5 Things About Lesotho That They Didn’t Tell You (But Are Actually Pretty Cool)
By Nathan Birhanu RPCV Lesotho ED 2010-2012
It only seems like it was yesterday that I was nervous to join Peace Corps in the country inside of a country called Lo-So-Toe, mostly out of fear of diarrhea, separation from taco bell, missing new episodes of Jersey Shore and diarrhea. Like most PCVs, most of these anxieties stemmed from family and friends who were trying to deter me from leaving for two years – Americans hate drinking alone.
Out of all the awful things that ran through my head, it would have been nice for someone to let me know to look forward to little things that I may have not expected, like . . .
5) Burning Trash
I remember when I first burned by bag full of used matches, family photos, rolled up toilet paper and empty long-life milk cartons (with a little dab of paraffin of course). The kerosene smell filled the air as little children gathered to witness my ritual of environmental damage.
“Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!......Ntate.”
When I was in America, I would just throw my Men’s More Action for Building Muscles on Top of Your Muscles magazine in the trash, because, you know, I can only build so much muscle. I wouldn’t have given my disposal a second thought; but in Peace Corps, I have become more aware of every insignificant object that goes in my bin, knowing that I will eventually have to dispose of it (by sweet fire) later; making me more conscious of excessive waste.
But have you burned trash at night, with animals around, in the winter? It. Is. Awesome. When it’s dead at night, with a dark moon and blistering cold temperatures, there is nothing like the scene set from lighting up a Shoprite bag full of disgusting objects. The fire crackles, along with shattered glass, and the entire night comes alive, and it’s just the light gleaming off of you and a throng of sheep feverishly approaching.
“One day we will overthrow these disgusting humans and take our rightful place.
For now, let’s enjoy the heat.”
The fire lights up the surrounding area and you feel truly alone, serene and warm – and all of this from burning trash. If you stand back and try to think of a time ever in your life where you will get such an experience from trash, you can’t, probably because you won’t. And it’s trash.
4) Latrines
The simple yet mind-blowing latrine took no time to grow its charm on me. The latrine was invented to help prevent the spread of disease from . . . well, you know. But yet, its appeal stretches much farther from its inventor’s original intention.
Of all of the items on this list, this is probably the one that no matter how much rhetoric I present, very few will be persuaded or even want to read this section. So I will make the case point by point:
a) No flush: the environmentalist in me cringes knowing how much water I waste every time I flush. I am no tree hugger (I prefer high-fives), but I am cognizant of the little gluttonies of my life. The latrine is pretty much a black hole, but instead of being made of supernovas and dense stars collapsing on themselves, it’s made of sewage; where the other side of the black hole goes is not my concern. All I know is that my daily bodily routines have a diminished effect on the world
“We like to think Einstein did his most arduous proofs on the toilet.”
b) You don’t have to blame it on the dog: I know that most of us have been in the unusual circumstance where we are at a boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s house and we use the toilet, only to be filled with trepidation in thinking his or her dad will walk in soon after. You spray aerosol, flush three times but know that you will be thought of as a festering derelict with poor to no hygiene. The latrine nullifies all of this, because the blame goes to everyone. And you know what? – that is liberating. Oh ya, no need of a plunger or fears of “backing up,” which has also never happened to me.
“Really? Again? I haven’t even eaten today.”
c) The entire bathroom experience is altered: the latrine offers an enclosed space where you know people won’t come knocking because they need to “use the shower” or “brush their teeth.” It’s just you, three-ply toilet paper (we can dream), your favorite magazine and the tin enclosure.
d) No maintenance or “out of order” concerns: we all know the experience of a broken toilet or having to get up and jiggle the handle because the water won’t stop filling and/or flowing. This edifice of execration will not only quash the previous troubles, but it’ll withstand any barrage, be it from Mother Nature, human beings or black widows. In the end, no matter what, I know I won’t need to call a plumber or do laborious home improvement on my latrine, because it’s that awesome.
3) Taxis
Now I know what you’re thinking: taxis are hot, uncomfortable, confining and slow. The amount of bizarre and interesting experiences I’ve had on a taxi are incalculable.
I can legitimately say that I have seen the laws of physics crumble in a kombi. A fundamental rule that governs the entire universe is that two points (pieces of matter, such as living organisms) can’t occupy the same space at the same time. Yet I’ve sat in the back of kombis with two other humble bo-ntate with about 1/4thmeter of space left – basically enough to sit a small toddler. Somehow, someway, space-time folds on itself and a ‘M’e, encompassing at least half a meter, is able to squeeze in the back seat. I deserve at least one Nobel Prize in Physics for my experiences, or least to get published in a reputable peer-reviewed journal (did I mention I love the Khotso?).
“This can’t be! Space-time is breaking down in Southern Africa,
in a mountain . . . in a taxi? What is a Le-so-toe?”
Besides the scientific aspect, the interactions I’ve had with people and their belongings are phenomenal. Here are just a few items I’ve been privileged to hold in my grubby, sweaty hands while on a taxi: a baby, a baby who needed changing, a baby that resembled Michael Jordan, a baby that was me, a chicken, mystery box, mystery box with a pleasant smell, mystery box with an un-pleasant smell, peaches and, of course, a small sheep. I feel like I am entering The Price is Right every time I get on a taxi; but instead of Bob Barker, my host is the Candy Man; and instead of watching me in the mirror of my bedroom, he’s holding a microphone in the rearview mirror, telling me he knows what I did last night and to enjoy by canned peaches as my consolation prize.
“Canned peaches, again? Can I have
the mystery box with the musk instead?”
All in all, I am able to get from point A to point B without having to stress about the burdens of owning a private vehicle. When I am at home in the U.S., I have to pay for gas (petrol), car insurance, oil changes and car maintenance to name a few. By the end of the month, I barely have enough money to buy bootleg DVDs and comic books (yes ladies, I am single). Yes taxis can be a hassle and frustrating, but leaning back, listening to an iPod and reading a book utilize my time much better than honking my horn in rush hour traffic, while I say despicable, unforgivable things about the mother of a stranger who didn’t use signal lights properly . . . and I die a little inside.
2) Blankets
My small, circumscribed view of blankets once consisted of seeing them as bed accessory, padding for pro-wrestling and the occasional Halloween costume of an obese Casper the Ghost. Lesotho dropped the blanket knowledge bomb on me from day one.
From my first step out of the airport, I saw so many people strutting around the Mountain Kingdom wrapped up in colorful, warm and intriguing blankets. Of course, my first ignorant thought was how silly it is to use bed accessory for clothing – I ditched my Freudian attachment to blankets at the age of five (or fifteen, I can’t recall; yes, I am still single, ladies) and vowed to never return again. That is, until I joined Peace Corps. (Ten years of therapy down the drain.)
“Blankie, promise me we’ll always be
together . . . forever . . . in Lesotho.”
Lesotho has added a new lease on my life and blankets, especially in the winter. Often time people struggle to get out of bed when it’s cold because it’s so warm from insulated body heat. The idea to simply take the bed and format into an apparel is so simple – yet genius! The versatility of the blanket is limitless: it works as a jacket, cape, baby-holder (definitely popular), wedding gift, circumcision gift. Those are just a few ideas from the top of my head. Either way, my appreciation for this fabric of clothing has sky rocketed. I should write a book or something.
“Wait, what?
1) Celebrity Status
One thing about living in Lesotho for two years that I can’t say is that people don’t care about me. Not the caring for an injury or genuine concern (although they do, I think), but the “paparazzi I’ll get the last shot so I can get out of my mom’s basement” kind of concern. In Lesotho I am pretty much like a celebrity.
“Hello, I am a Peace Corps Volunteer.”
In the U.S., I could be wearing parachute pants while playing the accordion and there is a sizable amount of people that wouldn’t give an eyebrow. Here, not only does every move I take in public qualify for a Guinness World Record, but it’s praised in high adulation on the scale of childbirth. I feel like I am walking on a runway every time I go to my latrine.
“Please, no autographs.”
People want to know my story because they feel like I might actually have something cool to say, or they can learn something from me that no one else can teach them, or my shirt is blue that day, and dang it, that is interesting enough – because I am wearing it.
Yes, unwanted attention can be annoying at times and personal time can be relaxing, but in America, you are back at the status of a regular nobody: no glances, warm greetings, enthusiastic questions or even inquires of your genealogy. For two years I felt how Will Smith and Gary Busey feel every morning they wake up and walk outside: like a celebrity.
“Celebrity PCV today (hooray!), unemployed RPCV tomorrow (what?).”
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