A Peach in the Can is Worth Two in the Whathaveyou
My coming to St. Rodrigue coincided with the onset of peach season, and like most seasonal changes in Lesotho the peaches arrived with a vengeance. So many fruits crowded onto each branch that our peach trees began to resemble tangled bead necklaces. By the time I gave my first test, the African sun had warmed the green peaches to a vibrant orange and 'M'e Kara and I began glutting ourselves on the succulent fruit at hourly intervals. Even after a week of sating our sweet tooths the peach supply did not appear to have diminished at all. Overwhelmed with gratitude for such an incredible bounty, I prostrated myself on our overgrown lawn and embraced the Earth until the neighbor's chickens came pecking. I played loose and fast with the peaches, burdening passersby with armfuls of fruit and terribly pronounced Sesotho phrases. In my hubris, I plucked peaches from the tree and used them to play catch with street urchins, occasionally leaving the bruised "balls" lying in the dust. Then one dark day the sky grew dark. The birds ceased their cacophonous calling and the gleeful sounds of children at play seemed like a distant memory. The mountains trembled in their moorings and a vengeful gale swooped down from the peaks and ravaged our humble hamlet. When finally a new day dawned, our house, impervious in its quaintness, stood strong, but our peach trees had not faired so well. Orange orbs littered the lawn and branches, once invisible behind their bounty, stood bare.
I lost it. Those peaches were my daily bread. I needed them to live! Panicked, I picked through the ball-pool that was our yard, but it was too late. Hordes of ants and beetles had already taken up residence in the fallen fruit and they stepped out onto their porches to glare at me as I examined their abodes. Realizing there was no hope, I stumbled inside, curled into a fetal position on my bed, and waited for the hunger to gnaw my mind in two.
After what seemed like months but was probably only 4 or 5 minutes, 'M'e Kara knocked on my door and, in her pleasant way, said, "I guess we better can some peaches before the next storm, huh?" Can? Peaches? My sage roommate informed me that it was possible to preserve peaches in all their ambrosial glory and to store in the safety of our bulletproof cabinet. Kara went on to say that she had it on good authority from previous fellows that 'M'e Batere, the senior member of the St. Rods teaching staff, would be more than willing to aid us in the canning process.
Compacted by age, 'M'e Batere barely comes up to my nipples when we stand together on the sidelines at track meets. The good 'M'e makes up for her small stature, however, by pumping her walking stick in the air as our fleet-footed students sprint past. I assumed that Batere would bring the same vivacity to our joint-canning endeavors, and for once I was right.
When the day of my triumph over the elements arrived, 'M'e Batere yelled at me and we filled an enormous tub with peaches. The first step towards peach preservation involves making a circular incision around the fruit's midsection. Step 2 is to twist the peach in half, and therein lies the proverbial and literal rub. Although our peaches had no qualms about forsaking the wooden embrace of a branch, they cling tenaciously to the embryonic tree resting in their sweet, sweet wombs. Each peach-half I handed to 'M'e Batere was the product of several minutes of white knuckled straining and grunting. Upon receiving the peach parts, 'M'e Batere dexterously peeled the fuzzy from the navel and dropped the fruit in a bucket of salt water. Exposure to salt water preserves the peaches' color. Pretty slick, huh?
After grappling with the peaches for an hour, I was cross-eyed with exhaustion and almost overlooked the gaping wormhole in one of the fruits. I carved out the rot and passed the effected half to Batere. The fruit had not even left my hand when the upbraiding began.
"Atch, Ntate Adam! No! We do not RUIN the shape of the fruit!"
The combination of 'M'e Batere's intonation and her uncanny ability to skin things put me on edge.
"But I was cutting out a squirmy worm!" I thought indignantly. "And besides what difference does it make if one out of the hundred halves has a notch in it? Will it taste any less delicious on my breakfast porridge? Although⦠I suppose you are voluntarily devoting an afternoon to aiding us in this tedious task. I should probably bite my tongue."
This inner monologue manifested itself verbally as "Dude⦠OK."
When we finished halving the peaches, our next step was to boil them in sugar water, a task we accomplished in a massive pot sans incident. The final stage in the process, however, involved transferring the lava-like liquid from the roaring cauldron to the tine glass jars we had arranged neatly in our sink. I braced myself for the worst (Atch, Ntate Adam! We do not use a ladle! You must grab with your hands!), but Batere did the scooping herself. Unfortunately, this left me with the task of screwing down the lids, a feat that I was allowed to attempt only after 'M'e B had established a meniscus of white-hot sugar water above each jar's rim. The application of each lid sent rivers of fire cascading across my fingers and sent my mind off in search of a happy place. When my trials reached their terminus, I wiped my eyes and decided that although the work was hard, the company was good and the rewards were many. Not only did I get a cupboard full of delectable preserves, I would also get to spend the next several days debating whether I ought to attribute my blisters to the turning or the burning.
It would be trite to use the peach-canning experience as a metaphor for my time in Lesoots (Although I occasionally get burned, at the end of the day life here is pretty sweet), so I'll try to resist that temptation. I mention the peach preserving merely to demonstrate that I haven't just been lazing about over here and also to provide an example of on of the earliest effects Lesotho has had on me: I've become more appreciative. Before I ate my first preserved peach, I marveled at how it had retained its beautiful ocher hue. I ran my tongue over its exterior and reveled in its smoothness and lack of notches. Lesotho living, however, has done more than refine my palette's peach receptors. Basotho culture has made me a connoisseur of life. I'm like one of those wine snobs who spend hours swirling snifters around under the nose and whose face you want to punch, except I'm that way about EVERYTHING. I find myself saying things like "That math class was exquisite. The students remained attentive despite the fact that we were short twenty protractors, and the oaky undertones and smooth finish were positively divine!" and "What vintage is this Tang?" No meal, class, or run fails to delight. No sunset to inspire. I'm like a latter-day John Aerni.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention some of the frustrations I've encountered here. New students continue to trickle in despite the fact that the school year is now six weeks old. Interminable staff meetings rarely accomplish anything. Teachers alter the schedule on a whim without informing their colleagues. As much as these incidents may pique my American sensibilities, however, they also present additional aspects of Basotho culture for me to admire. The late-arriving students don't balk at the breadth of material we covered in their absence. Instead, they take the initiative to visit me during study hall to catch up on missed tests and lectures. The same teachers who obstinately refused each others' suggestions during a staff meeting begin joking with each other as soon as we leave the library. The flexibility of the class schedule means teachers will readily swap classes with you should you need extra time to administer a test or stage a debate.
So, to everyone who helped make my coming here possible, and to 'M'e Kara who has helped make my time here so enjoyable, I offer my heartfelt thanks. I really appreciate it. As my students would say, "I would write more if the time would allow me" (yeah right), but it has taken a colossal effort to avoid using the word "peachy" and now I'm plum tuckered.
