Walkin'

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

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

The children always ask me what I’m doing.

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

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

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

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

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

I can do anything.

I can do nothing.

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

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

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

What has the last two years been?

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

A Ramble on Romance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am deficient in romance.

Unromantic.

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

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

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

Movies.

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

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

I got on a little rant there.

Anyway, here’s to Valentines Day.

A Cultural Exchange

I don’t dance

I have never been known for my dancing abilities. I have that unfortunate combination of genes that both obliterate rhythm and coordination. Add to that a complete disconnect from what music is “hip” and “cool” and you get someone who, for the greater good and a love of humanity, stays away from the dance floor.

This was fine and good for the first 24 years of my life. I was able to fake it enough, bob my head when I needed too, shuffle my feet when asked, and rock back and forth. I could shimmy my way across the dance floor to the place where others with my unfortunate condition congregate. Couches, kitchens, tables, and porches. These were my sanctuaries.

In Peace Corps when you get four or more volunteers in the same place with anything resembling a beat or sounds that are close to music (and I’ve noticed the sounds don’t have to sound much like music) you suddenly have a gathering that falls into the category of “Dance Party”. I’m not sure what happened to good ol’ fashioned parties, but they appear to have gone the way of the dodo, being completely replaced with what the trendy folk call a “DP”.

It became clear that my old tricks and strategies were of no use. In a one room rondaval the kitchen is the dance floor, there are no couches, the two chairs have been pushed aside, no group of smokers to hide in. Its all DP all the time. No sanctuary, no hope.

So you dance.

And I've danced.

When Peace Corps asked me if I was ready for new cultural experiences I never imagined this. What is someone like myself supposed to do? I’m not entirely sure what’s supposed to happen when you’re on the dance floor. Frank Sinatra led me to believe that dancing was “making love to music”, but if that’s the case, the love making going on here wouldn’t have a place on Showtime. It’s the kind that would exist behind the little black curtain in the video store. “Bumping” and “Grinding” looks like a high risk behavior, something where you call up your doctor the day after.

Yet I dance.

I change.

I adapt.

For I am human.

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

Fightin'

I’m itchin’ for a fight. I have been for a while.

We just received three new volunteers here in Butha-Buthe. They’re all nice, optimistic, hopeful young kids. They’ll undoubtedly change the world (and Africa along the way!). To an old veteran like me it’s nice to see the fresh energy, the new faces, the hope and pleasure of being a volunteer.

It reminds me why I came and how I felt at first.

I’ve spent some time with these newbies, showed them around town a bit, tried to convey some of the finer points of life and travel in Lesotho. The difficulty is in keeping my jaded bitter old thoughts to myself. Last night one of the newbies asked me what the hardest part of Peace Corps has been. I gave the usual answers, missing friends, family, projects falling apart, lack of motivation in myself and others, ect, ect, bullshit, bullshit…

Then a thought occurred to me. Something I had had a feeling of for some time but never put to words. Something that had been festering under the skin for the past year or so, growing and breeding and lead to a lot of my frustrations.

I wanted a fight.

I didn’t want to lay my sudden insight on the poor guy, so here I am, laying it on you. You’re the outlet for keeping hope and optimism alive as long as possible.

Here in Lesotho I act as a facilitator. That’s a fancy way of saying I don’t “own” the projects I work on. None of them are “mine”, and that’s the point. They should be “owned” by the Basotho. The ideas should be community driven, initiated, and executed while I just sit there and give them the ability to achieve their goals. Skill transfer, an idea sounding board, maybe just a little bit of money. I’m the tool box, they’re the carpenters.

This Sucks. Nothing is mine. I don’t feel the passionate need to “go to the mattresses”. I don’t say up at night worrying about success or failure. So much of it is out of my hands that its hard to get worked up over it. I miss the days of really fighting the good fight. I miss applying myself to a task, which was in my own hands to achieve, and really working out the short and long of it. In short, I miss the conflict, the struggle, the challenge.

I’m itchin’ for a fight.

Watch out.

Just thoughts

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

My mind then goes blank.

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

We will never see the change we make.

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

Its hard.

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

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

Memories related but meaning lost.

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

I Havn't Forgotten...

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

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

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

Adios

Race and Magazines

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

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

The white people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


So lessons learned?
1. All white guys look the same.
2. We still have a long way to go in passive race equality.

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

A few thoughts

A few thoughts.

Here I sit, in a coffee shop (!?!) in Bloemfontein. Since the program I’m trying to download looks like its going to take an hour and not to mention (which I am) I’m so detached from the news I don’t even know who they’re talking about let alone what terrible thing they might have done to get on the internet news sites, you folks will get a blog post.

In celebration of my new found internet access (to last another 56 min if the download manager is to be believed, which is folly) I will leave you with a few thoughts and opinions on world affairs.

I saw “State of Play” last night and rather enjoyed it. As you climb into the passenger seat of this political/journalist thriller you clearly see ahead of you that the plot will take you up steep climbs, sudden valleys, and hair pin turns. The movie isn’t a safe driver that gently slows for plot points, instead it hugs the turns and zips past mini-vans full of sub-characters, leaving you gripping the “o-shit” bar in the car and thinking of all the ways this plot, and you, might get smashed to bloody bits. But they pull it off. The plot slows as it pulls out of the forest and you see home sweet home off on the horizon. Just as the movie is winding down and the hero’s have things figured out, your otherwise competent plot suddenly loses control of the action and off you careen.

Just one plot twist too many.

Smithereens is the word that comes to mind.

But its good!

And it did something dangerous, it started me thinking. To be fair the idea had occurred to me on a number of occasions in the last few years but now I have both the time and means to put pen (or digital representations of pen) to paper.

Back “in the day”, meaning any time in the past I don’t remember, including some Saturday nights not so long ago (jk jk, I am a very responsible young man, mom), you had news papers which openly and proudly supported a political agenda. You would walk up to the newsy and say “Cherri-o my boy! What daily be ye peddling this morn?”

“Tis’ the ‘Capitalist Pig Press’ good sir!” the Newsy would reply.

“’The Capitalist Pig Press’!? Why that’s printed by them Capitalist Pigs!”

“Tis’, sir, tis’.”

“I’ll take one!” you happily proclaim. Knowing the bias of ‘The Capitalist Pig Press’, you saunter down the boardwalk, for people walked on board walks then, and pick up yourself the rival paper, ‘The Socialist Scum Gazette’, and thus you got your news.

By and large this worked to a point. ‘The Capitalist Pig Press’ would run a story in support of some capitalist pig project and then ‘The Socialist Scum Gazette’ would run a story against it, and thus real discussion (at least in a journalistic way) would occur. Knowing what you were getting yourself into also allowed the general public to filter and self censor. A modern day example would be Fox news. We all know they support the Neo-Con’s and far right. When we turn to Fox News we know were not getting “fair, and balanced coverage” (or you should, you’re a damn fool if you think otherwise), and this arms you against their agenda. (As I’ll discuss later, the guise of fair and balanced, if believed, disarms this one advantage we as rational actors have.)

Editors note: Have I just written a word in favor of Fox News? Check the sky for pigs (of the capitalist kind I’m sure)

There are pitfalls of course. Yellow journalism is one. The danger of the agenda overstepping the Journalistic Integrity (whatever that is). Yet, in my humble but absolutely correct opinion, these pitfalls exist in our current “unbiased” façade we call journalism today, and there a lot more dangerous.

As the system works today, journalists are expected to be neutral and unopinionated. They are expected to put whatever they believe, think or feel (if they do, in fact, feel at all) to one side. Find me someone who can do that and I’ll show you someone losing their humanity. Neutrality is honored above facts. Truth takes a back seat to some mythical “balance”. Worst of all, because our journalists are human (gasp!) they don’t have a prayer of ever reaching the neutrality they so long for.

Thus it happens that we can pick up a news paper (or more likely log on to the internet), read an article, pretend its non-biased, and get everything wrong. When the bias of the author, or publication, or owners is hidden form the public view they can then manipulate the readers.

You see the general frustration of this system playing out in our new media outlets (and some old). The success of website like MoveOn.org and DailyKos (to name some liberal, progressive ones) and of radio hosts like Rush Limbaugh, (to name an idiot) is strong evidence that people want a slant. The integrity of Wolf “Best-name-ever” Blitzer has suddenly become a liability, not an asset. I don’t know what kind of snake oil Wolf is feeding me because he doesn’t tell me.

At least with Rush I know what I’m getting.

Don’t think I’m calling for the tearing down of the journalistic establishment. We still need news coverage and we need hard facts. I’m just asking for everyone to appreciate what we really have in the blogosphere (what a stupid name for it) and why its so important that we get someone on the other side, not afraid to call themselves what they are, to counter Rush.

Its all just an idea. Maybe I’m both Ignorant and Stupid.

Likely.

Michael Jackson is dead.

I was never much of a fan (I didn’t dislike his music, just never got into it) but you have to admit, that kid could dance!

While I’m on the media high horse I have a few things to say about MJ.

All the media coverage is a bit excessive but I think we have all come to expect that, but what really got to me was the “need” to play the 911 tape. How does this advance the story? How is the public served by hearing the panic of someone seeing his friend/family member (no idea who made the call) die?

Its sick.

That’s that.

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.

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.