I have completed my first semester of teaching. I have said goodbye to Leslie. I have traveled all around Southern Africa with my mom and brother. I have welcomed Adam. I have started a new school year with new students and new classes. The peaches on our trees have changed from green to orange, from bitter to sweet. Spring has transformed into a hot summer, and summer has slowly started to give way to a cooler, more comfortable autumn. Mighty Mouse, our resident rodent who long overstayed his welcome, was captured and carried far, far away. All this took place in the four months since my last report. Four months is a long time, though, and a new mouse, also unwilling to leave of his own accord, has long since taken Mighty's place. As you can see, a lot has happened.
And, suddenly, urgency has become a necessary part of my every action. I am now well beyond the halfway point of the time I will spend here. I have already begun thinking about when lasts will come-last first day of the semester, last teacher trip, last mid-term break, last sports competition, last this, last that. I have become the "older" American. Students and teachers no longer ask me how long will you stay, but rather, when do you leave? And it is a question that constantly echoes through my head and I am required to consider (aside from their perpetual nagging), because very soon I must book my plane ticket back to America. At times, I feel a deep sense of panic growing within. I have so little time left here. How can I possibly take in and experience everything?
It's an impossible goal which I know I can never satisfy. And even if I could, that would still never be enough. I want to bottle up the magic of this place and always keep it with me. Lesotho has absolutely enchanted me. Right now, it is my reality, and I know that no matter how long I stay I won't ever be quite ready to allow this reality to slip away into what once was. I am ever more desperately clutching onto this experience, worrying that Lesotho will become what I fear most: just a hazy dream from the past.
Because, you see, Lesotho and America are incongruous in my mind. These two worlds, and my experiences in them, are so separate that I wonder if it is even possible for them to coexist. Lesotho is so far away from the other reality I have always known-but it is not only a physical dislocation. Everything about Lesotho seems so wholly different from America. How can I hold on to Lesotho when I enter a world that clashes so strongly with the slow, quiet rural life of this place? Maybe I'm being overdramatic, and maybe my panic and urgency are premature. But, more and more, I worry that I will not find some way to take Lesotho with me. I don't even know how to put into words the soul and life of this place. The appropriate words, and the correct way to craft them together, seem constantly to evade me. Lesotho is full of innumerable, subtle charms that I have realized simply cannot be understood without experiencing.
And a couple of weeks ago, I gave my English Composition students an assignment to complete that same impossible task. I asked them to describe St. Rodrigue. At the time, I considered it to be a simple, straightforward prompt, and I had high expectations for their essays. This, of course, was all before I realized just how difficult it is to make this place come alive through words. So, after reading 40 of almost the exact same compositions, I found myself fairly disappointed. St. Rodrigue is near the small village of Mpatane; St. Rodrigue is surrounded by mountains; there are two schools in St. Rodrigue, a primary school and a secondary school; there are many shops close to St. Rodrigue; St. Rodrigue has a clinic, etc., etc. I read these lackluster compositions and was less disappointed in the unchallenging and repetitive formation of sentences and more dissatisfied in what / how the girls chose to describe this place. By the time I had read the tenth composition, I wanted to stand up in front of the class, bang my hands on the table, and shout, "Can't you see there is more to this place? Don't you understand how special St. Rodrigue is?"
Of course, it would not be fair for me to do that. Many of these girls have never traveled outside of Lesotho and cannot compare the small village where the school is situated with anything much different. On top of that, many of them lack the vocabulary to adequately describe anything, never mind to inspire through their descriptions.
So, I admit it: my expectations were unfair. Most likely, deep down inside, I was hoping that these girls, having lived in Lesotho all their lives, could give me insight into and help me to discover the key to the heart of this place, the key to describing this place myself. Because, here I am, with the advantage of having traveled to many different places, with English as my first language and what I consider to be an ample enough vocabulary, and yetâ¦I just can't seem to find the words. I'm going to give it a try, though, because I don't know how else I will be able always to carry Lesotho with me.
When I first arrived in St. Rodrigue, I couldn't take my eyes off the mountains. During the drive from the airport to St. Rodrigue, and what was to become my home for a year, we twisted up and down the winding roads, around, in between, and over top of mountains. Our village is completely surrounded by mountains (my students wrote accurate descriptions). Any direction I take, I simply seem to come upon more mountains. Yet, St. Rodrigue is located in the foothills of Lesotho. In the highlands, there are more mountains and higher mountains. Besides their physical beauty, these mountains have been extremely significant in Lesotho's history; they were, in fact, essential to the formation of this country. And today, Lesotho is dubbed "The Mountain Kingdom."
But, to me, it's not the mountains, despite their significance to the landscape and Lesotho history, that are the key to unlocking the treasure of Lesotho. I would be wrong not to admit how significantly they have affected my experience here. I have the luxury of going for hikes with wonderful views just minutes away from my house. And those roads that wind through the mountains make the journey (which is not actually that great of a distance) for internet and groceries always into an arduous and long drive, filled with adventure. The mountains of Lesotho, though, are too obvious to be the real treasure of this country for me. Any traveler or passerby can revel in the sight of Lesotho's unceasing mountainous terrain. I have come to believe that Lesotho and I have made a certain pact; we share its smallest treasures surreptitiously, hiding these wonderful secrets from the average visitor, who has not earned them in just a short stay. Because, the things that I didn't notice at first, the hidden treasures, the small aspects of life it took me months to recognize (and that I am still discovering today), are now what makes this place what it has become to me.
Today, when I walk along the dirt footpaths throughout the village, my feet sure of the way, I see the mountains, but I am also able to see past them and around them. I notice herds of cattle and sheep climbing those distant mountains. I see newborn piglets in yards and dogs trotting next to herd boys. I notice the small, dung beetles rolling away their perfectly spherical balls in teams of two, as grasshoppers of all colors and sizes fly and buzz past my ankles, and lizards scramble in and out of the fields. The winding footpaths are no longer an impossible maze which I can't understand. They are not a place to get lost in easily, but rather, a simple, direct way to get where I'm going. I see the compounds of the families of my village, with the smoke and smell of cooking food, coming from their rondavels (small huts, with thatched roofs). I observe clothes and blankets hanging on lines or along fences. I understand that the makeshift flags of varying colors mean people are selling different types of goods: anything from popcorn to home-brewed beer. I notice the vegetation: grasses, small bushes, aloe plants, peach trees, and willow trees. I take in the straight, geometric shapes formed on the land by farm cultivation. The dongas are no longer just a steep, treacherous crossing, but a calm, peaceful place where water trickles, people occasionally pass by, and trees provide shade. Now, I don't just wait impatiently for the lights to turn on at night, but rather, I enjoy the quiet, clear nights with their bright moon, stars and dark skies.
And, in a place that can be so incredibly quiet and where I often cannot understand the first (and frequently only) language that people speak, hearing has, ironically, become my keenest sense. I think it's because it is so quiet and because I don't understand the language that I have to capture and understand all the unassuming sounds I hear. I hear things now that I never even noticed when I first arrived. I wake up each morning to the sound of roosters crowing, women sweeping their porches, and birds cooing and scuttling across our roof. During the day, fields of maize and sorghum wave and rustle gently in the wind. I hear horses cantering by and donkeys making enough noise to show their disdain at the heavy loads they must carry. Flies buzz around our front door (maybe begging permission to come in and see the Americans' home?), rain pelts against the roof, our neighbors call to each other from inside their houses in Sesotho. And, I understand enough of the Sesotho spoken to me that I can respond to a number of questions. I have grown to enjoy the cadence, rhythm and expressiveness of the spoken language. I hear cowbells gently tinkling as a herd slowly returns home in the evening. The nights are almost silent, besides the crickets chirping, bugs flying into and buzzing around the windows of the house, and the occasional dog barking.
Even around the house, I notice the most subtle noises. I am familiar with the sound of water at the brink of boiling, and my ear can detect the exact moment when it changes to a boil. Each night, I hear the low hum of the generator just before the lights come on. I absent-mindedly turn my head to look out the window when I hear the sound of a car or bus driving up the hill, wondering to myself who is passing by. I perk up when I hear the jingling metal that indicates our gate is opening and closing, preparing myself for a visitor. A smile creeps onto my face when I am sitting in my house, lost in a book, and I hear the ebullient people walking by, singing and playing local instruments. I am reminded where I am.
What I have just described is a large part of what St. Rodrigue has become for me. These tiny treasures combine to make Lesotho a magical place for me. Most importantly, though, I have come to understand and love the people of this place. It is the spirit and strength of the Basotho people that I most dread losing as the end of my year draws nearer.
Victor, a Ghanaian teacher at our school, disputes a story he once heard on the BBC, which reported that Nigerians are the happiest people in the world. "They're wrong!" he has proclaimed to me on numerous occasions. "I am sure the Basotho are the happiest people in the world." I, personally, have never been to Nigeria, but I think the man has a point. Every person I meet here is just always so happy. No one holds a grudge. Two teachers argue heatedly and minutes later, they will be joking and laughing with one another. As I sleepily and grumpily climbed into a minibus taxi at 5:30 in the morning, the other teachers were laughing and dancing to the music. This is a place where every day that I go running, there are children who join me, laughing and talking as we jog along. The pitter-patter of their tiny feet hurrying to keep up (taking two, three or four steps for my one) is another sound of Lesotho I will always cherish. Usually, they only run with me for a little bit and many times they cheer for me as I pass by. Just recently, a small boy on a donkey called to me, "Hello! Help? Donkey?!?" Maybe I looked particularly pathetic that day and he thought I could really use a ride, but more than anything, this just demonstrates the kindness of people here; they are always willing to help in any way they can.
The happiness of the people also contains within it a sense of resiliency. Many of our students are very poor, wearing shoes with holes and having little to eat at lunch everyday, but I never hear them complaining. And, there are herd boys who spend long days in complete solitude, often only with their animals and a trusty dog. They are exposed to all types of weather-wind, rain, snow, dust, extreme heat and cold (and sometimes all of these in one day)-but when I pass a herd boy in the road, they momentarily pause from bouncing to the Sesotho music coming from their boombox, and say hello. Always with a smile on their face. Kids from our village visit our house often to play a local game called liketoane, which only necessitates that the players have about 15 - 20 rocks. When we are not playing together and when they are not asking incessant questions in broken English, I can hear them playing soccer just down the road with a ball made out of plastic bags. These people can do so much with so little. This is a place where when the local shops run out of five cent coins, they give you a piece of candy instead.
And, I have found that the spirit and happiness of the people here is just plain contagious. It struck me the other day when we went to watch the Athletics team (track and field) practice. The entire school migrates to the top of a hill, with gorgeous views of the mountains. As we make the 15-minute trek, students swarm around me, asking me questions about myself and about America. When we get to the grounds, girls run around the grass, dirt and rock fields in their bare feet. Those who don't participate are laughing, chatting, cheering for the runners, singing, dancing, or doing some combination of all those things. When I stand there and look around at all the familiar sights and sounds of Lesotho, with my students and my friends around me, I just feel content. And, my contentedness is the one word I can confidently employ when describing Lesotho and my experience here.
So, maybe (probably) my descriptions don't really capture the essence of Lesotho or the extent to which this place has enchanted me. Unfortunately, that's going to have to be good enough, because, besides the bag of mealie-meal that I intend to pack in my suitcase to cook papa, it's the only way I know how to keep both these separate worlds-Lesotho and America-together at the same time.
