Dear Future Fellows and other avid readers of my daily trails and tribulations,
An experience I encountered on the bus last weekend served as confimation as to just how settled I've become in Lesotho. On our way home from Maseru, Ian and I were conversing with a woman who had previously attended St. Rodrigue and was asking about a few of her favorite teachers. As she got off at her village, Ian and I both commented (nearly in unison): "I had noticed her on the bus down to Maseru yesterday because her hari was so long even though it was evident that she was in mourning." Generally, the Basotho will cut their hair extremely short and wear a black cotton cloth knotted around their necks for at least a month after the death of a loved one. As we haeve all become familiar with these rites, her long hair stood out. In the last five months, a teacher lost a sister, a primary school teacher's son died of AIDS, another teacher's sister lost a child, and of course we lost Sister Florina, an event which shook the whole community.
Sister Florina was the principal of the high school, a mother figure to most of the girls in the hostel, and our primary support in terms of helping us with adjustment and our daily needs. I guess you could say she was the first nun I really knew (of course, my high school theater teacher wore a habit before leaving the convent for the stage, but that doesn't count). While Sister Florina's kindness and generosity reinforced my conception of the nun prototype, her crush on a soap opera character, girlish giggle and dry wit gave me my first clue that there's a lot more underneath those habits than devotion and compassion. Needless to say, her sudden tragic death en route to Grinnell on the 22nd of February altered the path of our experience altogether.
The three weeks following her demise showed me just how deeply connected the community is here, through the good and the bad. To begin with, the trip itself created pandemonium and excitement. More than 20 peopel accompanied Sr. Florina and Sr. Claudia to the airport. During the 3 hour trip to Moshoeshoe International, it seemed as if we stopped at every convent along the way to pick up more well wishers to see them off. The afternoon they left was a celebration, in anticipation of the adventure awaiting them. How were we to know that our goodbyes were truly that? We naively waved goodbye from the observation deck and Sister Florina's habit swung lightly as she smiled, turned, and ducked into the tiny aircraft.
The Monday following the disaster was a pain ridden school day that will be forever imprinted in my mind. After the announcement of her passing at morning assembly, all of the teachers were crying together in the staff room. At some point, a student came running in from Form D to inform us that another student had gone into shock. I spent the next 3 hours carrying girls to their beds in the hostel, reviving those who had fainted, and handing out valium with the nurse; all the while trying to drown out the sobs and wailing that permeated the air. When envisioning my job in Lesotho, this was hardly a picture that entered my mind.
Despite the pain, the strength of the community and their love for Sister Florina never ceased to amaze me throughout this period. There were well over 1000 people at her funeral including the prince and the Archbishop of Lesotho. The 3 days of school preceding her funeral were spend in preparation. The students practiced their hymns, composed speeches for the service, cleaned the school grounds and "repaired" the pockmarked dirt road in hopes of easing the journey for mourners coming from afar. Ian and I spent a day in the nuns' kitchen helping to cook for the feast which followed the all-night vigil (Friday) and then the service and burial on Saturday. We made more donuts than I have ever seen. The nuns got a kick out of having Ian in the kitchen (a challenge to their cultural gender roles) but the merriment wore off as we got down to business. The monstrous task of stirring eggs and sugar was a soothing distraction and by the end of the day I literally had blisters on my hands from the labor.
In addition to the expected strength of the nuns, the teamwork on behalf of the teachers was certainly commendable. At one point during the service, the priest was doring on Sister Florina's motherly attributes. These words sent the girls into another fit of hysteria-it was so bad that they started running out of the church in droves. Without speaking a word, the teachers followed them out one by one to offer them a shoulder of consolation and in some cases to carry them back to the comforts of their beds in the hostel. The end of the weekend found me physically and emotionally exhausted, yet as I walked home amidst teachers after 3 hours of dishes on Saturday evening, the dominant feeling I had was one of gratefulness for the solidarity of a group which I felt so connected to after such a short time.
Fortunately, the passage of time offers solace; the school, students, and teachers have adjusted to the unfortunate changes and Ian and I have really settled into our roles at the school these last 3 months. There have been an increasing number of minute triumphs as I more successfully weave my way through the tangled path of teaching. Names are no longer something to be feared, only Ñ of my students continually look perplexed (as opposed to the Ð that appeared so in February) and we've even begun to implement some of our own ideas around the school-we've started a reading club and a weekly brain teaser in hopes of expanding students' abilities to think critically. One of the more daunting tasks that I hope to undertake when the next session commences is sex ed. and AIDS awareness, hopefully approached sensitively so that my Grinnellish self doesn't shock the sisters out of their good old black and white.
Of course, for those of you who know me and my passions, this endeavor won't surprise you in the slightest. My keen interest in the issue has been further propagated by multiple incidents here at St. Rodrigue. To begin with, a girl from Form E wrote on her biology exam last Friday that AIDS stands for "Africans in deals sexual". (Don't ask where that came from!) Furthermore, the girls have a mandatory pregnancy test in which the nurses at the clinic essentially feel them up to assess if they are pregnant (the Grinnellian in me is screaming objection!) They have only administered these tests to 6 of the 11 classes and 4 girls (including one of mine) have already been kicked out of the school. Yet another time, a girl from A3 came up to me one afternoon and handed me a letter. In so many words, she told me she was in trouble and wanted me to give her tablets so her father wouldn't kill her. After realizing that she was telling me that she was pregnant, I had to tell her that I didn't have the aforementioned item. She then desperately pressed me for 10 rand for transport to the hospital so she could get an abortion. First of all, abortion is illegal and second of all, it would cost her more than 10 rand (less than $1.50 US). Of course, teenage pregnancy is hardly an isolated problem, but I feel that here in Lesotho the cultural attitude towards boyfriends along with girls' limited resources (including basic knowledge) is a hindrance to individual responsibility/empowerment and only serves to heighten both pregnancy and AIDS in the long run. Finally, the afternoon of the funeral for the neighboring primary school teacher's son, we ended up in a big discussion about the epidemic with our fellow teachers. All of them honestly admitted their fears in getting tested even though at least one of them openly acknowledged that he's had multiple partners as his wife lives in Ghana. It frightens me that some of the most educated people in the country have this mentality . . . where does that leave everyone else?
Another challenge that constantly plagues me is the high failure rate in general at St. Rodrigue. There are so many factors attributable to this situation that it is virtually impossible to pinpoint the problem. Some days I think I have figured out the answers only to be faced with a new problem which sends me tumbling back down. And I find myself thinking, what's in a year, when I'm just beginning to get my feet wet? So much to do, so little time!
Take Reading Club, for example. We have a system worked out where the Form A's come to our house every Tuesday after study and read for 30 minutes (B's come on Mondays). This is a popular and enticing activity, aka "Come and see Whitey house and check it out while you pretend to read for 30 minutes." One Tuesday, much to our surprise, no one showed up. Perplexed, I asked my class about it the next day, only to found out that the house mothers (adult supervisors) at the hostel wouldn't let them leave the hostel. Furthermore, the library-though an incredible resource-is another maze of complications and red tape that I'm trying to figure out. Technically, the library is supposed to be open every afternoon. This is far from the truth-AND, when it is, I find myself playing librarian because the Form A's aren't even allowed to pick out their own books from the shelves, so I have to be present to put books they can take on the tables. Argh! The great irony of it all is that at any given staff meeting, at least one teacher will complain that students are failing because they are not reading. Incidents such as these reinforce my belief that most aren't failing from a lack of effort on their part.
Failure at school is part of life here, yet it does not diminish student enthusiasm and perservation in the slightest. Girls get up at 4 am so they can start their walk to school by 5. They have morning and afternoon study hall after which many head home to fulfill their roles as Basotho daughters with chores such as cooking their family dinner of papa and moroho. Life requires them to be as tough as nails.
Oddly enough, despite days filled with rigorous activity, damn-most of them are out of shape (as I've come to discover on the volleyball court). Granted, we only have sports every other Wednesday; such an infrequent practice schedule makes it difficult to get buff let alone remember the drills we practiced two weeks ago.
Infrequent practices, no net, and a soccer ball in place of a volleyball might lead you cynics to wonder, how exactly ARE we playing volleyball? (Some days I wonder that myself.) Despite the odds, we have attained some skill, but most importantly we are having a helluva good time in the process. Creativity is key-in lieu of running the bleachers, we run up the churhc steps and the captains are genuinely convinced that leapfrog enhances not only flexibility but athletic prowess; it has become a must during warm up. Volleyball has provided: respite from study, physical activity other than daily chores, and fun. In short, it serves to remind me that the parameters of success aren't set by school alone.
I must say, as this session comes to a close, I have realized how genuinely attached I have come to these people and my surroundings. We've shared a lot together and I grow fonder of the students daily, even during the most trying of circumstances. While I look forward to a 1 Ð month break filled with visitors, proper plumbing and somebody else's cooking, I will miss St. Rodrigue and anticipate all of the adventures that await.
Now if I can just find some people to play leapfrog with me during vacation!
