Boundaries

Living here is a constant process of figuring out what my boundaries are, because things that are rarely questioned at home are constantly questioned or pushed against here.

            One situation that inevitably leads to this struggle is running. I’m a solo runner, through and through. I run for mental peace as well as physical activity, and on the days that I run I wake up at 4:30 in the morning, while it’s still dark out, to avoid interacting with people as well as the scorch of the daylight sun. The reason for this is that daily greetings with passerby that I don’t know are a bit exhausting anyway, full of lavish and therefore empty compliments about my looks, what I’m wearing, my whiteness, whatever. And the few times that I have run later in the day, people (women, men, kids, whoever) inevitably insist on jogging beside me and asking questions about where I’m from and what I’m doing here and telling me they love me. This is the norm here, for me, and it’s all fine and dandy when I’m walking. But when I run I’m just trying to focus on my breath and on clearing my thoughts, not trying to waste oxygen on repetitive, meaningless conversation just so someone I’ll probably never see again can tell so-and-so that they saw the white girl running and whatever else.

            But, even at this early hour, when the only people I see are a few bo-me (women) and bo-ntate (men) walking to the fields and kids walking to school, I’ve still had a few men insist on running with me. The first time this happened, I rolled my eyes a bit but was good-natured because I understand: Basotho are communal people. They hardly do anything alone besides shit and undress. So it makes sense, from this man’s perspective, that I would like some company for my morning exercise. In this instance, I didn’t mind so much, and it was actually nice having a companion when he took my not-at-all subtle signals and stopped talking.

            The second time this happened though, I blurted out “I don’t like to talk when I run Ntate” the moment the man asked me where I was coming from. That shut him up, and again it was nice to have a quiet companion to brave these hills with. But, two things happened during my morning run the following week that are making me rethink this particular boundary, or at least think that I should be more good-natured about it.

            The first was when I saw four students who attend St. Denis High School (my school’s sister school) walking to school just as I was turning around to head home. Of course they started yelling my name: “’M’e Mpho! We are coming with you!” “NOO!!!!!”, I yelled, having already turned around and thus running with my back to them. Not easily deterred, I began to hear the sound of shiny black shoes hitting the pavement, knowing they would catch up to me soon. “Good Morning ‘M’e!”, they greeted me cheerfully. “Lumela. Ha ke batla ho bua ha kea mata (Hello. I don’t like to talk while I’m running), I replied.  “We are getting tired”, they replied a minute later. “So, stop.” I said. “Okay, stop, stop”, the apparent leader of the pack commanded the others just as I began to run down another hill. “Goodbye, ‘M’e!” They cheerfully said in unison, to which I responded with a wave only. The second thing was passing the bo-ntate mentioned earlier, running together, as I was nearing the end of my route! And these were two out of the million times where life has forced me to recognize that it is not, actually, all about me. Before it felt like those men just appeared and started running next to me as an excuse to talk, when in actuality they were running for probably the same reasons as me but definitely not as an excuse to talk to me. And I realized that it would serve me well to be more good-natured about potential running partners. I could have greeted those kids in a friendlier way, especially because I had a feeling from the get-go that they would poop out soon.

            I’m running for me, yes. But I’m also running in Lesotho. And that means more than a fantastic view of the sunrise peeking through green mountains above and dodging cow shit from the day before on the ground below. Sometimes it means saying more to people than the cursory greetings than I would prefer. So for now I’m still turning down running partner offers from people I know (teachers at the high school), but I’m choosing to adjust my attitude about this particular boundary. I’ll run happier for it, in the end.

            The boundaries that I have no qualms about not adjusting are those relating to men. It’s a normal occurrence for men I pass to tell me they love me, say how beautiful I am and ask for my number immediately upon seeing me. It’s exhausting, but it’s harmless. And I have experience with this particular sort of white-minority-celebrity-status-thing (thanks, Ghana!). So I’m good-natured about it, usually responding with a chuckle and a “but you don’t know me”, and continuing on my way. But last Sunday this boundary was crossed in a way I’ve never experienced before.

            I met this guy named Rakomane a few times. He lives in Konkotia, the little town that’s a half an hour walk down the main road from my village, and the interactions were pretty standard (see above). But the second time, when I ran into him while doing some grocery shopping in Konkotia, he was more persistent in the conversation as he accompanied me for part of the walk home. He told me he knew Mike, the volunteer I replaced, and that they were “actual friends”. He asked me if he could visit me, and suggested the upcoming Sunday.  “I’m not comfortable with that now, mohlomong haeba ke u bona ka konkotia hape bua le uena haholo (maybe if I see you at Konkotia and talk to you a lot), I responded. And I definitely didn’t give him my phone number. So when he stopped walking with me, it seemed that he got the point.

            But, he did not. I was having a nice Sunday, sitting on the floor and absorbed in making a teaching aid for life skills

It's a way of visualizing the things (high self-esteem, good role models etc) that can protect us from making poor choices (e.g. not wearing a condom with someone who hasn't been tested and possibly protracting HIV)

CLEARLY I spent a lot of time on this

 listening to the mixture of love ballads and old-school hip hop (e.g. my two faves) that always plays on my favorite radio station on Sundays, the banana pancakes I made for my brother and I that morning happily digesting. And then I heard a knock on the door, and since I was expecting a visit from my counterpart ‘M’e Thekane, I just said “Kena” (come in). And there was Rakomane, greeting me happily, taking off his hat, looking around my hut, small beads of sweat pouring down his neck onto his white and blue button up. I was shocked to see him and shocked at his audacity to show up at my house like that. But my mama’s raised a strong woman, and I had no question about what my response should be when he said “yeah, I thought I would visit you today since you’re at school during the week.” I stood up and retorted, “I didn’t say you could visit me. You need to leave now.” And he did, after which I shut the door firmly behind him, sitting back on the floor and grunting in disgust to myself.

            I really like my teenage host brother Tsepong. He speaks great English and he asks me for advice on girls and we talk about love and all kinds of stuff. He also asks to use my computer and external hard drive (movies!) on a fairly regular basis, and I’ve only said no a few times. He was super close with the volunteer I replaced, and I trust him. But I began to think I should tighten up that boundary when he knocked on my door the other night to ask if Khotso (whom he had given my computer to charge) had returned my computer. Khotso had not returned it, and it was getting dark. I was pissed. If you’re reading this and you know me, you know that it’s damn near impossible for me to hide how I feel, but all I did was sigh and say, “okay, you need to get in touch with Khotso and make sure he has it.” He didn’t have Khotso’s cell number but he returned a few minutes later and, in typical Basotho fashion, informed me that he had seen a man who was walking towards Khotso’s house who would stop in, give him Tsepong’s cell phone number and tell him to call. “Okay”, I replied, and exhaled for approximately 30 seconds. And exhaled again when Tsepong returned a bit later to say that the man had not seen Khotso. There was nothing to be done before going to bed and I didn’t feel like explaining why I was angry (because he definitely did not understand why), so I just told him that he needed to get my computer tomorrow and went to bed. The following day when he did return the computer, I explained that I felt like he was taking advantage of my generosity and being careless with my things. “No, I just didn’t know you don’t leave it at Khotso’s” (I sit outside in the sun and listen to the reggae and South African house that he inevitably has blasting and chat with Khotso or his sister, and I don’t usually leave it). And THEN he said, “can I have those videos of you dancing?” “You were looking through my computer dude?!”, I reply. “Yeah!”, he says, chuckling. “That’s not okay, man. You can’t just look through my shit.” Sighing, he replies, “so I can only watch the movies on the hard drive?” “YES!” I say, and turn to go in the house, rolling my eyes, giving in to the fact that he wasn’t going to understand it or take responsibility that day. So, as teenagers tend to do, he pissed me off and didn’t take responsibility for his actions. I’m not mad at him anymore, but I’m not letting him use my computer nearly as freely for now. And life goes on.

Cultural integration ya’ll. It’s a complex and many layered process.

Khotso (Peace). I hope you’re living, learning and loving (happy late Valentines Day!), wherever you are.

I'm now teaching life skills to 5, 6 and 7 instead of 4,5 and 6 (the 7's need it and understand the concepts WAY MORE) and I'm only with grade 4 after lunch on monday now (praise Jesus) but this is basically my schedule. 

Homemade soup stock! Getting quite crafty these days. 

First Two Weeks at School!

To start with, the good news:
I feel incredibly lucky to have the co-workers I have. There are only six of them and we’re all women; already there’s an easy camaraderie between us. They’re also good teachers overall, and I get the feeling that they really like what they do. My co-teachers in grades four, five and six are also very open to co-teaching (not very common in Lesotho) and are open to constructive criticism, which I’ve gathered from two weeks of observing. You see, I haven’t actually begun fully teaching yet. I’ve been observing and figuring out time-tables and doing some marking and trying my hardest to remember the student’s names.

And also organizing books for our new library! Thanks to a donation from Australia.

Here they are

Books are so exciting. 

 So, I’m learning a lot from the other teachers and gaging what kinds of practices I think should shift a bit. But even when I had a conversation that I was a little nervous about with the grade 6 teacher about why I don’t think it’s the best practice, as far as long-term English comprehension goes, to translate every English word into Sesotho, she was super open to the idea of doing things new and actually thanked me for my presence. It also helped when she saw me do an exhaustive break down of how to correctly use the word “put” the next day (“You cannot just put a book. You must put it in a place”) and saw that with a lot of repetition and checking to make sure that they understand numerous times, they can learn without using much Sesotho. The teachers are also excited and interested about me teaching life skills (self-esteem, identity, sex ed. etc.), which officially is supposed to be taught to every student grade 4 in above but often doesn’t happen. In general, I feel very supported and liked by them.
Also, my class sizes are very manageable, ranging from 20 to 35 students. Some of the other volunteers have classes in the 70-90 student range, and I’m very grateful for my situation. Not just because it makes for easier classroom management and an easier learning environment, but also it means that it will take me weeks instead of months to remember all of their names!
The other good news is that I genuinely enjoy teaching.  I know that it is possible to make the process of helping these kids understand English fun, and nearly every day they make me laugh. I gave a small writing assessment to each class I’ll be teaching just to see where they are and one of the fourth grade papers (where the assignment was to write down their favorite food, its’ color and why they like it) said, “I like KFC. It is brown. I like it because it KFC.”
My time with those crazy kids at GJC and with the ESL students at NSC certainly prepared me for the vast reserves of patience that are required when day after day the majority of the students respond with “yes madam” to the question “do you understand” (when they definitely don’t) and to questions that are not yes or no. It’s all about repetition and figuring out exactly how to reframe a concept in a different way in the moment. It’s a process for sure, but the Peace Corps is nothing if not process oriented.
Okay, the bad. These students’ understanding of English is extremely limited. Most of the students in grade six can’t form a simple present tense sentence, let alone grades 4 and 5. In terms of true understanding, I don’t think most of them really understand much beyond simple commands and requests. There are quite a few students with undiagnosed but definitely present learning disabilities, and there is hardly any support for disabilities in the country, let alone at my school. This explains why there are 16 year olds in grade six. There are also a whole lot of students who are single and double parent orphans, whose parents died of HIV/AIDS. I haven’t yet seen kids getting beat at school, but I probably will.
But, the Peace Corps and the volunteers who came to training did a good job of breaking down the big, structural reasons for these things. Providing the “why”, so to speak. Officially, beginning in Grade 4, teachers are supposed to teach in English only. This is obviously a jarring policy for a student that is used to hearing primarily Sesotho in their life both in and out of school. So, to help bridge the gap of understanding, English teachers teach in Sesotho. This makes the process of understanding shorter and easier for both the students and the teachers, but the problem is that students must have a solid understanding of English to pass the exam to get into high school (Thanks, British colonialism!). And if they don’t pass the first time, which close to fifty percent of students don’t, they repeat and repeat or drop out entirely, particularly the boys. So I understand why the situation is as it is. My job is to work with the other teachers to create a culture of learning that facilitates genuine understanding of English.

So yeah, that’s the deal. I’m pushing boulders for sure for the next two years, but as with any similar job, the only way to go about it is the small, day-to-day tasks. It helps that I’m a process-oriented person by nature, so I don’t get caught up in thinking about all of these gigantic issues. I’m just here, right now. Two years is short in the span of a lifetime but it’s long enough to see progress (or not), and that’s why I’m here. My only job is to work with my co-teachers to figure out how to be the best teachers we can be. Oh, and to show them the importance of high self-esteem and safe sex. That’s it.

I’m kind of surprised at myself that I’m not more freaked out about what I’m up against, but I’m not. I’m just excited about the process.

On Monday, I’ll start really teaching. Wish me luck!

Khotso and much love.

Also...

check out this dope cow jaw bone I found. 

This is my host brother Tsepong, borrowing a donkey to carry his load. 

Liperekisi! (Peaches!) Ripe for the picking, at my school. I eat like 7 a day. 

This is the path from my village down to the main road.