Lesotho Archives - Sonia Marsh

Too Many Distractions in the U.S.

February 26, 2017 by Sonia Marsh 9 Comments

Life in the U.S. is full of distractions; that’s probably not news to you, but it does come as a shock after living in a rondavel in Lesotho, where my only distractions were the sounds of roosters crowing at 4 a.m., donkeys braying day and night, dogs defending their territories, and Basotho villagers yelling across the corn fields. I used to think the people were angry, but soon learned that shouting is a normal way of communicating in my host country.

It’s only been five weeks since I returned from Lesotho, but somehow it feels like six months. I’m so busy; my calendar is full, as I fill my days with job searching, appointments, networking, workshops, Rosetta Stone Spanish, brushing up on “free” online courses required for certain positions, meeting family and friends for lunch or dinner, and let’s not forget dating.

I’m not even working a full-time job, but it certainly seems like it. I’m all over the place, and one luxury I appreciate more than any other, is the freedom to drive myself. I no longer have to rely on the unpredictable, overcrowded, public taxis from my African village. Transportation in Lesotho was a huge stress factor in my life. I never knew when the public taxi would show up on the dirt road. Even in the middle of winter, when frost covered the red soil outside my rondavel, I would keep my front door open just to hear the sound of the old Toyota engine ascending the steep hill leading to my village. With all my gear ready to go for my weekly shower and grocery shopping, I would scurry through my one door, key ready to turn the lock on my burglar bars, while attempting to fling my backpack straps over my shoulders. Out of breath, I would reach the red-clay road only to discover that I’d mistaken the engine sound of the Toyota taxi. Looking down the hill into the distance, I’d scan the area for a white van with a yellow stripe. When my finger tips grew numb, despite being cuddled inside hand-knitted gloves, I headed back to my burglar bars, and started the whole waiting process again.

Taxi van in the distance from my rondavel.

You see, I am not suffering from “culture shock,” like some of my friends have stated, but rather from too many distractions. I love being busy, meeting people, having interesting conversations with people, and even the friendly quick chat with cashiers at Trader Joe’s. These were lacking in my life in Lesotho, especially as I was unable to speak their language.

There are so many things to do and see in our world in the U.S. Information overload, too many courses to choose from, classes to attend, whether exercise classes or professional classes, movies, theater, concerts, wonderful shops and malls, exciting foods to buy, excellent customer service, so many choices we take for granted, but not me.

I enjoy my freedom to do what I want to, to drive where I want to go, to watch a recent movie, to meet a friend for a cup of coffee, to eat at a restaurant, to go for a stroll on the beach, and most of all, to be distracted.

I’m grateful for my distractions, because after all, how do we grow? Here we can keep learning and we have the freedom to do whatever we want to improve our skills and to create our own lives. I had enough quiet time in my rondavel that I longed for all the things we take for granted in our comfortable lives in the U.S.

Last Minute Glitch in Completing My Peace Corps Project

November 27, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 15 Comments

The day before the completion date of my Lesotho school renovation project, I got a phone call from my counterpart at 7 a.m.

“The contractor needs you to buy 115 meters of electrical wiring.”

“Why didn’t he tell me this before? We are running out of money.”

“He didn’t know,” my counterpart said.

“How much does it cost?”

“48 Rand a meter.”

I quickly calculated a total of 5,520 Rand (almost $400.)

This meant we were now 15,000 Rand ($1,065) over the contractor’s initial quotation for materials, and neither the contractor nor the teachers seemed concerned about this, and I know why. They thought I could keep dishing out cash like an ATM machine, despite my warning them about the $5,000 limit set by the Peace Corps.

At first my contractor said, “I’ll take the taxi to town and back.”

I knew from my weekly trips to Maseru, suffering inside a cranky, old, Toyota van with 25 people sitting on top of each other, that it would be impossible to get to town and back without wasting the entire day.

inside-terrible-taxi-ride — Public Taxi. This one is not yet full.

“How will you fit the wire inside?”

“I put it on the roof,” he said.

“There is no roof rack, plus the taxi has too many people.”

My contractor laughed.

This was the fourth glitch during a 17-day project requiring me to figure out a way to get my contractor to Maseru and back with the extra materials. I made sure to tell him, “Now make sure you have everything you need as I’m running out of money.”

Fortunately I’m friends with a local white business owner who has a couple of trucks. He was born and raised in Lesotho, and is therefore fluent in Sesotho and knows the contractor. In exchange for his “emergency” transportation help, I’ve given him a couple of computer lessons.

I also had to figure out how to get to the bank and withdraw the last of my project cash. I did not like the idea of carrying all that cash in a public taxi, so another friend of mine, Jennifer, the owner of a lodge said she would take me to the bank.

Later that morning, I received another phone call from my counterpart. “Can you buy one kilo of sugar and more meat for the workers?”

“There’s only one day of work left,” I said. “I just bought 5 kilos of chicken a couple of days ago. Can’t the workers eat bread and peanut butter for breakfast? I know we have a jar.”

The requests were never-ending, and I was happy when the project ended.

Fortunately, due to not skimping on transportation costs, and eliminating Phase III of the project, (the floor tile) due to overspending on materials, we got everything done on time. I kept reminding the workers that I was leaving for the Christmas holidays and that everything had to be done by November 25^th, and they managed to finish at the last minute.

I bought a chocolate cake in town to celebrate, and despite the Principal, my counterpart, and two teachers not showing up, there was more cake to celebrate for those who did come to school.

My Opinion on How to Get Things Done in Lesotho

November 20, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 18 Comments

My opinion on how to get things done in Lesotho is based on treating people like I’d want them to treat me.

In the case of my school renovation project, it looks like the work will be completed before the scheduled date of November 28^th.How come? Because I believe in signing contracts, treating people with respect, and:

paying people on time, according to our agreement.

In the U.S., projects have deadlines, and we do everything we can to meet those deadlines, because there are consequences if we don’t, like the risk of getting fired.

Here in Lesotho, the work ethic is completely different. If things aren’t accomplished on time, so what? No one is surprised; at least that’s what I’ve experienced in the 13 months I’ve been here. Perhaps things are different in the capital city, but somehow I doubt it.

For example, I was “promised” a cabinet to store all the wonderful donations I’ve received from generous people who wanted to improve my school. Supplies that we take for granted are lacking in my rural school such as: crayons, activity books, flash cards, pencils, felt tip pens, Sharpies, glue sticks, scissors, and let’s not forget the stickers that children love. My counterpart teachers advised me to keep everything at home until we could lock them up at school, otherwise they would soon disappear.

The principal said, “Children steal pens from each other,” which explains why several have nothing to write with. My Principal allows one new pen per semester, and basically “tough luck” if they don’t have a pen to write with.

So I’ve been waiting for a cabinet to lock these donations up since February, and I finally got one with a broken lock last week; it took nine months to get it, and school is almost on summer break, until January 23^rd, 2017.

11-7-16-cabinet-open — The Cabinet I’ve waited 9 months has finally arrived from another classroom.

Fortunately, the wonderful team I have working on the school project, replaced the lock on the same day. I no longer have to schlep everything from my rondavel, up the hill, to school.

We all know that money motivates people to work, especially in a poor rural villages, like mine. I’ve experienced time and time again, workers who are promised payment once the work is done, and who are then told, “There’s no money.”

So I’ve made sure to pay the work crew and cook, the money that we agreed upon, and they know I will. None of those excuses, “Sorry, I have no money,” a common excuse where I live.

I’ve also made sure that the work crew are well fed, as I heard, during my Peace Corps project workshop, that workers expect to get a meal. So the cook I hired, bakes fresh bread at home (there are no supermarkets in my tiny village) brings it to school, and then cooks lunch in the 7^th grade classroom, since those students are no longer attending school.

Daily cooked fresh meals by a wonderful cook from my village.

So I hope that some lessons can be learned in my community on how to accomplish projects in a timely manner.

Jealousy Over a Radio in My Village

November 13, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 6 Comments

“I’ll take the radio back to the shop if it’s causing arguments,” I yelled. “I’ve had it with petty gossip and jealousy in this village.

“This radio has caused nothing but problems, and all I want to do is help.”

My host “mother” was shocked to hear me yell at her.

“Take the radio,” she said, pouting.

I never wanted the radio in the first place. It was a gift from the electrical supply store in Maseru where I spent a lot of money on wiring, and a meter box for my school renovation project.

Normally stores give discounts when customers spend a fair bit of money, but this store decided to give me a “free” radio/CD player instead.

Exhausted from my awful bank incident, I was in no mood to argue for a preferred discount, so I took the radio, without realizing the consequences.

My co-teacher, the electricians and the contractor admired the radio, and I did not think twice about it until it caused a problem.

At first, my co-teacher said she wanted to listen to music in bed that evening.

“You already have a large radio and speakers, don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m so tired, I just want to have it next to me so I don’t have to get up.”

I laughed, and mentioned I was curious if this radio had better reception than my tiny one.

“Why don’t you take it home,” she said. “I want to sleep.”

I tested the radio in my rondavel, and realized that the reception for BBC World radio was worse than on my small radio, and the new one took up half my table top, so I decided to take it to school.

radio-small — My small radio has better BBC World reception tan the large one.

My host mother saw me with it, and said she needed a radio. Her little one sounded crackly, and so I told her she could borrow it.

“I’ll buy it from you when you leave,” she said.

I did not respond, as I knew that she would hope expect me to give it to her as a “goodbye” gift.

When I reached school, my counterpart teacher asked, “Where is the radio?”

“I left it with Mary,” I said.

“It belongs to the school,” he replied.

“Actually it’s mine to decide what I do with it,” I replied crossing my arms over my chest.

“No, it’s for the school, not for Mary.”

Now I raised my voice and said, “Why should I bring the radio to school? So you can play your music? The holidays are coming and I promised Mary she could keep it until school starts again.”

I’ve become more assertive after one year of living in my village.

When I got home, I told Mary that the teachers wanted me to bring the radio to school, and that I would let her use it during the holidays, but I’d bring it to school after that.

“Those people want it for themselves,” she said.

“Mary, I don’t care. You told me everyone is jealous here, and now you’re acting the same.”

“Yes, everyone is jealous,” she said.

“Take the radio,” she said, frowning.

“I feel like digging a hole and burying it so no one gets it,” I said.

The following day, the young electrician asked me if I had a radio. I said, “No.”

The electrician who has installed lights in the staff room at school.

Now I felt bad as the crew is working hard and they know I have the radio from the store. They want to play music while they work, and I hate to disappoint them.

This damn radio has caused so many problems. I hate it. Now I look like the bad guy.

I wish I’d received a discount on the materials. This would have avoided all the jealousy in my village.

My Experience Working With A Contractor in My Village In Lesotho

November 6, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 15 Comments

I woke up at 4:20 a.m., excited and anxious about working on a construction project with a local contractor from my rural village in Lesotho, and his team of workers.

I kept my fingers crossed there would be no glitches, and that we’d buy all the materials at the Basotho equivalent of “Home Depot.” After that, I’d offer lunch to everyone at KFC in Maseru, and then we’d drive back in the rented truck and reach my school by early afternoon. That was my plan.

‘M’e Mamoshaka, a teacher at my school asked me to head over to her house at 6:15 a.m. She likes to sleep late, so I was pleasantly surprised to find her up and dressed. She was frying frankfurters in oil, and wrapped them in two slices of bread and stuffed them in her purse. As we headed out the door, she tossed her empty water canteen to a woman who happened to be heading to the village tap, pushing empty canisters in a squeaky wheelbarrow. I still don’t understand how serendipity works in the Basotho culture. Their timing is perfect, while I’m always struggling with my American time schedule.

Just as we boarded the taxi at 6:33 a.m, the woman handed over the filled water canteen to ‘M’e Mamoshaka, and my contractor, Ntate Makae, magically appeared twenty seconds before our taxi van stopped by his house.

As we headed towards the main taxi rank in Maseru, traffic built up reminding me of the bumper to bumper traffic on the 5 freeway in Los Angeles. The only difference here is that when drivers get impatient, they pull over to the opposite side of the street, and drive on the sidewalk, against traffic. Are you kidding! The driver dodged cars heading straight towards us, as pedestrians jumped for safety. When we finally reached Maseru taxi rank, we headed over to the “Salman” hardware store. The store clerk hand wrote each item we needed, and I soon realized this was no “Home Depot.” After thirty minutes, I pulled out my bank card and paid.

Suddenly, two young men joined us, and I found out that they were here to work with Ntate Makae, so now I believed everything was under control, and well-organized by my contractor.

An old, beat-up truck pulled over, and a burly man gestured to ‘M’e Mamoshaka and myself to get in the front seat. At first I wondered how all five of us, plus the driver would fit inside, but I’d forgotten that in Lesotho, you can sit in the truck bed without getting arrested.

We headed over to City Lights to purchase the electrical items on our list, but my contractor had forgotten to add a meter box and the extra lights for 11 classrooms.

This time, my bank card was declined, and I panicked. I called the Peace Corps office to ask for advice, and they told me to go to my bank, and get the cash out. I was not keen on carrying cash on the streets of Maseru, but that seemed to be the only way.

So we asked the burly truck driver to take ‘M’e Mamoshaka and me to the bank. His truck wouldn’t start unless it was put into gear and pushed, or faced downhill. We finally got moving, and I started shaking my head when I saw at least 100 people waiting in line outside the bank. The line snaked around the building and I realized there was no way we could stand here. We would waste the whole day to get to the front of the line.

‘M’e Mamoshaka said, “Follow me.” An older woman stood at the information counter, and even she had about ten people waiting to talk to her. ‘M’e Mamoshaka grabbed my elbow, “Wait here.”

As soon as the older woman was free, she asked me to explain my dilemma.

“I will put you in this line today,” the woman said. It was a shorter one with around twelve people, “but next time you have to go to the end of the line.”

I thanked her, and then counted the people in front of me. Two hours later, I was about to strangle someone. I started doing leg lifts, shoulder raises and calf raises, as the blood in my body had stopped flowing. The line barely moved, and with only three cashiers for 100 people, many of them cutting in line, my patience had become non-existent.

When I finally reached the cashier, he asked me for my passport, which I didn’t have with me. I’m always scared it will get stolen in Maseru, and I only take it when I’m crossing the border to South Africa.

I had my California driver’s licence with a photo, and my Peace Corps ID with a photo as well. He didn’t seem to allow either one, until a Supervisor came by and allowed the transaction to proceed. I was just about to explode, and that would not have been a pretty sight.

Our driver stood outside smoking a cigarette. He had positioned his truck facing downhill, so he could jumpstart it.

We returned to City Lights, and I took the cash envelope and requested permission to go behind the burglar bars to count the cash. I’ve never paid for anything with this much cash, and meanwhile, the men loaded the truck.

2-guys — Construction guys helping with electrical

Stupid me kept thinking this truck was a temporary one, and we would transfer everything into a much larger truck later on. I also believed that ‘M’e Mamoshaka and I would have a comfortable seat in the bigger truck, but it wasn’t until we stopped to collect thirty-one, 6 metre (20 foot) wooden rafters, and six 50-kg bags of cement, that I realized Ntate Makae was planning to use this old-piece of shit truck.

Everyone was starving, and I’d told everyone we’d stop for lunch, but they insisted on getting the truck loaded.

Five men sat on crates in the warehouse, doing nothing. We waited thirty minutes, while the truck driver said he needed to fetch gas in a jerrycan. He asked me for money, to buy gas, and we had barely driven anywhere, but he claimed his tank was empty from taking us to the bank.

“He lying,” Mamoshaka said.

“Lets go to KFC and get a private taxi to take us home after that,” I whispered in ‘M’e Mamoshaka’s ear. I had visions of this truck not making it up the mountains to my village, and the guys at the warehouse hadn’t budged in the last thirty minutes from their crates.

A private taxi picked us up after lunch, and we headed back to our village in the mountains.

Afternoon traffic was getting heavy as it approached 4 p.m. I wondered if the truck had left yet, so we called and Ntate Makae who told us they were almost on their way.

‘M’e Mamoshaka and I got home at 5:45 p.m. It was still light and we called Ntate Makae again and he said they were close to my village.

By 7:30 p.m., they were having trouble climbing the mountain; the load was too heavy for the crappy truck, so they were stuck. They had to call a teacher from my school who arranged for a second truck.

It wasn’t until 9 p.m., that I received a call to say they had made it. Dressed in my pyjamas, I asked Mary my host “mother” to come with me. I carried my solar light, as I cannot see a damn thing in this rural darkness.

I pointed the light at two trucks outside: one large one, and the small, dilapidated one. All of the heavy stuff, including all the wood, had been transferred to the large truck, which I later found out belonged to one of my teachers at school.

Quite proud of myself for taking the private taxi home, rather than waiting for the truck to make it to my village, I was able to go to sleep and feel satisfied that the team could start work on the following day.