Wednesday, August 6, 2008
That's It
As of today, this blog is officially defunct. I got back to the US two weeks ago and am currently wending my way from Provo (home of my long-suffering parents who were kind enough to store my stuff) to New York where I'll be starting graduate school at NYU Law. I'm writing a wrap up post regarding what I learned both personally and professionally from my experience in Africa, but that and all future posts regarding what's going on with me will be posted at my other blog, Messy Room, available at http://danielwevans.blogspot.com/. Thanks for reading.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Sprint to the Finish
I got home from my Tanzanian vacation two days ago with only five days left to wrap up a bunch of projects before heading home to the US on 7/15. I am sprinting to get everything finished and so I have not had a great amount of time for self-reflection about this experience, but I imagine the 16+ hour odyssey back to the American West will provide ample opportunity. After I get back to the States, I am planning a month-long road trip to see various friends and family, culminating in selling my car and enrolling at NYU Law in late August. More details will follow before this blog is retired permanently, but the end is (quickly) nearing.
Last minute adventure
After getting pretty burned out providing the financial analysis and budgeting on a large HIV grant proposal, I decided to take a last-second vacation. I had a couple of things in mind (park ranger training, Great White Shark dive), but what finally worked out was hiking Kilimanjaro. I contacted a few tour companies, got some quotes, and about five days later was on my way to Tanzania. I’ll write a more complete travelogue later, but here are a few shots from the trip. I don’t have any from the top (who knew cameras could freeze solid?), but I should have a more complete photo narrative after the members of my hiking group finish trading our shots. It was not that difficult a hike from a technical perspective, and I would recommend it to anyone who wants a unique African experience.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Bearded Comparisons
I have been known to grow a beard under some circumstances. These include cold weather, brief exits from corporate constraints, and environments suffering from a paucity of eligible girls. As living in Lesotho has recently provided a combination of all three, I just let it grow. A few days back however I got tired of finding myself eating 'stache and shaved the whole thing off. As to why I'm so "happy" in the Before shot, the only reason I have photos of this process was a request by a colleague to do a comparison shot of me and a certain former president during his formative college years that has a prominent place in our office. Staff consensus is that I win on beard versus beard but that he takes it with the awesome white boy fro. As to why I'm so "serious" in the After shot, you don't really understand the insulative effects of a beard until you shave it off, and my apartment is really cold.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Winter Break
On Friday I noticed a lot of school kids out and about during lunch and mentioned it to my driver later in the day. It turns out that Friday was the last day of school here in Lesotho, with a break extending until mid-August. This confused me. In the U.S. the origins of the summer break lie in agriculture, of families needing kids at home to aid in the harvest. As Lesotho is in the southern hemisphere and just entering deep winter, obviously the rationale did not hold. My driver explained that they had a break because it was so cold. Having been in a few school houses here and seen the utter lack of heating or insulation, that argument actually holds some weight. Walking uphill five miles in the snow to get to school is one thing, but then being forced to sit in a school house as cold as or only marginally warmer than the outside is another.
I feel rather sorry for the children of Lesotho at this moment. American kids get time off when the days are long and warm, lending themselves to outdoor fun and adventures. Lesotho kids get time off when the daylight is scarce and the only thing you want to do is huddle by a heat source.
I feel rather sorry for the children of Lesotho at this moment. American kids get time off when the days are long and warm, lending themselves to outdoor fun and adventures. Lesotho kids get time off when the daylight is scarce and the only thing you want to do is huddle by a heat source.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Cold House 6.7.2008
I love my house, in part because it reminds me of the house I grew up in in Hawaii. Cinder block construction, louvered windows, flat roof. While that style of architecture works fine in tropical climes and worked well here in the summer time, now that we are fully into winter it is freezing cold. My house literally holds no heat. No insulation, no double panes, loosely fit doors allowing drafts from both above and below. If anything it is a heat sink as the interior of the house will remain cold hours into the day after the sun has warmed up the outside to a reasonable degree. I am considering ways in which I can improve the insulative properties of the house because while I have managed with a large pile of blankets and an electric heater to date that strategy is (i) wasteful in terms of energy and (ii) not particularly effective when rolling blackouts hours in duration are a regular occurrence. I am incredibly grateful to my mom for making me buy thermal underwear all those years ago as it is the only thing allowing me to sleep half the time.
Taxi Issues 6.7.2008
Last week a dispute between the private taxi industry and the government concerning the opening of public buses on routes previously reserved for taxis spilled into violence. A few taxi drivers were shot, one passed away, and for two days the entire town was incredibly tense. The second day there was a taxi strike, enforced by blockades of minibuses on most of the major roads leading into town. As most of the workforce for the factories located in town actually live in the surrounding villages, there were thousands of people streaming into and out of town on foot all day. I did not get any photos, but imagine the density of the stream of people leaving a professional sporting arena and you get the idea.
I was not directly affected, but a few of our office staff that live in surrounding areas were unable to get into work. One of my co-workers got stranded right outside of town when the minibus she was riding on hit a blockade and the passengers were forced to either get out and walk or ride back to their starting point. As she was calling the office for one of our drivers to come pick her up, shots were fired behind across the street from her. She was fine, and in fact no one was hurt at that time. Later reports indicate it was the police firing into the air to warn taxi owners to stop physically preventing people from boarding a public bus, but accounts vary. By the time I arrived at the office it was a frantic scene as our admin staff tried to track down all of the staff to verify that they were safe. In the end everything died down as quickly as it appeared. Though the conflict was localized to a very small interest group, the number of people forced onto the street and the prevalent mood made for a highly flammable situation.
I was not directly affected, but a few of our office staff that live in surrounding areas were unable to get into work. One of my co-workers got stranded right outside of town when the minibus she was riding on hit a blockade and the passengers were forced to either get out and walk or ride back to their starting point. As she was calling the office for one of our drivers to come pick her up, shots were fired behind across the street from her. She was fine, and in fact no one was hurt at that time. Later reports indicate it was the police firing into the air to warn taxi owners to stop physically preventing people from boarding a public bus, but accounts vary. By the time I arrived at the office it was a frantic scene as our admin staff tried to track down all of the staff to verify that they were safe. In the end everything died down as quickly as it appeared. Though the conflict was localized to a very small interest group, the number of people forced onto the street and the prevalent mood made for a highly flammable situation.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
How the mighty have fallen
As some of you may or may not have heard, for the last few months South Africa has been facing an energy crisis. In Johannesburg particularly, regular power outages lasting hours have become a regular facet of life, seriously impinging upon peoples’ quality of life. During much of this time of hardship Lesotho has been, for lack of a better word, smug. Until recently, we have had no significant power disruptions, and while South Africa groaned we all exulted in our good fortune. Those days are now over as for the last month or so Maseru has been experiencing rolling blackouts lasting anywhere from one to four hours in a given location. While there is a schedule of power cuts, the blackouts do not follow it. Many critical systems like traffic lights are also linked directly to the main grid, and so when a block goes out everything goes out.
At my gym the power goes out fairly regularly starting between 5:50 and 6:20 pm, coming back on around 9:00 pm. After racking myself a few times while running on the treadmill when the power cut out (you would think it would just slowly come to a stop. Not the case), I and the larger gym populace have become slightly savvier. No one uses the pool in the evenings and machines like exercise bikes and elliptical machines that draw power from the user become hot property around that magic time. Yesterday, when the place was plunged into darkness at 5:57 pm, I felt a little smug as I continued peddling away, watching a parade of fireflies and curses as the larger gym population tried to make their way to the locker rooms by the light of cell phones.
For a while I was feeling rather smug about my home power situation as well. While my accommodations are modest, I live in a neighborhood known for housing a number of the wealthy and political elite. For the first few weeks we were untouched by power outages or only got hit in the sweet spot between 9 and 12 in the morning. No longer, no longer. For the last couple of weeks I’ve regularly gotten home and been in the dark between 6 and 9 pm, which may be the worst time to go without power. I am currently considering investing in a paraffin stove as cold dinners are getting a bit boring, the power shortage shows no signs of abating, and I think it makes my guard uncomfortable when I go and hang out with him by his fire for extended periods of time. He’s a great guy, but with my limited Sesotho our conversation gets old pretty fast (exp. “And where are you from, good sir?”).
Above and beyond these little considerations, the power outages slow down work of all kinds. Most of the office buildings in the capital either have no or insufficient generator support and get hit during prime working periods for hours on end. This morning I was in the Ministry of Health for a series of meetings and did them in the dark. As we push for electronic systems and move to Excel and Access-based supply management, we make the system more efficient but also more vulnerable to these kinds of disruptions. So far the departments I work with have suffered nothing more serious than delays and lost work (people have learned the value of backing up their work quickly), but it is clear that the power disruptions, when spread throughout both the private and public sector in the capital, have a very high cost. I would write more, but my battery is running low.
At my gym the power goes out fairly regularly starting between 5:50 and 6:20 pm, coming back on around 9:00 pm. After racking myself a few times while running on the treadmill when the power cut out (you would think it would just slowly come to a stop. Not the case), I and the larger gym populace have become slightly savvier. No one uses the pool in the evenings and machines like exercise bikes and elliptical machines that draw power from the user become hot property around that magic time. Yesterday, when the place was plunged into darkness at 5:57 pm, I felt a little smug as I continued peddling away, watching a parade of fireflies and curses as the larger gym population tried to make their way to the locker rooms by the light of cell phones.
For a while I was feeling rather smug about my home power situation as well. While my accommodations are modest, I live in a neighborhood known for housing a number of the wealthy and political elite. For the first few weeks we were untouched by power outages or only got hit in the sweet spot between 9 and 12 in the morning. No longer, no longer. For the last couple of weeks I’ve regularly gotten home and been in the dark between 6 and 9 pm, which may be the worst time to go without power. I am currently considering investing in a paraffin stove as cold dinners are getting a bit boring, the power shortage shows no signs of abating, and I think it makes my guard uncomfortable when I go and hang out with him by his fire for extended periods of time. He’s a great guy, but with my limited Sesotho our conversation gets old pretty fast (exp. “And where are you from, good sir?”).
Above and beyond these little considerations, the power outages slow down work of all kinds. Most of the office buildings in the capital either have no or insufficient generator support and get hit during prime working periods for hours on end. This morning I was in the Ministry of Health for a series of meetings and did them in the dark. As we push for electronic systems and move to Excel and Access-based supply management, we make the system more efficient but also more vulnerable to these kinds of disruptions. So far the departments I work with have suffered nothing more serious than delays and lost work (people have learned the value of backing up their work quickly), but it is clear that the power disruptions, when spread throughout both the private and public sector in the capital, have a very high cost. I would write more, but my battery is running low.
You get what you pay for
A few weeks ago I decided to use my Saturday and go for a walk. Though Maseru is not that large a town, there are a number of areas I had never visited before. My only goals: score some sweet local music, find a decently priced Aranda blanket (a key part of the national costume), and get some nice photos. I succeeded on the first two counts, and I will let you all decide on the third.
One thing I definitely noticed in my wanderings was the presence of a tiered economy for basic goods. Maseru has three ShopRights, decent sized grocery stores with a wide selection and clean premises that would not be out of place anywhere in the US. The next step down is any of the multitudes of Chinese-owned groceries scattered throughout the market section of town. Smaller selection, more irregular quality, not quite as clean, but cheaper prices. The final step down is the market stalls and guys with wheelbarrows selling only one or two goods. No selection, very irregular quality, clearly unhygienic (especially the meat), but you cannot beat the prices. Every once in a while you seen a crystal clear example of the tradeoff between cost and other factors (convenience/selection/cleanliness) and it was interesting to see it laid out so clearly. Unsurprisingly, the vast majority of people in Maseru patronize some mixture of the Chinese-groceries and stalls, trying to stretch what they have as far as it will go.
Feeling a bit unsafe
Over the weekend I went on a road trip with a friend to a village in the mountains called Semonkong. The lodge in the town was lovely with amazing food, great staff, and a really good vibe. The drawing feature of Semonkong is a gorgeous waterfall which you can either hike to the bottom of or, if you are feeling adventurous, absail (repel) to the base of. Guess which I did? I am now the proud holder of a certificate testifying that I have done the highest commercial absail in the world, 204 meters. I was a bit worried that it would not be exciting, that having a full harness would cut into the adrenalin factor. I need not have worried, for after getting over the lip and finding myself hanging free ~600 ft from the base of a huge waterfall, I got quite a rush. See the little red dot in the second picture? That's me!
Monday, April 7, 2008
You're From Where? 4.6.2008
On Sunday I was catching a taxi home from the airport when a British chap came up and asked if he could share my cab. Turns out he was a consultant from England brought in by the government to determine the viability of increasing investment in the ---------- industry and, given how everything seems to work here, no one had shown up to pick him up. While we chatted during the thirty minute drive from the airport back to civilization, I found out that he currently lives in a town adjacent to Cheam, Surrey, the town where my parents lived in England for a few years and where two of my older siblings were born. [Note: Why is the airport in the middle of nowhere? I’m guessing a combination of tribal/governmental politics, the universal constant which dictates airports must be located in difficult to reach areas, and the fact that there are relatively few flat areas large enough to build an airstrip in the country. Lesotho is not called “The Mountain Kingdom” for nothing.] After apologizing, he explained how much he disliked Cheam and would have “died of boredom” if he ever had to live there. Ahh, British frankness. Though in fairness, looking back, many of the stories my parents tell about living in England are negative events now fondly remembered, safely ensconced as they are in the past. The bad economy, the rolling blackouts, the bad food. I had always assumed that it was living in England at the time (with four kids) that was the source of their problems, but perhaps the location they lived in had more to do with it.
Hot Water 4.6.2008
Last week I finally got hot water in my apartment. I have always had a geyser, as they call the miniature, ceiling suspended hot water heaters here, but up until last week Friday mine for some mysterious reason did not function. It did not really matter when it was still summer and merely stepping outside reduced you to a sweating mess. My primary use for hot water is showers, and when it is a hundred degrees out a cold shower feels amazing. However, we have officially started in towards the Lesotho winter, and I found myself making excuses to avoid taking showers when I got up because it was cold. But no more! After an amiable chat with my landlord (a rambling story prone 90-year old man who, as the father of the current Minister of Health, is someone I have a vested interest in keeping happy with me), two men showed up in short order to take a look at the problem. Loose wires turned out to be the culprit, and while that diagnosis is somewhat alarming considering my house has the fire safety of a wicker gas can, it is fabulous to have hot running water. I (and no doubt my co-workers) thank the powers at be for this event. Now if only the water wasn’t infected with typhoid (not joking) . . .
Speaking of the typhoid contamination, which is evidently not that big an issue as long as you boil any tap water you will be using, I went to my gym the other day and was surprised to see that the water dispensers located throughout the gym were empty. These are your standard office cooler type dispensers, with a large bottle on top that drains through a cooling/heating unit to the spigot placed below. I have always enjoyed having them there because you have to be pretty careful about tap water and it was nice to have such an abundant supply of bottled water in the context where I drank the most. When I asked one of the staff why all of the dispensers were empty, she mentioned the typhoid issue. I was initially confused because bottled water should not be subject to typhoid contamination stemming from the general supply, right? Turns out confusion was warranted, just not for the reasons I had assumed. Rather than actually buying new bottles of water to stock the coolers, my gym evidently simply has two sets of bottles that they alternately refill with tap water and swap out to keep the coolers stocked. When I noted, somewhat vigorously, to the staff member that this was in line with false advertising, she calmly told me that the tap water in the city is very good. Except of course when it is infected with typhoid.
Thaba Bosiu Hike 3.24.2008
It is Monday, March 24, 2008, and I am currently lying on my couch, pondering if I will ever walk again. Let me tell you how I got here.
[I use a couple of words in this account that may require some explanation. Lesotho – the country I’m living in. Basutho – the ethnic group that makes up the overwhelming majority of Lesotho’s population (‘Lesotho’ roughly translates as ‘Kingdom of the Basutho’). Sesotho – the language of the Basutho.]
[This account originally had embedded pictures. I’ve included some at the end, but if there is a reference to “The picture below” or similar, please just use your imagination.]
About a month ago I was reading the local paper and saw a short article detailing an upcoming hike. Over a hundred years ago the founder the Basutho nation, Moshoeshoe I, made a hike with his warriors from a town called Moakheneng to what would become his mountain fortress at Thabu Busia. Upon arriving at Thabu Busia Moshoeshoe gave a speech that historians consider to been the foundation of the Basutho nation (i.e. Lesotho). The concept of the hike was to follow in the steps of Moshoeshoe. I thought it sounded interesting but completely forgot about it until I was talking to a friend about a week ago who was planning on doing it with his family. He had done it the year before and raved about both the amazing views and the fact that it was probably the most Basutho of experiences one could have. How could I resist?
When I called up the tour director I got my first taste of what I was getting myself into. He raved about how the first day we would be hiking for only seven hours or so, twelve hours on the second day, and another seven hours of “easy” hiking on the last day. Regardless, I signed up and paid my fee (R350, the equivalent of USD$50) which would cover transport to the start and back from the finish, two nights’ lodgings, and dinner for both nights. At the last second my friend’s father had some health issues that forced my friend to skip the trip, but with only two days to make alternate plans and already very excited about the hike, I decided to go anyway.
I arrived at the bus pick-up, per instructions, at 6:00 am. Though told that the bus would leave promptly at 7:00, it eventually arrived and we set out at 9:00 pm (typical local timing).
The composition of the group surprised me. Out of about one hundred there were only four foreigners, a woman working with a UN development project, a couple of Pilipino technical advisors from the local textile mills, and myself. We were kind of a big thing because I guess this is something they have been doing for a while and we were the first foreigners to come along. As I found out later, the trip was being subsidized by the Ministry of Tourism and a bunch of corporate sponsors with the idea that it will hopefully become an attraction for international tourists in the future. Participant ages ranged from upper teens to early fifties, and the quality of physiques ran from traditionally built women to young men who could have doubled as professional soccer players. The mixed composition of the group lulled me into thinking that the trek would be a relatively easy affair.
The only Basutho with the disposable income to come on this type of trip are generally college educated and either highly placed or working for Western corporations. Thus we had the deputy of the Lesotho Defense Force, tax assessors from the Revenue Authority, a number of inspectors with the Police Commission, and related family members of this type of people. There were a few notable exceptions, like one of the greatest guys on the hike who was a retired miner and wore his hard hat the entire time. When I asked why he wore such unusual head gear, he said that he had worn it for so many years that it was the most comfortable hat that he could now think of.
The two hour bus ride from Maseru to our starting point, Moakheneng, was a noisy affair. I had long thought that Americans were the loudest of peoples (as in most foreign countries you can hear a group of Americans coming from two blocks away), but living in Africa has forced me to revise that opinion. Between singing, telling stories and jokes, a little bit of preaching, the two hours was a non-stop jab fest of such volume that I always had to elevate my voice to talk to the man sitting next to me. That being said, everyone was extremely friendly. Any fears I had had about coming on the trip alone disappeared as I made friends on the bus ride up. When we alighted at Moakheneng we were met by a welcoming committee consisting of a rep from the Ministry of Tourism and the local chief.
I did not understand most of the program, as with most of the official communication over the three days, because it was completely in Sesotho. A young reporter in the group took me under his wing and tried to make sure I got everything of safety importance, but I was constantly asking people what was going on. They were very patient.
As we left the first village to begin, I noticed that an older woman had joined our group. She was probably in her fifties, barefoot, and dressed as a traditional healer. She spoke no English, but I eventually found out through intermediaries that the chief had sent her with our party as protection. The traditional healers have claim to a variety of powers, weather working being among the most important and the reason she came along. Whatever you can say about her weather control (and it never did anything worse than rain on us – no dangerous lightening or hail, though we often saw it on the horizon), the lady was tough as nails. She was consistently one of the fastest in the group, walking barefoot, over some of the rockiest terrain. She would not touch or accept anything directly from the foreigners, but was very polite otherwise.
My first real critique of the tour organizers is that I do not think they really understood the type of group they were taking out. We were on the trail for about seven hours, and about a third of the group had to be picked up at a point where we crossed a road because the column had gotten so stretched out. Rather than spacing people with knowledge of the trail throughout the pack, pretty much all of the people who had done the hike previously (all men) were clumped at the front and they set a mean pace that quickly left the others behind.
I hung out at the back of the front pack until about 3 kilometers from the finish when I had to lay down for a bit. I’d been in a rush in the morning and skipped breakfast and had not brought a lunch after having been assured that we would have a chance to pick something up along the way (not true!). I was fine until about 6:30 pm when I suddenly got really dizzy. I quickly lay down in the middle of a corn field because it seemed more graceful than falling down. This event, which only the two guys with me actually saw, everyone made the rounds of the entire group and for the rest of the hike people were constantly asking me if I was okay. At a loss (or perhaps just unwilling) to explain why I had been fasting all day, I just told everyone I had been tired. After a few minutes I got enough strength to stagger into the closest village and found an open café that sold Coca-Cola. Say what you will about Coke, but there have been a few instances in my life where it has functioned as a highly effective medicine, and this was one of them. After a sugar/caffeine infusion and a few more minutes sitting on the ground, I picked myself up and made it to the finish line for the day, an Outward Bound camp we were staying at for the first night. I need not have rushed, as the organizers spent the next hour and a half ferrying in people who had gotten left behind or lost. While I will fault the initial hiking order, we did have cars and ATVs following us in any areas that would support roads (about 40% of the trail) to help those who fell ill or behind.
A word on the first day – absolutely incredible terrain. We crossed practically every landscape you can see in Lesotho, from plateau mountain tops to river valleys to grassy plains and so on. Absolutely beautiful country with picturesque villages placed here and there but largely untouched.
This fine gentleman crossed our path and gave us an impromptu concert. Local music is heavy on the accordion, with call and respond chanting laid over the basic beat. The galoshes he is wearing are part of the standard rural outfit, the utility of which I did not appreciate until this trip when we crossed about ten small rivers a day.
After a fine dinner, we were informed that we would be getting up at 4:00 am the next morning in order to reach the next stopping point before dark. The next morning we were greeted by a steady drizzle that would continue until mid-day. I asked about this in context of our weather woman, and was informed that light rain is “good weather.” Bad weather, which we were being protected from, would include hail, torrential rains, and the ever dangerous thunder storms.
I was a bit surprised to find that most people had not brought flash lights, so the next couple of hours were an interesting struggle. I’d brought a head lamp as well as a hand torch, so I had a group of five or six people who clustered around my penumbra as we made our way up the trail. I should note that most of the trails we followed on the trip were actually water run-off paths, so after the start of the second day we were slogging through mud practically the entire way. Joy!
The second day had its share of highs (awesome views, amazing scenery) and lows (tons of river crossings, mud) but the biggest issue was simply the length. Originally predicted at twelve hours, we actually spent 16:48 on the trail (not counting lunch), which didn’t put us to our second stopping point (a rural school house where we slept on the floor) until around 10:30. I actually enjoy night hiking, but the organizers were making a point of keeping the group together as one and, as the day wore on, that meant the pace got excruciatingly slow. I normally do not consider steep descents that tiring, but when you are forced to take two steps, stop, wait, three steps, stop, wait, etc. they get both excruciating both physically and mentally.
Much of the second day we were passing through regions that can only be reached by 4-wheel drive or, in a few instances, donkey, so we were a pretty big deal. People would come out of their houses to greet us, children would shout and follow us for a bit. Melissa and I, the only Westerners in the group, got stared at most of the time.
When we finally arrived at the school house, we had a great local dinner of pa pa (corn mash), Russian (sausage), veg (boiled spinach), and pumpkin. It was quite good. I should note that whenever you eat at a local restaurant or are served at a local house, they give out massive portions. It seems to be a cultural artifact that could have a couple of origins (authentic food insecurity, etc.), but Basutho can put down food like no one I’ve ever seen outside of Polynesia. Anyway, with a belly full of dinner we all collapsed. My inch thick foam pad over concrete floor was not the most comfortable bed I have ever had, but at the end of that day down padding would not have felt better.
On Sunday morning I experienced a little miracle. While packing up, I discovered that my wallet was missing. After a careful review of my sleeping area, I determined it was not there and, thinking about it, reasoned that it had probably gotten lost somehow during our final descent towards the school house. Losing the contents (USD $45) did not bother me nearly as much as losing the wallet itself, a gift from a dear friend and incredibly faithful church member in Japan. As we were about to leave I mentioned the loss to the other Westerner in the group and she said she had seen a wallet in the field out behind the school house. We went and, sure enough, my wallet was there. The cash was gone, but that turned what would have been a very discouraging start into a very promising beginning. I hope whichever villager got the cash (equivalent to a couple of month’s salary) puts it to good use.
The third day of hiking was uneventful. Eight hours over muddy dirt roads with occasional bypasses through fields of rustling corn and sorghum. For the last two hours a group of guys took turns running in front of the pack, singing and chanting.
I tried to avoid drinking untreated water, but by the third day had to make do with what I could find on the road. If I come down with a parasite, we will know exactly where it came from.
We finally entered Thaba Bosiu in the afternoon, dancing and singing as we arrived. Under a large awning (more rain) we had a very nice reception party that included the Minister of Tourism herself, the village priest, and the local chief. Everyone who finished the trek was given a certificate of completion, which did not feel as silly as it sounds after finishing the hike.
I have heard various estimates of how far we actually hiked, and I feel fairly confident we clocked over eighty miles over the three days, much of that over mountainous terrain. Not insanely long, but considering the composition and relative athleticism of the group, I was very impressed.
So here I am, couch bound for two reasons. First, unsurprisingly, I am more than a bit sore. Second, my new boots (which are awesome and by far the most waterproof/breathable pair I have ever had) also left me with two silver dollar blisters, one on the pad of each foot. But that is okay, because today is a holiday and I work in office. I would do it again in a second.
[I use a couple of words in this account that may require some explanation. Lesotho – the country I’m living in. Basutho – the ethnic group that makes up the overwhelming majority of Lesotho’s population (‘Lesotho’ roughly translates as ‘Kingdom of the Basutho’). Sesotho – the language of the Basutho.]
[This account originally had embedded pictures. I’ve included some at the end, but if there is a reference to “The picture below” or similar, please just use your imagination.]
About a month ago I was reading the local paper and saw a short article detailing an upcoming hike. Over a hundred years ago the founder the Basutho nation, Moshoeshoe I, made a hike with his warriors from a town called Moakheneng to what would become his mountain fortress at Thabu Busia. Upon arriving at Thabu Busia Moshoeshoe gave a speech that historians consider to been the foundation of the Basutho nation (i.e. Lesotho). The concept of the hike was to follow in the steps of Moshoeshoe. I thought it sounded interesting but completely forgot about it until I was talking to a friend about a week ago who was planning on doing it with his family. He had done it the year before and raved about both the amazing views and the fact that it was probably the most Basutho of experiences one could have. How could I resist?
When I called up the tour director I got my first taste of what I was getting myself into. He raved about how the first day we would be hiking for only seven hours or so, twelve hours on the second day, and another seven hours of “easy” hiking on the last day. Regardless, I signed up and paid my fee (R350, the equivalent of USD$50) which would cover transport to the start and back from the finish, two nights’ lodgings, and dinner for both nights. At the last second my friend’s father had some health issues that forced my friend to skip the trip, but with only two days to make alternate plans and already very excited about the hike, I decided to go anyway.
I arrived at the bus pick-up, per instructions, at 6:00 am. Though told that the bus would leave promptly at 7:00, it eventually arrived and we set out at 9:00 pm (typical local timing).
The composition of the group surprised me. Out of about one hundred there were only four foreigners, a woman working with a UN development project, a couple of Pilipino technical advisors from the local textile mills, and myself. We were kind of a big thing because I guess this is something they have been doing for a while and we were the first foreigners to come along. As I found out later, the trip was being subsidized by the Ministry of Tourism and a bunch of corporate sponsors with the idea that it will hopefully become an attraction for international tourists in the future. Participant ages ranged from upper teens to early fifties, and the quality of physiques ran from traditionally built women to young men who could have doubled as professional soccer players. The mixed composition of the group lulled me into thinking that the trek would be a relatively easy affair.
The only Basutho with the disposable income to come on this type of trip are generally college educated and either highly placed or working for Western corporations. Thus we had the deputy of the Lesotho Defense Force, tax assessors from the Revenue Authority, a number of inspectors with the Police Commission, and related family members of this type of people. There were a few notable exceptions, like one of the greatest guys on the hike who was a retired miner and wore his hard hat the entire time. When I asked why he wore such unusual head gear, he said that he had worn it for so many years that it was the most comfortable hat that he could now think of.
The two hour bus ride from Maseru to our starting point, Moakheneng, was a noisy affair. I had long thought that Americans were the loudest of peoples (as in most foreign countries you can hear a group of Americans coming from two blocks away), but living in Africa has forced me to revise that opinion. Between singing, telling stories and jokes, a little bit of preaching, the two hours was a non-stop jab fest of such volume that I always had to elevate my voice to talk to the man sitting next to me. That being said, everyone was extremely friendly. Any fears I had had about coming on the trip alone disappeared as I made friends on the bus ride up. When we alighted at Moakheneng we were met by a welcoming committee consisting of a rep from the Ministry of Tourism and the local chief.
I did not understand most of the program, as with most of the official communication over the three days, because it was completely in Sesotho. A young reporter in the group took me under his wing and tried to make sure I got everything of safety importance, but I was constantly asking people what was going on. They were very patient.
As we left the first village to begin, I noticed that an older woman had joined our group. She was probably in her fifties, barefoot, and dressed as a traditional healer. She spoke no English, but I eventually found out through intermediaries that the chief had sent her with our party as protection. The traditional healers have claim to a variety of powers, weather working being among the most important and the reason she came along. Whatever you can say about her weather control (and it never did anything worse than rain on us – no dangerous lightening or hail, though we often saw it on the horizon), the lady was tough as nails. She was consistently one of the fastest in the group, walking barefoot, over some of the rockiest terrain. She would not touch or accept anything directly from the foreigners, but was very polite otherwise.
My first real critique of the tour organizers is that I do not think they really understood the type of group they were taking out. We were on the trail for about seven hours, and about a third of the group had to be picked up at a point where we crossed a road because the column had gotten so stretched out. Rather than spacing people with knowledge of the trail throughout the pack, pretty much all of the people who had done the hike previously (all men) were clumped at the front and they set a mean pace that quickly left the others behind.
I hung out at the back of the front pack until about 3 kilometers from the finish when I had to lay down for a bit. I’d been in a rush in the morning and skipped breakfast and had not brought a lunch after having been assured that we would have a chance to pick something up along the way (not true!). I was fine until about 6:30 pm when I suddenly got really dizzy. I quickly lay down in the middle of a corn field because it seemed more graceful than falling down. This event, which only the two guys with me actually saw, everyone made the rounds of the entire group and for the rest of the hike people were constantly asking me if I was okay. At a loss (or perhaps just unwilling) to explain why I had been fasting all day, I just told everyone I had been tired. After a few minutes I got enough strength to stagger into the closest village and found an open café that sold Coca-Cola. Say what you will about Coke, but there have been a few instances in my life where it has functioned as a highly effective medicine, and this was one of them. After a sugar/caffeine infusion and a few more minutes sitting on the ground, I picked myself up and made it to the finish line for the day, an Outward Bound camp we were staying at for the first night. I need not have rushed, as the organizers spent the next hour and a half ferrying in people who had gotten left behind or lost. While I will fault the initial hiking order, we did have cars and ATVs following us in any areas that would support roads (about 40% of the trail) to help those who fell ill or behind.
A word on the first day – absolutely incredible terrain. We crossed practically every landscape you can see in Lesotho, from plateau mountain tops to river valleys to grassy plains and so on. Absolutely beautiful country with picturesque villages placed here and there but largely untouched.
This fine gentleman crossed our path and gave us an impromptu concert. Local music is heavy on the accordion, with call and respond chanting laid over the basic beat. The galoshes he is wearing are part of the standard rural outfit, the utility of which I did not appreciate until this trip when we crossed about ten small rivers a day.
After a fine dinner, we were informed that we would be getting up at 4:00 am the next morning in order to reach the next stopping point before dark. The next morning we were greeted by a steady drizzle that would continue until mid-day. I asked about this in context of our weather woman, and was informed that light rain is “good weather.” Bad weather, which we were being protected from, would include hail, torrential rains, and the ever dangerous thunder storms.
I was a bit surprised to find that most people had not brought flash lights, so the next couple of hours were an interesting struggle. I’d brought a head lamp as well as a hand torch, so I had a group of five or six people who clustered around my penumbra as we made our way up the trail. I should note that most of the trails we followed on the trip were actually water run-off paths, so after the start of the second day we were slogging through mud practically the entire way. Joy!
The second day had its share of highs (awesome views, amazing scenery) and lows (tons of river crossings, mud) but the biggest issue was simply the length. Originally predicted at twelve hours, we actually spent 16:48 on the trail (not counting lunch), which didn’t put us to our second stopping point (a rural school house where we slept on the floor) until around 10:30. I actually enjoy night hiking, but the organizers were making a point of keeping the group together as one and, as the day wore on, that meant the pace got excruciatingly slow. I normally do not consider steep descents that tiring, but when you are forced to take two steps, stop, wait, three steps, stop, wait, etc. they get both excruciating both physically and mentally.
Much of the second day we were passing through regions that can only be reached by 4-wheel drive or, in a few instances, donkey, so we were a pretty big deal. People would come out of their houses to greet us, children would shout and follow us for a bit. Melissa and I, the only Westerners in the group, got stared at most of the time.
When we finally arrived at the school house, we had a great local dinner of pa pa (corn mash), Russian (sausage), veg (boiled spinach), and pumpkin. It was quite good. I should note that whenever you eat at a local restaurant or are served at a local house, they give out massive portions. It seems to be a cultural artifact that could have a couple of origins (authentic food insecurity, etc.), but Basutho can put down food like no one I’ve ever seen outside of Polynesia. Anyway, with a belly full of dinner we all collapsed. My inch thick foam pad over concrete floor was not the most comfortable bed I have ever had, but at the end of that day down padding would not have felt better.
On Sunday morning I experienced a little miracle. While packing up, I discovered that my wallet was missing. After a careful review of my sleeping area, I determined it was not there and, thinking about it, reasoned that it had probably gotten lost somehow during our final descent towards the school house. Losing the contents (USD $45) did not bother me nearly as much as losing the wallet itself, a gift from a dear friend and incredibly faithful church member in Japan. As we were about to leave I mentioned the loss to the other Westerner in the group and she said she had seen a wallet in the field out behind the school house. We went and, sure enough, my wallet was there. The cash was gone, but that turned what would have been a very discouraging start into a very promising beginning. I hope whichever villager got the cash (equivalent to a couple of month’s salary) puts it to good use.
The third day of hiking was uneventful. Eight hours over muddy dirt roads with occasional bypasses through fields of rustling corn and sorghum. For the last two hours a group of guys took turns running in front of the pack, singing and chanting.
I tried to avoid drinking untreated water, but by the third day had to make do with what I could find on the road. If I come down with a parasite, we will know exactly where it came from.
We finally entered Thaba Bosiu in the afternoon, dancing and singing as we arrived. Under a large awning (more rain) we had a very nice reception party that included the Minister of Tourism herself, the village priest, and the local chief. Everyone who finished the trek was given a certificate of completion, which did not feel as silly as it sounds after finishing the hike.
I have heard various estimates of how far we actually hiked, and I feel fairly confident we clocked over eighty miles over the three days, much of that over mountainous terrain. Not insanely long, but considering the composition and relative athleticism of the group, I was very impressed.
So here I am, couch bound for two reasons. First, unsurprisingly, I am more than a bit sore. Second, my new boots (which are awesome and by far the most waterproof/breathable pair I have ever had) also left me with two silver dollar blisters, one on the pad of each foot. But that is okay, because today is a holiday and I work in office. I would do it again in a second.
Friday, March 14, 2008
A lack of change in Maseru
Small change, as Harvey Dangerfield would put it, gets no respect in Lesotho. I often find 2 and 5 cent pieces while walking, sometimes directly in front of or near groups of impoverished street kids. I tend to get strange glances or a bit of laughter when people see me picking them up. Amounts less than 10 cents are ignored to the degree that if you are owed change =<5 cents, shops simply do not give it back to you. I recently purchased something for M29.95 and got a dirty look when I asked for my change (and no change!). To some extent, I can see this motivated by the comparative lack of value of that much money – I have never seen anything for sale for less than M .95 in price. And yet, it still seems very strange to me. I know a variety of people have lobbied in the US for the phasing out of the penny on the grounds that it represents an amount so small and inconsequential that it no longer functions as an effective mechanism of transaction. There is some truth to that, but I still expect to get my 2 cents in change, perhaps because I would rather that the marginal bits of value the penny represents line my wallet rather than that of some corporate entity. Here, where so many are so poor by practically every material metric, it continually surprises me that people should be so nonchalant about money of even slight value.
Joberg and Modikwe Game Preserve
I spent most of last week in Johannesburg attending a workshop on how to write applications for grants from the Global Fund (to Fight HIV, Malaria, and TB). It was not what you would exactly call fun (dual-track financing and modular application options? Whoohoo!), but it was very insightful and will hopefully help Lesotho secure funding for some very needy programs over the next few years. After training wrapped I headed north to meet up with my cousin E and his family, currently living in Joberg while on transfer with his consulting firm.
Joberg surprised me. I suppose I have become used to Lesotho and living in a developing country, but I walked into a supermarket there and felt like I was back in the States. Driving around one of the richer suburbs on Friday night with my cousin, I actually felt like I was back in Texas (i.e. lots of big box stores organized in such a way that walking is made practically impossible). It felt particularly at odds with the reputation that Joberg has (both anecdotal and statistical) for being extremely crime-prone. My short experience there was completely benign, but I realize that while there the areas I frequented were decidedly atypical (conference center, rich suburb, game preserve) and that I constantly had more experienced people steering me clear of risk.
E had, in the waning minutes of Friday afternoon, found an amazing deal on the Priceline of safari lodges and gotten us a spot at a lodge in the Modikwe Game Preserve. Saturday morning we began the drive north. For those familiar with E, he really likes to drive fast. I remember a family game in which we had to guess how many speeding tickets he had received over the years and the options were 2, 4, and 12. Guess which it was? I nodded off but was not too surprised to wake up to us being pulled over at a speed trap. E had been going fast enough that by the time he finally managed to stop we were a ways past the cops. He claims, and I will support his account, that it then appeared as though the officer manning the radar waved us off. Feeling like he had been dealt a stroke of luck, E drove off, slightly slower. Between five and ten minutes later a cop car streaked past us and honked until E pulled over again. It turns out the cop had not been waving us off and that E had been pursued as though he were trying to resist arrest. After an incredulous confrontation with the cop and a return to the speed trap, E was able to negotiate a mitigated ticket, based partially on the fact that while following the cop back to the speed trap we had been forced to break the speed limit constantly in order to keep up. Fine paid, we continued our trek.
Modikwe is amazing. Approximately twenty years ago the land, once given over to cattle ranching, was turned into a preserve and extensive efforts were made to restore it to its natural state in terms of flora and fauna. We saw an amazing number of animals over the two days, but a few highlights:
- The first large mammals we encountered were a pair of white rhino, mother and son. The son was nearing adulthood and weighed several tons. As they grazed his mother would periodically snort and push him, evidently telling him to find his own food and respect her personal space. Interesting behavior to watch when both participants are the size of Mack trucks.
- When we finally found lions, we found two non-pride holding brothers. Due to the fact that they did not view us as a threat (or food), we were able to pull to within about fifteen feet and watch them laze in the sun. E offered me $1,000 (USD) to jump out of the Rover and pat one on the head. I declined.
- On the second day we came across a pack of wild dogs. It was actually a sub-pack consisting solely of juveniles, left with a “baby sitter” adult while the rest of the pack went to hunt. About five minutes after we found them, all of the dogs got up as a group and ran off. After fifteen minutes of driving around while our tracker chased down the trail, we came across the larger pack. Turns out the adults had made a kill and had signaled for the younglings to come and eat. When we caught up with the group they were almost finished breaking down an immature wildebeest carcass. One had the head, another the spine, a few of the younglings played with and gnawed on a leg. The pack in total stripped, ate, and broke down the bones within minutes.
- We ran across elephants a couple of times, but the second day we came across a group of two smaller bull elephants methodically ripping the branches off a tree in order to get at the bark and the nutrient-rich layer directly below it. It was amazing to see them casually breaking down a tree large enough to hold a few decently sized humans. Evidently elephant herds, with no real natural predators in the parks, can become a driving force in deforestation if left unchecked.
Other notable encounters include the monotonous finch, buffalo, hyenas, a jackal, a rock hare, giraffes, impala, many zebra and wildebeest herds, and verdant monkeys. It was an amazing trip. I of course forgot to bring my camera along, but E has promised to send me his photos and when I have the chance I will post some of the more representative shots.
Joberg surprised me. I suppose I have become used to Lesotho and living in a developing country, but I walked into a supermarket there and felt like I was back in the States. Driving around one of the richer suburbs on Friday night with my cousin, I actually felt like I was back in Texas (i.e. lots of big box stores organized in such a way that walking is made practically impossible). It felt particularly at odds with the reputation that Joberg has (both anecdotal and statistical) for being extremely crime-prone. My short experience there was completely benign, but I realize that while there the areas I frequented were decidedly atypical (conference center, rich suburb, game preserve) and that I constantly had more experienced people steering me clear of risk.
E had, in the waning minutes of Friday afternoon, found an amazing deal on the Priceline of safari lodges and gotten us a spot at a lodge in the Modikwe Game Preserve. Saturday morning we began the drive north. For those familiar with E, he really likes to drive fast. I remember a family game in which we had to guess how many speeding tickets he had received over the years and the options were 2, 4, and 12. Guess which it was? I nodded off but was not too surprised to wake up to us being pulled over at a speed trap. E had been going fast enough that by the time he finally managed to stop we were a ways past the cops. He claims, and I will support his account, that it then appeared as though the officer manning the radar waved us off. Feeling like he had been dealt a stroke of luck, E drove off, slightly slower. Between five and ten minutes later a cop car streaked past us and honked until E pulled over again. It turns out the cop had not been waving us off and that E had been pursued as though he were trying to resist arrest. After an incredulous confrontation with the cop and a return to the speed trap, E was able to negotiate a mitigated ticket, based partially on the fact that while following the cop back to the speed trap we had been forced to break the speed limit constantly in order to keep up. Fine paid, we continued our trek.
Modikwe is amazing. Approximately twenty years ago the land, once given over to cattle ranching, was turned into a preserve and extensive efforts were made to restore it to its natural state in terms of flora and fauna. We saw an amazing number of animals over the two days, but a few highlights:
- The first large mammals we encountered were a pair of white rhino, mother and son. The son was nearing adulthood and weighed several tons. As they grazed his mother would periodically snort and push him, evidently telling him to find his own food and respect her personal space. Interesting behavior to watch when both participants are the size of Mack trucks.
- When we finally found lions, we found two non-pride holding brothers. Due to the fact that they did not view us as a threat (or food), we were able to pull to within about fifteen feet and watch them laze in the sun. E offered me $1,000 (USD) to jump out of the Rover and pat one on the head. I declined.
- On the second day we came across a pack of wild dogs. It was actually a sub-pack consisting solely of juveniles, left with a “baby sitter” adult while the rest of the pack went to hunt. About five minutes after we found them, all of the dogs got up as a group and ran off. After fifteen minutes of driving around while our tracker chased down the trail, we came across the larger pack. Turns out the adults had made a kill and had signaled for the younglings to come and eat. When we caught up with the group they were almost finished breaking down an immature wildebeest carcass. One had the head, another the spine, a few of the younglings played with and gnawed on a leg. The pack in total stripped, ate, and broke down the bones within minutes.
- We ran across elephants a couple of times, but the second day we came across a group of two smaller bull elephants methodically ripping the branches off a tree in order to get at the bark and the nutrient-rich layer directly below it. It was amazing to see them casually breaking down a tree large enough to hold a few decently sized humans. Evidently elephant herds, with no real natural predators in the parks, can become a driving force in deforestation if left unchecked.
Other notable encounters include the monotonous finch, buffalo, hyenas, a jackal, a rock hare, giraffes, impala, many zebra and wildebeest herds, and verdant monkeys. It was an amazing trip. I of course forgot to bring my camera along, but E has promised to send me his photos and when I have the chance I will post some of the more representative shots.
In praise of "Lazer Fingers!!!"
Last Christmas my family got together in Houston, even though it is a town none of us actually live in. We were staying at a La Quinta, and next door was an authentic Mexican restaurant (none of the staff spoke English authentic). The second or third night there, after downing a delicious quesadilla and some decent horchata, I was making my way out when I saw one of those little coin operated vending machines, the kind that dispense goodies in roundish plastic balls that have to be popped open. As a kid I always lusted after these items, in large part because my mom rarely was forthcoming with the requisite 25-cents. Anyway, this one was offering, in garish lettering, “Lazer Fingers!!!” How could I resist? I dutifully dropped in my 50 cents and was rewarded with an LED flashlight small enough to be attached to the first knuckle of your index finger. Initially, in the light-pollution inundated Houston parking lot, I was quite underwhelmed with my purchase. It was difficult to see the light, it felt a little small, and the implied ability to cut my older brother in half with its awesome power never materialized (not for lack of trying).
Why this long-winded reminiscing? Somehow my lazer finger made it to Africa to me. While it may not have seemed like much in Houston, in the darkness of Maseru it has saved me a couple of times. Maseru gets dark like nothing I have ever experienced in a town in the U.S. At night you can stand in “downtown” and see the Milky Way clearly; my neighborhood is nearly pitch black after sundown. Anyone who has significant experience with true darkness can relate to how useful I have found this tiny, quiet powerful, seemingly inexhaustible flashlight. I carry it in my pocket at all times and when I have found myself walking in the evening it has often steered me clear of ditches, mean dogs, groups of questionably unoccupied young men, and other dangerous spots.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
My dispatcher friend Lucy
I tend to use the same cab company when I travel in Maseru and have struck up a bit of a friendship with a couple of the dispatchers. They know me by name and know the few locations that my commuting revolves around. One of these dispatchers, Lucy, is a particularly good friend of mine. Recently, when my cabbie came by he took an unusual route. About half way through he pulled up to a building I had never seen before with a line of people stretching out the back. When I asked him what was going on he explained, using our patented blend of his bad English and my worse Sesotho, that Lucy was inside and that it might be nice if I went and said hello. So I did. My dispatcher friend was waiting in line and was quite nice in person, neatly dressed in a traditional dress and with a very friendly smile. Only when we got back in the car and began driving away did I think to ask what the building was that should have such a long line in the middle of the day; it was the Department of Funeral Services.
Bread Machines
One of the best parts of grocery shopping in Maseru is the opportunity to use the industrial bread slicing machines. After you checkout, there they are, two square blocks of gleaming metal approximately the size of full-sized Xerox machines. Slide your newly purchased loaf in the back (mind your fingers!), slowly ease the lever forward, and watch the miracle of sliced bread become a reality. It has become an eagerly anticipated part of my grocery ritual, and even feel a little haughty when I see newbies trying to use the machines for the first time and winding up with mangled loaves. This arrogance is truly misplaced as I required some help the first time myself. A nice but rather shabbily dressed man was watching over the machines and offered to help in light of my obvious ignorance. At first I thought he was hoping for tips, but it became clear after watching for a bit that his primary motivation was free access to all of the bread scraps the machines’ operations inevitably produce. He helped me load the bread in, showed the correct technique, and helped himself to the odd half slice that fell through into the catchment beneath the machine.
Contrasts
A few weeks back I was invited by some friends to a happy hour at one of the two “luxury” hotels in Maseru. Nestled on the top of one of the hills around the city, the Lesotho Sun is a decent hotel but, like many grand hotels you run into in developing countries, one apparently born of an unfulfilled optimism about the country’s future and now a few decades past its prime. One of the biggest attractions is an outside patio with pool and bar that has a magnificent, sprawling view of Maseru. As we enjoyed our drinks and the view, we noticed someone had started a large garbage fire in the yard of one of the tiny cinderblock and corrugated iron houses at the base of the hill. It soon began raining bits of plastic ash, causing most of the revelers to withdraw into the confines of the bar.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Video Shop 2/17/2008
Weekends are pretty tame here in Maseru. The town has an effective population of about 50,000 and does not have the liveliest cultural scene. There are two movie theaters, however one of them is currently broken with no prospect of being fixed and the other is in one of the city’s “danger zones,” an area prone to muggings, even in broad daylight. This makes it difficult to find people willing to go, though that might also be in part because the hand painted sign proudly proclaims the theater is currently playing a Michelle Pfeiffer movie from the ‘80s. I actually see this as another reason to go, but my friends seem to disagree. Fortunately, I recently discovered a hole in the wall DVD shop with the most eclectic collection. Stocked wholly with Chinese bootlegs, the proprietor buys copies of every DVD that becomes available. Flipping through the selection thus reveals the mainstream stuff you would find in a US Blockbuster, overseas only releases featuring D-list actors*, art house treats like “Grisly Man” and “Once,” and stuff that defies any classification (e.g. “Persian Dance Superstar Extravaganza!”). The owner’s Pakistani, so there is also a healthy stock of Bollywood flicks that I am looking forward to becoming more familiar with in the future.
* - Note to Richard Grieco: You are still big in Lesotho!
* - Note to Richard Grieco: You are still big in Lesotho!
Ethnicity in Lesotho 2/17/2008
While eating my extremely unhealthy but delicious “Hungry Lion” chips yesterday I had the opportunity to do some people watching along Maseru’s central road, the Kingsway. Maseru is much more ethnically heterogeneous than I had expected. Watch the flow of people for any length of time and you will see a dash of white faces (generally doctors, missionaries, or others involved in the aid/development sector), a healthy population of Indians (some by way of South Africa and some directly from India), and few Middle Easterners. The largest immigrant ethnic group, however, is the Chinese. Originally coming over to manage the textile mills that are the largest non-governmental employers in the country (thank you Clinton administration), Chinese immigrants have expanded into mercantile businesses large and small throughout the country. Now it is not uncommon to see small Chinese-run businesses in even the smaller villages. This steady stream of immigrants has not been greeted with completely open arms. While everyone seems to agree that the Chinese have succeeded based upon hard work, the fact that they have effectively monopolized a very important non-governmental economic niche and have some non-integrationist practices has produced feelings of resentment. I am reminded in many ways of the success (and the hostility) that greeted Korean merchants in Southern California in the 1990s.
On a slightly different note, you cannot have a conversation involving China here without someone bringing up the widely held belief that China and the U.S. are currently in a struggle for the soul of Africa and that China is winning. My cab drivers are a particularly avid source of this brand of real politicks, only too willing to share their view that the flow of Chinese-government aided immigration, the aggressive acquisition of mineral rights throughout the continent, and selected aid programs are all part of a comprehensive Chinese plan to effectively control Africa’s resource base in the 21st century. Without making any potentially inflammatory comments about my thoughts on that line of reasoning, it is very interesting that people who are generally focused on merely making enough money to get by have such a depth of interest and knowledge about that particular area of international politics.
On a slightly different note, you cannot have a conversation involving China here without someone bringing up the widely held belief that China and the U.S. are currently in a struggle for the soul of Africa and that China is winning. My cab drivers are a particularly avid source of this brand of real politicks, only too willing to share their view that the flow of Chinese-government aided immigration, the aggressive acquisition of mineral rights throughout the continent, and selected aid programs are all part of a comprehensive Chinese plan to effectively control Africa’s resource base in the 21st century. Without making any potentially inflammatory comments about my thoughts on that line of reasoning, it is very interesting that people who are generally focused on merely making enough money to get by have such a depth of interest and knowledge about that particular area of international politics.
Whitman in Africa (2/17/2008)
Lately I have been reading Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, one of the many books I always meant to read before but somehow never found the time to. Whitman’s poetry is ecstatic, a roving paean to the soul of America. It feels rather strange to read it in Lesotho because it does not apply to this place. Southern Africa has its own beauty, separate and distinct and founded in a people, history, and land sometimes similar to the States but profoundly different at any level deeper than the superficial. If anyone can recommend a good poet who has captured its soul, I would appreciate the reference.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Soaked
Yesterday I experienced one of the classic Maseru experiences – getting caught in a snap thundershower. It is the rainy season in Lesotho, and due to a series of topographic and meteorological conditions I do not understand, whenever we have serious rain here (about once every two days) it is accompanied by the most incredible lightening shows I have ever seen outside of the Nevada desert. The locals are decidedly blasé about them, only getting aroused to chuckle at my exclamations when a sheet of lightning bolts lights up a full quarter of the sky. Truly beautiful, though I do not look forward to getting caught in one while doing a mountain top hike.
I had ample opportunity to enjoy the show when I decided to walk home from the office yesterday. “Decided” is perhaps a strong word, as at the end of the day I had found myself alone in the office with only six maloti (~93 cents US) in my pocket. Earlier in the day I had been out to visit one of the area clinics that we are planning on of adding to a DHL-based sample transport network. Currently one of the three staff members will strap samples to her back and catch a series of taxis and buses into the central hospital where they can do various blood analyses. Not the best system, particularly because it means the clinic operates at 2/3 capacity much of the time. Until the transport network is set up we are subsidizing their travel costs, and because I did not have the chance to file a requisition or hit petty cash before heading out, I anticipated giving them the money out of pocket and then getting reimbursed by the end of the week. Actual costs being slightly higher than I had previously calculated (what a surprise), I found myself with six maloti in my pocket at the end of the day. [Note: As a mugging minimization effort I do not carry a wallet and normally have the equivalent of only about US $20 on me at any time. That is more than enough for daily food and transportation needs but little enough that I am more than happy to part with it gracefully should someone the need occur.]
Normally a quiet trek of around thirty minutes, about ten minutes into my walk a nice fellow sidled up to me and warned that the rain was coming quickly. Surely enough, five minutes later (that period being just long enough for him to describe his agricultural scheme requiring “just a bit of capital”) the storm hit. Within a few seconds I was soaked. Normally people do not run outdoors in Maseru (the exception I have seen being high school age boys at night wearing full track suits), but a few people were hurrying for cover, and I took that as circumstantial permission to jog home without committing a major faux pas.
I had ample opportunity to enjoy the show when I decided to walk home from the office yesterday. “Decided” is perhaps a strong word, as at the end of the day I had found myself alone in the office with only six maloti (~93 cents US) in my pocket. Earlier in the day I had been out to visit one of the area clinics that we are planning on of adding to a DHL-based sample transport network. Currently one of the three staff members will strap samples to her back and catch a series of taxis and buses into the central hospital where they can do various blood analyses. Not the best system, particularly because it means the clinic operates at 2/3 capacity much of the time. Until the transport network is set up we are subsidizing their travel costs, and because I did not have the chance to file a requisition or hit petty cash before heading out, I anticipated giving them the money out of pocket and then getting reimbursed by the end of the week. Actual costs being slightly higher than I had previously calculated (what a surprise), I found myself with six maloti in my pocket at the end of the day. [Note: As a mugging minimization effort I do not carry a wallet and normally have the equivalent of only about US $20 on me at any time. That is more than enough for daily food and transportation needs but little enough that I am more than happy to part with it gracefully should someone the need occur.]
Normally a quiet trek of around thirty minutes, about ten minutes into my walk a nice fellow sidled up to me and warned that the rain was coming quickly. Surely enough, five minutes later (that period being just long enough for him to describe his agricultural scheme requiring “just a bit of capital”) the storm hit. Within a few seconds I was soaked. Normally people do not run outdoors in Maseru (the exception I have seen being high school age boys at night wearing full track suits), but a few people were hurrying for cover, and I took that as circumstantial permission to jog home without committing a major faux pas.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
My first weekend
On Saturday I didn’t have any plans so I decided to explore the city on foot. First stop, the infamous gym. As I took the tour, I was proudly informed that the king of Lesotho (His Royal Majesty King Letsie III) regularly exercises there. I can believe it. In terms of size and quality, imagine a two-story, fully stocked Gold’s Gym, then add in indoor and outdoor pools, interior and exterior basketball courts, squash and tennis courts, sauna and sweat bath, and a clubhouse with a range of amenities from a top flight restaurant to conference space for groups of 150+. Pretty swank, and by far the nicest facility of any kind I have yet seen in the country. I do not know how much chance I will have to use it, but with a monthly membership fee of $20 (US), I am hoping to find some opportunity. After hearing the entire pitch and narrowly avoiding the hard sell (health clubs are the same the world over), I wandered off to see Maseru’s central strip, the Kingsway.
As you walk along the Kingsway, taxis and vans pass by, honking incessantly. The taxis (4+1s, so called because they seat four plus the driver) and the vans (called conbis(sp?)) travel on preset routes, picking up and dropping people off as they go. I’m not sure how you divine where the taxis are going, but the vans all have a kid in the back whose primary responsibility apparently is to lean out the window and shout the destination of the van, holler at girls (as well as the odd white guy), and generally add to the noise pollution of the place. I preferred to walk today, but I’m looking forward to trying one in the future.
At one point I joined a large crowd in front of a music shop. A promoter had set up a tent and a duo was performing. The music was good, a nice hip-hop beat with Lesotho inflections and lyrics in Sesotho (the local Bantu-language). What caught me off guard was that the duo was a pair of albinos. The three of us were the only white faces in the crowd, and at one point I got a nod from the performers, a gesture I chose to interpret as one of solidarity but which, based upon the crowd’s response, may have been more in line with “Hey, look at the white guy!” I eventually wandered on, but when I passed by again about an hour and a half later they were still going strong, the crowd continually replenished by a steady stream of people walking the Kingsway.
On Sunday, my first attempt to attend church ended in a qualified failure. With the church address dutifully copied from the Internet, I got into the taxi feeling relatively confident. My cabbie, upon hearing that I was going to the Mormon church, smiling said that he knew it well. Success! Five minutes later I found myself in front of the Maseru cathedral. It turns out that 1) the Catholic Church is referred to locally as the Roman Church and that 2) the difference between Rs and Ms in Sesotho may not be as clearly defined as it is in English. Mormon/Roman – five minutes, some wild hand gesticulations and a few terse conversations with the dispatcher in Sesotho and we still never got it completely figured out.
It’s okay, I’ve got the address, right? Wrong. While we knew from the address that the church was in the same general neighborhood as the cathedral, that was about it. Property numbering in Maseru is only sequential on certain streets – other areas are more haphazard. After ten minutes of fruitlessly circling the cathedral district I had pity on my cabbie, bid him goodbye, and struck out to find the church on foot. After wandering for another thirty minutes and bothering a series of good-natured but ultimately unhelpful passersbys, I threw in the towel. At just that moment the cathedral bells rang out the start of Mass, and I thought to myself that some church is better none. It was only after getting safely ensconced in the middle of a pew that was at about 120% of holding capacity that I realized I was in the Sesotho Mass, not the English Mass.
What can I say about the service? The Lord’s Prayer sounds the same and has the same cadence in any language. The cathedral is a beautiful example of colonial construction (wood with a hewn stone façade). The preacher gave a lively sermon that had the congregation rolling with laughter and employed a variety of hand motions that had me snickering at points, lack of comprehension aside. The choir was amazing, and the lady sitting next to me was kind enough to share a hymnal so I was able to sing the congregation numbers. The only lyrics I explicitly understood were “Hosanna” and “Glory in Exelcius Deo,” but I think I got the gist. The place was packed. Chatting with a deacon afterwards, it turns out that what I attended was the second of three Masses they would do in the day, and all of them would be to overflowing houses. Lesotho is ~40% Roman Catholic, and it struck me as a very vibrant, friendly, faithful community. Hopefully I’ll have better luck finding the Mormon services next week, but one of our drivers has invited me to attend his Pentecostal service should I fail, and that is not an entirely unappealing Plan B.
As you walk along the Kingsway, taxis and vans pass by, honking incessantly. The taxis (4+1s, so called because they seat four plus the driver) and the vans (called conbis(sp?)) travel on preset routes, picking up and dropping people off as they go. I’m not sure how you divine where the taxis are going, but the vans all have a kid in the back whose primary responsibility apparently is to lean out the window and shout the destination of the van, holler at girls (as well as the odd white guy), and generally add to the noise pollution of the place. I preferred to walk today, but I’m looking forward to trying one in the future.
At one point I joined a large crowd in front of a music shop. A promoter had set up a tent and a duo was performing. The music was good, a nice hip-hop beat with Lesotho inflections and lyrics in Sesotho (the local Bantu-language). What caught me off guard was that the duo was a pair of albinos. The three of us were the only white faces in the crowd, and at one point I got a nod from the performers, a gesture I chose to interpret as one of solidarity but which, based upon the crowd’s response, may have been more in line with “Hey, look at the white guy!” I eventually wandered on, but when I passed by again about an hour and a half later they were still going strong, the crowd continually replenished by a steady stream of people walking the Kingsway.
On Sunday, my first attempt to attend church ended in a qualified failure. With the church address dutifully copied from the Internet, I got into the taxi feeling relatively confident. My cabbie, upon hearing that I was going to the Mormon church, smiling said that he knew it well. Success! Five minutes later I found myself in front of the Maseru cathedral. It turns out that 1) the Catholic Church is referred to locally as the Roman Church and that 2) the difference between Rs and Ms in Sesotho may not be as clearly defined as it is in English. Mormon/Roman – five minutes, some wild hand gesticulations and a few terse conversations with the dispatcher in Sesotho and we still never got it completely figured out.
It’s okay, I’ve got the address, right? Wrong. While we knew from the address that the church was in the same general neighborhood as the cathedral, that was about it. Property numbering in Maseru is only sequential on certain streets – other areas are more haphazard. After ten minutes of fruitlessly circling the cathedral district I had pity on my cabbie, bid him goodbye, and struck out to find the church on foot. After wandering for another thirty minutes and bothering a series of good-natured but ultimately unhelpful passersbys, I threw in the towel. At just that moment the cathedral bells rang out the start of Mass, and I thought to myself that some church is better none. It was only after getting safely ensconced in the middle of a pew that was at about 120% of holding capacity that I realized I was in the Sesotho Mass, not the English Mass.
What can I say about the service? The Lord’s Prayer sounds the same and has the same cadence in any language. The cathedral is a beautiful example of colonial construction (wood with a hewn stone façade). The preacher gave a lively sermon that had the congregation rolling with laughter and employed a variety of hand motions that had me snickering at points, lack of comprehension aside. The choir was amazing, and the lady sitting next to me was kind enough to share a hymnal so I was able to sing the congregation numbers. The only lyrics I explicitly understood were “Hosanna” and “Glory in Exelcius Deo,” but I think I got the gist. The place was packed. Chatting with a deacon afterwards, it turns out that what I attended was the second of three Masses they would do in the day, and all of them would be to overflowing houses. Lesotho is ~40% Roman Catholic, and it struck me as a very vibrant, friendly, faithful community. Hopefully I’ll have better luck finding the Mormon services next week, but one of our drivers has invited me to attend his Pentecostal service should I fail, and that is not an entirely unappealing Plan B.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Introduction
Howdy. My name is Daniel Evans, and I recently moved to Maseru, Lesotho. Lesotho, for those of you unfamiliar with The Mountain Kingdom (as I was myself prior to taking this assignment) is a small, mountainous country completely surrounded by South Africa. Lesotho is ethnically homogenous, the name of the country itself translating as “the land of the people who speak Sesotho.” With only 2.3 million people Lesotho is a very small country, the vast majority of that population living in rural villages. Lesotho has a very substantial HIV/AIDS problem, with an estimated adult infection rate of ~25%. In 2004 the government began a rigorous program to address both the spread of HIV and to provide free universal anti-retroviral treatment. The scale-up of the program has encountered a number of obstacles, but currently in excess of 22,000 people are receiving treatment and the number continues to grow.
I arrived here a week and a half ago to work as a Procurement Technical Advisor for the Clinton Foundation’s HIV/AIDS Initiative (CHAI). The CHAI team works with international donors and local governments to provide a variety of services, the most noticeable being supplying and facilitating the effective distribution of pediatric anti-retrovirals (ARVs) and other drugs designed to prevent mother to child HIV transmission. In terms of my specific job, I’ll be handling the procurement of pediatric ARVs for the country and then working as a technical advisor with the national Ministry of Health, Global Fund country team, and other aid groups to ensure that appropriate quantities of adult ARVs get into the country and to the hospitals and clinics that need them.
While this blog is meant to cover my time in Africa and most of that will be spent working, I do not envision talking about the specifics of my job that much. There are a few reasons for this. First, procurement is not exactly sexy. No commercial soliciting donations will ever feature me in a windowless office working on a spreadsheet. I meet with vendors, I review invoices, I create forecasts in Excel and argue with various stakeholders about quantification assumptions. Essential work, but not lending itself to interesting narrative (at least to someone of my modest talents). If you have a specific question about something such as the merits of making a contract DDP versus making it DDU with appropriate coverage amendments in the tender terms, I’d be more than happy to correspond with you personally, but I am not going to put everyone else through that. Secondly, there is a fair amount of sensitivity associated with the work and a misconstrued comment or an accidental admission could have serious reverberations. I am working with a lot of people who care very deeply about what they do and have in many cases devoted their lives to helping others. Differences of opinion and outright disagreements are inevitable in situations where you are making tough decisions involving trade-offs with profound human consequences, let alone when you have people working together from very different cultural and work backgrounds. To ensure that clashes or fuel for such does not flow from anything written here, I will largely steer clear of work-related entries. For similar reasons, do not expect to see any pointed criticisms of Lesotho in this blog. The country has its share of issues, as does every country (though it has been pointed out to me locally that at least Lesotho does not export its problems to other parts of the world). What excites me about working here are the number of people I have already met who are excited about improving the situation.
I arrived here a week and a half ago to work as a Procurement Technical Advisor for the Clinton Foundation’s HIV/AIDS Initiative (CHAI). The CHAI team works with international donors and local governments to provide a variety of services, the most noticeable being supplying and facilitating the effective distribution of pediatric anti-retrovirals (ARVs) and other drugs designed to prevent mother to child HIV transmission. In terms of my specific job, I’ll be handling the procurement of pediatric ARVs for the country and then working as a technical advisor with the national Ministry of Health, Global Fund country team, and other aid groups to ensure that appropriate quantities of adult ARVs get into the country and to the hospitals and clinics that need them.
While this blog is meant to cover my time in Africa and most of that will be spent working, I do not envision talking about the specifics of my job that much. There are a few reasons for this. First, procurement is not exactly sexy. No commercial soliciting donations will ever feature me in a windowless office working on a spreadsheet. I meet with vendors, I review invoices, I create forecasts in Excel and argue with various stakeholders about quantification assumptions. Essential work, but not lending itself to interesting narrative (at least to someone of my modest talents). If you have a specific question about something such as the merits of making a contract DDP versus making it DDU with appropriate coverage amendments in the tender terms, I’d be more than happy to correspond with you personally, but I am not going to put everyone else through that. Secondly, there is a fair amount of sensitivity associated with the work and a misconstrued comment or an accidental admission could have serious reverberations. I am working with a lot of people who care very deeply about what they do and have in many cases devoted their lives to helping others. Differences of opinion and outright disagreements are inevitable in situations where you are making tough decisions involving trade-offs with profound human consequences, let alone when you have people working together from very different cultural and work backgrounds. To ensure that clashes or fuel for such does not flow from anything written here, I will largely steer clear of work-related entries. For similar reasons, do not expect to see any pointed criticisms of Lesotho in this blog. The country has its share of issues, as does every country (though it has been pointed out to me locally that at least Lesotho does not export its problems to other parts of the world). What excites me about working here are the number of people I have already met who are excited about improving the situation.
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