Little Negotiations and the Complexities of Culture

One of the first things I learned as a graduate student in Medical Anthropology, is that people, in every culture, find ways to negotiate a complex web of gendered expectations, familial relationships, religious beliefs, physical needs, and medical systems. We let our families label us as "Republican" or "Feminist," even when we don't self-identify as such. We go to an acupuncturist because our best friend insists that it "worked miracles" for her. We go to see that new movie whose message we morally disagree with. We eat a burger even though we object to the meat industry, stop by for fast food on the way home from work even though it's "ruining the country," and buy cheap Walmart shoes that are made by starving children in some unidentified developing country.

Everyone draws a line in the sand somewhere. We make allowances for some things, but not others. We make decisions that sometimes fly in the face of our "soap box" values. This fact of human nature is evidence that our actions are never simple "black and white" decisions. Rather they are complicated attempts to negotiate a complex web of culture, expectations, financial constraints, and relationships.

Despite knowing this about people and culture, its sometimes difficult to acknowledge and forgive the same "grey areas" in people of a different culture. Its easier to judge, label, and stereotype. To resort to anger and frustration, rather than compassion, humility, and an open-mind. And nobody knows that more than me...
I pride myself on being a relatively well-educated, and open-minded person. I place a huge portion of my self worth on the assumption that I genuinely try to care about and love other human beings, no matter their culture, race, or religion. You could almost say that that's MY religion. However, I will be the first to admit that it isn't always easy, especially when you have as many "soap box" values as I do and you live in a culture drastically different from your own. On a day to day basis, my being "open-minded" means trying to understand the Basotho man who beats his wife or propositions me for sex while calling me a "lekhooa" (white person). It means not blindly judging the woman next door who beats her screaming toddler with a stick, the teenage girl who tries to elope with a herdboy at the age of 13, or my Ntate (host father) who is a polygamist with two wives. Its hard. Really hard. Because there are just some situations that look pretty darn "black and white" from where I'm sitting. Unfortunately, things are almost never that simple... And that's why living in Lesotho has been an everyday lesson in humility and empathy for me.

When you really get to know people, you start to realize that no one is wholly good or evil. Everyone in the world has been through something that has made them who they are.

For example, I consistently struggle to understand my fellow teachers. I should start by stating that these Basotho men and women are my colleagues and friends. They welcomed and embraced me with open arms and undying patience when I was new. I LOVE coming to school and working with them everyday. Compared to some of my fellow PCVs, I consider myself incredibly lucky that I work in a place where the staff works as a team and enjoys being together. Our staff-room at Linokong High School is constantly full of laughter, music, hilarious antics, and inside jokes. They are amazing people. But when I first moved to Lesotho, I was somewhat less convinced of their positive character and uplifting personalities.
During my first few months as a teacher in Lesotho, I watched with sadness, and sometimes even horror, as my teachers beat children instead of talking to them. I saw them come to school late, leave early, and carelessly miss classes in between. I heard male teachers refer to female students and teachers as "good breeding horses," "hopelessly lazy," "unqualified," and "useless to the school" (when speaking about a pregnant woman.) I was personally harassed about my love life, told I looked "sexy" in blue jeans, and asked if I'd be willing to engage in extra-marital affairs. It would have been so easy to label them as ignorant, backwards, and uneducated.

Time, however, has shown me a different truth. The longer I live here, the more I realize that judging and presuming to understand people based the surface of their actions is naïve, unjust, and quite frankly, it's a luxury I can't afford as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The teacher who once told me that "bo-Me (women) are just lazy" is actually one of the most loved by students. He gives every single student in his classes a unique nick-name, based on their personality. He knows every one of them by name, and when they don't come to school, he notices. I've watched him pull aside troubled kids to ask if everything is alright at home. The kids trust him, and his commitment to their well-being is palpable. He has two little girls, and he tells me he hates sending them away to boarding schools but he wants them to be able to do great things with their lives.
Another of my colleagues was once a source of relentless "harassment" (by American standards) for me. I almost wrote him off as an entirely disrespectful and ignorant misogynist... But every afternoon I watch him select the poorest malnourished orphans in the school to give his extra lunch food to. Another colleague once told a female student that if she worked hard in school he'd marry her. He's already married. The moment she blushed and ran away to tell her friends about her "teenage crush come true" he and other colleagues laughed at her expense. And you know what... He's probably one of my closest Basotho friends now, and he is a truly dedicated teacher. He leads after-school clubs, student activities, and spends weekends working with HIV+ youth.

I don't always understand or agree with the actions and beliefs of my Basotho colleagues, host family, and friends, but I can't have a successful Peace Corps service from atop my "soap box." Living with humility means accepting that I don't understand everything that goes on here. I simply can't. I don't have to agree or be happy with all their actions, but it's not my place to judge a culture and belief system that I can't fully understand. People aren't simple stereotypes, and it's a rare day that I catch a glimpse of the whole story. So I have to live every day with the assumption that people are more than what they show me.

And you know what... My life in Lesotho is a lot more wonderful and fulfilling when I give people the benefit of the doubt.

With Love from Lesotho... -Mary Elizabeth

A Tale of White-Water Rafting from a "Not-So-Hard-Core" Peace Corps Volunteer

We are Peace Corps volunteers. We swat away thatch spiders like flies, fight rats at 3am, start vacations by hiking 10km out of village with overloaded packs, help butcher hogs, and get diarrhea in awkward public places. As my military father would say, we're "hard core." We laugh at the things that make lesser Americans cry... AND yet we were totally unequal to the "adventure" we got ourselves into in Swaziland.

We fancy ourselves rough and tumbly, African adventurers... So when I suggested to 3 of my PCV friends, Will, Amanda, and Zoe, that we go white water rafting in Swaziland during our first vacation over Easter Break, they eagerly jumped on board. "Absolutely! That's awesome!" they regaled. "Should we do a half day or full day trip?" I asked. "Definitely, full day" we agreed. "We're going all the way there... We might as well get our money's worth!"

Boy, did we ever get our money's worth.

I'm going to start with a little background and an observation to put our adventure in perspective: 1) While we may not be as "hard core" as we first imagined, Will, Zoe, Amanda, and I are far from pansies. We'd all been white water rafting in the U.S. multiple times, and are all experienced travelers in our own right. 2) The Swazi Trails rafting company would definitely NOT be legal in America. Seriously. No insurance agency in the U.S. would ever accept the liability for the things we did and saw that day.

Yet the day before Easter, we showed up "wide eyed and bushy tailed" on the bank of the Usutu River in central Swaziland! After all, the website said "beginners welcomed" and there was a completely clueless Irish family of 4 in our rafting group... How bad could this be, right?! We'd only been there 10 minutes, however, when we came to a startling realization- "Oh. Okay. Those AREN'T 6 man rafts... Two people per raft? But where does the guide go?" we all nervously chuckled as the Safety Briefing started. "It's fine!" Amanda and I (my rafting partner for the day) told each other, "We've got this!"

Our rafting guide for the day was a tall, incredibly muscled, and hilariously outspoken, black Swazi man named Beke... And his light, laid back attitude and affable nature, immediately put us at ease. His safety briefing (to people who, remember, were all assumed to be "beginners") went something like this:

Beke: "So this is a paddle. You put THIS end in the water." *Cue the nervous laughter* "The person in the back of the boat steers, and is likely to get launched into the rapids... So you should put your feet in these straps." *Nervous glance between Amanda and I*
ME: "Well crap," I think. "Which one of us wants to go swimming."
Beke: "We really do want you to TRY to stay in the raft, if possible. But if you do fall out, get back into the boat as fast as possible... Oh, and watch out for crocodiles."
ME: "Holy hell... What am I doing here?!"
Beke: "Before some of the larger falls, we'll ask you to pull to the side of the river, so we can assess the rapid and discuss your point of entry."
ME: "Whoa, there buddy! What's so complicated or dangerous that it needs a pre-rehearsed 'plan of attack'?!"
Beke: "Okay, great! So grab your partner and let's go!"
ME: "WAIT just a second there, hot shot!... I think you might've missed a few steps??" *Gulp*

Amanda and I exchanged nervous glances- "Its fine! Were Peace Corps Volunteers! We've got this!" In retrospect, we said that to ourselves a lot that day. But we reassured ourselves it would be fine, and after a little discussion we decided that Amanda, who had had a total of one rafting trip more experience than me, would start in the "hot seat" position at the back of the boat steering. "We'll just try it and see how it goes," I told her. "I'll take over and try, if it doesn't work."

Guess what? It didn't work.

Not 15 minutes into our day trip we pulled over to inspect the first set of "falls," a 5 meter drop over a damn wall. By this time, Beke had jokingly named Amanda and I his "Special Ed" group, a label we readily owned up to. So as such, we were one of the last rafts to traverse the damn... Over we went with an exhilarating plunge! On the other side, I shouted in triumph, "Whoohoo! We did it!" But my excitement was short lived. In front of me, I saw Beke frantically waving. "TURN AROUND!" he screamed. "What?" I thought as I turned to look behind me. Surprise, surprise... The second half of my two man rafting team was flailing for help in the rapids behind me. "Just great," I thought.

After Amanda's first dunk in the Usutu, we quickly came to the conclusion that I, the heavier of the two of us, had to be in the rear. Otherwise, poor Amanda was going to go sailing at every bump. So, in the words of my dad again, I "manned up." I climbed in the dreaded "hot seat" and hunkered down to face the next 15 km of river.

If Amanda and I were the "Special Ed" group, then Will and Zoe were the over achieving, "Accelerated Learners." With Will expertly steering their raft, they were the first through nearly every rapid... Laughing at the lurches Amanda and I seemed to get into around every corner. Now, while I was no "Will" at guiding our raft, we survived about 5km of rapids with no more major accidents... And by the end of the morning, we were having a great time and really getting the hang of it! Until we came to the "big one."

Just before lunch, our guides asked us to pull to the side so that we could inspect our last rapid of the morning. We pulled to the side, happy for a short break from paddling, and climbed ahead about 50 meters to look at the rapid. "Oh, crap... They have got to be kidding!" I thought the instant the falls came into view. We were standing looking at a massive bottle-necked drop in the river. The fall that started the relatively short, but incredibly ferocious length of water, was about a 5 to 10 meter drop. At the base of that fall, the tight corners between the towering rock walls on either side, created a series of about 3 massive, churning waves that seemed to move the water violently from one wall to the other in a zig-zag pattern. They said it was a Class 4 rapid. "Like heck, that's a class 4!" I thought. "I've been down a class 4 rapid before, and it was NOTHING like this!"

And apparently this was a rapid that did require a pre-discussed plan of attack:
Beke: "Okay, Mary Beth- So the water's a little high today, but no big deal! Here's all you have to do... Give it lots of speed going in, but you HAVE to hit that 'v' in the water straight on. You go over side ways and it's all over" he said, with a much-too-nonchalant laugh.
ME: "Wait a second! WHAT's all over???" I thought.
Beke: "As soon as you hit the top of the fall, you want to hard stroke on the left, otherwide you're gonna crash straight into that rock face. Okay?"
ME: "Oh my god. Seriously?! I take it back... I'm really not that hard-core. I was afraid of little spiders until I joined Peace Corps!"
Beke: "So after you're down the fall, give it two or three good strokes on your right, because there's a large rock the water's flowing over there," he said, pointing to some vague, yet crucial, spot of non-descript water. "Okay- And that's really all there is to it!"
ME: "I am DEFINITELY not qualified to do this."

Now I have to give Amanda credit... Up until the moment we hit that fall, she had been the picture of positive energy and encouragement. "You can do this!" she reassured me as we paddled out into position. "We're Peace Corps Volunteers, right?!"

The next 30 seconds are a blur of furious paddling, crashing waves, and frantic praying. We plunged over the fall, and over the entire raft flipped with a startling amount of force. Before I could process what had happened, I was being tossed about helplessly beneath ferocious waves of white-water. I remember the panic that set in the moment I realized, "Oh my god- I don't know which direction to swim in!" The swirling water made it impossible to tell which way was up. A second later, I felt something hard and heavy pushing my head under, with each violent wave- The overturned raft was on top of me, preventing my access to much needed air.  I finally wrestled myself free of it, and managed to find the surface, after a few terrifying seconds that felt like an eternity. "Remember- Keep your feet up and lie on your back" I told myself, assuming the safety position Beke had lectured us on. As oxygen slowly returned conscious thought to my brain, I whipped around in search of Amanda. Much to my relief, I saw that she was already being pulled ashore up-river by a guide. I, on the other hand, was quickly being sucked down-river, all the while fighting the pressing weight of the overturned raft at my side. Before I knew it, a guide was at my side in a kayak. "Get back in your raft NOW." he said with urgency. "Okay... Okay" I thought irritated. "Give me two seconds to catch my breath, will you?!" I began to flip the raft, and attempt the strenuous process of hauling myself back in. Now these two things were no easy task when I had a partner and was floating in calm water- But here, alone, breathless, and in churning water, they were nearly impossible. "You HAVE to get in NOW." the guide said again with insistence. "I'm trying!" I yelled, aggravated. "I don't think you understand..." He said, with a touch of fear in his voice. "You NEED to get in that raft NOW!" He moved his kayak to help pull me into the raft, but before I had even righted myself enough to grab my paddle and think, he was urging me to action again. "Hurry!" He yelled. "You have to get to shore NOW! There's a waterfall!!!"

"A WHAT?!" I gasped. "I am so not hard core enough for this," I thought. "You're being sucked in by a waterfall 100m down river! You have to get to that bank!" he yelled. I paddled frantically, but exhaustion and strong currents made my efforts to maneveur the large raft by myself, nearly pointless. I barely missed the embankment where Will and Zoe had pulled up their raft, and were anxiously watching this terrifying series of events unfold. "There's a waterfall!!!" the guide continued to scream. "Thank you, jerk! So I've been told!... You're REALLY not helping the situation!!" I thought, as my terror transformed into anger. At the last second Will, anchored only by placing his feet firmly in his own raft, launched out to grab my arm. As he pulled against the immense force of the water sucking me towards the waterfall, I started to come out of my seat. It was a split second decision- Either let the raft go, or go with it. I chose to let the raft go.

Into the water I went, yet again, as Will hauled me up onto a rocky embankment. In retrospect, Zoe and I laugh at the hilarity of the situation- The guide screaming "Waterfall! Waterfall!" uselessly in the background, and me being forcefully dragged ashore like a beached whale. Ha! Some kind of "hard core" PCVs we are, right?!

In the end, I was lucky to make it out with only a couple of cuts and scrapes, and a few lovely "black and blue" bruises. It was definitely not the worst injury of the day- One guy in our group walked away with a bloodied face and nose. Of the 4 of us PCVs, Zoe was the only one who managed to stay in the raft through that set of rapids. And as we later hauled our rafts down river, around the "waterfall", we understood the guide's panic and fear: It was a legitimate WATERFALL. I'm not sure of the height, but as an example, several of the guides went "cliff jumping" off of it later that day! And I almost went right over it... Raft and all.

We breaked for lunch right after "the big one," and Amanda and I were in desperate need of a few minutes to pull ourselves together, and calm our shaky hands. To put it lightly, our nerves were shot... And we still had 7 to 10 more km of river to survive! YET while we definitely weren't as "hard core" as we'd imagined, we are still Peace Corps Volunteers. And we are nothing, if not resilient. Despite our massive trepidation and exhaustion, Amanda and I suited back up and got back into that raft.

I wish I could say that the rest of the trip was a piece of cake, but it wouldn't be a true adventure without some more drama! Ha! Not 20 minutes after getting back on the river, I yet again found myself being launched into the rapids. That time, I think it shook poor Amanda up more than me. My head bobbed up, gasping for air in the overwhelming waves, just long enough to see her panic-stricken and helpless face screaming for me from the raft. Needless to say, we were both at our wits end by the time I dragged myself back into the boat. So at some point after that, we got smart and did some rearranging so that both Amanda and I could take a turn in the front of Will's, expertly maneuvered raft. We needed a break. The moment I finally relinquished the "hot seat" to a very apprehensive Zoe, was the happiest moment of my whole day! Ha! Poor Will managed to endure our shaken nerves with patience and incredible calm. "Mary Beth- Just STOP paddling" he urged me while laughing. "Seriously- You're not helping. I've got it." And he was totally right. That man got us through km after km of rapids with almost no help. Having had his job as "navigator" for the past 6 hours, I was in awe at how easy he made it look! "Sooo maybe ONE of us IS hard core, after all." I laughed.

Together, the four of us finished our trek down the Usutu River, in one piece. It was an amazing bonding experience, and I know we'll remember it for years to come! At the end of the trip, the rafting company had a cooler full of much needed and appreciated beers... I don't think anything has ever tasted so good! The next day we were all unable to move thanks to bruised and over-worked muscles, but I honestly wouldn't have changed a thing. It was an occasionally exhilarating, totally nerve-wracking, and absolutely memorable adventure in Swaziland!

With love from Lesotho- Mary E.

The Lesson in a Line

I'm accustomed to waiting in Lesotho. It's simply a reality of living with "Africa time:" I do a lot of waiting. And the interesting thing is, it doesn't even really bother me, a Type-A, workaholic who's perpetually 10 minutes early to everything, anymore. It's just the way life works in Lesotho. I go to catch a taxi, and end up standing on a dirt road for an hour. I show up to meet my teachers in town, and find out 8am actually meant 10:30am. I go to a village pitso (meeting) at 9am, and around 11am the Morena (Chief) finally decides to show up. I go to the pump, and there's no water. I want to wash my clothes, and have to wait for a sunny day to dry them. My life revolves around forces that are out of my control. You either learn to relax and live with it, or suffer in constant misery.

So given my relatively healthy adjustment to this kind of lifestyle, you'd think that I'd take a small change to my local taxis in stride, right? Wrong. Here's what happened: While I was away on vacation in Swaziland a month ago, the local "Taxi- Drivers Association" for the Linakeng Valley region  (where my village is located) met, and apparently decided they weren't making enough money. The problem, they determined, was that there were TOO MANY taxis running the approx 40-50km dirt-road mountain loop, that my village lies on. So they made the brilliant decision to assign 2-3 taxis to each day. Simple solution, right?

The problem is, the result for villagers, like myself, has been MASSIVE lines at the taxi rank in Butha-Buthe camptown. Almost every evening of the week my once peaceful taxi rank becomes a frenzy of temporarily stranded bo-Me, school children, and bo-ntate all trying to get back out to their villages. It's essentially created a "rush hour" for my little mountain valley in Butha-Buthe. And it's driving me INSANE.

I'm accustomed to waiting... But waiting in town, in a 3-4 hour line (that more resembles a pushing mob of people yelling in Sesotho than an organized system of waiting) just plucks EVERY nerve in my control-freak body. For one, town is not my "safety zone." In America, no big deal. But remember that here I stand out like, well... Like a white person in rural Africa! I attract nonstop attention from the moment I step into the jumbled not-so-linear line. I'm accustomed to the staring, but I also get propositioned, touched, approached by the local "BB homeless crazy man," asked a million questions, offered alocholic drinks, and talked about in Sesotho (Its a curse that I know just enough Sesotho to know when I'm the topic, but not enough to understand the conversation! Ha!). I'm a self-admitted introvert (and proud of it!) and non-confrontational to the core... To put it bluntly, standing in that line is my worst nightmare. Normally, I combat uncomfortable social situations, unwanted attention, and crowds by walking quickly, keeping my eyes down, and moving forward through it- Just. Don't. Stop. In that taxi rank line, though, I'm stuck. I have to stand there in agony for HOURS. Its my own personal version of hell and discomfort in Lesotho.

But as with everything in Peace Corps, there's a lesson. The thing I dread most about that line is also what I'm coming to appreciate about it... It forces me to STOP. Yes. It's uncomfortable agony for me, but it's also necessary. When I get in that line, I'm not going ANYWHERE. Seriously. I'm not moving for hours. And that sudden act of hitting the "pause button" on my life, forces me to look around, take a deep breath, and engage with the people around me. And the truth is, once I relax and accept that I can't change it... I meet the most amazing people.

On my first taxi-rank line experience coming home from Swaziland, I was exhausted and the line was ferocious! Seriously. It was chaos, and mean, and pushing, and loud... A nightmare. I sat there for hours being tossed around in a mob scene while everyone tried to physically fight their way into the taxi, that only showed up every 1.5 hours or so. But I am nothing if not stubborn. It only took about 2 hours before I consciously decided that I didn't care if I sat here ALL night! I WOULD NOT cave to pushing little old bo-okhono (grandmothers) over to get back to village. "Live with grace, Live with grace, Live with grace" I told myself forcefully, as I planted my feet and resisted the fighting mass around me. And then, just when I thought I was going to cry from exhaustion, these 3 little old bo-okhono noticed I wasn't pushing and shoving, even though I'd been at the front of the line for hours. They stepped in, looped arms with me, and gave a death glare to anyone who dared to step in our way. And when the four of us finally got a seat in a taxi, sometime after dark, we all just nearly died laughing. "Me! Taxi e matata haholo! (These taxis are a problem)Whew!" I yelled. "Eye, ausi! Matata!" They chorused, laughing. It was a miserable afternoon, but I finally reached home late that night with a smile on my face because of their generosity and companionship.

That taxi-rank situation has been repeated, much to my displeasure, at least 5 times in the past month. But now I make a concerted effort to look around me and try to embrace my "stranded state" as a priceless opportunity to engage with people in my community. A few weeks ago I befriended the 'Me' who owns the fruit stand next to my taxi- She has the most adorable baby girl (which, of course, I love!), and as it turns out, she lives in Sekubu (a neighboring village) and is the niece of my Supervisor! So now, everytime she sees me she asks me when I'm going to come visit her in Sekubu- And you know what? I think that, one day, I will!

On a different day, I got stuck in freezing rain, and the 'Me' in front of me in line shared her umbrella with me while we waited... She told me all about working in the Nike factories in Maputsoe, and how difficult it is to find work in Lesotho. Just this past Sunday, I got in line at the taxi rank, and had only been there 10 minutes before I heard a group of my students yelling, "Madam!'M'e Limpho! Lumela!" Before I knew it, I was surrounded by 6 bubbly teenage girls, gushing and giggling about their boyfriends and asking me about America. And then there's the little old lady I met today, who is now a chemist (pharmacist) at a local BB shop, but who worked as a nurse for 28 years and told me all about the local health system.

So while I still hate and dread my taxi rank line, I do know that there's a valuable lesson in it... And I really try to focus on that. I've learned more about what its like to be Basotho and live in Lesotho from people I've met standing in that line, then from potentially any other single experience during my Peace Corps service. I'm often in such a hurry to rush through errands and return to my village/comfort zone, that I miss out on those potential friendships, stories, and opportunities to share cultures. Who would've thought?

There's a lesson in a line.

With love from Lesotho- Mary E