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?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A few thoughts
A few thoughts.
Here I sit, in a coffee shop (!?!) in
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
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.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Too long
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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Small Things
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Dog’s, Sharks, and Car’s
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’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.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
A long walk
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Happy St. Patrick's Day
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.
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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
America is great
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.
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.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The mail, the roof and the Wardrobe. 1/28/09
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.
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.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
So the Mail Man is Sick
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-
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
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