LIOLI'S LEKHOOA

I tried to be inconspicuous, fat chance. For the past 22 months I’ve stuck out like a linebacker in a ballet class. Regardless, we walked to the far end of the field to watch the game. Running full speed on the dirt pitch the players looked like The Roadrunner with huge clouds of dust following in their wake. Instead of Wiley Coyote being on their tail the opposing team forced their speed and agility to be displayed.
“Watch how they move the ball,” my African soccer tutor pointed out.
“European teams depend more on passing and using the whole space, but here, it’s raw. They depend mostly on speed and footwork.” This assessment seemed accurate even to me the American football novice who still refers to the most popular game in the world as soccer; the nerve. The players finessed the ball and made it hop and skip to their own personal rhythm as I sipped my Black Label and soaked up the fall sun reveling in the perfection of this Saturday.
The game was Lioli vs. LCS two of Lesotho’s club teams. Since my compatriot dwells in Teyateyaneng (the locals don’t bother with the heinously long name it either, they call it T.Y.) we were rooting for Lioli. LCS was from Maseru, the capital, only 20 minutes away, so the competition was fierce and the fan turn out unprecedented. The TY fans are passionate about their team, donning entire outfits comprised completely of burgundy and gold. A trio of fans clad in jean jumpsuits accented by Lioli colors approached me and pinned a burgundy and gold badge to my shirt. I heartily thanked them and began to cheer even louder now that my colors tied me to the Lioli family.
We remained on the far side until after half time when we decided to inch slowly toward the exit because crowds can tend to become quite inebriated and rowdy post- game. We stood just in front of the Lioli cheerleaders who were a large group of men and women singing cheers and dancing to encourage their troupe towards victory. Watching the sinewy footballers battle it out on the field, the fans encourage with energy and song found only on the African continent and feeling the a breezy Autumn blow across my face, I had a moment; a “this is why I joined Peace Corps” moment. Then it escalated.
The Lioli badge I was sporting caught the eye of one of the main cheerleaders. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the singing, dancing, nigh pulsating crowd. Only a few fist raises of support and a smile and they were on top of me. Three somewhat intoxicated Lioli fans quickly fitted me with a mesh Lioli doorag, a burgundy and gold necklace and then, whoops, I was on someone’s shoulders. I realized too late that the man whose head was between my legs was lifting me onto his shoulders. He was the self-proclaimed Lioli mascot sporting jean cutoffs so short they made Daisy Duke’s look like burmudas. This all happened in a blur so when I started to realize what was happening the Lioli flag was already being shoved into my hands. I had a decision to make, pick it up or scream to be put down. I felt a reassuring set of hands at my tailbone precluding my fall. Well, when in Rome… or Africa. I picked up the flag and began waving it with glee. The crowd went wild and developed a new cheer. It went something like this: “Lekhooa la Lioli” which literally translated means “Lioli’s white person.” There you have it folks. Political correctness has not been Lesotho’s strong suit. My entire 2 years here in Lesotho I’ve heard at least once a day someone yell “Lekhooa,” in my general direction.
The term “Lekhooa” here in Lesotho is usually accompanied by a demand for money or candy. Lekhooa defines someone by the color of their skin, lekhooa is not necessarily a positive term. For the first time in two years, I was being claimed. I was no longer just a white person, but now, I was Lioli’s white person. It’s like someone finally invited me to sit at the cool table for lunch. After feeling culturally inept for the better part of two years, someone had claimed me for the five minutes in which I rode on the crazy fan’s shoulders. I was a part of something bigger, I was Lioli’s.
He finally put me down, where I was met with shock and laughter from friends.
“Of all the days not to bring a camera.”
Yup, of all the days.
Lioli won, 3-1.

ROSY NOSTALGIA

It seems so easy to look back fondly, especially because the last days are usually the best. In college the last few weeks before finals were crammed full of late nights and mini-adventures. We were fulfilling all those “we should have a pillow fight in the middle of campus” or “let’s go out for doughnuts at 3 am” before the semester was over. Those are the days and nights I remember. I am in my senior year of Peace Corps, only 3 months left, and I know these are the days to be remembered fondly. I know myself. I’ll fall easily into nostalgia. I’ll recall that time I hiked through rural Lesotho with two girl friends and how we hitched a ride in the back of a bread truck. I’ll forget that I got bed bugs and itched heinously for a week afterward. I’ll remember my garden and the bumper crop of eggplant and how extra creativity was employed with purple squash dishes. I’ll forget about how the students stole my prize watermelon and snuck away with my tomatoes. I’ll forget how I cried myself to sleep on lonely nights or how obnoxious it was having kids ask me for money everyday.
I’m okay with nostalgia. I like to remember the good things. I may view the past with rose-colored glasses but I know that these hard times are woven into my fabric. Even though when recalling stories I’ll go glassy eyed and stare into the Peace Corps “good old days” the tough lessons have become hard wired. In twenty years I may recall Lesotho as a peaceful African country where I met the love of my life, taught agriculture, experienced the environment and made lifelong friends. However, the poverty, the hard questions, the sweat, the tears, and occasional blood are changing me. I can’t see it yet, but I know they’re there, let’s hope that when I look back the changes from experiencing adversity are ones that are truly good and not just made sentimentally peachy.

OPPOSABLE THUMBS

I have based entire relationships solely off the speed and dexterity of my thumbs. I must admit that I am actually one of the slower participants, I’ve seen thumbs fly over the keypad producing a text with vigor rivalled only by French sous-chef’s. Before coming to Peace Corps I did not give other Volunteers a second thought. I was coming to Africa to live in the bush and have only local friends and make the obligatory “difference.” This is silly, high-minded and short-sited (but hey at least I can chart my growth). Other volunteers in Lesotho have become some of my best friends and my never-ending support network. Now comes the thumb explanation.
Due to living on an extreme budget and the fact that making phone calls is outside of that budget, I communicate with my other Peace Corps Lesotho Volunteers via text, or as it is so lovingly called in this hemisphere: SMS (short message service). Every night around 7 pm SMSes begin to fly between volunteer phones (7 pm is when the rates drop to 25 cents, we’re shamelessly frugal). I’ve made party plans, business plans, had deep conversations, shared stories, recipes, sentiments and planned pranks all via the SMS. It is amazing what one can convey in shorthand using ‘u’ ‘2’ ‘wanna’ ‘4’ and my personal favorite character saving devices ‘2mrrow’ and ‘gr8.’ I used to poke fun at polo clad university types who were always pounding away on their keypad but now, since it has been my link to my American counterparts, friends who are experiencing the same cultural difficulties and occasional tummy funk, I will use this space to salute the text message.

RUNWAY SAFARI

Although the actual word in Zulu escapes me, our guide informed us that the name for giraffe in native tongue means “above the trees.” A more appropriate honorific was never given. We watched the gentle giants strip leaves off thorny Acacia trees with their foot-long purple tongues all the while their pom-pom horns visible just above the trees as their epithet implied.
I snapped away that day, the African bush veldt wildlife worked it for me like models on a runway in Paris. Baby Vervet monkeys smiled for my camera, Chacma baboons sat sultry and still while I shot and elephants sauntered precariously near our open-air vehicle enabling a wide-angle moment like never before. As we exited Hluhluwe Game Park I felt like yelling “all right folks, that’s a wrap.” Normally I am a terrible photographer because I don’t like to ruin “moments” just so they can be memorialized in digital wonder. Today I had been dubbed shutterbug and put in charge of capturing the “Big 5” for the Rubke’s epic African adventure. (For those of you who haven’t been living in Africa the big 5 are: African Buffalo, Lions, Leopard, Rhinoceros, and Elephants, it took me almost two years to figure that our, don’t feel left out). I had no intention of letting my fans down so armed with a Nikon I decided I’d leave no zebra behind. Taking my paparazzi of the veldt seriously I got Boks from every angle: springboks, bonteboks, steenboks, gemsboks, you name it, if it had hooves, I have a photo. Since making wild animals strut the runway is not my normal mode of being I had a blast yelling “work it” at a group of warthogs, however there was a point during the day when I put my camera down.
Hluluwe-Imfolizi Park used to be the hunting grounds of Shaka Zulu, the king who united and expanded the Zulu nation. Its rolling hills punctuated by the definitively African flattop acacia trees make the setting feel sublimely royal. Shaka reserved these hills for himself, proclaiming the spot as the best game dwelling in all of Zululand; I have to agree with him. I dropped the camera lens away from the horizon and let my own ocular lens take in the scene unobscured.
“I’m in Africa,” said that familiar voice which so often has quieted my busy mind over the past 18 months. It is easy to forget because life becomes life. Every once in a while that voice in the back of my head lightly taps my brain and says “this isn’t normal” and I am filled with a flooding sense of wonder. As we wound through Imfolozi’s hills searching the horizon for big gray rhino butts and the shady trees for lounging caramel colored cats I poked my head between my parents shoulders who were seated in front of me. I slung my arms around their shoulders and squeezed verbalizing what we were all thinking: “we are blessed.”
Truly. We exited the park watching an elephant give himself a mud bath to stave off the heat of the day. The Rubke’s epic African adventure encompassed so much more than seeing wildlife but I think that day in Hluhluwe embodied the spirit of the trip. Wonder, thankfulness, laughter and some mighty fine photos abounded as the senior Rubke’s joined baby Rubke in Africa. Stay tuned for the next installment when the Rubke’s do Siberia (just kidding Mom, and sorry to get you excited Papa…).