A Lesson from Lesotho…

For my first several months of living in Ha Selomo, my tiny rondaval was home to myself, a cat, Penny, (my predecessor's cat), and her three kittens (the female of the litter being my cat, Pina). Needless to say, the feline frenzy kept my first few weeks living in village interesting and lively... They ran about eagerly pouncing on toes, flies, and everything else that goes "bump" in the night. As it turns out, Penny was also quite the accomplished mouser! I did my fair share of complaining to PCV friends about her "extracurricular activities," but in all honesty, this is a rather desirable quality in a country cat… And boy, did she relish in it! Hardly a night went by when I didn't awake to a dead rodent on my floor. In fact, her deposits became so frequent, I quickly learned to never step out of bed without looking first! While this sounds horrifying, I rationalized that if it's going to be left at the foot of my bed while I'm sleeping, better dead than alive, right?! :)

So I had become rather adjusted to finding her proud little presents in my house... Or so I thought. You see, the thing about living in Lesotho is that just when you think you've got it under control, Peace Corps will willingly teach you another lesson in humility and the importance of a good sense of humor.

On this particular occasion, one of my PCV friends, Zoe, was visiting my village for the first time. After living at site for just over a month, I was excited to show her around, and we were both incredibly grateful for the chance to debrief, vent, and share the many successes and frustrations of our new lives in rural Lesotho. After a particularly wonderful homemade dinner (that included one precious and hoarded can of chick peas to make hummus), followed by endless hours of conversation, we both remarked that we felt emotionally recharged and ready to face the world again. "I really feel like I've learned a lot about myself over the last few weeks at site," I said. "I feel more resilient now... Confident that I can handle whatever Lesotho throws at me!" "Absolutely!" Zoe echoed positively in agreement, as we rose from the table to clear the dishes. Over the last few hours of talking, darkness had settled over the mountains, and my cozy little rondaval was now only lit by the single candle on the table. "I'll heat some water for dishes," I said as I moved toward the stove.

Suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. "Wait? What is that? Zoe... I think..." Beneath my foot I felt something liquid, then warm, and finally, much to my horror, hairy. It took a full second before I understood. "Oh my god!!! Zoe!!! Get the light!! OH MY GOD! Ewww ewwww ewww eww! ZOOEEEEE!" I screamed. But even before she reached the flashlight, I knew... I had stepped on Penny's latest gift: A dead rat.

The rondaval erupted in chaos as cats and humans alike scrambled to escape... I took two steps in an effort to leave my very foot behind, only to find my other foot in a puddle of something wet and chunky. "OH MY GOD!!! You have GOT to be kidding me!!! Zoe, HELP!!!" By this time, there was no point trying to escape the mortification and overwhelming grossness of the moment. Suddenly the light didn't matter... I knew that one foot was covered in mouse guts, and the other in cat vomit. Lesotho's lesson was complete. There was only one thing left to do: I succumbed to gut-wrenching, tear-stained laughter.

For the next 10 minutes we stood there, laughing and crying so hard we could hardly breath. I was too exhausted, overwhelmed, and disgusted to move. It was as if every emotion I'd held in for the last month came tearing out of me in final surrender to this crazy, beautiful, unpredictable, and priceless reality that was my life now. There was no escaping it, Lesotho had won again. We thought we finally had it under control, but this experience is not about feeling safe, comfortable, or "in-control"... It's about tossing it all to the wind and leaping anyway; confident that the journey is worth the bumps and bruises along the way.

In 20 years, when I look back on my time in Peace Corps, I know that these are the moments I'll remember with laughter... Because my life here is not always perfect, pretty, or postcard worthy. In fact, most days Peace Corps looks nothing like I had imagined. I'm not "saving the world" or doing anything brave or noteworthy... I'm just the girl, in her rondaval, covered in dead rat, wondering how in the world I got here. And in a way, there's something much more priceless and meaningful about that.

With Love from Lesotho- Mary E. <3

The face of HIV.

As an academic and anthropologist, I was never really intrigued by HIV/AIDS, as a physiological disease, cultural experience, or epidemic. It sounds callous and elitist in retrospect, to knowingly decide to be uninterested in a disease that affects the lives of millions, but that's the honest truth. We'd come to HIV in my "Anthropology of Disease" course in graduate school, and I'd let out an exasperated sigh and think, "Here we go again." It just seemed over-studied, and over- analyzed. "There are so many forms of suffering that go completely unnoticed," I told myself, "and HIV already has more than it's fair share of advocates screaming for attention. Let someone else worry about it." And then I moved to Lesotho...

It's easy to ignore the magnitude of a disease like HIV/AIDS, when you can reduce it to a collection of shiny graphs or bullet points on a power-point slide. It is a whole other thing to have it stare back at you in the middle of your Math Class in the form of an orphaned 17 year old, or a 14 year old, who's literally wasting away to skin and bones in front of your eyes. And with one of the highest per-population HIV infection rates in the world, that's exactly what I stand up and face in my high school classes every single day. This is my new reality... And the face of HIV is a grim one.
Last week, Lesotho's Ministry of Education sent out a survey of students that each school in the country had to complete. Linokong High School was no exception, and as the class teacher (essentially the "home room" teacher) for Form D (11th grade), I was asked to complete the survey for the students in my class. There were a range of questions, asking about students' ages (it's worth noting that I am younger than some of my students), how many students were "repeaters," and about their families. Yet despite all the ways that HIV has already crept into my life here in Lesotho, I was still surprised when I reached the end of the survey and there were two pages of questions asking about the number of orphans in my class. "Okay," I thought, "This is fine... I always knew there were orphans in my classes. It's bound to only be a few." I went in to complete the survey with my students, prepared to face the chilling reality of HIV... Or so I thought.

There are 49 students (and counting, as the number seems to rise daily!) in my Form D class. When I asked everyone who had lost only their mothers (their fathers are still living) to stand up, I nearly lost my breath for a moment. No less than 12 students timidly came to their feet. I was stunned. My class, previously full of laughter and whispers as students had announced their ages, was now grimly silent. Eyes were downcast; embarassed to acknowledge the obvious truth. I recollected myself and moved on, "Stand if you have lost your father, but your mother is still living" I announced. Another 8 students came to their feet. I nearly groaned with dread, as I read out the final question... "Stand if neither of your parents are living." Six more students/orphans shyly admitted defeat and rose to their feet... Including the quiet little boy that sits near the front of my class. He is undeniably smart, but his tattered school uniform tells the story of a much harder reality at home. Suddenly, he made a little more sense to me.
All in all, over half of the students in my class have lost a parent or both. It's a jarring reality to witness. These kids go home to houses where a key figure in their lives is notably absent. They have known true loss at such young ages... And here in Lesotho, to loose a parent seems more common than to have both still living. I do not know how these students lost their parents. There are obviously multiple common causes of death in Lesotho. But none so common, for this age group (adults in their prime), as HIV/AIDS. It is literally ravishing the adult population of Lesotho. And it's effects are everywhere.
Over the last two weeks, I have been lucky enough to get to know one of my Form E (12th grade) students, Thato (or Naomi), well. Thato first approached me several weeks ago for extra help preparing for her COSC Math exam (she, like many students here, struggles in Math)... And her exemplary English skills, quickly allowed us to become friends. She wants to be a nurse, and her determination is absolutely admirable.

You see, this is not Thato's first attempt at the COSC exam. She sat for it, and failed her Math exam two years ago. After a slew of rejections for the very limited and coveted slots at one of Lesotho's universities, she returned to high school to retake her entire Form E year. She lives in "upper Ha Selomo," my "sister" village just over the mountain from my house, with her little brother, Boitumelo (one of my Form A students) and her elderly grandfather.

Every morning, Thato wakes at 4am to get ready for the day, get Boitumelo up, and make the hour long walk across the mountain to school (And her commute is not even close to the longest that some of my students make). Students are required to be at school by 7am for study; Thato is there every morning at 6am. "Its too noisy when the other students are there," she tells me. "I have to work hard if I want to become a nurse." When school ends at 3:45pm, she and Boitumelo walk over the mountain again, and she starts the household chores of cooking and cleaning- A woman's work, and her home is noticeably absent of any maternal figures to help her.
She showed me her and Boitumelo's few priceless family photos, when I visited her home this past weekend... Pictures of her mother, father, grandmother, and aunts filled the pages. They aren't here anymore to fill her grandfather's house with their support, help, and guidance though. She and Boitumelo are all that's left of the full and happy family that is memorialized in that tattered old photo album. And yet, they are both so smart with bright futures ahead of them. They are making wise choices in the face of overwhelming odds, and they are the perfect example of what "hope" looks like in my rural corner of Butha-Buthe, Lesotho.
I'd be remiss if I were to only illuminate the tragedy of stories, like Thato's... Because her story is so much more than that. For me, she is a shining example that, in the midst of so much loss, people still rise to the overwhelming challenges presented by the HIV/AIDS epidemic in this country. Take my colleague and friend, Chris Morake, for example. Every month, Chris, a married, busy, full-time high school teacher and English Club coach, takes his natural rapport and easy confidence with kids, out of the classroom and into the hospital. There, he leads a monthly support group for orphans and children with HIV. In the midst of games, jokes, and his now famous outbreaks into "song and dance," (which he constantly graces us with in the staffroom at my school- Seriously, the man has got rhythmn! Ha!) he provides these victims of HIV/AIDS with a safe place to express their sadness, shame, and anger. You see, HIV in Lesotho is still very much stigmatized, despite it's obvious prevalence. To other Basotho, these kids are walking time-bombs... Lepers who are liable to infect anyone they touch. To Chris, they are just kids. Kids who have been given a heavy burden at an incredibly young age. His willingness to give these youth a "safe haven" and role model, is beyond inspirational. This is what fighting HIV/AIDS really looks like... Real people, making little steps in the right direction, and changing one life at a time.
I'm learning a LOT more about what this disease really means sitting right here at Linokong High School, than I ever did in a classroom at University. It's a hard lesson, but one full of patience, strength, and undeniable hope.   With Love from Lesotho... Mary E.

An Update from ‘Me’ Limpho’s jarateng!

A few quick pictures from my garden, which I LOVE. Planting a garden in Lesotho was the best decision yet… Now that we’re approaching the end of summer, I am literally buried under more spinach (morroho), lettuce, and cucumbers than I can eat. I’ve been unburdening them onto my fellow PCVs and host family. Yum! I also have baby watermelon that, fingers crossed, I’ll be able to break into before summer’s end! Yay!

  My cucumber plants are absolutely MASSIVE!
My mother would LOVE it!

Exploring “Upper” Ha Selomo

When opportunity knocks in Lesotho- You should ALWAYS take it. That’s what I’ve learned over the past few months living in Ha Selomo. So when  one of my Form E students, ausi Thato, came up to me yesterday as I was leaving school, and asked me if I was going to come and visit her family in “upper” Ha Selomo today- I said, “Why not!” Sure, I had a massive amount of laundry waiting for me at home, but it was a gorgeous day… And after a long week, an afternoon of hiking sounded like a good idea.

My village, Ha Selomo, is actually made up of multiple smaller villages that cover a VERY large area in the surrounding mountains. The largest and most prominent part of the village, called “lower” Ha Selomo, has the main road in the region running through it (don’t get too excited, it’s still a dirt road ridden with potholes, ditches, and the like). This is also where I live (luckily enough!), with my host family. Lower Ha Selomo sits on a ridge line with the Maluti Mountain range as a backdrop… But just across the ridge that looms over lower Ha Selomo, lies “upper” Ha Selomo. As it turns out, there is a LOT more to Ha Selomo than I ever knew. My village extends from “my” ridge to the mountain behind/next to it!

Thato and I took off hiking, and along the way found some amazing vistas and outlooks over lower Ha Selomo (my part of the village), and the surrounding villages! Everywhere we went, I bumped into more of my students. They were all SO excited to show me their villages, homes, and families! The entire outing gave me a huge appreciation for how far some of my students walk to/from school everyday.

View of Lower Ha Selomo from the ridge above the village.

Thato, with the Maluti mountains in the background!

Lesotho is such an gorgeous country! For those of you who thought there weren’t mountains in Africa- I live in them! :)

 

Basotho man, with his house and son in the background.

As it turns out, our beautiful day turned into an afternoon of MUCH NEEDED rain. It honestly didn’t matter though… Thato and her cousin, Lerato, made us a delicious dinner, and on the way home we acquired a hoard of my students who joined us on the 1.5 hour walk back to lower Ha Selomo. :) It was a lot of fun, and I loved getting to know Thato and my other students better!

Ausi Lerato and I with our delicious dinner the girls cooked for me! Thato LOVED getting to take a few pictures with my camera! :)

With Love from Lesotho… –M.E.

In Defense of Emotions

I am absolutely blissfully happy living in Lesotho 98% of the time. Not a day has gone by that I have doubted my decision to join Peace Corps, or honestly wished that I was anywhere else in the world. I'm the happiest and most fulfilled I have probably ever been in my life.
That being said, the past 4.5 months (I can't believe it's been that long already!) have not been without their fair share of emotions. And rightfully so. I don't think there is a human on earth who could honestly claim they wouldn't experience a wide-range of emotions at such a jolting life change. Yet I keep most of my blog posts, facebook statuses, letters home, and phone calls positive. Not because I want to deceive, but because 1) I'd rather focus on the positive, 2) there is no point worrying loved ones about things they can't change, and 3) when communication is expensive, I focus on the obvious highlights of my life and work- which all just happen to, of course, underscore how amazing my life in Lesotho and the Basotho people are!

I want this blog, however, to be a record of the honest "good, bad, and occasionally ugly" truth. It's as much for my benefit in writing/processing (and one day remembering) as I hope it is for future PC recruits and their families (for whom PC will be just as much an emotional roller coaster) who will read it. So here we go...

Stage One: Honeymoon Bliss

Once I recovered from jet-lag and the initial shock of waking up under a tin-roof in Africa surrounded by spiders on the walls, I was undeniably, blissfully in love with everything Lesotho. I was in awe at the kindness and love extended to us PC trainees by our new villages and families. I was enthusiastic about learning the language and exploring this new culture. I asked a million questions about everything. My whole world and every minute detail of my daily routine, whether emptying my "pee bucket" or scrubbing clothes by hand, was interesting because it was all "bright n' shiny" new. The sheer act of learning to cook papa (maize meal) and morroho (spinach) with Me' Malehlehonolo (my host mother) was enough to fill me with pride at my accomplishment. I won't deny that the "newness" of everything was overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. But I'd gone from working 50-60 hours a week in an office in the middle of urban-USA... My commute to work used to be 45 minutes of foggy, rush hour traffic, and now it was a sun-rise walk through a rural African village. I felt like my life was finally happening- RIGHT NOW. Every moment of my new reality captivated me. Every cactus flower, dirty child, and flaming red sunset was the most precious thing I'd ever seen. I was in love with Lesotho.

Yet inevitably, we all transitioned out of the "honeymoon" phase eventually. For some it took only two days before a simple comment like, "Ke hloka ho hlatsoa liphahlo haholo kajeno!" (I need to wash a lot of clothes today!) started to look a lot less like an adventure and a lot more like a giant pile of dirty laundry that would require several hours scrubbing, and more than a few miserable trips to the pump. I consider myself lucky. I think I was blindly "in love" with Lesotho for at least my first two months in-country (ie. our PC Pre-Service Training). I somehow during that time turned frustration into fascination, and mundane chores into exciting forays into Basotho culture.

Yet the honeymoon always ends... And end, it definitely did.

Stage Two: Yes, even YOU will get "Culture Shock"

For me, that relatively abrupt halt to “blissfully ignorant love” came as soon as I hugged my PC family goodbye in Hlotse, loaded a half dozen random bags and boxes of carefully selected household items into a van, and drove with a Mosotho stranger (who spoke no English) the 2 hours out to my new village in the nothern-most district of Lesotho. With the move to my new village, Ha Selomo, I slowly started to understand what "culture shock" really means... And it wasn't like anything I had imagined or experienced before.

 
This is difficult to explain, but its important: The most startling and uncomfortable differences you deal with when you live in a new culture have NOTHING to do with the things you see from the outside. It's not about language, attire, mannerisms, cultural traditions, taboos, rites of passage, or the daily chores which suddenly become necessary to live. I could absolutely care less that I haul every drop of water I use from a pump over 100 yards away, that I live in long skirts because showing my knees would be inappropriate (or at least, attract unwanted attention) in my rural village, that getting to my school means hiking through the fields and a donga (a dried up river bed, that you have to literally climb into and then back up out of), that not a month's gone by when I haven't gotten diarrhea or vomited from water poisoning or some food contamination, or that I find mice in my house and rats in my latrine. To many Americans, these realities sound horrifying, but (and this is the part that's hard to explain) they don't even come close to important when it comes down to what has defined my experience living here. Those chores and occasionally unpleasant aspects of living in Lesotho just simply don't matter. Honestly. They don't even make a dent compared to the things that lie beneath the surface.

"Culture Shock" (a term which I actually abhor, because it illicits some violent image of a disease, that you either catch or don't) is obviously very different for everyone.   For me, it was this deep-seeded sense of intense discomfort- As if something, which I couldn't quite place a finger on, didn't quite feel right. It wasn't about the "culture" you read about in a Lonely Planet travel guide or see photographed beautifully on a postcard. For me, it was a sense of not belonging that built up and crept under my skin slowly over time. It came from a million tiny, insignificant social interactions that reminded me there was a social code of some sort, programmed into me so deeply that I'd never truly realized it was there, guiding every human interaction I'd ever had. And then, in the middle of my daily chores or interactions with people, something would make a little chip in it and alert my attention to it's fragility.

It was the unpredictability of other people's actions, such as when, on my first day, strangers kept walking into my house and staring at me without even saying a word (needless to say, I quickly learned to keep my burglar bars locked when my door was open.) Or it was the way that dozens of eyes followed me EVERYWHERE I went because my white skin was like a neon sign that screamed, "Look! Here comes a makhooa!!!" It was differences in privacy and personal space- I still have to actively try to quell my discomfort when strangers hold my hand, when bo-Me nonchalantly touch or gesture at my breasts (breasts, especially between women, are, for the most part, not sexualized) or when a person stands incredibly close to me during a normal conversation. It's the inability to read subtle signals, which especially with men, would normally unconsciously tell me whether I feel someone is a threat or harmless. Here, I suddenly felt like a woman without a "radar" for danger. I've inherently learned to distrust men here, in part, because I'm consistently surprised to find that men I think are simply being kind have ulterior motives.

With "culture shock," its as if I suddenly became aware of all the "taken for granted assumptions" that govern social interactions in any culture, most especially my own. I had suddenly being dropped into a community where, not only was the language different, but everyone around me also had some kind of "rule book," for an unspoken social-language, that I didn't have. It is a completely unique kind of discomfort and personal awareness.

The honest, ugly truth is that my reaction to "cultural shock" (in so far as I can tell from self-reflection) was occasional outbursts of irrational anger at situations that made me feel "out of control." For those of you readers not familiar with my personality, I should probably preface this by stating that I am not effusive with emotions, in the least. My personality is typically very calm, rational, and level-headed. I am slow to anger, and loathe to let others see what I'm feeling. My form of emotional response is more likely passive aggressive, than anything else- Bottle it up, tuck it away, and deal with it later, in private. So needless to say, my sudden propensity to let tiny, insignificant things (such as having someone shout "Makhooa! Makhooa!" from a moving vehicle, or having a group of bo-Me' laugh at me when I tried to communicate with them in Sesotho) drive me to intense and sudden anger, was startling. Something simple would push me over the edge, and it would take a day of fuming and a long, furious blackberry messenger (I am so grateful that I'm able to communicate with my PCV friends in country through texting!) conversation with a sympathetic PCV to help wind me down. I'd HAVE to vent, and I'd have to do it NOW.

It wasn't all the time. I didn't walk around Lesotho in perpetual fits of rage. But it was as if my ability to "bottle up" my emotions had been compromised because the bottle was already full. I had too many emotions- fear, joy, excitement, dread, discomfort, hope- to tuck anything else away to process at a later time. I also think this is why I, an avid reader and writer, did almost NO journaling, blogging, or creative writing during my first 3 months in Lesotho. Processing all those emotions was just too much to ask. For me, Stage 2 was all about survival mode.

So what are my tips for surviving and moving through "culture shock," you may ask?

Step 1: Stay Busy. Seriously... I planted a garden, nested, learned to bake in a dutch oven, studied Sesotho, worked on homemade Christmas presents, and made it my mission to win over the village kids who were terrified of me. Anything to just keep your focus on getting out of bed in the morning, putting on your pants (or in my case, long skirt), and walking outside into the awaiting and inevitable discomfort.

Step 2: Rely on friends who "get it." I could not possibly describe how important my PCV friends in Lesotho have been to me. As an Army Brat, I've watched my father talk about his "battle buddies," and now I (kind of) get it. They are MY "battle buddies" in this experience. Not that joining PC is at all like going to war, but it is uprooting, isolating, uncomfortable, and undeniably terrifying once it settles in. Everyone needs someone who's got their back. :) They had mine, and still do. We're family now, and I know that no matter where we go after Lesotho, this experience will always give us a special bond. Because the unfortunate truth is... As much as we all love, miss, and need our friends and family back home, you just can't "get it" unless you've lived it.

Step 3: Trust that it WILL get better. The good news is, "culture shock" doesn't last forever. It really does get easier. I've only been here going on 5 months and already, when I think about where I was a month ago, I am shocked at how far I've come. The discomfort passes. I still don't like being called “makhooa” or having strange men proposition or stare at me... But as I've gotten used to the villagers, they have also gotten used to me. They learned my name, gave up hope after enough romantic rejections, and realized my white skin really wasn't all that different from theirs. In return, I learned to trust that people weren't laughing AT my Sesotho (but rather, were simply thrilled I was trying), to laugh at things I found akward, and to be bolder with people who made me uncomfortable.

And then, suddenly I woke up one day, and my lovely, little village in the foothills of Lesotho felt like home!

Ha! As if! I wish it was that easy... Welcome to Stage 3!

Stage Three: The super uncomfortable quest for the ever-so-coveted "Cultural Integration"

From the day I and my 29 fellow trainees stepped foot into Lesotho and joined the "Peace Corps Lesotho" team, we've been haunted by a single desire and goal... Cultural Integration. It's probably the single-most important hallmark of a good PC volunteer. It's the key to our personal safety in country, necessary for our success (whether you're a teacher, health worker, or agricultural specialsit), it makes living here a WHOLE lot easier and fun, and it is not as simple as it sounds!

To be honest, I'm not 100% certain, even after 4.5 months in Lesotho, WHAT "cultural integration" really means, or WHEN I can really say that I've achieved it... But gut instinct and two intense months of PC training tells me, I'll know it when I'm there. Maybe?
The gist of it is this... A volunteer who is "well integrated" is embraced by and accepted in his/her community. It's their home. They are well-known, appreciated, liked, and supported. Importantly, they are also safe... Because in a rural village where the law of the land is the Morena (Chief), you need your neighbors, Chief, and host family to protect and stand up for you. When we PCVs first arrive in village, we might as well be infants just learning to walk around our new little worlds. We don't understand the dynamics of our communities, we unknowingly test the boundaries of tolerance and local taboos, we don't know where and who is safe/dangerous, we don't have an "in" to the village news and gossip, and, to add insult to injury, we don't speak the language. We're relatively helpless. We NEED our communities to WANT us there, or we're at the mercy of who knows what.

So long story short, we need to make friends. Now given everything I described in Stage 2, you can understand why this is sometimes a rather discomforting, awkward, and emotionally exhausting endeavor. You think making friends in a new community in America is hard? Try to imagine the stress of doing it in my village where you don't speak the language, and you know that your safety and success as a volunteer depends on it.

There were days that I LITERALLY did not want to leave my house. I dreaded large social gatherings, where everyone would stare, laugh at, and talk about me, but rarely with me (Because? You got it! I still don't speak Sesotho!) Any day when I interacted with anyone for an extended period of time, was a MASSIVE success. Simple interactions with neighbors or the local children seemed to require actual effort… In part, because these interactions were in Sesotho, but also because, for a self-admitted introvert, they don’t always come naturally. I would literally have to force myself to the brink of social discomfort by walking up to a large group of bo-Me to introduce myself outside the village shopong (shop.) Yes, of course, they were so nice and thrilled to speak to me… But while I’m trying to awkwardly start a conversation in Sesotho, they are chattering away at a million miles an hour, and I’m completely lost as to what’s being said about me. It was stressful. I knew people were watching my every move, and I knew I was being discussed and analyzed ALL over the village. I would go to church and have no idea what was going on. I would take my laundry outside to wash, and the bo-Me would stand and gawk. I would start a garden, and have bo-Ntate come up and tell me I was doing it wrong. Everything just seemed a little bit uncomfortable, and opportunities to REALLY interact with a person on a real level seemed few and far between.

Yet, as much as settling into my village was uncomfrotable, walking up to those bo-Me and starting a conversation was absolutely necessary. I had to wake up everyday and consciously decide to leave my house that day, even if I was emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed by what awaited me outside. Because for my village to “get to know me,” I had to BE there. I had to actual go to church by myself for the first time. I had to go and sit by the soccer field to watch a sport I don’t even like. So I did… You just bear the discomfort, and then one day you realize that it doesn’t seem so uncomfortable anymore.

I still remember the day that I first realized that today, leaving my house and interacting with my community, didn’t feel like “work” anymore… It just felt normal. Like I was just going about my life in this community with my new neighbors and friends. I had gone to church that day, and something about the experience (which I have written about in a separate blog post) just felt different from previous outings in my village. It was the first day I really felt like I was succeeding at “integrating.”

And now, to be honest, I don’t think twice about integrating. It’s not work. It just happens naturally, everyday. I go about my life here, and when the opportunity comes to meet new people or explore a neighboring village or caves, I go excitedly and without hesitation because now I have friends, colleagues, and students in village who KNOW me. I enjoy spending time with them. I go out to haul water, and the bo-Me at the pump greet me by name and ask me how the Form C’s did on their Math Exam this week. My house always has children running in and out with homework questions, jump-ropes, and frisbees. And when I return from being away and I see Ha Selomo, nestled in the mountains in the distance, I think “I’m home.”

I wish I could optimistically write that the worst is over, and I’ll never be sad, frustrated, or lonely in Lesotho again! But unfortunately, I can state with absolute certainty that that is not the case. This experience is all about ups and downs… And persevering through them, often in spite of it all. So where am I right now emotionally?….

Stage Four: Learning to LIVE with Reality

I have now been in Lesotho 5 months, living in Ha Selomo for 3 months, and teaching at Linokong High School for just over a month. The major transition is over. There are, fingers crossed, no more life-altering “unknowns” in my immediate future. I love my village and school. I have finally got the hang of my class schedule. I’m starting a “Math and Science Club” at my school, love spending time with my colleagues, and am really getting to know a handful of my students well. I’m happy, content, and settled in… For the most part.

The stage that I (and at least 2-3 of my fellow PCVs) am struggling through now is all about learning to live with my new reality. This is my life now. It is my life EVERY SINGLE DAY for the next TWO YEARS. I will not see my family for at least another year (when they come to visit Africa.) My best friend is getting married in November, and I will not be there to stand by her side when she says her vows. My brother is graduating from University in May, and my sister moves to college in August. My father is retiring from a life-long career in the US. Army. And through it all, I will be here… Waking up under a mosquito net in a tiny rondaval, bathing in a bucket, hauling water, hiking to school, scrubbing clothes, teaching, waiting for taxis in the sun on a rural dirt road, praying to find cheese in town on Saturdays, and looking forward to an occasional visit with PCV friends who live hours away. This is my new reality. And boy is it ever starting to set in. I am at the beginning of “the long haul.”

I don’t really know at this point, whether I’m handling this stage with grace or “how” I’ll handle it at all. To be honest, it comes in waves. Yesterday morning, I was incredibly sad and lonely, as I sat in my staffroom surrounded by my colleagues, whom I love but who all speak and joke in Sesotho 90% of the time (thus leaving me out). I am surrounded by people, but lonely. Yet by that very same afternoon, I was hiking across the mountain behind my village with 3 of my students, taking silly photographs, and enjoying some of the most gorgeous mountain views you’ve ever seen. It was exhilarating, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

I’m so blessed to be here… And I know it. But not every moment is bliss and happiness. It’s hard. Really hard. And my emotions about living here change, nearly by the minute. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t feel tested, and simultaneously a little stronger for it. I know that I will be a better person for this experience, and I know that being here is absolutely worth it… Because the moments of self-doubt, insecurity, and discomfort only make reaching the top of that mountain all that more joyful.

With Love from Lesotho- M.E.