Recent occurrences that illustrate my life in Lesotho OR, Things that Don’t Happen at Home

Written on 12/31/14

The other day I wanted to use the Internet. I can’t check my email on my phone, so I went into town with two goals: To read and send emails and to update my blog. However, as I thought might happen, this turned out to be more difficult planned.

At the first Internet café I went to (right next to the KFC) the woman didn’t know the Wifi password, saying that only her boss knew it. She suggested I use the Ethernet cord, but that didn’t fit into my tiny, beautiful macbook air, which I wanted to use because it had photos and pre-written blog posts on it. “Fine”, I thought. I’ll just go to another one. So I went to the Econet one, which has many different locations across Lesotho and is usually reliable. But they didn’t have Internet. So I walked down an alley looking for another cafe that the woman in the Econet shop told me about, got sidetracked by the possibility of buying gumboots (what they call rainboots here), but didn’t, and then asked three or four more people where this cafe was and finally came across it in a tiny unlit room in a building next to the public toilets. And they didn’t have Internet either. By this time I’m sweating through my clothes and hungry but still determined. So I go to the only other one I know about, predicting that they won’t be connected to the internet either but crossing my fingers that they will. This one is near the taxi rank, in another small, unlit room behind a ma-china shop (shop owned by a Chinese person) called Malome. And of course, they didn’t have Internet either. So I go back to the first one, resolved to not let this entire day be a waste. The owner, a tall Indian woman with glasses and a green sari (who knows the wifi password) has returned, and she tries many times to put it into my computer. But, for whatever reason it doesn’t work. So, I give a small sigh, suck down a lemon Fanta and chat with her for a few minutes while I wait for an open computer. She compliments me over and over on my Sesotho; the way people talk, you would think I was fluent. All it takes is a few phrases spoken very fast and they’re like WOAH. FINALLY, I get on the internet and proceed to spend an hour perusing facebook.

That same day, as I’m walking quickly from the fourth internet café back up the street to original one, dodging traffic and wiping sweat from my neck, a very thin light skinned guy who looks about my age, wearing a blue short sleeve button up and an all knowing smile starts walking beside me and talking to me. I don’t mind, but I’m a woman on a mission so I talk but don’t slow my pace. He asks me the usual questions-where I’m from, what I’m doing in Lesotho, when I arrived in Lesotho etc. He’s asking me everything in English and I’m answering in Sesotho, which surprises and amuses him. In his words, “I’m very familiar with white people, and most of them don’t speak Sesotho. You are the best one.” I laugh amiably and he continues walking with me until I reach the internet café, saying that “it’s very dangerous out here” (which is not true and makes me laugh). Later, he pops up again as I’m walking to catch the taxi home and, of course, asks me for 5 rand. “Ha ke na chalete” (I don’t have money), I say, and he smiles and keeps walking me to my taxi line and then, suddenly, disappears into the crowd. I wonder where Abuti Michael will show up next.

And today, coming back from a successful shopping trip in Butha Buthe, my taxi (which, keep in mind, is a small van) takes a detour that ends at the hospital. I figure someone asked the driver to go there, and I didn’t hear or understand, so I expect whoever asked him to get off and we’ll turn around and be on our merry way. Instead, a woman does get out, but she gets out to help get her sick person (husband, uncle, I don’t know), who is being wheeled over to the taxi on a stretcher. At first glance, I thought this man was dead-Extremely skinny, eyes closed and not moving at all. I thought, “Jesus, I’m about to ride home with a dead person”. As I kept craning my neck around from my seat in the front to observe, I realized he wasn’t dead, but he was extremely weak and sick. His person and a few other people lifted his bony, blanket wrapped body into the first row, pushed him over next to the window, opened the window a bit, and then got back into the taxi. He moaned quietly a few times, and was drooling on and off probably the whole way home. And I realized, this was his ride home from the hospital.

After everyone is back in, the driver, smiling merrily, turns up the famu (the traditional music here-jubilant accordion with people yelling/talking over it) and drives the regular route as usual. And by the end of the trip, I’m not really shocked anymore. It’s just another day in the mountain kingdom.

I’ve been trying to get the whole carrying-water-on-my-head thing down. It’s definitely hard, but it’s a lot easier than sloshing a bucket up the mountain, getting bruises the size of my fist from the bucket banging into my hip, having to stop constantly to switch arms. Plus, girls half my age and size do it with no problems. However, since I wasn’t raised to carry things on my head from a young age like the girls here, I don’t have the neck muscles developed or correct posture developed. But if I train, so to speak, I’ll be able to do it soon enough.

The problem, of course, is that my ‘M’e keeps doing it for me. The other day I brought two buckets down to the tap to fill, planning to fill each one half way and knowing I would have to come back for the second after carrying the first one. And wouldn’t ya know that as I start walking back down the mountain towards the tap, feeling proud of myself that I carried the first bucket half full with little trouble, I see my ‘M’e carrying the second one up (now completely full) towards the house, slowly but surely. I didn’t see her leave to get it, and I can’t very well argue with her to put it down so I can pour half of it out and walk back with a half-full bucket on my head. Not only would that be ridiculous and rude, but she’s at least 60 and already almost completely up the mountain. So I smile and thank her profusely, because I now fully appreciate how heavy those things are and the work that daily life requires here. Also, even though I do want to be able to do it, it kind of sucks. So I’m maintaining my goal to be able to do one full bucket before winter comes, but I’m also appreciative of the unsolicited help that I will inevitably get along the way.