Chris’ Blog

I have always thought the Christmas holidays to be a bit overdone. So when Sam and I settled for a decent meal and an improvised “Christmas Branch,” in our 10 dollar hotel room, we were satisfied and then ready to press on to the north country.

A ten hour haul on the Ghana state bus line brought us to the northern city of Bolgatanga. The ride would have been pleasant had I not spent a stretch of it with my head out the window, trying to purge some food poisoning from my system. Oh man, there is nothing worse than getting sick on the road (quite literally)! Coming to Bolga meant leaving the humid, forested areas of the coastal plain behind for the dry savannah woodlands. The churches and crosses give way to mosques and minarets almost as sudden as the landscape changes heading north. I divide my time the next day between toilet and bed while Sam carries through with our plan to visit the nearby Tonga Hills. I hear it was interesting.

We cross the frontieré into Burkina Faso early the next day at a small village called Paga. Anglophone Africa is officially behind us, and this reality smacks us in the face just north of the border. Despite my meagre study preparations in French, it is a struggle. Nearly 18 years after my last French class at Cathedral High School, my vocabulary is slow to resurface. We reach Ouagadougou (waga doo goo) by nightfall and crash there after a long day.

The city affectionately known as Waga is a huge jumble of paved, crumbling, and dirt roads near the geographic center of Burkina. Mopeds, scooters, and motorcycles dominate the roads. Crossing one major thoroughfare seems like an epic and life threatening journey. The dust and smog in the air are incredible. It is the season of the Harmattan winds across West Africa. These warm winds blow south from the Sahara all the way to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. The haze can limit visibility in broad daylight to 300 meters. They are particularly acute across the Sahel which encompasses most of Burkina. The Sahel is the buffer zone between the Sahara and the coastal woodland and is characterized by dry climate, strictly seasonal rains, sparse vegetation, and a generally flat landscape. Food production is a formidable challenge in these environs and evidence of these problems abound.

It is Sam’s turn to be sick in Waga, but as soon as he is well we head east to the overgrown village of Gorom Gorom. The Thursday market in Gorom is known as perhaps the most dynamic of all West African open air markets. Menageries of peoples from across the Sahel come to Gorom to trade their wares. The nomadic Tuareg come from the borderlands of Mali, Niger, and Burkina. The Songhai and the Bella are the farmers of the area, while the semi-nomadic Fula bring their goats, camels, cows, and donkeys to be bought and sold at the huge bonanza. Each group is distinct in appearance and the different languages are heard throughout the vast maze of market stalls.

It is the afternoon of December 31st. Following our meanderings around the market, we embarked on a guided camel trek with some other travellers from Canada and France. We each donned a head scarf for protection from the elements (also to look cool and sort of local of course). We spend New Year’s Eve cooking on an open fire and sleeping out in the open on some sand dunes about 12 km outside of Gorom. The full moon is brilliant. Although great fun, the trek back the following day leaves my tail bone in a state of misery. Lorinca (my camel) is feisty and provides a rough ride. Camels are fascinating and unique beasts for sure.

Back through Waga for a quick night out where we saw a bizarre Tuareg band, accompanied by two dancers on 4-ft. stilts who were wearing elaborate costumes. Then westward to the town of Banfora. We spent three restful nights in Banfora with daily excursions to some rural waterfalls and craggy mountain peaks. My French is sloppy, but is getting us along with some sporadic moments of grace. One night in Bobo-Dioulasso before our long road journey into Mali. We are in the Islamic World now, and the pre-dawn call of the muezzin from the mosques wakes us all too early. Alaaaaaaaaaah Akbar!

We wait six hours to finally board our transport for Mopti, Mali. We look on as two wheels and what appears to be a rear axel are removed and then replaced on the WW II era Mercedes 15-seat van. It has an odd, baby-blue paint job with some funky letters revealing her name across the hood: Bill Clinton. What is supposed to be a 12 hour journey turns into a formidable 27 hours! It is formidable even by African standards of timeliness. The van is so crowded that my hip bones contract to enable me to fit my space. Old Slick Willy max’s out at about 30 mph. We cross the border at midnight. The only light is the small fire that the immigration officers are sleeping around. About 16 hours, 25 pop starts, and one axel replacement after the border crossing we roll into Mopti. An experience? Sure I guess, but I have still made up my mind that no reasonable person would ever willingly put themselves in such a position.

Mopti is the main port town on the Niger River in Central Mali. Our goal here was to book passage on a boat that will take us down river to the famed Timbuktu. Everyone and their brother has a service that they want to sell to tourists here and it is difficult to navigate through the sea of touts promising the best deal on this or that. My irritability with some of the more persistent ones becomes visible. We finally arrange to travel on a cargo boat that will leave Saturday afternoon and arrive in Timbuktu on Monday. The deal is clear. Price, meals included, and departure times are all discussed. Saturday at 12 noon we board the large vessel. Saturday evening we are told that we will now depart the next morning. OK, no big deal, par for the course I guess. We sleep on the boat. Sunday afternoon drags on and around 4 p.m. we are told Monday morning. We have been sitting on the ship watching the daily activities on the river bank for the past two days and our fury has now swollen. People load and unload ships, people bathe, wash clothes, urinate, brush teeth, and much more in the same space. We jump ship and somehow I manage to successfully argue our case and get a full refund. I will confess that it was a bright spot for my French skills. A small crowd gathered around the heated discussions as I ended by thundering away about how we just wanted some truth in the whole ordeal. Mali did not give us the welcome we hoped for. Bumps in the road are to be expected but every person has a boiling point. C’est Mali?

We pay top dollar to save some time and get an SUV to take us to “Tim”. We arrive and roam the town. It is eerie in some ways. It is truly on the edge of the Sahara and any travel north is only on multi-week caravans. It is also clear that its heyday in the Trans-Saharan trade of salt, gold, and slaves is long gone, though slavery is said to still exist in the area. We hire a smaller boat to take us back up river to Mopti. We spend three days on the boat wasting away time by watching the flocks of migratory birds and waving to the countless villages on the banks of the mighty Niger. The inland delta is vast and could be best described as an avian paradise. It is true that this river is the lifeline for Mali. The river satisfies needs for transport, food, sanitation, and ritual for so many communities through the nations of Mali, Niger, and Nigeria. It is both a pleasant and refreshing experience for us and in good timing.

Next up is the planned highlight of our trip: Pays Dogon (Dogon Country). The Dogon are a distinct ethnic group in Mali who live along the Falaise de Bandiagara in central Mali. Their villages are built on and around these vertiginous cliffs. They fled their Malinke homelands in modern day Guinea and Senegal when Fulani invaders tried to force Islam on them some 1000 years ago. They retain their own language and a wealth of unique cultural customs. They are settled into roughly 290 villages along this escarpment. The area is set up for Dogon guides to lead trekkers into the heart of the area and stay at Campements where food is provided and you sleep on the roof of a hut under the bright stars. With our guides Hassimi and Ommar, we set out on a 5-day trek. Our guides are animated and full of stories about history, animist religion, and a mythology unknown to most of the world. It is a remarkable experience. The topography is extreme with the cliffs reaching 300 meters in some places. It feels wonderful to be out doing some hiking. An interesting twist finishes the trip. I had a 50 Euro note stolen from me at one of the campements. It is a long story of course. I am Upset, angry, sad, etc, etc. At one of the last villages we visited, Ommar insists on paying the local Hogon (medicine man) to sacrifice a chicken that will effectively put a spell on the thief. He assured us that the spell would land the thief (not found) in his grave within a couple of weeks. Wow! Oh, this has been a long, difficult, and extraordinary trip in so many ways both good and bad.

We are now in Bamako, the busy capital of Mali. After a few nights out on Bamako’s renowned live music scene, we will make our way to the coast of Senegal to finish with some beach time before flying home from Dakar.

Oui, Oui. I believe I am good and ready to come home now. Sam and I talk more and more of home as each day passes. Soon, I shall be there.

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My friend Sam and I departed Lesotho on December 8th. Our Peace Corps business was complete and we were ready to begin our great adventure in West Africa. Our first stop was to the Johannesburg/Pretoria area in South Africa. We scrambled around there for a few days, spending a small fortune on tourist visas to Ghana, Burkina Faso, and Mali. Senegal will not require a visa. These countries sure do not make it easy to visit. None of this, showing up at the airport and get your passport stamped for free stuff. But every time I started to complain about the process, I imagined that it would not be quite so simple for the average Malian or Ghanaian to just pop over to the U.S. Embassy in their countries to apply for a visa.

We were ecstatic to depart South Africa and head to a new region of the continent. We touched down in chaotic Accra, the capital city of Ghana. The heat slapped us in the face, extreme even when compared to the hottest days in the Lesotho summer. The noise, traffic, and congestion are simply overwhelming. Despite the less pleasant aspects of Accra, we enjoyed many sights and sounds as we wandered the crowded streets. On our last night in the city we caught some live, “Highlife” music. This type of music was born and popularized in Anglophone West Africa in the 1960’s and enjoys a loyal following to this very day. Our Sesotho skills are of no use now as the African languages are different and numerous as they will be throughout our travels. So far we have moved through Ga, Fante, and Twi speaking areas of Ghana learning only the basic greetings.

After the stay in Accra we sought refuge in a little beach village not too far from the city. Kokrobite is one of those places where the tourists and locals sort of mix right in with each other. “Mixing” experiences like this are rather uncommon in most South African tourist places, the change is cherished. The customary buying and selling is still present but social dynamics also develop simultaneously. The beach itself is covered with swimmers, fishermen, market women, soccer players, and children. It is a colorful mix to say the least. Men crash through the waves in their colorfully painted “pirogues” on their way to and from their fishing grounds. I enjoy an afternoon of barefoot soccer with lots of Ghanaian footballers. I think of my soccer friends back at Auplaas and how much they would appreciate the moment. It is loads of fun and then we all sprint into the surf to cool down. Ghanaians are enthusiastic about their appearance in the 2010 World Cup and we share in the excitement. We are able to see two spectacular music performances while at Kokrobite. The first night their is a professional dance and drumming troupe from Accra who sing, dance and drum to energetic rhythms. It is exhilarating. Next up is reggae night and every Rastafarian within a 30 mile radius is on the scene, and there are many Rastas in coastal Ghana. We dance and sing to the sounds of Bob Marley, Lucky Dube, and Culture until the band finally shuts it down.

We jump on a “tro tro” or minibus taxi the next day that takes us three hours west to the town of Cape Coast for the grand price of three Cedis or $2. Yes, food and transport can be awfully cheap if you choose them right and willing to join the fray of public transport. Cape Coast is near to the village where I spent time in Ghana in 2004 and I am excited to see some friends that i made during that time. I meet with Lawrence and Irene, two of the people who I maintained contact with over the five years. We are all filled with joy for the little reunion. We talk about old times and the whereabouts of others from that summer five years ago. Unfortunately, the news is not all good as there has been serious issues within their organization. The details of these developments are quite sad and they prevent me from the visit that I had envisioned, but it is what it is and I am happy to see those that I do. Sam is excited to visit two old slave forts in the area. These were trading posts in human cargo during the horrible days of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. As avid students of history we feel the chill and the emotional pain that resonates from the dungeon walls within these fortresses. Cape Coast may be small but it buzzes with life. There seems to be constant music blaring from unseen speakers wherever you go, the markets are always busy, and you can always find some unique snacks from the plenitude of street stalls that line nearly every avenue.

This is where we make our big northern turn. We bid farewell to the ocean and recognize that we will not see it again until we arrive in Dakar, Senegal in February. By then, we will have been to the edge of the Sahara. The heat is intense in the coastal lowlands and we make jokes about the prospect of weather to come. Maybe it will get cooler…at night anyway, as we get closer to Timbuktu and the Sahara? Hmmm… Or our daily favorite: Looks like its going to be a hot one today, eh? Incessant sweating is inevitable for a native Minnesotan and a Massachusetts boy born and raised on the frozen ponds and ice rinks. We rise early and are at the bus stop at 4:15 a.m. to board a bus to the great Ashanti capital in Kumasi. Though we are near the beginning of the queue, several tro tros come and then depart after they are stuffed full from the melee that comes from all directions when the driver yells: Kumasi…Kumasi, as he rolls into the parking lot. We finally board a crowded bus at half past ten, yup, six hours and change for this one. During such periods of waiting and frustrating, I can not help but think of all the things I dislike in Ghana, such as the heat, the stench of urine, open street sewers, and the ever present noise. But hey, continuous pleasure is not the theme of this trip. What is the theme? Well, not quite sure yet. We disembark in Kumasi near the ultra-chaotic Kejetia Market. This is widely considered the largest market place in all of West Africa, a title we now know is well deserved. Swarms of humanity move to and fro on this Christmas Eve 2009. Buying, selling, eating, shouting, dancing, singing, and walking. There is everything from batteries, booze, and bongos to animals, armchairs, and antacids. The pulse of life is overwhelming as we navigate our way through the endless alleyways and vehicle choked avenues. From a distance, Kejetia looks like a sprawling slum with all of its tin roofs and improvised stalls. The heat and sweat inside the throngs of people is unbearable after some time. Women strain under huge loads on their heads but still navigate deftly through the thick urbanity. My favorite was a line of women each schlepping four, freshly slaughtered goats in huge pans on their heads, each sweating profusely of course. Wow!!! We find breathing room at a string of lunch stalls and enjoy some rice and stew for under $1. Indulging in Ghanaian food has been a great pleasure for me as I revisit the pungent tastes from my previous visit in 2004. Fufu, Banku, Palmnut soup, and Groundnut soup just to name a few.

Despite all the excitement, Sam and I will undoubtedly miss our homes for Christmas. It is near impossible for me to get into the Christmas spirit in these surroundings and we can safely say there are no prospects for a white Christmas in Kumasi any time in the next millennium. We shall make the best of it. Tomorrow we shall leave our “very basic” accommodation and indulge in a sumptuous meal at a “respectable” restaurant in town that we have scoped out down the road. Eating lots of food will most likely carry the day and there is always Christmas next year. Though it sounds silly from where you stand, we will actually appreciate the cold come holiday season 2010 after this experience.

So, from the noisy, sweaty streets of Kumasi, I bid a Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

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Yes, Ke Qetile, I am finished!

It is 4:45 a.m. on the morning of December 2. This is to be my last full day in Auplaas. I wake to a loud bird call that is brand new to my ears. Tschoo…tschoo…tschoo! Quickly, I follow the sound into a small cluster of trees outside and finally spot what I later learn is a Redchested Cuckoo. The Cuckoo hangs around in the general area for most of the day and at day’s end the loud call has come to sound more like “please…don’t…go.”

My last month was a good one. By the time I rolled out of the village, I felt content that everything was done to the best of my abilities. My work at the school was completed and appropriate good-byes were exchanged with all of my students and colleagues. I spent lots of quality time with my friends and family. Time for reflection was abundant and I capitalized on this opportunity to explore a few more places in the area, climb one last mountain, see another river gorge. Inevitably, feelings of nostalgia danced through my mind often. The nostalgia was often strongest when performing the most mundane of tasks such as walking to school, or exchanging morning greetings with ‘Me Mapoloko. Through it all, I was able to maintain a sense of reality and recognize the extent of my ups and downs in the past two years rather than sugar coating the tougher times. But for me the feeling of “place” is a true and serious phenomenon. In its essence, it is the same attachment to place that makes me so fond of my home in Massachusetts.

Some of my more difficult good-byes were with two village men who I grew close to. Ntate Mokhafisi Kena is no ordinary 84 year old man from Auplaas. For the last two years I have spent time talking with this man who might best be compared to a “living history book.” Kena served the British Crown as a soldier in WW II. He was at the center of anti-colonial struggles in southern Africa. He was a co-founder of the Communist Party of Lesotho (CPL). He received political training in Moscow under the auspices of the former Soviet Union. Kena has worked in international trade union movements and also served as a member of the Lesotho Parliament. Over the last two years, I have been interviewing him and am currently about mid-way through writing a biographic essay chronicling his life. Perhaps my best friend in the village was none other than Ntate Lebuajoang, the farmer who I described in a previous blog. This man is a true, “salt of the earth” tiller of the land who I came to admire very much. Our last conversation was typical of him. He went into great length about how many cabbages he would have to sow, harvest, and sell to purchase his airline ticket to the United States for a visit in future years. He reckoned about 10,000 would do the trick. I will truly miss many in the village but these two friends stand out and have taught me countless lessons about life through our friendships.

Thanksgiving has always been a favorite holiday of mine. I selected this day to invite some friends to a small feast at my home. Several friends and colleagues joined my host family and me for the occasion. I bought four chickens from a man in the village. ‘Me instructed me to put one foot on the wings and one foot on the feet. With my knife I cut straight through the throat and continued to hold down the convulsing bird until it lay still. Next step was into some scalding water with each bird and then we plucked the feathers thoroughly which proved to be quite the tedious task. Out come the innards prior to the butchering and then into the pot we go. Preparing food from the live animal with my own hands was a new experience. This experience is most often lost in our gargantuan industrial food systems at home. ‘Me Mapoloko brewed up a 25 liter bucket of bojoala ba Basotho. This is the traditional beer brewed from sorghum. Think of a really thin porridge that has gained a measure of bitterness through fermentation. One good size jar of this stuff will leave you bloated beyond belief. We enjoyed the chicken with the Basotho staples of papa and moroho (corn meal mash and fried greens). My efforts to explain Thanksgiving in Sesotho were spotty at best. It was definitely one of those situations where the limits of my Sesotho fluency were frustratingly evident for me. The day was lots of fun, but it remains near impossible for me not to think of my family at home on any holiday.

I am feeling good about being finished. The shortcomings have been numerous through my Peace Corps service, but my successes and positive experiences are far more plentiful when all is said and done. It will take lots of time for me to process the lessons learned here, and thus I could not dare try to “sum it all up” from where I am sitting now. Soon I will be home to Springfield, MA where I will be looking to speak to as many groups as possible to share and teach from this great experience. This should be a great way to process and reflect on the last two years.

Before I come home, there is one little trip I will take with my friend Sam. While most people are shoveling snow and cooking heaps of food for the holidays, I will be somewhere in the steamy environs of West Africa. On December 14th we are flying to Accra, Ghana where we will meet with some of my friends that I made there on my previous visit to that country in 2004. From Ghana we will travel overland north into Burkina Faso and then up into Mali. Our northernmost point will be the majestic Saharan town of Timbuktu. From Bamako, Mali we will board an overnight train for Dakar, Senegal. Then it is Dakar to frigid New York by air. The whole trip will be around 7 weeks. It will be filled with the vibrant sounds, smells, and sights of this extraordinarily complex region of the continent. It is a long way from the mountain Kingdom of Lesotho in more ways than one. Like any great experience, it promises to have its frustrations and challenges along side its joys. I hope to blog a couple of times from the road, but internet access will be tough in some places. I am filled with excitement for this trip and for my life when I return home. It sure will be amazing to arrive home to so many great friends and family after so long an absence. That feeling of place that treasure so much, will never be so evident.

I want to wish a healthy and happy holiday season to all!

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A few weeks back I embarked on what will probably be my last overnight hiking trips in Lesotho. I set out by myself from my front door after the close of the academic third quarter. This is a capability that I have really enjoyed throughout my time here; to be able to load my backpack, lock the door behind me and make my way through high mountain passes and deep valleys without having seen a car. For three nights and four days I explored some remote areas of the districts of Qacha’s Nek and Mohale’s Hoek. The rugged Lesotho topography never ceases to amaze me. The hiking was strenuous but rewarding as I met lots of friendly Basotho along the way. Some folks insisted on showing me the way, others just wanted to talk, while another man named Koenehelo offered me a camping spot on his property. The real social highlight of this trip was Ntate Tloang Lebaka. This man (pictured above the last blog) led me for four hours, one way, over rough terrain playing his sekhankula the entire way, never missing a beat. This stringed instrument is made from an old oilcan, with a stick and three wires connecting the two components. The musician then strums away with a small bow. Despite the absence of any top teeth, Tloang was also quite talkative and clearly enjoyed my Sesotho speaking. He had dropped what he was doing in his village when I came through as if it was quite natural and when I asked him when he might turn to head back home, he was carefree and had a funny remark. “Ha ho mathata, Ke tla palama koloi ea ka… No problem, I will ride in my car…” After some head scratching and confusion, I realized that he was jokingly referring to his sekhankula as his car. He then went on to admire my “two cars,” which were actually my trekking poles. He laughed a laugh that only a toothless man can achieve. He turned to head home and asked for nothing in return. He was simply enjoying the day, as was I. This was truly the epitome of a priceless experience for me as well as the quintessence of rural, Basotho people.

I visited my friend Jeremy at his site for some rest after my solo trek. The two of us then met with three other PC friends and began a three-day hike in a different part of the country. We enjoyed each other’s company as we saw lots more of rural Lesotho that included some amazing waterfalls and more friendly people. Spirits were high despite our being caught in several downpours that typically included hail, high winds, and the always pleasant, “sideways rain” that the Lesotho skies serve up this time of year. We finished our hike at Semongkong, which is known for the 189-meter Maletsunyane Falls. It was great to spend my last vacation time with such good friends in Lesotho. I said good-bye to some folks from my PC group in Maseru before heading back up to Qacha’s Nek. It was on my mind that it was the last time I would see many of those people, as folks from my group will return to the U.S. on various dates scattered through October, November, and early December.

To steer clear of any somber thoughts I immediately began to tackle a list of things that I wanted to do before I depart Auplaas on December 1st. Although I have reciprocated the help my host family has given me throughout my service, I have wanted to give some meaningful gifts to them as I prepare to leave. In August I had prepared a tomato seed bed and was able to transplant 40 young tomato plants in the yard with my ‘me and two bo-ausi. We enjoyed the work and the Ramatsekas will be inundated with tomatoes come January! Some men in our area of the village were organizing an effort to run a water pipe from the main village pipe down to our little “neighborhood” to bring easier water access. They were looking for 500 Maluti (Rand) from each family to purchase supplies and install a spigot in each of the paying family’s compounds. It was a perfect opportunity for me to show gratitude for my family. This sum is far out of reach for their current financial situation, so I covered the financial end and helped with some of the labor and we now have a water spigot in the yard. ‘Me Mapoloko, ausi Matseliso, and ausi Maleshoane absolutely beamed with appreciation. Let me give this a bit of context. Women do nearly all the water fetching here. ‘Me Mapoloko is 43 years old and for roughly 37 of those years she has had to carry water every single day, often five or more times per day from a tap that is a minimum of 200 yards away (the spring was much further than that in the village where she grew up). I would say she is most deserving of this new convenience!

Tsoelike Seconday School held a joint “Farewell Celebration” for the Form C students and me. The day was marvelous to say the least. Each class performed several songs, dances, speeches, and even a drama before we all enjoyed a sumptuous feast. The performances were impressive, especially given the minimal preparation time. Gosh, these kids can really shine in these sorts of events! I was deeply touched by the speeches and songs that bid me farewell. My Form B boys, who have nearly driven me crazy in the last year, had a unique farewell song. Ntate Thabo…Ntate Thabo…Ha u tloha, Re tla tsamaea ka mehla le uena. Father Thabo, When you leave, we will go with you always! My own speech was mediocre at best and I did not have a “good Sesotho day” unfortunately. Four sheep were slaughtered for the occasion and the joy was felt all around.

On Saturday, 24 October we had a Tree Planting Day here at the school. I had worked hard to plan the day but like so many things here, there was no guarantee as to how things would go until the actual day was at hand (or if it would go at all). Students came to work and learn about the production of tree seedlings, tree planting, and the importance of trees from a friend of mine in the village named Andreas Soluoue, who is passionate about forestry. Andreas had 100 pine seedlings that he had unsuccessfully tried to sell to the Ministry of Forestry for the last two and one half years. I arranged for the seedlings to be purchased from him with a small grant in return for his teaching and guidance of the 20 students who attended. The day was a great success as the students learned, worked together, and provided sustainable improvement for their school campus. Among other purposes, the trees will serve to impede the severe erosion that is threatening to destabilize the foundation of the school buildings. The day made me smile brightly as everything went as planned and the helping hands were aplenty. There is no such thing as an easily organized event here, but this one went off perfectly. To conclude the event, a funny little occurrence happened that made me think and laugh. As I prepared to make a braai (BBQ) fire to cook some chicken for lunch I was thinking just how unpredictable things were in Lesotho. I asked a small group of students to gather a bit of wood to help ignite the coals. In 15 minutes flat, five Basotho girls filed back into the schoolyard, each carrying enough firewood on their heads to fuel an all-night bonfire. I laughed at the irony and thought, “well maybe there are some things that are quite predictable after all.” It had somehow slipped my mind that these girls have been gathering firewood since they could speak.

I can feel the end is closing in and there is no doubt about that. There are many positive things going on around me. We are now in our third week of lending books from the new school library and the students are ecstatic about this new privilege. I encourage students to dive into the world of knowledge through reading. Tsoelike Secondary School now has electricity in one building…and a computer! The government eventually paid some of its overdue bill to the school and this purchase was made possible. It’s good to have such positive developments to point to because it is still my opinion that the most approachable problems at this school are still ignored. Needless to say, this leads to enduring frustration for me. I am trying to enjoy each of my last moments here as best I can, but despite lots of nostalgia and the beginning of many difficult good-byes, I do believe I am ready to go. My attention span and focus have slackened and it gets more difficult to stay in the present everyday. I cannot help but be excited about what the future has to bring, and I am most grateful for that. Two years is not a long time in some respects, but it is more than significant with respect to an experience like this one.

Yesterday I was out for a stroll near some fields when I saw several cattle out in front of a larger herd. As I crossed paths with them I thought, “those are Ntate Mokete’s cattle.” How do I know I have been here for a while? Well, yes, I actually recognize specific cattle away from the village and know who owns them. Wow…I am a long way from the World Series and peak foliage season in New England!

Worst of luck to those New York Yankees in pursuit of their billionth World Series!

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Note: Two new literary ramblings posted on my blog today!

Ok, so abundant wildlife is hardly a perk of living in Lesotho. The great game reserves of Africa are elsewhere, though some are not too far. Our wildlife pool is quite limited unless you are a big fan of rats. Like most aspects of PCV life, I have found it more beneficial to try and focus on what we do have rather than what we lack (often a formidable challenge for sure).

Birdlife in Lesotho can be quite spectacular for the long-term viewer. I reckon two years is about a perfect timeframe. From the moment we touched ground at Moshoeshoe I airport in November 2007, I was on the lookout for new birds. For the first several months of life here, my viewing curve pretty much followed my overall learning curve on a steep slope upwards. It seemed like everyday I saw and learned something new. Oh look! There’s a Bokmakierie, such a radiant yellow, outspoken little bugger. Check out that flock of Redwinged Starlings on the hillside! Wow, isn’t that Whitebacked Vulture a sinister looking thing? Naturally, my lengthening bird list stalled after some months. Things started to seem a bit stagnant on the bird front and the learning curve seemed to have hit that inevitable plateau. You might say that most of the novelty of the entire experience had worn off. Well woop dee doo, there goes another Rock Bunting, flitting about on the canyon slope. Jeez, I wish those Bald Ibises would just shut up for once and leave the maize fields in peace! Yes, there have been numerous periods when I said to myself, “man, you are one crusty old Jackal Buzzard sometimes!”

In fact, the list remained at a virtual standstill until a fairly recent trip up to St. Lucia in Kwa Zulu Natal. I nearly doubled my list of bird identifications in that avian paradise! I highly recommend St. Lucia for bird enthusiasts or simply to recharge your spirit. Sightings were numerous and varied from the iconoclastic Goliath Heron to the majestic Malachite Kingfisher. Honestly, at the end of that trip I was dreading my return home to Qacha’s Nek in the dead of the Lesotho winter. To stave off the doldrums, I immediately set to a number of my favorite pastimes. I grabbed my binoculars, bird guide, and some snacks and set off down to the Senqu River shores. Just the usual suspects at first, but some patience and a keen refocus proved fruitful on that day and on many subsequent days as well. In the past two months of browsing in my spare time I have gotten acquainted with lots of new friends. A special highlight has been the Secretarybird. This long legged, legend of the veld is common in game reserves but I was fortunate enough to see one just around the corner from my home. The 1.5 metre giant tramples its prey to death with its powerful feet. The Rock Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) was a newby for me last month but now seems to be everywhere, patrolling high over the fields and then turning to hover in the stiff breeze. The Swee Waxbill is an inconspicuous bird that can be seen puttering around in the grass near wooded streams. The Redcapped Lark sports a fiery red crew cut on top, reminding me of a little boy I once knew. My recent favorite is easily the Fairy Flycatcher. Cute little guy seen in the squat shrubs all through Lesotho, but more than that, the name just seems to roll off the tongue nicely: F A I R Y F L Y C A T C H E R!

Lots of things have surprised me in the past couple of months. Perhaps my observing powers and local knowledge have simply improved more than I had realized. Maybe it’s my resilience that’s on the upswing. My renewed enjoyment in watching these feathery creatures has seemed to mirror my recent experience in so many ways, but the bottom line is that it’s just a great way to “waste time.” I mean, think about it, sitting back in a grassy knoll in the sun looking after tale feathers, rumps, and bills involves minimal stress. Always leave yourself open to new experience and observation and with enough patience it is possible to see or at least hear some of Lesotho’s greatest birds like the Bearded Vulture, Cape Eagle Owl, or the Malachite Sunbird. It’s funny, seeing some newbies around these parts is great but perhaps more importantly; it also enhances a new appreciation of some favorites from my earliest days here. Whooa, speak of the devil, there goes a pair of Cape Robins and a Fiscal Shrike playing about in my garden right now!

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The Basics rule my days in the highlands of Lesotho.
It’s the beauty and grandeur of the morning commute.
No car here, foot travel is boss.
Thump, Thump…Shoes against earth, sights, sounds, smells.
Walking, just walking.
Mountains and vast, open space are perfect for strengthening my mind and body.
Ahh, life in the Drakensberg!

Squander nothing. Wastewater for irrigation and compost all scraps for garden nutrients. Foods are simple, but adequate, all prepared in my one-room rondavel.
The focus is on the senses: Song of birds, perfume of peach blossoms, brilliance of stars, and the omnipresent sensation of crisp mountain air.

It’s the time and peace to study and emulate my heroes: Abbey, Muir, Berry, Snyder, Neruda, Whitman, Hanh, Schultes, and so it goes.
On some days it is all too much to take in.
On others it all seems empty.

Mindfulness, cultivating mindfulness.
Is this all really simple? Define simple.
Though I may never have it quite like this again,
Wherever I go, always, The Basics.

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It would be a radical understatement to say that I am out of my element here when it boils right down to it. Although I have experienced some great moments of acceptance, joy, and work successes with my community, the many formidable barriers are tough to brush aside. Some things make me cringe and long for the familiarities and standards of home. The other day I saw a great example of this (well…many examples actually). Last weekend was the district soccer tournament. The games themselves are fun to watch but the disorganization of the events and needless chaos would make even the most devil-may-care people in the States gasp in disbelief. That day, it was one thing that made me giggle a bit…that’s right giggle. I swear laughing is the only way to stay sane. So, its halftime and our boys are huddled around several random guys from my village that have come to share their coaching advice, though they had nothing to do with the boys all through the previous weeks of practice. You see coaching has a very loose definition here. The man who is providing the most insight is slugging a quart of beer and clearly a bit tipsy while performing a version of “chalk talk.” Not at all out of the ordinary for a 9 a.m. high school game here in Qacha’s Nek. Setting positive examples is not a widely followed practice here and drunkenness is a huge problem. My internal frustration and disgust at this is just one of many reminders of my outsider status.

Then there are those “things you just don’t see at home,” that are quite nice really. On a recent Friday after school I joined some men for the grave digging activities that precede funeral rituals on Saturday. The funeral this week was for an old woman in the village. When the job was done, we all went back to the family’s compound where a cow was freshly slaughtered in the corral. Several men had set to work on it with a bow saw while others built up a hot fire nearby. For the next couple of hours various parts of the cow were cooked directly on the coals and then thrown (literally) in the middle of the men who went to it each with their own pocketknife. Some of the guys nodded approval when I produced my own pocketknife to aid my carnivorous indulgence. This is 100% pure, grass-fed beef folks. Pancreas, liver, and the heart were just a sampling of the treats for the day; the bulk of the animal was prepared for the actual funeral feast the following day. Massive chunks of meat were consumed and with rather impressive vigor. Needless to say, the men working the bow saw were covered in blood as they proceeded with this important work. Whether fun or frustrating, the differences are vivid.

Teaching is real work. We have been through that in previous blogs and few educators around the world would beg to differ. The challenges are formidable and complex wherever the job might be. At Tsoelike I am finding no shortage of these obstacles. I would like to think that one of my better teaching tools is my ability to empathize with the experience of teenage students (some students anyway) in the United States. There was a time when I was a teen in an American, “small-urban” environment. Apart from struggling with math, English, Science, and the like, there were lots of other things on my mind. Sports, girls, MTV, parties, issues with my parents, and the shaping of my identity in teen America were what made my “real life” during those years. I made lots of mistakes and bad decisions during those years that I feel gave me some teaching and counseling capital in my classroom at home. Some things have evolved since then to be sure but many of the concerns of adolescents remain constant. My students in Lesotho do share some of those priorities with their American counterparts, but many of the details of how those things work here are lost on me.

Now, on being able to truly empathize with my students, here are just a smattering of the road blocks for me here. I did not grow up in the mountains of Lesotho. I never had to look after animals as one of many chores. Fetching water and firewood was not part of the routine in the Conz household. HIV/AIDS was not killing people all around me in Springfield, MA. Public school was free (and obligatory). I don’t know what it feels like to be truly hungry. Our roof never leaked. I consistently had teachers who came to school on a regular basis. Even the things that are familiar like sports and dating are quite different here. In short, my capabilities here are restricted, as I knew they would be. Sometimes it just clobbers me over the head when I am not looking. Small accomplishments in the classroom here are cause for celebration.

These same restrictions have given me a boost to focus on some of the things that I can achieve. Tsoelike Secondary School is now a proud partner of the African Library Project (ALP). ALP is an American organization that works in partnership with a number of African NGO’s, schools, and Peace Corps to assist the need for more reading material around the continent (see the ALP website for more information). Organizations throughout the United States can hold book drives and raise funds to ship reading material to a recipient group in an African community. Some libraries are for schools while others are for the larger community as a whole. Tsoelike was partnered with a woman in the San Francisco Bay area, who managed a very successful book drive in December 2008 that served the needs of several recipient libraries here in Lesotho. We coordinated the specifics of what material could be of value for the Tsoelike library . “Appropriateness” is an important criterion for any potential donor of books or other materials to an area “in need.” The history of development and relief efforts in Africa (and elsewhere) is full of ridiculous examples where donors essentially sent junk to the effected community. Examples of this abound from rotten food to winter coats for Equatorial Guinea. Tsoelike Secondary School has little use for copies of War & Peace, or textbooks for graduate level physics. Our shipment of books arrived in June and there are about 900 books and another 200 magazines! There is a great mix of material from fiction to reference. Most of the material is appropriate, yet challenging for the students while other books are more fit for my own reading. We now have the books on shelves in the same building that has the outstanding mural pictured in a previous blog. We are currently ironing out some last details pertaining to organization and operation procedures and will soon be open for lending!

An energetic and inquisitive student will find a world of information in the library. Reading is a tough sell here in Lesotho as it is for many people everywhere. Many of the older folks here, teachers included, will say that: “our kids won’t read, and besides we are an oral culture.” Though some of this might hold true, there are many students who do demonstrate the desire to learn better reading skills and thus open themselves up to a new world of ideas, knowledge, and opportunity. In the coming weeks I will work with faculty and students to familiarize them with the ins and out of a library. We will train student librarians, decorate the walls with maps and other stimulating material, and try to promote a culture of reading. For most students, this will be their very first experience with a library. My hope is that the school will continue to improve the library in years to come. When I leave the school on December 1st, Tsoelike Secondary will possess all the tools and knowledge necessary to make this a reality. But what the future holds for this, no one can really know.

Oh, on the final day of the soccer tourney, there was a dispute over a shoot out. The protesting student body lifted one of the goals in the air and began to carry it from the field. Students from the other school attacked them with rocks and chaos ensued. The police on duty fired shotguns in the air to quell the unrest. Some minor injuries were inflicted. Wow, people sure do go crazy for soccer!

Robala ka Khotso (RIP) Patrick Swayze (a.k.a. Darry Curtis, Jed Seaver, Boddhi, Derrick Sutton, et al)
“The only thing better than a beer with the guys, is tea with Ms. Magill.”
-Derrick Sutton in Youngblood

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“The River was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks
from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless
raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.” - Norman Maclean

There are times when I want to push against the forces of nature. Accepting the perpetual passage of time has always been a formidable challenge for me, as I would guess it is for many others. It simply does not matter how hard I try to swim against this current, its triumph is certain. Surely there will always be the times when we want to hit the proverbial “Pause Button on Life,” but a continual struggle against time can only have one outcome. Why would anyone want to stop time from moving forward anyway? I have to remind myself of the illogical nature of these thoughts constantly though it is difficult to remember this, especially when experiencing something that you would like to embrace for a long time to come. Some of my recent thoughts and experiences have been invaluable in meeting this ongoing challenge.

On July 14th I had the privilege to meet my mother and aunt at the airport in Bloemfontein, SA to begin an excellent road trip through Lesotho and South Africa. It was beautiful to see these two women who have known and nurtured me throughout my days. It was a new and unique feeling to be in southern Africa with two people who have known me outside of the Peace Corps experience. We visited the Malealea Lodge in the lowlands to relax and gradually introduce my visitors to Lesotho before making the journey up to my village in Qacha’s Nek. The ladies were most impressed with the grandeur of the landscape and mom was forced to confront some of her uneasiness with heights as we wound our way up and down the steep mountain roads in our rented Toyota Corolla. My mother, Pat, and aunt Mary were greeted warmly as we walked about the village and the local women were envious of their Ghanaian style dresses that they had brought specially for the “village walk.” We visited with a number of people before having dinner with my host family. I cooked chicken cacciatore and ‘Me Mapoloko provided the papa, which is quite similar to the Italian polenta that we traditionally eat with this chicken dish in the Conz family. It was fun to translate between the ladies. I did my best, but certain emotions were better communicated simply through smiles and gestures as the women found out. Dinner that night would have been a great time to stop the clock…just for a bit more to enjoy the precious atmosphere. We left the village in the morning and mom and Mary stumbled a bit but managed to explain to ‘me and the girls: Re thabile ho le tseba…We are happy to know you! Along with grandfather Time, we continued on and only 5 minutes down the road from the village we sighted a Secretary Bird, which is a huge, impressive looking creature that I have not seen in these parts! Well now…there truly is something new around each corner.

We headed down towards the coast to the south of Durban for some relaxation, ocean views, and warm weather. Man…was it cold up in Qacha! Mom and me treated ourselves to a round of golf at the Umkomass Golf Club. It was a perfect setting for us. The course was undulating and full of charm and character. We absorbed the magnificent ocean views as we navigated our way around the 18-hole layout. I will just say that I hit lots of good shots along side the plentiful bad ones. It had been sometime since I played a round with mom, well, a long time since I played with anyone I suppose. From there we traveled north to St. Lucia, a tourist hub that is surrounded by some wonderful nature reserves. We indulged in a morning boat cruise on the St. Lucia Estuary. The wildlife viewing was spectacular as we saw oodles of crocodiles, hippos, and birds. The African Fish Eagle that I had told the ladies so much about, appeared in full force and gave us a bit of a show as we goggled with the binoculars. As if the cruise was not enough, the next day we went on a “game drive” to the renowned Hluhluwe-Imfolozi Game Reserve. Our local guide, a Zulu man who goes by the name of Patrick, drove us around in a safari vehicle displaying an exceptional eye for spotting birds and other wildlife. Before the day was out we had seen a long list of bird and animal life. A notable highlight would be a scene where several African Wild Dogs were taunting an elephant. The elephant gave a “bluff charge” which nearly flattened a 50-foot tree! The dogs seemed unperturbed by neither the elephant nor our presence in the nearby vehicle. My favorite bird of the day was probably the Lilac-Breasted Roller that perches conspicuously and shows off its brilliant colors. Wow, I think I added about 40 new bird species to my list on this trip! Though we missed the lion and leopard to fill out the “Big Five” for the day, we were all smiles about the trip. The following day we made the long drive that took us back into the cold weather of the South African highlands to the north of Lesotho.

Throughout the journey we had lots of great conversation, saw many great things, and created a plentitude of inside jokes that are sure to stand the test of time. Like all great adventures, this one had to come to a close. We spent the last couple nights in a quaint little town called Clarens before making our way towards Bloemfontein so the ladies could get their flight home. All the planning, all the anticipation, and now the finish and the parting of ways that always seems to loom in the background, another end to another great experience.

Two days after saying goodbye, I boarded a 5:30 a.m. transport in Maseru that took me back to Auplaas in highland Lesotho. The towering peaks were clad in snow as the “sprinter” climbed the mountain roads towards Qacha’s Nek district. Though beautiful, the peaks also reminded me about the cold and harsh realities of life for people in highland Lesotho. Just before reaching the village of Mphaki, I noticed that the fields were filled with men and boys, fathers and sons who were diligently plowing their fields behind teams of oxen. The black and rocky soil churned up behind the shouting, whip wielding men, and I could not help but notice an exceptional energy in these scenes as I saw them duplicated many times over on the road to Qacha. The snowy peaks began to look more beautiful to me. Ntate Lebuajoang (remember him?) was one of the first people I saw when I arrived in my village. He was as bright as ever and began to ramble on about how some snow was coming that weekend and that the blanket of snow would melt and irrigate newly planted land nicely. Bear in mind, last year we got zero precipitation at this time of year. The following day I helped Lebuajoang make some more furrows for his cabbage seeds. The weekend arrived and brought rain, lots of it! The snow only came to the high peaks, but people were most jovial about the rains even though they turned the village into a temporary mud pit! People were optimistic now that this year’s harvest would be plentiful and thus, people would be happier and better fed. The dreary weather in the present was cultivating ripe fruits for the future.

I spent most of the rainy weekend in my house as do most Basotho during such weather. It felt good to have some time to relax on my own and prepare myself for the months to come. Another school session started that Monday. As predicted, the start was slow to say the least but it was a start nonetheless. My focus turned more towards beginnings and away from the dread of endings. Momentum is a powerful force in any form and we can think of countless examples ranging from a stone rolling downhill to a hockey player striding his way up the ice to the incessant passage of time. Rather than struggle against natural momentums, sometimes it is far easier and sensible to let them carry us in their cyclic patterns.

Well, with that said, I turned 33 years young on August 13th and I celebrated with a rigorous day of exercise that allowed me a deep sleep!

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Mozambique is a country that conjures up a variety of thoughts for some people while for other folks; it creates little but a blank space. Located in southeast Africa, Mozambique boasts a 1500 km coastline, a rich national history, and some truly amazing travel destinations. I have recently returned from an outstanding two-week trip through this magnificent country.

“Moz” is a popular destination this time of year for those looking to escape the cold winter in the higher elevations of South Africa and Lesotho. The nation has a broad coastal plain that is composed largely of wetlands and tropical forests but also has several mountain environments in the west-central part of the country, most prominent around the Gorongosa Massif and the Chimanimani Mountains. Throughout this country of roughly 18 million people there are an abundance of plant and animal life. Traveling overland in Moz is slow and with limited time for this trip, my travels would be confined to the better-trodden path along the southern coast. I must confess in all honesty that this trip was geared towards pleasure and relaxation, but being myself, I still came away learning a great deal while soaking up my share of sun and spoiling myself rotten.

Europeans first involved themselves in this area over 500 years ago with ventures in the trade of ivory, gold, and later, slaves. The Portuguese were at the forefront of this particular epic in the history of colonial exploitation. In 1891 a treaty was signed between the Portuguese and the British (the ever present imperial force during the colonial era) that gave Mozambique its current boundaries and further opened the gates for colonial pillage. Colonial authority looted vast natural resources, agricultural products, and coerced labor from the many established indigenous groups of the region. Some of these peoples are the Shangaan, Makua, Sena, and Makonde, all of which have their own linguistic, cultural, and political traditions. Portuguese settlement increased throughout the first half of the 20th century as they set up their own education, health, commercial, and political systems. Like other parts of colonial Africa, Africans were largely confined to labor roles and excluded from Portuguese institutions. By 1960 the rumblings of anti-colonial sentiments reached the surface when a village meeting to peacefully protest unfair taxes ended with Portuguese troops opening fire and killing many demonstrators (sound familiar American history students?). The event became known as the “Massacre of Mueda” and proved to be a spark for the liberation struggle to come. In 1962 the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO) was formed under the leadership of Eduardo Mondlane. After Mondlane was assassinated in 1969, it was the Marxist guerilla leader Samora Machel who took the reigns and fought on towards the nation’s official independence in 1975. Machel was the first president and is widely revered as the national hero. The vast majority of the Portuguese left hastily, leaving the young nation in relative chaos. FRELIMO established close ties with the Soviet Union and embarked on some ambitious socialist initiatives that met stiff challenges. By 1983 an opposition movement called the Mozambique National Resistance (RENAMO) had sprung up with the support of the Apartheid government in South Africa. A bitter civil war ensued between the two parties that caused horrendous destruction to the environment, infrastructure, and social fabric of Mozambique. Finally in 1994 elections were held and FRELIMO took the lead with RENAMO taking a supporting role. Since then the nation has enjoyed relative peace and has embarked upon the reconstruction of the country. The foreign aid industry has had a large and often controversial role in reconstruction, but Moz has enjoyed much success in some growing industries, tourism being a prime example.

My friend Christina and I began our Moz trip with a bus from Johannesburg, SA to Maputo, the rather attractive capital city of Mozambique. We spent the better part of four days roaming the vibrant craft markets, buying seafood at the Mercado Municipal, browsing the art museums, and enjoying live music. Strolling the many avenidas that are shaded nicely by jacaranda and flame trees was both pleasant and informative. Many of the streets are named for the historical heroes of the socialist struggle. Avenida Eduardo Mondlane, Avenida Karl Marx, Ave Ho Chi Mihn, and Ave Patrice Lumumba to name but a few of my favorites. We are now traveling in a “Lusophone” country; that is a place where Portuguese is spoken. We struggle a bit in our basic interactions with people, though many people in the capital do speak some English. We are also surprised to learn that most children growing up in Maputo are speaking Portuguese as their first language as opposed to their native African tongue as is the case in Lesotho and so many other African nations. Throughout the trip most Mozambicans are quite warm, friendly, and patient with our language limitations. Some folks are overjoyed to exchange the most basic greetings with us and simply offer a nice smile. Bom dia, como esta? Though quite similar to Spanish, Portuguese has a number of differences including pronunciations. Unfortunately for us, Christina and I both studied French in our school days. Portuguese cultural influence is also clearly seen, heard, and tasted in the architecture, music, and food of Mozambique. These cultural fusions add to our most pleasant stay in Maputo.

We make the nine-hour journey on a crowded public bus to the seaside hotspot of Tofo. Tofo is a destination par excellence for surfers, SCUBA divers, anglers, and beachcombers alike. We spend five days in Tofo just relaxing and enjoying the simple accommodation in a grass bungalow. One day we treat ourselves to an “ocean safari” in search of the superb marine life in the area. Christina and I head out with Kjessie and Andre, two fellow PCV’s from Lesotho, and several others to see what the day has to offer. After pounding through the waves in a “surf launch” powered by twin outboard motors, we have our first luck of the day when we spot a group of dolphins. The day just improves with time and before all is said and done we have seen a Humpback Whale from point blank range and snorkeled with two giant whale sharks. Apart from my surprise bout of seasickness (urgghh!), the day is a bright one. Tofo is definitely the type of place that can be difficult to leave as there is a “chill” scene that has a steady stream of travelers making their way through and a distinct local flavor that make for an enjoyable environment.

Just an hour from Tofo, we overnight in a sleepy little town called Inhambane that served as a trading port long before the colonial days. We enjoy a good night’s rest before boarding a one-hour ferry the next morning that takes us across a small but choppy bay to Maxixe (masheesh) where we board a chapa (minibus taxi) to our next destination. The ride north to Vilankulo takes about four hours. We pass countless villages carved out of the palm and baobab woodlands. The typical dwellings are made out of reeds, thatch, and mud. Most designs are made carefully to keep the temperature cool inside during the sweltering midday heat. Among other things, we are stricken by the abundance of natural resources that the people enjoy. Forest products are plentiful for food, fuel, and building material and we cannot help but notice this stark contrast to our mostly treeless home in Qacha’s Nek. Crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, the paved road becomes so full of potholes that most cars actually chose to drive in the rut beside the road rather than risk almost certain blowout on the actual road. Our chapa is fortunate enough to escape flat tire or worse.

Vilankulo is a small town that sits on the shore of the Indian Ocean and looks out to the stunning Bazaruto Archipelago where the waters are a brilliant shade of blue. The Bazaruto is comprised of several islands, the most notable three being Magaruqe, Benguera, and Bazaruto. The town itself caters to tourists of all budgets but is by no means dominated by the tourist traffic. The vibe is quite relaxed at “Zombie Cucumber” where we make our home for the next week. Just a nine-iron from the beach, Zombie has the relaxed atmosphere we wanted with good food, friendly people, and cold beverages. One day we embark on a “dhow” trip to Margaruqe. Dhows are the traditional sea going craft in Vilankulo as well as up much of the east coast of Africa. It is Christina, Wei (a Singaporean traveler), myself, and four Mozambican gentlemen on the day trip to the pristine island. We arrive and roam the island while the crew prepares an amazing lunch that includes grilled Baracuda and fresh pineapple. The walk around the island is simply blissful and we spot countless Little Egrets and a lone Brownhooded Kingfisher in the scrub. Shortly after lunch we enjoy a rather chilly snorkel with schools of tropical fish and even spy a rather sinister looking octopus. The afternoon sail back to Vilankulo is slow but peaceful.

The SCUBA diving in the area is remarkable and I cannot resist the opportunity. Christina signs on to snorkel and myself to dive and we are on our way to Two-Mile Reef near Bazaruto Island. My first dive in over three years is a good one despite the rough sea conditions on the surface (no seasickness…thank god). With three companion divers I see giant turtles, Potato Bass, Blue Spotted Sting Ray, Bow Mouth Shark, White Tip Shark, and countless fish with names like “Longhead Flathead” and Christina’s personal favorite name, “Harry Hotlips.” We enjoy lunch on Bazaruto and have time to climb a spectacular sand dune that overlooks the entire paradise. Unfortunately, Christina’s snorkel outing was dramatically shortened when a jellyfish dealt her a nasty sting on the arm. Ouch!!! Although she was quite uncomfortable for the afternoon, we both had to admit later that the tentacle marks left on her arm were pretty cool looking. My afternoon dive was equally as spectacular and the day was a great success.

As we all know, all things are impermanent no matter how much we may wish otherwise. At the close of our week in Vilankulo, I went to the tiny airport to catch a flight back to Jo’Burg before returning to wintry Lesotho via minibus taxi. My dear friend Christina will remain in Mozambique for another two weeks for more travel that will include a trip to the far north for an art camp that she has learned of. Her Peace Corps service has come to an end and I hope she enjoys safe travel in Moz before returning to the United States. As for me, another amazing vacation has come to an end, but I am now looking forward to the final quarter of my PC service and anything else that may come my way in the next five months.

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