Americans tend to use sweet simile’s as terms of endearment. On occasion I have used “honey,” from my Southern friends I’ve been called “sugar,” but as a baked goods fiend I prefer “muffin” no matter how nauseating it may sound. I like sweet things, most people do, I assume this is why we create cute aliases with them. Let’s just say that the terms of endearment in Lesotho caught me a little off guard.
I was incorporating “organic matter” into one of the schools garden plots. This looks like me doing some sort of professional wrestling move with a spade in a downward chopping motion. With much effort I hacked the sunflower stalks to a size that is manageable for my microbe tag team to finish off. I happened to be looking rather sharp because I was wearing my bright red coveralls and white gum boots. Every time this irresistible ensemble hits the runway it is met with much praise from my students, today was no exception. I knew I was in for a day of compliments and special treatment when I was told twice before 8 am that I was wearing “de bee-u-tee-full overall.” I should not have been surprised at the following greeting, but I should know by now to expect the unexpected.
“Ho joang, mosali oa likhomo tsa ntate?”
What?
My typical reply: What? This time I had caught most of the greeting but was thoroughly confused. My student assured me it was a cute and pleasant greeting, however the literal translation is far from my understanding sweetly endearing.
“What’s up, wife of my father’s cows.”
In Lesotho and parts of South Africa there is a precious little tradition called Lobolla. The family of the husband pays the family of the wife… in cows. There is much witty banter that flows from this practice. People will jokingly ask how many cows my hand in marriage requires. I always respond with an outrageous sum and we both laugh. They laugh because it is a normal cultural exchange. I laugh so I don’t cry thinking about women’s worth being equal to cattle. However today I am left trumped and speechless by this supposedly sentimental bovine exchange.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
ETHICS
The sky was cool, crisp and blue today, similar to my tile floor, which bit my feet this morning. The first tastes of fall made me find my slippers quicker than usual. This strikingly blue hue was the perfect opportunity to test my students who have been learning about air pressure. “High or low?” I prompted. A universal “high” resounded and my little heart soared along with the invisible air pressure. Baby steps and small successes have been nudging me along recently.
I have been teaching my second year Agro-ecology students about the ethics of Permaculture this week. A rather splendid Aussie chap by the name of Bill Mollison coined this term in the mid 1970’s. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, he’s brilliant as well as a hoot to read. Regardless, shamelessly summarized Permaculture’s ethics go something like this: Care of the Earth, Care of the People, Sharing our Resources (some may say “Reinvesting Surplus”) and Promoting Life (aka Biodiversity). These rather broad and inspirational ethics accompany a system of farming that realizes the need to work with nature rather than against it. Design is everything. This brings me to the financial situation of our school. It is tight and student and staff fuses are short. I am constantly encouraged (neigh, demanded) to bring capital into the school. As I was teaching these simple beautiful ethics that resound with innovation, dirty hands and warm hearts I realized the irony of my situation. Capital and sharing resources freely to promote other healthy individuals seem like a sharp contrast. In a valley of maize and sorghum monocrops I am floundering to bring scientific concepts and humanitarian principles to a school starved for funds. This is not a cry for finance, but perhaps a request for solidarity. As you move into spring and we move into fall, plant something, watch it grow, and share it with those around you. Promote life, not capital, this is what I wish development would’ve done in the first place.
I have been teaching my second year Agro-ecology students about the ethics of Permaculture this week. A rather splendid Aussie chap by the name of Bill Mollison coined this term in the mid 1970’s. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, he’s brilliant as well as a hoot to read. Regardless, shamelessly summarized Permaculture’s ethics go something like this: Care of the Earth, Care of the People, Sharing our Resources (some may say “Reinvesting Surplus”) and Promoting Life (aka Biodiversity). These rather broad and inspirational ethics accompany a system of farming that realizes the need to work with nature rather than against it. Design is everything. This brings me to the financial situation of our school. It is tight and student and staff fuses are short. I am constantly encouraged (neigh, demanded) to bring capital into the school. As I was teaching these simple beautiful ethics that resound with innovation, dirty hands and warm hearts I realized the irony of my situation. Capital and sharing resources freely to promote other healthy individuals seem like a sharp contrast. In a valley of maize and sorghum monocrops I am floundering to bring scientific concepts and humanitarian principles to a school starved for funds. This is not a cry for finance, but perhaps a request for solidarity. As you move into spring and we move into fall, plant something, watch it grow, and share it with those around you. Promote life, not capital, this is what I wish development would’ve done in the first place.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
NORMA RUBY RUBKE
Technically I don’t think medical professionals know how much patients hear when they’re unresponsive. I think that she heard everything. My kindred adventurous spirit and teacher of fierce independence, I think she waited for me. I got to say goodbye to my fearless Grandmother just over a week ago. I regaled her white head with my newest tales from Africa, she would’ve smiled if she’d had the strength. My stories were always funny to her, so they were much more fun to tell. She had a deep chuckle that always made me want to have a story to tell.
A few years ago when I returned from my first adventure abroad a bond was formed between us. Grandma had endless questions about Samoan culture, the diet of such an archipelago, the effects of poverty on an island nation, and countless more poignant inquiries. She pulled information out of me that I did not know I’d gleaned. She helped me to process experiences. She kindled an international spark which matured into my current Lesotho flame.
She lived through the Depression and War times; her understanding of hard times enabled her to have a unique understanding of the developing countries I’ve worked in. Her generosity abounded (and I know it wasn’t just a function of Grandmotherness) she helped to put me through Grad school and sent hilarious notes every month that I read aloud to my roommates. She was gracious beyond belief and never said an ill word of anyone. I am overwhelmed at the loss, but know that now she can adventure closer than ever with me.
Today I will make the Hurculean journey home and I know that she’ll make the journey with me. I am looking forward to having my traveling buddy closer than ever.
A few years ago when I returned from my first adventure abroad a bond was formed between us. Grandma had endless questions about Samoan culture, the diet of such an archipelago, the effects of poverty on an island nation, and countless more poignant inquiries. She pulled information out of me that I did not know I’d gleaned. She helped me to process experiences. She kindled an international spark which matured into my current Lesotho flame.
She lived through the Depression and War times; her understanding of hard times enabled her to have a unique understanding of the developing countries I’ve worked in. Her generosity abounded (and I know it wasn’t just a function of Grandmotherness) she helped to put me through Grad school and sent hilarious notes every month that I read aloud to my roommates. She was gracious beyond belief and never said an ill word of anyone. I am overwhelmed at the loss, but know that now she can adventure closer than ever with me.
Today I will make the Hurculean journey home and I know that she’ll make the journey with me. I am looking forward to having my traveling buddy closer than ever.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
BRINY BLISS
Happy New Year! I like even numbers better than odd by some unexplainable prejudice, so that is one more reason (apart from adventure and challenge) that I am looking forward to 2008.
I have just returned from the embrace of my briny beloved. Over Christmas I was able to visit the coast with a number of other volunteers. There was no surf to be had, but getting to the ocean and feeling at home was reward enough for six months of very intense land-lockedness.
I was reading my dear friend Betsie’s blog (who is a Peace Corps Volunteer in Benin) and chuckling as I read her account of voyaging home. I thought I would do a similar travel account just to give you all some minor appreciation for what it takes to leave Lesotho and get to the coast.
To make the trip in two days I must get all my ducks in a row so that every leg of the journey is timed correctly. Poor timing can result in waiting in a long line to cross the river, or a four hour taxi ride standing up sandwiched between 300 lb African women who insist that I am too fat to fit in the taxi. My pilgrimage begins with a 30 minute hike down to the Senqu river (you must click when you see a “q” in Sesotho). This hike takes me through red clay fields struggling to grow green corn, and past herd boys clad in blankets who escort donkeys, sheep, and goats down the same dirt path I travel. There is the occasional traffic jam in which I get shuffled into the brush and donkeys kick and bray as they trot past. As I descend to the wide snaking river, I must scan the curving water for the boat-crossing and pick my path carefully so I can intercept the tin skiff at the right landing. This special, delinquent boat crossing is typically the most exciting part of the journey. The boat crew is a group of teenage boys with glazed eyes from the local “dagga” and the load is usually twice the capacity of the boat. The boat capacity is twelve, I have ridden across with twenty-five, and prayed the entire time. The river is swollen this time of year so it is about 30 yards wide with a significant current which moves the boat rapidly downstream as the operator strains on his oars. (The oars are actually more like large sticks with a small indentation denoting the “paddle” portion.) Every time the crossing is made the boat must be hauled via rope up the stream to compensate for the drift, this makes each crossing tedious so they load as many people as possible in the boat. All the passengers are terrified of water, because very few people can swim. This means when the little white girl (who is rumored to float) climbs in the boat people cling to her like a buoy. Once the boat is loaded way past capacity and a little tushy or plastic sack is placed over the leak in the bow, we shove off across the river. I hold my breath until we bump (or ram) the opposite shore. Even here the fun does not end because people are antsy to deboard so they pile out the side leaving those is the boat scrambling to keep it from tipping, I usually throw my weight around to steady the silver steed fearing the eminent flip. Once back, kissing the other shore, I have another hour hike up a steep canyon to the closest town where I can catch a taxi. After being wedged into a dilapidated van-taxi (lovingly called a kombi) I ride the four bumpy hours to the capital. Kombi’s play special music, typically an ear bleeding variety with accordions, screaming lyricists, and babies crying, an exceptional mix for a tight ride with your head in someone else’s armpit. Upon arriving in the capital, Maseru, you pull hat over your eyes and book it through the taxi rank. The rank includes vendors screaming marriage proposals, honking, mud, frying sausages, and smells that are akin to sweat and grease. Once safely navigating the taxi rank an overnight stay in Maseru is required, this includes a few more taxi rides and honking before an AM departure to the border. Once at the border the customs agents look suspiciously at the American and turn your passport all four ways before allowing you to walk the hundred yard bridge over no-man’s land to South Africa. Once across the border, there is another two hour kombi, a thirty minute walk, a rental car, a day of driving, then finally, beach and bliss. I forgot the partridge in a pear tree. For those of you still with me I apologize but I felt it necessary to guilt all of you into enjoying your 10 step walk to your car with a cup of coffee. Which is better? Hard to say whether adventure wins over comfort, I suppose it depends on the day.
I have just returned from the embrace of my briny beloved. Over Christmas I was able to visit the coast with a number of other volunteers. There was no surf to be had, but getting to the ocean and feeling at home was reward enough for six months of very intense land-lockedness.
I was reading my dear friend Betsie’s blog (who is a Peace Corps Volunteer in Benin) and chuckling as I read her account of voyaging home. I thought I would do a similar travel account just to give you all some minor appreciation for what it takes to leave Lesotho and get to the coast.
To make the trip in two days I must get all my ducks in a row so that every leg of the journey is timed correctly. Poor timing can result in waiting in a long line to cross the river, or a four hour taxi ride standing up sandwiched between 300 lb African women who insist that I am too fat to fit in the taxi. My pilgrimage begins with a 30 minute hike down to the Senqu river (you must click when you see a “q” in Sesotho). This hike takes me through red clay fields struggling to grow green corn, and past herd boys clad in blankets who escort donkeys, sheep, and goats down the same dirt path I travel. There is the occasional traffic jam in which I get shuffled into the brush and donkeys kick and bray as they trot past. As I descend to the wide snaking river, I must scan the curving water for the boat-crossing and pick my path carefully so I can intercept the tin skiff at the right landing. This special, delinquent boat crossing is typically the most exciting part of the journey. The boat crew is a group of teenage boys with glazed eyes from the local “dagga” and the load is usually twice the capacity of the boat. The boat capacity is twelve, I have ridden across with twenty-five, and prayed the entire time. The river is swollen this time of year so it is about 30 yards wide with a significant current which moves the boat rapidly downstream as the operator strains on his oars. (The oars are actually more like large sticks with a small indentation denoting the “paddle” portion.) Every time the crossing is made the boat must be hauled via rope up the stream to compensate for the drift, this makes each crossing tedious so they load as many people as possible in the boat. All the passengers are terrified of water, because very few people can swim. This means when the little white girl (who is rumored to float) climbs in the boat people cling to her like a buoy. Once the boat is loaded way past capacity and a little tushy or plastic sack is placed over the leak in the bow, we shove off across the river. I hold my breath until we bump (or ram) the opposite shore. Even here the fun does not end because people are antsy to deboard so they pile out the side leaving those is the boat scrambling to keep it from tipping, I usually throw my weight around to steady the silver steed fearing the eminent flip. Once back, kissing the other shore, I have another hour hike up a steep canyon to the closest town where I can catch a taxi. After being wedged into a dilapidated van-taxi (lovingly called a kombi) I ride the four bumpy hours to the capital. Kombi’s play special music, typically an ear bleeding variety with accordions, screaming lyricists, and babies crying, an exceptional mix for a tight ride with your head in someone else’s armpit. Upon arriving in the capital, Maseru, you pull hat over your eyes and book it through the taxi rank. The rank includes vendors screaming marriage proposals, honking, mud, frying sausages, and smells that are akin to sweat and grease. Once safely navigating the taxi rank an overnight stay in Maseru is required, this includes a few more taxi rides and honking before an AM departure to the border. Once at the border the customs agents look suspiciously at the American and turn your passport all four ways before allowing you to walk the hundred yard bridge over no-man’s land to South Africa. Once across the border, there is another two hour kombi, a thirty minute walk, a rental car, a day of driving, then finally, beach and bliss. I forgot the partridge in a pear tree. For those of you still with me I apologize but I felt it necessary to guilt all of you into enjoying your 10 step walk to your car with a cup of coffee. Which is better? Hard to say whether adventure wins over comfort, I suppose it depends on the day.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
FAT BY CHEMICALS
I know that it is a compliment here, but it never ceases to catch me off guard. "Ausi Limpho, you are soooo fat." Thanks. It may be lack for descriptive words in the Sesotho vocabulary or just my luck that I have hips, but wow, as a lady from image-conscious California, having the details of your curves explained daily has been one of the less pleasant aspects of life in Lesotho.
The English that students learn is post-colonial and some of the phrases are less than familiar to my American ears. These can also lend to the agony and hilarity.
One of my fellow PC volunteers came to visit and we had just taken a walk to the village to track down a fowl to sacrifice in honor of T-day. Seeing two white people in the village is a big to-do so a crowd of teenage girls followed us back to my house. They began to comment on the finer points of our figures.
"Ausi Karabo (my friend) she is slender by nature."
We decided that should be the name of a hip-hop single.
My co-worker piped up trying to make a joke out of the bizarre phrase, but I believe that the situation was heightened when she said:
"but you Ausi Limpho, you are fat by chemicals".
Perfect. Now we have a punk band too.
The past six weeks have been a roller coaster of teaching successes and third world dysfunction. Some days the attitudes of my students breaks my heart. There has been so much foreign aide poured into Lesotho that many people (my students included) believe they are entitled to everything but should not have to work. I am doing my best to burst that destructive bubble.
Other days my brilliant baituti (students) understand concepts and make me beam with pride. The school system in Lesotho believes only in wrote memorization for teaching strategies. I taught my students Capture the Flag to demonstrate the concept of competition between species. It was a hit once the rules were finally grasped. Even my token 40 year old went flying through the orchard to retrieve the opposite teams flag.
This week I am in the big smoke for a week of training. I would love to hear from you all while I still have access to the good ol' net.
The English that students learn is post-colonial and some of the phrases are less than familiar to my American ears. These can also lend to the agony and hilarity.
One of my fellow PC volunteers came to visit and we had just taken a walk to the village to track down a fowl to sacrifice in honor of T-day. Seeing two white people in the village is a big to-do so a crowd of teenage girls followed us back to my house. They began to comment on the finer points of our figures.
"Ausi Karabo (my friend) she is slender by nature."
We decided that should be the name of a hip-hop single.
My co-worker piped up trying to make a joke out of the bizarre phrase, but I believe that the situation was heightened when she said:
"but you Ausi Limpho, you are fat by chemicals".
Perfect. Now we have a punk band too.
The past six weeks have been a roller coaster of teaching successes and third world dysfunction. Some days the attitudes of my students breaks my heart. There has been so much foreign aide poured into Lesotho that many people (my students included) believe they are entitled to everything but should not have to work. I am doing my best to burst that destructive bubble.
Other days my brilliant baituti (students) understand concepts and make me beam with pride. The school system in Lesotho believes only in wrote memorization for teaching strategies. I taught my students Capture the Flag to demonstrate the concept of competition between species. It was a hit once the rules were finally grasped. Even my token 40 year old went flying through the orchard to retrieve the opposite teams flag.
This week I am in the big smoke for a week of training. I would love to hear from you all while I still have access to the good ol' net.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Rain
The rains have come. I think I can hear seeds germinating when I step outside early in the morning. This week was a school holiday for Independence Day. The quiet was invited to say the least. I share a wall with 10+ girls and they can be rambunctious at best. The night they found the drum I thought my sanity would be pounded out. I do love them though; it really feels like I’m back being an RA in college. The other day the boys at my school stole the girls’ underpants off the clothes line. Ah, pranks that transcend cultural barriers.
Before I started teaching about agriculture and tried my hand with plants, I always wondered what hindered them from growing. Why are my beans not coming up? What is wrong with the tomatoes? My perspective has flipped more to a sense of awe and wonder. The more I explain the finer points on nutrients in the soil, plant diseases, pests, water use the more I am amazed when that little bundle of sheer green joy pops it’s head out of our compacted red clay. Consistently I am impressed by the tenacity of the seed when so much could go wrong. It is a daily inspiration and I hope it remains so.
With the rain comes thunder and lightning storms. They do not cover the expanses that the sheet lightning of NE Montana does, but the force of the thunder rattles my teeth and soul. They're invigorating. Occasionally I'll catch my hair raising off my shoulders into a little halo, I remember it used to stand straight up in my high school welding class. I guess I'm just electrifiable (that's the new word for the day).
Before I started teaching about agriculture and tried my hand with plants, I always wondered what hindered them from growing. Why are my beans not coming up? What is wrong with the tomatoes? My perspective has flipped more to a sense of awe and wonder. The more I explain the finer points on nutrients in the soil, plant diseases, pests, water use the more I am amazed when that little bundle of sheer green joy pops it’s head out of our compacted red clay. Consistently I am impressed by the tenacity of the seed when so much could go wrong. It is a daily inspiration and I hope it remains so.
With the rain comes thunder and lightning storms. They do not cover the expanses that the sheet lightning of NE Montana does, but the force of the thunder rattles my teeth and soul. They're invigorating. Occasionally I'll catch my hair raising off my shoulders into a little halo, I remember it used to stand straight up in my high school welding class. I guess I'm just electrifiable (that's the new word for the day).
Saturday, September 15, 2007
SPRING
The day is melting into the same apple-blossom pink that dots our Springy trees here at Bethel. The small agricultural/technical college which I rapidly became a teacher at, is in full bloom, announcing a much anticipated spring. I am falling in love with each of my students as everyday we cross language and cultural barriers and begin to understand one another more as people than as teacher/student. My students range in age from 18 to 40 and just like the U.S. range from bright-eyed and motivated to needs-a-swift-kick-in-the-britches.
The other day as I made my usual trek down to the river to retrieve our little pump, I realized what I was wearing. I looked like a cross between Princess Leia and a plumber. I donned white gum-boots, shin-high, with a flowing skirt I had to hitch up every time I crossed the barb-wire fence. I carried two excessively large pipe wrenches and half of my crazy hair was blowing in the afternoon gale and the other half was confined to a messy braid. Sometimes I’ll stop, mid-pipe wrench twist and think: “Huh, I’m in Africa.”
I’ve spent the last month here at Bethel daily scrambling to plan lessons for my Agro-ecology 1 & 2, Environmental Education and a more impromptu Computer class. I hit the ground running because planting season is upon us so I am dragging my classes around building new compost piles, planting food security gardens, working in the Greenhouse, moving sprinklers and drip lines etc. All the while they say “Me’ Kjessie, we are tired, why do you walk so fast.” Apparently Americans are known for their speedy walk.
I have to remind myself I’ve only been here a month when I get frustrated because I cannot speak the language yet or because the village children still faithfully line up outside my window to watch my daily routine. I have ups and downs, but I figure, it’s the same in the States, some sheer joy moments and some dumpy moments.
If you have some free time or are merely procrastinating work: Bethel Business College and Development Centre can be found on You Tube for what I imagine is a little insight to my world. My parents tell me it’s rather informative. Khotso Mokhotsi (Peace Friends).
The other day as I made my usual trek down to the river to retrieve our little pump, I realized what I was wearing. I looked like a cross between Princess Leia and a plumber. I donned white gum-boots, shin-high, with a flowing skirt I had to hitch up every time I crossed the barb-wire fence. I carried two excessively large pipe wrenches and half of my crazy hair was blowing in the afternoon gale and the other half was confined to a messy braid. Sometimes I’ll stop, mid-pipe wrench twist and think: “Huh, I’m in Africa.”
I’ve spent the last month here at Bethel daily scrambling to plan lessons for my Agro-ecology 1 & 2, Environmental Education and a more impromptu Computer class. I hit the ground running because planting season is upon us so I am dragging my classes around building new compost piles, planting food security gardens, working in the Greenhouse, moving sprinklers and drip lines etc. All the while they say “Me’ Kjessie, we are tired, why do you walk so fast.” Apparently Americans are known for their speedy walk.
I have to remind myself I’ve only been here a month when I get frustrated because I cannot speak the language yet or because the village children still faithfully line up outside my window to watch my daily routine. I have ups and downs, but I figure, it’s the same in the States, some sheer joy moments and some dumpy moments.
If you have some free time or are merely procrastinating work: Bethel Business College and Development Centre can be found on You Tube for what I imagine is a little insight to my world. My parents tell me it’s rather informative. Khotso Mokhotsi (Peace Friends).
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