The Good. The Bad. The Rat. The Ntate.

The Conversation

On the way back from TY, when I land at my stop I have a pleasant 45 minute walk to my house. Now usually I enjoy listening to my epic, relaxing music while whistling to myself but a ‘M’e who got off the taxi with me was in an awfully chatty mood which got me talking too. I was expecting the typical conversation, which is:

“Hello. How are you?”
“I am good and you?”
“I am well. Where are you from?” “Ntate Ntate Ntate”

This may be a grandiose fantasizing about the exchange, but it went more like this:

“Abuti, when you first came here, you were weak and scared.”
“Oh, yes ‘M’e”
“But now, you are strong, you are a man. You speak Sesotho. You know how to walk to TY. You are not scared. You are no longer the boy we saw last year.”
“Thank you ‘M’e.”
“You know Fobane. You are Mosotho. Now you are Ntate.”

This woman, in just a few sentences, encouraged me so intensely, during an especially offsetting time. She was right, she witnessed my transformation. I am not saying I have changed in personality, but my confidence at least within Lesotho and in travelling has transcended my original expectations.

And perhaps the following little, terrible annoyances and unfortunate hilarities that have recently plagued me can attest and validate the transformation this woman has seen in me.

The Rat

One day I had to poop. It was a bright, beautiful morning and I made my way for the outdoor latrine. Recently my father visited and encouraged me to buy a real toilet seat, and my latrine is pretty much brand new. I always consider my latrine situation to be pretty much 2nd world, which is all I ask and aim for. While sitting and doing my business (which usually I am mighty quick) a gigantic field rat scurried under my latrine door. I freaked out pants at my ankles rushing to try and open my door to exit. The rat jumped on my left ran around the seat approached me from the right and ran back out the door. I gave myself a quick wipe and pulled my pants back up and ran. I haven’t visited my latrine since.

The Flying Solar 

While working in my house with a few students on some maths (yes we say maths) problems on a windy day, my solar just leapt from the ground still attached to the car battery. It was as if there was a very small dense boxy child playing with a very heavy expensive rectangular kite. Then as I ran to attend the issue and bring in my “precious” the wires ripped off and the solar darted down towards the primary school. Luckily the wind died down and I was able to retrieve it and tend to its wounds.

The Taxi Door

While on my way back from TY, a motor commute of just about 15 minutes, the sliding door of the taxi (American large minivan) flew off while we were driving. We went back for it and quickly expunged the issue, but it was still quite an unexpected event.

Software Update

The ios7 update recently came out for the iPad and iPhone. Internet in town is generally good enough for things, but these updates are insanely big and blunderingly slow to download. While working on some kindle issues, my iPad update got all the way to 99%, and said processing. I was getting a bit excited, and suddenly the power goes out. When the power goes out, the modem and router go out. And that means the Internet. Which means, iTunes forces a re-download from scratch. I’ll update soon enough, and then learn what the real world is like!

The Haircut

The other day, I decided it was time to end my days as Rubeus Hagrid, and get back to my number 3 clean cut style that has permeated my being since senior year of high school. My hair wasn’t exactly terribly long, but it was long enough to the point where my students were confused as to why it was sticking out from all sides. They don’t exactly experience bed head, because they are forced to have a clean shaved head for school. So when one day I had to explain what bed head was, I realized that meant that my students now know that I do not bucket bathe every morning, even though I smelled tolerable in comparison to their constant quinching (farting).

In Hlotse (my camp town) I went to some random street barber, and although I have come across difficulties where the barbers usually don’t know how to cut lahooa (white person) hair, I figured most people would eventually figure it out. My haircut took a grand total two hours to complete. The barber was amazingly perplexed by what sat in front of him, and his clippers were so dull that they only tugged at the hair on my scalp. He could barely make a dent in my luscious locks when he took out an afro pick and sat my hair atop it and tried to shave off parts of my individual hairs that way. To his surprise this method proved fruitless. I knew it was just his clipper, and I kept telling him it was broken, but he disregarded my concern and tried for about 1.5 hours. I eventually paid him off 5 Rand for his dedicated service and ran to another barber. At this moment my hair was patchy on the top of my head and the sides were completely untouched. I had an elderly grandpa style hair cut, except instead of a nice smooth bald top, it was patchy and misshapen. I found a new barber, and told him if he can finish my haircut in 5 minutes I would pay him an extra 5 rand. He annihilated my originally invincible hair and gave me a perfect number 2 cut. He even adjusted my glorious widow’s peak. This man was a true hero.

These things have been quite fetter-some, but Peace Corps Volunteers prevail in the face of unworldly non-compliance, and now so do I.