“The Final Bow” A Poem for COS

A poem written by Laura Johnson in honor of Peace Corps Lesotho ED ‘13’s Close of Service Conference in Bloemfontein, South Africa. 

They say the world’s a stage
And we are but the actors.
The parts we play are set in
motion based on many factors.

Our stage was set in Philly town
On a brisk October day.
Becky called us “family”
We thought- this lady’s ‘cray.’

There we learned some fun tidbits
’bout the culture of Basotho
”Lumelang bo’me le bo’ntate,”
and welcome to Lesotho.

Up in our mountain kingdom home
Our group- ten less than forty
Would have no running water, ‘lectric
That means no fridges, Shorty.

So we called our friends and families,
And prepared for opening night,
When we bused on up to NYC
And boarded our long flight.

As we passed time zones and watched TV
And crossed o’er an equator,
We thought of all we’d left behind,
And what would greet us later.

The language, shit, it sounded hard.
And what places would we see?
And what about those plastic buckets,
They said we’d use to pee?!

Before any opening show
It’s scary in the wings
Before the lights go on out there
You don’t know anything!

Landing in Maseru now,
Confused and all a’sotter.
They sorted us in village groups
Like the hat in Harry Potter.

Mabekenyane, Berea, Makola
For two months, we’d rest our heads
And get adjusted to new foods and water
… and diarrhea meds.

Learning the lines is never as fun
As givin’ it your best,
So some might say that PST
Seemed longer than the rest.

But true or not, it must be said
That PST was notable.
For here we learned the characters
All of whom are quotable.

Of course we must thank Peace Corps staff
Who helped us move along.
And told us not to spend our stipends
On only women, wine, and song.

And through the ups and downs
We mastered living hardy.
We even found the chance to bond
At murder mystery parties.

Before we knew it, December came
The start of two full years
That we would spend spread out Lesotho
As Peace Corps Volunteers.

Saying goodbye again so soon
To families and friends
Meant celebrating new beginnings
While the first scene came to ends.

Then off in separate districts
Our service really started
Each of us has lived a life
Our own since we last parted.

Our struggles, triumphs, lessons learned
Are similar but varied
Heading home means new adventures
(And no more water to be carried!)

But the parts we’ve played will stay with us
New language, stories, dishes
We’ve passed through many obstacles
But set forth with precious wishes…

To make the world a better place
To use the blessings we’ve been given.
No one but the people here
Will understand ‘bout Peace Corps livin’.

Thank you for the times you helped
Through laughs or when we teared
Or braved the perils of taxi rides
For parties that got weird.

*** We’ll add a few new verses,
(With a bit less preparation.
But please try not to judge us-
Blame the swift evacuation.)

Close of Service Conferences
Should be a bit bodacious,
But getting one like ED ‘13’s?
That’s downright ostentatious!

The EAP called us from the land,
Of propserity, peace, and rain.
Who’d have guess in wildest dreams
We’d COS in Bloemfontein?

It’s been a tough few days we know,
But it hasn’t gotten sinister.
If you want to know what’s going on,
Ask the army or Prime Minister.

So while we wait for updates,
And while Kamoli is on the run,
Let’s enjoy this All Vol/COS
And basking in the sun.***

As our service finishes
Our curtain, it will close
Let’s part as Peace Corps family
Who together conquered foes.

The final bow is a time to cherish
As the lights dim from above
Hard work that taught us countless things
This toughest job we’ll ever love.

The First Goodbye

We started with 30 Americans. A group of strangers that became a family… The Peace Corps Lesotho “ED 13’s”. It wasn’t always easy. In fact, as I write this, I’m sitting in a hotel in South Africa where all the PCVs in Lesotho were evacuated to more than a week ago, after a military coup d’etat in Maseru. We should have been at our “Close of Service” or COS Conference this weekend. It should’ve been a celebration. A rare chance to indulge at Maliba Lodge in Ts’ehlanyane National Park. A chance to relax… To sit up late at night drinking wine and reminiscing about that time Amanda and I got stranded in a remote village in Botswana or the way that Ntate Clement, our Ed APCD, always looks so fly in his floral shirts and bowler hat. It should’ve been a time for inside jokes and shared memories. A time for laughter and tearful goodbyes.

But the emotional rollercoaster of Peace Corps leaves no rest for the weary...Instead we sit in empty hotel rooms, praying we’ll get a chance to return to our host families, friends, and students in Lesotho. We’re just hoping for some semblance of closure to our service now. A chance to say goodbye to the people and country we’ve come to love over the last two years.

It’s been a wild ride… You name it, I feel like we’ve done it. Overwhelming laughter and joy, all night parties, and vacations that took us to the highest peaks of Lesotho and the coasts of southern Africa alike. For two years, we’ve shared birthdays and holidays… Attempting to imbue special days and events the with comfort and meaning of home, in a place that often seems a world away from everything we know and love. We’ve gotten stuck on dirt roads together… Cried in frustration at the unfairness of a taxi that never shows up. But then again, we’ve also been there for the encouraging pat on the back, and the look of camaraderie that says, “You know we have to do this because we don’t have any choice” before we finally pull ourselves up off the ground, put our packs back on, and start walking. We’ve been insulted, misunderstood, and humiliated. Shared in the tiny victories of a host brother that can now read “The Cat In The Hat” or a female student who has the courage to recite a poem in front of the entire school. We’ve often been hungry, tired, and subsequently overwhelmingly irritated at each other. There has occasionally been yelling or angry silences… And then a hug to make up. We are family, after all. We’ve been confused… Tried to laugh at the “On any given day I only understand about 10% of what goes on around here!” jokes, but also knowing that they hide a very real frustration that we all experience on a daily basis. We get through it in the end because we all share a common experience. We were often separated by mountains, never-ending dirt roads, and torturous public transportation… But between What’s App messages, emails, and the occasional desperate phone call to rant, we managed to hold onto the bond we began in Pre-Service Training (PST). It was a wild, crazy, amazing, once-in-a-lifetime adventure… And at the end of it, 22 of us made it through two years to our “Close of Service Conference” together.

Peace Corps Lesotho Education Sector 2013!

And today we said the first goodbye… Not to a volunteer, but to our guide. Our Director of Programming and Training (DPT), Eric, left Peace Corps Lesotho today. He arrived in Lesotho shortly before us, and we will follow him back to the States in just a few short months. From our very first days of training in Lesotho, he made us into a family by example. He was “Uncle Eric,” the middle-of-the-night phone call you make when there are no taxis and you’re stranded outside of village. His was the home that always had a hot shower and a warm dinner for PCVs just “passing through” Maseru. He will be missed as we finish our service without him.

It was a difficult goodbye to say in the midst of an evacuation and scrambled together COS Conference, when so much seems uncertain. I know it was harder for him to leave than for us to see him go. But it was the beginning of the end… The beginning of the goodbyes. A scary new horizon, and also an exciting start to a new adventure.

I’ll always be thankful I was a Lesotho Ed’ 13!

With Love from South Africa… Mary E.

And the Wait Continues...

It's been about eight hours since volunteers from the northern districts of Botha-Bothe and Leribe gathered in the camptown of Hlotse for a mandatory, Peace Corps ordered consolidation of volunteers. Tensions are running high amongst the group of 20+ volunteers here. We're all at varying stages of processing the possibility of evacuation, but most of us seem to have thoroughly settled on denial. We've enjoyed hot showers, a buffet lunch, and wireless internet... And many of us have spent the afternoon sitting around with a beer, soaking up the warmth of early spring while marking exams or catching up on emails paperwork. Trying to continue with our lives and work as normal, even when the situation is anything but. Evacuation still seems a remote threat, and with little to no information about the security threat or situation in Maseru, we're all choosing to believe that we'll be back in our own beds by tomorrow night... Back in front of our classes by Thursday morning.

Yet the rainbow of emotions that have accompanied the looming threat of evacuation could not possibly be adequately described. For my own part, I think I'm oscillating between disbelief, fear, guilt, and anger. It's a complex thing, processing what might come next... In part because I don't feel imminently in danger. 

Over the past two years, I have made this country my home. And in a sense the threat of evacuation hits at a major insecurity... This is not MY country or home. And that's an uncomfortable thing to admit. I have tried so desperately to belong here, and in a sense, I do. With a single order, however, Peace Corps can sever that relationship. With a single phone call, they remind me that I don't belong here. I am not Basotho; I never was. The order to leave says to me, my friends, and family that I am not truly a part of the Ha Selomo community. I claimed to stay with them through every season, challenge, and heartache... I attended funerals, went to the fields to work, endured the never ending taxi lines, and waited for water at the pump just like everyone else. I stayed late after school struggling through maths with their kids, and invested myself again and again and again... I was a good volunteer. I took my Oath seriously. I meant my promise and lived it everyday for the past two years. And yet, when the situation gets tough, I leave. I run.  I escape to the safety of my OWN country, where the military doesn't take over the civil police force and exile the Prime Minister. The guilt is overwhelming. The possibility of leaving my kids to 'tough out whatever comes next' feels like an abandonment. It makes me feel like my Peace Corps Oath of Service came with an exemption clause. Like saying "for better or worse" when what I really meant was "for better or until my safety is in jeopardy". And even more frustrating, I have to trust when Peace Corps says that my safety is in jeopardy, because I don't  feel unsafe. 

And then there's the anger... When I think about the army commander who made the decision to start this alleged coup, or the politicians who plotted behind closed doors for just a little more power, wealth and prestige, it make me furious. What gives them the right to choose themselves over so many thousands of people? At this moment, all across Lesotho, more than 60 well trained and willing teachers sit in hotels doing NOTHING. Meanwhile, back in our communities, thousands of Basotho children don't have English, Math, and Science teachers today. Why? I wish I had an answer. It seems a pointless waste of potential, when so much was sacrificed to bring us here and make us into the teachers these children deserve. 

The waiting is difficult... And I'm praying that maybe this experience will just heighten my appreciation for my community and relationships in Lesotho. It has certainly made me think about what the people in my life here have meant to me, and how devastated I would be to leave them. I long for closure... And there's certainly none to be found if we are forced to leave Lesotho in the next few days. 

So we'll continue perfecting that well-honed Peace Corps patience, and pray it doesn't come to that. 

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

The Threat of Evacuation

"I'll see you on Friday! We're gonna have a glass of wine and just roll over laughing about how silly this whole Military coup d'état thing was." I said, laughingly to Zoe. "Absolutely," she said confidently. "There's no way this will go any further. See you Friday at Maliba!"

As I hung up the phone, I heard a message ding. It was an email from our acting Peace Corps Country Director. As my eyes flashed across the blackberry screen, I suddenly got a sinking feeling. Phrases like "precautionary measures," "prepare to move to your consolidation point," and "notify your host families and supervisors" immediately caught my attention. The next step in our emergency protocol was happening. All Peace Corps Volunteers in Lesotho had been ordered to consolidate to regional secure locations for possible evacuation from the country. 

My first reaction was an overwhelming urge to cry. As I pushed the impulse aside, the reality of what could happen if I had to leave my village tomorrow and never come back started to sink in. My hands started trembling. 'I can't leave. I just CAN'T leave. I have school tomorrow. Nothing's wrong here. My kids need me tomorrow. My teachers won't understand why I've left. Who will feed my cat? I can't leave. I just CANT.' I thought frantically. The fear was complete and overwhelming. Terrifying in it's imminence. 

In my scattered state, as I waited for the official call from Peace Corps, I paced my house trying to gather my thoughts enough to form a plan. 'What in the world do I do first? Should I wash my dishes?' I thought, glancing around my house. 'No.... That's stupid... After all, I'll probably be back tomorrow.' But then the sinking feeling again... 'But what if I never come back? I don't want someone else to have to do my dishes!' Suddenly such a simple decision seemed monumentally important. 'And do I feed the dog my left-over spaghetti from dinner?!' I worried. 'No...' I thought. 'What an absurd waste of perfectly good food... I should save it for another night.'

And then the same terrifying thought... 'But what if I never come back?!'

After a frantic hour of more pacing, texting, and phone calls with other frazzled and uncertain Peace Corps Volunteers, I finally got through to my mom in America. "You can and WILL leave if Peace Corps tells you to," she repeated endlessly, in response to my panicked ranting. "Think about things that you can't leave without... Pack things in your 'go bag' that will make you feel safe and comfortable, if you get stuck sitting around a strange hotel in South Africa for a week." Her logic and calm helped the nearly impossible notion of evacuating sink in. I finally gathered myself enough to form a coherent plan... Pack. Prepare. Write notes for my colleagues about my classes. Call my Principal and host father. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.

I circled my house slowly, packing a much loved elephant jewelry box that I had bought in S. Africa, a woven basket from Botswana, and the blue scarf my best friend, Anna, had knitted me this past winter. My few irreplaceable possessions filled half of a black duffle bag in the center of my rondaval. Should I end up on an emergency evacuation back to the U.S., these methodically selected items would be the only physical remnants of my Peace Corps service... Of my entire life in Lesotho. In my red hiking pack, my 'go bag', I loaded enough clothes for two weeks, toiletries, medications, important documents, and all my electronics. I doubled, and then triple checked for my passport: The one item the Peace Corps official, who'd called to give me the official notice, had repeatedly reminded me to pack right away.

Around 10pm, my cat, Pina, retreated into her bed and started the nervous, fidgety dance of a cat in labor. 'Fabulous,' I thought. 'A military coup d'etat in the capital, an exiled Prime Minister, a possible evacuation of American citizens from Lesotho, and Pina decides to give birth TONIGHT. Lovely.' I laughed to myself, as I continued to inventory my belongings. 

Sometime around 11pm, I finally settled down enough to sleep. I lay awake for a while thinking of all the people I may never get the chance to say goodbye to. After two years living here, it was a long list. My Young Women's Group girls, who would arrive at school tomorrow thinking we'd be meeting tomorrow afternoon, just like every Tuesday. My host family in Makola, who may not even realize that there is a dangerous political/military situation brewing barely one hour away from their little rural village. My kids in village, who were planning to watch the rest of Shrek with me tomorrow night. My friends: Phepheng, Ernie, Rethabile, Chris, Makabelo... People I love, who made this house my home with their presence and companionship over the past two years. What if I never got to tell them what their friendship has meant to me? It was a truly terrifying thought. 

And then I heard my mom's voice again, "You can and WILL leave if you have to."

Twelve hours of fitful sleep and frantic packing later... I'm leaving village now. It seems impossible that I may never come back. Too surreal to process. Nothing's wrong here, which makes it only more difificult. Pina sits outside my house, patiently watching me walk away. Teboho and Mohalaka, run across the field by my house, pushing each other in a ratty old wheelbarrow and screaming with delight. 'Me Mamolefie waves to me, as she tosses scraps to Makhoro's dog, waiting outside her house. The new house along the dirt road is only about 2 brick rows from finished. It seems impossible to imagine that I won't be back before they start to put the roof on.

And yet somewhere deep in my head, probably more for self-preservation in case of the worst, a voice whispers that consolidation means there IS a chance we'll be evacuated. But it's such a seemingly impossible scenario, as I walk through my peaceful village, that I can hardly begin to process what that would mean.

So I'm going to continue to imagine that this is just a mini-vacation and an exciting opportunity for a few days of electricity and showers... And pray that the situation in Maseru doesn't escalate.

With Love from Lesotho... Mary E. 

Becoming an RPCV.

Yesterday I received my official Close of Service date from Peace Corps. On November 18th, 2014, I will leave Ha Selomo, a place I've called home for more than two years, travel to the capital for paperwork, medical exams and tearful goodbyes, and then make the simultaneously terrifying and exciting transition from Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) to RETURNED Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV).

I didn't grow up dreaming of Peace Corps service, and I never knew anyone who had joined Peace Corps before I got on a plane and moved to Lesotho, so the term RPCV never really held any power for me... Until now. Now I'm starting to understand what it means. They won't call me a FORMER PCV. There is no such thing. It's a small, prideful difference. Once a PCV, always a PCV. You're never NOT a Peace Corps Volunteer again. Once you've served... Once you've left behind family, friends, and every sense of security you've ever known.... Once you've found home and family in a culture and people not your own... Once you've endured the isolation and loneliness- And then miraculously discovered a way through it using a new lanuage and sheer courage. Once you've trusted other people completely and with total abandon, relied on strangers and lived on the faith that "it all works out." Once you've loved kids, given every day of two years to teaching them, and made them "YOUR kids"... Once you've experienced what a miracle their companionship and innocence can be... Once you've experienced births, deaths, hunger, cold, exhaustion, and joy with people, found joy in new holiday traditions and watched the seasons unravel... Once you've lived through Peace Corps, you're never the same. It's an experience that will never NOT be a part of you.

I understand now that I will always be a Peace Corps Volunteer... I may be "returned" to my family and country, but I can't ever undo the OTHER family and country that made me theirs as well. I found some more resilient, less judgemental, and more humble part of myself here. And some other part of me was newly forged here, and I will always be ausi Limpho now. That's what makes this transition both exciting and terrifying. I know that I can't just walk away from it... Now comes the hardest part of the experience, where I try to find a way to make both of these identities coexist in a new life, wherever that may be.

I'm ready to try.

With Love from Lesotho… Mary E.

Ethical Travel

I  have travelled at different times in my life, for many different reasons. Sometimes for guilty pleasure, occasionally to explore and learn, and at others for adventure or sport. I have been the obnoxious tourist, complete with kitschy photos in front of "post card perfect" sites, boisterous excitement, and fanny-pack tackiness. I know what it is to travel for personal gain and comfort.
Yet on my latest trip to Botswana I witnessed some tourist-classic behavior that made me flinch at the audacity, blind-arrogance, and naiveté of westerners. It made me embarrassed for them, and after two years of living immersed in an indigenous culture, defensive of the rights and integrity of the local people.

Here are some of my observations about ethical and "culturally-sensitive" travel:

1) Culture isn't for your entertainment, and indigenous people aren't its performers.

While in Botswana we stayed at the D'Qae Qare Game Reserve, a reservation owned by the local Naro San people and dedicated to their cultural preservation. During our stay, several different groups of tourists trickled through. We were all there for the same reason: To learn about the local bushmen culture. Yet it quickly became obvious to my travelling companion, Amanda, and I that not everyone went about "receiving" the culture and local people the same way.
One night, we were seated around a family-style dinner with a large group of German tourists. Amanda and I had already been there for two days, and had made a point to get to know the San staff. After all, what better way to know the culture than to know the people, right? The cook, Dinah, was a jovial, pretty woman in her mid-30’s who seemed to be the life and glue of the staff. Despite her many roles on the reserve, she constantly toted her 6-month old baby, Anne, around on her hip or back. We came to absolutely love Dinah during our time at D’Qae. That night, as she served dinner she stopped to explain the dishes in her near-perfect English (a truly impressive feat for someone who is entirely self-taught in the language.) As she excused herself to go back to the kitchen, a tall blonde man stood up. "Can you say something in your own language?!" he shouted at her excitedly, as if prepared for a great amusement. Dinah nodded cordially, and commenced to reintroduce the dishes in Naro (the local "click" language, for which the man didn't even have the courtesy to ask of the proper name of first).
It was a performance by any standard. Dinah did well. She held her bearing and smiled, but I was mortally affronted for her, and for the thoughtless man. He had treated her no better than a circus performer. I wanted to tell him... ‘If you're interested in hearing a local language, spend some time with the people. If you're interested in witnessing a piece of their culture, have the decency to respect their traditions by referring to them by name.’ 

2) Pause. Look around. Realize WHERE you are. If you aren't ready for the reality of a place, then don't travel there.

I understand that westerners are accustomed to a certain level of comfort. When travelling, however, it's important to remember that not all corners of the world are capable of or designed to cater to your every whim. If you're not prepared to accept that, then DON'T TRAVEL THERE. Travelling is a choice. YOUR choice. If you don't want rocky roads and cold showers, then for goodness sakes don't go to the middle of the bush in northwestern Botswana.

On more than one occasion during my time in Botswana, I witnessed tourists complain about everything from the accommodations to the roads to the food to the imperfections of the staff's English (which, by the way is their THIRD language, after Naro and Setswana). It was offensive to watch people bad-mouth the local people for things that 1) the locals live with EVERY day without complaint, and 2) they can't change. There is no way to make the remote bush into a Hilton Hotel without destroying the very essence of the place and culture you are trying to preserve. And being hyper-focused on your physical surroundings often means you miss the kindness, generosity, and genuine hospitality of the people all around you.
If you're not prepared to accept cultural travel with humility and a grateful heart, then don't go.

3) You are a guest in THEIR country, culture, and community. Stop expecting everyone to speak English.

This is a common hazard of travelling… And I absolutely understand. The inability to communicate can be frustrating. You need answers. Maybe you’re lost in a strange place. You don’t know what’s going on. Confused. It’s disarming and uncomfortable, right? Embrace it. Taking your frustration out on host country nationals because YOU can’t communicate is your problem, not theirs. You are a guest. You chose to travel to a place where YOU don’t have the necessary skills to live. Uncomfortable? Then stay at home. Angry? Then look around and realize that you are the one that doesn’t belong.
Westerners expect everyone to speak English… And I know, it’s an international language, you’re paying good money, yada, yada, yada… But in my experience, host country nationals make a HUGE effort to try to speak English, even though it’s uncomfortable for them as well, they’re in their own country, AND they often have had little to no opportunity for formal training in the language. All I’m saying is, try to meet them half-way. Look at language as an opportunity to bridge cultural divides and show that you’re a good sport.
Yet again… It all comes down to travelling with grace and humility.

4) Being poor doesn't make you stupid. Being different doesn't make you incompetent.

I see this a lot in Peace Corps… Americans frequently get frustrated working with people that think and work different ways than they’re accustomed to. Perhaps a business meeting starts two hours late because people sit around talking about their families forever. It’s frustrating; I understand. It happens ALL the time in Lesotho. Yet we often undervalue what we don’t understand. The business meeting starting late isn’t a sign of disrespect for everyone's time, it occurs from a belief that relationships are important. It’s a subtle yet important difference, that takes time and humility to understand.

There are many ways to exist in the world, and none is more right or wrong than any other. The same can be said for knowledge. There are many different types of knowledge and intelligence, and (hold onto your hats engineers!), not all of them are quantifiable or even written. How many people look down on the uneducated, illiterate poor as lesser? Yet I would guess that these same people, utterly overlook the incredible genius of  a San man who can recite the individual names and uses of a thousand different plants and herbs. Or a woman who remembers, word for word, an hour long legend passed down from her ancestors.
Culture is powerful. It affects the way we think about time, what forms of knowledge we value, how we prioritize values, and how we go about work. When travelling, don’t make the terrible mistake of confusing being poor or illiterate with stupid or incompetent. To do so would be to miss out on the incredible plethora of gifts and worldviews present amongst humanity.
So next time you think your waitress in a foreign country seems lazy, or that the guy sitting on the street corner begging must be stupid, stop and step out of your own prejudices and worldview for a second. You might be surprised by what you find when you give people the benefit of the doubt.

5) YOU are not entitled to people's images, stories, or experiences.

Travelling can be exciting… Perhaps you’re like me and have the impulse to try to capture and preserve everything you see and experience. I constantly have a camera in my hand. I always seem to want to document every image, story, and experience. And it’s always a challenge to try to find a way to respectfully capture these pieces of peoples lives. Do you ask permission? Does it make them uncomfortable? Should you pay them? It can be a tricky thing.
But I think perhaps that’s the point… It should be tricky. Taking something as intimate as a person’s image or story should always be a question, not a demand.
You are not entitled to peoples images or stories, and to assume so, by snapping photos without permission or by asking intimate questions can be both impolite and offensive, depending on the culture. Westerners often haphazardly snap photos of strangers, without think twice about how that may make the local people feel. Or they hear or witness things abroad, go home, and then relay the stories and lives of local people as cocktail party jokes.
When I travel and spend time with local people, I try to remind myself that their stories and images are gifts. They should be offered, not taken. They should be guarded and respected for the lives of the people they represent.

6) If you want to know a place, know the people.

I suppose the entire point of this post, boils down to this… If you want to know a place, then you should get to know the people. People matter. In my opinion, there’s nothing more important in life than the way you treat another human being. It’s sacred. And when you travel, you leave footprints behind you. You affect the local people when you visit a place. Your behavior will be remembered (more than you ever know… Trust me on that one!) and it will in turn affect the way the people you met think about your culture and country.
So look at travelling as a gift… Something to be approached with reverence and humility. Travel ethically. Know that you left the world a better place than when you ventured into it. You’re being trusted with other people’s sense of self and integrity. And that’s a huge responsibility.

With Love from Lesotho… Mary E.

Idealizing the “Simple Life.”

There's a habit we have, as Americans... We have a tendency to idealize or fantasize about the "simple life." I see/hear it all the time... People talk longingly about a "simpler time and place," going "back to basics," a return to values and a forgone way of life. And as a PCV, people look at me with admiration for having attained this apparent "dream like" life. As if living without electricity and running water is some desirable life, a testament to a more honest or spiritually evolved way of life.

And I absolutely understand the fantasy... I was guilty of idealizing what it would be like to go "back to basics" before I came to Peace Corps. As if it was some more natural and evolved state of being "one with nature." Even during my first few months in Ha Selomo, I took pride in going to the pump to haul every ounce of water I used. I grew a garden and felt somehow superior for, for the first time in my life, living almost completely out of the reach of the global food market. I became a circumstantial vegetarian, simply because meat was expensive and difficult to buy. I felt like my new Peace Corps lifestyle was admirable, and told people I enjoyed "going back to basics" because I honestly did and do. But I was contributing to the same "idealization" I've now become frustrated with.

Living simply, in my eyes, is sometimes just another euphemism for living in poverty. My Basotho friends and neighbors are not lucky for having a "simpler" life. They are impoverished. And there's nothing beautiful, admirable, or noble about it. Americans project this fantasy of what an adventure it is to live without electricity, running water, or modern technology onto others. It's not a gallant, noble move to save the environment or get back to some more worthy way of life. It's suffering.

You know what life without electricity is? It's freezing cold. People die of cold here in Lesotho. Sickness sweeps through villages, attacking those too old, young, or sick to resist. Basotho literally FEAR the cold. They talk about it constantly. Like a superstition or imminent threat. I went to 7 funerals last year, in the span of 3 months during the winter. And you know what else no electricity means? It's dark. Pitch dark. As in children can't do homework and have to walk to school, through the mountains before the sun even rises. And two days ago, I had to show my 12th graders a picture of astronauts in space on my blackberry phone. They were SHOCKED to see a space ship. They had no idea giant structures like this were circling, just outside Earth's reach. Watching the realization wash over their faces was amazing. These are kids graduating from high school, and they didn't know what a space ship, a space suit, or zero gravity looked like. THAT'S life without electricity and technology. My kids have a limited ability to experience the world. They don't have television or computers or internet or smart phones. They don't know what the ocean looks like as the waves hit the sand, or what a lion sounds like when it roars.

I'm not saying all the advancements of modern technology are positive, but I am saying that thinking that life without them is a noble act is naïve. It's not noble to die of freezing cold or to limit a child's education. My life here without electricity only approaches exciting and adventurous because I have enough money to afford heavy blankets and a gas heater- luxuries my Basotho friends and neighbors don't have.

So the next time you hear someone longingly dream of a "simpler way of life" or going "back to basics" remind yourself that there are people around the world living that way RIGHT now. And there is nothing "simple" about it.

With Love from Lesotho… Mary E.