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

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.

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.

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.

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!

The Tragedy of it all.

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

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

I do know what you mean.

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

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

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

But they don’t.

This is hard hard work.

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

An Ode to Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Bane

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

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

Propaganda.

Lies.

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

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

I have no love for the rooster.