Two days ago, right before the epic Blizzard of '11, my roommate gave me a call. What his motivations were I cannot now tell you, perhaps he hoped to stave off the inevitable cannibalism that always follows great snowfalls, or maybe he just wanted to eat something massive and awe inspiring before nature did the same to us. A little "fuck you" in the face of impending doom. Whatever the motives he set off one of the greatest chain of events available to modern man with one simple question.

"What kind of burrito would you like?"

There are few experiences in life so fulfilling, so all encompassing, as eating a burrito. From that very first moment when you need to consider the very construction and essence of your personal burrito to the very messy end it provides an experience that is existential and yet so very material.

With a burritos construction you enter a funny world where suddenly "healthier" becomes "healthy", the differences between stake and beef are simultaneously expanded and contracted. In the real world Stake is the superior of ground beef, in the world of burritos they are equals. Both distinguished yet different "meats", neither to be cast off without due consideration. And chicken, in the context of the burrito, becomes the "healthy choice", so long as you add the guac and sour cream in prodigious amounts.

Once constructed the sheer size and girth cant help but bring a smile to your face.

Burrito eating isn't without its hazards. Peeling away the strange aluminium/paper wrapper, seizing the massive lump in your child like hands, you realize you may be in over your head. Hunger gets the best of you and with that carnal delight that is all but lost in the civilized world you tear into the beast!

With the juices of joy dripping down your chin, flowing down your fingers, past your knuckles, down your writs, you devour on. Panic sets in at about this moment. Like the great Titanic and the epic Tower of Babel the true fault lies in the hubris of man. In our thirst for glory we create for the sake of creation, forgetting our place. A mere tortilla holds the vast bounty of bean and rice and meat and guac. You understand now that there is no turning back, that doom is knocking at the door. If you pause for even one moment, so much as to take a breath, sip your coke, or wipe the sweet grease from your face, all that is and was and ever will be of your burrito will spill forth into ruin and all will be lost.

So you eat on. You fill past bursting and then fill some more. You suffer as none have suffered and for the same reason all have suffered before, because you must. Sweat beads on your forehead, your breath gets shallow and labored. Yet bite after agonizing bite you devour on.

Because you must.

Yet it is all worth it. You take that final, triumphant bite. You know you have achieved greatness! As you sit back, contemplate the carnage before you, a realization strikes like lightning, you shall never eat again.

And this is ok, because the Burrito has filled you completely, both belly and soul.

Its been awhile.

If I could sum up my last few months in one word, it would be "frustration".

I had this image on returning to America the triumphant hero. That I would stroll in and America would bow to my worth and value. I imagined I could apply to any old job and get it, extol my exploits and be welcome in the most exclusive circles, cast a wayward glance and watch the girls swoon.

This has not been the case.

The frustrations are numerous. For one, job hunting sucks. There just isn't anything out there that I WANT to do. I don't want to sell insurance or count peanuts for Scruge McDuck. All the jobs that seem right for me require years of experience in the field, but no one tells us how to get into the field.

The usual laments of a 20 something.

David Eggers comes to mind. In his modest memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" he extols that strange mix of hope, desperation, and, worst of all, possibility that plagues us. I haven't read the book in years, tho it always sticks with me. Its the story, his story, of finding purpose and direction in those listless twenty something years. He uproots, starts a magazine, works hard, and fails and succeeds. He does stuff. I sit at home and watch my bank account, hoping some math lesson I missed in 8th grade will change that little numbers color.

Read the book, its good.

Today the snow started falling in giant fluffy flakes. It was the kind of snow fall that makes you dream of sleigh rides (not that anyone has ever actually been on a sleigh ride) and little villages nestled in the woods with warm fires and fat women inside each little home. It was the kind of snow that lulls you into a feeling a security. The snow left me with the idea that everything will be alright.

Now I look out and the snow continues to fall but its changed. Its now the kind of snow that will make the going tough and reminds you that its a long cold winter ahead. I guess thats how these things go. When it all starts you revel in the challenge, welcome the exciting, long for the difficult. You measure yourself against the idea.

Now, I can only measure myself against the reality.

People keep asking me "hows America?"

And what is a poor fresh RPCV like myself supposed to say?

Truth is, its a little over rated, but still #1.

While sitting in my hut I exaggerated the wonderful nature of the U.S. of A. The food was better in my mind, the convenience of driving more fun, the juices and snacks more plentiful. The idea of America was an incredibly powerful part of my Peace Corps experience.

Shortly before I came home I had a vivid dream. At the time I had a big, bushy, mountain man beard which could have hidden away any number of small woodland creatures. In my dream, and it was one of those drams you think is absolutely and utterly real, I found myself in front of a plate piled high with Buffalo Wings.

The poor guys didn't have a chance!

I recall eating one wing in particular, one of the little two bone guys, and I was intently trying to get all the succulent meat out from between the two bones, working it this way and that, hot sauce and chicken bits smearing across and into and around my beard and face and hands.

It was glorious!

When I woke up I had to wash my face several times. I was convinced that I had wing remains all over me.

A few days ago myself and a handful of friends hit up Buffalo Wild Wings, that chain place which specializes in providing the ultimate in televised entertainment and fifty million sauces for your wings. Being the over zealous individual that I am, I ordered 18 wings in three sauces.

A few things I learned;1. American hot sauce is not as hot as I recall.2. There is such a thing as too many wings3. An individual who has been a defacto vegetarian for two years should never, ever, ever, ever, eat a meal that is 99% meat and 1% spicy hot sauce. 4. Dont chase your dreams.

The wings were good, dont get me wrong. But it was at that moment, perhaps 12 wings in, when I realized I was attempting to achieve something that was impossible. The concept and the idea of America that had sustained me in Lesotho was non transferable to the real U. S. of A.

As a PCV I needed the idea. I needed to build america up as a land of dreams, a land where anything was possible, a place of both milk and honey. Those cold lonely nights in my hut were bearable because I could imagine a place with heat, I could imagine a place where iced coffee was just $5 away (and I suppose a place where I had $5, another myth).

Yet despite the disappointment, I wouldnt trade those days of fantasy for any reality that resembled it. I'm glad I'm disappointed. I'm happy that America isn't all I'd imagined. It reminds me that the world is a real place, America is a real place, and I have a place in that.

Abstract, wandering, not entirely clear, I know, but important none the less.

On a side note: I enjoy blogging. The hubris that I spoke of in my first post is still there. I enjoy a certain comfort in thinking that someone out there might read what I write. The egoism of thinking my ideas are worth publication, which is the disease of my generation, is incubating nicely within me.

The blog will stay, my self gratifying posts will (if I'm not as lazy) continue to appear.

Thats what your supposed to write in posts like these.

I'm sitting here in the Johannesburg Airport waiting for my flight. Its 7pm and my flight doesnt leave until 10. So I have some time.

I suppose you all want to hear about how I feel about leaving, what my service meant to me, or a few words on the state of mankind.

Sorry, you wont get it.

Not yet anyway.

Instead I present for your consideration:

Wavin' Flag

I’ve taken to pacing in the evening. Once the sun dips down below the opposite ridge of the valley I put on my wool hat, turn on my iPod, and walk 33 paces down my “lawn”, turn around, and walk 33 paces back the other way to my pit-latrine. I’ve been known to do this for up to an hour and a half (until it gets too dark to see anything, and I get too hungry to think anything.)

The Bo-Me’ have taken to calling me “the Chicken”, because I look like a chicken looking for food I guess.

The children always ask me what I’m doing.

I don’t have much of an answer for them. I tell them, “I’m thinking” and they ask “about what?” and that’s where the language barrier slams down between us.

Even if I had the words I’m not sure I’d be able to explain.

When I graduated High School I was at a bit of a crossroads. I’d just been cut free from the life I’d known since I was 5. Wake up, go to school, explain why I was late, learn some, come home, do anything but homework, and repeat. After High School we’re lead to believe that the entire world is before us. Truth be told, I knew that at least the next few years would hold much the same.

College was another routine and more of the same. Throw in a job and you more or less have the same thing. Even after College I knew the general direction I wanted to go.

Cross roads isn’t the right analogy. With a cross roads you can go left, right, or straight. Maybe its one of those crazy five point crossroads that everyone panics a bit when they come too. You still have clear options. Now I have a feeling that its more like the road has come to an end at the ocean.

I can do anything.

I can do nothing.

While I pace I think about all my options. Professional options; I could get a job, go back into politics, try to find something else I believe in. Educational options; law school, grad school, technical school, language school… And personal options; time with family, time with friends, places to live, girls, girls, girls…

I attempted to explain this to a girl of 12 who has particularly good English. She didn’t understand at all.

Take all this, the ending of the road, the open sea, the possibilities of life all spread out before me, and then add in that nagging question, that question you cant help when answering truthfully but sound a little conceited, cliché, hokey or foolish.

What has the last two years been?

So I just walk. Thirty three steps this way, followed by thirty three that way. One slow step at a time the questions come and the questions go.

Valentines Day is looming. My calendar calls it “St. Valentines Day”, but I don’t see anything saintly about it. It sucks. Mostly it sucks because it brutally reminds the lonely hearted just how lonely their hearts really are.

I’ve never been good at Valentines Day. I think if you were to poll my past girlfriends you would realize that I’m not a terribly romantic person. You would also likely hear a few other choice things, which is why I do not advise you to poll my past girlfriends.

Valentines Day is a lot of pressure. You have to take all kinds of things into consideration. What she likes, what has meaning, what she wants, what you’ve given in the past, blah, blah, blah. I recall one instance (I don’t even think it was Valentines Day, it was an anniversary or some other important thing like that, but the point still stands) where I thought to myself “self, we should really try to be romantic this time around” and that sounded like a rather good idea at the time. So we (Self and I) went out and got a dozen roses. That’s twelve. Apparently roses are five bucks a pop.

I was going to say “I’ll let you do the math” but I wont. $5 x 12 = $60.

I know, I know, you can’t put a price on love. The depths of the heart cannot be judged by the depth of the wallet. All I want is a rational, grounded, understanding of what $60 could be! The sacrifice that $60 represented, at that stage of my life, was quite significant. But I digress.

Upon presentation of said floral arrangement I was shocked to hear “oh, flowers again…” Apparently this girl was wise to my ticks. More appropriately my one trick. For when it comes to affairs of romance and the such I’m really a one trick horse.

I lack creativity. I have no sense of the meaningful, what ever that is. I’m not spontaneous.

I am deficient in romance.

Unromantic.

Romance is too much pressure. If it’s the thought that counts its gotta be a good thought. And I’m kinda dumb.

And another thing! Spontaneous?! How the hell is a guy supposed to be spontaneous? Valentines day is right there on the calendar! Its hardly spontaneous if its scheduled.

So what’s to blame? Why is Romance so hard?

Movies.

That’s why. All these silly girls watch silly romantic comedies where all the silly guys are nothing but kind and loving and spontaneous and thoughtful and romantic. Some hunk or another does the right thing at the right time and always knows what to say. Well you know what? Most guys don’t know this stuff. Most guys have trouble figuring out their own feelings. How are they supposed to know how girls feel?

Why is all the pressure on the guy anyway? Isn’t love a two way street? A girl can get away with a DVD but a guy’s gotta do something meaningful and sweet.

I got on a little rant there.

Anyway, here’s to Valentines Day.

I don’t dance I have never been known for my dancing abilities. I have that unfortunate combination of genes that both obliterate rhythm and coordination. Add to that a complete disconnect from what music is “hip” and “cool” and you get someone who, for the greater good and a love of humanity, stays away from the dance floor. This was fine and good for the first 24 years of my life. I was able to fake it enough, bob my head when I needed too, shuffle my feet when asked, and rock back and forth. I could shimmy my way across the dance floor to the place where others with my unfortunate condition congregate. Couches, kitchens, tables, and porches. These were my sanctuaries. In Peace Corps when you get four or more volunteers in the same place with anything resembling a beat or sounds that are close to music (and I’ve noticed the sounds don’t have to sound much like music) you suddenly have a gathering that falls into the category of “Dance Party”. I’m not sure what happened to good ol’ fashioned parties, but they appear to have gone the way of the dodo, being completely replaced with what the trendy folk call a “DP”. It became clear that my old tricks and strategies were of no use. In a one room rondaval the kitchen is the dance floor, there are no couches, the two chairs have been pushed aside, no group of smokers to hide in. Its all DP all the time. No sanctuary, no hope. So you dance. And I've danced. When Peace Corps asked me if I was ready for new cultural experiences I never imagined this. What is someone like myself supposed to do? I’m not entirely sure what’s supposed to happen when you’re on the dance floor. Frank Sinatra led me to believe that dancing was “making love to music”, but if that’s the case, the love making going on here wouldn’t have a place on Showtime. It’s the kind that would exist behind the little black curtain in the video store. “Bumping” and “Grinding” looks like a high risk behavior, something where you call up your doctor the day after. Yet I dance. I change. I adapt.For I am human.

But don’t for a second think I like it.

I’m itchin’ for a fight. I have been for a while. We just received three new volunteers here in Butha-Buthe. They’re all nice, optimistic, hopeful young kids. They’ll undoubtedly change the world (and Africa along the way!). To an old veteran like me it’s nice to see the fresh energy, the new faces, the hope and pleasure of being a volunteer. It reminds me why I came and how I felt at first. I’ve spent some time with these newbies, showed them around town a bit, tried to convey some of the finer points of life and travel in Lesotho. The difficulty is in keeping my jaded bitter old thoughts to myself. Last night one of the newbies asked me what the hardest part of Peace Corps has been. I gave the usual answers, missing friends, family, projects falling apart, lack of motivation in myself and others, ect, ect, bullshit, bullshit… Then a thought occurred to me. Something I had had a feeling of for some time but never put to words. Something that had been festering under the skin for the past year or so, growing and breeding and lead to a lot of my frustrations. I wanted a fight. I didn’t want to lay my sudden insight on the poor guy, so here I am, laying it on you. You’re the outlet for keeping hope and optimism alive as long as possible. Here in Lesotho I act as a facilitator. That’s a fancy way of saying I don’t “own” the projects I work on. None of them are “mine”, and that’s the point. They should be “owned” by the Basotho. The ideas should be community driven, initiated, and executed while I just sit there and give them the ability to achieve their goals. Skill transfer, an idea sounding board, maybe just a little bit of money. I’m the tool box, they’re the carpenters. This Sucks. Nothing is mine. I don’t feel the passionate need to “go to the mattresses”. I don’t say up at night worrying about success or failure. So much of it is out of my hands that its hard to get worked up over it. I miss the days of really fighting the good fight. I miss applying myself to a task, which was in my own hands to achieve, and really working out the short and long of it. In short, I miss the conflict, the struggle, the challenge. I’m itchin’ for a fight. Watch out.

I have just around seven months left in my Peace Corps service. To be a bit more precise I have 31 weeks left if I choose to close my service (CoS) in July. With only half a year left its natural to look back and think of the things I’ve done.

My mind then goes blank.

A large part of the Peace Corps support structure is to remind us that we are just one person, one little cog, one little ant in the grand scheme of things. They remind us that even if our projects fail, if our support groups disappear and the clubs never fully form, our simple presence in the village, at the work place, changes lives and helps.

We will never see the change we make.

Despite these constant reminders its hard not to get discouraged. Most of the projects, due to a lack of commitment, money issues, misunderstandings, or what have you, have failed. Small projects, such as setting up gardens or co-ops get my hopes up, and then a month or so later turn into disappointments. This late in the game I don’t even know if I can say I’m giving it my all anymore.

Its hard.

At the same time I sit here and look back on the past year and half I’ve spent in Africa, living a life that would be hard to even comprehend in America, and think fondly of it. It’s a bit of a paradox. A sense of failure mixed with accomplishment.

The skills I’ll take away from this are far to interpersonal and deeply rooted to accurately explain. I’m certain that I can tolerate just about any work condition. I’m sure that when (if) I get a real job there wont be a task to hard, boring, or useless for me to take on. I’m also afraid I wont be able to share, in the true sense, how important this has been in my life.

Stories will be told, but details left out.

Memories related but meaning lost.

Merry X-mass if I don’t post before then!

Its been about 5 months since my last post. Sorry about that. The thing is that when I finally sit down in front of a computer I find myself far too tired or busy or distracted to really write anything.

I've actually been writing alot! We have a new news letter here in country by PCV's for PCV's. I've taken on the responsibility (because I dont know how to say no, and it makes up for my laziness at site) of editing the poor thing. When there isnt an article to full room, I write one up. I'm rather enjoying it!

Stay tuned, I promise I'll post something tomorrow, even if its a short, uninteresting little blurb like this.

Adios

Much of my day is spent sitting around, drinking coffee and reading magazines. I sit in my doorway (right where the nice warm sun can hit me) with my mug in one hand and a Popular Mechanics or Rolling Stone in the other. The kids take notice of this and sometimes come and ask for a “book” (“Ke kopa booka”) by which they really mean magazine.

Rolling Stone isn’t really appropriate for them (I have deemed it so) so more often then not they get a Popular Mechanics. The interesting thing is they don’t really pay much attention to the airplanes, boats or cars, instead they like to look at the people.

The white people.

Out of three Popular Mechanics I have there is a grand total of zero African’s, and one Hispanic.

Yesterday, as they flipped through a Popular Mechanics they kept asking if this white guy or that white guy was me. They would point at some middle aged, balding (!?) dark haired guy with a big nose and insist that it was Ntate Karabo (that’s me). In one instance they were convinced so thoroughly that they called me a liar when I said it wasn’t me!

Worried about the subliminal message all these whiteys were giving these poor kids (and the alarmingly old people they were convinced were me) I decided perhaps a Time Magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover would be better.

Once again, they were fascinated by the people. In this case they were convinced that President Obama was my father. Yet the subliminal message was clearly more positive. They loved the pictures of Michelle dancing with other African American women (all the kids “reading the book” were girls) and didn’t believe that Mr. Obama was African at all.

I’m not asking Popular Mechanics to put more black people in their magazine. I understand that they market to a predominantly white audience and the idea of race probably never crossed their minds. Its also not their responsibility to give hope and encouragement to children halfway around the world in the mountains of Africa.

Yet at the same time it clearly put my nation into an interesting perspective. In school I would hear or read about the disparity of minorities in educated jobs, I would hear of the lack of opportunity afforded inner-city kids or how much less likely it was for an African-American to get hired than a Caucasian. But it was all academic. It was all an injustice in the back of my mind that had little or no real relevance to the greater world around me.

Now I can say, at least on some level, I get it.

So lessons learned?

1. All white guys look the same.

2. We still have a long way to go in passive race equality.

Is that a cross-cultural experience or an inter-cultural experience?

A few thoughts. Here I sit, in a coffee shop (!?!) in Bloemfontein. Since the program I’m trying to download looks like its going to take an hour and not to mention (which I am) I’m so detached from the news I don’t even know who they’re talking about let alone what terrible thing they might have done to get on the internet news sites, you folks will get a blog post. In celebration of my new found internet access (to last another 56 min if the download manager is to be believed, which is folly) I will leave you with a few thoughts and opinions on world affairs. I saw “State of Play” last night and rather enjoyed it. As you climb into the passenger seat of this political/journalist thriller you clearly see ahead of you that the plot will take you up steep climbs, sudden valleys, and hair pin turns. The movie isn’t a safe driver that gently slows for plot points, instead it hugs the turns and zips past mini-vans full of sub-characters, leaving you gripping the “o-shit” bar in the car and thinking of all the ways this plot, and you, might get smashed to bloody bits. But they pull it off. The plot slows as it pulls out of the forest and you see home sweet home off on the horizon. Just as the movie is winding down and the hero’s have things figured out, your otherwise competent plot suddenly loses control of the action and off you careen. Just one plot twist too many. Smithereens is the word that comes to mind. But its good! And it did something dangerous, it started me thinking. To be fair the idea had occurred to me on a number of occasions in the last few years but now I have both the time and means to put pen (or digital representations of pen) to paper. Back “in the day”, meaning any time in the past I don’t remember, including some Saturday nights not so long ago (jk jk, I am a very responsible young man, mom), you had news papers which openly and proudly supported a political agenda. You would walk up to the newsy and say “Cherri-o my boy! What daily be ye peddling this morn?” “Tis’ the ‘Capitalist Pig Press’ good sir!” the Newsy would reply. “’The Capitalist Pig Press’!? Why that’s printed by them Capitalist Pigs!” “Tis’, sir, tis’.” “I’ll take one!” you happily proclaim. Knowing the bias of ‘The Capitalist Pig Press’, you saunter down the boardwalk, for people walked on board walks then, and pick up yourself the rival paper, ‘The Socialist Scum Gazette’, and thus you got your news. By and large this worked to a point. ‘The Capitalist Pig Press’ would run a story in support of some capitalist pig project and then ‘The Socialist Scum Gazette’ would run a story against it, and thus real discussion (at least in a journalistic way) would occur. Knowing what you were getting yourself into also allowed the general public to filter and self censor. A modern day example would be Fox news. We all know they support the Neo-Con’s and far right. When we turn to Fox News we know were not getting “fair, and balanced coverage” (or you should, you’re a damn fool if you think otherwise), and this arms you against their agenda. (As I’ll discuss later, the guise of fair and balanced, if believed, disarms this one advantage we as rational actors have.) Editors note: Have I just written a word in favor of Fox News? Check the sky for pigs (of the capitalist kind I’m sure) There are pitfalls of course. Yellow journalism is one. The danger of the agenda overstepping the Journalistic Integrity (whatever that is). Yet, in my humble but absolutely correct opinion, these pitfalls exist in our current “unbiased” façade we call journalism today, and there a lot more dangerous. As the system works today, journalists are expected to be neutral and unopinionated. They are expected to put whatever they believe, think or feel (if they do, in fact, feel at all) to one side. Find me someone who can do that and I’ll show you someone losing their humanity. Neutrality is honored above facts. Truth takes a back seat to some mythical “balance”. Worst of all, because our journalists are human (gasp!) they don’t have a prayer of ever reaching the neutrality they so long for. Thus it happens that we can pick up a news paper (or more likely log on to the internet), read an article, pretend its non-biased, and get everything wrong. When the bias of the author, or publication, or owners is hidden form the public view they can then manipulate the readers. You see the general frustration of this system playing out in our new media outlets (and some old). The success of website like MoveOn.org and DailyKos (to name some liberal, progressive ones) and of radio hosts like Rush Limbaugh, (to name an idiot) is strong evidence that people want a slant. The integrity of Wolf “Best-name-ever” Blitzer has suddenly become a liability, not an asset. I don’t know what kind of snake oil Wolf is feeding me because he doesn’t tell me. At least with Rush I know what I’m getting. Don’t think I’m calling for the tearing down of the journalistic establishment. We still need news coverage and we need hard facts. I’m just asking for everyone to appreciate what we really have in the blogosphere (what a stupid name for it) and why its so important that we get someone on the other side, not afraid to call themselves what they are, to counter Rush. Its all just an idea. Maybe I’m both Ignorant and Stupid. Likely. Michael Jackson is dead. I was never much of a fan (I didn’t dislike his music, just never got into it) but you have to admit, that kid could dance! While I’m on the media high horse I have a few things to say about MJ. All the media coverage is a bit excessive but I think we have all come to expect that, but what really got to me was the “need” to play the 911 tape. How does this advance the story? How is the public served by hearing the panic of someone seeing his friend/family member (no idea who made the call) die? Its sick. That’s that.

It has been, once again, some time since I last wrote to you folks. In my defence I have, in fact, written several blog posts or e-mails. None of them seem to be “up to snuff”. More and more they simply turn into a litany of misdeeds without any real substance or consequence. I get board simply proof reading and I love to hear myself talk (or type).

The compulsion to write doesn’t overcome a longing for standards unfortunately.

So nothing gets posted. Sometimes I start and then delete, other times I finish but never post.

I’ve been doing alot of introspective thinking lately. I have been in Africa now for a full year. Thinking back on who I was and what I thought all those months ago is fascinating and, at times, embarrassing. My youthful optimism was at its peak. I was going to fight and never lose! The world was my play ground! Watch out Africa become here comes Kevin!

Worry not, this wont digress into a tale of shattered hopes and misplaced dreams. If anything my dreams were far too small, my hopes narrow. When I got on that plane for Philly back in 2008 I had an idea in my head (despite all the warnings to do no such thing) that I’d change Lesotho one way or another. I was sure that my good deeds and positive attitude would make things go just great (golly gee). I was going to work hard, do my best, and if nothing came of it I could at least leave with a clean conscience that I’d given it my all.

I wasn’t naive.

I knew it was going to be hard and that likely very little would get accomplished.

It wasn’t that I had my hopes wrong, I simply had them in the wrong place. I was focused on how I would change the world around me instead of worrying about how the world would change me.

Overall the feeling is one of growth and confusion. I know I’ve changed in some way or another and I’ve defiantly grown up (for better or worse) in a lot of ways but to pinpoint any major change, or any one sport where I can say “I’ve become this” or “I’ve changed here” is impossible.

We will just have to see what happens when I hit the big world of the U.S.A. again next year.

I haven’t been doing so well at keeping this thing updated. My fault. Things have been going rather well here in Lesotho as of late, and when things go good I tend not to complain and thus keep my big mouth shut.

Also, there isn’t anything I can really talk about at great length. Deep insights into the human soul have been withheld from me for some time now. Grand understandings of the human condition remain, as ever, just out of reach. There isn’t any one thing that I feel I can write about that is worthy of Slumberland.

But don’t get your hopes up.

I think I’ll comment on a number of small things! Thus hopefully reaching the epic length you have come to expect.

When I was a child, in particular when I was six years old and a proud first grade Lincoln Lion, I would walk home from school. My brother, Joey Thomas (the neighbour) and myself often found ourselves in the local SCUBA shop. Yes, that’s right, in little Ol’ DeKalb Illinois, home of barbed wire, seed corn capital of the world (I see the DeKalb flying ear of corn even here!), thousands of miles from any sea, there was a SCUBA shop! The SCUBA shop also had a dog named Nakita, a husky. I still wonder if Huskies swim.

We would use our childhood super powers to make time slow down. It seemed that hour upon hour would pass as we marvelled at air tanks, face masks, life vests, and pressure gauges. The day dreams that would dance around in my little head still haunt my dreams to this day.

My fascination with the sea, born those lazy afternoons when the world was innocent and my dreams big, is as strong as ever.

The ocean calls to me.

With this simple insight into my simple soul I think you can begin to understand just how exciting this little bit of news really is. In mid August myself and three other PCV’s will be going to a place in South Africa to get SCUBA Certified. Not “I’m at a resort and want to look at pretty fish for a day” certified, I mean “slap down my card, no questions asked, get my gear and dive” certified. The plan is to spend five days at “the place” (as I’ll call it because I don’t remember the name), four of which will be spent learning to dive. There is one full day in the classroom, a full day in a pool, and then four dives in open ocean for two days. At the end of all this we will officially be PADI (I think thats the name of it, anyway, its a big official kind that is recognized everywhere) certified divers! Then, because we’re so close, we’ll just drive up to Mozambique for about another five days and try to use our newly acquired status to get chicks (or dudes for some of the PCV’s) and maybe even dive a little.

Needless to say I’m excited.

In America something like this would cost upwards of $1000. Here it can be got for as little as $300 (depending on the exchange rate, which would actually put it closer to $360. The downside to economic development).

Everyone at home should keep that in mind as the middle of June rolls around. *hit* *hit* *wink* *wink*

When it rains it pours they tell me. While that’s not always true of literal rain, it does seem to be true of other things. I have spent good words on tails of sitting around in boredom, long days of reading books and wondering about the state of the world. There were days where I didn’t even talk to a living soul (unless you count children...).

Alas, how I long for those days.

I have suddenly found myself mixed up in schemes that smell suspiciously of “development” and “help” and, god forbid, “work”. It feels good really. My one year mark is coming up (!!) and I finally feel like I’m doing something. Here is a quick overview.

We (more she than me. Kristan is a fellow PCV) are setting up youth groups in the area. The goal is to get some 10 or 11 organized by June and have them hit the ground running as “peer educators” by spring time. This is alot of work! My little neck of the woods will have between 3 and 5 youth groups. Each one should have between 5 and 10 members. Thats alot of motivated kids to find. But it’ll be rewarding work.

I spoke with the gardener here at the Lodge and as it turns out he is attempting to establish Community Botanical Gardens (capitalized because I think its important) in all 10 districts of Lesotho. He has asked that I help (at least with the one in BB) to establish business plans and the such. You see, they have money, but they don’t have ANY kind of plan, yet still want to spend that money. We think it would be a good idea to plan ahead.

I have (foolishly perhaps) volunteered to head up a committee to make our training center a habitable space. Right now, when we come to Maseru, we stay in what amounts to a prison of filth and grime. As one PCV put it, “its like a frat house, only no one cleans it”. Its a big job and I’ll be heading to Maseru to help with that every weekend this month.

I need to stop Volunteering.

As if the world wanted to remind me that I cant always get what I want, some sad news was delivered last Monday. My APCD (the head of the Community Health and Economic Development (CHED) mission) informed us all that she’ll be leaving Lesotho this month. Due to personal reasons she has decided to head back to the states. Maria is one of the most amazing people I’ve met. Her impact on my life is something that is baffling, as I’ve only known her for 10 months. Like a cowboy riding off into the sunset she leaves a stunned crowd of town folk tracing the dust as it fades away. As we watch the figure disappear into the distance none of us are sure what actually happened in the short time this lone ranger was in our lives but we’re all sure it was something important.

Dog’s, Sharks, and Car’s

I’ve made it back from the wild coast in one piece! It was an amazing trip (and I took a few pics, check back for those at some point). To give you a quick over view, we rented a car in Bleomfontein (sp?), drove down to Cinca on the wild coast, then to Coffee Bay, then finally to Port St. Johns. Truly amazing trip. Each place was more beautiful than the last.

In Cinca we stayed at a place called Buccaneer’s (yar!). As you can imagine I was rather excited about this. Cinca is a tiny little town where everyone is really rich and probably only lives there when they don’t have to be anywhere else. The Backpackers was a vast, overgrown, jungle with small communal houses. Amazing atmosphere, great staff, good beer. All a guy could want. They also had free Kayaks you could take out on the lagoon. This we did. And got stuck. When I jumped out to try to drag us to deeper water I sank into the sand up to my knee!! Literal quicksand.

In all it was relaxing.

Don’t expect any overly exciting stories from this vacation. All I really did was sit around on the beach.

The next day we headed off to Coffee Bay. Despite the name, there is little Coffee in Coffee Bay (but that’s ok because we had our own). The place got its name when a ship, full of coffee, laid anchor in the bay to weather a storm off the notorious cape. This plan didn’t work out so well and the ship was dashed to bits on the rocks. A side effect of this was all the coffee was strewn across the bay, and for just one year (as the climate doesn’t really support it) coffee plants grew wild.

Coffee Bay, like all the other places, was beautiful. The Coffee Shack, the backpackers we stayed at, was located near a small bay. This was not “The” Coffee Bay. This bay was secluded from the other, larger, public beach by a mountain/cliff type thing. As a result we had the entire thing mostly to ourselves. There couldn’t have been more than 15 people at the beach. Swimming was like taking a warm bath. We walked along the rocks too, saw the tidal pools, and killed time. In all, very relaxing.

I think you can guess what we did at the last place, Port St. Johns. Here we stayed at Amapondo’s, a little backpackers up on a hill overlooking the beach. Here we couldn’t swim because of sharks! I guess man eating sharks some times like to eat men here. We did find a safe place to swim, and built and sand castle, and just relaxed once again.

Here, when we left to grab lunch the three dogs of the Backpackers left with us. I have named them (with the help of others) Jelly Bean, a large, droopy faced dog, Fetch, looked like a German Shepard, and Gurmps McGee, which looked like no other god I’ve ever seen. She had tiger stripes. The dogs followed along the 20 minute walk to the wood n’ spoon, where we ate, sat with us the entire time we ate, an then followed us as we walked back along the beach.

This is where things got complicated.

There was a herd of cows on the beach. Why? No idea. Cows neither eat sand nor drink sea water. Jelly Bean thought it would be a good idea to try to eat one of the Cows lying down. So we left her to that.

Quickly we discovered that if you kick sand in the air Fetch would jump at it and eat it! Fetch ate a lot of sand. He also saw someone throwing a Frisbee and ate that. We left her to that.

Grumps McGee, who didn’t do much of anything, found someone’s cooler open and thought she would munch on something or other. Seeing as the owners of the cooler were apparently afraid of dogs, we left her to that.

We left with three dogs, and having successfully annoyed the cow enough, returned with only one. Good old Jelly Bean. When we went back to the beach to build our sand castle, we found Grumps McGee and Fetch just sitting where we left them, happy as can be.

That’s a short summary of my trip to the wild coast.

The highlight? Driving. I loved driving. I drove fast. I drove slow. I shifted gears when I didn’t have to. Windows down, music blasting. Heaven on four wheels.

Pics to come soon.

I live in a place where myth and legend rule. My neighbour is a witch doctor (literally, he is). I hear stories of tokolosi, or little people who live in the mountains and steal children and kill livestock. Often, as I sit in my little hut, drinking my coffee and checking facebook, I forget just how primal a world I live in. (Primal, does that work? I didn’t want to say primitive, because that’s not quite right).

The lodge has asked me to gather some information on the parks trails. With the addition of the fence (for the new wildlife) many of the trails have been altered and none of the trail markers are accurate anymore. This project requires me to walk every inch of every trail, ideally getting an accurate length but more importantly a reasonable time the trails can be walked in. Yesterday I walked some 14k (close to 9 miles, 8.7 for anyone who cares). This doesn’t count the walk to the trail heads and back.

I can assure you that the hikes where amazing. The park hosts the larges population of mature Chichi trees in Lesotho. Chichi trees are something to behold. It would be easy to miss them, as they look more like a shrub than a tree. Their branches reach out at all levels with chaotic twists and turns. The limbs themselves often look half formed, with odd knobs and strange cracks along their length. No beautiful symmetry here, no towering grace, just chaos.

I was strolling down along the river, following the lower trail, and I found myself surrounded by the burned out skeletons of chichi trees. It’s hard to explain the feeling of the area. All around me was past devastation. Like finding a ruined building deep in the woods that was long sense forgotten, your mind begins to imagine what might have happened. I began to imagine dragons scorching the country side, I envisioned giants in the hills hurling fire at one another. My imagination went wild even though I knew what had really happened.

This is the birthplace of myth, the home of legend.

It’s hard not to get lost in your own fantasies. The rocky rivers, the green slopes, the twisted trees. Each bend in the path could reveal a swimming hole, or scorched earth.

The upper trails are, at times, truly brutal. A path that leads from Ts’ehlanyane to Bokong Nature Reserve proves it. This path is 23k long. Bokong is up in the mountains, south of Ts’ehlanyane and north of Katse dam. I began walking the trail at 1pm, just after lunch, with the intention of “seeing how far I could get”. I imagined the trial weaving its way through the mountains. Finding small passes, hugging valleys, meandering lazily though the mountains.

I was wrong.

As it turns out, the way to get to Bokong is to go up and over the mountains. The trail simply went up. Not a vertical climb where you know what your getting into, where the end is in sight. No, the mountains are not that forgiving. Instead its that gradual, slow climb where you don’t fully notice it at first, but the strain builds on you, grows into a ache, and finally excruciating pain. Every bend was a nightmare of hope followed by despair, each switchback taunting in its cruel assent.

Did anyone know I have a bad knee? I didn’t. On my way up my right knee began to hurt terribly. I decided to turn back at 3:30pm. I had made it to the 4000 meter mark. That’s 4K by my math. The return 4k was excruciating. Every time I would bend my knee it was like someone stabbed me there. I think I need to get that checked out (and might as well do it now with free health care!).

The pain and all was worth it. The view, the peace, the quiet, all invigorating.

There is simply nothing like it in the world.

Kiss me I’m Irish!

Its no mystery that I, Kevin Malone, am of Irish decent. However, I have a confession. I am not, as many believe, Irish to the bone (in a biological sense, if biology really has much to do with ethnicity). My Mother is only part Irish (a grandfather of her’s I believe I was Irish). On my mothers side I am Norwegian, don’ja’no. (Though that claim now seems to be cast in some doubt within the last month by my mother and her sudden Danish (or was it Dutch?) decent).

Regardless of the percentage of Irish blood in me mathematically, I have for some reason or another, always identified strongly with my Irish Heritage. Maybe its because of my name (Kevin, Irish for “loved one” and Malone, Irish for… really irish?). Maybe its because I “look” Irish. (My Grandpa Palmer, note: not Irish at all, always said I had the look of an Irishman). Or perhaps its because of my family. I’m fairly sure its my family.

I have never been a “stubborn” person (though my mom might disagree). Pride, despite my sometimes inflated ego, was never terribly strong within me. So when you hear of that “stubborn Irish pride” you might not immediately think of me (though self appraisal is so often way off the mark, I’ll leave you as the judge). However, in my dad’s family that is something you quickly grasp. At my grandmother’s house I have fond memories of three or four aunts and uncles sitting around the breakfast table yelling at the top of their lungs at one another about some politician or sports team or another. An outsider would think this family dysfunctional. They would feel a level of intensity unmatched in the great houses of Government the world over. The passion of the argument would lead this unwary observer to believe that no compromise was sought for or possible.

Until they stopped to listen.

Then they would realize that this “house divided” was, infact, agreeing with itself. Each side of the discussion so wrapped up in agreement with the other that the only rational outlet of such an accord was via the raising of blood pressure and straining of ear drums.

This was Irish stubbornness.

This was that legendary pride.

An irony of my life is that my family, I believe (you will recall self reflection is always distorted), has always viewed me as “shy”. A claim my friends would never level against me. Witnessing the protracted discussions too often far above my little head, I just sat and listened.

And on this St. Patrick’s day, a world away from that home, I regret having not done more of that.

Listening.

As many of you are aware, my Grandmother passed away close to a Month ago now. Grandma Malone was the matron of that prideful Irish family. She embodied so much of what makes me proud to be Irish-American.

When I would tell people the reason I returned to America they would always ask “where you close to your Grandma?” As if flying halfway across the world for a relative required closeness. The shameful answer I was forced to give was simple.

No.

The great tragedy of her passing for me was that I wasn’t terribly close to her. I don’t recall having many conversations with her that transcended any description other than “superficial”. She would ask the usual grandma questions; “How’s school? How’s the girlfriend? Do you want Ice Cream with your Apple Pie?” And I would give the typical uppity Teenage response “Fine, fine, yes”.

I believe we call this regret.

As I grew older my curiosity grew with it. I realized I wasn’t very close to my Grandmother, and that time was running out. I would learn little tid bits from my dad about how Grandma would take in some of his cousins, or work in the fields. Stories of helping family in a truly selfless way. It was these stories that peaked my interest, made me realized how incredible a person my grandmother was.

I understood I needed to discover that first hand.

Much as my cousins did. I won’t beat around the bush, I’m rather jealous of my older cousins. Chris, Dan (twins, oldest of the Oldenburg family, my dad’s sisters family) and Tom (a year or two older than my brother, so three to four older than me) were able to become close to my Grandmother. They, in their older wisdom, spent some summers up at Grandma’s. Tom in particular spent several summers in a row helping out at the old homestead, fishing with Grandpa, and becoming something of a local. These three older cousins have great stories to tell, had deep interpersonal connections with Grandma, memories beyond simple childhood longing.

After hearing some of the stores, who wouldn’t be Jealous.

For me, it was just a matter of getting my life in order. In that way us young kids thing we have all the time in the world (which we more or less do), we put things off. First College got in the way, then Peace Corps.

I had plans for Grandma. I envisioned coming home from my peace corps stint, taking up residence on Gear St. (where the old Malone homestead is) for a few months maybe, and getting to know this woman who shaped the lives of so many. I imagined myself spending time discovering my roots. Becoming a better person for it.

I spent some time dwelling on this regret as I traveled home. Thoughts of missed opportunity fell on the jungles of Africa, pooled in London Heathrow, and splashed across the Atlantic as I returned to say goodbye.

It wasn’t until I had made it to Galena and was surrounded by so strong a family that I realized regret wasn’t where my heart should be.

I may not have made the most of the hand I was dealt, but it was a pretty damn good hand.

My grandmother changed lives. She shaped who I am, who I will become. She made the entire Malone family a strong one. She was an incredible woman. While I may never get that firsthand experience I long for, I know her handy work will always be with me. It’s in my family, in the way we talk, the way we work, the way we care.

Its in our Irish Pride, our stubbornness and that thing so many over look in the Irish.

Compassion.

Lucky for me I have another Grandma hanging around. Poor woman won’t know what hit her come 2010. I may call myself Irish, associate with my Irish roots more strongly than my Scandinavian ones, but that doesn’t mean I ignore them.

Roots in general are something we too often overlook.

Well here I am.

America is great, BTW.

You guys dont know what you got here with your hot water heaters, and automated carriages.

But to be honest, despite all the pizza, and interweb, and hot showers, I do miss Africa. I can say without a doubt that my little hut is my home.

I'm sitting here right now talking with my mom, (she got on my case about not posting at all while I'm here... so this is a limited post, blame my mother. Thats what I do for all my life's woes.) my full attention is not on the quality of this post, rather quantity. Once again social pressures lead me to want more, not better.

Such is life.

I head back to Africa on the 9th. I have a 20 hour lay over in london. I think I'll be exploring the town! It'll be fun.

Anyway, stay tuned. Sorry for not posting. Eat some pie for me.

Last time on “Kevin’s Adventure’s in Slumberland”; our hero found himself perplexed by the status of the mail man and frustrated by his inability to receive the packages awaiting him in the vault. In the mean time his home was flooding every other day from faulty thatch and his clothes were strewn about the floor because of a shortage of wardrobes. We left our hero as he returned from a weekend away wondering if he will find his home once again over come by the forces of nature.

I was at a meeting in TY (a camp town down the road a few hours) which required me to stay the night there (as meetings often do) and then I headed off to a meeting in BB (we like to use letters, TY stands for something no one really knows and BB stands for Butha-Buthe). I was gone for about 3 days all said and done. I had made the usual preparations, move the bed over by the stove, pile my clothes under the blankets and toss anything waterproof I can find (rain jacket, winter coat, garbage bag, ect) over it, place buckets in useless places and do the anti-rain dance that is un-common among the Native American’s. I knew what I was in for. I had some small idea of what would be waiting for me upon my return. Chemically we know it by two letters and a number, H₂O. Commonly it is known, to the Basotho, as “metsi”, or water to us who use English. To me, it is known as a mess. Puddles everywhere, dirty water ruining my clothes, sheets, towels, books. Always a good two hours of clean up. And that’s before I can even sweep all the dust that blows in under my door back out that same damn door.

So when I left my little taxi and looked up the mountain at my little hut a sense of dread filled me. It had rained the night before. As soon as I opened that door, the dread was replaced with shock, and even a little dismay! For the normal wet spots where dry! There was a new wet spot over by the heater, which worried me as that used to be “high land”, but the main down pour was no place to be found. Lake Nature-can-kiss-my-ass (it’s a local name) had dried up. The fishing villages that sprung up around my bed during the rains were abandoned, the dirty salt fields that traced the riverbeds where gone.

Something had happened.

I spoke with Me’ Mathuso, the woman we rent the house from. I have no idea what she said. But I gathered that Sam (the acting manager up here at the lodge) had come and done something to the roof. And looking up at my little hut, sure enough, the top cement cone was now black, instead of cement gray (as cement tends to be). He had put sealant on the cement. Who knew that cement leaked?

Things were looking up!

So the next day I try to push my luck. I think, “damn it, if my roof can get fixed so can the mail man!” So off I set to Ha Khabo to check the mail. Now I’m feeling good at this point. The sun is shining, the air is cool, and my floor is dry. I climb that hill they put the post office on and strut right in there. Only to find out that the mail man is gone... and a package as come since then! With the mail man gone (with the key to the safe) they couldn’t put my package in the safe, so they don’t need to get it out! I got a package from my brother (thanks bro!) and it was good.

I know what your thinking, your thinking “Kevin! You’ve gone out of order! The title is ‘The Mail Man, the Roof, and the Wardrobe’. “ Sorry folks, it sounded better in that order but the story necessitated it be told in this order. It called chronological.

A side note, I’ve been feeling under the weather (despite the fact I am at times literally “above the weather”, I say that as I look out the window of the lodge at the tops of clouds) and so chose to take the rest of that day easy. Clouds rolled in and a gentle rain began to fall. So I sat down, made myself some tea, and read my book. Around 7pm that night (the sun was still up, its summer remember?) Sam comes rolling up with a giant wardrobe on top of the truck. The Lodge was supposed to get me a wardrobe as part of the housing agreement but with the change in management and all that it somehow slipped through the cracks.

I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past 6 months.

Now I’m living out of a wardrobe! A vast improvement to be sure. I was up late that night moving things into it, cleaning my place, rearranging, and so on. It hadn’t rained seriously since the sealant was put on (and I’ve learned to be sceptical of any roof “fixes”) and I’d put my wardrobe (my prized possession, it has a mirror!) right under a former water border post. That night it rained cats and dogs.

I was sound asleep at around 4am and I hear my dog bumping against my Dutch oven (or something metal and pot like). I recall thinking, “stupid dog, just lie down”.

Then I wake up a bit more and think “I don’t have a dog”.

The rain was leaking in its new spot. I woke up, had to move my bed just maybe half a foot and move my pots to a new location. So the problem isn’t fully solved yet. But the good news is that it leaks so little now that just three buckets can be used to contain the madness!

All in all things were looking up. All this happened between Monday the 26th (when I got home) and the morning Wednesday the 28th (which happens to be today).

Anyway, by the time I post this (probably in February! (note, its Feb 8th, but check back, I'll have another update soonish!) Its Jan 28th now) some things might be different. We’ll see.

So the mail man is sick. I got word from Kristen, a fellow PCV who I share a mailbox with (and who happens to be from the same little island in the Caribbean as my buddy Steve!) that I had a package waiting for me at the post office! Hurray! I love Packages. So, on my way back from All-Vol (way back two weeks ago) I stop off at the Postng (as we call it in Sasotho). Its hard to describe to you in mere words how excited I was! I could hardly sit still in the Combi (taxi) out to Ha Khabo. My feet were dancing a jig I hardly knew, my hands trebled in gleeful anticipation, my mind ran circles around the limitless possibilities of what this mystery package might contain! Perhaps it had a book in it? Maybe some month old news papers! Even better! Coffee!! Leaping from the combi I dashed up the mountain like a little kid on his birthday, expecting to find a puppy or a new bike under the tree (this metaphorical kid happened to share a birthday with Jesus). It was all poor Melody could do to keep up. A few words about this sudden new character in my narrative. Melody is the "new girl" in the hood. She's new to Peace Corps, just came in with the new Education group. We all met up at all-vol and then met up again in BB when we all got back from All-Vol. BB got 5, count them, 5! New volunteers in this batch. Thats more than any other district! Poor Melody is my neighbour (just 15K down the road! Thats less than a half marathon... I think). So we were riding home together. She thinks I'm nuts. And she's probably right. Back to skipping up the hill to the Post office. Minutes (which felt like years) later I stumble into the office and inquired as to my package. I say "Me', there is a package for me. Can you please get it?" Me' replies "No" I exclaim "!?!?" She says "Ntate is on sick leave, he has the keys to the vault." Its nice of them to lock my stuff up. My hopes are dashed. I would like you to picture a young boy who just lost his balloon, tears streaming down his face as he looks to the heavens and asks, "is there no justice?" And that poor, defeated, balloonless child hears nothing but affirming silence. Casting his gaze back from the cruel heavens that mercilessly snatched his dreams, down, down to that filthy floor, that same floor which steals ice cream cones like the robber barons of old, he feels nothing but shame. Shame for allowing his youthful glee to compel him to hold that one idea he falls victim to with each balloon, each ice cream cone, the single feeling which compels him, against his better judgement, to believe in the world again; Hope in a better, balloon filled, future. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed in not getting my package that day. Yet just like that child, who the next day mindlessly grips his balloon in one hand and precariously licks a vanilla ice cream scoop teetering atop a cone grasped in the other (for vanilla is the finest of the flavours), oblivious to the previous days heart break and despair, I returned the next day. Again with that most poisonous of feelings; Hope. The mail man is sick. He has been sick for the past two weeks. This is a fact. And, as with all facts, it is something to be overcome. An obstacle to be conquered. A hindrance of the material world that our existential selves struggle against. The humanitarian in me hopes that he is ok, that he feels better soon, and that whatever ails him is minor and passing. The capitalist in me wishes the illness would over take him soon and someone would get that damn key already! These are not good thoughts for a Peace Corps Volunteer to be thinking. So often do I wander my way down to the post office that the woman there simply gives me a look when I arrive. I know that look. That look means "try again tomorrow". That look is one of mutual understanding, for she feels my pain. At least as far as I can inflict it upon her. Her suffering is great, for every other day she hears my pleading. "Isn't there a spare key? What about a lock smith? I think I can get my hands on some dynamite! Can we at least try the dynamite?" I was really pulling for the dynamite. . . Be grateful my western friends. The mail is something we often take for granted. We trust in those happy, blue clad, men and women to get us our stuff. They take our stuff with little more payment than 40 some odd cents (or what ever ridiculous price they charge these days, greedy bastards) and pass our stuff along their invisible chain until our stuff arrives, exactly as expected, two or three odd days later. If someone gets sick... well... I don't think they do get sick. They are super-non-gender-specific-individuals! The system works. And doesn't stop working. Ever. Be grateful. I do get over zealous at times. For the record (Peace Corps Washington/Big Brother take note) I have no access to dynamite. There is a Lesotho Defence Force base less than 2 or 3 K down the road from the Post office. Despite my best efforts and most persuasive arguments (and I can be very persuasive) they still wont lend me any dynamite. So I wait. I wait for the mail man to get to better. I wait for public institutions to catch up with the 21st century. I wait for my package and all the limitless bounty contained therein. I wait for a spare key to surface and for peace and justice to prevail. I wait for dynamite, or at least masked bandits on horseback with dynamite. I wait for that poor little kid, watching his balloon sail off into the vast blue nothingness of life, to grow a little wiser, a little less hopeful, and maybe a little more patient. Because in Africa, as in life, sometimes we need to tell that little kid to hold his horses as the older, wiser, adult takes out a book and just... . . .waits

The other day I hopped in a taxi heading up to check my mail at Ha Khabo. When I got in I noticed something special about this taxi, there was a Chinese lady in it. You may not appreciate the value of this sitting back home in our wonderfully multi-cultural nation, but rest assured that this was a site to behold.

A little background on the Chinese/Basotho relations. The Chinese have come to Lesotho within the last 10 to 20 years, mainly setting up factories and small shops (called Machina shops. The Chinese are called Machina). The Chinese came to Lesotho primarily to, you guessed it, make money. And make money they have. The Basotho are happy to work for low wages and long hours and the Chinese are happy to oblige. Well as with all workers, the Basotho feel there over worked. On top of that, the Machina shops have a bad reputation. Most Basotho think the Chinese are trying to cheat them and exploit them (which may be true at least a little bit.) The misunderstandings have lead to out right racism on the part of the Basotho. To hear them talk about the Chinese is like attending a Klan rally some times. Its gotten so bad that Peace Corps wont even allow Asian Americans to serve in Lesotho.

With their money the Chinese usually buy cars for themselves (but not nice ones, usually run down trucks), so to see a Chinese woman on a taxi with me was a surprise! I was straight up staring! My world had been rocked to see a Chinese on public transport.

Then it hit me. When I hop on a taxi I often get looks. When I walk down the street people will stop and stare. At the shops the cashiers often don’t even know what to do.

Now I know why.

Seeing this Chinese woman put me right in the shoes of the Basotho who stare at me. I was right there with ‘em. Now I get it.

At the same time I felt a certain affinity to this Chinese woman. Sympathy, compassion, empathy. I had been (and still was) in her shoes.

The Chinese don’t really get out much (who can blame them, some times there are physical assaults!) and don’t really talk to outsiders. We have a volunteer here who spent some years over in China with a study abroad program and speaks Mandarin. I’m rather jealous.

I think the Chinese story in Lesotho is one that’s not getting told.

It’s the New Year! Happy 2009 everybody.

I hope it’s a good one.

One tradition I’ve never been too good at was the formulation (and completion) of New Years resolutions. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the concept. I even like it. Here you are, at the arbitrary changing of numbers and you naturally look back at your life and say “damn, what have I been doing?”

So you try to change.

Its just that I lack that self reflective, objective ability to see fault in myself. Some call that humility. I’m more or less awesome.

Ok, that was mostly a joke, but in all honestly its been hard in the past to pin point exactly what it is about my life that I want changed. There are the old stand by’s; exercise more, spend less money, read more books, but these aren’t really things I “dislike” about my self, or even think I’m doing “wrong”, just things that everyone should be doing more of (or less of as it comes to spending money).

This year is different. This will be an entire year spent in a different hemisphere. I will spend 365 days in a place I’m not native to and where most people don’t speak my language. This makes the New Years Resolution thing all the more challenging. For starters I can say I defiantly don’t need to read much more than I do now. The old stand-by’s are gone. Whats going to take they’re place?

Save the world more?

Do cool things more?

See Africa more?

None of it seems to fit.

I always felt that New Years Resolutions should be something that takes real courage and real personal insight to first, admit and second, to complete. They should be things about yourself that truly, honestly, need changing. If its easy it probably doesn’t mean much.

Or maybe I’m asking too much from a simple resolution.

The moral, I suppose, is that this entire year will be a total mystery.

Bring it on 2009!

An idea! Post your New Years Resolution’s here in the comments section. I’d love to read what you all plan on doing with your lives in the coming year.

Don’t worry, I don’t judge too much.

Non-gender specific Man really is a social animal. Everything we do is in one way or another a product of those around us. When we run off into the wild we are still only rebelling against our inner nature. A key part of this society that so defines us is our community. Community can mean so many different things and take on so many different aspects but these communities are ultimately what decides our fate.

Or gives us a lift to Durban.

A few PCV's and myself spent Christmas at Malealea Lodge some place in the middle west of Lesotho. Good times. We sat, drank, and ate. More or less the things your supposed to do on vacation. I really came to appreciate my little Peace Corps community as we shared in the yule tide. Whatever that is. (I like to picture a wave of presents coming down out of the mountains in a giant wave that cuts you off from shore and any rational, economic control on your money).

In that case community gave me something to do and a feeling of home (however fleeting).

Having traveled around now for a bit I've realized that I belong to another community. One I've always kind of taken for granted.

I'm American!

Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into a "I love America! Screw the world!" type of post.

So there I was at Malealea lodge, enjoying myself, sitting at the bar (as we sometimes have been known to do). Were talking with some Canadians who are doing a tour of South Africa and I happen to say "oh, I'm from the Chicago Area" (easier to say than to explain where DeKalb is). A guy sitting at the bar turns around and says "really? Where at?"

"DeKalb" Kevin said, expecting the guy to be stumped.

"DeKalb? Where NIU is at. I'm from Kankakee." explained the man in the green shirt. "My parents both went to NIU. What brings you to Lesotho?"

After some explanation of my mission here with Peace Corps and hearing about how he and his wife work with the International Aids Vaccine Intuitive in Zambia and hang out with PCV's all the time, Bob in the green shirt asks,

"Where are you off to next?"

"We're heading over to Durban the day after tomorrow. How about you?"

"We'll be leaving for Durban at the same time! You should tag along." Bob offered.

So I did.

Along with this other PCV from Namibia we happened to run into.

Good times had by all.

Money is great! I mean, really, it’s a cool idea. I do stuff, and they give me little bits of paper that I can give to someone else who will add some numbers for me. With these numbers I can go some place and trade numbers, that don’t even EXIST on paper unless I make them print the numbers out, for cool things!

Like Senate seats!

But I don’t have many numbers. At least not enough to buy myself a spot in the U.S. Senate. Do you think Blago takes credit?

As I’m sure most of you who would be reading this know, Mr. Rod Blagoiavich (not even going to try to spell it right) was arrested for trying to sell, among other things, Mr. Obama’s former Senate seat. Why he would do this, I’m not so sure. Is he that hard up for cash? Is he a celpto? Maybe he has a money bin thats running low.

Dude, you have like 5 houses, have a garage sale or something.

Perhaps the second most common statement people make to me is something along the lines of “when you run for Senate…”, or “when you’re President…” as if simply because I speak well (“you have a great voice.” First most common) and like politics its destined to happen.

I have no recollection of anyone asking me what I want.

A friend of mine once questioned “why did you join Peace Corps?” I gave her the closest thing to an answer I could at the time, save the world, help people, become a better man. She said it in that voice that means “why would someone like you do something like that?” So I asked back, “why do you think I joined Peace Corps?”

“To advance your political carrier.”

Can’t say I’ve ever been more hurt before. Where did you people get this idea? I mean really? It seems people think that my Peace Corps branch is growing out of the Politics limb which is connected to the tree of my life.

Your wrong.

The reason I love politics (and the only thing that MIGHT lead me to EVER run for office, something I don’t want to do, but will if people think I’d be good at it) and the reason I joined Peace Corps are limbs of the same branch.

Cheese alert.

I genuinely, honestly, with all my heart believe the world can be a better place. Yet this can only happen if someone works for it. Someone like me. I think that politics (policy, law, justice) is an effective way to MAKE the world a better place, a way for me to ensure that the sun shines bright and the rainbows are pretty. Peace Corps is the same. I, Kevin P. Malone, have to do something to reach the dream. If I want the world to be a better place I need to do it. And Peace Corps is how I choose to do that.

So lay off dude!

Getting enough numbers in the bank to be a Senator would help make the world a better place too.

Speaking of numbers in the bank, I’m going to Durban for New Years! If anyone wants to give me a nice x-mass gift, some money in the bank would help a ton. My dad can deposit it if you like.

That’s my x-mass wish list. Numbers in the bank.

Merry Christmas if I don’t post before then!

My dad’s wife (step-mother?) Peggy just got back from a trip to Nigeria with a travel nursing program. She shot me an e-mail talking a little about what was going on and how it was. A line from that has stuck with me.

She said “They are richer than we are in many ways, if you know what I mean.”

I do know what you mean.

The people here, at least in Lesotho, are truly amazing. They have a sense of community I have never experienced before. They do things for each other that in America we wouldn’t even think of let alone do. They are friendly, welcoming, hard working. The potential is incredible!

And this is where the tragedy of it all really lies.

In the CHED program it is my job to “facilitate” projects. That means I just help get them organized and off the ground but leave the real work to the Basotho. In my short time here I have experienced that potential I spoke of, and seen how little initiative many have. To make an unfair, blanket criticism of the entire culture, most of this amazing potential is wasted. Largely because most people can “made due” with the little they have many don’t even try to better their position. There’s no ambition to make their community a better place, to work hard to make everyone’s lives improve. You see how much they could accomplish if they stuck with it and tried.

But they don’t.

This is hard hard work.

Keep in mind that this is just a generalization and as with most generalizations it is unfair and not a true representation of all involved. There are many many Basotho who do work hard for their community, who really do understand and utilize their potential. But the few who don’t really set the rest back.

Life is a strange thing. As we stand on the precipice of today we look out at the horizon of our lives and see the mountain tops of jobs, the vast Oceans of marriage, and the open fields of possibilities. We see these obstacles and opportunities and recognize them for what they are. We use our rational abilities to break down the mountain, find the path to the top, understand the value and danger of each peak, each path, each cliff face. We understand the oceans can bring us both happiness and disaster, we realize the horizon is a dangerous, glorious place.

So we plan. We plot. We think about it.

Yet some times as our heads are turned upwards, our minds milling on the possibilities, as we diligently march toward the future, we forget about the snakes in the grass. Those things that have no part in your life and you none in theirs. Dangers that are happy to leave you be and you’d as soon ignore. When you least expect it, happily trudging along, you step on the poor beast and the Snake bites you in the ass.

Let me assure you, when a snake bites you in the ass you forget about the mountains and oceans.

I posted something like this on facebook maybe a year or so ago. I often think about it, the analogy of the snake and the challenge of the mountains. It’s really unfair, I happen to be a fan of snakes in general. (They have always been a symbol of wisdom). I thought I would re-write it and re-post it.

I think about it because it often strikes me as true. People spent a lot of their lives thinking about the future, stressing about the “big things” in life, yet the issues that cause us the most trouble are more often then not the ones we don’t even notice. They are things that wouldn’t make it into an A&E special about our lives. These things are seemingly inconsequential. But they hurt.

Its been a hard November for me. A lot has happened that has kept me on my toes and out of bed. Stress, worry, pressure. Things have “gone down”, much of which I don’t feel like sharing in a public forum. No one thing is really of much consequence but the sum of all the parts adds up fast.

It has been kind of nice to be around other PCV’s and be able to forget my worries for a bit, but like most things it only masks the problems. I still have to figure stuff out, work out (wet) problems, and come to conclusions.

The ball lands in my court just when I thought it was half-time.

It was Ben Franklyn I think who said “Beer is proof that god loves us.” Or something along those lines. Theological issues aside, being a 24 year old male, I’m inclined to agree! (cheers!) But if Beer is proof of God’s love, then the devil has devised something even more devious to prove his hate. The Rooster.

I recall growing up seeing cartoon images of this noble creature sitting atop the barn, watching diligently for the coming of the new day. The rooster, lord of the barnyard, herald of Apollo, would cock-his-doodle-doo the moment the golden life giving orb crested the horizon. The humble farmer, sound asleep next to his homely wife, would cheerfully awaken at the call and begin an honest days work, the wife none the wiser.

Propaganda.

Lies.

The truth is much more chilling and not near as noble. For starters, the farmer, awaken from blissful slumber would be angry. The rooster, never content to simply call his message from the safety of the barn roof, dwells in the lowly places, waiting in ambush. He sneaks his feathery way under the farmer’s very window, to ensure this harpy’s cry will reach its unsuspecting victim with maximum effect. And like the cry of the harpy, the farmer, sailing happily through slumberland, is drawn to the smashing rocks of wakefulness. All the happy thoughts and dreams, all his hopes and aspirations, are doomed form the moment this foul foul begins his days work. Yes, this bringer of doom is a master at his craft, finding the perfect angle, the ideal pitch, the precise moment when your dreams are sweetest and thus you are most vulnerable. Ripped from Slumberland, Shanghaied back to bitter reality, the dreamer is left to chase the wisps of fading drams.

And the real tragedy of it all, the fact that changes this simple event from a mere nuisance to an out right act of evil, is that the sun, that sweet, warm, wonderful orb, is still an hour from rising.

I have no love for the rooster.

I must say, it is strange not waking up well before dawn to work the day away. Today is the big day. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I would say the fate of the world rests in the balance!

And I’m not there to help.

If Obama wins today, it will mean something great to the world and to myself. To put it into perspective, an Obama victory would mean the first progressive-liberal President in my lifetime. I will finally be able to see what true liberalism (in the modern American sense) can do for the world. Lets recap.

I was born in 1984. My Commander and Chief at that time was none other than the great conservative hero Ronald Regan! Luckily (as I have learned) I don’t remember much of him. I imagine I wasn’t a happy infant. Nor would I have been a happy young child if I understood what was going on. Next George Bush the First then became President. My first memories are of King Bush the First. I recall a few snippets of news relating to the first Gulf War. I recall a number of public address’ interrupting my nighttime MacGyver watching with my mom though I couldn’t tell you what was happening.

Then, in 3rd grade, Bill Clinton was elected! For the record, I voted for Ross Perrot (sp?) because I felt sorry for him. (I felt he should get at least ONE vote in my 3rd grade class!) Now Clinton, in all his great Democratness wasn’t really a progressive liberal. However much Rush Limbaugh might have wanted us to believe he was a Communist or Evil Socialist, the truth is he was moderate. NAFTA, not really progressive. And with all the shutdowns of congress, he was a stalling tactic at best, holding back the tide of Conservative bull-crap (self censorship, good job!) for a few years. So much potential.

And now we have George Bush the Second. I hardly need to go into details about the evil’s brought down on us by King Bush the Second.

By all accounts, tomorrow will be the beginning of the Obama years. A true progressive, though pragmatic (taking after my own heart). The potential is great and the optimism is even greater.

So I would like to make this warning. At the heart of it, Mr. Obama is still just one man. His power, however great, is still limited. It would be folly for us to think that now, with one office filled, we will have the utopia we have all been dreaming of. It would be a mistake for us to assume great change will sweep the nation on Nov. 5th. The change that needs to happen is only fractionally possible through the oval office, and will require a level of commitment and hard work we haven’t seen in decades (if at all). The true change rests in us, the people. The work that needs to be done must be done by you. We need to be the change we want to see in the world.

The real work, has just begun.

I would like you to imagine for a moment a man (for I think I can call myself that now) getting ready for an adventure that will take him across continents and oceans. He is packing his belongings and chooses (poorly) to pack three pairs of pants. Fast forward four months. Having only three pairs of pants, this young man (a compromise) discovers much to his dismay, that Africa is not kind on Pants. Infact, it is downright cruel! He wears them every day (for to go without pants would be shameful) and this only adds to their lament! The holes get wider and the grease stains darker. He could buy pants here, but he would then have to conform to a bizarre, “French” fashion he is not too comfortable with (not that he has ever been comfortable with fashion, which is why this new crisis is all the more worrisome!) The fool, the half wit, the boy!

I’ve been reading too much, who says “half wit” these days?

By chance I was at “the lodge” the other day and caught a re-airing of the 2nd presidential debate on Al Jazzeira (sp?). Well, it was too good to last. The last debate was so inspiring and “dream like” that I got my hopes up. I should know better by now. It seems just when I think something is going good, just when I see a real change in the world for the better, something comes along and ruins it. The second debate was far too much bickering. I was yelling at the TV screen (much to Daniel’s, the short Basotho barman, dismay) for Obama to DROP IT! Take the higher road! I was begging McCain to let some low blows slide and not get into a tug of war way off topic!

A friend of mine described the first debate as “two ships passing in the night”. If that’s the case this is a full scale maritime disaster! Cannons were rolled out, boarding parties mustered and all for… nothing. In the end neither accomplished much than showing that they too can be petty.

I still love Obama but dude, come on.

“Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare current”

“They change their sky but not their soul who cross the ocean”

-Horace

Look at me, all intellectual and stuff quoting some dead guy in Latin! I came across this quotation while eating pizza with far to little sauce at a little place in Butha-Buthe in Lesotho. For obvious reasons this quotation appealed to me. I have since been trying to determine the truth of it. While on the one hand I can say the sky has changed (the stars at night are something you should behold. The constellations are all wrong, the moon upside down! The milky way a bright belt across the bulging sky!) I wonder about the second half of that, the consistency of the soul. At the risk of getting to “existential” I’d like to give you some insight into my unchanged (or changed?) soul.

I am, at the heart of it, inclined to agree with Horace. On the one hand I can say without a doubt that I have changed. I have grown in ways I never thought I would (in just 4 months!) and I have learned things I would have otherwise never known. These changes and growths, however profound, have done little to change my core beliefs. Infact, I can say now that I believe more strongly in my world view. The hopeless idealist, in the face of stark reality, has nowhere else to turn but inward, back to the idealism that drove him to reality. At the core, my morals and values are the same. I still, despite the idiocy I see, the selfishness that America can only HOPE to achieve, the single minded attitudes that are so harmful, believe that every person is, at the core good. My sky is different, for sure, but my soul, for better or worse, will never change.

One thing I will never forgive is pizza without sauce. Who taught them how to make pizza? Who would be so reckless and unforgiving!?!

When I was younger I remember hearing stories about great conflicts between mysical men called "Statesmen". Older folk would tell of these meetings, where two opponents would meet, questions asked, and answers (real ones!) given! These men would discuss something called policy, attack each others ideas based on evidence and something known as the "greater good". These debates, I'm told, were listened to by Americans the nation over and oftentimes, these Americans, would listen to the policies, discuss the policies, and then vote based on policies! These "Statesmen" didn't dodge questions just to talk about how great they are and how the opponent was terrible. They had something akin to "respect" for one another. What that was doing in politics I couldn't tell you.

I often wondered what this would look like, a debate where candidates focused on the issues and answered the questions using facts and logic. Thankfully, this myth was nearly attained the other night when Obama and McCain held their first presidential debate. Dont misunderstand me, they still stooped from time to time back into the traditional slandering, talking points, "I love children and my opponent hates children" format of the past. But largely the two answered questions, rebutted points with facts and logic, and really made the debate a class act.

Thank you candidates!

Hey Folks! Its been a while since I last wrote you, my apologizes. I could give you some excuse, like I've been very busy with work, or had no time while trying to get the old homestead in order, or even the all encompassing "I'm in Africa" excuse, but none of those really capture the true reasons. Namely, I've been lazy. Work has been less involving that I would hope. Still no "real" projects to report. Tomorrow I will be teaching someone about book keeping for his small business. That's about the extent of my work so far. I am trying to get myself established in the community still and define my role here. All easier said than done. The two foreign owners of the lodge, Chris and Nick, came in for the big grand opening on Thursday the 11th. There here until tomorrow and we'll be sitting down to discuss development plans for the surrounding communities. Both are Australian, Chris still lives in Australia and Nick lives in Durban South Africa. The old homestead is coming together nicely, though I have yet to begin any of the outdoor work. No garden, no pond (which I'm beginning to wonder if it will happen, the water level is just too low) no natural paradise. Yet. The inside is very nice, I now have an area rug and curtains. The rug took a hit the other day. I found a recipe for Honey Oat Bread, and had a day to myself at home, so I thought I'd make it. The bread itself turned out just great. It has both honey and oats in it. I didn't even burn the bread. The baking part of the bread baking didn't turn out so great. As you are no doubt aware, bread rises. The recipe called to let the bread rise for about 20 minutes or until it had doubled in size. Well apparently the doubling didn't take 20 minutes. By the time I came back inside (I was reading outside, as I often do) the bread was overflowing its pan, slightly spilling over the sides. In itself, not a problem. So I proceeded to the baking step, 50-60 minutes on low-med heat in my Dutch oven. For those of you who are unaware of what a Dutch oven is, it's a giant metal pot (I think 20 liters) with a lid, a pot you might make soup for 20 people in, and you place whatever you hope to bake inside on top of a tin can (I use a tuna can). This was all well and good until the overflowing bits of bread began to fall off the bread onto the bottom of the oven and burn. This puts us at 15 minutes into the baking process. I notice the smoke a split second before the smoke detector does (peace corps gives us all smoke detectors, though I'm not sure it would be much use in my one room, dung wall, thatch roof hut). The goal now is to remove the burning from the heat. I can't reach in and pull the pieces out by hand without burning my arm all the way up (curse these massive guns I have for arms) so my brain tells me "Kevin, remove the entire oven". Good idea at the time. I get my pot holders, remove the entire 20 liter pot, and place it on the floor. Lets recap. We have a giant pot with burning bread inside that has had fire applied directly to the bottom for at least 15 minutes (more like 20 now). It's hot. We have a brand new rug on the floor, purchased for 400R and made of what I would soon discover is Nylon (or some other plastic based thread). The end result is I now have a perfect hole in my rug the size of my dutch oven. On top of it, the local kids who like to watch me (I feel like a zoo animal some times) may have learned a few words of English they shouldn't have. The good news, after I removed the burnt chucks of bread, scraped the nylon/plastic of the rug off the bottom of the dutch oven, and swore a few times, I did end up with delicious Honey Oat Bread. Such is life. In all things are going well here. The weather is warming up, things are turning green, life is gaining some feeling of normalcy. In a place where 1/3 of the population has HIV/AIDS, half of the young adults (age 18-35) are infected with HIV/AIDS, unemployment is well over 50%, and ranked one of the poorest countries in the world, you would think it would be hard for a "normal life" to emerge. It's not. Just like everywhere else in the world, people wake up in the morning, go about their chores, eat meals, laugh, sing, play. People are happy, or at least not sad, a lot of the time. People adapt I guess, I feel myself adapting as well. Several days ago I saw a spider the size of a half dollar on my wall. It was large enough that its eyes reflected the blue of my head lamp (just as dog eyes appear blue at night from the head lamp). Something you should know (and I probably shouldn't admit) is that I am terrified of spiders. At some early age I saw the movie Arachnophobia. Ever since then the things have creeped me out. In the States, seeing one the size of a half-dollar would have sent me into a bug killing frenzy! Poison filling the air, newspapers falling on the poor creature from every direction like a savage, deadly hair storm. And that's more or less what happened this time around. I went at it with my broom, trying to impale it on the bristles. After my strike, I didn't see a smear on the wall so I assumed I missed. Hunting, I find it again, behind the head of my bed, this time the deadly stomp of my shoe leaves a satisfying smear on the ground. Pleased with myself I turn to continue dinner preperations when I see the glitter of blue that I recognized the first time I saw my foe. There was a second one. This one I dispatched more quickly, as he (or she more likely) was unaware of the danger lurking behind that stupid human face. I was still clutching the broom at this point, a little disturbed by the abundance of giant spiders near the head of my bed, when I look at the bristles of the broom. There is that first spider, twitching, impaled, clinging to life. Suddenly the count of half dollar sized spiders rose from 2, to 3. That is an increase of 50%. This is where I noticed the change in me. I had adapted. I simply put down the broom, and went about my business. No more panic, no more worry. My inner self, the one filled with hate and distain for spiders (though I appreciate their presence I cant tolerate their sight), was still there of course, but a new Kevin peeked his head out. One who resolved to be crawled on as he slept, one who would no longer commit all his energy to something so small and trivial. Lying awake that night, contemplating the thatch of the roof, I realized this was endemic of a larger change. Despite giant death spiders, in the face of HIV/AIDS, living with terrible poverty, life must be lived. A friend of mine a few days back sent me a Facebook message (for my older readers, it's a website where people can talk and have profiles and stay connected, a life saver for someone over seas) asking something along the lines of "what advice would you give someone who wanted to quit their career and join the Peace Corps?" I wrote back "do it". The advice part was a little harder. They tell you over and over again to leave all expectations in the states. Peace Corps will be nothing you expect. And that turned out to be true in more ways that I can tell you. It turned out to be true in ways I didn't expect (mistake, I know). Its not a giant eye opening moment where you realize your in another country, no one place or one thing that drives it home. Its all the little moments that add up. Burning a hole in your carpet, killing spiders, waiting for a taxi to fill up. The small things. The advice I wanted to give him was "you will change, grow, be different, and not even know its happened." But just hearing that, you wont really "get it" (sorry, but its true). So I struggle with the advise, and the change. Wow, that was deep. Lets lighten the mood a bit. Rumor here is that Football season has started! No one tells me nothin', so please, fill me in! How are the Huskies doing? Will we finally clench that MAC championship (for what its worth)? The Bears I hear won their first game, good start. How are the cubbies doing? I was flipping the channels here at the lodge (once in a blue moon I get to watch some TV around this joint) and on the menu (its digital satellite TV) it said ESPN – MLB Baseball. You cant imagine how excited I got. But alas, they don't subscribe to ESPN here, so I must go without. I also heard wind that McCain is 4 points up in the polls?! Whats going on over there!? Do people really like McCain? I'm not too worried yet, I've always said you can give Obama a 5 point bump from any poll you take. The way polls work, for those who don't know and care, is that the pollsters look the voting history and make a list. Everyone who has voted in (usually) the last two presidential elections, and (sometimes) one off year election are generally the polling group. So they call them up, ask them "who are you going to vote for?" (though I'm sure they use fancy statistical words) and then add up the votes. So only people who vote and vote a lot are considered. Well, Obama is likely to pull in a significant number of new voters. Young kids who have never registered or voted before, older folks who have missed, or didn't care, or have been disenchanted, and these crazy new young professionals who suddenly feel represented by this young, hip guy. I generalize that into 5 points. But you cant run a campaign on speculation. The Obama folks need to start working like their losing. Hit the mattresses (as fans of the Godfather like to say way too often). Strike home! This guy wants to stay in Iraq for 100 years! This guy sold out in 2000 to the far right! If anyone is a slimy politian John McCain is. Look at his presidential platform of 2000 and look at it now. Opportunist! Sell out! Pandering! Spineless? Ok, a little too far. You get my point. Thanks for reading my ramblings and keep me informed! I need letters (e-mail and other wise), I need news, I need connection to the outside world. Help me out. Thanks, Kevin

It's about time I updated my means of communications. The Mass E-mails have been nice (and they will continue, as it forces many of you to reply and talk to me!) but this way I can reach a global audience! With that strange arrogance that comes from writing and having no one to talk to but the spiders and myself (who else do I need to talk to really?) I suddenly feel my musings may be interesting to more than just my friends and family.

I'm going to begin small, post my previous mass e-mail up here and maybe a few comments about what's happen since. I'm not sure what form this blog will take, but if nothing else it will be a fun experiment.

I hope you enjoy!