Stories from My Peace Corps Years

August 8, 2026 by Sonia Marsh 5 Comments

Chapter One: The First Night I Thought I’d Made the Biggest Mistake of My Life

My rondavel with burglar bars to keep Peace Corps volunteers safe.

One October night, exhausted, I was ready to crawl into bed. Peace Corps rules required us to stay in our huts as soon as it turned dark for our own safety. Darkness came quickly, and evenings were usually quiet, except for dogs barking.

Suddenly, shouting erupted outside my hut. I had just turned off my paraffin lamp and was tucked under my covers. I could hear several men approaching my front door and bolted out of bed.

I slid open the window and peered through the metal burglar bars the Peace Corps had installed to keep us volunteers safe.

The drunk man was back, and his slurring was worse than ever. He was known to steal money from his elderly mother, who lived in a rundown mud rondavel beside mine. That poor woman crawled on her hands and knees as she could not afford a wheelchair.

This time, several young men surrounded the drunk man, voices rising, all within a few feet from my hut.

The shouting turned violent. The young men knocked the drunk man to the ground and began kicking him. My heart started pounding. Shaka, the scrawny, pregnant dog belonging to my host family, barked frantically, and for a terrifying moment, I thought they were kicking her too. Then, the drunk man grabbed a brick from the pile behind him and raised it above his head. I froze. I was sure someone was about to be killed.

My host mother, Mary, came outside in her robe holding a flashlight. I had warned her previously that if the Peace Corps ever saw this kind of violence happening around my hut, they would extricate me from the village and place me somewhere else.

I decided to record the shouting on my phone as it was too dark to video the men. I might need evidence to inform the Peace Corps about my safety, so I stuck my hand between the metal bars and pressed the record button.

A woman nearby screamed hysterically while the men kept shouting. I recognized her voice as that of the disabled woman’s granddaughter. Only fifteen, she was also pregnant and lived in the rundown hut next door. Mary told me the drunk son would insult his mother before forcing her to hand over her pension so that he could buy booze.

I wished desperately that I could understand Sesotho. Ten weeks of language training, and I still could only speak the basics.

I shouted that I would call the police. The words sounded absurd the moment I said them.

There were no police here.

Maybe the village chief would show up.

The fighting went on long after dark and ended with the drunk man screaming in agony. Mary told me they had broken his arm, and she was happy about that, as it meant he would not be around for a long time.

I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, shivering from anger and fear.

With no one to talk to and no friends to call, a terrible thought crossed my mind: Had I made a mistake coming to Africa alone at fifty-eight, newly divorced, and thousands of miles away from home?

This is the opening chapter of my forthcoming memoir. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Reflection: Have I made the biggest mistake of my life?

Looking back now, that night wasn’t the most dangerous thing I experienced in Lesotho. It was the moment that I realized something about fear.

Most of the things we fear never unfold the way we imagine.

If I had packed my bags and given up after that terrifying night, I would have missed one of the richest experiences of my life.

Sometimes the scariest part of a new adventure isn’t the place itself. It’s realizing that what feels frightening today may be unfamiliar. Given enough time, fear often gives way to understanding.

Have you ever wanted to give up on the first day of something new?

Why I’m Finally Ready to Tell My Peace Corps Story

July 30, 2026 by Sonia Marsh 4 Comments

The start of my Peace Corps service teaching children in Lesotho — Sonia, bonding with three students during my Peace Corps training in Lesotho.

It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years since I packed my life into two suitcases and left for the Peace Corps in Lesotho, a tiny mountain kingdom in southern Africa.

For years, I wasn’t ready to write about the experience. I needed time and distance to understand how profoundly my fifteen months changed me. Looking back now, I can finally see not only what happened, but why it mattered.

As I work on my memoir, I’ve decided to share a series of stories called Stories From My Peace Corps Years. These aren’t just stories about living in a rural African village—they’re about starting over after divorce at fifty-eight, facing fears, embracing a completely different culture, and, ultimately, learning to become my own best friend.

I hope you’ll enjoy following along. If these stories resonate with you, I’d love for you to subscribe at soniamarsh.com and join me on the journey.

Coming next: The First Night I Wondered If I’d Made the Biggest Mistake of My Life.

How Do You Keep Your Sense of Wonder?

September 23, 2018 by Sonia Marsh 1 Comment

In my mind, a sense of wonder starts with curiosity: something we’re all born with. The question I ask myself is: How can we keep that sense of wonder as we grow older?

Young children are constantly learning something new: how to read, how to tie their shoes, how to ride a bicycle. It’s not surprising that if we don’t make a conscious effort to keep a sense of curiosity and wonder, life may seem mundane as we grow older.

When I lived in Lesotho, I listened to BBC World on my small radio, and was interested in hearing how Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, reflected on her travels abroad. The interviewer commented on how brave Elizabeth was to uproot her life and move alone to Italy, India and Bali, for one year. Elizabeth replied that she didn’t think she was brave, but simply curious about life and other people.

Another person I admire is Maria Shriver. She recently wrote in her blog, “Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper,” about how she took a one-month break from work, and decided to focus on:

“Less busyness. Less intense thinking. More calm. More connection. More wonder.”

Shriver decided to travel to Africa with her youngest son, and her goal was to focus on:

the concept of wonder

“Wonder gets you out of your head. It feels less intense than thinking. It feels more stream of consciousness and more creative. It actually feels freeing and it allows one to connect more with oneself and others.

Wonder is what I felt as I drove across the vast, open Serengeti. I found myself wondering what it might be like to live there full time, either working in the conservation movement or working with the women I met who are trying to overcome deep poverty and build lives that their mothers could have never imagined.
The thing that I found interesting was how she found the right word to describe Africa. Wonder.” Maria Shriver

I feel a connection with Elizabeth Gilbert and Maria Shriver, in that I’m curious about other people, and always want to keep learning.

Some people are more curious, and thirsty for new experiences than others. I’ve always felt the need to get away from my daily routine in order to satisfy my sense of curiosity. I do this in the following ways:

On a small scale:

Speaking to someone new every day
Trying a new recipe
Reading a novel I wouldn’t normally read
Re-connecting with someone I haven’t spoken to in over a year
Joining a new group such as “Dining For Women”
Joining a TED Talks discussion group

On a larger scale:

Starting my new travel club
Traveling to new places
Leading my first trip to Kenya with ten women

I keep myself open to new opportunities.

How about you? How do you keep your sense of wonder? I’d love to hear.

My First Basotho Funeral

August 7, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 3 Comments

The traditional Basotho blankets — Mary and Sonia in their traditional Basotho Blankets

It’s very sad but there seems to be at least one funeral every Saturday in my village in Lesotho, Africa, and I experienced my first Basotho funeral yesterday.

My counterpart, the 7^th grade teacher at my school, lost her husband to TB. He was only 37.

Funerals are important community events in Lesotho, and I’ve become aware of the multiple billboards in the capital city, as well as the ads on local television for funeral insurance.

It seems that even the poor, spend at least 10,000 Rand, or $700 on a funeral, and that is a ton of money for a family that cannot feed itself. I admit, I’m not familiar with the details, however, my first Basotho funeral, was elaborate, with numerous priests, a choir, and a brass band.

Mary, my host “mother,” wanted me to wear the traditional Basotho blanket, and I’m glad I did, as it was important to fit into the community.

Numerous tents were set up in the compound where my teacher and her mother-in-law live, and women were busy breaking twigs to keep the fire going under the cast iron pots. They prepared a traditional meal of beef, samp (like hominy), rice, carrots and beetroots, to feed everyone after the service.

Lines of buses and cars flocked the dirt road, and Mary and I arrived a little late, at 10:30. The grieving wife and mother-in-law, sat on a mattress, next to the coffin, and at one point, the wife covered her entire body and face with the blanket.

When she spotted me, she gestured for me to come and sit next to her on the mattress. I was embarrassed, as I had to walk in front of the entire congregation, including the choir and the priests to reach her.

“Can you please take photos of the coffin and my husband’s photo,” she said. “I do not have a camera.”

Her husband’s framed photo sat on top of the casket, with a bouquet of artificial flowers propped up next to his picture.

I did what she requested, but being the only white person in the entire congregation, I felt conspicuous, especially acting like a paparazzi standing in front of the coffin.

A man distributed the folded program listing the names of the speakers at this Basotho funeral, and I had no idea this would be an all-day event.

The choir sang intermittently while the brass band played, and everyone stood, swaying to the music. I watched my teacher in tears, and it seemed more like a festive celebration for the attendees, while she sat, distant and numb, in her own thoughts.

Click here to listen to choir singing.

After everyone had spoken, we followed the pallbearers up the hill where the casket was laid to rest in the ground. Two beautiful marble headstones were unveiled, while mourners sobbed at the graveside.

“Let’s go home,” Mary said.

I was expecting us to go back to my rondavel, but then Mary said, “We need to wash our hands.”

She led me back to the tent where the food was displayed in various oversized plastic bowls.

“Follow me. We have to wash our hands first,” Mary said.

She showed me what to do. I had to bend over a plastic tub, scoop cold water into my cupped hands and throw the water onto the dirt, so as not to contaminate the water in the bowl.

With wet hands, we proceeded to get a plate of food.

Mary was proud of me wearing her blanket, as her friends complimented her on the way I looked. It means so much to the Basotho when you wear the same as them.

The funeral ended around 4:30 p.m., when the choir ladies boarded the bus, and the brass band, priests and local chief, headed home. I asked Mary if this was a traditional Basotho funeral, and she said yes, apart from the brass band. That was different.

I cannot imagine attending a funeral every Saturday, however, when I ask the teachers at my school how they are spending the weekend, I often get the following response, “I’m going to a funeral.”

Lineo is one of the Vulnerable Children at My School

May 7, 2016 by Sonia Marsh 2 Comments

Lineo and Sonia

On the first day back to school, after a public holiday, Sister B. decides to send the vulnerable children home to collect money for a field trip to Katse Dam next month.

Many students have a one and a half hour trek over the mountains to school, and now she orders them to go back home and collect the money.

They’ve been reminded about the 200 rand ($14) bus fare at least ten times, and Sister is well aware that more than 60% of the children at our school are orphans and vulnerable children, so most will return empty-handed. Only ten out of one hundred and seventy students have been able to pay for the field trip.

Sister knows the children are hungry when they get to school, yet she does not allow them to eat the heavily-sugared “soft” porridge—sorghum based cereal—served without milk, which is cooling off in their plastic bowls. None of these vulnerable children dare question authority; they obey the rules and charge home in worn shoes, often held together with broken shoe laces.

Two girls remain in the classroom with ‘M’e Mamoshaka, the seventh grade teacher, and me. Lineo is twelve, and the other nine. “How come they don’t have to go home? Have they already paid?” I ask the teacher.

“This one,” ‘M’e Mamoshaka says pointing to the older girl, “She looks after five children.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“She takes care of five children alone.”

I prod ‘Mamoshaka for more information.

“Is she an orphan?” I ask.

“No.”

I stared at Lineo’s shoes.

‘M’e Mamoshaka explains Lineo’s story.

Lineo takes care of her eight-year-old sister, and her six-year-old brother, as well as her three cousins aged, eleven and nine, and another nine-year-old. In all there are four girls and two boys.

They all sleep on one mattress, and Lineo burns twigs to cook their evening papa (maize meal.) Sometimes, when they are lucky, the villagers offer merojo, (shredded spinach and mustard greens, usually heavily salted and cooked in oil) to add to their papa.(photos)

Madam cooking Papa — This is my neighbor cooking papa with twigs for fire outside/year round, even when it snows in July.

Lineo is not an orphan; her father abandoned his three children, and her mother works in South Africa, and sends money for Lineo to buy maize meal. Their mom only sees her kids once a year, when she travels back for Christmas.

“How come Lineo also has to take care of her cousins?” I ask.

‘M’e Mamoshaka explains that their mothers also got pregnant at 15 or 16, were abandoned by their boyfriends/fathers of the children) and then they head off to South Africa to get jobs, often as maids.

As I sat in the classroom with ‘M’e Mamoshaka and the two girls, I asked them if they wanted to look at some books. Their eyes lit up, and they immersed themselves in the pictures and I asked Lineo to read to me.

girls reading — Puseletso and her nine-year-old sister reading

Three hours later, most of the students returned to school where Sister sat waiting on a stool, pencil and notebook ready to collect money. Only seven children brought the $14.00 for the field trip, out of about one hundred who ran home. Another twenty or so, brought hand-written notes explaining why they couldn’t afford the trip. “Ha ke na le chalete,” or “I do not have money.”

It was such a waste of a day where there was absolutely no teaching, and I went home after lunch. Why couldn’t these vulnerable children ask their parents/guardians for money after school, and bring the “no chalete” notes on the following day?

I am still trying to understand the Basotho culture at my school.