I got my diploma dressed like a wizard on June 5th, and before Harvard could take it back, I hit the air, headed for Lesotho. It was a multi-party effort to get me packed (unpacked and packed again a few more times) and out the door, but we did it, and contrary to predictions, my mother did not force her way on to the plane and get arrested in JFK.
I chose to fly through Frankfurt solely because I’ve never been to Germany, even though I had no intention of actually going into the city (which as most of you know would invariably result in me getting lost and missing my next flight). I don’t go to Europe, just European airports, and I figured I might as well pick a different one every time I fly. After about 12 minutes (the length of time it took me to explore the majority of the airport and then become bored), I realized this was a mistake. Six hours later, I had a fortuitous encounter with a trio of South Africans who told me all the places and circumstances under which I will be attacked in my soon-to-be neighboring country. After that, we counted all of the people we saw smiling in the airport (2 in 37 minutes).
Six hours after that, I was finally on my way to Johannesburg. From there, I had a third flight to Maseru and when I saw the airplane I was supposed to take, I seriously considered finding my luggage and a bus; it looked like a reject ride from Bowcraft. My pulse, which was already at running-up-a-hill-level from takeoff, speeded up even more when the flight attendant opened the door to the cockpit to bring the pilot juice and cookies. I get that pilots need their snacks, but I would have preferred him keep his eyes on the sky- we could have hit a bird and shattered. Landing was even more nerve wracking. Moshoeshoe International Airport is so tiny you can’t see it until you are in it, so during a normal descent you have the distinct impression you are about to crash in a field. The runway is a glorified driveway, the terminal a two-room building, a disgruntled immigration officer, and a drug-sniffing dog. No baggage claim, no computers, no air traffic control, no taxis or public transportation of any sort.
Not only was my house not ready for me to move in, it is doubling as a dump for all manner of renovation materials. I spent the week with the principal and his family. The school was still in session, so I also got to see my future classroom, meet my assistant and wander around the campus. In my spare time, which amidst all of this orienting was not much, I tried to teach myself Sesotho with a CD and a book so out of date that phrases included “where can I send a telegram?” and questions about how to navigate the obsolete train system.
While registering at the American consulate, a diplomat invited me to a “Singles Night” that he periodically hosts with his WIFE. The only other people there besides the married couple and myself were the middle-aged 2nd grade teacher at the school and a summer intern student from Washington. We said grace, ate soup and were introduced to the resident cats. It’s in the diplomatic job description to scare the shit out of other expats. Fittingly, in between soup consumption and cat petting, I also got the run down of all the things I should under no circumstances ever do ever in Maseru followed by a list of American deaths in Lesotho in the past several years (a mercifully short list). If Moshoeshoe International Airport was my preview of Basotho amenities, Singles Night is likely my preview of Basotho social life.
After five days of being chauffeured from one gated compound (school, various homes, the embassy) to another, I am more than ready to pack up my backpack and roam around for a couple months. My first stop is Bloemfontein, South Africa.
I chose to fly through Frankfurt solely because I’ve never been to Germany, even though I had no intention of actually going into the city (which as most of you know would invariably result in me getting lost and missing my next flight). I don’t go to Europe, just European airports, and I figured I might as well pick a different one every time I fly. After about 12 minutes (the length of time it took me to explore the majority of the airport and then become bored), I realized this was a mistake. Six hours later, I had a fortuitous encounter with a trio of South Africans who told me all the places and circumstances under which I will be attacked in my soon-to-be neighboring country. After that, we counted all of the people we saw smiling in the airport (2 in 37 minutes).
Six hours after that, I was finally on my way to Johannesburg. From there, I had a third flight to Maseru and when I saw the airplane I was supposed to take, I seriously considered finding my luggage and a bus; it looked like a reject ride from Bowcraft. My pulse, which was already at running-up-a-hill-level from takeoff, speeded up even more when the flight attendant opened the door to the cockpit to bring the pilot juice and cookies. I get that pilots need their snacks, but I would have preferred him keep his eyes on the sky- we could have hit a bird and shattered. Landing was even more nerve wracking. Moshoeshoe International Airport is so tiny you can’t see it until you are in it, so during a normal descent you have the distinct impression you are about to crash in a field. The runway is a glorified driveway, the terminal a two-room building, a disgruntled immigration officer, and a drug-sniffing dog. No baggage claim, no computers, no air traffic control, no taxis or public transportation of any sort.
Not only was my house not ready for me to move in, it is doubling as a dump for all manner of renovation materials. I spent the week with the principal and his family. The school was still in session, so I also got to see my future classroom, meet my assistant and wander around the campus. In my spare time, which amidst all of this orienting was not much, I tried to teach myself Sesotho with a CD and a book so out of date that phrases included “where can I send a telegram?” and questions about how to navigate the obsolete train system.
While registering at the American consulate, a diplomat invited me to a “Singles Night” that he periodically hosts with his WIFE. The only other people there besides the married couple and myself were the middle-aged 2nd grade teacher at the school and a summer intern student from Washington. We said grace, ate soup and were introduced to the resident cats. It’s in the diplomatic job description to scare the shit out of other expats. Fittingly, in between soup consumption and cat petting, I also got the run down of all the things I should under no circumstances ever do ever in Maseru followed by a list of American deaths in Lesotho in the past several years (a mercifully short list). If Moshoeshoe International Airport was my preview of Basotho amenities, Singles Night is likely my preview of Basotho social life.
After five days of being chauffeured from one gated compound (school, various homes, the embassy) to another, I am more than ready to pack up my backpack and roam around for a couple months. My first stop is Bloemfontein, South Africa.
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