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.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
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
Friday, January 16, 2009
A strange ride
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Happy New Year and all that Jazz
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.
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.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The American Community
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A rant on Politics
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!
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!
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