Lesotho Has Changed Me.

I'm driving away from Ha Selomo- watching my little mountain village disappear over the ridge in the early morning light. I can't seem to stop the tears from running down my cheeks. My kids didn't chase the truck out of village this time- I left them standing on the football field, next to my house, looking forlorn and lonely. This goodbye is hard.

I'm not one to cry- especially in public. So I'm not sure when I became someone who cries so openly in front of people. There was a time I would have been mortified by this display of emotion. But Lesotho has changed me...

When I hugged Thato goodbye, she sobbed in my arms while I held her for several minutes. The "old me" would have been uncomfortable; now I only felt the brevity of this last moment with someone who told me in a letter "You have been my mother; you remind me so much of the mother I lost." Lesotho has changed me.

When I hugged Refiloe, Malijeng, Mookho, Mantletse, Nthatisi, Lerato, and Nthabiseng goodbye, I looked them each in the eye and told them how much I loved them. I told them they made me proud and filled my life with joy. I told them I'm going to miss them every day. Because I will and I do. And life is short and fragile. Lesotho has changed me.

Just as I will never forget this "last drive" down my pot-hole ridden dirt road, out of village, I will also never forget the first, terrifying drive that brought me to this community. I was so scared. Terrified. Nauseous. Panicked. I remember meditating. Taking deep breathes to calm my nerves. But mostly I remember texting my best friend from college, Jet. She was on Whatsapp and stayed with me through the trip. I described what I was thinking and feeling- she calmly reached out through the thousands of miles between us and provided a calming presence. Reinforcing and reminding me that, even in this foreign culture and place, I would never be alone.

Now as I sit crying, looking into the rear-view mirror at my kids shrinking in the distance, I text my best friend, Makabelo. She is the comforting presence that walks me through this difficult journey with words of encouragement and reminders that I'll be back soon. She is my bridge now. My emotional counter-point. She promises joy, laughter, and a cold beer when I arrive at her house this evening. My American friends cannot help me through this grief or loss- they won't understand. I need my Basotho friends today. Lesotho has changed me.

It's difficult- seemingly impossible- to leave Lesotho. Even as I drive away, I have the urge to tell Ntate Masiu to stop the truck and turn around... But I'm continuing on and letting myself feel the pain. I'm not masking my emotions. Or smiling and saying, "let's just pretend to be happy because it happened." I AM happy the past two years happened- But right now, in this moment I'm sad and devastated. And Lesotho has changed me- I'm letting myself feel the pain.

I'm embracing the pain because it means my time here was powerful and meaningful. It hurts because I'm leaving people I love, who have changed me for the better. I'm terrified I won't see my children and young women again because I may not. I'm embracing the fear, and all the tears that brings because I would rather feel it than not. Life is too fragile and fleeting.

Lesotho has changed me.

Farewell to Linokong High School

Lumelang bo-Me, bo-Ntate, matichere, le baithuti ba ka,

Hello mothers, fathers, teachers, and my students, 

The past two years have been the most influential and important of my life. I arrived in Ha Selomo a stranger- Now I see only family. I will always be grateful to each of you for welcoming me into your country, culture, and community.

First, I want to thank Ntate Chitja for welcoming me at Linokong High School, and giving me the opportunity to learn and grow as an educator. I sincerely hope I have achieved at contributing something to this school because I have truly loved my time here.

Ntate Bereng, kea u leboha ha u ile ua ntlhokomela joalo ka morali oa hau. Ha ho mohla ke ileng ka ikutloa ke hlorile Ha Selomo. Uena le 'm'e Mapoloko, le ile la nkamohela bophelong le lapeng la lona. Ke tla le hopola le le lelapa leso kamehla.

Ntate Bereng- Thank you for caring for me as if I were your own daughter. There was never a day when I felt unsafe or alone in Ha Selomo. You and 'Me Mapoloko welcomed me into your lives and home, and I will always remember you as family.

Ke batla hape ho leboha boto ea sekolo le batsoali. Le ile la arola bana ba lona le 'na. Ba bile hlohonolofatso e kholo bophelong baka. Ba bohlale, ba batle, ba lutse ba tseha- 'me letseho leo, le ile la lula le khants'itse matsatsi oohle aka. Ebile tlootla ho ba tichere ea bona. Ka bona, ke bile karolo ea malapa a lona, 'me ke molemo oo ke sa tsebeng nka o busetsa joang.

I also want to thank the School Board and parents... Thank you for sharing your children with me. They have been an incredible blessing in my life. They are clever, beautiful, and full of joy and laughter that brightened every day for me. It was my privilege to be their teacher. Through them, you welcomed me into your community and homes. You made me feel a part of Ha Selomo- It's a kindness I feel I could never repay.

To my colleagues... Or more importantly, my friends: Thank you for putting up with me. You have been MY teachers- patiently explaining, translating, and understanding- even when I didn't. Every single one of you made Linokong High School feel like a family- Full of light, laughter, and life. I feel blessed that you've all been a part of my life, and I know you will continue to be a part of it for many years to come.

And now I've saved the most difficult and important goodbye for last... For bana ba ka.

I came to Lesotho to be a teacher- I came here to help children. In the end, I find it fitting that you all were the ONLY reason I was able to live here. You have been my purpose and inspiration. You made me laugh every day, and filled my life here with such joy. It isn't teaching I have loved; it was teaching you. I feel incredibly blessed that no matter how far away I was from family or America, there was never a single day during the last two years when I wanted to be anywhere else in the world, other than here in Ha Selomo with you.

You are each special. Unique and brilliant. You have the ability to do anything you want with your life. Believe in yourself. Make good decisions. Be kind to others, even when they don't treat you the same. And know that you have made me a stronger, kinder, and more patient person. I will miss you each every day.

Salang ka khotso.

Stay with peace. 

(Farewell speech given at Linokong High School on November 13, 2014.) 

The Goodbye Bucket List

I'm six days away from saying goodbye to Ha Selomo... It's been a whirlwind few weeks, full of farewell moketes, tearful goodbyes, and beautiful gifts. I've cried more in the past week than throughout the entire length of my service.... I'm fine with the idea of leaving behind my friends and teachers, or even my Basotho family. It's my kids that make this difficult. 

I feel like I talk and write about "my kids" all the time... Yet it's still difficult to describe to people back home in America why this is such a difficult goodbye for me. After all,  I'm an Army Brat... I'm a bonafide expert at putting on the brave face, giving a hug, and never looking back. It's a skill I've been perfecting since infancy. 

So you'd think that I'd have figured this out, right? You'd think this would be easier. It's not. It's heart breaking. Gut wrenching. The hardest goodbye I've ever had to say. 

If you think that's slightly melodramatic or over-reactionary, let me try to show you why. 

.................

Last Wednesday morning I walked into my Form B Math class bright and early, ready to revise solving equations. Nothing seemed amiss, until I looked towards the left hand corner of the classroom. In the corner, Mapaseka, sat with her head drawn down... But what caught my eye at first wasn't her, it was the absence of Thandiwe and Maretha, who normally sit on either side of her. I glanced across the sea of smiling faces, and quickly found them. Both had strangely squeezed themselves to fit into a wooden bench, with four other students. Mapaseka was alone. 

Ten minutes into my class, I looked up- ready to call Panya, who had his hand darting into the air excitedly, up to the board to solve an equation- when something caught my eye. As Mapaseka looked across the aisle towards Panya and his distracting antics, the light from the broken window pane illuminated her face. Across the side of her cheek and forehead were two giant, bloody gashes. They horrifyingly left her scared from hair-line to lip. Her right eye was swollen shut in blue and yellow bruises that swelled the entire half of her face. Her lip was split open. 

I struggled to hold back the tears I felt welling up, threatening to make me loose my composure in front of 48 students. Now I understood Mapaseka's forced isolation in the corner. Everyone willfully sought to ignore the difficult truth sitting in the corner of the classroom- the proverbial " pink elephant" in the room. No one wanted a reminder that it could just as easily have been their own father who pulled a knife on them to unleash his anger. It could happen to almost anyone at any time. 

There was no police report or call to Child Protective Services that day. I pulled Mapaseka aside quietly after class to make sure she was alright. She is one of MY girls.... One of the 32 female students that I've so painstakingly attempted to empower and inspire in my Young Women's Group for the past year. I've taught them about self-esteem, goal setting, and taking ownership over your own body and health. That morning when I looked into her battered face, all that fragile and painstakingly constructed self-worth had vanished. I had no words- no amount of reading or talking about domestic violence prepares you for the moment you witness it on a child's face. The night before, she'd gone out to see a friend after dark- This was her father's idea of an appropriate response. She'll bear the scars of his fury and violence for a lifetime... But it's the destruction he's created beneath her battered face that I grieve for most. In 15 minutes, he stole from her everything that I'd tried to give her over the past two years. 

.............

Before now, every goodbye I've ever said was done with the knowledge that those friends and family would go into the world and live healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I feel comforted knowing that even though my childhood or college friends aren't with me now, they are out in the world doing amazing things. They're happy. They're fulfilled. And most of the time, I get to watch and celebrate with them through Facebook and long distance phone calls as they bravely conquer the  world. There's an incredible comfort in that- one I always took for granted until I was faced with saying goodbye to my kids in Lesotho. 

There are no such false comforts or assurances to be found in this goodbye. 

I'm going to walk away in six days.... I honestly don't know what will happen to my girls after I do. Children die here. And yes, I understand that children die everywhere, but it's hard to describe the magnitude of death in this country. This is a place where funeral homes are more common than gas stations. It overwhelms. I'd only been a teacher for 9 months when I had to attend my first funeral for one of my students. It was an experience that still haunts me. One day Teboho was sitting in the corner of my Form B Biology class, making too much noise with Lillo and Ketseketse. The next afternoon, he collapsed on the way home from school. By Monday morning, I was putting his funeral on my calendar. It's impossible to describe how deeply the experience of sitting at his memorial and funeral imprinted on me. 

Safety, security, love, and happiness are not guarantees for my kids. My girls live in a culture where men are EXPECTED to beat their wives. It's not just tolerated, it's expected. IF he loves you, he WILL beat you. Some of my children go home to abusive parents, with no hope of government or civil protection. And that's if they are lucky enough to even have living parents, because in my school it's more common to be an orphan than to go home to a mom or dad. Earlier this month, a female student of one of my PCV friends was gang raped by two male students at her school. The girl was told to go back to school the next day and not talk about it- Now she sits in class next to her attackers. Another friend had one of her female students abducted and raped. She was forced to marry her attacker. Not everyone in the world gets an equal shot at a happy and healthy future. In the great lottery of life, it often feels like the deck is stacked against my kids. 

So I get to say goodbye, with no assurances for their lives or that I'll ever be able to see or hear from them again. My kids don't have phones, no less Facebook or email addresses. There is a post office, but international mail is expensive and all mail to the village goes through a communal PO Box, so it's also unreliable. I will never get to see the outcome of my efforts.... I'll never have the satisfaction of watching them grow up and miraculously make it through a University degree. Or live long enough without HIV to actually watch their own children become teenagers. 

This is a tough goodbye. So I'm telling them now. I don't want any regrets. I may never get another chance to impart some small hope or wisdom, or tell them how much they've changed MY life. So I've got a plan.... A "goodbye bucket list."

1- Write a personal letter everyone in Lesotho who has touched my life. 

2- Write personal cards to ALL of my students... No small feat when your smallest class is 44!

3- Host a "Young Women's Group Celebration!" at my house! We're gonna dance, and dance, and DANCE! 

4- Hire my friend, 'Me Moipone to cater lunch for the party, pay her well, and then spend all day cooking with her!

5- Spend a weekend visiting 'Me Malehlohonolo and my host family in Makola, Berea District.

6- Go to church one last time with my host mother, 'Me Malehlohonolo

7- Take Toka and Tsoanelo, my little brother and sister, into Maseru for lunch at KFC! Then, of course, bring some back for our 'Me and Nkhono (grandmother). 

8- Take my little girls, Mookho, Nthatisi, Mantletse, and Lerato, into town for a "Girls Day Out!" Teach them how to mail a letter at the post office, and have a fun lunch, with ice cream, of course! 

9- Give the girls packets with letters, envelopes, and stamps, so we can write to each other. 

10- Write cards to all of my colleagues and friends, to thank them for being MY teachers for the past two years. 

11-Thank the school board in Sesotho and in person for allowing me to be a part off their school and for sharing their children with me. 

12- Thank Chief Moshoeshoe for welcoming me in the village of Ha Selomo. 

13- Set Kabelo up to apply for University in America this winter! 

14- Go out, one last time, to party with my amazing friends and colleagues! Woot-woot! 

15- Write letters in Sesotho to my host mother, 'Me Malehlohnolo, and my host father, Ntate Bereng, to thank them for caring for me like a daughter, and being my family in Lesotho. 

16- Say goodbye to all the staff and students at the school in my farewell speech. 

17- Give all my friends, students, colleagues, and neighbors my contact information in America. 

18- Gve each of my little kids in village a picture of me and them to keep. 

19- Give my Me Malehlohonolo and Ntate Bereng framed photos of me and them. 

20- Give my Principal a framed photo of the Staff at Linokong High School. 

21- Make sure my cat, Piña, has a good home in Lesotho. 

22- Write thank you cards to all the Peace Corps staff. 

23- Have a special day-out with my best friend, Makabelo. Leave her with airtime so we can make long-distance phone calls over the next few months. 

24- Take Makabelo's kids- Kabelo, Tumisang, and Lilly- out for a special day. Ride the new ferris wheel at Maseru Mall and have a fun lunch in town! 

25- Give hugs, and say "I love you" and " I'll miss you" to the people who've changed my life. 

With love from Lesotho.... Mary E. 

The Elevator Speech

When you are preparing to return home stateside from Peace Corps, staff often recommend you create an "elevator speech". They tell you to think about what you'll say when you get the inevitable question, "How was Peace Corps?" or "What was it like?" or even more frustrating, "How do you feel?" I dread THE question. We all do.

We dread it because it's impossible to answer... My answer could fill a book, and even then I wouldn't feel purged of the complex tangle of emotions that has been the last two years of my life. So instead of giving voice to the truths we witnessed and SO desire to tell the world (and not just for our own relief, but out of a deep sense of obligation to the people we have loved and left behind).... Instead of eloquently expressing the things we desperately NEED to say to the world, it all comes spilling out in a tangle of unintelligible words. More than once when asked, "Wow! Peace Corps! What was it like?" I found myself responding, "It was... Well... Everything. It has been everything to me." It's a frustrating cop-out answer. It says nothing and yet is still the honest truth. It is impossible to find the words to describe an experience like Peace Corps, within the brevity of an average conversation. So Peace Corps staff tell us to make an elevator speech. 

I've thought about this a lot... I can show pictures and videos, or tell stories to describe the reality of poverty or the beauty of this country. And I will do all of those things. What is more difficult is to describe how Peace Corps has affected and changed ME. How do I describe what it was like? So this is what I've come up with...

Living in Lesotho is like having your outer layer of skin removed. At first you feel exposed to the elements. Vulnerable. You need others. You NEED them because that protective layer -that shield that you always took for granted in the safety and security of your own culture- is gone. And once that outer layer of skin is peeled off, you feel everything more potently. Being vulnerable does that. It makes every sensation more powerful. You feel overwhelming joy and extreme grief. Hope for humanity, and disgust at human nature. You laugh with wild abandon, and find yourself appreciating the smallest things- a sunrise or the way a child's hand holding yours can bring incredible comfort. You find a part of yourself that you didn't know existed, and it scares and startles you whenever it surfaces- someone pokes your raw exposed skin and you lash out in extreme animalistic anger because you feel violently threatened. You walk around grateful for everything- the breath in your body as you climb a mountain or the opportunity to sit on a dirt floor with strangers. You feel connected to your own humanity in a way you've never known before- all because your life and the lives of other people feel more real and fragile, without that single layer of skin. Your flesh is exposed- and you are, too. 

That is Lesotho for me. The overwhelming emotions... I am exposed and raw. In Lesotho, there's no protective layer between me and the world. I feel everything more potently. It's an exposure that has irreparably changed me for the better.

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

What Sibongile gained from GLOW…

"What did you think about the Career Panel today?" I asked Sibongile, one of my Young Women's Group members from Linokong High School. "'Me Limpho, what can I say?!" she exclaimed, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "'Me Pontso was so incredible, Madam! That woman... It's like she has awoken the dragon inside of me!" she laughed excitedly. Sibongile's motivation was music to my ears... On only the second day of Camp GLOW, she'd already found what I'd been trying to give her for the past two years: a belief that her future is full of possibility.

Sibongile has an all-too-typical story for Lesotho: a double orphan whose only living relative, her grandmother, passed away this past February. Now she gets shuffled around to whichever community members are willing and able to feed her. She wouldn't have been in school this year, but for my insistence that the Principal suspend her school fees until I could get her a sponsorship through Peace Corps. Yet she's a bright girl; dedicated to her studies and constantly laughing. She's been a staple of my Young Women's Group since the very first meeting, and I knew that she needed Camp GLOW more than most.

When Pontso Ts’oeunyane stood up in front of the crowd of girls on the second day of camp, I knew she’d be able to hit the mark I'd been missing. Besides being beautiful, young, boisterously funny, and a proud Mosotho woman, Ponts'o is also incredibly well-educated and philanthropically-driven. As a sociologist at the Ministry of Education and Training, she works on government support programs that help orphans, like Sibongile, get an education. And this year we were blessed to have her join our Counseling Staff at the 2014 Camp GLOW for northern Lesotho!

During our Career Panel of Basotho Women, Pontso told a story with a language, vernacular, and history that was relatable to the campers. Pontso spoke about struggling through school; not always being the most brilliant student, but always the most driven. She described bravely standing up to her father when he told her not to study Sociology, and the pressure she still feels to get married. In two years, she hopes to begin pursuing her PhD… It will be the culmination of a dream that began when she was Sibongile’s age.

When Pontso finished, the roaring applause in the assembly hall was overwhelming. I caught Sibongile’s eye in the crowd; with a wink, she told me that she’d found what we’d come here for: a story with an ending she could envision. What I represent as a role model is often unattainable to my students, so I feel grateful to the Basotho women, like Pontso, who made Camp GLOW “real” for my girls. In the end, it was all too true… When Sibongile hugged Pontso goodbye and boarded the taxi back out to our rural village, she seemed transformed. She was literally glowing.

With Love from Lesotho… –Mary E.

Welcome to Ha Selomo!

My little village in the Maluti Mountains is full of people and places that make it extra special. Here are just a few of the memorable faces and places that make Ha Selomo feel like home... 

The Chief of Ha Selomo, Morena Moshoeshoe Selomo, is probably about as close to the stereotype of an elder in an African village as it gets. Slightly rotund and roughened by wrinkles and scars from years of hard work, he spends most of his time sitting beneath the knobby old tree in front of his house, near the center of lower Ha Selomo. His compound is always full of his many grandchildren, running around playing or making mischief. On any given morning, the clearing under that old tree is crowded with villagers, patiently waiting to bring their complaints, concerns, and disputes to Ntate Moshoeshoe for judgement. In this region, the  Chief's word is law- when Ntate Selomo speaks, people stop and listen. When I first met this much-respected man, he scared the living day-lights out of me. What caught my attention at the time wasn't him, but rather the gun sitting on his lap as he yelled at a group of men in rapid-fire Sesotho. As luck would have it, he'd been in the midst of solving a dispute over the ownership of the weapon, when I showed up all bright-eyed and armed with a pre-rehearsed Sesotho speech. "Holy cow..." I thought to myself. "What have I gotten into this time?! Could this man be scarier?!" But the moment he turned his attention from the young men to me, his face lit up in a jovial smile that I now think of as "classic Ntate Selomo." He excitedly held out a knarly old hand, that was missing not one, but two fingers, and gave me a firm Basotho handshake. He was delighted by my Sesotho, amused by my name (my name is Limpho, meaning "many gifts" and my predecessor's name was Mpho, meaning "one gift"... So when I first arrived, everyone got a hoot out of that! "First we had one gift and now we have many!" They would laugh when I introduced myself.), and heartily welcomed me to Ha Selomo. Now whenever I see him hobbling around village with his cane, I can be assured that a huge toothless smile and hearty handshake are not far away. 

And just across the dirt road from Ntate Selomo's place, is 'Me Mantebo's house. If Ntate Selomo is the quintessential village man, then 'Me is the typical elderly nkhono or grandmother. When the first Peace Corps Volunteer came to live in Ha Selomo in the 80's, 'Me was, ausi Puleng's, host mother. 'Me Mantebo's now lives with her young granddaughter, Lebohang (one of my Form B students), who seems a great comfort and help to 'Me in her old age. Last winter, I found myself wandering around Ha Selomo one afternoon and saw 'Me Mantebo and some other elderly women sitting on a giant blue tarp on the ground in front of her old crumbling rondaval. When I stopped to greet them, they insisted I sit down and help with the work. The were going through a process called khotola, where you separate the dried kernels off an ear of corn in preparation for grinding it into papa. 'Me Mantebo patiently watched, with much amusement, as I bloodied my knuckles inexpertly scraping the maize ear across a roughened rock. I was horrible at it, and the occasional roaming child who sat down to help, always put my fledgling attempts to shame. 'Me, however, seemed so grateful for the afternoon we spent together and every time I visit her now she can't resist but tease me by asking if I've been practicing khotola. Ha! 

If you stay on the dirt road into lower Ha Selomo, you'll hit a T junction in the road. Go left and it takes you to Ha Makhoahla, then Ha Sebophe, and finally on to Linakeng. Go right and you pass a scattering of little villages that fall under Ha Selomo, such as Motie. On this side of village, the road skirts around the base of a giant plateau, atop which lies Ha Selomo holimo or upper Ha Selomo. Villagers that live in upper Ha Selomo walk on foot, or haul supplies atop donkeys, up a winding path, that occasionally moves along a steep, rock covered slope. I quite frequently thank God that I DONT live in upper Ha Selomo. Ha! But if you stay on the dirt road below the ridge, eventually you'll reach Ha Leboea, where my fellow PCV, Brendan or Lebohang, lives. The T junction in lower Ha Selomo, sometimes called lebenkaleng meaning "the shops", is the life of Ha Selomo. At the corner is the largest shopong in village, which we call Rueban's shop, after the young Indian guy who owns it. The shop is home to a very noisy and attention loving cat, Penny, and is run by Ausi Tsepang and Ntate Dan. It's the epicenter of village life, and always full of friendly faces coming to and from. 

Across the dirt road sits a perpetual line of weary old khombis, or bush taxis. This junction in Ha Selomo is the turnaround point for taxis to all the villages down my dirt road, Unlucky villagers who live even further down the dirt road (like my friend Brendan) have to switch taxis or, when no taxis are available (which happens quite often!) start walking! This is where 'Me cooks and sells maquena out of her roadside fruit stand. In the early mornings, this part of village fills with the smell of bread dough being deep fried in a big metal basin over an open fire. When dipped in sugar and cinnamon, her maquenas could surpass even Krispy Kreme for deliciousness. 

On my way home from school in the afternoons, I often take a little dirt path that breaks off the main road just beside 'Me's fruit stand. As I pass underneath the beautiful old oak tree in the center of village (one that two village elders once told me was 250 years old, making it older than Lesotho itself), I pass by the local councilman's office. The secretary 'Me Mamathabi (whose little boy, Mathabi, I teach in Form A) is often sitting outside soaking up the sun, and always gives a loud shout and happy wave when I pass. When I first arrived in village, 'Me and I would sit outside her office with an inevitable gathering of Bo-me and teach me Sesotho. Later in that first summer I was in Ha Selomo, I got recruited into helping the local women resmear the building for the councilman's office.Now every time I pass the  office and see the encroaching cracks making their way across the mud walls,  I smile and think that it won't belong before Me shows up at my door telling me it's time to smear again! 

The path that leads to my house is always lined with the happy chatter of Bo-me sitting around the pump waiting for water, or children running around the football field that borders my family's compound. As I walk down the dirt path, I pass the agriculture compound on my right, where my neighbor works in the village piggery. On my left, sits 'Me Mankapisi's house. Me is an interesting character... Apart from being inexplicably IN LOVE with me, she is also the local sagoma (also called an nagaoka in Sesotho) or traditional healer. Above her compound, atop a large stick flagpole, hangs a traditional broom attached to a sickle? This announces that Me practices traditional Basotho medicine. Her house doesn't look so different from the other brick homes of villagers, but beside it sits a small traditional rondaval, that has such a low door you have to stoop or crawl to enter. This is where villagers come if they suspect they have an ailment related to witchcraft. For being the local traditional healer, Me Mankapisi's is  about exactly what you'd expect. She plump, short, and perpetually barefooted- snow or shine, town or village. She wears rightly beaded jewelry and a bright red and purple wrap, that gives her an air of royalty. She hilariously outspoken and has a loud boisterous laugh that comes out anytime I say.... Well,  anything! 

Me Mankapisi's house sits on one corner of the village football field. Down the length of the field, sits my house at the adjacent corner. Just next door to me, lives 'Me Mamolefie, and her gaggle of kids. With seven living children, she seems the quintessential mother figure. Several are grown and married, while others are still in diapers. Her young ones, Makhoro, Mohalaka, and Nthatisi, are my constant companions around village and at my house, while her older girls Keke and Nthabiseng frequently visit for new magazines and help with math homework. I absolutely adore all of them. 

Across the football field from me, along the dirt road to Ha Sebophe, lives Ntate Taole, the local councilman and preacher. He and his wife, Me Mamatsane are absolutely amazing, and I have (as with most of the families in Ha Selomo) taught a smattering of their children in school. On the same compound as his house sits a little one-roomed brick, tin-roofed building, that serves as a church. Here, every Sunday, a small collection of youth and villagers from lower Ha Selomo gather to worship. Hopolang, and her group of youth ladies lead the congregation in accapela songs that make me wonder why anyone ever thought a piano, organ, or band were necessary. Their call and response traditional hymns fill this tiny, empty, tin-roofed room and never ceases to give me shivers. The church looks out onto the beautiful vista of the Linakeng Valley, with the Maluti Mountains rising in the background. On the ridge, just across a hillside of maize fields, you can barely see my school, with it's tin roofs and blue doors, peaking out of the trees that surround it. 

There have been a hundred other people, places, and memories. Sounds and smells I know associate with home. And most importantly, is the unwavering sense of community that fills this place. Children grow up as siblings, running around wild without fear or even shoes. Ha! Occasionally the air is punctuated by the sound of a taxi horn, but you're more likely to hear the gentle clanging of cattle bells or the voice of a mother calling her kids in from play. Things are peaceful here. I've loved this village immensely. 

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

One Last Outing!

I love my colleagues at Linokong High School SO much! They are truly amazing people… Fun, hilarious, and caring. They’ve been my friends, cultural/language teachers, and family for the past two years. So when Ntate Musi proposed we go out to Clarens, South Africa for one last “outing” before I left, we all said “YES!”

They threw me a wonderful farewell… Full of meat, papa, beer, and dancing- Just they way it should be in Lesotho! We had a fantastic day partying and celebrating the end of my time at Linokong High School!

As usual, bo-Me were in charge of cooking… And boy, was there a lot of nama to braai!

Bo-Ntate running the braai!

Rosky with the new owner of the guest-house. He was a Mosotho, too, so we bonded over famu music! Ha!

Phepheng and Ntate Malefane :)

Limpho (me), Chris, Rethabile, ‘Me Matsoetlane, and Phepheng. I swear in two years, I’ve NEVER gotten a “normal” photo of Phepsi!

 

Ntate Malefane and Ntate Masiu- Representing the Math and Science Department right! :)

Rosky and I: Gonna miss this crazy guy SO much! <3

Such an appropriate photo… Because I don’t think there was a single day during the past two years when Ntate Musi didn’t make me laugh!

Besties! Chris and I!

My AWESOME teachers!
Phepheng, Rethabile, ‘Me Matsoetlane, Ntate Malefane, Ntate Limema, Limpho, Rosky, Ntate Masiu, Ntate Musi, Chris, and ‘Me Puseletso. :)

We danced, and danced, and danced some more… :D

 

Salang ka khotso!

Stay in peace!