The Transatlantic Library Has Landed

The number one thing I have the tendency to accumulate are books. They have taken over my house, and while easy to box, are expensive to ship, especially when I have to get them all the way back to the US, just to send them back to the continent to the DRC. (DRC is not known for it’s stellar postal services and my new boss said the import taxes are so expensive I might as well fly to Kinshasa to drop them off before heading to America for my summer vacation).
I limited myself to carrying one book here to Africa (The Alchemist, purchased especially for 2 months of backpacking, which I hated) but two boxes preceded my arrival. As the only American school on the continent with diplomatic pouch privileges for school supplies, I was able to ship all of my teacher resource books and picture books to the Lesotho embassy in DC, where they would be loaded on a South African bound plane, and delivered to the US embassy here in Maseru.

Since I had a couple friends in DC, I figured I might as well haul them myself in a suitcase for hand delivery. I spent my last hours at Harvard performing with the Pan-African Dance and Music Ensemble in a tent worth more than the house I lived in for a fundraiser for the Fogg Museum renovations. After a rapid change out of my fake kente cloth costume, I sprint-hobbled to get the T to South Station. From there, I rode the Chinatown bus overnight, with a suitcase filled with books, and as packing material, a collection of blinding silk scarves inherited from my Grandma Ethel and my great aunt Maisie.

After breakfast with my friend Vivian, we mapquested the address of the Lesotho embassy, only to find it smack in the middle of a river. As luck would have it, my future boss was online and when I told him of my predicament. he refrained from calling me an idiot and explained there actually is no Lesotho embassy, and the address is merely the diplomatic pouch section of the Dulles airport, where no mere civilian may enter. So the United States Postal Service took care of things, and I was left to a weekend in DC with a feather-light suitcase filled with the leftover scarves.

I coerced my friend Sam into accompanying me to a performance of by an all-blind all-male African American tap dancing troupe before I got on the bus back home to Jersey. When we arrived at the address of the theatre, I found that I was nearly the tallest person in line, second only to Sam. We were behind a very long line of children. Sam said, “What did you say the name of this dance group is?” “The Wild Zappers.” “Uh huh. And what did you say the theatre is called again?” “The Discovery Theatre.” “Right. Did it ever occur to you that this is a children’s theater for children’s performers?” He insisted we stay, and I insisted he would look like a pedophile. So we visited several of the free museums in the area (this is really the only thing I like about DC), where security measures required that I open my suitcase at each metal detector and empty the contents. Now, remember, the contents included silk scarves and nothing but silk scarves, so I ended up looking like an undercover midget clown as I pulled scarf after scarf after scarf from my suitcase, breaking into a sweat, and rambling on about books and packing and diplomatic pouches.

Anyway, the two boxes of books made it to Lesotho before I did, and they served me well during my two years here. Unfortunately, the diplomatic pouch only works one way for packages and it was going to be tricky to get all these books to DRC for my next job. But book-lovers share a certain solidarity, and when a newly arrived American owner of 3,000 books (arriving in trickles as I type from her family’s last post in Addis Ababa) heard about my plight, she offered her husband’s generosity and spine to haul this particular collection back to the US and ship them to my parents.

So that’s one pile taken care of. By like I said, I accumulate books. Some were sent in care packages or brought by visitors, but I bought a lot as well. Used bookstores anywhere get me excited. But used bookstores in South Africa, in light of the dearth of books in Lesotho get me particularly excited. When I run out of used books to read, I take them to the monthly book swap and trade. I first went with Ron, my former neighbor/colleague. The book swap used to be held right behind the school, so we worked late, ate pizza across the street and got drenched in a downpour on the five-minute walk to the swap. I was freezing and miserable by the time we got there, and said, “Ron, I can’t stay if I can’t at least take my pants off.” He looked at me dubiously. I told him not to worry, that my top was actually meant as a dress and once I had removed half my clothing I felt a lot better though still soaked. Ron and I had pooled our books and agreed to share the traded-for set. So while we dripped puddles underfoot, we prowled around the table, consulted each other, made piles and finally agreed on the new titles, while the other attendees sipped wine and chatted and looked at us like we were totally nuts. Apparently the book swap is a sort of social affair but don’t try to explain that to two book-starved teachers who love to read.

I became a regular attendee of the book swap, but Ron and I did not repeat the strategy because 1. we have absolute opposite tastes in books and 2. it is really laid back and no one keeps track of how much your leaving behind and how much you are taken. It’s rather karmic really. They just assume all the books will eventually come back to the swap (little do they know, when I find one I love, and keep it and unload a poorly chosen bookstore purchase instead). So these days, I choose my books, eat some soup and discuss the pros and cons of kindles and Stephanie Meyers books (I can’t bring myself to become familiar with either) with the other readers.
When another neighbor had to leave Lesotho urgently and for good, she left all her books to me. She said, “You can trade them at the book swap. Who knows, you might even like them.” I tried to read some of them. I really did. But with titles like Cherry Cheesecake Murder and Apocaliptick, multiple books by Janet Evanovich, and bafflingly, Crime and Punishment. I just couldn’t get past the first few pages. And, call me a snob, but I was really embarrassed to bring them to the swap in case anyone thought that I would actually choose to own such things. So I would bring one book at a time, hidden between John Irving novels and Bill Bryson travel diaries. It took me half a year, but I’ve traded them all. Some people were surprised to see me still accumulating books at the April swap when I had less than two months in Lesotho. Little to they know, I’m not going to miss the May one. I’ll only have three weeks to go by then, but I need something for the plane ride.