In South Africa you'll often hear the phrase "we'll make a plan" in response to the general question: "what will we do?" That's how you approach a problem - you first make a plan. My last year of college, I took a class in outdoor survival skills. It was a fun class that covered very basic wilderness skills, mostly how not to be stupid and unprepared. What has stuck with me most is the professor's advice on what to do after an emergency or if you suddenly realize you're lost. Once you're sure that everyone is ok, stop and make a cup of tea. Simple. It forces everyone to calm down (or if alone, just yourself), brings everyone together around a fire or cook stove, and allows time to think and then act in a rational way.

The running joke in Nigeria is that there is one thing that always works with our planning: What ever plan you lay out, any preparations you make, you can be damn sure that's the one thing that will not happen.

Yet every day we make a new schedule, act and respond and rethink our plan. This trip has been easy in many ways and the stress of the first and second phases of remediation seems distant. But Tuesday we were back in the game. The conference that we came for - that more than 100 delegates were expected to attend from Nigeria, Germany, the UK, Amsterdam, Canada, the US, Australia - was canceled Monday due to the unrest in Nigeria. (Side note, if you're following the unrest in the international media, the phrases "edge of civil war", "next Arab Spring", and "genocide" are absurd exaggerations for the current situation.) For the next 24 hours, we went back and forth on scheduling smaller stakeholder meetings, where and when we might travel, and the overall security situation. This changed every 30 minutes or so, until we finally gave up on Tuesday night and said we'd decide in the morning if a trip to Abuja was going to happen (it didn't).

The removal of fuel subsidies has created massive outcry against Goodluck and the politicians who support the action. A nation-wide labor strike has in many ways united a nation divided by escalating tensions between the two dominant religious groups, Muslim and Christian. While the extremist group, which has been increasingly active in the northeast as well as in the capitol city, releases statements against the Christian president and lays blame for the current economic and social strife at the feet of non-muslims, Christian groups have begun to threaten retaliation. But reading an article about the subsidy strike on BBC, I have to breath a sigh of relief at a story of protesters from the north and south uniting, even forming human chains to protect groups of Muslims and Christians praying in the streets.

No one really knows how or when the strikes will end, though a temporary suspension will grant a few days reprieve starting tomorrow. For this reason, we "plan" that our delayed departure will not be pushed back further. The tensions between regions and religions is certain to continue well beyond the labor strike which has brought Nigeria to an absolute halt. But we can all pray - to whichever diety(s) we so choose - that the strike that has unified all people as simply "Nigerian" will be remembered for at least that.

Shortly after arriving in Anka and settling into our old routines, His Royal Highness the Emir of Zamfara graciously invited us to his daughters' wedding ceremony. We'd had the good fortune of attending a wedding in Bagega almost a year ago, where women congregated in the bride's house and danced, drummed, and cackled jubilantly. Outside, the men mingled, most likely aware of the women inside the mud walls cutting loose but perhaps not fully appreciating the contrast in the day to day lives of the mothers compared to the wild behavior and antics going on indoors. Later, everyone inside helped to carry the bride's possessions to her new home with her husband's family, where they were presented together for the first time.

I was excited to see how the rural wedding celebration would compare to a royal wedding in the town.

The wedding was segregated by sex once again, and I expected to be diverted to join the women once we arrived at the palace. Instead, as I was attending with two men, I was invited indoors. It was immediately clear that I was out of place in a room crowded with men. I prepared to engage in a full retreat after greeting the Emir and offering our congratulations. But he offered the three of us places to sit in the room and darting a glance at our good friend and local cultural expert, I saw I would be able to join the room full of well-attired muslim men and glimpse the other side of the ceremony. After everyone approached the Emir and offered their blessings for his daughters' marraiges (a dual wedding!), everyone sat on the floor of the large room and began to pray. A man with a megaphone lead the prayer excitedly and then, 15 minutes later, it was over and everyone stood to chat and slowly exit the room.

Outside was different - and we quickly realized the indoor ceremony was the Muslim portion while outdoors the long-standing traditional celebrations were about to begin. Drummers entered the outdoor portion of the palace and straightened their stances and exaggerated their movements for the video cameras.

And on the street, dancers materialized with more drums and whistles, weilding swords with which it is said they could be cut but would never draw blood due to their exceptional strength and power. An exceptional celebration!

The computer says 1021 am and my cell phone says 720 pm and my head feels it's simply not any decent hour. I've slept little in the past few days and I'm ready - so ready - to quickly sleep without thoughts of dinner except that I have to wait for a phone call to confirm tomorrow's travel.

There is a mosque very near by and the call to prayer just sounded. I have yet to be able to explain why I find this song so comforting and beautiful. I remember a time when it would wake me at 430 or 5 am but now I sleep through it easily and am actually happy if I do manage to wake up to it at all.

The same driver met me at the Abuja airport after slight hasseling by customs over the large box containing the XRF. Smiles and patience seem to be the best strategy with authorities. But O greeted me by name, took one of the four bags I was hauling (a small backpack on front, a large one on back, a large rolling suitcase in one hand and an XRF in another). I expected the heat to shove me back when I left the air conditioned terminal, but the heat is fairly mild, relative to the rest of the year. A slightly humid eighty degrees sort of hugged us as I politely declined dozens of offers for people to carry luggage, transport me in a taxi, and sell phone recharge cards.

O and I talked about the increasingly frequent and devastating terrorist attacks in Nigeria, the most recent one on Christmas day in a church not far outside Abuja. In a strange contrast, he sees Boko Haram as targeting only Christians and the attacks as being purely about religion. Yet the next breath, he spoke of how well the former president, a northerner (O is form the south) handled the group when he was in power, how Goodluck (a southerner) is failing to achieve the same success at battling extremism. Then he briefly but intensely talked about the last war and the things he saw, at one point scratching under his eye in a way that made me think he might cry. Once you see that, he said, you never want war again, there is no point to it. Nigeria is approaching a precipice from which the fall is not clean and the distance not known.

All of this is such an odd contrast to Zamfara, which is most certainly effected by the events yet somehow seems so very far away from it all. I remember a conversation with one of the remediation managers on our first trip here more than a year and a half ago. On the topic of religion, he said 'Christianity and Islam are so similar - it's the same God, just different ways to worship.' He went on to say that of course Christian women shouldn't dress and act as Muslim women - they're not Muslim. And as the call to prayer continues, loudly, I'm very much looking forward to our return Zamfara tomorrow. Harmattan should be subsiding, but everyone down here warns me of the cold in the north. It's all relative, as usual, and compared to the snowshoeing trek I took on xmas day (only 2 days ago?!), I think it will be survivable.

I have no idea how productive this trip will be and I'm afraid that the conference in January will be the only tangible outcome. I suppose the root of my fear is that this will really only be a three week trip and that it will be the last one we make.

Many groups of people have come through the lead poisoned villages in Zamfara. They have drawn blood, tested water and soil, even taken samples from livestock to assess the potential for continued exposure through contaminated meat. Others have come to do various forms of health messaging. But they’re all here for short periods of time, some never coming back to give the test results to the communities. Health messaging campaigns lasted days or weeks when done by international NGOs. The region is difficult to reach, harsh to live and work in, and the culture is vastly different from even the state capitol two hours away, let alone the federal seat in Abuja where most NGOs are based.

We’ve had a very unique opportunity to spend the better part of the past year here, not commuting from the city, but living at the equivalent of the county seat. The nature of the remediation work demands that we interact with people in the affected communities on a very intrusive and intimate level; we go into their homes, ask lots of personal questions, test everywhere and then dig most of their floors up. We do this with crews of local people and often end up working next to them, shoveling soil, carrying sacks, and wheel barrowing clean soil backfill. Effectively, we really get to know people. This makes the task of community level advocacy for sustainable remediation much easier for us because as men remove the contaminated soil from their own village, they begin to understand the nature of lead poisoning, how it came to be such a problem, and how it can be prevented in the future.

The advocacy component of remediation took months of work and several villages of remediation experience before we really had an effective strategy worked out. To pretend that it could be done in the course of a few weeks or that it could be developed from an office in the city would be absurd – one of the reasons we’re here for this trip is that we didn’t have time to question what an effective advocacy program should include in the first few villages we remediated due to the emergency nature of project at that time.

All of this is to say that our aim is to have the local government staff that we’ve been working with implement an advocacy program that we all pieced together during the last year of remediating 7 villages and characterizing one more. And rather than use vague terms to describe how it will be done at the community level with solutions coming from the villages, not from state or federal authorities, I’d like to close with a photograph of a different type of sustainable health messaging. An NGO placed two billboards were placed in each of the 5 effected villages on the dangers of bringing ore processing into the home. The literacy rate in these villages is as low as 20% in some areas. And the message was developed in Gusau, not by local leaders or miners in the communities.

We’ve griped about this since the billboards went up. But upon visiting one village last week, we yelled at our driver to “Stop! Stop!” as we left for the day. On top of a grain storage unit sat a familiar piece of metal. They had taken the message and used it in the most appropriate way they could think of – as scrap metal to cover a grain store. It’s sustainable insofar as the ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’ element of sustainability goes. It’s also a very expensive roof – over one million US dollars went into a health messaging campaign that culminated in several community dialogues, the training of ‘focal people’ in each village, and, of course, billboards.

Certainly we don’t have the answer for all of these problems and the possibility that ‘safer mining’ practices simply fails in some areas is very real. People often repeat to us the mantra that our group and others have repeated in these villages: don’t bring ore home, wash and change clothes before returning from the processing areas, no children should work with ore, etc. But this is the same as recycling a billboard – it’s there, but how will it really be utilized?

Nigerians would be content, I believe, to eat one type of starch for the rest of their lives. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it’s served in a variety of ways: white, fried (oil plus onions, not any egg that I’ve ever found), jolof (like fried, but with chili peppers), and even cooked and then pounded into a mushy paste called ‘tuo’. There are other grains like millet and corn and potatoes, but so help me – all I ever see is rice.

The women in Yargalma, where we’ve started the assessment and advocacy work in earnest the past weeks, know me well; we spent 6 weeks there last year working 7 days a week in their homes, intruding into their lives. They ask “Is that Casey!?” because I, apparently, look different from last year. I’m told that every white female who visits these villages is called “Casey”, but I like to pretend that a few can tell us Caucasians apart. They ask me about my home, my ‘America’, my family, my journey, and, eventually, ask if I’ve finally gotten married yet. I’m past my prime in these villages, where girls are married as young as 15, sometimes 13 years old. I’ve learned not to answer this question, not because I care what they think, but because I want the men to think I am very much spoken for and I hate lying to the women. Many tell me that I’m different from a year ago – “more white” and “fat!” – which are both true compared to the sorry condition I was in when I left Zamfara last July.

So I smile, greet them in return, and only laugh in answer to the question about my marriage. They giggle and we chat more as they prepare food for the day. This is an all day affair – millet and corn and rice have been thrashed after harvest in October, but now it has to be winnowed, washed, and then pounded. It seems to me that everything they serve must first be pulverized. Beans, ground nuts, grains… it all gets processed, cooked, then mashed up. So it’s bean cakes (fried in oil), very dense corn bread, millet that’s cooked, mashed, then mixed with milk to make a porridge (same for guinea corn). Even ground nuts are often roasted, pulverized, mixed with oil and then fried to make something like crispy peanut butter morsels. There’s the local tofu, which is fried in chili pepper-loaded oil. This has to be one of my favorites. And, of course, there’s always rice.

Sometimes I join them in pounding in the mortars for a few minutes. The mortars and pestles are made of extremely dense wood and are really heavy as a result. These women have biceps and abs that put all of us to shame. Even the little girls are ripped from this daily labor. As I laugh and give up on the mushing of whatever food will be served today, they not-so-slyly return to the topic of my maybe-husband. I can’t follow the conversation completely and turn to my translator and friend for help to find her doubled over laughing. She comes up for air knowing I didn’t understand the string of Hausa words.

“They say if you married a black man, it would be like rice and beans because now you’re so white!”

Returning to Anka, our base, and the villages we’ve worked in is comfortable and familiar. We find ourselves not quite picking up where we left off. We’re greeted by name and with big smiles, yet everyone is asking if we’re ‘starting Bagega’ – referring to the village that remains to be remediated. But when Simba uses one of his metaphors to explain that we’re here to assess the effectiveness of remediation, everyone nods as though this is the most logical thing. The metaphors still seem silly to me and when he says “When you plant a seed, you must come back and remove the weeds and check it’s growth” they all nod seriously in agreement as I hide a smile. These satisfying explanations travel far here and really stick in people’s brains.

I’m thinking of this because I came across a file on my computer from Phase II titled “Wisdom from Baba”. ‘Baba’ is the title for a grandfather and it’s both respectful and endearing. We had a great man working with us in Phase II whom we never called by his real name – just ‘Baba’. Baba watched out for us like a parent and took our health and safety as his number one concern. When someone had malaria, he would drive his SUV through the bush like a crazed ambulance to get him/her to the hospital. And he would share the most profound bits of wisdom with us, often religious in nature yet practical truth, during the hours of bouncing along to the villages.

“Allah put the poison [lead] deep in the ground to keep it from poisoning people, to protect us. But we dig it up for money.”

“You see, that politician, people like him because he gives away money. But what’s the use? The next day you come back for more money. Better to teach me a job, let me earn my own way.”

“You see airplanes – there’s nothing under them. Only Allah holds them in the air, nothing else.”

In Zamfara, our responsibilities are divided between technical aspects of the job (testing, characterization, quality control, landfills, mapping, risk assessment) and what we call the ‘advocacy’ program (grassroots education and dialogue, health messaging, building the foundations for a safer mining/processing campaign). This requires attention to both scientific precision to the greatest extent possible in these conditions and the ability to work effectively with people at a grassroots level. We have great success with so many individuals with different backgrounds and strengths making the project really work. Remediation without advocacy isn’t sustainable – our work will be undone the minute people return to processing in their homes because it’s the only way they can afford to feed their families. But there is a long term, sustainable solution to be found by listening, trading knowledge, and forming solid relationships in addition to completing an effective remediation.

‘Safe Mining, Safe Money’ is a phrase that started in reference to Simba’s allegory of the day: ‘We’re not against mining. We want you to make money – lots of it! But we want you to make money and not give it to the doctor – spend it at the market or the shop. Don’t give it to the clinic because gold has made you or your children sick.’

I woke up at 645am in Seattle and uttered mean words at the noise coming from my phone. This was the first morning of a long-overdue vacation and I had set an alarm to be on a conference call for work.

The call went differently than I expected. Thirty minutes in, I found myself saying: "I'll go back to Zamfara right away." I later specified that I would really appreciate finishing the holiday that had just started. Which, funny enough, was visiting RPCV friends along the west coast, from Seattle to LA, for the next week. Everyone had planned on the project in Zamfara continuing and a return trip was expected, just not so soon or suddenly.

The trip was wonderful and I tried very, very hard not to think too much about Zamfara. I talked about it a lot, which says a lot about my traveling companion. As my roommate, she hears enough about Nigeria at home. She probably doesn't feel like she actually took a vacation after 3000 miles in a Subaru with me.

This is our third trip to Zamfara State, Nigeria, to work on a lead poisoning emergency remediation project at the edge of the Sahara desert. What started as a 10 day assessment trip in May, 2010 grew exponentially into a 'remediation triage' project that lasted 9 months - and counting. People ask if it's like Peace Corps and maybe you have to be a Lesotho RPCV or have worked in Zamfara to understand why the answer is a resounding 'No.' The countries, cultures, and work are nothing alike. Still, one prepared me for the other in small, important ways. And both are experiences I wouldn't dream of taking back.

So it's back to Zamfara in a week's time. The original estimate is that it's a 4 week trip. Knowing that it's impossible for us to accomplish everything in 4 weeks, I'm planning on 6. The problem with planning in Nigeria is that whatever you plan for, big or small, it never, ever happens.

After two trips to Zamfara and dozens of mass emails home, it seems appropriate to start up the blog again and stop filling in-boxes with lengthy stories about camel parking lots and toads that live in our toilets. Check in now and then and keep in touch when you can.

Cue the music. A fat lady? A funeral durst? That circus jingle that I hear in my head nearly every day? Nah. We'll go with an accordion. Cue "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" on the world's most out of place instrument.

It's down to leaving. Or returning? Of course it's both, but they imply two very different things. 'Leaving' seems as though it's sad or some sort of ending; 'returning' has more of a positive, pick-up-where-I-left-off sort of feel. Which category I place myself in depends heavily on the day I'm having: have I just returned from a great hike or taken a cold bucket bath? Are the women working away at the wool and mohair or did some guy just ask me for sex? All I know is that goodbyes have been really tough. The day I arrived in Ramabanta I brought snow with me (hence one of my names in Sesotho: 'mother of snow'); the morning I woke up to leave for the last time, I looked out to see snow on the mountains marking my farewell.

There's all these awful, blase phrases running through my brain about my experiences here. 'Life-changing', 'eye-opening', 'tough', 'beautiful'... I've spent two years writing letters and composing blogs by candle light for the world to read and I can't seem to come up with anything better for my finale. All these scattered, unorganized thoughts and feelings that I want to try to explain. I am so thankful that I've lived and worked in Lesotho (please, PLEASE if you love me at all, pronounce it correctly when we talk about it: "leh-soo-too"). Nothing will ever compare to the enormous challenge of trying to (and once in a while succeeding in) work here. My heart has broken along with my patience. I've crawled into my bed under a holey mosquito net at mid-day to escape the place I willingly crossed an ocean to call home. And I've let the shout of a toddler calling my name from across the village bring me back from that defeat. (I'm really not the same person I was 2 years ago, am I?)

The end (or denouement, thank you GRE) is meant to have finality and resolution. Tragedy, comedy, drama, thriller, or silly musical? We've go all the elements here in a tangled mess of a story. A three letter plague devastating the nation; a typical outfit of pink shorts, a 50 cent t-shirt and a cat hat worn by a taxi driver; a single mother barely putting her 2 daughters through school; dogs that laze around during the day and turn to packs of monsters at night; and a couple dancing the tango to an accordion. So does Casey come out of the mountain kingdom victorious or defeated? I'm not one for admitting defeat but I'd be a liar if I said I conquered PC, Lesotho, Ramabanta, or Fatima Mission. Lesotho ("leh-soo-too") hasn't really felt my presence - I've made no earth-shattering, newsworthy changes - but I've certainly felt Lesotho leave it's mark. Not just the scar on my leg from the run-in with an over-filled dump truck, either.

Not a single 60 seconds here has been easy. Maybe that's why a place that's made me twitch with anger is suddenly so hard to leave. When will a day of washing my underwear, baking bread and weeding my garden ever be so rewarding? My life comes down to a very basic existence. It's more than the lists and tallies I've kept, though I'm sure they say a good piece about my time here: 126 books read, 145 letters written, 6 flat tires, an unknown amount of miles hiked in/around Ramabanta, plus two years of journal entries, rides hitched with friendly strangers, hikes for a cell phone signal, skirts, and "give me sweets!" from little snots who know better. No, the truth, the summary of the final act is really just this: Lesotho has taught me to love two places, each with it's own set of qualities. Here, I've learned to live in each moment. It's a cliche, I know, but how else do I describe sitting on my porch with a cup of tea to watch the mountains go from green to purple to gray at sunset? The sharp smell of tomato plants on my hands as I pick the fruit for dinner? Visiting the women spinning wool and mohair just to sit and listen to the wheels oscillating, the carding cloth pull, the chatter of their voices? A thousand things I never really knew before Lesotho. And here I realized how much I love my home. My parent's house, perched next to the wood stove, Lake Michigan, the color of maple trees in the fall... trees in general, come to think of it.

"Find one word or phrase that describes Lesotho, Casey." First, find such a description for your home - something you'd tell someone who's never been there. Then, imagine your home has babies running around unsupervised without pants on, men who wear women's clothes (well) and think nothing of it, and women who wear dresses from material that looks like 20's wallpaper when they want to get decked out. It's never quiet but always peaceful. If you say "strange" it sounds like you don't really love it. If you say "beautiful" it seems dull. "Poor" is true, but not all of the story. "Absurd"? "Farcical"? "An impossible place"? Lesotho ("leh-soo-too") is a harsh, impossible place; absurd to a beautiful degree, senseless in it's intense extremes. Snowy mountains in Africa, a culture that is embarrassed at the sight of women's' thighs in pants but devastated by a disease passed during sex. It's a place of one culture, one way for doing any task, but has embraced Beyonce and Obama, shiny high heels and umbrellas with a passion. How do you not fall in love with that? How can you not look forward to leaving? And how do you explain why it's somehow such a magical, absurdly, senselessly, wonderful place?

I've called two places "home" in my life and both offer the sound of rain on a metal roof. Yet neither place has a permanent pull for me. So this is a story that ends as the heroine walks off (or maybe rides away on a donkey) to wander elsewhere. She's changed some, more she's learned about who she really is, and come to know two places infinitely more. Dim the lights (snuff candles). Cue orchestra (low, off-key wail on an accordion). Casey/Mosa bows out (two years in a skirt doesn't mean I've found the coordination to curtsy).

There's a list of things that I've sort of... omitted from the stories I tell here, in emails, in letters, and over the phone. I do this for only one reason: to keep mom and dad from freaking out. But I have less than 2 weeks remaining now and there are some truly fabulous gems that I feel possess entertaining qualities. Mostly they're funny and well-worth sharing for a smile. So here they are - the tales that the parents don't want to hear (you can stop now and never be the wiser, mama).

There have been two coup attempts in Lesotho. One when we first arrived in June of 2007 and one at the end of April this year. Neither were particularly serious or successful but I'm still quite thankful that Lesotho never makes national news. I can hear mom's voice on the phone if she'd seen the phrase "civil unrest in Lesotho" on the evening news. Good thing we don't rank with CNN. When we arrived in Maseru at 3am that very first night, we were greeted by army men with automatic weapons asking our bus driver why we were out past the 6 pm curfew. I myself had a similar thought, but it went more like: "What the #$%* am I doing here?" A few weeks later, a PC vehicle was stopped at road block and the car hijacked by ex-military men with guns. No injuries to any of the staff in the car, but all were rightfully shaken up. The more recent upheaval was less stressful, though for the Prime Minister who was the target of an assassination attempt probably less so. Still, we were at our COS conference in Maseru at the time and couldn't help noting the pattern - political unrest greets us as we arrive with 21 PCT's and also makes an appearance at our farewell when we're down to 15 PCV's. Does calling that funny solidify my lack of sensitivity?

More recently, I was heading up to Semongkong for my final trip to my second-favorite place in Lesotho. I found a lift up with Malineo as she was transporting 6 school kids for a field trip that weekend (6 school kids, one nun to supervise, a woman from the wool/mohair group to sell items at the lodge, a PCV... and a friggin' pigeon in a peach tree). So the three women smooshed into the cab and the lowly 6 children and Casey into the bed of the truck. It's a pickup from the 1980's but it has a cap on the bed making it perfectly legal as far as PC rules are concerned. Anyway, as we came into Semongkong we topped our last peak and started down. I was facing backwards but noticed an increasing worrisome speed followed by rocks flying out from our tires and a veering that made the cliff to our left rather precarious. (Ask me how many guardrails there are in Lesotho and I'll laugh in your face). Our brakes had gone out - which I only confirmed after we reached the bottom of the mountain (safely) and the boys had stopped screaming and making the sign of the cross over their hearts. You know it's bad when adolescent Basotho boys are praying.

There was the time that 4 boys, aged 16-19 (and heights all under 5"7'), decided Amber and I looked like an easy way to make some cash walking down a busy 4-lane road in Maseru. Amber is 6" even and I'm not exactly petite, so why they thought we appeared vulnerable is beyond me. Also, there was no way I was letting go of my bag when one demanded and grabbed it - my THIRD camera in Lesotho - which I'd owned for less than 3 weeks - was inside along with my passport and some cash. The best part of this story isn't me kicking said attacker in the kneecap (I couldn't punch else I'd lose my grip on said precious bag) or that we were less than 500 meters from the American Embassy (this would prove to be very unfortunate for the boys), but that when the short lad went at Amber she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, yelling: "What are you doing?!?!" Michigan girls are not easy score, boys. We did far more damage than they could have anticipated, right up to chasing them down and turning them over to the Embassy guards.

(You can stop reading at any time, mama.)

There's the outbreak of rabies in Semongkong dogs, the two times in SA that the group I was with was almost robbed but safety in numbers prevailed (again), the cop in Mozambique that we bribed to escape a traffic violation (turned out he was a fake cop after all that -- so irritating), that time in Joburg I flagged down a complete stranger and begged him to take me to my GRE testing site for any price after searching for the building for over an hour on foot, the first case of MDR-TB that appeared in Lesotho last year, the transportation riots a year ago that left a bus driver dead, and the day hike I took that landed me near a boys initiation school (or so I thought) leaving me no choice but to jump off a steep - though not vertical - cliff and run faster than I knew possible down a mountain until I felt safe enough to turn around... and realize I was mistaken. If you knew why crossing paths with such a group was so bad, you'd understand why I tumbled down a mountain to avoid one. And you'd tell me never to hike alone in Lesotho.

Of course, the journey isn't over just yet -- so maybe I'll have even more stories for mom and dad when they pick me up at the airport. Sparing any encounters with drunk bus drivers who drive off the road or sad tsotsi's with dull knives.

Click on the link below to see a slideshow Walt Sutterlin put together on his book drive for our local library at Fatima Primary. Scroll to the bottom of the page and click on the picture of the library for the video to start.

http://www.sutterlearn.com/gallery3.html

Preparing to leave - I'm cleaning out piles of old paperwork (stacks of paper are surprisingly tricky to burn in large quantities), putting things into boxes for "send home", "sell", "give away", etc. I have a large box of letters I've received - 2 years worth - and before I can think about it too hard I toss it in the "BURN" box and march outside with a box of matches. Any delay and the rest of my week would have been spent pouring over old letters in sticky nostalgia.

I find photos I printed long ago and make piles of things I need to distribute around Ramabanta. For Masekhampu, I have pics of us making the orphan's garden (that project flopped...) and her and her "Under 5" class for a library thank you (another bust, I moved the library up to the primary school). Ah, memories. So I head down the hill to her house, a nice rondaval with aloe plants neatly landscaped and the tidy swept dirt around her small compound. The word "Jesus" is written over her door, a good preview to the only thing she ever talks about. I had the pictures over and she asks, as everyone seems to lately, "When are you leaving?" Then, to my reply, "So early!" I know it's her command of English that leads to her word choice, but I can't help pointing out that two years doesn't feel "early". "Yes, and you are still with us, you are still alive." Ah, Basotho optimism. "And you have tried many things and ---" Here, she uses my favorite hand signal; arms out and palms up in the air as if to say "not here". It means any one of the following things: Doesn't/didn't work (as Masekhampu was indicating); I don't have; there isn't any; I don't know; it/he/she/they never came; I don't understand you; no money. The versatility of this gesture means that I use it often and I'm always grammatically correct.

The women of Tsohang Basotho tell me they're going to knit me wool clothing for my "journey" home. A sweater, hat, and scarf. And it's cold, too, so I'll need them to keep me warm. Plus food, because "it is too far!" I've told them my home is very cold in winter and forgot to mention the flip in seasons when you cross the equator (or feel overwhelmed at attempting this explanation; it does seem complicated when I look at it from their perspective). So now I'll arrive at Detroit Metro (in July) in full woolen clothing (and a skirt, obviously) with chicken, papa, a Basotho hat and blanket, and, if Mathapelo has her way, her son as my brand new hubby - who will propose once he reaches the age of 18 in, oh, 14 years. (Felipe, my arranged husband)

But first, every woman in my village must succeed in fattening me up. Else my mother will think I wasn't well cared for here. Heaven forbid I go home anything less than rotund... (local boys and their hand-made wire cars)

My belongings are fair play in most people's minds. Though, I must say, previous PCV's in Ramabanta must have exercised restraint in handing things out before they left because I don't get as many requests/demands as I expected. So while several times a week I hear the phrase "When you leave, you will give me ______?" I have to protest, "I need to wear a pair of shoes home, guys. No, I'll be using my cell phone." It's so tempting to simply throw pots to one person, clothes to another. But I know it makes a big problem even bigger. The handout mentality is so pervasive in this culture. So "No - I'm selling things. You can come buy them before I leave." I'll make a few rand, enough to buy a night or two of lodging when I travel, but at least it'll put a value on things and maybe help the next PCV - when ever he or she may come - to keep their sanity.

That's a source of confusion, too. For more than a decade there's been one PCV after another. But not this time? The point of PC isn't to keep a steady supply of Americans in a village. In fact, if people are saying "who's next?" then there's a problem. So it's time for a break, time for the people of Ha Ramabanta to try and get things done on their own, to keep some of these projects going without outside help, grants, direction, encouragement. It's one of those 'tough love' things that's hard to execute - or take, for that matter.

Of course, the hardest people to say 'so long' to are the ones that don't get it. Rapolang and Felipe (my future husband) simply look at me and grin when I try to explain that soon, I'm going home. I can hear what they're thinking: "What's that crazy white girl on about this time?" They ask for crayons to draw instead. "But the white people will still come?" *sigh* Yeah, the tourists will still come. "And the tu-tu-tu?" Tu-tu-tu are the motor bikes that South Africans ride around on here on the weekends. So yes, and the tu-tu-tu, too. Then they start arguing over who I'll give the crayons to when I leave. Felipe is my husband-to-be so it seems only fair that Rapolang keeps them as a consolation prize. I simply raise my arms, palms up, and shrug. This seems to take care of the debate. (my neighbors made drums a few days ago and played a concert for anyone who drifted by. lots of dancing immediately began).

(that's my man, cuttin' a rug)

It's a slap in the face to realize a moment you've waited for for two years is suddenly coming up at you like the ground in free fall. Not that every day was a countdown to my last day here but some days certainly were. Enough of them that I suddenly feel a pang of guilt towards Lesotho.

I'd been away from site for almost a month. Between the GRE, vacation, COS conference and an HIV/AIDS Committee meeting, I was ready to start walking back to Ramabanta on Saturday morning when it was finally all done and over. Al graciously agreed to chop off about 8 inches of my hair (my first haircut in two years) and feeling lighter I ran to the taxi rank to begin the adventure that is getting home.

I thought it quite lucky that the taxi was nearly full, guaranteeing a speedy departure time as soon as we had all the seats occupied. Unfortunately, everyone else had lots of belongings with them just as I did, so it was more crowded than usual. Not just the bags of maize meal and cabbage heads but also an impressive number of babies on laps, suitcases at our feet and even a mattress. All inside our "mini bus" (passenger van). So my large backpack, my large grocery back of paperwork, clothes, shoes, and towel, and my shoulder bag (or "purse", I suppose) all ended up on my lap. 'At least it's cloudy and cool today,' I thought, 'Not too hot in here.' As the conductor jumped in and slammed the door closed behind him I panicked to realize that in the month of living out of my backpack I'd repacked so many times I had no clue where my earplugs were. Not that I could have reached them anyway, as tightly packed in as we were... The taxi may have had a driver's side door that only opened from the inside and considerable trouble getting out of first gear, but the sounds system was top notch and speaker conveniently located directly about my head.

I spent two hours with my fingers in my ears. I swear I'll never look at an accordion again without experiencing heart palpitations and war time-like flashbacks.

But as soon as I got off the taxi two hours later I felt calm and elated. A few kids playing on the school soccer field called my name. My house has never felt so serene to walk into. I put on a scarf and sweatshirt in acknowledgement of the chilly fall weather and went to say hello to Malineo. She was thrilled to see me back and told me people had been asking if I'd left for good - she knew better. When my two favorite toddlers greeted me I literally ran to pick them up and hug them. People's smiles and greetings felt so genuine. The mountains are turning brown - again - to announce my second fall here. Why was I returning home from a three day conference on leaving Lesotho and finishing my PC service and feeling more at home and comfortable than ever before?

Six weeks to go and I suddenly feel like a traitor. I'm meant to be boxing up belongings and purging old paperwork and selling pots and pans; half of me is ecstatic and half, suddenly and without warning, heartbroken.

It was April Fool's Day when I took the GRE (my scores are somewhere between a joke and a laugh) and April 2nd when Jenny arrived in Joburg and we flew to Windhoek, Namibia. I didn't understand everything that the Air Namibia folks were saying that the check-in counter but "standby" wasn't in Zulu. Ten minutes later they smiled and said (in English): "Thanks for being so patient. Economy is overbooked but we put you two in Business Class. Have a nice flight." And that we did. I have never flown first class and probably never will again, but it was quite swanky.

We spent less than 24 hours in Windhoek before taking our rental car (whom we named Lance, the best name we could come up with for a white frat-boy way out of place on our safari-ish trip) south to Sessriem and Soussesvlei. The dry, arid landscape turned from sparse vegetation to desert dunes as we traveled along sandy roads. We arrived and set up camp under an acacia tree and bought beers just in time to watch a spectacular sunset and chat with a group of locals who had just gotten off work at a nearby lodge.

The next morning we were up before dawn to pack up our tent (a very tiny two-man) and drive into the national park. There was nothing to see as we drove through the pre-dawn hours and parked 45 km later at an arbitrary sand dune named "dune 45". Up we climbed as the light slowly faded in. And we were greeted with one of the most breathtaking sights -- blood-red dunes all around that turned purple when the sun broke the horizon. Stunning. We drove a little farther on and stopped to hike out to a "vlei" (salt pan that is sporadically filled with water when it actually rains) before driving out and heading north to Swakopmund, a seaside city in the middle of - you guessed it - a desert.

I couldn't get over it. Sand dunes and nothingness and then this huge, resort-style city like you would see in Florida or the Carolina's. Super touristy and wealthy but still worth seeing. We took two nights there, camping at a backpackers hostel, and on the second day Jenny went sand boarding on the dunes. I played around taking pictures and trying not to burn my feet in the incredibly hot sand - the sand temps were cooler up high where there was a breeze, but down below they measured it at 70 degrees C. That's 158 degrees F. I was sure my cheap flip flops were melting.

Then the real fun began. Our plan was to drive north to Opuwo and stay with two PCV's for a few nights. There were several options for routes and, being adventurous and possibly a bit ambitious, we chose 'the road less traveled.' Oh man...This included driving the Skeleton Coast. So named because of the shipwrecks along that section of coastline that doomed any surviving sailors. Before we entered the park we crossed a set of gates (with skull and crossbones) where the ranger told us only 4x4 vehicles could make it. Then he changed his mind and said we'd just have to gun the accelerator through a dry riverbed. Lance made it, though the undercarriage was worse for the wear. We would continue driving the Toyota corolla as if it was four wheel drive for the remainder of the trip.

The Skeleton Coast: No plants, no animals, no water for hundreds of kilometers. And Jenny and I both fell completely silent for more than an hour as I drove. The feeling of the place was completely desolate and depressing. I have never in my life felt as though I was trespassing on a place but this section of coastline is a place no person is meant to visit. It simply felt wrong in the pit of my stomach. And after we came out of it heading east and began to see a few shrubs and eventually ostriches Jenny and I both started to speak again and had the same feeling of having tempted fate. We knew that somehow we'd gone somewhere we shouldn't have and it would catch up with us eventually.

We had no clue how comically this would come about. We kept heading north-ish. And then we came across a river that wasn't dry. Jenny got out and checked the water depth, shrugged and we went for it. Once across we had a look at our map and realized that we'd just crossed the smallest of the upcoming rivers (no bridges to be found). As we debated continuing on or going back 15 km to take a longer, paved route, one of the PCV's we were to stay with that night texted me to ask about our route. Then again to say "Do you have a 4x4?" We laughed at the timing of this and drove back across the river a second time (successfuly), backtracked, and made it to a small town to refuel before heading to Opuwo at sunset. The people at the fueling station warned us about animals in the road at night and we thanked them as we drove on, thinking if we can handle MI driving at night with deer everywhere that Namibia couldn't be much worse.

WRONG. There's no fences in the north. And no shepherds. But cattle everywhere. And they seem to like the tar road in the evenings. They don't even run when cars approach. You can tell where this is headed...

Lance took that cow out. Actually, the cow was fine and ran off and Lance was even driveable... but he looked awful. We made it to Opuwo late because I drove aproximately 60km/hr to avoid hitting another cow. Ed's first words when he saw us pull in were: "Holy Sh#t." (Not "Holy Cow" ??) Anyway, to make a long, funny story short, we convinced the rental company that the car was in fact driveable and that we should be allowed to keep the car for a few days longer before returning it early. And after a police report to document the event (a story in itself) we were able to enjoy the cultural diversity of Opuwo town and wander the streets laughing. A mixing pot of 4 or 5 tribes including the famous Himba, I was so thrilled for the diversity and culture.

From there we headed to Etosha National Park. Every park worker we encountered stopped us to ask what we'd hit with our car. A kudu? A rhino? No, not one of the park animals. "It was a cow" became a catch phrase for the remainder of the trip.

Etosha was fantastic. So many animals - we even spotted lions and then rhinos at the watering hole at night. Jenny and I were in heaven. But after two days of being in a park where you're not allowed out of your car except in designated camping areas we were going stir-crazy. So we left the park and, having decided to cancel our trip to Victoria Falls after the cow encounter, we headed to Waterberg Plateau Park for a few days to hike and camp and relax.

And then to Windhoek to drop of the car. Again, a story in itself because I had to fill out another accident report than included drawing the scene of the accident. People have since pointed out that the cow looks like a stick figure ant... you laugh or you cry.

Our vacay ended with three nights in Windhoek for which we mostly sat around, ate, and drank. It's not a culturally diverse and there's not much to do except, well, eat, drink and sit around. Still, we managed to make it entertaining and very relaxing and sampled game meet at a local restaurant one night. The same restaurant also had Guiness on the menu. THE END.

Small good deeds add up. And when I made a simple request for "a few books" from home, I never imagined such a response. Already I have books from mom & dad, Jennie Sterkenburg, Sandy, Nancy, and the Aqualinas; now 11 more boxes are on the way from a group of elementary school kids in Michigan. (I guess I'll have to devise a method for getting said books from Maseru to my village, eh? good thing that I love both adventures and challenges...) Read the LSJ article below (scroll to the second article titled "Paying the Freight") for more. And you have to understand that I've never met the teacher who organized this book drive but that he's received my request third hand and responded loudly. Know that I'm so amazed and honored by the incredible people supporting me from so far away.

http://www.lansingstatejournal.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/200903200400/COLUMNISTS09/903200322

Our new president has called for service -- you guys have shown that we can answer this call. THANK YOU.

I have this "to-do" list that's completely non-work related. I've managed to cross off most of the big things by now, including visiting Durban, checking out Amber's village in the north, and playing/instigating a game of water balloons with the kids in Ha Nkesi. And most recently, Pam and Kjessie came up to Ramabanta to help me with another item: hiking from my village to Semongkong. A two day trek covering over 20 miles -- we ended with two nights of chilling in Semongkong with the three volunteers there and our country director, Ted Mooney, who was visiting the boys' sites.

Of course whenever we visit we ask each other: "What can I bring you from town on my way?" My answer (always): "FRUIT." (Sometimes cheese and chocolate, too). So when Pam and Kj showed with a sizable watermelon 16 hours before our departure I was beaten. Yet... we ate all of it before our departure the next grey morning.

On up. The first day was short -- 4 hours to the village where we would sleep for the night, Ha Mphephe. Because the trail is a favorite for "motor bikers" (dirt bikes and quads) from South Africa who visit Lesotho throughout the year, we followed graffiti as we climbed out of the Ramabanta river valley... Lovely.

And on our way we saw other travelers with their own luggage. After arriving we found accommodation -- not with the chief as I had arranged by letter (via a friend who knew someone who worked for the chief up there, love our message relay system), but with a local village health worker who recognized me as we searched for "plan B" lodging. The chief was MIA that day, but 'Me Masechabasekae (harder to say than it looks, actually) graciously took us in on her small family compound, fed us, and sheltered us for the night. Our sweaty clothes decorated the yard after we explored the tiny, remote village. I fulfilled my promise to make the hike work related by talking to Masechabasekae about her job as a village health worker there and visiting her beautiful vegetable garden.

Pam was the first to notice that the village was lacking an essential component; pit latrines. I asked Masechabasekae and she had 2 local girls who weren't in school ("Why?" I ask, "Just because," they tell me with shrugs) walk us to the local primary school to use the long-drops there. We enjoyed the convenience of a pee bucket very much that evening. Pit latrines are way more common in the more accessible areas but become less and less so as you walk away from any sort of main road. Pam knows this living in a remote mountain area of Lesotho and now I do, too.

The next morning we rose early, ate a breakfast of pone (corn on the cob), and headed out after taking a photo with our hostess. And the views we were rewarded as we climbed the infamous "Baboon's Pass" were spectacular in the chilly light. Thaba Putsoa ("Blue Mountain") rose to our left at 3100 meters as we finished the last of our tough climbs for the day and looked forward to an easy day of trekking the ridges 'till we reached Semongkong 24 km later.

Not so easy. We didn't really have a map -- just a rough sketch and a compass was all we needed considering how clear the trail is. But, of course, it split in one place and the route we didn't want was the one we ended up on. It could have been worse since the unwanted path took us to the main road to Semongkong. By the time we realized that we'd missed a turn it seemed too far to retreat. That combined with the dread of passing a long string of herd boy huts (herd boys are trouble out here, especially for women and we avoided interacting with them or crossing their paths any more than necessary) meant that we simply gave in and took the road. It's far to long to walk it into Semongkong in one day being less direct than the path we'd been on, so we figured we'd walk and hitch our way in. Kj said "I believe everything happens for a reason and maybe this is keeping us from running into trouble with the herd boys." Pam said "We could be in Semongkong by lunch now and get a plate." A 'plate' is a plate of food; papa (maize meal), nama (meat), and greens for R20. We were all happy with route B. The one hitch we found, however, was in the back of a closed cattle truck. Sans cattle, but miserable, bumpy, and nauseating regardless. I'd check that off my to-do list but it was never on it to begin with. I'd have taken walking at night with a gaggle of herd boys over saving that short distance in the truck.

So we arrived in Semongkong, found food, and hit the Semongkong lodge for a shower before heading to Nick's for a tasty dinner from his garden veggies. The next day, Nick, Ro, Robbie and Ted did the 200m "ab sail" (repel in US jargon) down the Maletsunyane water fall. We watched (R650 was out of my budget for the trip and has been every time I visit) and enjoyed drinks and another homemade PCV meal with the survivors after.

There's a reason Semongkong earned it's name of "Place of Smoke."

Nick, Ted, Ro and Robbie before their big jump.

Nick lookin' nervous...

Robbie on his way down. The yellow dot on the ground below is a person. Spreadin' the message.

It's that time... and I can hardly believe it myself... the time when I have to say this:

Don't mail out any more care packages, guys. I'm out of here on June 10th and given the average speed of our delightful mail delivery "system" anything larger than a letter sent now may very well never reach me. (Also, even if the USPS says "7-10 business days" or, say, you mail something first class and they say "3 business days", that has no bearing whatsoever on the time it takes here. Africa does not care how much you paid for postage or how long you were told it would take. So for real -- last call).

Last call for letters is early May. Crazy, I know.

I'm off to Namibia with Jenny in early April after taking the GRE in Joburg. Pics and stories to come!

A very important part of my experience in Lesotho has been the companionship of other PCV's. I know that long ago when I was preparing to leave the US, I had a certain image in mind of the people I'd be training with; the stereotypical "hippie" was the extent of my imagination. But that was so long ago and it's so far from what I've found that it's actually hard to remember much more. Instead I'm here with an incredibly diverse, outrageous group of individuals. Some came fresh out of college, some are getting their masters while here, and some are in their 20's, 30's, 40's... even 60's. We've worked as teachers, lawyers, raft guides, college professors, psychiatrists, nannies, youth counselors, farmers, fire fighters and community organizers. I could easily road trip around the US now and stay with friends from one coast to the other. Our backgrounds, cultures, race, religion and reasons for joining PC are all different but because we're sharing the insane experience that is living and working in Lesotho, we're strongly bonded. The group of 20 that I arrived with - now down to 15 as we approach our COS - are obviously the "kids" that I'm closest with. Although being part of training the group that arrived a year after me has also brought me very close with those volunteers.

We share our daily adventures as well as our tears and successes. Nothing makes me laugh like hearing stories from friends when I see them at varying intervals. Pam just learned how to blow up grasshoppers from her neighbor kids. Caroline once tackled a guy who attempted to steal her cell phone. Robbie was attacked by a dog and nearly cut off his own finger trying to defend himself (ok, not so much funny as absurd - his new nickname, Puppy Chow, is quite cute, though). One (nameless) PCV's brief and awkward dating fiasco that ended with hilarious texts about love and destiny. Craig's "lap dance" on his first bus trip down from Semongkong. Kj's endless adventures crossing the river to her site. Another volunteer's drunken walk home that found him sleeping under a tree the next morning. Ro came to visit and saw a sheep accidentally released from a storage compartment under the bus - much to his fellow passengers' surprise. The guy who, instead of smacking students on the back of their hands with a stick as punishment (standard practice in schools here), had them move piles of rocks from one end of a field to another all day. An attempted robbery that ended embarrassingly for the mugger (this has been repeated throughout my two years). One person got a care package from a rather eccentric grandma that was nothing but horrendous blouses with padded shoulders mixed with loose peanut butter cookies (still edible, I checked).

We talk about things that - from what I can remember - are not polite social topics at home; the 10 day stomach "bug" (not the flue, a real bug) that had many of us using two buckets simultaneously was a favorite dinner conversation recently. Or who has the record for longest time without bathing/washing hair/shaving legs/seeing a full length mirror. The use of a cheese grater to remove foot callouses. Who has the nicest/nastiest pit latrine.

And the crazy, ridiculous questions and conversations we've all had with Basotho. From intelligent, mind-blowing political conversations like Merrill's a few days ago covering Obama, Malcom X, MLK and apartheid to someone's question: "I thought that all PCV's were American's here on parole from the states?" I've been asked what "all the blue space" is on a map and Andre has tried to answer the favorite question: "But how do I get a white woman?"

Not that it's always so light and fun(ny). Deaths, friends with HIV, teachers who don't care, frustrations at work, the Lesotho government, projects that fail, youths that give up, problems at home that we all feel so removed from and helpless about... but because we have this in common we can relate. We talk about men who say obscene things or people who demand handouts and maybe never resolve anything but find comfort in someone who simply gets it. And this, more than anything else, is why we're so close. We survive PC training together, we party together, we travel together, sleep on floors and cram into taxis, survive rats and thatch spiders and bad water and bucket baths and small children (ok, I survive them but I suppose some PCV's actually like kids to begin with).

So I'm spending tonight with 12 other PCV's to celebrate the arrival of 4 "newbies" to Maseru District. And I know I'll spend most of the time laughing.

It was a rough start. Amber and I seem to struggle on the first leg of vacations taken together. Whether detained at the border buy an overzealous customs official for hours or moved from one line to another (longer) one in our attempt to leave Lesotho, we were understandably anxious about our short trip to Durban. But the border crossing was fine - it was the 6 hours we waited for our taxi to fill that got mildly frustrating towards the end. Finally at 130 pm we left the border town of Ficksburg, SA and started our 6+ hour car ride to Durban. Public transport in SA is a milder version of what we go through in Lesotho - they stick to the maximum number of passengers, the vehicles are in much better condition, and the music is never so loud that you consider putting two ear plugs in each ear instead of one.

So we finally rolled into Durban late - after dark, which wasn't ideal - and while our taxi driver was incredibly rude and unhelpful in every way, the passengers were wonderfully kind (we were united by our dislike for the driver all around). So they helped us get a private cab and made sure we got safely inside before departing themselves. Off to the backpacker's for a shower (desperately needed after a sticky kombi ride) and then out for food. Amber might love food more than I do - it's a close call - so our priorities were identical.

The next day we decided to ignore advice and walk to the shopping center where Amber wanted to get her hair cut and I could find a pair of new running shoes (the old ones no longer have treads on them...). So we walked. And walked. And then we walked through a less than safe area. Then it got a bit more shady. So we found a woman selling fruit along the road and bought some as we asked about getting to our destination. She gladly pointed us to nearby taxis ("It is too far!") and it was the best R2 I've ever spent on fruit. Her hair chopped (R100 for a blow dry???), my running shoes purchased and we were off to find a Mexican restaurant rumored to be good.

And it was good. Corona and lime, tortilla chips (home made!) and salsa...

We went out on the town later that night - always an adventure. The next day we hit the uShaka Aquarium and then the uShaka water park. Up and down slides, around rivers of heavily chlorinated H2O on tubes... it was pretty amazing. Some beach time later and our vacay was complete. And the taxi trip back was far less painful, although it holds true in SA just like Lesotho - having any sort of breeze from an open window is strongly disliked by all passengers except the two Americans who are sweating profusely and starting to look quite carsick.

Before we took off for vacay, I spent a day at Amber's site in Leribe District. Amber works at a center for disabled children and adults and her most recent project has been to build a play ground there for the kids to use. It was pretty amazing to visit the center and see the kids there, who all adore Amber. And I "helped" her to stain some of the new equipment; mostly I spattered her with brown stain and tried to keep kids from climbing on the wet structures.

From here I'm looking towards my last months in Lesotho. Since Jenny is comin' to visit in April I'll be away for much of that month. My days here are looking very numbered all of a sudden. I'll officially finish my service on June 3rd (but won't be home 'till some time in July). So the next few months involve getting the most out of the time that I can while simultaneously trying to slowly say my goodbyes. I can't wait to see everyone at home -- I truly can't. But until then, I'm focusing on making the most of the time I have left here. And none of this is going to be easy.

Khotsi: Full and satisfied after eating. Mokhotsi: Friend, with "mo" being a prefix indicating a person. The person who makes you feel complete and satisfied.

It's because I'm studying for the GRE and filling my head with words whose future usefulness I doubt. Words like "truculent", "pusillanimous", "compendium" and "patina." When I'm reading (on book #110 in Lesotho) I sometimes see words I know or realize are on the face of one of the flash cards and then feel slightly vindicated. Otherwise I only feel that I'm working on learning two languages - and neither of them very well. When people ask what I'm doing with my flash cards I tell them about the test and knowing more English (sehooa) words. "But you do not know them all? Ach. How many are there?!"

Our library is up and running with enough words to fill over 1000 books -- an inventory of which took me 48 lined pages in a notebook and several days of cross-eyed afternoons. It's the value of words that always makes me think (nahana); because some are so powerful and others worth less than the paper they're printed on. While making the book inventory, I heard an incredible story on the BCC of Lasantha Wickramatunga, a Sri Lankan journalist silenced by assassination. Yet before he died - an event he correctly predicted a few days prior and did not try to escape - he wrote a letter to his newspaper's readers and the President, his childhood friend and the man he suspected of planning his own eminent murder. Those words made me stop and grab my shortwave radio, sitting with it on my lap and trying to find the place on the dial with the least static for the duration of its reading. (http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/stevecoll/2009/01/letter-from-the.html)

Worthless words? The insistence by Basotho to have a committee for every project and group. It only really exists on paper but the names and roles are all listed in a lined notebook in careful, deliberate handwriting. The same with sub-committees, too, having another set of president, vp, secretary, treasurer, etc and somehow managing the mind-boggling feat of being even more useless and unproductive. Masekhampu showed me the list of committee members for the spinning group (Tsohang Basotho, "rise up, Basotho"; as in get up, wake up, do something... I love this name) and I laughed out loud. These women have worked for months without designating a committee but thank the stars we have one now... Yet how ridiculous are the words in a Dr. Seuss book? I was undertaking said inventory when some kids came in and picked up a book. All of a sudden I hear from behind me: "Wan feesh... too feesh... rrred feesh.... blooo feesh..." Those words have never taken on such meaning.

And words that aren't sufficient, never understood in their meaning. I arrived here and told people "2 years." Now, I say "June" and the 2 reactions are so juxtaposed that it's comical. "No! June? It is too soon! It is almost now!" But where were you for my first year? Why didn't we work then instead of trying to cram it all into the last 4 months? My words - Sesotho and English - fail me here. "Yes, June. June I go home." In Sesotho, your home never changes; your home is where you were born and grew up. If you live elsewhere, no matter how long, the phrase "I'm going home" means you're going to that place you're from. All the places after this are houses (mapeng) or village names. And that translates clearly for me.

Some photos to describe what my limited vocab cannot:

first, a series to show the effect of 36 straight hours of rain on my trip down to Maseru (this is one of my taxi's to/from Ramabanta):

shots of the women spinning and knitting wool... and they day they got paid for the first time:

Alice and her daughter, Judith, on a visit to check in on the group:

hiking shots:

Felipe:

Library (before we painted!):

Cape Town, South Africa. By far my most favorite place in SA. And people who know me will think: Casey doesn't like cities, so why Cape Town? It's a big city, complete with the crowds and traffic that make me dislike the overcrowded (...overrated?) urban areas so much. Concrete and skyscrapers instead of dirt and trees. But while Cape Town is every bit a cosmopolitan area as major US cities, it's also the first place I've been in SA where racial tensions and emphasis on nationality seem subdued almost to the point of not mattering. There were a few scattered occasions where I was reminded that I was still in fact in a country very recently freed from the shameful apartheid era, but mostly I saw many faces and races in the same restaurants and hostels; sharing tables and travel plans. We (the three PCV's I traveled with plus me) chatted about the reasons for this oasis-like city -- long-standing diversity of the population being a favorite contender for top factor.

First on our journey from Lesotho we drove to the Garden Route and stayed two nights there in a town called Wilderness. Christmas day found us on the Indian Ocean, beers in hand after our secret santa gift exchange. From there we headed just north of Cape Town to Stellenbasch, famous for it's roaming vineyards and scenery. We wine tasted, played pool, sat pool-side and continued our sampling of restaurants including Cuban and Thai food. I saw a movie in a theater for the first time in a year and a half (007). Finally to Cape Town and penguins that earn their name, Jack-Ass Penguins, with loud, braying calls that truly resemble the donkey I wake up to every morning in Ramabanta. A trip to the waterfront, Greene Market Square, up Table Mountain, and out to Cape Point where two oceans merge along rocky cliffs. Then I ditched the beach for a few hours to rock climb a the Silvermine Nature Reserve - entirely worth dragging my gear all over southern SA. For New Year's Eve we hit a costume shop for our ensembles and roamed Long Street and it's clubs. Sushi, Mexican food, seafood, an Irish Pub and happy hour mojitos...

Doesn't really sound like I'm in Peace Corps at all, I know. Hence the rough transition back into Lesotho. At first I looked forward to it, especially once we hit the Free State Provence and all the negative things (mainly racism) I associate with it. And after a night in Maseru and a taxi trip back to Ramabanta my rude awakening seemed to be slowly improving. But I'm still adjusting to the men ("hey baby!") and begging from kids ("give me candy!"). Ramabanta is calm and I was more than ready for a break from house music blaring through our hostel and staying out 'till 3am but the transition is still tricky. Whenever I've been away from site for a week or more, I often get the question: "How was America?" People assume I shot home for a quick visit. That I can afford to. That there's a taxi to get there because there's a taxi to get anywhere they've ever been or imagined going. I'm working my way back into normalcy, though, one 8pm (...er, 730pm... 7pm...) bedtime at a time. After being back for only 2 days or so, kids have been slowly appearing on my porch, realizing the rumor is true that I've returned. I've reclaimed my garden from the forest of weeds that had taken over and harvested cucumbers and zucchini that grew to epic proportions in my absence. A library to work on, small projects and events to plan, time with my sisters home on break from school... it is good to be back. Even if I still stumble over calling it "home." ***all photos by Pam Rogers!***

No photos with this post, Casey? Why ever not? What's that --- oh ... right! You dropped that nice camera of yours in the tiny mountain stream. Nice hands, feet. So no way to take photos on your upcoming trip to Cape Town then? That kinda sucks, eh?

Moving on, but not to a happy topic. WARNING: This post is depressing. Sorry, guys.

I've really enjoyed the last week in my village. I've been busy, things have been moving along, it's rained nearly every day and I've had tons of fresh food (cucumbers, zucchini, basil, parsley, cilantro, carrots, onion, baby spinach...) from the garden. My good friend Lineo is home on holiday from school in Cape Town and I spent time reading to kids in our new library. Early morning walks to beat the heat of the day and productivity to fill it afterwards. I almost felt bad about leaving for Christmas -- it means I'll never spend that holiday in Ramabanta but instead with friends elsewhere in the region. Yet on the day I left, the drunken men staggering from the shop to yell inappropriate and obnoxious phrases my way validated my leaving; Christmas is a time to get rip-roaring drunk. Not being in Ramabanta means not tainting my image of the village I so love.

The events on the day I left are what I want to rant about now. The previous day, men had been crowded around a new grave and digging in turns to ready the plot for the following day's funeral. When I went to say goodbye and "happy Christmas" to my friend Lerato I stumbled into the funeral ceremony at her neighbor's home. The women were screaming and crying loudly in what translates in any language to sorrow and pain. Otherwise people were quiet and reserved with only small smiles and soft 'hellos' as I passed them. The wailing and entire atmosphere dampened my farewell to Lerato, but she wished me a safe journey and I knew she was glad I'd stopped to let her know I'd be away for a little while. I asked who had died ("a man"), how old he was ("maybe 25"), and then how ("they say he had TB, then got very sick and was put on ARV's [for HIV] but then died a week later"). I finished talking with her and quietly walked home. The man's wife is working on craft projects at the lodge and is even younger than he was. Rapolang, one of my small toddler friends, grabs my hand as I emerge from Lerato's compound and slowly walks with me as I suddenly get really angry.

All this mourning and intense sadness - all of the rituals for loss and spiritual cleansing - it's all so depressing and overwhelming. The women's screams and gasping sobs and everyone's sorrow are all incredibly real and valid and understandable. But then this: why? COME ON, GUYS. How often do we go through this? We worry as someone gets sick and then they go to the doctor but it's too late so we worry more and then they die. And if we're brave enough to admit that it was the "three letters" and don't call it a cold or flu that kills him we still don't connect our intense suffering with our actions. This epidemic has been here long enough - too long - for people in their 20's and 30's (or any age, really, but I'm being generous here) to keep on acting in a way that puts them at such risk. If you're 25 years old and have been to... what? 50 funerals? 100? ... in your lifetime and yet you still continue to sleep with multiple partners, what the hell are you thinking? I'm still reliving walking past that funeral. Did you not really live it? Any of them? Didn't they affect you at all? The cries and tears and orphaned children? If that doesn't get some sort of message across, then what am I playing at here? Talking to people about condoms and faithfulness can't even remotely compare to the emotional wreck that I saw on Saturday. We cry, we mourn, we struggle to move on without those we love and yet we continue to make bad decisions. If people can see that on a regular, often more than monthly, basis and still put themselves at risk then I can't compete for their attention or conviction.

I was talking to a friend about this and saying that I'm not judging the culture of having multiple boyfriends/girlfriends but I can't really believe that no one is willing to give that up for the chance at living to see children grow up - or the chance to have children at all. She broke in and said, "I am. I'm judging people. The life expectancy has dropped to 37 years from 60 some years in the past decade and the population is between 1.6 and 1.8 million, down from over 2 million. I'm saying change it or be ready to see your country completely die out."

And, yeah. It's true. Look around you, look at all these people dying and crying and growing up with out parents and tell me that having sex with a few extra people is worth it. Tell me that using a condom is such an inconvenience that you'd risk your life - and the lives of the other people you're sleeping with - in order to go without. "But Ausi, they are not nice. You do not eat a sweet with the wrapper still on do you? It is the same!" Right, candy and HIV are easily comparable. Great analogy, guys. Ask me again why I don't want to be your girlfriend.

I'm writing this and re-reading it and I know it sounds condescending and very judgmental. I have no intention of acting superior, but I can only take in so much "culture" before I lose it and say: "Your CULTURE is flexible! Your music involves accordions and your blankets are decorated with a royal British crest and airplanes! CHANGE AGAIN!"

Dear Lesotho: I'm affected by this - I'm sad and angry and confused - I know you are too. I know you're even more upset because you knew that person and their family. Now connect the funeral you went to last weekend and the two last month and the 16 last year... connect all of those to your own life. Look at what you've lived through and then think about whether you want to keep living.

Operation Mountain Outreach (OMO) commenced on Friday, December 5th 2008. I'll admit that the backpacking trip was dreamed up long before the HIV Outreach component was integrated into the plan, but having the goal of talking to isolated herd boys along our journey ended up being incredibly rewarding. So Pam and I traveled for two days to get to the boundary of Sehlabathebe National Park (see the map linked below; the area of Sehlabathebe isn't marked on the map, but it's East of Qacha's Nek and directly south of the "r" in "Drakensberg. Also note that in Lesotho, the Drakensberg range is called the Maloti Mountain range), joined by Christina and Chris in Qacha's Nek town after our first 6 hour taxi ride on day one. After listening to two nights of storms - thunder, lightening, intense wind and rain - prior to setting out on our journey, we were convinced we'd be spending the trip wet and miserable in tents that had seen better days. Much better days. Our 5 day hike ended at Sani Pass (also visible on the map).

http://africa.theworldatlas.net/lesotho/map.html

But our first day of walking dawned clear and cool as we set off from the "Hut-tel." Think hotel but instead huts with very basic accommodations (the staff did heat a bucket of water for us to bathe with, however, so no complaints here). We traveled on the outskirts of the park and walked several kilometers until the dirt road ended and our real adventure began. The first of what would be many river crossings was successful and after an early lunch, we arrived at our camp in the afternoon just as the clouds began to roll in. It wasn't until the following morning that we were able to see the view from our tents in the steep valley - a photo that I don't have because I - in my infinite coordination and concentration - dropped my camera ("The new one??" says mom) in a river while rinsing dinner dishes. All photos here are taken by Pam. Just to give credit to her and her amazing photos - and blame to myself.

Day Two was short. After a steep climb over our first ridge (3100m) and past some spectacular waterfalls, we walked down to a beautiful mountain stream fed by drainages we'd trudged through above. Rather than push for an additional 10km or so, we decided to call it an early day (8km only) and played in the river instead. Freshwater crabs and beautiful wild flowers kept us entertained all afternoon. We hadn't seen any shepherds since leaving our camp first thing in the morning which was, for me, unheard of in Lesotho. You always see people and/or villages when you hike, but the next person we encountered wasn't until the following day. The route we were following was once a fairly well traveled trail but without our set of topo maps we'd have been completely lost - the trail was intermittently visible for only a few segments of the trip.

So Day Three was when our outreach project really began. That afternoon, after a steep morning ridge climb and several river crossings (one of which got the better of me, but having no operational camera to get wet and my sleeping bag doubled bagged in waterproof sacks, I wasn't phased) we climbed up above the Mashai River and walked along the top of it's gorge for several kilometers. As we finally headed over the pass we met two shepherds on their way to the "cattle post" (their allocated grazing area) and our conversation actually turned almost naturally to HIV after talking to them about what we do in Lesotho over a shared bag of trail mix. When one of the two boys responded to our question "how do you find HIV?" with an indication of breathing and wearing a mask to protect yourself, I immediately felt a surge of confidence in our "mission." Maybe we didn't change his mind about it, but then again, maybe our frank conversation made an impact on one or both of them. The rest of our day went something like this and by the time our 18 km ended on the outskirts of the only village we would pass during the journey, HIV outreach seemed like a really good idea.

Day Four started with a side trip into the village of Majoe Matso (Black Rocks, which were not to be found despite the name of the area) where we met the village chief, Maxwell, and talked for a little while about our jobs in Lesotho and why we were traveling through the area. Because the group was a variation of ages as well as both sexes (and people from the same families), we didn't talk about HIV for fear of creating substantial discomfort. But seeing such a remote village - at least a day's walk from any sort of "road" - was a real treat for all of us. We continued to talk to shepherds we met along the way, some who knew about how to prevent HIV ("you condomize!") and some as young as 12 and 16 years old. It was our longest day and at the end of 20 kilometers we all stumbled onto a lumpy camp site and I slept better than I had since leaving Ramabanta a week before.

Day Five was a cake walk. After walking a few kilometers - at most - we came upon an unfinished lodge and it's owner, who invited us in for coffee, biscuits, and stories. Roy and Priscilla, born in South Africa, had intense and fascinating stories about South Africa during Apartheid and it's eventual collapse. But Roy also talked about his grandkids, the building of the lodge outside Sani Pass where we would finish our trek, and offered us a second breakfast of eggs which we had to fight to turn down. We reached Sani Top (over 2800m) for lunch and a beer at "the highest bar in Africa." Christina pointed out that there's probably many small home brews and local shops serving beer well above that elevation, but this was a "proper" bar with hamburger's on the menu - one of which I devoured. 70 kilometers, 4.5 days, up and down mountains and through rivers ended here.

The following day we hired a guide named Adolf to show us to the top of Thabana Ntlenyana ("Good Mountain"), the highest point in southern Africa. The peak itself was incredibly unremarkable and appropriately anticlimactic. We did see the rare bearded vulture, however, along with occasional jackal buzzards and red-hot poker flowers. Adolf - named after Adolf Hitler, he told us, though why we were never really able to understand, had been completely sauced the night before when we met him to arrange the hike. Although he's been guiding for 8 years, he spoke minimal English and on the day of the hike up the mountain he was movin' pretty slow. But he got us there and back (a 15 km day round trip) and gratefully accepted the R150 fee once back at Sani Lodge.

Pam and I continued to have great luck. Not only had the weather held for all 6 days of our journey despite our fears of lightening strikes and being washed away down the mountain, we found a lift from the Lodge all the way to Maseru for the following day. To attempt to describe the painful trip on public transport that we would have had to endure - not to mention taking two days instead of 7 hours to make the trip - would be futile. Carl is my new best friend. And not just because he lived in Houghton-Hancock for the better part of a decade or likes to rock climb.

So, OMO was a success. Not only did I enjoy a spectacular backpacking trip over mountain passes, above the clouds, through alpine wetlands and streams and along steep ridges, but we were able to work - and effectively - while we wandered.

A quick post, guys. We're *finally* getting the library in Ramabanta at the primary school up and running. This has been an enormous pain and continues to make me crazy. Example: Why has it taken 8 MONTHS to get the books from Maseru to Ramabanta? BUT -- it's close. So if anyone is planning on sending a care package this direction, throw a few children's books in there for me. We've got lots of high school and middle school level books, but are really short on elementary level - an example of a great book for the young kids is "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" (I already have this one, so find others). Also, Sandy sent along some really basic puzzles and posters (colors, alphabet, shapes etc) that have been wonderful. It goes without saying that used books and the like are just as dear to us as new. The kids are learning English from first grade on so all materials in English are perfect. Just a reminder that I'm out of here in 5 ish months, so if you're planning on sending anything at all, the sooner the better!

Thanks for your help guys! I'll get a post up here about our recent HIV outreach backpacking expedition through the remote Maloti Mountains up next. Happy holidays. :)

A picture is meant to be worth more than words, so I'll leave most of my 3 day backpacking trip to Ketane falls to the photos that follow. Walking out of Semongkong, we made it to Ketane 7 hours later despite precarious river crossings and thunderstorms. The next day we visited a local school and walked to the falls. No roads here, so the isolation and remote feeling is absolute. On our third day we headed out, back to Semongkong town, which really felt like "town" after our short excursion.

Benita, me, Robbie and Craig just outside Semongkong.

A break in the storm on our hike out to Ketane.

Visiting a friend of Craig, we sampled two kinds of home brew that he'd prepared especially for our arrival.

A shepherd's hut at the top of Ketane Falls... with a view like the photo below.

Just above the falls. Hard to see because of the shape and steep walls of the gorge, Ketane Falls were as difficult to view as it was to reach the day prior.

A local primary school in the Ketane area. This building houses 180 students and it's one room serves all 7 classes (three teachers work there).

From inside the school.

A poor building and few resources yet with an amazing view from the school doorway. River crossing on the way home... much easier and less stressful than crossing during a thunderstorm in waist-deep water.

We're dancing here. Many because he's a black man but some because we believe he's a good man. Wednesday at 530 am I was in a lift to get to Maseru and as soon as we cleared the pass my phone started buzzing with messages. From Canada, Montana, Michigan, South Africa, Lesotho the texts and calls were all the same. I jumped out of the flatbed truck that brought me to the outskirts of Maseru and got into a taxi to take me to CashBuild (our version of Home Depot only... well, see below) and with accordion music blasting I danced with my fellow passengers. I danced to accordion music. That was the mood for the day. When my lift back to Ramabanta picked me (and my lumber purchase) up outside CashBuild at 9am, she greeted me with: "You must be having a good day." I feel as though I need to say no more; for 8 years I've been let down and now after a year of disappointments in Lesotho things are turning around on this continent, too.

CashBuild. I bought R500 of pine to build a bookshelf for our classroom library at Fatima. 1.8 m boards, I grabbed 5 and after paying asked the nearest employee to cut 3 of them in half for me to serve as the shelves. He said he wasn't sure if the saw was "still around." 'How do you lose a power tool?' I'm thinking, but say nothing. I stepped out to see him measuring "half" with hand saw - not the electric kind, the old school kind; metal blade and yellow plastic handle. So this is the leading hardware/lumber supplier in Maseru, but we're still in Lesotho. I ask if maybe he could find the halfway point with a tape measure since they need to be exactly 90 cm each to have a semi-functional shelf. "I have no tape measure."

"We're at a hardware store. I could get one from inside..." So we measure one and he stacks them on top of each other to cut through all three at once. I'm starting to fee both guilty for telling him how to do his job and irritated that he's not especially good at it. "Ntate, maybe one at a time?" While he does this I take the other two boards and, instead of putting a single dot at the halfway point, measure 90cm in two places to draw a line across. To make a long story short, this is what I ended up with:

And to answer that age old, never offensive or irritating question as to whether chicks make good carpenters:

Despite the efforts of others to hinder us. I had to use the small saw on my swiss army knife to attempt to even out the boards. The only other saw in my village was a bow saw for firewood. I was desperate enough to try that, but came back to my good old 2 inch saw blade.

Things are pickin' up. Mohair/wool spinning, library workshop, maps and gardening. Life is good.

October has been a wonderful month. We've seen a slow start to the rainy season - it's not raining every day yet, but several times a week - and I'm ever so grateful. And I've been relatively busy with small tasks as the days pass. Two weekends I had visitors - Craig and Nick early this month and then, two weeks later, Sean and Chris (all boys... dunno). Long hikes and mountain climbs and a failed attempt at the summit of lithabana li mele (those breast mountains I've posted shots of). It's great having boys visit because I feel as though I can walk any distance without worrying about my safety or even feeling uncomfortable. We swam in the river and I had them buy me booze at the shop since it's a big secret that I consume alcohol (*gasp!). Plus I love to cook for them, especially when they bring me fresh food. AND, Chris wins favorite person of the month (in the running for person of the year) for bringing his solar shower for me to try out. It has a shower nozzle and everything and I've never bathed so many times in a single week. It's unbelievably hot water, too. Why did I not have this 16 months ago?

(that's my bath water when I'm done. that's all of my bath water.)

We've planted more in the youth garden and I was able to convince the women to scatter pea and corn seeds rather than plant in nice, neat rows. We're a rebellious band of "youths," I guess. This combined with more maps on school walls has occupied the majority of my time. The world map has been tricky but was instantly rewarded after I had to explain to a teacher that yes, continents are surrounded by vast amounts of water. Salty water. The man's rather poetic response to this news? "Ahch! It's scary! It's like we could fall in!" Immediately worth suffering through bad school lunches that I can never refuse without insulting the teachers and cooks.

Malikoko and Matapelo are working away at the mohair/wool project. Malikoko cards and spins the mohair in her small smoke house built of corrugated iron. You walk in and have to duck severely to fit, then find a small section partitioned off where there's hardly room for a spinning machine, stool, and bags of mohair. The women and I have been so fortunate to find an amazing person to donate her time and resources to help us with this project; Alice is living in Maseru with her husband who's here to build a factory in the industrial area of town and wants to spend her time volunteering in the country. Because of her experience with spinning and knitting and her correct observation that while sheep are abundant, no one is actually working with wool, we've been able to start a great income generating project. In addition to spinning mohair to sell to weavers in town, the women are going to start working with wool as well. Unlike mohair, it can be knit into clothing items that go for a great price to tourists at our local guest house. So Alice has provided us with spinning machines, a large stock of raw wool to start with, knitting needles, and other supplies. One of her visits to Ramabanta took us to the local wool shed where shepherds bring their animals from all over the area to be sheered. It was an amazing thing to see - they were being sheered with scissors, one man per animal holding it down, cutting the fleece in one large piece. All of the wool - and there must have been literal tons in this large shed - was spoken for, however, and a buyer in SA was to get every single fleece. Instead we found some at the local police station (the police have herds that they keep for money) and Alice generously bought some for the group to start working with. And while that project is (**hopefully**) getting off the ground, the orphan's group seems to have disintegrated once more. Between dissension in the ranks and feuds between members I stepped back and let it all fall to pieces. Maybe someday it'll work out. We are having a library workshop (thanks to some very dedicated PCV's) to train teachers at Fatima Primary on how to use books in their classrooms. And the HIV/AIDS support group (or PLWHA, my least favorite acronym) has actually started their candle making project with the 500 Rand FOL grant. Future workshops may include a seed saving day - we'll see how much interest I can stir up in the next few weeks.

In non-work news:

*I managed to sprain my ankle. Twice. Anyone who knows me isn't surprised by this lack of coordination. The only thing nastier than the bruise that formed at the bottom of my foot is the brown/black color of my ace bandage after a week of hiking. Icing and elevating the joint equals Casey with her foot in a bucket of tap water for 20 minutes, then Casey with her foot up on the porch staring at the view of the mountains that's kept her sane for over a year now. *My days-without-washing-hair-record was broken by Ms. Amber Staudacher. I won't embarrass her with the official count, but instead I'll simply say she shattered my old record of 18 days. *Over 90 books read since arriving in Lesotho.

*And last, but far from least:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY!

I've just been going through posts from last year. First I did it to remind myself that Lesotho really will be green soon. I didn't imagine it, right? Then I look and the pictures and it's an even more vivid color than I remember. The rainy season began on Monday, October 6th this year and we've had several showers and one great thunderstorm since then. (We did get a storm mid-August, but it was a tease.) The dull brown hasn't been replaced by the green I see from my photos last year but it will be soon. A lush, dense holiday green. Last year our first day of rain was on September 26th and since that day this year I've been looking at the sky every morning, anticipating the sound of rain on my roof. I've read books where people wait out the dry season and dance around when the first drops fall; I've heard of prayers for the Gods to bring water to the earth; now I get it. It's so dry and brown and dusty and even if you have water available to give to your seeds it's a meager amount and never enough. And then I started dreaming about rain - no lie, I dreamt that I woke up to the sound - and every greeting you make includes the phrase, "where is the rain?" But that dream ended up being exactly what happened and it was confusing enough at 530 am to make me go out to my porch and hold out my hand to make sure it was real this time. Never in my life have I paid so much attention to the weather, cared so much about precipitation.

But the rain is here. Everyone is smiling and now we answer greetings with "I'm happy to see the rain again."

"Culture" has, for me, become a dreaded word. People are hours late because it's their "culture;" men drink the days away, children ask for sweets and old women for snuff, boys fight with sticks to the point of needing stitches, couples rarely practice faithfulness to each other... and I always hear the excuse: "It's the Basotho way, it's our culture," whenever I address these things. But I've recently been reminded that there are beautiful traditions as well and even though it's not the pure and original form from before colonialism and missionaries, it is interesting and worth sharing here. (That's right, today I'm your ray of sunshine).

Last week a festival was held at our local primary school as a sort of preliminary to the Morija Festival which is a national arts and culture event held in October. Twelve schools converged on Fatima Primary and students participated in traditional dance competitions. Girls and boys separate, each has two basic types of dance, my favorite being the girls litolo bonea. The girls wear a skirt with dozens of bottle caps and a second skirt of grass and bounce their behinds to the rhythm of their classmates singing and clapping. Boys dances include molomus (fighting sticks) and jumping around, stomping and acting impressive. The students love it and people come from all over the area on foot or hitching rides in pickups to see the competition and show support for their local school.

Women came dressed in traditional outfits called Seshoeshoe. The dresses are painfully colonial in style with poofy shoulders and patterns in red, blue and brown. Everyone was showing off their Basotho blanket - also very English down to the royal crests on the wool. People were buying and selling makoenya (fat cakes, deep friend balls of dough) and "masimba," the local brand of msg-flavored puffs (think crappy cheetos). Candy and oranges were everywhere and one very drunk old grandmother sloshed her bottle of cheap brandy on a nearby woman when indicating to me where to watch the children in the middle of the large ring of people in which I was standing - tricky to spot if you're not sober... Many people topped their outfits with a Basotho hat, modeled off the shape of the mountain where King Moshoeshoe defended the country to keep the Kingdom of Lesotho a sovereign nation. The hats are woven from local grasses and are complete with a little pattern on top that makes the accessory look somewhat like a lamp shade.

Walking back up to my house from the festivities, I saw men in the cemetery digging a grave for a funeral the following day. Funerals are always on Saturdays and graves are dug by the men of the village the week before. Once the digging has started there's no stopping until it's complete - no matter what the weather does. Any man who doesn't show up to help can expect that his own grave won't be dug when his time comes. I knew about the upcoming funeral because one of the women I'm working with on a garden project came to me that morning as I finished breakfast (bran flakes, long-life milk, french press coffee, orange) to say she couldn't work with me that day as we'd planned. I was pleasantly surprised to get notice and asked why. She reminded me that Basotho believe you cannot work in the soil when a body is being prepared for burial as the spirit may enter your garden. I'm sure that same day a sheep (or cow if the family was wealthy) was slaughtered for a feast and another will be offered when the mourning period has come to an end. If the man left a wife behind, she will have to follow a strict set of rules for the mourning period, the length of which is determined by her husband's family. Women in mourning are easily identified by their dress which is dark and includes a cape and head covering at all times. Family of the deceased will have shaved their heads for the funeral (including eyebrows) and may repeat this event to mark the end of mourning.

But these traditions are will mixed with western culture and religion. Eighty percent of the country practices Catholicism, but one hundred percent of those mix it with traditional beliefs. Babies are baptised but also wear a string of beads around their waste to keep evil spirits aways. Young girls and women are not to eat eggs because this causes them to behave "recklessly" or "to run around" (ie, horny and in trouble). And while the Church has a strong presence and most schools and many hospitals are associated with a western denomination, monogamy is rarely practiced. A sick person is just as likely to go see a traditional healer (sangoma) as a nurse and may visit both to cover all the bases. I make it a point to avoid church with the same dedication that I avoid walking in or near kraals -places where animals are kept - to avoid offending anyone believing that as a woman I might bewitch or bring sickness to the animals. I've become used to singing at every event and meeting. Women ululating and grabbing my chest as a sign of affection no longer startles me. And I can stare at people with the best of them without feeling rude or impolite.

And, of course, I still live each day (gardening, running, hiking, rain or shine) in that friggin' skirt. ** a few shots of our Maseru taxi rank and pics of areas on the way out of town...

It's time for an update on work and life in Lesotho. Last year August I was thinking I'd get better with Sesotho then start doing outreach to cover clinic villages with the community health volunteers to talk to patients about healthy living, nutrition, HIV testing and education, home gardening, mother and child nutrition, drug compliance for TB and HIV patients, etc. That was going to be my job and I was optimistic- scared and overwhelmed, but still enthusiastic.

Come February, my dear friend Pam wrote my a Valentine's Day poem that summed it up well:

"Tomatoes are red, mororho is greenSometimes Lesotho life makes me screamValentine's Day sucks, especially hereEat lots of bread and drink a cold beerHope "work" is well; how is your tan?I'm still waiting for your visit to Mashai land..."

Everyone knew I hadn't made my primary project work out and instead spent hours hiking to keep myself sane (hence the sweet tan). Not only was I not ready to talk to people about health in Sesotho, but I'd become more wary of filling that role that in reality, community health workers should already be active in. I helped with a preschool just opening in March but mostly I showed up and spent time convincing the children I'm not so scary once you get past my skin pigmentation. We started and orphan's garden but it hasn't been well cared for (and even the preschool might be closing soon). We tried to start a library but the books are yet to be brought from Maseru. I talk to people on an individual basis about their HIV status. I made a few nutrition posters for the clinic. We tried to get people organized to fix a building in my village for a resource center/craft building/general meeting location but I'm still waiting for them to gather some info and resources for the grant and it's not lookin' like it'll get done - certainly not in time to submit the grant, get the money, buy materials and start/finish construction before I leave next fall (or spring, for you northerners). This is a disappointment to me but a huge let down to others who had high hopes for the project.

We gathered a group of women together to spin mohair to sell to weavers in Maseru and when I sat down to write this blog out at my house a few days ago, I had written that this too had fallen through. But on Wednesday they showed at my door with a bag of combed, cleaned mohair from baby goats to sell (unspun) to weavers in town. (The mohair from young goats is softer and finer and is used unspun by weavers. We decided to start the group off with this to get some money in their pockets before they start working on getting spinning materials together again). So it's not all falling apart. Some people are quite simply more motivated than others.

Which brings me to the present. I've given up on the village health workers stepping up and arranging dates for me to do outreach with them; short of one who had me come up to her village to build a keyhole garden I've had no one show any real interest in working with me. Now I try to make it to every monthly meeting and talk to them in my awkward Sesotho about nutrition or whatever I feel righteous about that week.

A few weeks ago a government pick up pulled up to my house and three people introduced themselves as extension workers for the Department of Agriculture and Food Security. They heard about that one keyhole garden we built up in Rapoleboea and want to work with me on similar outreach projects. I'm shock and thrilled that one of my best days in Lesotho amounted to more than just a small garden plot if the chain of events that have occurred as a result lead to more of the same demonstrations. So we've made plans to combine efforts on nutrition and gardening demonstrations in the future. Projects with government agencies and employees are often troublesome; already since I met these folks three weeks ago they've been away in Maseru for "meetings" and "workshops" for all but 3 days. Even if it does fall through, we've shared lots of information already and hopefully can continue to work together. They have a vehicle and, in theory, do outreach to various villages several times per week.

Fatima clinic is hopelessly understaffed - a problem found throughout Lesotho - and were down from 4-5 staff to 2 for August. So in addition to helping out on Thursday when mothers bring in children for malnutrition screening and vaccinations I've been showing up every day to register clinic patients and count out pills (if we have any drugs in stock). It's not challenging or all that rewarding, but with people coming in complaining of a headache simply because it's now a free visit the staff is inundated with patients. I know they appreciate some help and it makes for great forced-GRE study time.

Also very recently in the works is a possible night school for shepherd boys. Since these boys leave school early for a hard life making very little money they miss out on many opportunities. Some of nuns at Fatima and I are hoping to teach English in the evenings at the mission. We're still waiting for approval from "superiors" at the Catholic Church in Maseru, however, and to make it even slower one of the women leading the charge has left Ramabanta to care for a sick relative for an indefinite period of time. This is how HIV/AIDS effects not just our work, but any attempt at productivity; it permeates all aspects of life and hampers every effort at change.

As of a week ago, we have a youth group in Ramabanta that I'm working with; the "youth" of Lesotho are defined as any person 13 to 25 and I think there are women older than this even in our group. Most are married and had babies on their backs at our meetings this week but no males made an appearance. But they sought me out and want to start a large garden to raise vegetables and sell them to our local guest lodge and do HIV/AIDS awareness at rural schools. So we spent several days checking out the sight for the garden, making plans, finding seeds (some from you guys back home!), talking about intercropping and organic farming, and organizing a work plan. The leaders have energy and I'm really excited and hopeful for them - if they keep up the hard work of hauling water for the plants in the heat of summer, then they'll have completely restored my faith in working here.

And finally (the reason I'm currently in town), I'm staying active with our PC HIV/AIDS Committee, which I really enjoy. We serve as reps for our districts and are able to get some of the latest info on HIV/AIDS and give it to PCV's in our areas. There's so much to be done here working to fight the epidemic (with the third highest infection rate in the world) and acting on the committee allows me to be part of something much bigger than myself - especially when all my other projects fall through. We've started taking an active role in collecting information via PCV's in the most remote areas and compiling it to share amongst other volunteers and perhaps NGO's in Lesotho. At the most basic level, we share information among PCV's on successful projects. It's an amazing group to be part of.

I still pass many days by hiking and reading (on book number 80 in country). Kids show up on my doorstep to color on the backs of completed sudoku puzzles and old UN AIDS reports. The spring rain has teased us a bit but managed to pour on the day that I washed half my clothes in the morning only to have them re-rinsed on the line at lunch. Most importantly, I'm starting my garden again. Every day as it comes, remembering to laugh as much as possible. I've been here over a year and I'm far from understanding it all, but I do have a few things figured out: I know the best time of day for running without being joined by children, the days each month to avoid bank lines or pensioners collecting government checks, and the easiest days during the week to find hitches to town. I've got 9ish months left and by that time I might have even more of Lesotho figured out. Example? Why does this woman walk through my village beating a drum several times per month? No one can give me an explanation so far. She's always barefoot, it's always the same simple rhythm, and it's never at the same time of day or the same days of the week. And the strangest part: I never see her otherwise in the village.

Obviously I can't be finished here just yet.Exhibit A of a before and after garden pick... this is my (beloved) winter garden- in the spring with the peach trees blooming. Come December I'll get a second shot up here.

I like lists. I'm not sure that I've always enjoyed them as much as I do now, but I find great satisfaction in them. To-do lists are the classic example - nothing is more satisfying than writing out the day's goals, starring the important tasks, and then crossing them off as I go through it, preferably in a different color pen than I wrote the list out in. An average day might be:

make bread, sweep floor, turn compost, talk to Mamofota/Masekhampu/nuns, check phone messages, buy candles/yeast/eggs, (try to) fix sink (again), wash dish rags...

But my lists get way more entertaining than this. They become a form of self mockery:

"Number of days with out washing my hair" (new record, 18)

"How to spot a PCV in a crowd" (back pack in town, skirt + hiking boots, takes public transport, chacos, chastises children for asking for money, wears a blanket (well), carries tp on person at all times...)

"Words I still confuse in Sesotho" (small boy/boyfriend, car/pig, to mix/to meet, criminal/full stomach/dangerous)

"New definitions of a great date" (someone cooks for me, no candle light, music that doesn't include an accordian, lets me use the shower/charge my cell phone and ipod...)

Or a way to remind myself that I can handle anything Lesotho throws at me:

"Number of times I've been called Chinese" (17)

"Places I've experienced flat tires" (11 total in 5 different countries)

"Reasons not to beat small children" (.......) [still in progress]

Sometimes it's things I'm looking forward to:

"Things I'll eat when I go home" (sushi, mom's salsa, corona + lime, sushi, black pitted olives, triscits, sushi, Mexican food, mom's stroganof, fresh fish, sushi...)

"To buy when in South Africa" (limes, couscous, coffee, black beans...)

So maybe I'm a little closer to crossing the crazy line than I used to be... but it's all about finding the small things to appreciate and laugh about. I've lived in Ramabanta one year as of August 15th!

A former Portuguese colony, Mozambique's violent history is recent and apparent. The literal scars from landmines contrast sharply with a chill beach atmosphere outside Maputo, the capitol. After winning independence in the late 1970's, the communist government was undermined by South Africa (who didn't want a communist nation for a neighbor) leading to civil war in the 1980's. Famous for the amount of landmines that speckled the country, Moz is now a shining example of a peace deal that went right in Africa, and it's lasted over a decade now. It's a beautiful country, with some of the most spectacular beaches I've ever seen, and the culture (and language) is a mix of Portuguese influence and local tribal traditions. Fresh seafood, warm salt water, cold beers, good music and great traveling companions made the trip as close to perfect as luck can allow.

Boats of local fishermen lining the beach in Tofo.

Surf fishing and searching for clams in Tofo. Dolphins played near the shore where a species of sting ray formerly believed to be extinct has been spotted by local divers. Whales spouted close to the horizon and surfers enjoyed great waves (when not being chewed up by the reef).

The local craft market on Tofo Beach. All the woodwork is carved in the back and artisans paint beautiful canvases and batiks at their homes.

Not that it was all smooth sailing - for example, our trip from Vilanculos out to snorkel on reefs along off-shore islands included getting stuck on sandbars. Three flat tires (two concurrently), several chances to push our rental car out of the sand, one speeding ticket, one bribe to get out of a second traffic ticket, and 109123390823 potholes helped marked the passing of time. We crammed the four of us into a room the size of a jail cell onto two single beds and stopped falling for the "it's just 2 hours from here" after the 3rd segment of 6-10 hour drives. But the four of us all know how to laugh it away and the trip was that much more fun for all the adventures. I ate seafood every day - barracuda, crab, prawns, sailfish, stonefish, sushi - played in the surf, snorkeled with fish more brilliantly colored than I could have ever imagined - let alone describe, met people from around the world and down the dirt road and watched the sun come up on the Indian Ocean. I have mosquito bites on my feet and sand in my ears and I love it.

Driving on the shoulder - because it was smoother than the actual road - on the way to Vilanculos from Tofo.

Our boat trip out to islands off the shore of Vilanculos for a day of snorkeling on the reef.

It was impossible for me to stop from comparing Moz to Lesotho. People just looked so much healthier, the markets were full of a variety of fresh produce, there was an industrious attitude apparent in the creativity of crafts and local business. Instead of immediately asking for money or food, people smiled and tried to sell bracelets or samosas. Lesotho is a much harsher place to live - no contest - but the attitude towards bettering individual lives was so different. Physically, the climate and topography are more friendly towards growing crops. Instead of mud rondavals people live in homes made of palm fronds and thatch. The clothing is brighter and more detailed in it's patterns. Even babies are carried on backs differently - though lines of women walk to and from the water pump with buckets of water on their heads just like here in Lesotho.

The fish market in Maputo. Buy your choice of seafood (prawns, lobster, a dozen types of fish, oysters, squid, etc.) then take it to one of 20 local outdoor restaurants right outside where they cook up your selection. Add a Manica (Mozambique beer) and a side of fresh salad and you get four very happy tourists.

Driving out of South Africa (near the Mozambique border) at the beginning of our travels we passed Kruger National Park. And without paying any park entrance fee we saw baboons, monkeys and giraffes between fields of oranges, bananas, sugar cane and rice. This feels like Africa - the wildlife, the climate, the vegetation, the color. pics from Amber's camera... driving up to Vilanculos from Tofo (sans Kjessie, who skipped the snorkel trip to surf).

returning our (second) rental car...hitchin' home!

It's been an interesting few weeks. I've been busy, but rarely at my site. We've been working hard on training materials, spending time with "newbies" (new PC trainees), and facilitating training sessions. It's a great feeling to be part of their training because I feel like I do have enough knowledge and experience to answer questions confidently.

At the end of June, a group of three PCT's came to Ramabanta to see what life of a PCV is like in Lesotho - I remember looking forward to this part of my training so much last year! I might have frightened them a bit when our taxi stalled halfway up a hill and started rolling backwards (the hills to Ramabanta are steep and two of them often give the beat up vans trouble). Our conductor jumped out to grab a rock (which serves as the emergency break) but as soon as he did, the driver decided to roll back down to the bottom and pull over leaving the man running after us with a large stone in his arms. I was laughing - you laugh or you cry - but I turned and realized the newbies looked less than amused (terrified?). I explained we'd all get out at the bottom and walk up the hill where the taxi would meet us. And I promised that while the emergency brake, radiator and engine were all on the fritz, the brakes did work and we wouldn't be depending on that stone to stop our momentum at the bottom. They survived and managed to laugh about it later.

The next day we went on a little stroll part-way up a nearby mountain. Along the way we stopped to talk to people I've worked with in the area and it really helped to remind me that I have accomplished a few things in my time here. The books for the library are ready to be shelved (as soon as those shelves arrive...), the winter OVC garden is growing, the supplies for the preschool are safely stored for the winter break... Showing them these things helped me focus on successes, small as they may be. Hopefully the visit was just as useful for them as it was for me.

As for Maseru, it's loud and the power shortages are obnoxious. Having electricity is such a tease when rolling blackouts plague the city all day, making things like meals and hot showers trickier to come by. But on the weekends, my dear friend Sean takes us just over the border to South Africa to climb at a lodge/game reserve called Oldenberg. Being on the rock again, away from noise and crowds, helps me keep my sanity and recharge for the week. Scraped knees and sore shoulders are familiar to me and make Maseru much more enjoyable.

Oldenberg Lodge (just outside Ladybrand, SA)

(Photo by Pam Rogers)

Cave paintings at Oldenberg.

Next week, we're off to Mozambique for 8 days of seafood, sunshine and ocean. (Remember, it's winter here, so a seaside vacation is an exciting thing.) Pam, Kjessie, Amber and I are renting a car and driving there and back (2 days each way = Roadtrip!). I'm counting down the days 'till we leave (:)

Thaba Tseka taxi rank photos.

Seven and a half hours. Deafening music. People lining the isles of the bus, trying to steady themselves around curves and over bumps. I've complained about my transport to Ramabanta, but Pam wins outright because when we arrived at her village in Thaba Tseka district in the late afternoon she said, "That was a great trip!" Apparently break downs and delays are common - and certainly comical to hear about. But I survived the madness and when we broke down twice on the trip home (sans Pam) I remembered that my luck couldn't be expected to last for two trips.

Mashai village is actually several different villages clustered near to each other. It's beautiful and a perfect fit for Pam, who does all kinds of outreach work in her area. School visits to teach agriculture and lifeskills, outreach with an American NGO to do health/HIV/malnutrition for mothers and children, support group work, etc...

(Pam loves to collect rocks...)

Now I'm back in Maseru to do training sessions for the new group of PCT's (Peace Corps Trainees) that arrived in early June. It's strange to realize that just a year ago I was learning how to plant my own garden and less than that when I actually harvested veggies from my backyard but now I'm showing others how to do the same. Yesterday I sat on a panel of current PCV's to answer any questions the group had about volunteering in Lesotho. When asked, "What have been your challenges/successes?" I hesitated. My challenges have been numerous and intimidating and my successes feel minimal. How to avoid being the negative nancy of the group?

So my answer was something like this: I've had trouble finding people who seriously want to work with me and not just get money from me; it seems as though I've struggled to find a rhythm and a core group to work with. But... but I've grown a vegetable garden to feed myself. There's a group of individuals in Rapoleboea who now know how to build a keyhole garden. I've lived without electricity for over a year happily and managed water shortages for weeks at a time. We planted a garden for orphans. I exercise and garden in a skirt. Books for the first library in Ramabanta are due to arrive any day. I can convince any man that I am in fact married and not interested in having an affair. I've spoken to individuals about their HIV status and encouraged others to test. I've played with children (!) and shared American culture. In short, I've succeeded in recognizing small victories. Very simple reasons to keep truckin'. It's been rough and I've had my days when all I want is to be anywhere but Lesotho (and thanks for understanding that after less than upbeat emails, phone calls, and blogs), but after a year here I can honestly say it's been worth it for all the small things I've learned - and learned to appreciate.

The confluence of the Mashai and Senqu Rivers.

Dear Strongbad,

How do people in Lesotho stay warm in the winter?

Sincerely,

Cold In Africa

Ya'll think I had bad fashion ("bad" is probably generous) before? heh. hehehehehehehe. Winter is here and so is the time for wearing enough layers to clothe a poor African village. I'm not sure I'll recover enough to dress "normally" in Mozambique in July. But man, I can't wait. Beach, sunshine, and fresh seafood in 4 weeks! Until then I'm in town quite a lot in June and July to help with the training of new PCV's that have just arrived in Lesotho. Today Pam and I went over the basics of gardening with them; has it really been a year since I arrived here without a clue as to how to sow seeds? Anyway, with all my time in Maseru I'll be around internet/cell phone signal a whole lot more, so now is the time to call/email if you get a chance. Until then, happy summer to the northern hemisphere.

'Me oa ka dancing as she lights the candles.

Ntate Mosa - brother of Malineo and my favorite man in Ramabanta. He always wears this smile - not just when he's drinking.

Malineo - my counterpart, my village mother, and the mastermind of the party - and I toasting to another year in Ramabanta.

Sister Elizabeth, Sister Pascalina and Sister Catherine participating in the festivities.

Gotta be a once in a lifetime opportunity...

Ntate Mafa Nkesi, our village chief, and me at the table of honor.

The red-faced wonder.

Where can you find a pregnant lady cutting a rug in a fur jacket? Nuns pouring champagne for each other? Casey rockin' out to the dance remix of "wind beneath my wings"?

My "surprise" 24th birthday party in Ramabanta. "Surprise" because two people approached my on my birthday to tell me they were "coming to the surprise party tonight" (no lie) and because my neighbor told me to arrive an hour early so I interrupted setup. But it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had. 'Me Malineo ordered a big cake, bought refreshments and made tons of food (and brought KFC all the way from Maseru!), organized decorations (see below - I'm not nearly a good enough writer to describe the way they decked out the clinic waiting room for the event), and invited teachers, nuns, our chief, and women who work at the clinic. It was amazing - we ate, drank and danced. A few people brought me cards and Malineo had a gift of a warm hat and scarf wrapped up for me. Everyone laughed at how bright red my cheeks got after a glass of champagne. I wish we had good enough internet to upload videos (I'm not complaining, I swear it) because I have some amazing footage on my camera of nuns line dancing to house music.

Kjessie's all about spoiling me for my birthday...

My chocolate-orange-Guinness cake (with cream cheese frosting) compliments of Kjessie (Heart).

Thank you all for the birthday wishes via email, text messages, facebook, etc. I'm in town for the weekend, so hopefully I'll be able to get back to everyone soon!

Friday found me in Rapoleboea again - not to paint maps but to do the one thing I had planned on my entire service being about. One of the clinic's village health workers organized the HIV/AIDS support group of Rapo to meet that day for a few hours of garden building. I've been pushing keyhole gardens for months because of their usefulness; a keyhole garden is a raised bed, waist height, that enables the old and sick to grow vegetables without having to bend over. It's also a great way to use grey water on vegetables. The Basotho believe it's dirty to use bath water on the food they'll eventually eat, but with this design the water is dumped into a chimney of sorts in the center and it then flows out into the soil and reaches plants' roots. The garden is built out of readily available materials: rocks, manure, soil, wood ash and even trash to fill the bottom. It's easy to build, especially if you have a group come together to help.

I arrived in the village doubtful of how productive the day would be. My experiences here have left me with a slightly jaded view of work ethic and commitment to projects - but I was proven wrong (and so happy for it). Over 25 people showed to work and they had rocks and manure piled near the area where the garden was to be built. Not only did they have their act together, but they worked hard and asked questions through out the process. The old woman who we built the garden for was so incredibly grateful - all smiles as she served lesheleshele (kind of like cream of wheat) to the support group members and called me inside her rondeval to present me with a huge plate of papa (maize meal, the staple food here), moroho (cabbage) and scrambled eggs with aromat (spicy msg deliciousness). I hesitated when she handed me 10 rand for my transport costs. I don't need the money and I'd pay much more to have such a productive day, but I've also learned a lot about ownership of projects and setting a precedent of giving "free" things, so I took the money as graciously as possible. It was an amazing day. The kind of day that I had expected to have fill my two years here. The most rewarding day, by far, because of the hard work outdoors, the sense of a community coming together to help an individual, and feeling as though I've finally successfully passed on information given to me during my training here in Lesotho. Maybe other village health workers will hear about how it went and want to do a similar project in their communities - I can hope that it catches on - but until then I've got this day to keep me happy and hold me over for a while.

The "foundation" of the keyhole garden.

The center of the keyhole is built with sticks and then lined with feedbags or grasses.

The first layer consists of trash (bones, tin cans, old shoes, whatever can be found) and then layers of soil, manure and wood ash are alternated until it's full.

A layer of grass is placed within a food of the top, fanning out from the center to promote the flow of water outwards to plant roots.

Done!

Wake up around 7am. Breakfast of granola with yogurt (one upside of winter is the ability to keep dairy products fresh simply by leaving them on my floor) and coffee from my sacred, cracked french press. Reluctantly trade my pajama pants for a skirt, brush teeth and maybe my hair, and on to the clinic because it's Thursday. Thursday is baby day (or "Under 5 Day" officially) and mother's bring in their kids for immunizations, weighing and info from the nurses on nutrition, breast feeding, HIV, etc. And when they talk, you listen. The nurses have a confidence and commanding presence that not only am I aware of despite the language barrier, but bo-ntate in the room cannot ignore. Anyway, I register the kids in our clinic log and note their weights and necessary shots in their bukanas, a small book that serves as a medical record of sorts. Some kids fall in the range of healthy growth on their charts - some don't. Others are losing weight. Thursday mornings aren't the most encouraging times.

Done around 11 or 12. Time to eat again! Salad or tuna sandwich or PB&J or steamed veggies or leftovers... some days if I'm lazy it's popcorn or soup mixes that require only hot water. Since Tricia has just sent a care package comprised entirely of chocolate, it's a king size snickers bar. Good thing I'm here to teach nutrition.

Putz around the garden, do laundry and hang it to dry, wash dishes. Then make a visit to the preschool to ask Masekhampu to translate for me at a meeting the following day. I love bilingual people. Note to self: work on becoming one some day.

Read for an hour or two and enjoy a visit from a couple toddlers who stop by to use scrap paper and crayons to draw. Then head up the road to check my messages. Lots of people are in the fields harvesting maize and sourgum and I know they've been there all day (it's 430pm) and will be there tomorrow and every day until the crop is finished. Road construction (which is temporarily making transport slower but greatly improving the rutted, washed out dirt road) means lots of dump trucks passing me, and I'm passing lots of construction workers. A full truck goes by in the opposite direction and a large boulder rolls out, breaks into smaller chunks upon hitting the ground and one catches my shin in front of an audience of men. My sad attempt to dodge it slightly resemble players attempting to grab a fumbled football - only in that the direction of the objects are equally unpredictable do to their awkward shape. I'm not nearly coordinated enough to achieve avoiding the basketball -size rock. The driver jumped out and apologized 37 times and everyone shouted "Sorry! Sorry, 'Me!" in the typical Basotho manner. Even though they had no blame - I could have jumped into the side of the truck head first and they would have responded the same way.

Swollen leg, small gash and a nicely evolving bruise by dinner time (and no messages on the phone). Pasta with olive oil and italian seasoning for dinner. And an excessive quantity of york peppermint patties. At least for the next week when someone calls me fat I can assume it's the chunky leg and not the bag of M&M's I had for breakfast.

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Rapolang and Phillipe brightening my day with their 'writing'; either I don't know the word for "drawing" or "coloring" in Sesotho or it simply doesn't exist. But they don't know it either, so when they see me in the village they come running at me saying, "Ausi Mosa, we want to write!"

Rapoleboea is a small village about 30 minutes outside Ramabanta, nestled in the Maloti Mountains. It’s windy and has a more remote feel than Ramabanta. Instead of looking up into the mountains across the river valley in my village, your view is of rolling peaks and fields that have recently browned from frost. The primary school here consists of four chilly classrooms (for seven grades), six teachers (of which 3 were present on the day I last visited), a small office for the teachers to share and a set of latrines. After months of promising to appear to paint a map of Africa for the students I finally got a small project grant and purchased paint, brushes and supplies, then hauled it all to the school on a chilly but sunny Thursday morning. The kids were more than a little surprised to see me walk up to the classroom window searching for a teacher; the teachers were surprised I’d finally come through on my promise to get materials up there to paint. Now a bright map decorates the wall where I'd gridded and penciled in an outline months ago. One of the teachers helped me as I painted (instead of teaching his class, leaving a total of five classrooms without teachers for the day) and asked me where America was on the map. Students poked their heads in as each country was outlined and eventually filled with one of five colors – I quizzed them on geography and most knew 4 or 5 of the southern most countries. Not that my geographical knowledge is all that great, either... The money for all the supplies came from an organization called Friends of Lesotho; a non-profit started by RPCV’s from Lesotho years ago that raises money in the US and gets it to communities here by way of current PCV’s. They have a tuition assistance program and provide grants of up to 500 Rand to volunteers with sustainable, community based projects. They’ve supplied us with the money to paint this map – so that people who try to put the Atlantic Ocean off the east coast can get a better idea of where they fit into the world.

Welcome to everything-you-know-about-the-world-is-wrong.

I'm not just talking xmas in summer time or winter without central heating and insulated buildings, but basic logic, too. You don't count on your hand starting with your index finger, you start with your pinky and work towards your thumb (or else you get blank stares). If it's raining, don't go to work or try to meet with people 'cause you'll get wet. There's only one correct way to sweep your floor and hang laundry to dry. If you're out of firewood for cooking (it is scarce), look around you.. that spinning wheel that CARE Lesotho (an NGO) gave you and 159 other people in 1981? You don't use that anymore... so stay warm instead. Then, 25 years later when the market for mohair picks up and you want to start spinning it again to sell to weavers in Maseru, you'll think another one will simply be delivered to you again. It happened once, right?

Okay, sarcasm aside. It's tough because people have to take each day as it comes and planning ahead isn't at all valued or even considered. I acknowledge that people must do whatever they can to get by day to day, but I also think the problem is bigger than that. What happens when you ("you" as an NGO, expat, aid worker, etc.) swoop in to deliver a building and 160 spinning wheels as an income generating project? For a while, it works great and people meet there to spin mohair and CARE comes to buy it from them and then sell it to weavers in Maseru. The building is also used as a place to hold community meetings. But the community has invested nothing in this - just reaped benefits. So when something hits the fan and things begin to fall apart there's less motivation to do something about it. Not only are people not invested in the project, but they know that eventually "you" (a different NGO, expat, etc) will come back and fix everything for them.

Enter Casey Bartrem, PCV.

The CARE building is falling apart and is now only used by kids to play in broken windows during the day. It's filthy, the dung floor has long turned to dirt, not a single pane of glass remains, graffiti covers the walls, the roof tiles are disappearing one by one and cracks are beginning to outnumber stones in the walls. People want to fix it, though. They want to have a community resource center where HIV/AIDS support groups can meet, people can spin mohair once again, village health workers can receive training, and where a library can be safely located for children and adults. There's huge potential for the building - no question - and after several pitsos (community meetings held by the chief) I'm satisfied that people genuinely want this to happen, that they're serious about keeping it safe and functional this time.

The plan is this: they do all the work. Labor, including construction and hauling sand and rocks up from the river, pouring a new floor, repairing walls, painting, as well as clean up and continued maintenance. The money I'll find - enter those from home who've mentioned wanting to help. I'm writing a grant for a 'Peace Corps Partnership.' Basically, I can't take direct donations for the project and if I could it wouldn't be a tax write off for donors. So I write the project proposal with my community - which we're working on now - and then if PC approves of the sustainability and intention of the proposal, they'll set up a website for the project. I'll put the URL up and if you feel it's a solid project and your money would be well spent, you can donate that way. It'll be a while yet, but we're working on it. Honestly, it's a lot of work to both organize this because as tempting as it is to just do it myself, I know better. So it'll be a slower process, but fingers crossed, it'll be better, too.We're putting in a cement floor, replacing every pane of glass, rotting beam and missing roof tile. And we're installing a security fence to keep such damage from occurring again. They do the work so that, in theory, they have a vested interest in keeping it in good condition. I'll keep you all posted as we get this in motion.

Until then, we're swinging into winter here. The sun is noticeably less intense - and therefor I'm noticeably less cranky - the breeze has a sharp bite to it and the nights now bring frost regularly. It's snowed higher up in the mountains now and it's only a matter of time before it finds Ramabanta. It's the end of fall without Thanksgiving or bad holiday music. Instead, we just celebrated Easter (mine was quiet but really relaxing). We're coming up on our one year mark in country and already planning training for the new group of trainees due to arrive in June. In the span of ten months here, I've grown to love many odd things about life in Lesotho, including sounds. I hear my neighbor cracking sticks and I anticipate the smell of a dung fire. I love hearing cowbells ("gotta have more") from herds bouncing towards us from somewhere in the valley. As night closes in earlier each day, kids are laughing and yelling as they play soccer on the dirt road that runs through the village and right past my house; then first thing in the morning I hear birds scratching on my roof to announce the sun with the roosters. I'm no longer phased by car horns announcing an arriving or departing taxi or by pigeons that sound like baboons. I fall asleep to the sound of my water filter dripping. Yet I'm never interrupted by a cell phone and I'm realizing that while I miss many things about home, the lack of certain noises is comforting, too.

Public transport in Lesotho sucks. I'm no literary genius, but there's really no better word for it than that. It's uncomfortably crowded, slow and extremely unreliable. People on taxis are transporting small farm animals, haven't bathed in an offensively long time, or are three sheets to the wind. Someone's child may very well end up on your lap (or their chicken conveniently at your ankles) and, inevitably, harassment of some form (often mild) occurs. Music is both painfully bad and painfully loud and everyone is fascinated by a while person on board - they never take public! All the expats have cars! ... except PCV's, we don't miss out on any part of the experience.

I'm very lucky when it comes to transport. There are 5 or 6 kombis (passenger vans with seats for 15) daily running between Ramabanta and Maseru. People in the mountains can spend ten hours on a bus getting to Maseru and some really remote PCV's have to spend two days getting to the capitol - impressive in a country the size of Maryland - or face river crossings or two hour hikes to the main road. I live 30 seconds from the road. It's not bad.

That road runs from Maseru to Semongkong, where it ends abruptly. Along the way you pass Roma, where the National University of Lesotho is located, and then Motsupeli, where the tar road turns to dirt just 15 km (but 30-40 min driving) from Ramabanta. No kombis make the drive to Semongkong because the road is so shoddy and the grade too steep - to get there you have to A) take the bus (4 hours from Maseru to Semong) or B) hitch. I choose plan B when I make the trip up there... except the last time. I was with two other people, cars were few and far between, and it's only two hours on the dreaded bus from Rama to Semong... how bad can it be?

We made it 15 minutes into the journey.

Buses break down all the time. The roads are terrible, they're consistently overloaded with passengers and cargo, and going up into the mountains is no easy trip. Our bus was fine, as it turned out, but ahead of us on a very steep slope the first bus of the day had died - in the dead center of the road. It's one of three "paved" sections up to Semong due to the grade of the hill, so it's narrow and heavily eroded and potholed by age, weather and rainfall. There's room for two vehicles if they're both inches from each side (one side being a worrisome steep drop into a valley). There was no way for our bus - the red one - to pass the broken blue one.

So people simply started building the road. The three of us were significantly surprised because other solutions seemed more realistic and safe - not to mention easier. Putting the blue bus in neutral and rolling it backwards (it was facing uphill) and steering it off to the side was one, but this was "too dangerous" as the brakes could have failed. Fine, the second idea is even better! Turns out there's a third bus coming from Semong to Maseru waiting to pass the blue bus at the top of this monster hill. So just transfer the passengers! The 'ole switcheroo! We get on that bus, they hop on the red bus and everyone (minus the broken bus) is on their merry way!

Nope. Why? I still ask that question... but why dwell on what we cannot understand? So anyway, fine.... we'll help build a road, too. The blue bus is centered very accurately on the tar portion of the road. For a visual, if you're standing in front of the bus at the grill, you're looking downhill and into the Ramabanta river valley. There's just enough room on the right for a car to pass - with mirrors folded in - to inch by without falling in the the 3 foot ravine between the road and cliff wall. On the left is the dirt shoulder which sits 2 feet below the level of the tar road, and farther left is the steep fall into a valley. This is the side we build the road on because it's closer to the level of the pavement (and more dangerous = more exciting). Most of the passengers pitch in so that a bus can get past the blue piece of junk in our way. On the cliff side, where failure means certain death for the driver of the bus.

But. But before we finish our effort, the bus driver on his way from Semong gets impatient. He unloads passengers and cargo and comes flying down the hill and slowly edges off the pavement onto our unfinished rocky road (mmmmnnnn....). I was sure I was about to see a man die. For the next hour, everyone watched as he inched over and forward, sometimes slipping, while men rushed around to reposition large boulders. Just when i think there's no way it'll work, Lesotho surprises me. He made it past.

Our red bus was never going to make it, not going uphill. We'd left Rama at 2pm and it was now 530. Personally, I was hungry and a bit cranky (*gasp!) when a group of friends who'd rented a special hire kombi to take them to Semong (smart) eeked past the blue bus and took us into their already crowded vehicle. We heard the red bus only left after a dump truck came down from Semong and towed the blue bus out of the way sometime around 7pm.

But I checked on the way back two days later (in a hitch, not on the friggin' bus) and our "road" is still there.

On a lighter note, a few of us participated in the first annual donkey bar crawl in Semongkong (post bus adventures). I'll spare my parents the horrors of posting most of the pictures, but it was a great time and a wonderful end to the crazy afternoon of trying to reach Semongkong.

A local homebrew stand; imagine sour porridge that tastes like stale beer and wood smoke. That's sort of what joala (local brew) is like.

Only one Rand for a chicken foot to satisfy drunken munchies (or breakfast - it was still early).

Happy Trails

The bus on it's way up to Semongkong and people of Ramabanta selling peaches and masimba snacks to passengers through the windows.

It's been a pretty crazy few weeks; lots of trips to Maseru for PC meetings and functions which is both draining and fun. I've gotten used to the craziness that is the capitol, but I do miss the peace and quiet of my village, the mountains, the people who know me and treat me like a familiar friend. I love seeing friends in Maseru, eating out, drinking in public (something I never do in Ramabanta), watching movies and catching up on news (and facebook)... but Maseru wears me out and I'm ready to go back to the mission. As soon as church ends tomorrow. I've had two visitors in the past two weeks, which is always really nice. It gives me an excuse to bake for someone else and to go on gorgeous hikes around Ramabanta.

Last week, a group of a half dozen boys in my village came to my house and asked me something about food. I thought they were pointing behind my house and told them they could take anything that wasn't in my garden (lots of edible wild plants and berries grow at the mission). I was wrong. Next thing I knew, the oldest boy was lifting one of the smaller ones onto the roof of my porch. I realized they were going for the pigeon nest up there... but not for eggs. The pair of nestlings were plump but still had sheathing on their feathers and so could not fly. I don't much like pigeons and I'm all about kids getting some protien in their diet, but I admit to feeling a little sorry for the parents when they returned to their empty nest.

On Wednesday, Pam, Amber, Lizzy and I journeyed to Kj's in Quthing for a day of permaculture related activities at Bethel College where she teaches agro-ecology and other courses. Kjessie showed us natural swales and terracing in the area and we talked to Ivan, the founder/president/manager of the college, about solar energy. Thursday afternoon, Kj took us on a great stroll that ended at a rock face speckled with bushman paintings. It's amazing to walk right up to the wall and touch the rock that was carefully decorated centuries ago. A place like that elsewhere in the world would be roped off, swarming with tourists and cameras, and include an admittance fee. Here we were the only people around and graffiti is mixed in with the older art, sometimes covering it or altering it. The setting was beautiful as the face was over hung in a dome-style fashion providing shelter for herd boys and their cattle in the winter months.

Probably the most helpful part of the retreat was the five of us sitting down and talking about our challenges with and observations about working as a PCV in Lesotho. Sometimes these conversations can be really negative, but ours was more constructive and refreshing than most. Rather than getting upset and overwhelmed, I felt relieved and focused when we left on Friday. This experience is an amazing one - even on the days when I curl up on my bed and wish I could be magically teleported home - and I am so fortunate to be gaining the knowledge and perspective of life here in Lesotho. It's tough and heartbreaking and frustrating to the point of tears but it's infinitely rewarding, too. Talking with other permies about what we experience as Americans - and as women - was fantastic. Yes, there are so many people who can only manage to take care of themselves and no one else; yes, foreign aid has dramatically altered this culture; yes, getting respect is nearly impossible. But there are people who care about their fellow countrymen, there are those who are honest about wanting to work with us, and if all we can do is be strong as women and show others that we deserve respect then maybe a few people will look up and notice.

... Happy St. Patrick's Day!

There's something really soothing about the simple sound of a guitar. This musician was playing his (made with an empty oil can) and wandering the road one morning as I was waiting for the 6am taxi to leave Ramabanta.

Two herd boys up in Semongkong.

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Let's see if this works... google maps is an amazing program (and you don't have to download anything to use it!) and I've found my house at Fatima mission in Ramabanta. So try this link and you can zoom in and out to see the mission, the village (Ha Nkesi) next to the mission, and Ha Ramabanta just a little farther down the road (south east, towards the river)...

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&ie=UTF8&ll=-29.664311,27.788324&spn=0.002177,0.003616&t=h&z=18

The page this link brings up is of the mission; I'm actually not allowed to point out which house is mine - the number/silliness of peace corps rules is insanely ridiculous. But check out the area and if you really want to figure out which one is my house - print a pic of the map and send it to me (snail mail) and I'll mark where my house and all the important locations are. Maybe I'm the only one entertained by this... i love maps.

keep well! I successfully (?) canned 8 empty peanut butter jars of peaches from the two trees in my garden. If I don't contract botulism when I enjoy them this winter, we'll officially label the project a "success." And yes, I've really eaten that much peanut butter.

The Maletsunyane River gorge, downstream of the falls... (Semongkong, Maseru District, Lesotho)

Livingston, Prime Time and Smith at falls.

Semongkong Falls. More river shots....

Why do people go into politics? I think that some do so for the "right" reasons; to contribute to society, to serve people, to act as a responsible leader. I know the elections are in full swing back home - and I won't pretend to be sorry on missing the media frenzy that you're all enduring - and I'm reminded of the differences between politics in the US versus Lesotho. For the most part, I loathed politicians at home. I was disgusted with the political process, the schmoozing, the lies and the insane amounts of money wasted both in campaigning and in the US budget. And not to be unclear, I still hold those convictions. But seeing the way things "work" here has given me perspective on what truly corrupt practices are. Being involved in politics means having power and making tons of money. Not with everyone, of course. I'm not pigeonholing all the ministers and I don't want to sit here and bash the Lesotho Government - or, rather I should say that I probably shouldn't play that game. What I would like to describe is the frustration, not for me, but for the Basotho who live here and are constantly set back by changing or inadequate government policies and programs.

I'm incredibly fortunate to work with an amazing set of nurses at Fatima Clinic in Ramabanta. They are driven, compassionate, and they are honest and open with people in a country where the word "sex" still makes many uncomfortable. One of the challenges Lesotho faces is a "brain drain;" those people who do attain a certain level of education in medicine, engineering, teaching, etc. often move to South Africa to work where the money is much better. But my nurses have stuck around. 'Me Malineo, the head nurse clinician, told me that she hasn't left for greener pastures because she wants to work with her people, to help her country. The money isn't great, the health infrastructure is, at times, laughable, and problems are numerous. But she's here, requesting a peace corps volunteer to bring more programs and resources to the clinic and community. All the nurses work their butts off - they're on call 24/7 for deliveries and emergencies, they take care of book keeping, drug orders, and all the duties with our hospital in Roma, an hour's taxi ride away.

Three weeks ago, the government announced free health care across Lesotho. The government clinics have always been much cheaper than private clinics like Fatima but also busier, more understaffed and more likely to run out of supplies. If people can manage - and if they live in an area where they actually have an option - they go to the private clinics. At Fatima, nurses to everything in their power to make sure that anyone who comes in gets the treatment and drugs they need, even if they can't afford to pay the minimal fees. And those who could afford it helped to pay for drugs, supplies, etc that the clinic uses. Yet this new mandate changes everything. And I know that the intention was to make health care more accessible to those who live in extreme poverty. But to make this work, to keep things from falling apart, the logical thing to do would be to first set up the infrastructure to supply clinics with money, drugs, and additional staff to handle the mandate before instating it. Get things running smoothly and then take away fees for consultations and drugs. Build extra staff housing, organize doctor's visits, trouble shoot, talk to nurses working in remote ares... It didn't go this way. Three weeks and drugs haven't come in, money hasn't come through, we haven't had a doctor visit in over 6 weeks, and the number of patients per day has tripled. People are coming in when nothing is wrong just to take advantage of free health care because they think it's temporary (and I can't really blame them for assuming it'll all fall apart). It's insane. There's three nurses at Fatima, two on duty each day, and one woman working in front as receptionist/pharmacist/trouble shooter. That's the entire clinic staff. Now they're seeing 50 plus patients per day and doing VCT (voluntary testing and counseling for HIV) not to mention working all hours during deliveries several times per month.

Would I stick it out? Would you? Keep on trudging along when the system keeps setting you back, when you could make more money to support your family and send your children to better schools? Of course there's a brain drain. Corruption is one thing - and it's rampant - but negligence and inadequacy is another. The small frustration is that there so many NGO's and volunteer organizations here, so many aid programs offered by embassies, a disgusting amount of money that comes in every year in monetary foreign aid alone, and all their efforts can be set back with just one policy like this. Peace Corps has been in Lesotho for over 40 years - it's one of the oldest posts in the history of the organization - and how many PCV's projects could have made a substantial impact if not for larger forces working against them? The much greater sense of injustice lies with the Basotho who, instead of being represented by their government, are the true victims of poorly constructed/executed policy decisions instead of its benefactors.

~~~~~

I feel the need to lighten the mood a bit after such a heavy (and depressing) topic. Here's a few stories that have made me laugh in the past few weeks - not because they're all that strange or unusual, but the opposite; these things don't phase me any more, don't cause me to stop and say: "WTF?" If there's one motto that I believe to be true, it's that every reaction to any experience boils down to this: you laugh or you cry.

*running out of gas in a taxi in downtown maseru

*an 8 year old girl wheel barrowing a crate of beer through the street

*having women touch my breasts as a way to show closeness or affection (the same way we would touch an arm or shoulder at home)

*men holding hands (straight men)

*getting out of a kombi and walking up a steep hill since the car doesn't have the power to make it with passengers

*enjoying wearing a skirt

*waking up to the sound of donkeys

*being excited about hearing bad american pop on the radio (versus the other options here)

*pretending to be married