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.

MY MIDDLE NAME

They say that pride comes before a fall. In my case, I just fall. There is no pride left it happens so often. Last summer I was running by the high school where over 200 students were gathered watching a soccer game. A woman running, much less a white woman, causes a stir and typically people stare. That day was no exception. I tripped on a rock and biffed it big time. Bloody arm, scabby knee, I popped up quickly and kept running like “yeah this is how American’s run.”
Today I laid myself out in front of a classroom full of male students in their mid twenties. I am one of three female teachers at the school, and ¾ of the students are male. Needless to say I had a captive audience. I bopped into the classroom quick-like to check for a plug adapter, seeing none I turned on my heel aiming to make a speedy exit because 50 pairs of eyes on me is uncomfortable enough. In my haste I failed to notice a bench leg blocking my path. My foot caught and I spread-eagle slam-dunked onto the tile. There was a gasp, a hush, then giggles, from 25 grown men. I popped up trying to hide the searing pain shooting through every joint that had slammed the unforgiving surface. I grinned, made a Wayne’s World reference “game on” and took a bow.
This could be many people’s most embarrassing moment. I add it to my list of foot-in-mouth moments, ungracefully falling in public places, and ridiculous dance moves. The older I become the more I realize that grace was never really in the cards for me. These absurd moments remind me that I’m going to embarrass myself regardless, so I am trying to embrace odd cross-cultural situations with gusto. I have begun to dance more on taxis, bopping along to horrible accordion music. I accepted an offer to do a photo shoot with the meat delivery man. I try to perform the traditional (and non-traditional) dances for my students when they beg me to try. Hopefully this new approach will remind me to take myself less seriously, if it doesn’t work, I’m sure I’ll do something inane again soon and be reminded that laughter is the best medicine.

FLOWERED

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.

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.

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.

MOUSE BATTLE

I thought I was tougher than shrieking, apparently I'm not. I was sitting in front of my heater for the first time this year, trying to warm my little frozen body, when the obscenely large gray bodied terror streaked across my floor. I yelped and danced around a bit and immediately called for reinforcements. This was my opportunity. It has been evading me for about a week now and finally I had it trapped in my room. Mr. Rat had caused my fingers and psyche some drama when a trap intended for him misfired on my finger. I had a vendetta. My neighbor Jeremy arrived all bleary eyed and retainer clad. I had minor amounts of guilt for getting him out of bed, but there was no way I could do this on my own. I was armed with the long-handled floor-broom and Jeremy had the Basotho broom by the sweeping end, using the braided top as a mouse club of sorts. I was rousting and Jeremy was whacking. Every time it made an appearance I shrieked. I wish I were tougher about mice, but I'm just not. We finally cornered it after it had been dancing around and leaping to heights that were flabberghasting for a rodent. Jeremy slowed it down with a few wallops and in the heat of battle I dealt it the death blow with a skull crushing stomp. I got queasy when Jeremy picked it's limp body up by the tail and tossed it outside. It dripped rodent blood across my clean tile floor and I got semi-nauseous as I wiped away the carnage. I just hope there aren't more. My finger can rest easy nowthat the rat has be dealt a retributive blow. If there are any left in the far reaches of my eaves I hope they fall for the traps more readily than little sneaky Mr. jumper rat. Ewww, just talking about it gives me the jibblies.

POTATOES

I spent the better (and chillier) part of a month digging up litapole (like this: dee-ta-pole-ay). At first it was a veritable treasure hunt, every time a student or I would find our starchy buried gold we’d yell a Sesotho form of “eureka.”
“Ma-shuetla!” I believe is the equivalent of “Big Potato!” in Sesotho. We cried it as we dug nearly 300 lbs. of potatoes out of the mucky soil. I think the cries became less enthusiastic as the harvest wore on. The bounty from the fields is either used in our school kitchens to feed students at lunch time, or sold as income generation to help with our shaky financial situation. After calculating how many potatoes a plethora of piggy students can polish off (it’s very close to how much wood a woodchuck can chuck), we saved the remaining tubers to be sold. I thought that my lot would be thrilled because I gave the workers a hefty compensation of spuds AND they were getting to scoff their fill o’ taters at lunch. Alas, I learned my lesson.

“An empty sack cannot stand up. A starving belly doesn’t listen to explanations.”
– Creole Proverb-

The students at my school are by no means starving, but come the end of the month, most of them have no money left for food. This is not for lack of money, but mostly for lack of budgeting and binge drinking at the beginning of the month. The fact that food money goes to beer makes me feel less than generous, however once I read the above Creole Proverb I realized that no matter how much logic I applied, tummies were still empty.

There is a large group of ruffian boys who were the main culprits in threatening the potato harvest. They told me if I did not give them potatoes they would steal them at night. This made every American tendon in my body tense because I grew up reading the story about the Little Red Hen. (If you have never encountered this lovely fable, the long and short of it is that you reap what you sow, and that in a just world lazy barnyard animals go hungry.) Slowly the rigidity in my self-righteous, hard-working spine is being rubbed out by an unfamiliar phenomenon dubbed food-insecurity. I have never really been hungry. I recall reading the Grapes of Wrath in high-school and being shaken to the core, realizing never a day in my life have I feared hunger. I have never worried for the bellies of friends or family. Granted, in Lesotho I can rationalize that better planning could stave off hunger for nearly the entire population, but that still does not address the fact that there are empty sacks grumbling about in my midst.

I gave those boys lots of potatoes. They complained that they were too small. All I really wanted to hear was thank you. What is the word? Grace? Being given what we don’t deserve. It’s coming to life as I wash my calloused hands and boil a few potatoes.