Burrito

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

"What kind of burrito would you like?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you must.

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

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

Its Snowing

Its been awhile.

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

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

This has not been the case.

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

The usual laments of a 20 something.

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

Read the book, its good.

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

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

Now, I can only measure myself against the reality.

Readjustment

People keep asking me "hows America?"

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

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

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

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

The poor guys didn't have a chance!

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

It was glorious!

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

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

A few things I learned;

1. American hot sauce is not as hot as I recall.

2. There is such a thing as too many wings

3. An individual who has been a defacto vegetarian for two years should never, ever, ever, ever, eat a meal that is 99% meat and 1% spicy hot sauce.

4. Dont chase your dreams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leavin' on a Jet Plane!

Thats what your supposed to write in posts like these.

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

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

Sorry, you wont get it.

Not yet anyway.

Instead I present for your consideration:

Wavin' Flag

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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-individuals!

The system works. And doesn't stop working. Ever.

Be grateful.

I do get over zealous at times. For the record (Peace Corps Washington/Big Brother take note) I have no access to dynamite. There is a Lesotho Defence Force base less than 2 or 3 K down the road from the Post office. Despite my best efforts and most persuasive arguments (and I can be very persuasive) they still wont lend me any dynamite.

So I wait. I wait for the mail man to get to better. I wait for public institutions to catch up with the 21^st 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