On the public acceptance of nose-picking

Some cultural differences between America and Lesotho will be, I’m sure, points of tension throughout my service (how adults interact with children, the prevalence of corporal punishment, etc.), but others are just kind of odd and funny. For example, in Lesotho, it is completely acceptable to pick your nose. Everyone, from my teachers to my students to people I talk to walking to town, picks his or her nose. It is completely normal, and this of course throws me off completely coming from America where you’re looked on like some kind of deviant if you pick your nose. People will be talking with me and, while keeping eye contact, go knuckle-deep exploring for treasure. It is an especially funny difference considering that I am a reckless spendthrift when it comes to Kleenexes, and my mother and father made sure that I had a stack of new handkerchiefs in my luggage before I left. Standing across from someone who, I have no doubt, would put a finger in each nostril if the situation required it, I feel like a real dandy taking out my little square of white linen and gently blowing my nose into it. Incidentally, this feeling isn’t helped by my habit of periodically dabbing sweat from my brow with the handkerchiefs and exclaiming “mercy!”

Lintlafatso li monate!

I think Peace Corps Volunteers can sometimes get overwhelmed when they realize the full scope of what “sustainable development” means. Personally, I see those two words and think: why not throw “delicious” in there too?

The Standard 7 students at Matholeng come to school on Saturday mornings, because at the end of the year they must take the Primary School Leaving Exam (PSLE), the national exam that has some bearing on their options for high school. I love that my school does this, because I know from talking with other volunteers that some schools have trouble fielding a full team of teachers even on weekdays. It’s unquestionably good that my school understands how important a solid primary education foundation is to building good lives for these kids. But it also makes me a little sad that they’re in there on Saturdays when they should have the opportunity to run around the village and wreak some low-key havoc, having fun doing whatever it is 12 year-olds do for leisure. So the other day I came to hang out with them and brought them some banana bread to eat when they finished their lesson. I have never been a good cook, but I have enjoyed picking a few things out of the volunteer cookbook to try, and am currently working towards my ten thousand hours on cooking banana bread.

They loved the banana bread (I know this because it has shown up in almost all of their compositions, in sentences like “And then we went and ate some banana bread” which appear under every topic from “Moshoeshoe’s Day” to “A Trip I Took” to “The Day I Was Nearly Bitten By a Snake”). So I asked if they wanted to learn how to cook it together next week, and they cheered.

Q: But did you use locally available materials? Otherwise it’s not sustainable and you are an embarrassing failure.

A: Of course I used locally available materials. Grow up.

‘M’e Faso, who is, as you know, the teacher of Standard 7 and the principal of Matholeng, helped me to assign students to bring various ingredients, and throughout the week the students came up to me to ask if banana bread was still happening next Saturday.

That Saturday, some of the Standard 7s came to my rondavel to help me carry up some of the equipment from my house. I went up there, and wrote the recipe on the board. I told them that this was just if they wanted to copy it down and use it later, but their reflexes kicked in and everyone copied it into their notebooks. They constantly impress me with their English, and I was proud to see how readily they applied it to reading and following the instructions. It was a great day, and a few of them even told me that they would try to cook it at their homes.

Cape Town chronicles: the final day

After climbing down from Lion’s Head, Eric and I, along with his co-intern Paul, went to an Ethiopian restaurant called Addis, which was terrific. I don’t remember the names of any of the dishes, but I did choose to purchase an “Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony,” which entailed the waiter bringing me a small tray with coffee, burning incense, and popcorn. Most of my coffee since coming to Lesotho has been instant, so it was nice to have some of the genuine article.

After dinner, we went to Eric’s favorite frozen yogurt place, which we had also gone to the night before. I would do injustice to the experience (and likely embarrass myself) if I tried to describe my joy at eating frozen yogurt after so many months of a more bare-bones dessert (which is under no circumstances a ball of margarine rolled in brown sugar). Then we went back to Eric’s apartment and, as we were two young men and it was a Saturday night, elected to watch the second half of How To Train Your Dragon (we had tried to watch the whole thing the night before, but I fell asleep around 9:30).

The next morning, my final day in Cape Town, we woke up early to climb Table Mountain. We went up a route called India Venster, venster being Afrikans for window, I think. At one point on the trail, there was a small window of rocks that looked out across the side of Table Mountain at a rock outcropping that allegedly looked like India. Say what you will about Afrikaners, but I am certain that they don’t know what India looks like. The trail was an excellent scrambly one though, with lots of climbing and some truly excellent views first of the City Bowl and then, as we wrapped around the side of the mountain, of the ocean. Incidentally, my camera ran out of battery on this hike.

This was a pretty challenging hike, and I was pretty tired when we came down, and I was glad the only plan remaining for the day was to make French Toast. I had, earlier in the weekend, expressed interest in going hang-gliding, and Eric was getting in touch with a guy who ran a hang-gliding company who he had befriended (Eric befriends these types of people, whereas I mostly befriend people at places that sell French fries). I wanted to go hang-gliding, but I also wanted to catch my bus back to Lesotho, and the hang-gliding slot would have been two hours before the bus’s departure. Eric told me I could give them all my luggage, hang-glide to a field, and then take a taxi to the bus station. Apparently, I could not hang-glide directly to the bus station. This was tempting, but I was very tired, and imagined I would, mo matter the guarantees of the hang-gliding guides, miss my bus.

And that was my first visit to Cape Town.

Cape Town chronicles: Khayelitsha to Lion's Head

I went to Cape Town because I'd heard it was a cool city to see, but also because I wanted to visit fellow Colby Mule and friend of the people Eric Barthold, who is working there this year as an intern for Grassroot Soccer. Eric had already had plenty of visitors this year, and did not have the time or inclination to take me on a tour of the various tourist attractions in Cape Town. So instead, I sort of shadowed Eric doing whatever he had planned. This ended up being great because a) Eric does some cool stuff in the course of his work that I'd never be able to see if I hadn't been there with him and b) he generally does more in three days than I attempt in that many weeks.

The first day, Eric had to go to the township of Khayelitsha (where he works) to help orchestrate a small soccer tournament with people who had participated in past Grassroot Soccer programs. Khayelitsha is a sprawling place with everything from sturdy-looking government-built housing to the type of smaller corrugated-iron structures I see in Lesotho. The tournament took place on a small asphalt court in a park with a nice new playground. It was definitely disconcerting to be around so many people - from what I can gather, the population of the Cape Town metropolitan area is almost twice that of all of Lesotho. At one point, Eric and I were leaning against his car and a large group of kids played a game where they would alternate poking each of us in the chest, which caused us to make silly faces. They speak Xhosa in Khayelitsha, so I got to practice with my very limited Xhosa (essentially stretching "nkosi" to mean everything).

As we were driving back from Khayelitsha late in the afternoon, Eric said he would need to work out before we got dinner, because he felt funny if he didn't get some exercise in during the day. I took this opportunity to sprawl out on the couch and read. When Eric returned from exercising, he told me he realized that he in fact had already exercised that day, and had forgotten the two soccer games he played during the tournament. This struck me as odd, because not only do I never forget when I have exercised in a given day, I usually don't let any of the people around me forget it either.

The next day we watched one of Eric's friends compete in the 2 Oceans ultra-marathon in the morning and then went to something called Old Biscuit Mill, which is sort of like a giant farmer's market, and I imagine maybe 90% of the vendors would describe their products as "artisanal" (the rest would use "bespoke"). The food was terrific and there were more people than I generally see in a month. After Old Biscuit Mill, Eric took me on a hike up Lion's Head, one of the mountains that looks over Cape Town.

"This is the school we went to!"

What a lame blog!

I know a lot of you are saying to yourselves, "why doesn't this blog get updated more often? Where is this guy, huh? Rural Lesotho? He is? Well still, he seemed to update it more often at the beginning."

Friends, I am sorry about my lack of updates, but all is well here, still doing fine, still your old pal who can bench press a Chevy Silverado and eat 14 cans of tuna in a minute. I have just been very busy, and I promise to try to get more updates up after the end of school (June 6th). Unless of course the snow hits and I am confined to my rondavel for the two months of winter, in which case I instruct you to watch The Shining if you wish to know what my life is like.

You can look forward to posts about Grassroot Soccer, baking banana bread with my Standard 7 students, and perhaps even a sequel to Cape Town Chronicles (but really, it took us 9 years to get the sequel to Chronicles of Riddick, so be patient).

Salang hantle!

Cape Town chronicles: travel to

The title of this post sets out maybe a more ambitious plan than I can actually complete. But I have a few things I want to write about this trip, and I don't want to bore anyone. This post will be about the travel to Cape Town.

I crossed the border from Maseru, which is Lesotho's capital (as you should well know by now!). The level of security to enter South Africa from Lesotho was about on par with the level of security to enter a Macy's store, though there are generally more people entering Macy's.

After winding through a few long chain-link fenced sidewalk tunnel things, I exited into a taxi rank. Please play this song as you read the next sequence: click here. I went to a small concrete building and asked for a ticket to Bloemfontein, which is the South African city where I could catch a long-distance bus. The woman took my money and pointed me to a bus. I entered that bus. No one was on it. I sat there for a few minutes until a man came and told me I was on the wrong bus, and I followed him to another one. "Koloi e ea Bloemfontein?" I asked. He nodded. I sat on this bus for 45 minutes, and then more out of boredom than genuine concern, I asked a 'm'e (woman/mother/madam/lady et al.) if this koloi (car/van/bus) was indeed ea-ing (go-ing) to Bloemfontein. No, she shook her head. I thanked her, and went out. I went around to some of the other twelve buses asking if they were going to Bloemfontein. Finally, someone nodded, and I got on. I sat there for maybe fifteen minutes, and then a man came to the door and said that we needed to get off this bus (for the record, bus three), and go to another that was going to Bloemfontein. We all exchanged glances in a sort of ha-ha-ha-my-isn't-this-tedious-and-inconvenient way. We followed the man to bus four and found seats. This bus was almost full, which I was excited about, because buses leave only when they have a full load. But we were only on bus four for five minutes before another man came and told everyone (maybe 19 people at this point) that we needed to get onto another bus. Those of you who read thriller novels will have correctly predicted that the bus he led us to (bus five) was, in fact, bus three, the one we had just left. I looked around for someone to make a Grover Cleveland joke to and, finding no one, used my Kindle to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

Once we got to Bloemfontein, I needed to get to the Intercape Office, the departure point for my bus. I showed a fellow in the taxi rank my ticket with the address on it, and he said, "Oh, yes! The bus station! That is at what we call the tourism centre. Just go to that taxi over there and ask for the tourism centre." Of course, like any tourist, my fondest dream is that no one will think I'm a tourist, so asking someone to take me to the tourism centre was decidedly out of the question. I got into the taxi and, in a loud, clear voice so that the other 14 passengers could hear me, said to the driver, "Excuse me, please take me to the most dangerous part of town, where I am a feared and respected resident." I then quietly slipped him the ticket and pointed to the address of the Intercape Office in a manner I would describe as not at all panicked.

Once at the Intercape Office I saw, emblazoned above the wall over the ticket counter: NOTICE: INTERCAPE NOW PLAYING MATERIALS WHICH PROMOTE THE GOSPEL ON ALL ROUTES. Now friends, I will let you read into that whatever you think and create your own expectations. As for me, I can tell you that I had no idea what to expect. But I suppose I was not expecting certain things, and definitely not expecting The Blind Side and Shark Tale (must be this new anything-goes Pope). The third film, a shorter one that cut between clips of guys stand-up paddle boarding and clips of those same stand-up paddle boarders talking about the influence of Jesus on their lives. At first, this seemed a little odd, but upon recalling Matthew 14:25, the connection became more apparent. Incidentally, I cannot recommend Intercape highly enough, and I insist that you look to them for your Southern Africa travel needs.

Some pig

Since I arrived to Matholeng back in December, I have kept a small green bucket in my kitchen area, which I use to dispose of all my food scraps e.g., potato peels, apple cores, carrot ends, and the like. In the mornings, I bring the bucket to the pigsty at the edge of our yard, and feed the food scraps to our pig. I’d always been fond of this pig, and after my ntate told me it was ok to feed it chicken bones, I would often, while feeding it, think to myself of that character from Snatch who menacingly told people how long it would take pigs to completely devour a human body. But more recently, our relationship took a turn for the worse, after the rope that held it inside the sty began coming loose with some frequency.

Some mornings, I would wake up to hear a heavy breathing right outside my door punctuated with the occasional light snort. I fixed this by taking out the green bucket and leading the pig back to the sty, and it would trail fitfully behind me, periodically pressing its wet, dirty snout against the back of my thigh. I imagined it was thinking “Whatcha doing? Is that food? Are you going to give me that food? Can I eat it? Whatcha doing? Whatcha doing? Whatcha doing?” Please try to picture this pig in its full form, 110-pounds and extremely persistent and usually covered in mud. The low-point of our relationship came one weekend that I was very sick, and spent most of three days walking back and forth to my pit latrine, my steps shadowed each foot of the way by this pig.

I have given you all of this information so that you can fully appreciate the my feelings when I learned that this pig was due for slaughter Saturday the 29^th of March. Perhaps you suppose I received the news with equanimity, and acted kindly to the pig in its last days. You give me too much credit. I spent the last few trips to the sty issuing under the breath taunts like “I’m going to a workshop on Saturday. Have you got any plans?” and “You know what would happen if the community cut me up and ate me? There would be congressional hearings. You know what’s going to happen when they do it to you? Nothing.”

When I returned home from the workshop Monday night, I was pretty tired and planned to eat a small dinner and go to bed. While I had some eggs hardboiling in the pot, I heard a knock on my door. My ntate and I talked briefly about the weekend, and then he presented me with a small share of the slaughtered pig, which equaled a very large share of pork for one human to consume. There was one roughly triangular piece about the size and shape of a properly folded American flag, and another scythe-like piece comprised of two rib bones. “You’ll have to cook it now,” he advised me. After a brief moment of meat-panic (look it up in the DSM-V), I settled to the task at hand and started hacking away the meat from the skin with a sharp but woefully unsuited to the task knife. This knife is great for tomatoes and dices onions admirably, but for cutting flesh it was like shoveling snow with a soupspoon.

I went and knocked on my ntate’s door and said something like “Ke soabile ntate, empa ha ke tsebe ho pheha nama ea fariki.” I’m sorry sir/father, but I don’t know how to cook meat of pig. He laughed and beckoned me in to see the setup he had: all of the meat in one big pot with an inch or two of water to steam, mixed with some spices and onions. I went back and steamed the meat that I hadn’t yet hacked off. Four straight meals of pork later, I was done.

How did it feel to eat the creature that once tormented me? Reader, it felt good.

My first Moshoeshoe's Day

I know you have all been on the edge of your seat to find out how Matholeng did in the district-wide cultural dancing competition in Qachas Nek, so it is with hat in hand that I inform you that said dancing competition did not, in fact, occur.

It was a rainy, cold day, and by the time we got to the site of the competition, Qachas Nek Airport (probably not even half as big as Newark Liberty), the situation outside was very disagreeable for humans. The spectators formed a square on the tarmac and we spent some time trying to jab the points of our umbrellas into each other's eyes. One school's team danced (and well, to their credit), but after this performance, a man came out and informed everyone that the event would have to be cancelled. I was disappointed that I would not get to see my students perform, but also a little relieved to be out of the freezing rain.

We went to a nearby school and waited for a few hours while food was prepared, and then enjoyed a delicious meal. Because many of our students rarely have the opportunity to go to toropong (what you would call Qachas Nek camptown were you in the know), our teachers decided that we should walk around a little and visit the Snake Park.

This is the only Snake Park in Lesotho, and most Basotho are very skeptical of the idea. In one write-up in a local magazine, an anonymous woman said about the Snake Park's founder, "I'm not even sure he's a human being." Many people around here are not fond of snakes, and are disinclined to spend their leisure time and money looking at them. So it was a great adventure to visit the park with about 50 schoolchildren, and our guide had a great time taking out the snakes and showing them to the kids. Taking the snakes out of their homes was quite easy, because the locks were not being used as such, and the doors were kept secure with the combination of a stick jammed in front and a brick.

Well we certainly don't have to worry about this Python, which as an adult will reach 27 feet in length, going anywhere!

 So all told, it was a nice day. As a postscript, let's look at King Moshoeshoe I, founder of the Basotho nation.

King Moshoeshoe I

I'm not going to give you a whole biography, but I can tell you a few things that I've picked up from our Social Studies textbooks and osmosis. According to a guide at the mountain fortress (Thaba-Bosiu, as you avid readers will recall), Moshoeshoe had "only" 148 wives, which were married strategically with an eye toward consolidating different factions under the Basotho umbrella. Moshoeshoe I was a peace-loving ruler, who, when told that enemies had eaten his grandfather (remember, sir or madam, that this is the period of the Lifaqane wars, when many resorted to cannibalism), he refused to retaliate and kill them, as this would be "desecrating the grave of his grandfather."

Funny English phrases

Translation is always somewhat imperfect, with phrases and words at best being approximated in another language. So there will always be little oddities like the fact that saying “Ke kopa something” is the politest Sesotho way to ask for something, but translates literally to “I am asking for something,” and so a native English speaker hears it and naturally thinks, “Ok, so ask for it, what’s the problem?” But many of these translations end up being more amusing than annoying.

For example: I was walking around the school, unlocking the classroom doors one day, when I went past two third-grade boys and one of them shouted to me “Sir! Sir! He is scandalizing me!” Of course I was forced to turn around and say, “scandalizing you? Now boys, this is a very serious allegation. But, it’s my first time hearing from you, so I’ll let you off with a warning. However, I do not want to hear about anyone scandalizing anyone again. Do you understand?”

And very frequently during class a student will come up to me, holding his or her pen like a particularly smelly worm, and say, “my pen. It refuses to write.” And I say, “well, have you tried reasoning with it?” And they say, “some pens aren’t looking for anything logical. Some pens just want to watch the world burn.” “Very true,” I say. “You can borrow mine.”

Going to move into the country

If you’re anything like me, you grew up hearing the story that peaches come from a can, and that they were put there by a man. Well it turns out that the peach cause-and-effect chain goes even farther back than that. Peaches, before any man or can-related happenings, grow on trees. Many such trees (I’ve taken to calling these peach-producing trees “Peach Trees,” and have sent a form in to the U. S. Copyright Office) grow in Matholeng.

Every so often, ‘M’e Sekatle will take a few of the WFP burlap sacks and some students and collect a few sacks full of peaches, and after school the teachers distribute 4 peaches to each students. The students absolutely love this, especially because they can get in trouble for taking peaches without asking, and they line up and push and shove each other and it’s generally a raucous good time. It also makes me laugh to imagine schoolchildren in the United States lining up for fruit.

My teachers are very pro-peach consumption, and I have been asked several times if I like the peaches, and if so why is one not in my hand right now, etc. One of my colleagues told me that peach season will last only a few weeks, and so we need to eat as many possible now so that we have something good to remember during the winter. Ntate Shakhane is a big proponent of this theory, and will frequently come into class with a bowl of about nine peaches.

I have been doing my level best to join them. For whatever reason, I didn’t eat many peaches before coming to Lesotho, but being able to pick them fresh off the trees has made me a convert.