A Sunday to Write Home About

I’ll be honest. I’ve been kind of homesick lately, or at least more so than I have been thus far. But, the universe has been providing. It seems like every time I’m feeling especially down, lonely, exhausted, confused or helpless and start day-dreaming about drinking lattes in cute coffee shops and walking down streets without having people call “likhoa”, I have a day like last Sunday where moment after moment occurs that makes me smile or laugh or ponder or shake my head and think “none of this would happen in America. I’m so happy to be here.”

Number 1

I have a thinking rock that’s situated halfway between my village and the next one over. It’s shaped kind of like a chair, has a fantastic view, and can completely obscure me from passerby on the road behind me if I want it to. So I was headed there on Sunday afternoon to journal and draw (new hobby!) when I fell into step and thus conversation to a woman headed to Ha Majara, the neighboring village. As a conversation topic, I asked her about her family-kids, husband etc. When she asks me the same questions back, and I reply that I don’t want a boyfriend while I’m Lesotho, she says, “you are scared to have a Mosotho man.”

Number 2

While walking back from the rock, I passed a group of teenage girls who were coming from church. Naturally, they asked me where I was coming from, and when I replied that I was just sitting on the rocks, they replied, “weren’t you bored?!” “No, I have my books”, I replied, gesturing to my journal and sketchbook. “Are those the prayer books or what?” Hah!

Number 3

On that same walk, a party that I passed on my way to the rock was still going on. I was kind of hoping to be invited over, and sure enough a woman yelled out, “Ausi Mpho! We want you to come sit with us!” as I passed. So I went to go sit with her cluster of people for a bit, all moderately drunk bo-me (women) and one extremely drunk man sort of resting on his side, passionately slurring his words in my general direction. One of the drunker women explains (or rather yells) to me that, “we are celebrating our culture!” and I laugh good-naturedly and chat with them for a bit as I take a few sips of the ginger beer I’m offered. The man’s face is very close to me, spewing stale breath into my nose, and I’m making faces and backing up slightly while the bo-me (two of whom I learn are parents of two of my grade 5 students) admonish him: “Ausi Mpho doesn’t want to talk to you!” Ntate Morena Lehlohonolo, the chief, must have noticed, because he comes over and talks to the group. I don’t understand much of he’s saying, but one of the woman tells me, “he is protecting you.” He’s the chief, and what he says goes, so that’s basically my cue to get up and leave. I stand up, brush off my bum and good-naturedly say good-bye.

Number 4

I had been planning to take a run all day, and hadn’t fully realized yet how much earlier it’s starting to get fully dark. So it was kind of a scary run, because it was close to pitch black almost my whole way back. As I pass the roadside shop/bar that tells me I’m close to home, a little girl no older than 7 runs out from a group standing outside and asked me, “do you speak English?”

Which I guess is a welcome change from assuming I don’t speak Sesotho, and it made me laugh.

It’s getting cold here. I hope you’re enjoying the impending warmth, Philly.

Khotso and much love.