The list of things that I did not expect to do in Lesotho is quite long already. I did not expect to have so many difficulties with my colleagues. I did not expect to have rocks thrown at me by herd boys. I did not expect to love the ancient, crowded, smelly bus that carries us to and from Maseru as much as I do now. Most of all, I did not expect to find that the sisters of the St. Rodrigue Mission are effectively the mafia of Lesotho.
Before I came to Lesotho, Doug Cutchins sagely advised me to turn to the nuns if I needed help getting my visa, because "nuns have special powers" (Cutchins, 2008). Little did I know that these "special powers" are akin to those enjoyed by a ring of organized crime (or religion, in this case.) The associates of St. Rodrigue, as well as the associates of Jimmy Hoffa, are well-protected, well-connected, and impeccably dressed. One can spot a sister doing "business" on the streets of Maseru, in a well-cut outfit of white and black, often featuring suit jackets and wide lapels. I have caught a ride to Maseru with these "business trips" before: the truck passes by the house before dawn and honks, and I slide in the truck next to a few cloaked, silent nuns. I take my cues from the stone-faced driver who stops on command along the way to unload and pick up unidentifiable cargo - don't ask questions. The contents of the unmarked burlap sacks may have something to do with the sisters' unclear yet ample sources of funding. They enjoy a life of relative luxury in their secluded convent in the mountains, and any curious visitor to their hide-out will undoubtedly be "taken care of" by the covent dogs - vicious, spectral beasts who rule the night life at the mission and could dispose of a dead body better than a trash incinerator in the Bronx. They also give rise to the possibility of a dog-fighting ring, and if one of the herd boys didn't pay up, a nun could always rely on her personal hardware. No joke - Bryan once opened a file cabinet in a sister's office and was met with a loaded handgun in the bottom drawer. This may be another clue to the reason why the sisters can solve problems and get things accomplished in a timely and effective manner, which is no small feat in a developing country like Lesotho. It's just one big, Catholic family with friends in high places, namely the Maloti mountains and heaven.
Sister Amelia repeatedly asks me when I am going to become a nun. I usually laugh it off and say, "I don't know." (It's something about celibacy and going to church seven days a week, but I don't want to offend her). Honestly, I might be a nun if I had grown up in Lesotho. It's really a great deal for Basotho women; they get housing, nutritious meals, a group of close-knit friends who share their interests, and an education provided by the mission, all without a pestering husband or children. In addition, the only people I have met in Lesotho who have been to the US have been nuns, by way of visiting a sister convent in Maine (but Brazil, Haiti, Canada and Rwanda are also possibilities, as the convent has affiliation there, too - and maybe off-shore bank accounts). If I was a nun in Lesotho, I would have none of the usual female worries about annoying suitors or getting pregnant out of wedlock. The nuns at St. Rodrigue are very efficient at removing such inconveniences, as in the case of one unwed teacher who disappeared mysteriously to whispers of "fell pregnant" and "maternity leave." Odds are she'll return in a few months with a new tiny face in her brood, as if dropped in the night by African Fish Eagle, and nothing more will be said - a silent "kapishe?" message from the convent that their morals are not to be taken lightly.
It sure took me by surprise, though, because she wasn't showing at all. Given the way that bodies, especially female ones, can be an open forum for discussion here, I would have expected any noticeable change in a teacher's body to appear on the next staff meeting agenda. I am exaggerating a bit, but only to illustrate how open and blunt people people can be when discussing bodies here, something to catch a hapless female Grinnell Fellow off-guard.
In general, the most desirable body type for Basotho women is much more⦠luscious than the stick figure ideal strived for in America. While this is refreshing and appreciated, it can create some uncomfortable stress for a typical American girl in Lesotho. Its not so much the ideal as it is the word "fat," its frequency and implications at home and abroad. I would love to be empowered like African women who are encouraged to be large and in charge, but there is a part of me that is shaken by it -probably the part of me that is forever an American adolescent from the Kate Moss and eating disorder generation for whom the very word "fat" can bring embarrassment, shame, denial, or in this case, confusion:
"Me' Renee! I did not know your legs were so fat!" a fellow teacher exclaims as I smoke past her and some others lurching up a hill.
"Uh, thank you?"
"You will be like Me' (insert female Grinnell Fellow's name here). She was so fat! And Me' (insert another female Grinnell Fellow's name here). When they came here, they were skinny skinny, but when they left, they were soooo fat!"
Another teacher adds, "Ah yes, but Me' (insert female Grinnell Fellow's name here) liked papa-"
(Sesotho conversation, involving my name and those of others previously mentioned, punctuated with the following verdict.)
"Ah yes. I see you have the potential to become fat"
What's a hapless female Grinnell Fellow to do? The collective memory and judgment of my colleagues runs deep. They are obviously comfortable discussing my body in front of me and comparing it to others in a language I don't understand. Should I be offended? Most teachers are Westernized ladies who come from urban areas with access to People magazine and MTV and the resulting body image from such media. They regularly talk about wanting to be thin and eating less to make it happen. If anyone should know that saying I'm "fat" is not a good thing in my culture, it should be them.
Their use of the word "fat" seems more malicious than when the students use it, by contrast. The girls mostly some from rural backgrounds tied more to traditional Basotho values in which it is a good thing to be "fat," and even a source of pride. As stated by a student in a composition, "We cannot have gym class because we will run too much and become skinny and the boys will not marry us because they will think we have HIV/AIDS." It's a legitimate concern. Often, students will state it as a fact in describing themselves as in, "I am a short, fat Masotho girl aged 16 years. I can count change reliably."
So when a student says, "Ah, the way you are looking Masotho today!" usually on a day when I am wearing something a little more form-fitting, I respond, "Oh, thank you!" then think, "⦠wait, are you calling me fat?" I flash back to another voiced memory that I have heard from students: "Me' (insert female Grinnell Fellow's name here)! She was so beautiful! She had the hips, like a Masotho. She had the good figure." I do get a lot of attention from the students about my looks, and it's as though I'm suddenly the most popular girl at school - everyone wants to hang out with me and tell me how pretty I am or play with my hair. As a Grinnellian, it can be assumed that I never experienced this is my own high school years, and it is nice while also a little disturbing. Do they like me just because I'm white? Are they calling me fat behind my back⦠and is that a good thing?
It's easier to accept comments on my curves as compliments when they come from students, but there's still the troubling expectation that Grinnell girls will fill out their seshoeshoes by the time they leave Lesotho. This is further evidenced by a student's writing (in an assignment given by Bryan that asked them to write my thoughts), "I will be happy to be like other teachers from America who became fat when they came to Lesotho." This, plus the gleeful prediction from my coven of colleagues, makes me feel like there are eyes on my body all the time, assessing my progress each time I eat a fat cake (a.k.a. doughnut) in public. Even the snacks in this country are straightforward about their intentions.
The icing on this cake is that the Lesotho expectations disagree with the American expectations for its girls who go off to Darkest Africa. I feel pressured to come back home emaciated, either from digestive parasites or insufficient nutrition. What is overlooked in that, however, is that we brave American girls generally try to avoid parasites because they make our lives miserable, and that our diet is often beyond our control. It is subject to what's around us, and most African food pyramids resemble the hour-glass figures they enhance: loaded with starch staples on the bottom, slim on fresh produce and readily-available protein, and topped with voluptuous amounts of sugar and oils. In addition, nutrition information on pre-packaged food here is measured in kilojoules and ingredients are listed in Afrikaans, so it's hard to know what you're actually eating. Thus, it is difficult to wear both sets of expectations when neither really fits what I want for my body.
There is a lot to love about how body image plays out in Lesotho: Everyone dances freely, often, and with their whole bodies. The students run and jump in athletic activities without inhibitions or sports bras. Male and female pairs of friends are often seen holding hands, hanging on each other's shoulders, or affectionately wrapped in the same blanket on a cold winter day.
One of my most special moments in Lesotho so far was bathing nude in a washbasin with a woman I didn't really know. I was staying at the home of our Lesotho mother, Me' Jobo. She doesn't have indoor plumbing, yet she insists that everyone bathe before leaving the house in the morning (while she's washing/ironing our clothes, typical Basotho standards of cleanliness). She mentioned that her recently introduced niece would show me how to take a "Basotho shower," so there we were: 2 wash basins, 4 inches of water, the soap, Rorisang, and me. Rushes of adolescent locker-room fear crept over me as she undressed and waited for me to do the same. I took a deep breath and did so, hoping that she wouldn't start up a conversation about my "fat" legs or "Masotho" hips. She didn't, and it was really nice. I thoroughly enjoyed that bath, surprised at how comfortable I felt being nude in the daylight with a stranger. We chatted, laughed, and cleaned our bodies in tandem with the freedom of water nymphs in a classical painting. It helped that the Backstreet Boys song, "I Want It That Way" was blasting from the next room. We sang, and I reflected - the song also brought me back to adolescence, but this time, I was relishing our shared nudity and how truly special it was to be open with my body in a way that's difficult at home. Perhaps sharing a sponge bath with a relative stranger in Chicago, IL would not go over so well, but in Lesotho, it was just another refreshing surprise dressed in a challenge.
