Greg's blog

On the first day of school this year I asked my students how many days of class we will have before it's time for final exams. The answer is many, but actually none of us the number for sure. True, the Ministry of Education publishes the secondary school calendar each year, and we teachers at Ngoana Jesu have our own written class schedules, but those are just, well, things to fall back on if nothing else comes up.

The following is a brief list of some of the things that 'come up', and take teachers out of class, students out of class, or shut down the school altogether.

I walked into our village's shop and asked to buy three pears. "Ak'u mphe lipere tse tharo," I said in Sesotho.

"You mean 'pere'," said Selloane from behind the counter with an irritated look. "'Pere' is a horse. Say, 'pere' for pear."

I never knew the two words sounded differently. They were spelled the same so I had been pronouncing them the same. I apologized to Selloane for ruining her language, but also thought that she ought to lighten up. Does she realize how much she wrecks English every time she utters a sentence in that, my mother tongue?

Perhaps you remember 'Malefa? She is the bright student who nearly didn't return to our school last year because her father lost his job in a South African mine and would be unable to pay tuition. We found her a scholarship through the government (who gets its money from foreign aid), and 'Malefa wrapped up school last year wonderfully in terms of academics. But the Wednesday before school started up this year her father died. As typical death stories go around here, he got the hiccups on Monday and then simply passed away Wednesday morning. 'Malefa came to my house on Thursday.

A handful of teachers from a nearby school visited our school last week. The men were well-behaved.

As soon as I sat down at my desk in the staff room, a large woman from the other school strikes up some conversation with, "How long have you been here?" Her second question is, "Do you have a 'motho'?" Meaning, do I have a girlfriend, wife, whatever. Yeah, I said, I do.

"Where is she?"

"She's around."

"Where?"

"Around here."

"Aaah, where is she?" the woman complained.

"Nah, I don't have one."

"When should I visit you?"

Damn, I knew that was going to happen.

Last Sunday the ruling party in Lesotho, LCD, had a conference to choose its executive committee. The current Prime Minister, Pakalitha Mosisili, retained his spot on top while two other men vied for the number-two role. Of course, this number-two man will be groomed to succeed Mosisili when he steps down. Of the two men competing to be the Prime Minister's successor one, Moleleki Monyane, was elected for a lower position within the executive committee: a sign of approval. The other, however, was left with nothing. He's a man who is known to be corrupt.

Travel guides always note that Lesotho has the nickname 'mountain kingdom', and it is in Lesotho's mountains where the country shines. The 'lowlands', as they refer to the sliver of western foothills where the majority of the population live and where I too dwell, is indeed half-ugly and undeserving of recognition in a travel book. It's drier, it's littered, and it can be crowded with tin shacks. Up above, however, it's green, it's clean (cleaner anyway), and it's a fantastic place to hike for three days with two friends.

"I haven't been sleeping since November. I've been sick!" said Matebello this morning.

Why? Because in November she took what's called the J.C. exam, which every tenth grader in Lesotho must take and pass before moving on to the next level. The results of this exam get published as inserts in the national newspapers. Students find out their grades the same time everyone else in the country does, and in the same way, by buying and opening up today's newspaper. Everyone's got a copy, everyone's selling a copy.

Friends Scott and Ashley, plus their five children came over to visit Sunday night. I had been hoping to see them again before leaving. Unfortunately, I was supposed to head off to LAX soon. We all played until the last minute, and then I threw everything into two bags, including some clothes that got washed but not fully dried. Grandpa and Mom then drove me to the airport.

Thinking I was late, they simply dropped me at the curb and I jammed to check in. But I wasn't late at all and wished I would've spent a few more minutes with people at home. You never can get those minutes back.

A scribbling in my journal while in Mexico on December 31:

'Here I am, angry. Why? Because I'm not surfing. Why? Because my arms no longer work. The waves are so incredibly good, and there is barely anyone surfing, but I can no longer do it. It's too painful. My back, arms, legs. Spent! I'm happy and angry simultaneously.'

Back to real time:

It's now Sunday, January 8, the last day of my month-long visit home and once again I'm happy and angry at the same time. Why? Let me briefly run through what I've been up to over the past month and you tell me how you'd feel.

Yes, it does.

In Lesotho, without any refrigeration, I've become used to my milk being at room temperature. This milk from the fridge here chills my teeth now, but my mom wants it even colder. I saw her putting ice cubes in her cereal the other morning.