16 October 2014: Ups and downs / Aaand the gossip starts

Yesterday, two of the current volunteers who came to help out with our training (called resource volunteers) were helping to explain the cycle of ups and downs that we will experience in our PC life cycle. Up until then, I had kind of been in denial about having low points because I was, as indicated on the power point slide, admittedly at the honeymoon stage of being fresh in a new place. However, having remembered the state that Milea and I ended up in in Paris I knew that isolation would become a big factor to the “downs.” (I didn’t really get “culture shock” (I still hate that term) in Morocco because I was surrounded by Americans all day every day). The difference here is that the Parisians were reluctant to connect with us- or it may have been us shutting down to even trying after initial frustrations- whereas I think that the Basotho will be crowding me with company, because they really have very little other forms of entertainment. Maybe it’s now slowly turning into the first tiny low dip now that I’m realizing that training is going to suck (the actual sessions, not being with everyone- that is awesome) and that the bulk of the theoretical stuff they’re teaching us isn’t going to be useful. The only things I remember from the training sessions are the real-life anecdotes and input/advice from the resource volunteers. Also, after training, I just want to go back to my house and relax in silence (hah…silence...one can dream) without having to talk to everyone I pass on the street. But even so, it kind of lifts you up when you get your Sesotho right or when someone remembers your name.

I know I will miss being able to hang out with all my fellow trainees every day, but then again I will probably get sick of a lot of them. It’s cool that I have found such good people to hang out with either one on one or in smaller groups. Big groups do weird things to people’s personalities and make some of them almost unbearable. The one I hang out with the most is Lee- we do assignments, cook, and work out at each other’s houses. He said that he thinks that the bo’me, with their daily “water tap meetings,” (aka hanging out and talking as they fill up their buckets for the day) are probably gossiping about us. I’ve definitely seen that Basotho girls usually hang out with other girls and boys with other boys. Since leaving my all-girls high school, I have had a lot of close friends who are guys, but having a close, opposite-gender friend is not really a thing here, so I don’t really know how they interpret us. In other Senate-centered news, Hillary (another PCT who lives really close to me) says that the adults are always talking about me (in a good way, she says) and how I do gymnastics and play with the kids and such. They wonder how I can do that stuff “at my age.” That kind of made me mad that they discount someone’s ability to have fun and play based on their age. I wonder if it is looked down upon that I play with and “act like” the kids. I’m already weird by default because I’m a foreigner- another level of weird isn’t going to add that much to the mix. They’re just gonna have to get over it.

Again, I’m coming home to my ‘me and ntate being so excited to teach me everything. My ‘me wants to look at my Sesotho notes every night after we eat dinner. I think I’m starting to pick it up; I can even understand words here and there on the radio. I’m just a little frustrated with my language class because I’ve learned many languages before, so my brain is wired to learn quickly, but I’m not being taught enough structure. I think they’re gonna switch the language groups around based on ability soon, so maybe I’ll get a teacher who is more matched to my learning style. 

13 October 2014: Long and Boring / Inspiring Student

Training is becoming long and boring. This morning was not particularly boring, but it was very long. We visited 5 primary and high schools in the area where we got to meet the kids and ask questions to them and the teachers. They were mostly excited to ask questions to us about our lives and about America. They found it hilarious when we spoke a little bit of Sesotho to them, either because our pronunciation was horrible, or (more likely) that they had never seen foreigners (try to) speak Sesotho before. So that was the long part. The boring part came afterward when we were all 1) in a food coma from the aforementioned giant lunches our families pack, 2) exhausted mentally from talking to so many students, and 3) physically exhausted from bus ride after bus ride to the different schools. We were going through very theoretical teaching approaches with very academic-sounding terms that don’t really mean much in real life.

                The most interesting part of the day was when I was walking back to my house with this girl from the high school next to the hub. She is 19 years old and in form D [11^th grade]. As a few of us walked with her, she read a very touching poem that she had written about her father who passed away from diabetes when she was a baby. Her mother works as what I gathered was a maid or something in South Africa. When she has the money, she likes to call her mom on the phone. She wants to be an engineer, and I told her that she had to focus on math and science. I think she is newly inspired by us, especially the math teachers, to concentrate on math and science, because apparently there is a culture here of thinking that math is too hard to understand, so it’s not worth trying. Almost every Basotho seems to be scared of math. I was happy to encourage her to pursue engineering in a country that apparently discourages especially girls to pursue these kinds of careers. This girl is going places, I can tell, and it was nice to see that sort of enthusiasm and dedication to her studies so that she can take care of herself and her mom when she gets older. That was her number one priority- taking care of her mom because her mom had provided so much for her. Family is everything here.

11 October 2014: Sorrynotsorry

Today I was supposed to meet another girl to run in the morning, but she was late, so I decided to go and meet her halfway. I went the wrong way, though, and I ended up passing this valley with an awesome, sprawling view of the green and brown spotted landscape. I thought to myself (as I would many more times), “is this even real life?” but I was told that it would get even prettier in the mountains and in the upcoming rainy season when everything got greener. Continuing along my run, I found the local soccer field (“football pitch”) with a super janky goal on one side made of metal pipes. Of course, the ymnast in me saw a bar and immediately needed to play on it. It was shaking around like crazy, but that didn’t stop me from doing a few pullovers and pullups.

I got home and ate another breakfast of lesheleshele with peanut butter (the 2^nd ingredient was sugar, and the 3^rd was hydrogenated oil. Sigh. (I have since found much, much better PB than the kind my ‘me was giving me. Though it wasn’t as bad, the PB my ‘me gave me reminded me about the PB my host family gave my roommate and me in Morocco. It was only 50% peanuts, and the label was in Dutch. Luckily, there was a student from the Netherlands also staying with us, so we asked her to translate the rest of the ingredients. She didn’t really know what they were. Not promising)). Wow, my mind wanders a lot. Anyway, while I was waiting for my ‘me to finish packing my lunch into a rectangular tupperware container, at the table there was this guy (never seen him before) asking me to marry him. Really? Come on, dude. I just laughed at him.

I went to my 2^nd language lesson, and after only a few lessons, plus the fact that my ‘me is so enthusiastic about teaching me new words, I think I can almost actually hold baby conversations with people. And by baby conversations, I mean that I can respond to the most basic of questions without having a super confused look on my face. I have also learned to say “ha ke tsebe” [I don’t know] and “ha ke utloisise” [I don’t understand], which have come in handy after those basic questions turn into something more complicated.

It’s raining now at my house, and earlier it was hailing at the church/school (we call it “The Hub”) that we have training sessions at. It sounded like a shower of bullets! These tin roofs are not forgiving at all. It was deafening. On another note, my ‘me says that I need to get fat, which would explain why she gives me so much papa during lunch. Nope. I literally can’t stuff all that food into my stomach. Sorrynotsorry.

9 October 2014: First full day

It is day 2 in Lesotho, and the good news is that I’m still going strong. I woke up at about 4:15am (yeah.) to the sounds of roosters, donkeys, and pigs out my window. I live in a pretty central location in the village, so I can hear pretty much everything that goes on, including the taxis (and by “taxi,” I mean more like a mini bus packed with 15+ people) whose drivers just lay on the horn until they reach capacity. This is especially pleasant in the morning… This morning, I had several hours to kill before I had to do anything, and, planning to do some conditioning or something to get my body working again, I immediately abandoned that plan when my ‘me koko-ed (when you come to  someone’s door, you don’t really knock, but instead say “koko!”) with a kettle of hot water for me to wash with, even though I had bathed right before I went to sleep the night before. The Basotho are very concerned with cleanliness, whether it’s bathing multiple times a day (not everyone does this, I’ve come to realize) or sweeping the dirt in their front yard. My side of the house has its own entrance, so after reluctantly bathing again, I went outside and went in to my family’s side of the house for a breakfast of lesheleshele [sorghum porridge] and corn flakes, which I realized was standard across all the PCTs [Peace Corps Trainees] because the host families had been given a packet outlining basic expectations for living with an American as well as a detailed menu of what to feed us for each meal every day. Lesheleshele is best served hot with a heaping glob of peanut butter, some milk, and a few spoons of sugar, in case you were wondering.

Part of the inside of my room

Our first day of training started with Sesotho class. My language group is the bomb, and our instructor is Ntate Sello, who is a pretty chill guy. We were like babies coming out of the womb into the Sesotho world, learning such basics as hello [lumela- “doo-may-lah”] and thank you [kea leboha]. I soon learned, from everyone in the village accosting us all the time, how to say that I’m doing fine, say that my name is Senate (Senate who?, they ask. I forgot my last name, I answer. There’s only so much I can absorb in my brain at one time, and apparently my last name had not yet stuck), say that I am from America, tell people where I am coming from, and say where I am going. Everywhere I go, it’s a constant shower of “where are you coming from? Where are you going?” Who cares? There’s just so little going on in the village that asking us these things is probably a major form of entertainment (these questions, by the way, are always responded to with the exact same answers almost every time. I’m coming from school. I’m going home. Same as every day, now shush.). Anyway, after lunch, our language group was going to go to Lee’s house so he could get his lunch, because he hadn’t brought it to language class. He couldn’t find his own house (and I won’t blame him; all the little paths on the side of the hill can be confusing) so we all just sat under a tree in some rando’s yard and had a picnic there, sharing our food.

My view out my front door looking to the side- off in the distance=fruit trees, midground=latrine, keyhole garden, thatched thing for growing mushrooms, foreground=another small garden

After our picnic, the PC bus thing took us to our “consolidation point,” a school in a neighboring village where we should gather should there be an emergency. There, we had to do some admin stuff. I got two more shots from the PCMO (PC Medical Officer) for god knows what, and we killed time (something we have become experts in) by playing with Frisbees and rubiks cubes, taking phots, and trying not to be blinded by the dust and sand flying everywhere. We went back on the bus, and as I was walking with Martha to her village, we came across some crazy dudes who just wouldn’t stop blabbering on in Sesotho, even though it’s painfully obvious that we don’t understand. Heck, some of us don’t even remember our own Sesotho names because the language is so strange sounding to our English brains. Some high school girls joined up with us, and one especially sassy girl with excellent English was talking with us. All the kids are so happy that we’re here. They also tell everyone that we are “so beautiful.” They also want to teach us Sesotho, which is awesome. After I dropped off Martha at her house, I went back to my own, and two of the girls walked with me and taught me some words (and by “taught,” I mean that they pointed at things, said the Sesotho word, I tried to repeat it, and then promptly forgot it. These Sesotho words are so slippery, they don’t stick in my brain). I really should write these things down so that I can learn as I go in the real world instead of just relying on language class.

Village silhouette at sunrise

I got home and met my ‘me picking swiss chard (called moroho here), and I then helped her make papa and moroho, two of the most ubiquitous foods in Lesotho, with some fried, scrambled eggs on the side. Let me tell you a little bit about papa. It is made with corn flour and water. You boil water in a pot, add the flour, then add about four times more flour because that sucker will suck up water like nobody’s business. You stop adding flour when it becomes physically difficult to stir the stuff. They have a special stick for mixing papa called a lesokoana, and there is even a separate verb, soka, which means ‘to mix papa’. So anyway, after you soka papa with the lesokoana, you just let it sit on the stove for eons until it dries out a bit and hardens into something almost inedible. The Basotho just let stuff sit on the stove forever- I don’t get it. The greasy eggs reminded me a lot of Morocco with all the oil they used. After dinner, my ‘me wanted to see my Sesotho notes. I showed her and my ‘ntate as my little ausi looked on curiously. They were very interested in what I was learning, and my ‘me sort of tried to quiz me on words I had written down. I realized that they know more English than I had thought, and if they don’t understand, at least they see that I am making an effort to communicate and trying to be friendly and to learn. Overall a great first full day in this beautiful country.

The two rondavals next to my house

The beginning of training

Back to the beginning: arriving in Lesotho

Bored in a rondaval...then inspiration strikes and hilarity ensues

Xmas in Mafeteng

They stuffed us all up in that taxi with all our junk

I cut Jen's hair and reminisced about the days when I had a ponytail

Jeff playing with the chickens

They were so calm...if only they knew what was coming.

Lee is excited about life.

Neel helping me slaughter the chicken.

Shopping for the holiday get together in Mafeteg

Yes, that's a three foot long bag of Cheetos behind my head.

8 October 2014: The Beginning

Hello, people. I know a lot of you are eager to hear about what I've been up to in detail. Now that I have electricity at my new site (woo!) and a data hotspot from my phone (double woo!), I will sort of retroactively post modified versions of what I've been writing in my journal. This first one is from the first day in Lesotho. Enjoy!

8 October 2014

After many, many months of applying, getting legally and medically cleared, and spending all my money on Amazon and at REI, I found myself on a plane to Philadelphia with my school backpack, and somewhere underneath was my big hiking backpack and my rolling duffle bag. I made my way to the hotel where we would have an orientation of sorts called staging. It was horribly boring and not country specific at all, but I think the point was to get us all together in the same place so that we could go over the general goals of PC and get to know each other a bit. The 2am bus ride from Philadelphia to NYC was ridiculous, but I guess PC has some kind of deal with this Philly hotel and they have had staging there for many years, and it’s probably cheaper there than trying to put us in a hotel in New York. We got to the airport at like 4am, many hours before the ticket counter was even open, so we all kind of lined up with all of our bags and did things like play cards or read, and of course I did handstands and wandered around barefoot (this detail will become important later). And while we waited at the terminal, one person was off to the side doing pushups. It was then (and after several conversations during staging) that I knew we were practically the same person. This turned out to be Lee, who instantly became my go-to friend during training in the village. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, the flight to Johannesburg was super long. I probably shouldn’t have watched The Fault in Our Stars though, because it was way too sad for how mentally exhausted I was, and previously having to say goodbye to everyone at home (especially Mom who would not stop crying but always denied that she was crying). We landed in Johannesburg and I was literally running through the airport to get the plane to Maseru [capital of Lesotho]. After being dumped out onto the runway and going through the laughably small airport (aka tiny building with a bathroom, an office, and a little luggage area next to the tarmac), we were greeted with staff and current volunteers, tiny Basotho hats, fruit, and eager photo-takers.

We rode in the little PC busses to the training villages. There are ten districts in this Maryland-sized country, and we would be training in Berea. The area specifically is called Ha Koali, which includes several villages that our host families were spread through. As the busses pulled up, we were greeted with ululululu souds from all the bo’me [“bo-may” = women] rushing outside to see us. They were all singing in fantastic harmonies, dancing to the beat, and seemed genuinely overjoyed to see us. At the second illage location, we were greeted with similar song and dance, but everyone there also wanted big hugs from all of us. After a short ceremony of welcome by the chief and the bo’me, we got to see who our host mothers would be. They announced us one by one, and each ‘me [woman, literally “mother”] told us our new Sesotho name. My name here is Senate [“se-nah-tay”], which doesn’t mean anything (all the other volunteers’ names meant something, like Rethabile, we are happy, or Neo, love, or Karabo, answer, or the longest one Thlohonolofatso, blessing) but it’s the name of King Letsie’s oldest daughter. My ntate [“n-tah-tay”= man/father] is the son of the chief, who is somehow distantly related to the king, so they can get away with naming me after Lesotho’s princess. There is also another Basotho girl in the neighboring village named Senate, and she is the daughter of the chief. Notice the trend here.

I walked with my ‘me, who thankfully spoke a decent amount of English, to our house. On the property, there is a larger, square house made of cinderblocks and a tin roof next to two rondavals [round house made of cinderblocks or stones with a thatched roof]. Next to the square house is the latrine, a keyhole garden (I will explain this later), some sort of thatched structure that I later learned was for growing mushrooms, and past those are rows and rows of fruit trees. I am in one side of the square house. The room has things like a TV and a stereo, and there is a light bulb wired up on the ceiling (nothing hooked up to electricity though), so I’m wondering if they sometimes use a generator or something. They also had a little solar panel out front charging this big lantern inside to use for nighttime light. At first it was kind of awkward when I was left with a nine year old and two three year olds, one of which is my little ausi [“ow-see” = sister]. The two three year olds were chanting,  “one, two, three!” and jumping off my front step into the grass. After I got kind of bored watching them do this, I was all like “Hey watch this!” and I did a handstand in the yard. Little did I know that Basotho girls all know how to do handstands like pros.  The nine year old immediately did one too, and I was surprised at how long she could hold it. She was in her maroon school jumper and sweater, and her skirt flew up revealing her underwear, but I guess that isn’t a big deal, because soon my front yard was filled with little girls in skirts doing handstands. There were about thirty or forty kids in the yard, all doing excellent handstands after the count of three. After a while, the girls had gotten out a long string and were playing what I later learned was called “skippy,” a game where you jump over the string touching it once, jumping over it not touching it at all, or jump over it landing with the string in between your feet. The string gets progressively higher each round, and it was impressive to see the girls fling themselves over it so deftly.  Then the boys came in, one with an elaborate wire car, and played amongst themselves, mostly hitting each other with their hats. Here, there are few ways to entertain yourself other than playing with the other kids, so they all played so well together. The oldest ones looked out for the younger ones (no bo’me in sight here- these are free-range children), and took care to make sure that the youngest were staying out of trouble. Playing with them definitely got me some laughs from the adults passing by.

After a briefing from one of our language and cultural facilitators [LCF- PC is full of acronyms. Learn to appreciate them now.], I took a bath in a huge bucket with stove-warmed water, then ate a dinner of rice, tomatoes, sweet carrots, and chicken in my host family’s side of the house. I tried to reorganize my clothes, but my ‘me was like oh, just put your stuffed bag over on the other side of the bed and just live out of that, even though there were empty cabinets in this giant thing holding dishes and the aforementioned tv/stereo. I was lucky that I organized my clothes in canvas bags in my suitcase, because that’s how they are organized now, in bags on the floor lined up against the wall. Then I did a little bit of stretching that was very much needed after so much cramped transportation. I’m so exhausted now and I’m gonna wake up at like 5am tomorrow. I also haven’t brushed my teeth since I left Philadelphia. Gross. Now I know to use the water for things like that before I use it all to take a bath. I also really have to pee, but I don’t want to venture out to the latrine at night. Yes, the first orders of business tomorrow will be to work out, brush my teeth, and pee. Goodnight.

I'm a real PCV now!

Swearing in photos from the embassy facebook page

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10152580358346687&id=46196941686

Small Thoughts

When I'm not at easy access to my journal, I write down small thoughts in a list in my phone. If I actually used my twitter account for things like this, I think they could be there instead.

It's amazing what living by the sun can do to your sleep pattern. Forget sleeping pills and meditation. Having no electricity or time-sucking devices puts you right to sleep at dark.

It doesn't matter if my red/brown backpack gets dirty bc it's the same color as the red/brown dirt.

Hillary and I were arguing about whose family this little girl belonged to because she ate dinner at both of our houses. The kids just belong to everyone. They are called ausi and abuti (sister and brother) by everyone and are treated as such.

Miners get black lung, ymnasts get white lung, and lowland Basotho in the spring get red lung from the dust swirling everywhere.

Shut up, roosters. It is 1am. That is a full moon, not the sun.

I'm having a problem coming from Moroccan Arabic as my last language because "ah" means yes in Moroccan but no in Sesotho. I just have to pretend that I'm Fonzie because "ey" means yes here.

The whole country had a sweet secret handshake.

Earplugs are clutch for the dumb loud animals.

I got proposed to this morning over breakfast. Awkward.

"Koko" = knock knock

Hail on a tin roof is like being bombarded by bullets.

My 'me is disappointed when I don't finish the ten pounds of food he gives me each meal. She says that she wants me to become very fat.

I climbed a mountain! But there was a paved road up there. Excitement quickly turned to disappointment.

I have had bread with each meal today. I guess that's what happens when you don't have a fridge.

My 'me was very confused when the menu said tuna because she had never made it before. I told her that I would take care of it and make tuna salad. She was rather troubled by the fact that you can make it kind of however you want.

A fart is a global hilarity.

New knowledge: I'm allergic to the aloe plants here.

The little girls wanted me to play skippy (a game they play jumping over a string) today, but I was too tired and they were sad. I have established myself as the go-to playmate. Also for handstands. Handstands any time, any place.

I was supposed to make tuna salad today for dinner, but I guess I went in too late for dinner and I had warm milk and papa instead. Boo.

Lesotho should adopt the afternoon siesta. But I guess you can't just waste daylight like that.

Even pretending to pick up a rock will make a mean dog run away.

"In this country, we still have something called empathy."

This is starting to turn into Morocco: khubz and carbs bzeeeefffff. Bohobe and papa (bread and maize meal mash) in the morning, bohobe and papa in the evening, bohobe and papa at supper time.

"What challenges are we going to face in terms of STIs?" "We could potentially catch one."
..."gotta catch em all!"

Donkeys: nature's wheezing foghorn.

The fact that everyone knows how to spell in Roman letters and count in English is going to make my life so much easier here.

PCPT: Peace Corps personal trainer. Because in Peace Corps, everything needs an acronym. Everything.

You're misinterpreting your legs hurting as you climb. It's actually a romance between your legs and the mountain. -Jeff

English phrases that I'm pretty sure every Basotho learned wrong:
"too much" to mean "a lot"- I like chili spice too much.
"Again" to mean "what else?"- you saw the caves and the mountains. And again?

This is a result of Sesotho, where there is no word for "too much" or "what else."

My 'me made me hang my clothes up outside after I had hung them up in a clothesline in my room. Several hours later, after the sun has gone down, when everything is still very wet, she makes me hang it up back in my room for fear of "criminals." Sheesh.

Nothing I write in my Sesotho notebook or mini notebook is sacred. My 'me wants to read every word on every page.

It's hard to sleep in much past 5:30 when there's a singing/yelling three year old on the other side of your thin wall.

Papa john's stuffed crust: Here that would mean that it would probably be stuffed with papa

We're going to model schools? Like ideal schools, or toy schools? What is this, a school for ants? It needs to be at least three times bigger!

Take two deep breaths: in through your nose, out through your mind.

Stop worrying. It's like a rocking chair- it gives you something to do, but you're not going anywhere.

You could hide a dead body in your keyhole garden. The bones at the bottom would disguise it nicely.

I learned that the little thatched shelter looking thing in my yard is for growing mushrooms.

My 'me says that now that I have cut my hair, I am a mosotho and that I need to learn to speak Sesotho only.

I woke up this morning to what I'm sure must have been a pterodactyl.

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they'd pop out of my head.
-Lee, re: the readiness to serve test

Sandal camp: Not as difficult as boot camp, but not as pansy as slipper camp.

My 'me wants (jokingly? Who knows.) Maseiso (my three-year-old host sister) to marry my brother. I told her they are 24 years apart. She didn't seem to see this as a problem.

The bo'me (women) are obsessed with gossiping about me. One day it's that I walked somewhere barefoot, the next day it's speculating why I do so many handstands, the next day it's asking me if someone came to my house and I didn't answer because I wasn't there (yeah I have no idea...because I wasn't there...)

After having my principal's car's gear shift get stuck in park in mohale's hoek, I googled a solution and bam the car was up and running.

Now we are on the side of the road dropping off some random lady who got in? I'm still in the car but the other two got out before the police stop. Apparently the car isn't registered to carry more than two people in the car (bc she has temporary plates bc the car is new/she still has to pay some payments on it), so we will pick up the other two later along the way. Super sketchy. Update: we got pulled over again but not in time to drop off Bokang, and she had to get out and talk to the officer. I got out and spoke to the officer in my baby Sesotho and maybe that was enough to charm us out of trouble and let us go.

Ppl don't have enough money to lay the 1000 school fee bc they spend their money on Xmas shopping and on feasts for the boys after they finish initiation school.

Taxi names are the best. Some good ones include "red wine" and "potassium"

Taxi drivers play the twangy Basotho music so loud. It must be because they want to get their money's worth out of their really nice speakers. 

MTV's hit new show: pimp my rondaval

The road to Ha Makoae (my permanent site) sucks, but the views of the mountains along the way almost make up for it.

We were going to go to my principa'ls house near Moyeni, but she decided she needed to stop and get her hair did before she got home. So much fake hair in this tiny salon shack. Maybe I need to get a purple weave...

Speaking Sesotho has just earned me a jar of peaches from my principal's mom. Score!

No shave November? Oh I thought you said no bathe November. Either way, I'm doing neither.

Tan line or dirt line? #Lesothoproblems

"Humped zebra crossing" = speed bumps

This morning I had ants in my pants. No literally, there were ants crawling all up in my pants.

"Passion? I'm passionate about peanut butter. And not doing work." -Lee

Write something that you wish Americans knew about your country of service. "That it exists?"

"Dude how do you know so much about rain?" "Well, it is one third of my host country's motto, so..."

"So what's your main workout?" "Carrying water. My traps are insane! I take off my shirt and they're like BOOM. I'm not gonna lie."

Re: libraries- they are barely used because they want to keep the books looking nice. In general, Basotho like keeping up appearances, and they like being clean, but the functionality is not there. Like with the herd boys wearing thick blankets in the summer to keep them clean from the dirty livestock, but they're profusely sweating in the taxi

Ppl don't want to open the windows on taxis bc they will recognize how fast they are going

Thanksgiving rap lyrics:
Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving.
THANKSGIVING THANKSGIVING THANKSGIVING!
It's Thanksgiving. We're giving thanks.
It's as American as frat bro tanks.
We're about to move up in the culinary ranks.
Vanquishing our papa and moroho angst.
Turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce.
We're chillin like a villain at the house of the boss.
Internet cruisin, nobody's boozin, but that ain't no loss.
Cuz In the back yard is a frisbee we will toss.
Rea leboha this is what we're thankful for.
30 great friends and a dope new pink store.
Basotho who love us. We couldn't ask for more.
Our new family, let's be honest, is the Peace Corps.
Even though we may not sing like bo'me we can holla
At the PCT, PCV, APCD, LCF, everyone's a balla.
We're here for two more years, but for now we'll say sala
Hantle. Let's eat. Khotso pula nala!

Today my friend in the US apologized for his lagging text response time. Hah. I waited three hours for a taxi to go back to my village. Time isn't a thing here. Don't worry about it, man.

Text: "I expect you to be in the best shape of your life when you get back. Don't fail me. Lesnewyou."

The forecast calls for a week of thunderstorms. What that actually translates to? A week of no sleep and mud everywhere.