will get a password to log on, since I am associated with the hospital. Yet today I am left internet-less, since the office where this can be taken care of is closed for a holiday.
As I sat in the cafeteria, mourning my loss, a pair of American/British/foreign doctors walk in with their laptops. Lightbulb goes on in my head. So I casually wait for them to sit down, log on the internet (not wanting to pounce on them right away, like the technology starved PCV I am) and stroll over to chit chat about the World Wide Web. I politely introduce myself, that I’m associated with the hospital, and could they please tell me what the password is. I am told that everyone gets a “personal” password that they have been told not to divulge to ANYONE, and that they are very sorry, but no they cannot help me, in typical American fashion. What? Secret? Promise? Don’t they know where we are? Don’t they know NO ONE is really going to care, and most importantly, don’t they realize how and where I LIVE?! When I come to use the internet I’m like a heroin addict that can feel their next fix, the sight of the hospital alone releases endorphins of glee. And now, the desired drug in site, I’m denied my weekly dose. Then cruelly forced to watch while others partake in an orgasm of communication with their loved ones back home, with hours of you-tube and The New York Times. I have the urge to wander upstairs and unplug their precious lifeblood.
Ok, crisis averted. I just got a password to log on from a very helpful gentleman. Those young doc’s were very lucky I’m not actually a mean person.
In other news, I am battling a very LARGE rat that has taken up residence in my lovely thatch roof. Its dumb butt has been running laps inside my home up and down and around the beams. Last night I started hunting it. I invited another PCV to come and help with the kill. I made two different striking implements (one long one with a wire swatch at the end to knock it off the beams) and a shorter stick with my hiking boot tied onto it (for close-range striking). The cat has been staying in my room with me, so that in event of a successful hit to the rat, it can finish off the job once its on the floor.
We stayed up late, our eyes trained on the ceiling beams. The paraffin lamp dimly lit the dark room. Suddenly, after a short doze it appeared! Its big white belly visible, its nose in the air. I whisper to my fellow man-in-arms, “It’s time to kill…” and we wake up in time to see it ZOOM! Cross one beam and disappear into the thatch. “Awwww shit, we missed it!” We run outside, only to be accosted by a HUGE spider with iridescent blue legs and find a hole on the other side. It is promptly stuffed with steel wool. After another good look at the spider, we retire to our beds, where I am awakened several times by the return of the rat, running laps. Every time I hear it and manage a little light, its no where to be seen. Clearly I have one chance a night, when it first escapes its burrow, to smack the damn thing. Tonight’s my next chance. Wish me luck.
As I sat in the cafeteria, mourning my loss, a pair of American/British/foreign doctors walk in with their laptops. Lightbulb goes on in my head. So I casually wait for them to sit down, log on the internet (not wanting to pounce on them right away, like the technology starved PCV I am) and stroll over to chit chat about the World Wide Web. I politely introduce myself, that I’m associated with the hospital, and could they please tell me what the password is. I am told that everyone gets a “personal” password that they have been told not to divulge to ANYONE, and that they are very sorry, but no they cannot help me, in typical American fashion. What? Secret? Promise? Don’t they know where we are? Don’t they know NO ONE is really going to care, and most importantly, don’t they realize how and where I LIVE?! When I come to use the internet I’m like a heroin addict that can feel their next fix, the sight of the hospital alone releases endorphins of glee. And now, the desired drug in site, I’m denied my weekly dose. Then cruelly forced to watch while others partake in an orgasm of communication with their loved ones back home, with hours of you-tube and The New York Times. I have the urge to wander upstairs and unplug their precious lifeblood.
Ok, crisis averted. I just got a password to log on from a very helpful gentleman. Those young doc’s were very lucky I’m not actually a mean person.
In other news, I am battling a very LARGE rat that has taken up residence in my lovely thatch roof. Its dumb butt has been running laps inside my home up and down and around the beams. Last night I started hunting it. I invited another PCV to come and help with the kill. I made two different striking implements (one long one with a wire swatch at the end to knock it off the beams) and a shorter stick with my hiking boot tied onto it (for close-range striking). The cat has been staying in my room with me, so that in event of a successful hit to the rat, it can finish off the job once its on the floor.
We stayed up late, our eyes trained on the ceiling beams. The paraffin lamp dimly lit the dark room. Suddenly, after a short doze it appeared! Its big white belly visible, its nose in the air. I whisper to my fellow man-in-arms, “It’s time to kill…” and we wake up in time to see it ZOOM! Cross one beam and disappear into the thatch. “Awwww shit, we missed it!” We run outside, only to be accosted by a HUGE spider with iridescent blue legs and find a hole on the other side. It is promptly stuffed with steel wool. After another good look at the spider, we retire to our beds, where I am awakened several times by the return of the rat, running laps. Every time I hear it and manage a little light, its no where to be seen. Clearly I have one chance a night, when it first escapes its burrow, to smack the damn thing. Tonight’s my next chance. Wish me luck.
Old Notes; Febuary 2010
Lets talk February. February has a history in my life of crawling by, second by second. So far that seems to hold true, regardless of my position in the world. Or it could be the result of the inordinate amount of time I’ve spent staring at the various calendars/planners I’ve began keeping. Making plans, counting days, changing plans, circling holidays and other dates of interest. Then I stare at the wall for a while, drink some coffee, begin recounting days, scribbling in numbers/plans into all three planners/calenders and basically repeating the whole cycle over again. I’m not proud of my February accomplishment of wasting my life away, but if you really want to know what I spend the majority of my time doing, well, lets be honest: nada/leeto/nothing/squat. Sure I go to the school a few times a week and have some amazing sessions with my teachers, I wander around and have a few humorous encounters with the locals. Yet it all begins and end with this: staring at my wall. The variation on the Wall Stare includes; with/without music, with/without reading material (book/magazine/poetry anthology/nutrition label on a candy wrapper), with/without fly swatting, with/without a snack, with/without real clothes on, with/without guilty thoughts regarding the wasting of time, etc. Basically, I’m a champion in the Wall Stare. There’s an indentation on my couch cushion to prove it.
“There must be life outside of the Wall Stare?” you might ask. The simple answer is yes, and I have accumulated a lot of excuses that keep me from participating in that life.
Sample Excuse List:
1) It’s F’in hot outside
2) It’s raining, therefore I cannot go out now or later since the roads will be muddy
3) I will have to talk to everyone, greet them and tell them what I’m doing (nothing)
4) I’ll just wait a little bit before leaving the house
5) I need to finish this book
6) I cant find my keys
7) The children will follow me everywhere
8) Seriously, it’s REALLY hot outside
Once again, I am not proud of this pathetic list of self-lies (and the list only gets worse). I’d like to blame this lethargy on February, and it’s cosmic hold on my life, turning me into a sloth beyond reason. However, if I ponder my dilemma a moment longer, dismissing the obvious power of astrology, I’m left with a different answer: My wonderfully obligation-free lifestyle of doing whatever I want, whenever I want has resulted in the dominant human nature trait of “couch potato” assuming control of my life. I am a lazy butt. Without deadlines, places to be, people to see, work shifts to get to, a fast, quick paced lifestyle to maintain, my true inner self is shinning through. And it’s pretty unattractive. It’s downright disgraceful.
I thought I was a person who had some seminal willpower, some inner drive to DO things. As it turns out, I mostly just did things that needed to be done. I used daily pressures and demands as my own personal chart of accomplishments, when they were nothing more than ordinary tasks. So now that I have all the freedom in the world to do things I want, I seem to be choosing the act of doing nothing. I do recognize the beauty of being able to do nothing, to just enjoy life, without fretting over the passage of time. But lets get real, you can’t just do nothing all the time and feel satisfied with that choice. It makes for a boring life and it makes me a boring person, period.
So, February, I hate to tell you this, but you have to go. NOW. I don’t care if you still have a few days left, you are no longer a welcome presence in my life. From this day forward, February no longer exists. This slow, hateful, lethargic month has cast its spell over me for the last time (yes I’m back to blaming all this on the second calendar month). When January ends, the month of Yebo!aury begins, until March steals in after 28ish or so days. Yebo! Is a lovely southern African expression, demonstrating a feeling such as; YES! Lets do it! Allright! Awsome! And yes, an exclamation mark must always follow such an awesome word as yebo!. So people, lets stop hiding in our huts/homes, lets stop blaming the cosmos for our excessive slothness, lets make a plan and stick to it. After all, it’s the month of Yebo!aury, and anything and everything should happen. So hit it. YEBO!
“There must be life outside of the Wall Stare?” you might ask. The simple answer is yes, and I have accumulated a lot of excuses that keep me from participating in that life.
Sample Excuse List:
1) It’s F’in hot outside
2) It’s raining, therefore I cannot go out now or later since the roads will be muddy
3) I will have to talk to everyone, greet them and tell them what I’m doing (nothing)
4) I’ll just wait a little bit before leaving the house
5) I need to finish this book
6) I cant find my keys
7) The children will follow me everywhere
8) Seriously, it’s REALLY hot outside
Once again, I am not proud of this pathetic list of self-lies (and the list only gets worse). I’d like to blame this lethargy on February, and it’s cosmic hold on my life, turning me into a sloth beyond reason. However, if I ponder my dilemma a moment longer, dismissing the obvious power of astrology, I’m left with a different answer: My wonderfully obligation-free lifestyle of doing whatever I want, whenever I want has resulted in the dominant human nature trait of “couch potato” assuming control of my life. I am a lazy butt. Without deadlines, places to be, people to see, work shifts to get to, a fast, quick paced lifestyle to maintain, my true inner self is shinning through. And it’s pretty unattractive. It’s downright disgraceful.
I thought I was a person who had some seminal willpower, some inner drive to DO things. As it turns out, I mostly just did things that needed to be done. I used daily pressures and demands as my own personal chart of accomplishments, when they were nothing more than ordinary tasks. So now that I have all the freedom in the world to do things I want, I seem to be choosing the act of doing nothing. I do recognize the beauty of being able to do nothing, to just enjoy life, without fretting over the passage of time. But lets get real, you can’t just do nothing all the time and feel satisfied with that choice. It makes for a boring life and it makes me a boring person, period.
So, February, I hate to tell you this, but you have to go. NOW. I don’t care if you still have a few days left, you are no longer a welcome presence in my life. From this day forward, February no longer exists. This slow, hateful, lethargic month has cast its spell over me for the last time (yes I’m back to blaming all this on the second calendar month). When January ends, the month of Yebo!aury begins, until March steals in after 28ish or so days. Yebo! Is a lovely southern African expression, demonstrating a feeling such as; YES! Lets do it! Allright! Awsome! And yes, an exclamation mark must always follow such an awesome word as yebo!. So people, lets stop hiding in our huts/homes, lets stop blaming the cosmos for our excessive slothness, lets make a plan and stick to it. After all, it’s the month of Yebo!aury, and anything and everything should happen. So hit it. YEBO!
Notes of Facebook Past
Old posts from FB....
On the way back from vacation, the taxi traveled through Golden Gate National Park on the South Africa side and my jaw was dropped the whole time. I mean that literally. We were coming through in the early evening, with clouds and Jesus rays in abundance, and the scenery was spectacular. Towering sandstone mountains covered in lush green praries, deep valleys and a reseviour lake. Everything untouched by human development, it looked literally like the land before time. I was expecting dinosaurs to come out screeching at me at any moment (if they could catch us that is, the taxi going a steady 160+ km/hr on the old, twisting park road).
Now that I’m back at site, I’ve been assaulted by a barrage of mixed feelings. The predominate one seeming to be lethargy. I have some great new ideas for projects in my community that center around developing creativity in the kids. Im just tired of being the only one who’s excited about projects of any kind. People here want money, jobs, roads, the kind of stuff I CANT give them. So how do you convince a community who is poor, sometimes hungry, a community that lacks basic infastructure that having an art/drama club is important? That their children should be reading books in the library, looking at pictures of other places, animals and people, should be drawing and LEARNING (because yes it has to be learned) to express themselves instead of hauling water and working in fields?
The other day I had some kids over at my home, we were coloring/drawing pictures outside. These kids were between the ages of 3-10. Two of the boys were all snotty, and when the older boy caught me staring at the long dribble of snot hanging down little Tsepos face (hes about 6) he reprimanded him and he promptly sniffed it all back in. I kinda gagged at that. (Side note: the only real nasty thing about summer here are the flies. They are everywhere and they harass any living thing. They try to get into your eyes, nose, face, everywhere, and are impossible to get rid of. They start buzzing at you around 5:30 in the morning, assalting your face and swarming onto the bed. One time, when I was hanging out with another volunteer and the flies were being extra nasty, she commented that she felt particularly third-world when the flies are attacking us. I had to laugh at that). So anyway, these kids and I are covered in stupid annoying flies, the flies especially attacking the children’s cuts and scrapes, while they obliviously color and giggle away.
At one point I brought out some magazines for them to look at and they kept pointing at various pictures, trying to outshout each other asking me what this or that picture was. They asked what a polar bear was (a dog? They thought), what a geothermal plant was, there was a picture of the Mars lander on one page, and planets on another. It broke my heart not being able to tell them what they were looking at. There was this moment when I was trying my hardest to explain that stupid Mars spaceship when I looked around at them, all snot-covered, with those damn flies swarming us, and them with their expectant little eyes, and I couldn’t do anything. I was lost. I wanted them so badly to see and understand what that damn polar bear was too, where it lived, why it was endangered and why it wasn’t a dog. Language, language, language. The biggest barrier I face here. I can get over the fact that I cant talk to the adults, it’s my inability to communicate with children that really hurts me. They’re the ones that care about what a polar bear is, the adults just want to know how much money it costs to go to America and where my husband is.
I think my biggest struggles so far have come from trying to adapt to a culture that is so homogenous. In the states, there are so many different…well EVERYTHING. Here there is one language, one culture, one way to make papa, or sweep, one way to think really. And its so hard to really understand this and try to work within that kind of framework. As Americans we value individualism (or at least the outward apperance of that individualism). So there are days when I think, “well, that’s it I guess. I’ve been here for 8 months, learned about the culture and there is nothing left to surprise me, because everyone and everything is the same…” Of course this isn’t true, there is a lot I am sure to never see, or understand because I am a foreigner who cant speak in the local languge well enough. But there are days when I just throw my hands up in the air, because I cant grasp how a society can be so painfully slow to change anything. I think that these frustrations don’t reflect the reality of change in Lesotho, because it is happening, I think it’s a reflection of my need to be surrounded by diversity of life. As one friend puts it, we’re under stimulated here. I’m not joking when I say that at the football tournament the DJ (and the crowd) preferred to listen to the same ten songs on repeat rather than my American music that I brought (which I have heard played in Maseru), and that EVERY single Mosotho I interviewed said their favorite food was pap and meroho (greens), and that at the art competition every single child in the sculpture part sculpted a cow, and every child that drew, did a variation of a house and a taxi. And if one child drew a flower, the two children next to her copied her exact flower. I ask young girls what they want to be when they grow up, there is one answer (if they plan on going to college): Nurse. They all want to be nurses. Well, what else is there? There are polar bears, and maybe if they knew about them, some little girl would really want to be a nurse for the polar bears. And that would be a step in the right direction for all of us.
On the way back from vacation, the taxi traveled through Golden Gate National Park on the South Africa side and my jaw was dropped the whole time. I mean that literally. We were coming through in the early evening, with clouds and Jesus rays in abundance, and the scenery was spectacular. Towering sandstone mountains covered in lush green praries, deep valleys and a reseviour lake. Everything untouched by human development, it looked literally like the land before time. I was expecting dinosaurs to come out screeching at me at any moment (if they could catch us that is, the taxi going a steady 160+ km/hr on the old, twisting park road).
Now that I’m back at site, I’ve been assaulted by a barrage of mixed feelings. The predominate one seeming to be lethargy. I have some great new ideas for projects in my community that center around developing creativity in the kids. Im just tired of being the only one who’s excited about projects of any kind. People here want money, jobs, roads, the kind of stuff I CANT give them. So how do you convince a community who is poor, sometimes hungry, a community that lacks basic infastructure that having an art/drama club is important? That their children should be reading books in the library, looking at pictures of other places, animals and people, should be drawing and LEARNING (because yes it has to be learned) to express themselves instead of hauling water and working in fields?
The other day I had some kids over at my home, we were coloring/drawing pictures outside. These kids were between the ages of 3-10. Two of the boys were all snotty, and when the older boy caught me staring at the long dribble of snot hanging down little Tsepos face (hes about 6) he reprimanded him and he promptly sniffed it all back in. I kinda gagged at that. (Side note: the only real nasty thing about summer here are the flies. They are everywhere and they harass any living thing. They try to get into your eyes, nose, face, everywhere, and are impossible to get rid of. They start buzzing at you around 5:30 in the morning, assalting your face and swarming onto the bed. One time, when I was hanging out with another volunteer and the flies were being extra nasty, she commented that she felt particularly third-world when the flies are attacking us. I had to laugh at that). So anyway, these kids and I are covered in stupid annoying flies, the flies especially attacking the children’s cuts and scrapes, while they obliviously color and giggle away.
At one point I brought out some magazines for them to look at and they kept pointing at various pictures, trying to outshout each other asking me what this or that picture was. They asked what a polar bear was (a dog? They thought), what a geothermal plant was, there was a picture of the Mars lander on one page, and planets on another. It broke my heart not being able to tell them what they were looking at. There was this moment when I was trying my hardest to explain that stupid Mars spaceship when I looked around at them, all snot-covered, with those damn flies swarming us, and them with their expectant little eyes, and I couldn’t do anything. I was lost. I wanted them so badly to see and understand what that damn polar bear was too, where it lived, why it was endangered and why it wasn’t a dog. Language, language, language. The biggest barrier I face here. I can get over the fact that I cant talk to the adults, it’s my inability to communicate with children that really hurts me. They’re the ones that care about what a polar bear is, the adults just want to know how much money it costs to go to America and where my husband is.
I think my biggest struggles so far have come from trying to adapt to a culture that is so homogenous. In the states, there are so many different…well EVERYTHING. Here there is one language, one culture, one way to make papa, or sweep, one way to think really. And its so hard to really understand this and try to work within that kind of framework. As Americans we value individualism (or at least the outward apperance of that individualism). So there are days when I think, “well, that’s it I guess. I’ve been here for 8 months, learned about the culture and there is nothing left to surprise me, because everyone and everything is the same…” Of course this isn’t true, there is a lot I am sure to never see, or understand because I am a foreigner who cant speak in the local languge well enough. But there are days when I just throw my hands up in the air, because I cant grasp how a society can be so painfully slow to change anything. I think that these frustrations don’t reflect the reality of change in Lesotho, because it is happening, I think it’s a reflection of my need to be surrounded by diversity of life. As one friend puts it, we’re under stimulated here. I’m not joking when I say that at the football tournament the DJ (and the crowd) preferred to listen to the same ten songs on repeat rather than my American music that I brought (which I have heard played in Maseru), and that EVERY single Mosotho I interviewed said their favorite food was pap and meroho (greens), and that at the art competition every single child in the sculpture part sculpted a cow, and every child that drew, did a variation of a house and a taxi. And if one child drew a flower, the two children next to her copied her exact flower. I ask young girls what they want to be when they grow up, there is one answer (if they plan on going to college): Nurse. They all want to be nurses. Well, what else is there? There are polar bears, and maybe if they knew about them, some little girl would really want to be a nurse for the polar bears. And that would be a step in the right direction for all of us.
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