THE REST OF THE STORY

Apparently it’s blizzarding on the east coast. I am selling strawberries. They are not as soft and sticky-sweet was summer ones, but they are poised, crisp and delicious. I think I may have a little suntan from being outside selling strawberries. This is what gloating looks like; a Mediterranean climate, good food, people who love me, and a roof over my head.

I’m back, neigh, I am home. After a whirlwind fall ‘09 tour of Colorado which involved; thesis writing, teaching, telling stories from Africa, cooking lots of squash, and making up for lost micro-brew time, I returned home. But this time, not alone.

Driving across Colorado, Utah, and Nevada with a surfboard atop your car elicits some priceless double takes, especially when a little corolla in a snow storm is the bearer of the board. In December I drove straight from snowy Colorado to sunny Los Angeles. At the airport I picked up the love of my life, still disoriented from bouncing through time zones and multiple planes, to embark on the journey which would determine the course of our future. After spending the holidays in Greenville, CA with high Sierra snow and hometown friends, we began.

The corolla, fondly called Finnigan, was loaded down with surfboards, coffee, some changes of clothes and a lot of hope. It began in San Francisco, the quest for a place to call home. We stayed with friends along the way, evaluating job opportunities, living arrangements, surf breaks, good food, and the potential to immerse in a community. We made stops in cities that dotted the California coast, driving the windy Highway 1 through breathtaking Big Sur. We surfed in Santa Cruz and visited farms in Watsonville. We feasted in Morro Bay, and watched the sunset in San Fran parks and on Santa Monica beaches. After a few weeks of sleeping on floors in living rooms and kitchens, or feeling guilty as we ousted warm-hearted friends out of their beds, the quest grew weary. A particularly rough day when the camera with all the photos documenting the excursion and the ipod Dj-ing the trip were stolen, dampened our spirits a bit. As we took the exit for Carpinteria Avenue, a warm glow just around heart center emerged. This was it. A good night of sleep and sunny subsequent days sealed the deal.

I am once more counting the days until my other half returns from Africa, but this time with great peace as the quest for home has ended. Thus far life is simple and beautiful, what more could I ask for? I get to sell beautiful organic produce to people in my community and serve them delicious food from a local restaurant. The other day a professor of mine from Westmont came into the restaurant where I serve. I immediately felt a need to tell him that I have my Master’s and have been working in Africa etc. etc. Why? Oh some definition of expectations and success that keep people unsatisfied. After pouring him more coffee I realized the only thing I need to express is my gratitude for finding home and a little perspective.

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…).

MAGIC TIME

Something happens around twilight. I always used to get out of water when I was surfing because if felt like I should be still and wait while the magic happens. These days when the shadows lengthen I usually take a walk or run. My trusty New Balances slapped the African clay around dusk a few days ago. I live at one end of a valley and typically run to a village at the other end. There is a hut just before you reach the village that houses three precious little urchins. They are always barefoot and grinning. Every time I run by they yell
“Ausi Limpho, Lumela! Lipompom li kae?”
Roughly translated these little ragamuffins yell;
“ Well hello Kjessie, where’s the candy?”
Typically I respond with:
“Ha Lio.”
“It’s gone kids.”
Today during magic time as the sun sank behind sandstone cliffs one of the cheeky babes joined me on my run. Her tiny shadow was completely engulfed by my elongated silhouette. She smiled hugely and we locked eyes as her pace quickened and mine slowed so that we could lope along together. She did not ask for candy and I made no refusals, she just wanted my company.
Over the past month the power of relationship has blazed into my life. My little ausi (sister) just wanted to shade her eyes in my shadow and spend a few moments frolicking alongside a fortuitous foreigner. Yesterday I held the newborn of my best friend who has battled illness and odds, and won with a tiny gift named Ikaneng “to swear.” I swear that I am changed. Changed by this place that is so rough, so beautiful, and so sweet because these moments based sheerly on relationship sneak into my distracted world. I wonder if the end of the day is magic time because it lengthens the light and allows us to see more slowly and clearly what we’ve been missing when we rush during the short midday waves of busy bustling.

ZAM TO THE BEZI

The crocodile sunning himself looked so peaceful banked up on the side of the river. As we bobbed by in our flimsy yellow flotation device I wondered whether the helmet I was wearing was to protect my head from rocks or from munching reptiles. No matter, there was little time between rapids and paddling to be even remotely pensive. For those of us who are geographically challenged the Zambezi river creates the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Victoria Falls is therefore nestled between these two great countries who share an affinity for the latter portion of the alphabet. (It is not often that I get make good use of the letter Z, or zed as we so stylishly call it in this part of the world, thankfully writing about south-central Africa affords me such a pleasure.) After Victoria Falls makes it’s impressive mile-wide display of falling water, sixty-four kilometers of winding river canyon follows. This is where my most recent adventure took place; complete with class-five rapids, shenanigans from the blessed motley crew I accompanied, and the obligatory crocodiles.
When being introduced to the idea of rafting the Zambezi my friend said “I swore I’d never do it again because I was so scared the first time, but I knew you’d love it.” Great. I’m not sure where to even begin analyzing this statement, but I suppose I at least must willingly shoulder this thrill-seeker brand.
During the rafting staging, where we were awkwardly fitted and cinched with life jackets, a certain no nonsense guide shooshed the would-be rafters, keeping a very somber demeanor while the other guides joked and cinched the air out of unsuspecting rafters lungs. Of course this seemingly unplayful guide would end up in a boat with a puppy like me. I was ready to work my charms and loosen him up, but before we even began he shoved me out of the boat. Granted he did not even crack a grin, but I knew we were in good hands. During the day it came out that our guide had been river dogging this portion of the Zambezi for nigh 10 years, it made sense that he was a bit over touristy gusto. What our guide lacked in enthusiasm our boat made up for in snorting laughter (that was me) and blatant river hooliganism. We shoved each other out, joked about nearby crocs, surfed the rapids (stood up when it was advisable to sit down) and were generally a merry crowd.
My river tale involves only a few injuries, one of our crew sprained a finger when our boat flipped going through a rapid. The swollenness and menagerie of black, blues, and yellows earned her a seat in the prow where she relinquished her paddling duties for a coxswain position. A girl on another boat severely chipped her two front teeth so I suppose that rafting between the Z’s is no cake –walk, but I still couldn’t quite back-up my mates claim that it is downright nerve-wracking.
At the end of the day after being tossed around by the river and worn-out by the sun our yellow raft glided smoothly onto a sand bank at the bottom of the ravine. We then signed our lives away for the third (or fourth) time that day and hopped into a cable car which hefted us up to the top of the gorge. A cable car has never been so appreciated, though after living in Africa for a bit and knowing things propensities to, well, stop working, I held my breath. Safely at the top cold Zambian brews awaited us to make a glorious day edge dangerously near perfection. When we passed the herd of elephants just hanging out near the road shoulder on our journey home, I knew that this whole day was not without divine orchestration.
Back at the rafting head quarters we watched the video which had been taken as we careened between narrow canyon walls. We laughed hysterically at our impossibly contorted rafting faces and slapped eachothers backs as we relived memorable rapids. Granted all these events had happened less than 3 hours previous, but we rafters are quick to reminisce about the good old days. After filling my belly with laughter and spaghetti our somber raft guide caught me in an all out bear hug and was lucky that I did not reciprocate with regurgitated dinner! He nailed me off-guard and I could barely express my thanks because he squeezed the air clear out of my unsuspecting lungs. Eventually I was freed from his massive embrace, and a bit stunned I stumbled back to my abode. The Zambezi caught me off-guard in more ways than one, crocs, wild rapids, unassuming river guides, and new- found river buddies. Unlike my petrified pal my experience leads me hope for a repeat on that reptilian inspired river.