It was against my better judgment but no other option presented itself. Ntate Zoo ensured me this was the way to go about such matters. My years as a showman of swine had taught me that when pigs are involved, controlled chaos is the best you can hope for. This time there was no control, it was just sheer chaos.
The two female pigs at my school are “lipalesistse.” This polite Sesotho term literally means “flowered.” The ladies had to travel up the hill, through the village to Lucky 7, the local shop where Mr. pig lives. My porky princesses are not small, they are full grown and sassy, yet I agreed building a harness out of rope and “leading” them to their lover would be a good idea. Turns out it wasn’t.
After much snorting and harrumphing we got the makeshift harness around the ladies. My students and I donned sticks and started the march to a fecund porcine destiny. About five steps into the pilgrimage I witnessed the demons being cast into the swine. Pigs running, students yelling, sticks switching, and me, standing, smiling. This is my life. It’s funny how it hits you. I live in Africa. I teach students about irrigation and get soaked in the process. I get covered in literal-shit teaching students about adding nutrients to their gardens. It takes a voodoo- like spell and an unplugging, switch –flipping ritual to encourage my ancient inverter to produce electricity, yet I say a grateful prayer each time a light bulb flicks on. I hike 4 miles one way for peanut butter and cherish every drop. I ride buses for four hours standing squished in someones armpit listening to deafennig accordion music while holding on for dear life because we're careening around blind corners, then I pay for this experience. Yes, this is my life.
Eventually we lifted the poor distraught Hams into the back of a truck and drove them to meet Romeo. They must’ve known because as soon as we arrived at Lucky 7 they hopped daintily out of the pick-up and walked directly into Casanova’s abode. This week we’ve been checking on the pigs up at Lucky 7. My British friend refers to this as "seeing to piggy sexy time.” Yup, this is my life.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
SENSITIVE
I’ve been told that I am too sensitive. On many fronts I am sure this is true, I ought not worry when children laugh at my white skin or take sweeping comments about America personally. However, there are some things that I never want to become desensitized to.
At the moment my school is closed for two weeks due to violence. The second year students hazed a first year student so badly they almost killed him. After being filled in on the previous night's battering, I felt ill at our morning assembly. The students came singing and dancing to the assembly as if nothing had happened. I gave them icy stares unable to give a speech on the sanctity and value of human life in my limited Sesotho.
Later that day I was expressing my horror at the situation to a colleague and he just laughed, commenting that if you have enough money to buy a cow and a coffin for the funeral, you can kill anyone you want in Lesotho. My jaw dropped, and I clammed up too appalled and upset to formulate words.
Death is an everyday occurrence in Lesotho. HIV has greatly aided in making this a reality. Violence and fighting are accepted in my rural area as “part of the culture.” There have been many attitudes that I’ve had to change to make life here in Lesotho possible for an American. I reflected on my own views of death and violence and what those which I’ve experienced in Lesotho. This is one time I have no desire to change. Life is too precious in my book, and this is one instance when “culture” will not be an acceptable answer.
At the moment my school is closed for two weeks due to violence. The second year students hazed a first year student so badly they almost killed him. After being filled in on the previous night's battering, I felt ill at our morning assembly. The students came singing and dancing to the assembly as if nothing had happened. I gave them icy stares unable to give a speech on the sanctity and value of human life in my limited Sesotho.
Later that day I was expressing my horror at the situation to a colleague and he just laughed, commenting that if you have enough money to buy a cow and a coffin for the funeral, you can kill anyone you want in Lesotho. My jaw dropped, and I clammed up too appalled and upset to formulate words.
Death is an everyday occurrence in Lesotho. HIV has greatly aided in making this a reality. Violence and fighting are accepted in my rural area as “part of the culture.” There have been many attitudes that I’ve had to change to make life here in Lesotho possible for an American. I reflected on my own views of death and violence and what those which I’ve experienced in Lesotho. This is one time I have no desire to change. Life is too precious in my book, and this is one instance when “culture” will not be an acceptable answer.
SOPHOMORES
I remember eyeing the sophomores enviously. I sat alone in the dining commons watching the sophomores reunite with their friends after what looked like a blissful and exciting summer. Being a freshman is awkward, you don’t know where your classes are, you are clinging to anyone who might be your friend and just generally keeping your head above water. I can compare living in Lesotho to being a freshman, except mutiply by one hundred and ten.
This past week I’ve watched my new students roll in and I empathetically (and a bit smugly) feel like a sophomore. I knew I’d arrived when I watched three confused pupils sit in the middle of the road with all their belongings unsure of the next step. I guided them toward the office in broken Sesotho, smiling and trying the reassure that doe-eyed frightened-small-creature look off their faces.
Last year I stumbled into classes with no curriculum, no handle on school culture, little Sesotho, and scared sightless (ahem). This year I may have little more direction, but I am comfortable in my Mosotho skin and don’t mind when students laugh at my Sesotho or I’m unafraid to yell at male students who cat call “heeey mommi." Though the dining hall imagery does not quite translate to rural Lesotho, the familiar greetings of my colleagues and returned students makes comfort more tangible.
This past week I’ve watched my new students roll in and I empathetically (and a bit smugly) feel like a sophomore. I knew I’d arrived when I watched three confused pupils sit in the middle of the road with all their belongings unsure of the next step. I guided them toward the office in broken Sesotho, smiling and trying the reassure that doe-eyed frightened-small-creature look off their faces.
Last year I stumbled into classes with no curriculum, no handle on school culture, little Sesotho, and scared sightless (ahem). This year I may have little more direction, but I am comfortable in my Mosotho skin and don’t mind when students laugh at my Sesotho or I’m unafraid to yell at male students who cat call “heeey mommi." Though the dining hall imagery does not quite translate to rural Lesotho, the familiar greetings of my colleagues and returned students makes comfort more tangible.
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