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!

“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.