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