I have to admit it; I have been dreading the thought of writing this report. I have neglected it in the name of any other productive (or, as a matter of fact, nonproductive) activity - reading, researching future job opportunities, running, going to the farmers' market, catching up on the movies I missed this past year. You name it, and it takes priority over beginning my fourth quarterly report, even if it induces culture shock.
But this is not the average, everyday irresponsibility and procrastination that can be expected from any good 23 year old. In fact, I would not even diagnose this dread of writing as common procrastination, but rather, purposeful cognitive disregard. As the end of my year drew nearer, I made a conscious decision to take the mature course in dealing with my departure by ignoring it completely. The drastic change about to occur in my life? Oh, I'll deal with that later and come to terms with it when I get home. Very healthy, I know.
I had no desire to begin writing this final report because it meant I had returned home. Writing this report puts to rest my long-lived intentional neglect and makes real the fact that I have actually come back to the U.S. Somehow, this report signifies that my year in Lesotho really is over, which has not quite sunk in yet.
I have also put this pressure on myself to make this fourth, this final (eek!) report illuminate the epiphanic culmination of my experience in Lesotho. When I first thought about this report, I imagined it would be a contemplative, retrospective survey of my successes and failures during the past year. I would weigh in objectively on what I had learned, what ideas of mine Lesotho had dispelled or proved correct, and what I would do differently had I known beforehand. Now that I am here, now that I am sitting in front of this computer at home and not in Lesotho, the answers to those questions don't seem quite so clear-cut. I find myself more often than not in a gray, muddled area, where answers are like blowing bubbles - for just a moment, while the bubble gently drifts away, everything seems unambiguous, but then, all of a sudden, the bubble pops and yet again I feel stupefied.
Early on, I envisioned the topic which would play the leading role in my last quarterly report. I had the position reserved for a discussion of my experience coaching soccer at St. Rodrigue. Before the season even started, I was floating ideas around in my head about what metaphor soccer could take in this final, momentous report. Soccer is the one thing that, for almost the entirety of my life, I have felt extremely passionate about. It is the world's sport as well, possessing the rare ability to unite different peoples. Cote d'Ivoire, in fact, became the Cinderella story of the past World Cup, as the team's success united a country that had been mired by Civil War for years. It seemed as if no language barriers or cultural differences could possibly disrupt such a powerful pastime. Or, so I imagined.
With these thoughts in mind, I enthusiastically prepared for the upcoming season, drawing up practice plans obsessively, organizing what little equipment was available, and galvanizing my three fellow (male) coaches. While their eagerness and zeal didn't quite match my own - at least during preparations for the season - I could tell that they, too, were excited.
Unfortunately, I don't get to tell the inspirational, storybook tale of St. Rodrigue ladies' soccer because the season did not transpire quite the way I had hoped it would. In fact, coaching soccer turned out to be one of the most frustrating, trying experiences of my entire year in Lesotho.
Gender played a major role in my discontent. Despite the fact that I was coaching a girls' team, I was given little respect - by players, by other coaches, by referees - as a female. My opinions were regularly ignored or disregarded, simply because I was a woman. Men often laughed at and teased female players during games because of their poor soccer skills. Yet, most schools made very little effort to improve female soccer or foster skill development; priority was given to the male players. At the regional competition, ladies' soccer was the only sport placed in a different location. There was no schedule, there were no linesmen, the referees did not wear uniforms, and no nets lined the goal posts made of rotting wood. The boys, on the other hand, had three officials for each game - two linesmen and a referee all in uniform, a printed schedule, aluminum goalposts lined with colorful nets, and a prime venue that allowed for their numerous spectators. I know my expectations are generally too high and even border on naivety, but it was hard for me not to feel frustrated about the unfairness of the situation.
Additionally, as a foreigner with different ideas about coaching and training, I often felt completely futile. The girls hated the fact that I insisted upon building footskills using drills instead of just scrimmaging everyday. They also had trouble understanding me. Many of the students had a lot of difficulty understanding English in a quiet, classroom setting where teachers spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable and often repeating their simple, short sentences numerous times. At practice, I was forced to yell complicated instructions across a large, windy field, using soccer vocabulary which was unfamiliar to many of the players. It was utter chaos, compounded by the fact that the two coaches who actually spoke Sesotho neglected to attend practice (leaving the other non-Sesotho speaking coach and myself to deal with the fifty plus girls who did attend practice daily).
And then there was the whole number issue. If there was one thing I did not foresee posing a problem, it was the names of the positions on the field. Sure, midfielder is interchangeable with halfbackâ¦I could see that leading to some minor confusion, maybe. But when I asked the girls who played defense and I was greeted with blank stares, I wasn't sure what to make of it. Turns out, in Lesotho, they often use numbers in place of names for positions. Goalkeeper: that's position number one. Right back: that's position numberâ¦I actually have no idea. I never got them all down, because I swear the numbers changed from day to day.
I could go on and on with these rantings depicting instances where I felt totally dumbfounded, wholly inadequate, or just altogether frustrated. But none of these details are really all that important. The point is: the world's sport let me down. The thing I had been most excited about and that I was so sure would irrevocably connect me to my students, fellow teachers, and the wider community turned out to be a major disappointment. What I had pictured to be superb writing material still turned out to make for terrific subject matter, but for a very different reason than I had first envisaged.
The very same thing happened when I began to teach an upper level literature course at St. Rodrigue. Though I was incredibly saddened by the abrupt departure of our beloved Victor, the previous literature teacher, his decision to leave gave me the incredible opportunity to teach Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart to Form D (about 11th grade) students. As an avid reader, especially of African literature, and a teacher, at times weary of instructing repetitive composition classes with younger students, I was ecstatic at getting the chance to teach classic literature to these well-versed, mature girls. I pictured myself leading eager students in invigorating discussions on subjects ranging from gender roles in Nigeria to Ibo proverbs to British colonialism. The possibilities were endless!
But again, my expectations were far too high. I had to fight just to get a few students to answer simple questions in class. And, eventually, after much frustration, I resorted to requiring student presentations for each chapter. To my dismay, the students came ill-prepared, giggled during presentations, and mumbled while hiding their faces behind their notebooks. Meanwhile, I found myself spending the remaining class time slowly reading through the story, explaining whatever the students could not understand. I found myself disappointed at the lack of ambition and dedication that the majority of the students demonstrated. Mainly, I found myself disheartened. Where were the lively discussions, the passionate outbursts, the devoted students asking for help outside of class? The answer was simple. They were living in the dream world where I had created them.
I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I have written only about my disappointments and frustrations thus far. My last quarter in Lesotho was hardly just that. The entire past year was filled with countless joys as well as with the many rewards of teaching wonderful students. The fourth quarter was no exception. Just, as I reevaluate the time I spent at St. Rodrigue and I attempt to construct an evocative, yet reflective and insightful, oh-so-significant final narrative, I am realizing that I still need to mull over a lot of what took place. In the past year, I invested so much of myself and became so attached to the place and to the people that I feel I owe it to them, to me, even to the Grinnell Corps program, to truly ponder and reflect upon what this past year meant, what I have learned, and how it was different than I expected.
Ostensibly, I chose to accept the Grinnell Corps position for a number of straightforward reasons. The short list: I wanted to volunteer; I wanted to travel and live in Southern Africa; I wanted to teach; and I wanted to learn more about global development. What position could possibly be more perfect? I came in feeling confident about the purpose of my year, clear on the goals I hoped to accomplish. I studied abroad in Ghana during my junior year, and throughout my time at Grinnell, I took a number of courses on development, focusing on Africa, specifically Southern Africa. I thought I knew a lot.
As I look back on my time, though, I feel less certain about the role I played as a volunteer in a third world country and more confused than ever by the questions development efforts pose. What were my real motivations in coming to Lesotho? How did I help? Did I play a part in making positive changes? If so, are these changes sustainable? What stereotypes did I reinforce? How can the numerous problems that plague Lesotho, along with much of sub-Saharan Africa, be solved? I don't know. In fact, I don't even know where to begin. I can't find a clear, easy answer to any of those quandaries. And these questions, along with many others, endlessly echo through my head, constantly nagging me, never leaving me a moment of tranquility.
As I skim my writing from this year - my journal entries, my past reports, my letters - the phrase "my experience" appears again and again. Even the answer I have begun to unconsciously defer to in response to the inevitable, vague question about my year in Africa has become, "It was a wonderful experience." Sometimes, I think I chose to go to Lesotho for the experience above everything else. I went to experience living and teaching in a developing nation, rather than to volunteer in a third world country. Maybe it is not so incredibly ignoble, but it is something I struggle with, nonetheless.
More difficult for me to come to terms with is the fact that my so-called successes from the past year, which I originally expected would be distinct, laudable achievements, are far from well-defined. I saw promising students drop out to get married or because their families did not have enough money to pay school fees. Over half of my students consistently failed each quarter. I watched helplessly as the only class which covered sexual education was cut from the curriculum in a country where the HIV/AIDS infection rate is 30%.
I tried my best all along, dedicating myself to work. And I made positive contributions to the school and the larger community. I helped to organize a successful school trip to Durban, South Africa, allowing a number of students the chance to go outside the borders of their small country for the very first time. The school magazine expanded its repertoire to include both news and arts, publishing twice during my second semester. My math students improved so dramatically I could hardly recognize their work. But, I am forced to ask myself: what type of lasting effects will those successes have? Five years from now, will it matter that 'Makhenene Morie, former star B2 student of 'M'e Kara's, had memorized her times table?
And moreover, at what cost? A year ago, I did not anticipate that I would struggle with the question of the efficacy of volunteers and aid, but this is the dilemma I now wrestle with most frequently. While I think that volunteering elsewhere probably would have led me to these very same deliberations, Lesotho seems to be a country where aid has, at times, been an especially great hindrance to development. In the late 1970s, Lesotho reversed their policies on South Africa to become staunchly and outspokenly anti-apartheid, supporting the African National Congress. As a result, aid and development agencies poured into the tiny mountain kingdom. Sadly, very few of the ensuing development programs involved or empowered local people, leaving the Basotho with a legacy of failed, unsustainable projects as well as a dependence on international aid.
In July of 2006, I would not have believed that aid, or volunteer work, could be inhibitive. After I was called to help Sister Armelina on the convent computer for three consecutive days, though, I was more inclined to accept the previous statement as true. I would arrive at the computer room, accustomed to the endearing sight of the darling headmistress squinting at the screen with a look of mystification, typing with only her index fingers, and then wonder to myself what computer question she would ask. She usually wanted to know how to perform simple tasks, like changing the size of the font, zooming in, or scanning a document.
Aside from the fact that it was a bit of a nuisance to be incessantly called upon to solve these slight problems, Sister Armelina's remedial computer skills caused me to think. Since there are always American volunteers at St. Rodrigue High School, there is always someone available for 'M'e Armelina to enlist for some assistance. She is never forced to take the time to solve the problems herself. So, at one point do volunteers become a crutch, hindering the progress of those we are trying to help?
Just writing those words feels patronizing, but I have discussed this topic generally with a number of students and friends in Lesotho. They agree that aid has oftentimes hindered Lesotho's own sustainable development. I don't know if they would extend that theory to volunteers as well, but it is something that continues to trouble me.
Right now, I feel as if I know less than I did before I ever set foot in Lesotho. Or maybe I shouldn't say I know less, but I feel absolutely certain about fewer of my previous assumptions. If nothing else, my current confusion is indicative of my greater understanding of how complicated development and life and living in a foreign country and coaching and teaching are.
Things here at home, though very different, are no less complicated. I stare at the manicured, geometrical lawns thinking how bizarre it is that people spend time and money on such things. I am readjusting slowly to the materialism and excess of America. I feel weird, uncomfortable, and awkward in almost any public space, giving myself minor anxiety attacks when I see someone I know approaching me in the grocery store. But, here again, what I believed I knew about how Americans perceived Africa and how they would respond to my year abroad is not quite so simple as I first thought.
When I returned from Ghana, I was welcomed home with questions like, "Do you speak African now?" or "I just saw that movie Hotel Rwanda; is it like that there?" I was baffled and disgusted by such ignorance. These days, I still become irritated by the generalizations people tend to make about an entire continent. Otherwise, however, many things seemed to have changed. Is it me, or have Americans become more open-minded and aware? As a homecoming gift, my dad bought me the July issue of Vanity Fair which was wholly dedicated to Africa. It was a pleasant surprise to find that a popular magazine felt their readership would take an interest in this subject. And furthermore, I have yet to be asked a completely off-the-wall question about Lesotho. The most common reaction to my explanation of the past year has been, "Oh, I would love to do something like that."
So, maybe life is more complicated than I thought. That doesn't mean that I enjoyed the past year any less and it certainly doesn't mean that I won't continue to do the things I feel most passionate about, like playing and coaching soccer or working to advance development in Africa.
You know those future job opportunities I was researching in order to put off this very report? They are all with NGOs involved in the development of Africa. And did I mention that the St. Rodrigue ladies' soccer team was runner up in the Mafeteng District competition, only one penalty kick short of getting the chance to compete at Nationals? And that in time, some of my Form D lit students gave well-rounded, informative presentations?
While those accomplishments weren't easy to come by, at least I know that all the frustrations, the complications and the times when I wanted to quit were worth it. They provided me with some valuable lessons I could never have learned otherwise. I will soldier on, despite my failures, encouraged by my successes and eager to discover what I will learn in between. The older I get, the more I realize how very little I know. Mostly, though, I am tremendously excited to think about all the lessons, adventures, and even the mishaps that lie ahead.
