Friday, July 30, 2010
In the early morning, 10 year old Aussi Liketso brought me a bucket of water from the pump roughly 30 mins walk away, and shyly allowed me to give her a big hug and babble in English with excitement. Then we repeated to each other, ‘Ke thabile! Ke thabile haholo!’ [I’m happy, I’m so happy].
Just after breakfast, my ntate brought me over to see our very pregnant pig. ‘She will have them tonight, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. We need to find grass so the piglets can hide and keep warm,’ he announced. He also tells me that there will be two funerals this Saturday. My ‘Mme then absentmindedly looks up at the crystal blue sky, and tells me that there will be snow tomorrow.
Later I walk down to the water pump with my laundry, and the bo ‘mme are cleaning cow’s intestines. A Mme clarifies, “It is because someone has died. The Bo Ntate kill the cows and the sheep, the women kill chickens.”
When it is my turn at the pump, I notice that 8 year old Rapelang has followed me down and she is now keeping me company while I wash my clothes. We practice: ‘How’s it going? I am fine, thank you. How are you?’
At the library that afternoon, Liketso’s mother comes in to welcome me back. I explain, “Ke fihlile moabane bosiu [I arrived last night].” She smiles and nods, and explains further that I arrived at 8:20pm because that is when the car passed by her house. Then she gives me a big hug, walks in and picks up the newspaper. The children are packed inside and outside, playing games and pouring over the new books and magazines.
As the sun sets, I walk home and greet the traditional healer. We are both so happy to see each other, and after another warm hug he asks me, “How was Maseru?” and I answer by wrinkling my nose.
“Nkhang hampe! [It smells bad!]” We laugh, and I promise I’ll be opening the library again tomorrow afternoon, after the funerals.
I just boiled a pot of water so that I can pour it in to my water filter tomorrow morning after it has cooled, and I’m writing this by candlelight. I must be back home in the village.
Monday, July 26, 2010
We are crossing the border between Botswana and South Africa, returning from a trip with colleagues. I am exhausted and exhilerated, it seems impossible that the weekend is already over. My mind is full of the fun we have had – the dancing, eating, singing, and stories.
Thursday night we boarded a school bus, drove all night to Famo music so loud that the rhythm became my heartbeat and the aisles became a disco club. Finally I remember my ear plugs, my last minute decision to bring eye covers, and by dawn I emerge from a blanket (draped over me by someone during the night) just in time to watch the sun rise itself hurriedly over the flat Botswana landscape.
On Friday, we walked through the capital to marvel at the clean sidewalks, functioning traffic patterns, varied and well stocked shops, and markedly more diverse population. I overheard casual conversations in English slang while walking through the outdoor market and enjoying drinks on the balcony of a restaurant. After an enormous bilboard reminds us to ‘Keep Our Country Clean’, my friends and I suddenly kept a look out for well-positioned and frequent trashcans. We were out of practice; Maseru policy for trash means dropping it out the window or casting it in to the nearest gully – if your throw reaches that far. Bilboards invite us to buy electronics such as Blackberries, to stop smoking, to drink responsibly, and to invest wisely. I hadn’t yet heard of these theories in Lesotho.
Saturday was ‘sports day’, and the stadium hosting our events was gorgeous. I discovered my hidden talent at netball, a variation of basketball for women. I realized that unfortunately volleyball requires eye-hand coordination. The end of the day found us scarfing KFC in the parking lot of a large shopping mall, next to our home away from home: the school bus.
Both Friday and Saturday nights we danced all night. By Sunday morning, my head is swelling with new impressions and foggy from lack of sleep. I was almost looking forward to the 10 hour opportunity to sit still as we drive back to Lesotho.
And so, walking towards the guards at the border, most of my thoughts were about the contrast between Botswana, South Africa, and Lesotho. Before I would re-enter South Africa, this framework changed in the typical way - from a window created by two people from the same region briefly interacting, a window wiped clear of the condensation formed out of my surface impressions and projections.
We are crossing the border between Botswana and South Africa, returning from a trip with colleagues. As we approach the second passport control check, the Mosotho woman I am walking with begins chatting with the guards - her in Sesotho and them in Setswana. To my amazement, I understand… Hello… How are you… We are returning from our trip to Botswana… we live in Lesotho… Yes, even she… We are friends returning home…
Then the marriage proposal comes from one male guard. In the moment, all I could recognize of this romantic moment was that the pace of Sesotho had picked up dramatically. I was dismayed, and a bit confused, that I could no longer understand anything but the repeated mention of ‘lihoho’ and ‘lihomo’ – chickens and cows.
Later, my friend explained. “He said that he wanted to marry a Mosotho woman,” and she gently gestured to herself with a shy smile. “So, I told him he would need many cows!”
She laughed, and continued. “Then, he says he does not have cows.” Her eyebrows rose up. It was as if discussing the misbehavior of a small child. She paused, remembering her suitor's next move, his banter and attempt at persuasively courting a Mosotho woman.
“He says, but he has chickens! And, he says he has a big field of dagga [marajuana]!”
We began to howl hysterically over this offer, grabbed each other's arms for support – chickens, marajuana… “Mme,” I gasped for air between laughs, “How can you refuse that? That kind of offer, it does not come every day!”
We kept giggling and walked towards the rest of the group waiting by the bus.
“You know, Mme,” I conclude, and she turned to listen by looking me straight in the eyes, “Those guards will say different things to me, alone, than to you.” She laughs, nods with a look back, and shakes her head with a roll of her eyes. We board the bus, the singing begins, and seconds later we are between the countries of Lesotho and Botswana.