The not so (a)lone anthropologist.

Photographic images, video documentaries, and written ethnographies of anthropological fieldwork often perpetuate the stereotypical image of a lone anthropologist, heroically forging into the brave unknown. S/he hikes up mountains without a guide, suffers lonely nights by candle light, and navigates the social customs and nuances of a foreign people independently. Armed with only a pen and paper, the anthropologist somehow mysteriously masters complex, and often intricately tonal languages, in a matter of months. Never mind that the average person can spend countless years studying high school/college Spanish, only to barely master ordering a taco on a family vacation to Mexico. This is the image of the anthropologist in fieldwork... Yet nothing could be further from the truth. 

In the background of every photo taken at a research site... The silent voice behind every interview transcript in a book, is the anthropologist's research assistant or translator. They are notoriously invisible figures. I have never read an ethnography that mentions them outright. Now, in the midst of my own fieldwork, I find this lack of attention to such a critical figure shocking. The truth is that an anthropologist's assistant is the facilitator of every friendship and key cultural contact; the shadow to their every move. They are simultaneously friend, employee, cook, translator, and travel companion. They prevent a hundred cultural faux pas every day. Translate endlessly, providing access to a world foreign and unknown. 

And I am lucky... I have one of the best. 

When I ventured into Motete at the beginning of December to begin my fieldwork, Ts'episo was by my side for the whole, exhausting ordeal. Now that we are in village she has become indispensable to me and my work. At barely 5' tall, with a beautiful, rounded face, it would be easy to think she's characteristically sweet and docile. But don't let her short stature fool you... She's a firecracker, with the quick-tempered wit and smarts to back it up. I knew we'd be fast friends and good travel/living companions when, while buying food supplies for our trip with her fiancé, Vernon, she matched my sarcasm and dry sense of humor quip for quip. She's endlessly funny, and has this wicked grin that she occasionally pulls out when, as she says, "someone is being naughty!" I now realize that she possesses a critical personality characteristic that I never thought to select for, when hiring an assistant: a robust and enduring sense-of-humor. 

Tsepiso's true talent, however, seems to be knowing when to selectively turn it off and on. When in village, she can defuse awkward greetings and stiff first meetings with the village women with humor, or stand down the Chief seriously, as he sizes us up. Our work is delicate at this stage. We can't run full-force into women's rondavals asking about childbirth practices or HIV testing. Mothers hardly discuss such issues with their own daughters, no less a strange white woman and her feisty companion from the big city. Encouraging women to open up to us requires patience and social nuance- skills that, thus far, Ts'episo has in spades. 

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the countless other ways, aside from our professional work in the village, that she has eased my work at home. At the end of a long day, sitting around village with bo-Mme or running up and down village photographing a traditional cultural procession, I still have hours of writing ahead of me. My brain is full of images, memories, new vocabulary words and names of remote villages, that need to be committed to paper, sooner rather than later... And that doesn't even include the inevitable exhaustion of navigating a foreign language all day, or the stack of academic literature and books that still sits unread on the make-shift pile of boxes-turned-table by my bed. This is where Ts'episo's presence has proven a true gift. She is an AMAZING cook, and carries the burden of most of our minimal housework, while I run off to a quiet corner to read and write. Her sweet bread (which I successfully cooked myself for the first time a few days ago!) is honestly the most delicious bread I have ever had in my entire life. We currently have the kitchen set up in my room... So as she cooks in the evening, she frequently endures my endless questions. "What did that mean?" "Why did Mme say that?" "Did you catch the look between those men? Was that anything important?" "Tell me what she said again." It's never-ending for her. Long after a simple, seemingly meaningless conversation or interaction is over, I'm still asking her to relive it- repeat it- explain it again. She has a seriously difficult job, and I am incredibly grateful for her enduring it with a smile.

There is one more, absolutely important reason that I now find the absence of the research assistant/translator from most anthropological documentation and analysis untenable... Aside from being critically important to making my fieldwork possible, I am now also acutely aware that use of a translator introduces an additional level of complexity to executing fieldwork AND, understandably, an additional source of potential error in the results. In documenting what I observe, I acknowledge that every word I write is not cultural fact... I am a filter. Everything I see and hear passes through me, before it arrives in some semi-material state on paper.  With a translator, however, I add further distance between myself and my research subjects. I am not the only filter in this equation anymore: Ts'episo is one as well. As someone who obsesses about controlling the accuracy and ethical standards of the work, acknowledging that I don't necessarily have full control of potential cultural biases is an unsettling reality. (The even harder truth, is that I am even likely unwitting of many of my own biases as well!)  Both Ts'episo AND I each brought our own stereotypes, preconceived notions, and subconscious beliefs, behaviors, and systems of meaning with us into the field. Grappling with such complexity, as I begin my fieldwork, has been daunting. I expect that things will run more smoothly as our familiarity with each others' speech patterns, thought processes, and our shared understanding of the goal and direction of our work improves. We will eventually develop a rhythm which allows us to work as a unified team during interviews, but that takes time. For now, we occasionally trip over each other... Not significantly, just adjusting to each other's priorities, expectations, and preferences in the field: Conversations or interactions that I find important and would like to have fully translated may not always seem relevant to her... Or things that she would like to buy or have for us living in village, I don't think are necessary. It can be challenging; frustrating for "Type-A" me. But these minor hiccups are inevitable when you are living, working, and traveling with one person 24-7, but we'll work through them over time.

 For now, I am grateful to not be a LONE anthropologist, and thankful that she's by my side, as I venture into this unknown quagmire called fieldwork.

With love from Lesotho, Mary E. 

PS. One more reason to love Ts'episo: What other Mosotho research assistant would, while cooking dinner, break into a sing-along dance party with me to Sam Smith's "Not the Only One"?? I mean, really... She's currently rocking it out. 

My research assistant is awesome. :) 

Day One

I pick up the reused, 2-liter Coo-ee soda container on the floor and pour a little more water into the small, tin kettle on the gas stove. It will be my second cup of instant Nescafé coffee today. It's not particularly cold and, to be honest, the coffee isn't particularly good, but the air feels damp with rain that lingers heavy, but never falls. Plus, reading always gives me the urge to curl up with a cup of coffee, and I've been pouring over "Writing Ethnographic Fieldnotes" by Robert Emerson, et. al. for the last several hours. So I wrap my favorite Turkish, turquoise shawl- a gift from Anna- around my shoulders, as the water comes to a rolling boil. Even then, I give it an extra minute... I have no desire to give myself water-poisoning in my first 24-hours in Motete.

Cup of coffee in hand, I pull my green, folding camp-chair (Thank goodness, I thought to throw it in the pick-up truck last minute!) up just outside of the one-room house that will be my living quarters for the next three weeks. We're staying in teacher's housing at the primary school temporarily, while I look for other housing in the village... Motete is so remote and difficult to access that teachers, all of whom prefer to live in the camp towns or Capitol, must stay in-residence in the community, throughout the school term. When schools released for Christmas/summer break last week, the teachers all returned to town to spend the holidays with their families. Luckily, the Primary School Principal, Ntate Shasha, was kind enough  to give us housing for the summer. So now my research assistant, Ts'episo, and my supply of food and essentials for the next several months of fieldwork, sits alongside the boxes, bags, and buckets of a female teacher who will be returning in January. The rectangular room feels cluttered; every surface covered. I have to step around hastily strewn piles of things to take the five steps from my bed to the kitchen. The ceiling is covered in a suspicious black stain that could either be the remnants of a fire, or toxic mold... Or both. But the room is big enough, I haven't seen a spider or rat yet (although, by the sound of it, there might be one living in the ceiling above me), and the spiny, wire mattress (which thankfully, removes the need for me to sleep on a pad on the floor) doesn't seem to have left me with any giant red welts from sleeping with bed-bugs last night... So, all in all, 100 Maloti (approx. $8) a week for rent, seems like a good deal. I'm grateful to Ntate Shasha for the many ways he has eased my introduction to the village over the past 24-hours- not the least of which, is making sure Ts'episo and I had a place to sleep. 

Today the primary school compound is crowded with villagers. The dirt road that connects the villages of Motete and Patuoe runs directly in front of my house, not 30 feet from the rickety, wooden front-door. Now the school yard is strewn with men, women and the occasional wandering, and inevitably half-naked toddler, who escaped his mother's back. Nearly every 'Mme (mother) wraps herself tightly beneath the bust in a tjale- a light, plaid blanket worn during the day for warmth. Bo-Ntate (fathers) wear heavier, traditional likobo (blankets,) draped across their shoulders, and pinned over one arm. People huddle in small groups around the school. Bo-Mme sit alongside the walls of buildings, gossiping and trying to avoid the mid-afternoon sun or occasional bursts of light rain. Others ride up and down the road on horseback. An occasional mining vehicle from one of the three local diamond mines flies by at break-neck speed. Normally this compound would be quiet and peaceful. Today it is a hubbub of commotion and activity. 

Villagers from communities across this region have come to meet the Ministry of Home Affairs officers for birth and death certificates. Normally, this process would be done in Ministry offices in each camp town, but the extravagant cost of traveling to the nearest camptown, Hlotse, (M100 each way) makes such trips a rarity for most families. Instead, the Ministry sends officials out to complete the paperwork process in remote mountain communities, such as this. 

The villagers began arriving at 6am this morning; around the same time that Ntate Shasha koko-ed at my door to introduce me to the brother of the Morena (Chief) of Motete, Ntate Mopeli. Now, at nearly 3pm, more than 100 people have gathered, but the Ministry has yet to arrive. Villagers, many with hours of walking ahead of them, begin to disperse. After a full day of waiting, they patiently return home without the legal papers they require. They are told to come back tomorrow; hopefully the Ministry will arrive then. 

As people slowly dissipate and walk past my front door, I am the focus of many states and much intrigue. It's attention I am used to but now, as an ethnographer who needs to gain the trust of the community, my awareness of my own responses/reactions is heightened. Despite the discomforting looks from every pedestrian, I sit in plain view and meet their uncomfortable stares with a constant smile and endless waves and greetings. "Be accessible and approachable," I silently remind myself. At the mere sign of acknowledgement, most of the women break into delighted smiles, eagerly greeting me back in Sesotho. They seem surprised at my openness and acknowledgement- perhaps a little surprised at my Sesotho. I feel a little swell of pride at this repetitive minuscule success. It hardly counts as "breaking the ice," but for an introvert- someone who prefers silence and solitude, most of the time- being this forward and publicly exposed feels uncomfortable. I resist my natural instinct to take my coffee and book back inside; eventually my self-exposure is rewarded. Over time, I feel more comfortable in my own skin... And the community likewise, takes one small step towards being more comfortable with me in return. 

As the school compound slowly empties, and the sun starts to slip behind the mountains that shadow Motete on both sides of the valley, a group of five young women arrive in the field across the dirt road from me. They carry reused plastic bags. Slowly, almost lazily, chattering as they work, they bend over at the waist and begin  picking wild morroho (spinach) out on the tangle of plants at their feet. Every once in a while, one girl will look up in my direction and make eye-contact with me. She makes a comment to her friends, eliciting embarrassed glances in my direction from the entire group, followed by nervous giggles. I can't help but chuckle; I am an endless source of amusement, even when I'm doing absolutely nothing of interest. 

I could sit here and continue to type this blogpost, or I could return to my book... But opportunities like this are what I came here for. It's my first day of fieldwork, and I can already tell that this experience will stretch me in new ways personally and professionally. This work will force me to be proactive in forging relationships. I won't be successful if I don't earns the trust of the women I hope to learn from, and I certainly can't build those relationships from the comfort and security of this camp-chair. So instead, I'll lean into the discomfort once again; I'll be vulnerable and ask for help. I'll use Sesotho, even though the laughter of others occasionally makes me feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. I'll get up and go join the giggling, nervous young women in the field. I'll ask them to teach me to identify poisonous weeds from edible plants... Because this is what I came here for. And maybe, if I succeed,  Ts'episo and I will even be eating wild greens for dinner. 

With love from Motete... Mary E.