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. 

America

Written on 1/21/15

One of my favorite things about living in Lesotho is having the opportunity to bash the belief that “American” means “white”. Yes it’s crazy that black people came from Africa and now, hundreds of years later, the only media* that people receive besides hip hop (my host brother Tsepong loves Lil Wayne) are images of rich, white, America*. Which, as we all know, is a teeny percentage of the whole. And, the vast majority of people who join the Peace Corps are white. So, it’s really no surprise that people have this perception, however warped it is.

It can be kind of exhausting to repeatedly have this conversation, but today I was just chillin’ with my friend Khotso, waiting for my phone to charge in his shop, when we began to talk about race (I dream of the day when I’ll be able to have these kinds of conversations in Sesotho). At one point he asked me, “do you have people who look like me in America?”, pulling up his beenie to tug at the locks hidden beneath and pointing at his coffee bean complexion. “Yeah!”, I replied. “In America we have everyone.” “Wow!”, he exclaimed. “I thought if I come to America people would be like wow. Would be surprised”. To make my point simpler, I didn’t go into the inns and outs of American geography and how people in some places might indeed react that way. Instead, I simply replied, “where I’m from, lots of people look like you. In fact, Philadelphia has more black people than white people.”

And then I realized that if he thought all Americans were white, he may not know about the Transatlantic Slave Trade. So I gave him the cliff notes version, ending with, “and that’s why there are black people in America.” After that, the concept seemed to make more sense to him.

Earlier in this conversation, he emphatically said that he could never do what I’m doing, could never leave his home and live somewhere else. That he would miss his mom and his friends and his brothers and sisters too much. So, Khotso will probably never see America. And that’s fine. Many Americans I’ve met could never dream of living in another country for two years. The point is just that his lens of understanding was opened a little bit wider, just as my understanding of Lesotho grows every day. And that, truly, is the most sustainable effect of being a Peace Corps volunteer. The students I teach may or may not speak better English by the time I leave. St. Dennis will largely remain the same for years after I leave. But it is these types of conversations that stick, that make my time here here feel valuable and important to me.

Also, Basotho love America and Americans. I don’t know how many times a day I hear something along the lines of “U tsoa America? (You are from America)! I love you” (or just the I love you, which always throws me off), from complete strangers. So, at least when I talk frankly with people they can learn (although some don’t believe) that America is just as hard as it is wonderful, as oppressive as it is beautiful. That it’s just a place like any other. And yes, that people with a coffee bean complexion and dredlocks live there too.

*Just as Africa receives warped and monochromatic images of America, the U.S. pretty much only receives warped images of Africa splayed with violence, disease and starvation. Darling readers, remember that. And remind your loved ones of that the next time someone anxiously mentions Ebola or what have you.

*Before coming here, I was insistent upon being correct and saying “the United States” as opposed to “America”. But here, America is the U.S. and so that’s what I call it. There’s really no point in correcting people.

Khotso and much love. 

It's the little things

Written on Tuesday 1/13/15 5:00 PM

My life here in Lesotho is largely mundane. I wake up, squat over the basin on the floor to wash the dirty dishes from the night before, fetch water, water my plants and weed a little, sometimes exercise, eat breakfast and then spend the rest of the day reading, journaling, talking with people or cooking. Sometimes I’m very bored and downright restless. Sometimes I'm lonely. But there is always at least one thing that happens every day that puts a smile on my face and makes me say, truthfully, “ke phela hantle” (I am well), when asked. 

Today was one of those restless days. I rose at five after another itchy, sleepless night and took a long run, my sneakers smacking the pavement and keeping time as the sun rose over the green mountains beyond. After bathing and eating and washing dishes and all that it was only 9 or 10:00. So I read for awhile and ate lunch at some point, attempting to eat and read on my porch (where I spend a lot of my time) but the combination of the flies and bees buzzing soon pushed me back inside. I was scheduled to meet the chief of my area for the first time in the afternoon and was waiting around for my IL to pick me up, doing bits and pieces of various things. However, at some point around 2 a woman knocks on my door that my IL must have sent, who I learn is ‘M’e Grasansia. She’s a tall middle-aged woman, wearing a blanket wrapped around her waist, a straw hat, brown Chuck Taylor’s and a youthful smile. She informs me that I am instead going to meet the chief tomorrow morning. “Okay, kea leboha (thank you)”, I say cheerfully. But as soon as she leaves I feel a small deflation in my chest. “Rats”, I think. It’s only two in the afternoon and I have no idea what to do with myself. My attempts at studying Sesotho earlier in the day didn’t last long, and I’m feeling kind of sleepy and lethargic.

But then, I remember a piece of advice I was given before I left from a lovely RPCV I used to live next door to: “Whenever you feel down or sad or whatever, just take a walk. Whatever it is, just take a walk. You’ll see something or talk to someone or laugh at something and you’ll feel better.” So I did. I walked up the hill and saw a family sitting outside one of the huts on the grassy embankment on my right side, took a deep breath and walked up to meet them.

Community integration is a funny thing. It’s a slow process, and it’s pretty much completely the job of the volunteer rather than the community, obviously, to put ourselves out there and meet people. This a little daunting at first, because I’ve never before spur of the moment gone up to a new neighbors yard with whom I had never spoken to before and sat down with them for over an hour, shooting the shit. But here, that’s how you make friends. And I’m very much wanting friends in my community right now. So I went up to them, asked if I could sit down, and plopped down on the grass. It was a good opportunity to practice my Sesotho anyway, so I learned all of their names and all of the children’s names that were situated around the two women, rolling around, chewing on grass and staring at me. I made friends with the women, the teenage son and the little ones (peek-a-boo is a brilliant game) AND I saw the baby, Rethabile, poop on herself twice, the second time getting on her mother’s foot. No big deal though- each time afterward her mother just stood up, shoveled the poop up and situated her baby at her breast to get fed. As far as I’m concerned, if there’s poop and breastfeeding involved, it’s a successful social interaction.

Then I continued walking for a bit and sat on a rock and just thought for half an hour about nothing in particular, the pre-rain wind brushing past my face as fast as the flies buzzed around my head. “When was the last time I just sat down somewhere and thought?”, I asked myself. Without my phone or a book or a journal or even a camera, just my thoughts? Maybe never. I’m really into it.

So, this day was a much-needed reminder of the fact that we all have the power to change a situation, or at the very least how we feel. I could have sat inside and felt sorry for myself until dinnertime, but I didn’t. It doesn’t take much to change a day around. All it takes is a short walk, a rock, a bodily function or two and some peek-a-boo.

Khotso.

Also......

Here are some changes:

Cat Stevens is in Lesotho, above my stove. 

Had a lot of time on my hands recently, so my wrist became a rainbow. And yes, those are all bug bites.

And, things seen in the past few weeks:

Sunset through my window

This gorgeous (newly) 25 year old. Check out her blog https://mackenzierotherham.wordpress.com/ to see how we celebrated her birthday. 

"was this stream here before?"

The heaven that is Maliba Lodge. 

I guess the shortcut from Konkotia (the town half an hour walk from me) to Ha Khabo (further down the road) has a name. 

Seen on said shortcut. Must inspect in the future. 

'M'e Thekane, my beautiful IL, on the walk back from meeting the area chief, which did eventually happen. 

Cactus trees, they bloom. 

To whoever used this condom, I'm glad you're being safe. Even if you have to hike up into the mountains to get it on. 

Elections are right around the corner. Here's the ABC, the ruling party, gettin' hype. 

And that's one ugly duck, seen in Brittany's yard. 

 P.S. After a failed attempt at getting a full bucket of water into my house (I got it up the cliff and then I dropped it all over my porch while taking it off my head. Very disappointing), I have now successfully carried a full bucket on my head up the cliff and into my house. Quite pleased. 

This is Tau Liarora (St. Dennis). This is where I live.

So there isn't much new to report, since I'm not doing much of anything yet. So here are some photos from recent explorations.

I took an evening walk my second week at site, sat on a rock and journaled. Then this happened:

And last week, I woke up at five and took at two hour hike up a mountain. I had been planning to run, but didn't feel like it. So I chose a direction and a mountain and just started walking, still in dreamland for the first half hour or so. It was glorious. 

playing peek-a-boo with the sun. 

View from the top. This is one side of my village. 

There are cacti a plenty here. 

These clouds do amazing things on a regular basis. 

And these don't even begin to capture the beauty that is this country. For those thinking of or planning on visiting me, this time of year is in the best and the most beautiful. It's the prime of planting season, the rains are here at night and it's sunny and beautiful during the day. 

I'll post again when I'm doing something productive (teaching). 

Much love and Khotso (peace). 

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.