v e r b a l d o c u m e n t a t i o n [ 03 | 06 ]
----- 03 | 01 | 06 -----
Tuesday, March 1st 2006
With the Besotho, I feel that I’m an opened can of Coca-Cola and the Besotho are the Bumblebee trying to drink the cool, carbonated, refreshing sugar water. They buzz around the can trying to drink. If the can is covered, they buzz around until the cover is removed and they won’t be shooed away by the rap of a pen on the can in front of their faces. Of course, this is not all the Besotho, just a generalization and with an unemployment rate of approximately 50%, I guess this is to be expected.
In Samter’s words, the Besotho will steal from you and then blame you for letting them do it. Yesterday I was exiting the taxi at home and I gave my bags to the conductor (a standard practice) to wiggle my way out of my seat. As the taxi was pulling away, the conductor was hanging out of the window taunting me with a can of Coke; I instinctively knew it was mine. I beckoned him to throw it to me, thinking it had fallen out of the bag, but he just smiled waving the can. I had saved the can to drink as a reward at journey’s end.
Earlier, on the taxi ride into Maseru, I struck up a conversation with a primary school teacher (from Mazenod Primary). The conversation wound a path from the unrelenting rainfall, to students, to the government and governmental corruption. Of the students, she said their newly found rights damage them and that they were “damaged” by the lack of corporal discipline. The lack of a ‘switch’ on their backs has allowed them to run free. She denounced freedom. Children were found to drinking in bars to drunkenness and then falling into prostitution when their ill-spent school fees ran out.
The conversation moved to the government. She spoke of the officials as ‘fat-cats’. They eat and eat until they grew fat. She states that there is not a trickle down of funds to lower government works, who actually do the work, especially to education and to teachers. I asked her what she would do id she was an elected official. I was surprised when she answered that she’d do the same, she’d eat until she was fat. At least she was honest.
Before the English came to Lesotho, the people were pastoral, tending their cows, sheep, and goats. When Lesotho became a British protectorate, they needed to find work to pay the British “hut” tax. The ‘hut’ tax was to pay for the British protection from the Afrikaners. And so the Besotho lifestyle ended. Men went to work in the mines of South Africa to make money. At the mines they can earn more than at home, but the work is extremely dangerous and at times deadly. The speculation is that the miners satisfied their sexual desires with women of ill repute and then gave the disease to their wives and families upon their return home.
Only recently have women been allowed to plow their fields, this was men’s work. The women could care for the field in every other way, but with an able man in the family to hold the plough, the family became a ward of the community.
- Franco
----- 03 | 03 | 06 -----
Friday, March 3, 2006
The Weather
I was prepared for rainy weather, summer being the rainy season. This summer has been the rainiest in years. In the past 3 weeks, it has rained nearly 2/3 of the time. 3 years ago, Lesotho completed the Mahale dam and it is full. A dam this size normally fills in 6 years. A recent newspaper article cites that the dam has cracked, scaring the people living below it. It will cost 100,000 Rand to repair the crack, although the damage cannot be that significant based upon the cost to repair.
Most of the roadways in Lesotho are untarred dirt roads. This rain is taking a toll on the roadways. Ruts on dirt roadways are filling with water, and making the rest into muck. The front cover, under the fold, of Lesotho’s English newspaper ‘The Public Eye’ shows a destroyed bridge over the Nutshell stream. The caption reads “It’s been a nightmare for motorists, who have had to take a detour after…[the] bridge on the road to Roma in Ha Motloheloa, Maseu, was destroyed by recent heavy rain. This unreasonable act of nature left a gaping hole over the stream here part of the road should be.”
A mid-aged Mazenod Primary schoolteacher stated that the weak cattle are dieing because of the rain, but the younger and stronger cattle are flourishing because of the abundance of grasses.
The Rain and Lack Thereof
As I’ve stated earlier, I’ve been staying with Peace Corp Volunteer Sharon Zeiden, a quick friend, at Itjareng Vocational School, about 12 miles outside of Maseru. The school relies upon a bore (Boer) hole for its water. Even with the heavy rainfall of late, we have no water from the tap. This has been an on and off again problem since my arrival. In the last week, we’ve had a little trickle and then recently none. Fortunately, we have a water reservoir that is fed from roof water run-off. This water can only be used for the toilet, states Sharon. This works fine for me, keeping our bathroom fresh smelling.
For drinking, and washing water, I schlep buckets over from Mme. Samter’s home. I grab a bucket and walk up the road, through the gate and down the road to fill a bucket or two. She lives an actual stone’s throw away. Wednesdays are washdays. Sharon has hired a Besotho named ‘Cookie’ who washes the clothes. Samter’s boys run a hose through the fences to me to fill buckets, which I schlep them into the house until Cookie has enough. The irony is not lost on us; rain everywhere and yet we have none.
The Newspaper
The ‘Public Eye’ is a printed in magazine form and resembles any other newspaper. There are the crime stories, government stories and criticisms. Public response to questions of the day, classifieds, sports, business, world briefs, public interest, advice columns, editorials, a page on the ‘Strangle World’.
There is also the full color page spread on the ‘Babe of the Week,’ “Requirements: For you to qualify, you must be single, between 17 and 22 years, gorgeous and attractive look, having a beautiful body, be confident and comical, show magnificence of femininity and have a healthy and firm body structure.” The Babes of the Weeks “will have the opportunity to contest for Miss Family Mirror competition in December 2006.”
Hidden inside is a small joke section called ‘Cracks’. Most of the recent jokes have followed the same themes as this joke:
So Did I!
A guy walks into a bar and orders a drink. After a few more, he needs to go to the toilet. He doesn’t want anyone to steal his drink so he puts a sign on it saying, “I spat in this beer, do not drink!” After a few minutes, he returns and there is another sign next to his beer saying, “So did I!”
The ‘Public Eyes’ Crime File demonstrates the non-judicial aspect of local magistrates. In Popanyane, a magistrate ordered a 70-year old woman to be jailed for 6 months or to pay an M 2,000 fine for growing ‘some dagga (marijuana) plants’ and she had a bag of dagga in her home. She pleased guilty and asked for mercy by the court, citing she was supporting 4 grandchildren and she was unemployed. In Ha ‘Nelese, an 18-year-old man was found with 10 possible rough diamonds, without being a certified dealer is precious stones and with some dagga. The man was ordered to forfeit the diamonds, valued at M500, and a 5-month jail sentence or to pay a fine of M550. He asked the court for leniency being the sole breadwinner for his family and 3 siblings.
The Besotho people are in quite a problematic position. The population is overrun by HIV/AIDS and recent numbers from Peace Corp HIV/AIDS workers suggest that anywhere between 30-60 percent of the reproductive age populous has contracted it. It is sensible for a sexually active individual to believe that all their sexual partners have it, rather than not. The HIV/AIDS advertising is minimal. A couple of taxis have ‘No Condom/No Sex’ messages in their rear windows. On the roadways, only a couple of signs exist. The country has a ton of global aid money coming in to fight AIDS but it doesn’t seem to be working. The Peace Corp ABC campaign (Abstinence, Be faithful, Condom) is not working. It confuses the Besotho. The problem is one of semantics: They think A, B, and C, rather than the intended A, B, or C.
Current numbers from the Lesotho Health Minister, Motlekeloa Phooko says the Aids pandemic effects 23% of the country’s 2 million people. The government also failed to reach their 2005 target of putting 28,000 people on ARV (anti-retroviral) drugs. Only approximately 10,000 people were put on the drugs provided by the government. Dr. Phooko states, “By focusing on the productive sector, we aim to reduce the numbers of orphans in the country, currently standing at about 100,000. We want to save more adults so that they can look after their families.”
Recently a group of global companies, dubbed the Global Business Coalition, have donated medical products and educational materials to the government to help fight HIV/Aids. The aid comes in forms of testing materials, counseling and training programs, as well as rapid testing and diagnostic machines, and counseling telephone help lines.
There is also a wealth of international money, called the Millennium Fund, available from the United Nations. At this point Lesotho government has been unable to draw up a program to spend available funds, and thus they do not benefit from the possible aid.
- Franco
----- 03 | 06 | 06 -----
March 6th - Floating on an inner tube in Tekweni's (a hostel) pool in Durban
My one worry about the trip to South Africa was going over the border: The border crossing itself. The word on the street was that it could take 7 minutes if you were lucky, or up to and over 3 and 1/2 hours.
The day started quickly. As I fell asleep the night before, I was visualizing what could be removed from my pack and what I could take from my carrier bag in that space. I did not want to have to deal with two bags now, I initially desired the flexibility of two, but after carrying both bags, I knew it was not going to work well. So I pulled out some misc. items and decided against the video camera. I'd have to rely upon my words and photos. If the video camera was lost or stolen on the trip, the trip the Samter documentary would be lost and an impossibility rather than just a challenge.
So I rearranged the pack, had a couple cups of coffee w/ C.L. and he accompanied me on the taxis to Shop-Rite, down-town Maseru, to purchase a bus ticket to South Africa, hopefully Durban. Shop-Rite only had a Bloemfeintein availability and nothing then on to Durban. I purchased the ticket with the intention of leaving Lesotho and to finally get moving. C.L. treated me to a few Heineken to pass the hours. I then went to Lesotho's only American fast-food, and got some KFC take-out and grabbed an R 2.50 taxi to the border.
At first the border seemed to be easy to navigate, but after the first custom agent voided my Lesotho stamp, it turned into udder craziness; a disorderly mess. The door opened out into a large outdoor compound: To the left was a line of at least 4 people wide and 200-300 people long and at least it seemed not to be moving. To the right a single file line with only 50-75 people. I chose this line. In the center, the cars proceeded through and a very short line that was moving extremely fast in comparison. Eventually our medium line came abreast with this short line, I asked a well-dressed man if his line was for 3 and 6 month S.A. passes. I had a 3 month pass from flying into Jo'berg. He responded that the line was for both.
After securing my spot in line with the young mother, of a 6 year old boy, I jumped into the short line. Soon, I arrived at the customer’s agent. He checked over my passport and then again and he remained looking at my S.A. stamp. After an eternity, which I pleasantly stood through, he directed me into the long line.
Thoroughly disappointed and concern that this line would take longer than the 3 hours I had allotted for customs, and concerned that I'd miss my bus while waiting in this line. I walked to the end of one of its tentacles. I stood a moment. I questioned another well-dress man at this line's purpose. I only received but a guttural response. I thought that this desire for an expedite trip through custom is not an American arrogance, but rather just annoyance at a disorganized custom's process and a power tripping custom's agent.
I disguised myself, best as I could, insofar as I would be passing by said agent; I took off my hat and sunglasses. As if he did glance at me, he wouldn't take notice of a white face in a sea of black faces.
I proceeded though the line taking note of the brevity he checked all but 2 passports and his lack of a denial rate and I walked into another building. Samter mentioned previously, the agent would make sure you made it through on time for any departure, if they were so informed. So I used my bus ticket to mark the stamped page, being sure that the departure information was quite visible. I was soon standing in front of a mountain of a man, sitting at a computer. Within a couple moments he had scanned the bar-code on my S.A. stamp, typed my name into the computer. The computer showed I was in good standing and not an undesirable. The passport got a stamp and I was though to baggage x-ray. A minute later, I was off the bridge, on terra-ferma and in South Africa. Finally.
ONE NOTE:
I had observed that people came out of the custom's building and walked to a security guard that directed that traffic to another building, which people quickly flowered though, or he directed them to walk through on to South Africa.
I briefly considered if I was denied inside of the building, I would walk on as if everything went right. Thankfully, I didn't need to entertain this notion.
2ND NOTE:
Not once did I hear “Welcome to South Africa”
Quickly I found where the bus was to arrive and placed myself on a guardrail supporting my pack. The scene was stunning. Fifty 15-seat taxis, at least, lined each side of the road and a lot of the little compact-car taxis, long-distance buses; they were all waiting to fill to capacity.
Around my feet on the dusty road were strew plastic soda bottles, crushed domestic beer cans, a variety of different sized maize cobs, wrappers of candies, food, plastic bags, and numerous unidentifables. The air was filled with Sesotho, and the occasional shouting, the Doppler effect of cars, 20 wheel and longer trucks, engines, honking, and music blaring from the distance. The words of the hawkers were accompanied by the smells of their wares: sausages, beek, and grilled maize.
The dust was everywhere. It is the sun, low on the horizon. On the occasion, the larger vehicles would kick up enough dust to choke all the by-standers. I had 40 minutes to enjoy this all.
The bus was scheduled to depart at 6:30pm. 6:30 came and went. I spoke to two sisters from Zimbobwee returning from visiting their brother. He is a lecturer at Lesotho's National University at Roma. I later confused the brother of the nearby maize griller. He was begging for money, speaking decent English and I just responded to all his pleas with empathy for his situation, a stern "no", followed by a line of questioning. The comments that stick out in my memory: he needed new shoes. He couldn't visit his friends wearing, his admittedly comfortable, gumboots. I told him those were not good friends. Good friends don't care about footwear, they only care about you. He responded that I didn't understand and he left.
By 8:00pm, I verified that I was in the only place for the bus to stop, and that it hadn't come yet. I considered that in an African oddity, the bus had come earlier and departed. I had previously heard similar stories. I said a prayer for the bus to arrive safely, selfishly I didn't want to pay a taxi far to Bluemfeintein and I was damn well not going back over the bridge so soon. A moment later a border guard, who knew what bus I was waiting for, pointed out lights coming towards us. My bus. I made sure to tell the guard of my prayer. And silly me, for security reasons I had kept my pack on my back the entire waiting time, until 10 minutes before the bus’s arrival.
The conductor sincerely apologized for the tardiness and I was finally on my way. Lesotho is not known for its customer service, but so far I really enjoyed the South African treatment.
So now, I sit here poolside, writing amidst the sounds of Wirth provided Jurassic 5, drinking a freshly opened Carling: Black Label (7 Rand) and its not bad. Ingredients: Barley Malt, Maize, Hops and No Additives. No Preservatives. It is 5:20, the sun just went behind the trees, I've been to the beautiful beaches of Durban, into the Indian Ocean. I've spent the afternoon lounging in an inner tube, swapping stories with Clair and Paula, 2 Brits. "One World Tribe" comes on. A traveler sits down across from me, wearing an apt T-shirt "Switzerland Naspa.” A green cross. Then in subtext "Northland Skiing." When I checked in to Tekweni, here, I used my Swiss passport.
- Franco
----- 03 | 07 | 06 -----
March 7th
I had a period when this voyage (this happy wandering period of existence, was just a dream - A mere hope, a desire - that one mental image that has now become a reality.
My entire life was found searching for myself. I had a dream to come to Africa. I'd see what would happen awhile I was there, but I also saw that my path would end. And at its end, another path would surely start. Another beginning. The beginning of the rest of my life, (whatever it should hold), took me by surprise.
- Franco
----- 03 | 09 | 06 -----
The hostel awoke me around 9am and I had only one desire: to go swimming in the wavy Indian Ocean. I wandered though my normally groggy morning. Coffee, cereal and yogurt. Part of an adrenaline extreme sports movie. I found my way into Gavin's hand and we planned for my trip down the coast. Truthfully, I planned and he advised. My new friend Naaz appeared and greeted me with an unexpected hug. My first hug since Lesotho. She tells me that she just did something horrible and needs to clear her head. We sit down in the lounge with a young man, and we all become quick friends as the conversation flows. His name: Shair, his full name in Persian mean King, which I started calling him. Much easier than consistently butchering his full name, which is how he introduced himself.
Shair grew up in Iran, schooled in Sweden, and received a masters in Environmental Science in Australia; A worldly individual.
This is, I believe, his 4th time to Durban. He is planning on going to Mputi (?) to volunteer at a hostel and an orphanage. He would be compensated with free food and board. He raves about their extremely low cost of living. $800 US will buy (a 99 year lease); on the lake and with the balance left one could afford to build a home. Hot a half-bad idea.
As late morning became early afternoon, my desire to go to the beach spread around the table. We motivated. We lost Naaz at her apartment; she had grown fond of napping. Shair and I continued down to the beach speaking about Iranian geography, Gaudi, Dali, the man who tattooed himself from head to toe and misc. other themes.
At the sight of the beach's gold sand stretching for miles and blue water churned to sizable white caps, I grew excited. We found a spot on the beach. Moments later, I was thinking of Coley (Nicole Lesinski) as I jumped the waves, swam and generally tried my luck against Mother Nature's salty waves which towered above. Later, my eyes burned red, and the ocean and I parted friends. It had exhausted me and I grew to realize the fierce potential. The danger of an exhausted Franco and the unrelenting Indian Ocean did not sound like a good book title. I retreated to the beach and continued conversations with Shair. We spoke of everything, listening to IPOD reggae, but throughout our discussions, we never spoke politics.
I want to hear his views and I'm sure he'd like to hear mine. We kept away from the subject, which I enjoyed. We'll leave political discussions for another day.
- Franco
----- 03 | 11 | 06 -----
March 11th, Saturday
My week in Durban was mostly spent at Tekweni meeting other travelers, sharing stories, and learning Cricket and Rugby (I watched a great Cricket match where for the first time 400 runs were scored by one team). I didn't have such an issue with listening comprehension in Lesotho. The Basotho all speak English similarily and with the same accent. In Durban, I had to tune up my active listening. I spent a proper week speaking with numerous Brits, Australians, South Africans, a few French-Swiss, a couple German-Swiss, a couple Germans, an Irish man living in England, a New Yorker from the city, and various others. Interesting enough is that I found it more difficult to speak with people where English is their native tongue, because of their accent and vernacular.
I was picking up what they were putting down. I understood themes easily and the majority of the words, but the different vernacular and phrases are sometimes lost. Many jokes were lost in translation on me; I would miss an integral word or two. Accents are also tough at first, especially accented words. They are hard to understand when learning to listen around my accent-impediment.
I met Naaz on Tuesday, the second day of my holiday. She had promised to take me to Hindu Temples, and Buddhist temples and if I wanted to some churches. She promised to take me on Saturday. Saturday morning I awoke, and before I sat down with my coffee Naaz appeared. We start talking about business again and she remembered her promise to take me to the temples. She wavers momentarily and then promptly comes around. She realized the importance of upholding a promise. She quickly rearranged her mental scheduled. After I finished my coffee, I dressed, and we were off.
I needed to replace a towel (sorry CLA, it was well-used, but this is the life of a backpacker. What is not nailed down may be picked up. I didn’t expect someone to steal my towel off the line.) and some soap before I continued south. And So The Durban Hospitality begins. Naaz takes me down to the Windmere Center to shop and then treats me to a make-shift brunch in here 9th floor apartment in the Center. A nice brunch was complimented with pleasant conversation.
We headed down to a Hindu temple and walked through the horse race track at the Royal Durban Golf Club. We literally cart-wheeled down the grass-track and found ourselves at the Kendra temple. Now my interntions were architectual curiosity, interior and exterior.These were abruptly changed when numerous cars started pulling in to the lot and a parade of suited men and women garbed in colorful and shiny Indian dresses started filing into the temple.
With hope, I asked Naaz if she minded if I tried to see the wedding. She agreed to go along. I approached a lady and after explaining my situation and desire to attend the wedding, she directed me to inquire inside the temple. She was optimistic about my chances. After asking a nicely appointed gent with baby in arms, we waiting until the last of the guests trickled in and then entered the temple.
The temple interior reminded me of any newly-built Ameriacn Presbeterian church, with, of course, Indian symbols and statues. We were ushered into the Main Auditorium where the bridal party was just entering in procession to the altar. We stood near the altar stairs and they proceeded past us, up the stairs. Our only visual impetus was the musicians: A violinist and a percussionist with a hand drum.
The auditorium was large, enough to fit nearly 80 tables, with a table setting for 10 people, with room to spare. We sat in the back of this sizable auditorium at table 52. Fortunately, I sat next to a bride-to-be, their wedding 7weeks off, so she had an intimate working knowledge of the ritual already taking place. This was a "Tamal" wedding (pronounce to rhyme with "camel").
The wedding party, on the stage/altar, partakes in cleansing rituals. There is an especially vivid one where a flaming metal bowl is waved in front of the bridge and groom. The pinnacle of the ceremony, near the 50 minute of the hour long process, is of course when the bride and groom are finally married. The bride standing behind a white cloth, similar to a bed-sheet, protecting her from any evil eyes, or in the bride-to-be's words "bad vibes", given by the audience. The groom them places a yellow string with an amulet/medallion around her neck. They are married.
The ritual ends and we try to leave. Naaz and I agree that staying would be awkward. The bride-to-be tells us, "You should stay for dinner. You can't leave now, without eating." I took her comments as a kind gesture. I use Naaz's schoolwork as an excuse and we make our way out to the greeting area where 2 more people stop us to invite us to dinner. They say we can't leave with eating. Dinner will only take 20 minutes. We can't leave without eating. When the 4th person stops us with an invitation and a bewildered look at our departure, Naaz realize that it would be considered rude if we did leave. Immediately we made our way to our table, greeted with open arms and smiles.
Dinner consisted of 2 rices, a curry, a salad and a choice of Coca-Cola or Fanta. A polenta-like dish was dessert. A sugary corn meal that doesn't quite solidly as polenta. Naaz kept me in check during dinner. As I started to place dessert onto my dinner plate, she scolded me with "Don't be a daft man, use the little plate." I incorrectly thought it was a bread plate.
As dinner finished, the guests filed out of the auditorium to give best-wishes to the newly-weds. The ceremony followed a ritual -> dinner -> best-wishes. Where a Western Christian wedding follows the ritual -> best-wishes -> dinner/reception.
As I walked into the auditorium to our table, the first time, I had another humbling experience. I was dressed in sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt amidst a mass of the well-dressed. I did initiate the experience and I was amazed that we successful, and so graciously accepted.
The night finished with a DVD at Naaz's, "Urban Legend: Bloody Mary" and more Durban Hospitality; She fixed dinner for us. Thanks Naaz for such a great day!
Nearly everyone I met in Durban was friendly and accommodating, Durban is a big city of approximately 3 million people and its growing nearly the rate of Mexico City. There are, of course, place to stay away from a night which contrast the 6 mile, and increasing, beach front 'Golden Mile' and the ocean-side Sea World. I felt a week in Durban was great but it is a big city and the nature beckoned.
- Franco
----- 03 | 13 | 06 -----
Monday 13 23:30
Most of Angle Rock has gone off to bed. There's not a very big crowd here. Rob and Nadeen the hosts, the staff Fran and Chris and a few couples. Rob is South African, his wife Nadeen is Swiss, young love brought together years ago on Nadeen vacation. Fran is 18 and British, been working here for a month, she was offered a position here last year on a South African tour. Chris is in his 19, British, been working here for 3 months and he hopes to move to Canada, to snow board.
The Garlic-
I bought a head of garlic at the Super Spar in Morning Side, a Durban neighborhood. I debated over buying garlic in a jar, but decided that the cloves were more economical and that the cloves were going to be easier to pack. There is only so much space in the pack, pro and cons have to be considered, the extraneous is left behind, only the "necessities". The least essential items I have in my bag are my MP3 playing CD player and headphones (the good ones). I could argue that music, and something to listen to music, is terribly essential, but that argument is for another day.
At the kitchen, making sauce, I started cutting into a clove; it was terribly dry. A passerby made the comment "Its Africa, it’s hot."
- Franco
----- 03 | 15 | 06 -----
March 15th -
I found my way south to Angle Rock in Warner Beach, only 40 minutes from downtown Durban on Sunday the 12th. A storm rolled through Sunday night. Monday I awoke, strolled from my tent to the beach, a minute walk, where I grew excited as the waves danced and crashed. I forgot Rob's rec'm'dation and tried to take a Kayak out into the ocean's torrential waves. Rob is the owner/host/South African and a man of the sea and sun. I wish now that I had remembered his rec'm'dation. The kayak tossed me around something fierce for under 10 minutes when I knew the ocean did not want me in it that day.
- Franco
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