Maria a Fihlile (Winter has arrived)

“Today is today!”, ‘M’e Thakane, my counterpart and the fifth grade teacher, exclaimed when she arrived at school the other day.

It was pouring rain, with not a ray of sunshine to be found, the cold seeping into and introducing itself to my bones after a long separation.

I laughed appreciatively and nodded emphatically, because that was probably the best way to describe the kind of day it was. The kind of day that makes it difficult to get out of bed and even more difficult to be inspired to teach. The kind of day that makes Basotho learners (and any children who go to school in buildings without indoor heating systems and/or warm coats and boots) completely useless in the classroom. The kind of day that makes you look outside and mentally transport yourself to your warm bed, cozied up to a hot water bottle (or a lover) and a good book.

Winter has come to Lesotho, yes indeed. The biting cold that used to be relegated to the mornings and nights alone, now sometimes permeates throughout the day. Snow is clearly visible on the mountain tops beyond, and the kids have begun to show up to school wearing their blankets and sour, mournful expressions that articulate what everyone is feeling, no further explanation needed. Soup for dinner is no longer just a preference, but an absolute necessity. Thank goodness only a few days of the quarter remain.

When it’s not raining though, the sun is shining and sometimes it’s downright hot. I wore a tank top last week when I was sitting in the sun doing my laundry.

And as long as I turn on my heater for the first hour of the day and the one before I go to bed, and sleep in sweatpants, wool socks and completely submerge myself in  blankets, it’s manageable.

Today is today, wherever in the world we are.

frosted garden

woke up to snow

all of this cold beauty was melted by the afternoon. 

Khotso.

Daily Routines

I’m becoming more cognizant of daily routines here, mine and other peoples. The routines themselves and the way they change according to the season.

Until a few days ago, I always did dishes first thing in the morning. I would wake up to my 6:00 AM alarm, stretch, and squat over the dirty dish basin as the sun streamed in through the window. But now, it’s pitch black and COLD at 6 AM, and the last thing I want to do is leave my house to dump out the dish water before the sun rises. So I’ve begun to do the dishes when I return home from school instead, and now the first thing I do in the morning is turn on the heater.

Slowly but surely, I’ve begun to move slower as well, which means that my arrival time at school has slowly inched from 7:40 or 7:45, to 8 or 8:15. Which is the time that most of the other teachers were arriving all year round. As it’s gotten colder and darker, the teachers and the students have all been moving slower. Call it successful cultural integration.

Many things, though, are constants.

The rapid scurrying of the small black lizards through the school garden and up the walls, stopping once or twice for a nanosecond just to check the surroundings, then disappearing through a hole in the cement or under a leaf.

Seeing at least one of my male students chasing after the family sheep or goats after school, whistling and throwing rocks to keep them in line, while their sisters walk in groups to the tap to fill their water buckets, laughing loudly and gossiping.

The little children who live in one of the neighboring houses, greeting me every morning without fail with, “’’M’e Mpho! GOOD BYE!”.

The loud music, usually rap but sometimes nauseating pop music, that signal Tsepang’s return. I often hear the music before I actually see him.

The greetings as people pass each other on the road by my house, and the loud calls to people far ahead or behind (what I call the Basotho cell phone).

The crops and the activities depend on the season, but always there are bo-ntate (men) and bo-mme (women) headed to and from the fields, their children accompanying them on the weekends and during breaks from school. I’ve lived through almost a whole cycle of planting at this point: When I first got here in October, it was dry and windy and dusty, the maize and soy and sorghum fields that surrounded me dried to a crisp. Then it was planting time, followed by the rainy season, and all of a sudden the world was awash in greenery, like God had taken a giant paintbrush and made all the world new again. Now it’s harvest season, so everyone is reaping the benefits of their labor. I’m learning so much from living in an agricultural based society.

came home to my 'm'e doing this on my porch on thursday. It's HARD. 

And I always look at this map while I brush my teeth in the morning, dreaming about where I’ll go after Lesotho.

And because so many things remain the same day in and day out, season to season, I appreciate and relish in the moments of unpredictability.

Leaving my house for school and hearing my host sister singing loudly in her off-pitch and vaguely operatic voice.

Being given a handful of chewy candy by a beaming grade 1 girl upon my arrival to school in the morning, who I’m later informed is celebrating a birthday that day.

A text from one of my host sisters from my training village, telling me that she loves me, and that my presence is needed at the bar where she is enjoying a Castle Milk Stout with friends.

Tsepang knocking on my door in the morning and giving me a picture that he drew the previous night when he couldn’t sleep.

and then ya flip it

Khotso.

Basotho English-isms

A volunteer who finished his time here soon after I arrived said that Peace Corps volunteers learn two languages when they come here: Sesotho and Basotho English. At the time it struck me as a kind of arrogant thing to say, but after being here for eight months, I can say definitively that he was absolutely correct. What follows is a list of commonly used phrases here that either made me laugh or go “wah?” until I understood what they meant.

“Madame, I am asking for the keys”, instead of actually asking.

“Do you use the lentils?”, meaning, “do you eat lentils?”

“The noise was for us”, meaning, “it was us making the noise.”

Similarly, It is the shirt/ball/exercise book for Thabang means  “it is Thabang’s shirt.”

“Silly” is a negative word here, meaning stupid or lazy or careless.

Overuse of the word, “just”, as in “Where are you going?” “I’m just going to Mapaseka’s house.”

“Will you borrow me your pen?”

Saying “Famous” to mean “popular.”

“You are like so wow” basically means you look goooooood.

“ahch, these people”( said in a dismissive tone), referring to the kids we teach. It’s just kind of a general way of dismissing student’s abilities.  

…and here’s something for kicks that my friend Khutsi said the other day: “I will see you when I look at you”.

Here are the winners in grade 5 and 6 of the most checks on my behavioral/participation chart. Their reward is getting their picture hung up in the classroom, which they LOVE

The group names that they chose for themselves are the captions.

Kentucky

Fish and Chips

Brazil

So the Basotho English thing definitely makes teaching proper English difficult, but the kiddos make it worth it.

Khotso. 

The day of REST

Sunday, March 22^nd, 2015

Sundays might be my favorite day of the week. It’s the one day that always feels totally open and free of obligations. I think I used to mourn Sundays because they were the last stop on the train before Mondays, but I’ve been enjoying the day of rest more than ever since coming to Lesotho.

Sundays here always feel like a breath of fresh air. Sundays mean pancakes for Tsepang and I, and we usually lounge around for a while after we’re done eating, chatting about this and that. It’s the one time of the week where we get to really sit down and talk, because he is a hopeless night owl and I rarely go to bed after 9 during the week. With or without him, I almost always enjoy some pancakes.

Sunday’s also mean cleaning, which I love. I’ve never enjoyed cleaning like this before, maybe because my whole life has never been situated in one room. I guess it was in college, between the off-white walls that made up my dorm room. But my college self, particularly at the beginning, was an extension of my high school self. The self that let dirty clothes pile up and collections of dirt and dust accumulate in my room until one of the mama’s came in and INSISTED that I clean.

Maybe it’s because of how much effort cleaning, and daily tasks in general, take here. I wash clothes by hand, so I don’t let them accumulate for more than a week or else I’ll be doing double duty the next weekend and that means at least 3 hours of scrubbing clothes, hands getting rough from the soap and back getting sore. If I don’t fetch water every day, I have to pump and carry two or three buckets instead of just one. Even though I usually keep my doors closed (to keep the flies out), dust and dirt constantly accumulate. So I sweep every day, multiple times a day.

Maybe it’s just a function of getting older, I don’t know. All I know is that I love the mindless yet focused act of cleaning. I put on my favorite radio station (“Radio 2000: Our Music, Your Memories”) and wash my clothes, sitting in the sun and exhaling a satisfied breath of accomplishment as I hang the last t-shirt on the line to dry. I sweep and mop the floor. I wipe down all my counters. I hang my two throw rugs on the line to get all the dirt out that has accumulated on them during the week. For me, a clear space means a clear mind.

After I do my cleaning, I often spend some time making teaching aids and preparing materials for class tomorrow. Perks of teaching primary school and having small classes include getting to do stuff like this:

Mad libs!

Storyboards!

Colors!

And after that, who knows. Sometimes I just hang out on my porch and read. Sometimes I take a walk, with or without Tsepang. Sometimes I visit a neighbor. Sometimes I go to my thinking rock and stare out at the expanse of green fields and mountains before me, contemplating whatever happens to be on my mind. Sometimes, like today, I fulfill that incessant need that’s developed to write, either in my journal or on the computer.

I often cook, making my bread and my soup stock for the week or spend a lot of time trying out a new recipe.

Crazy for quiche

I make sure to go to bed early, to remind my body that tomorrow is manic Monday. And on Monday, as it does for everyone, the grind begins. The teaching, the sorting out of adolescent fights (Sobbing child: “Madame. Tebollo is beating me!” Tebello: “No madame! She is lying! Etc etc), the talking about sex, the lesson planning, the pondering of new ways to make such and such sink in. Oh, and the gabbing with the other teachers.

….Until the next school break, which is coming on Wednesday. What a great birthday present!

Happy Sunday ya’ll. Khotso.