On Being Thankful, and Then a Little Less Thankful

This was my first African Thanksgiving. I don’t count last year, because I did nothing remotely Thanksgiving-y. No orange vegetables or pie or Turkey Trot or seeing people you haven’t seen in a while or a parade of any sort. This year, I was invited to a small dinner at the U.S. ambassador’s house: he and his wife, their daughter (my colleague), the ambassador’s brother (who happens to be the ambassador to Botswana), his wife, and two single diplomats.
I had my first feast of the day at a café over the border with the school librarian and her family (including her niece, my former student). I had a huge glass of a fuchsia berry juice and a delicious breakfast of warm bread and good-smelling things and green things and then the five of us crowded around a fat slice of chocolate truffle cake. I bought my own loaf of bread on the way out the door, which I tore off chunks of throughout the afternoon, while baking a sugar-dusted nectarine tart and goopy brownies (spraying powdered sugar and liquid chocolate on shirts I changed in quick succession after ruining for the night, three in total).

I was unprepared how very weird it is to have Thanksgiving with someone else’s family. No matter how wonderful they are, everything they do just seems wrong. (What is this cranberry sauce that appears to contain actual whole cranberries? Why isn't it a gelatinous cylinder that maintans this perfect shape after sliding out of the can? Where are all the noisy children and sullen teenagers and uncles who drop things and old ladies who down handfuls fo pills with sparkling grape juice? How can you have a white tablecloth? You should settle for a more practical and pessimestic burgundy to anticipate red wine spills. Why isn't anyone fighting? And where is my dad's yams with technicolor marshamallows depicting pilgrim scenes and my mom's laugh rattling the dishes in the china closet? It was wonderful, but not the same as being home.

The post-meal food coma was at least the same.  I had a nice refresher at the bathroom sink though, when I turned on the faucet, and unprepared for the splendid water pressure at diplomatic residences, thoroughly doused my chest. The water splotches were so dramatic that when I arrived back at the table I felt compelled to interrupt the conversation and explain my appearance, which was quickly one-upped by an embassy security person enthralling us with tales of assisting autopsies, being bombed, her new taser and vivid descriptions of executions. Direct Thanksgiving Table Quote: “What you couldn’t see on the televised version was that they actually shot him before they beheaded him. So, like, he was already dead when they started to cut the head off. And that gurgling sound you could hear--”

She was cut-off at this point by a more weak-stomached dinner guest and the topic of conversation changed abruptly (to gallstones, if you’re interested), much like I’m going to do right now.

I spent the majority of the next three days in the Chinese internet café. I had planned to hole myself up in my classroom for the break, to tackle pages of to-do lists full of stressful entries, things related to grad school, licensure, jobs, and words like transcript, Praxis, International Baccalaureate, Krakow and Kampala were crashing around in my head, when I realized the entire school had no internet.

And so, I ambled to the internet café, stopping en route to purchase some chocolate. I am not a fan of this establishment, namely because of the hostility of everyone working there. Secondly, I don’t like how the computers put weird things on my flash drive. Don’t ask me what these things are. And if you know, please don’t tell me. Thirdly, I don’t like paying for things that come free with my job; they can’t give us health care, but they sure don’t mind if we want to work weekends! I don’t even like computers to begin with and I especially don’t like a room full of them and stressed out people tapping away on them.

Day two I was there, a Mosotho couple was seated at the monitor next to me. Their baby was at another computer nearby, sliding a mouse back and forth across the table, hypnotizing herself with the psychedelic swirls the cursor made across the Facebook homepage. Her parents were doing something else, or not doing something else, much to their frustration. They called over one of the men who works there and the following conversation, which eventually escalated to shouting ensued.

Computer Confused Man: Can you help me [fill in the blank, I sort of missed this part].
Man Who Works in the Internet Cafe: No, you should know how to use a computer.
Computer Confused Man: Yeah, but can you please show me how to [fill in the blank]
Man Who Works in the Internet Cafe: No I’m busy!
Computer Confused Man: You are too busy to run your business?!
Man Who Works in the Internet Cafe: IT’S NOT MY JOB TO HELP YOU!!!

Computer Confused Man’s wife started begging the guy to help her husband, which he eventually conceded to do with a great deal of audible sighing and banging on the keyboard and mouse.

At least my eavesdropping prepared me for a quieter but equally unhelpful experience I was about to have.

Me: What are your hours tomorrow?
Girl at the Desk: Today or yesterday?
Me: No, tomorrow.
Girl at the Desk: TO-DAY or YES-TER-DAY?
Me: Um . . .
Girl at the Desk: Today?
Me: No.
Girl at the Desk: Yesterday?
Me: Sure.
[A long conversation in Chinese ensues between Girl at the Desk and another woman across the room].
Girl at the Desk: 8-6:30.
Me: Great, thanks.

I arrived the next day shortly after noon and asked for two hours on a computer.

Different Girl at the Desk: No.
Me: . . .
Different Girl at the Desk: We close at 1:00. You can have 45 minutes.
Me: [arrrrrrgggggggg]

So the Girl at the Desk really was telling me the hours for the day before, but I didn’t think she could possibly believe that someone would actually ask, “What are your hours yesterday?”

Back at work now, where the internet is obviously working again.

A Few Pictures

Sean, age 3, hands this drawing to me and says, “Here is a crocodile opening its mouth and eating you. You are in the picture and those are little red dots of your blood.”

A couple weeks ago, the school librarian asked me to design a display stand and storage container for the Big Books (you know, those massive picture books meant to be read to read to a large class of antsy little ones). For the display stand, I suggested an easel that can be folded flat when not in use. I found the request to design the storage container a little puzzling though. It should really be just a big box, and so long as the builder knows the size of the biggest book, and how many we have/intend to have, I didn’t think I could offer any special insight in terms of design. I explained this, but the librarian and the builder both insisted that I make a sketch. I drew what I thought indicated a box with an open top, with dimensions that enable it to hold the books standing upright. (See drawing).

However, the builder interpreted the diagonal lines of my attempt at perspective as a request for a crooked box. And blatantly ignoring the written label, he understood the indication that the books stand upright inside the box as a request for a plank of wood serving no function whatsoever nailed to the bottom of the box. (See photo).

It's the Time of Year For. . .

...Spring? Over the past couple of months, pouring rains have rinsed the dusty city revealing a brighter, greener place. Gardens flourished (my assistant teacher asked me if I wanted some spinach from her yard and when I answered in the affirmative, delivered it to me in a bag so enormous it was like being handed a sack of trash) and were then ruined by the hail that followed. The hail stripped the evergreen trees of their needles and for once, the school campus, which never seems to get green no matter how much it rains, appeared to have a lawn. For days, the gardeners did nothing but collect these clumps of needles in their wheelbarrows, slowly restoring the natural beige and removing the intoxicating smell of wet pine. There were several thunderstorms, so rhythmic they lulled me to sleep, and a few that had me jumping out of my skin in accordance with my relatively new fear of lightening (getting struck by lightening is more common in Lesotho than in most places and my neighbor can attest to this fact from personal experience). Then we had a string of several breezy, sun burnt days, the kind of days that are perfect for hanging laundry to dry. I had my classroom heaters put in storage yesterday, and replaced with a fan just in time for cold, gray rains. In complete denial, I braved the day with no jacket and no umbrella and then, for the second time as of late, ended up having to go to the library to strip and lay my clothes out to dry. (I use the library for this purpose because it is really the only place on campus without generous windows and because the librarian doesn’t get startled when I say, “Can I take my pants off in here?”)

The other good thing about the hail stripping leaves of their foliage is that it restored the line of sight to my far off classroom and I got internet again!

Nice green campus. . .

…Harvesting stone fruits. Subsequently, the Cherry Festival (just a little ways over the border into South Africa) is taking place this weekend. It’s really just a mediocre fair in what is probably the dullest part of the country, and my determination to attend despite these facts is a true testament to the fact that I have been in Lesotho too long. My equally determined colleague agrees and our attempts to remain excited border on pathetic. She’ll say something about the food being good, and I’ll say, “yeah, if you don’t mind what it tastes like so long as it’s served on a stick.” Then I’ll say something about the quality of the crafts and she’ll call it boardwalk junk. Then I’ll mention two stands out of one hundred that had nice crafts (which I only remember because I bought things at them) before conceding that even those weren’t that nice. “Pony rides?” I’ll say, helpfully. “Cherry liquor?” she’ll reply in the same tone.

...Thanksgiving. This same teacher invited me to celebrate Thanksgiving with her family. I asked if they go around the table and make everyone say what they’re thankful for. She confirmed that they do not participate in this awkward ritual so I agreed to come bearing a stone fruit inspired dessert. Last year at this time when I was constantly stir-crazy, I had planned a long weekend at the beach for the Thanksgiving break. What should have been a five-hour ride on public transportation became a 36 hour string of zigzagging rides on public transportation to four different towns. In three of them, as I walked around, cars pulled up alongside me and two Afrikaaner and one Indian driver told me to get inside and that I was crazy to walk around. In one of these towns I ended up having to stay overnight, and my hotel room had accidentally been double-booked for a play pump-building (www.onedifference.org/water/projects/playpumps) South African who gave me quite a shock when he appeared in the doorway. I think I’m ready for a calmer, less mobile holiday this year.

…A new cohort of Peace Corps volunteers descends on the capital. This matters only to me as an elementary school friend I have not seen in more than a decade is among the freshly arrived. As you know, Peace Corps gave me a hard time about meeting up with her at first, but finally a friend in the office took pity on me and gave me a detailed list of instructions on how to find her. I have never before in Africa entered a roomful of white people and have them all turn around and stare. They had been locked up in the training center for five days and were seriously lacking contact with the outside world. We had a brief but joyous reunion that mostly consisted of us taking turns saying, “this is soooo crazy!” She was even more disoriented than I with the jet lag, culture shock and general confusion that results from newly moving overseas. A crowd of volunteers surrounded me and attempted to pump me for information about Lesotho but I kept my mouth shut, one of the conditions of being allowed to infiltrate the training session.

…Parent-Teacher Conferences. I have five hours to talk about 20 children with no breaks in between. And what do we talk about? Well, I am slightly concerned about the way one only child is approaching the impending birth of his first sibling, whom he has named named Spritzel (Spritzy for short) while in utero, and wants to christen Dino Ghost after birth. There is another parent who I can show no samples of student work (drawings, paintings, etc) except every available surface of the classroom that Refiloe took the liberty to scribble on. Then there is Isabella, with the most endearing quality of being attracted to expensive and/or dangerous appliances like a moth to a flame, until her curiosity was somewhat curbed recently when she peered at the book scanner in the library and accidentally scanned her own eyeball. I’m looking forward to a pounding headache and a parched throat by Wednesday evening. A far more experienced teacher than I told me that if parents ask an uncomfortable question about my teaching methods, I should tell them they should believe half of what their children say about school and I will believe half of what their children tell me about them!

I'll be thinking about all you far away people on Thursday. Watch out for the tofurkey. . .

Biological Warfare in Early Childhood Education

Oh, Sean. My little friend. Bright and bright-eyed with the personality of a puppy dog. He's like my shadow, but closer, more like an enormous tumor on my hip. I usuall don't mind it, because he's a pleasant little tumor. He is often found wrapped around my leg, or trailing so close behind me that it's become a game that I stop short and he crashes into me.

This week, though, I am on playground duty. And it's hard enough to keep 50-something kids between the ages of three and six from breaking their limbs on mokey bars, slides and swings, skipping around the parking lot, and stealthily sneaking into the tetanus emporium (drill bit, chainsaw and rusty nail-infested tool shed), without having 35 extra pounds pasted on one side of my body.

Sean is also developing a bit of a bossy streak, not to mention very particular needs (the same spot to sit in every day on the rug, total control of the windows of the playhouse, and all of me all the time) that result in copious tears if they are not met.

So yesterday I told Sean what I tell the kids to say to each other if someone is getting too close to them: "I need some space." I told him he should go play so I can watch allllll of the children (not just you) and keep eeeeeeeeeeeeverybody safe (not just you). He wasn't particularly pleased with my assessment of the situation, but he did go off to play. To the playhouse in fact, where he wrestled another child away from the window and started swinging it open and closed.

Tactic #1: Negative attention seeking behavior. And I totally fell for it. Now I had to go over and remind him that we don't shove people out of the way to get something that we want, that the window is for allllllll the children (not just you), and to please stop swinging the window before it hits someone.

Tactic #2: Negative attention seeking behavior AND defiance. He gave the window one last shove and it swung back and hit him in the temple. He was a little stunned but not hurt. "I told you so" would have been an unneccesary yet personally satisfying response, but I refrained and turned back to the rest of the playground.

Tactic #3: Copious tears. I ignored.

Tactic #4: Biological warfare. Now he was really mad. He stomped around to the other side of the playhouse, squatted and burried his tear-streaked face in his hands, and defecated at me. Yes, at me. (And no, not on me). If he knew any derogatory gestures, or the phrase "f*** you," I'm sure he would have employed those, but he's three, and his weapons are pretty much limited to 1) biting and 2) pooping in pants.

The former would not have been funny at all, since last year when a child bit the assistant teacher, her arm swelled up and the school nurse sent her for a tetanus shot. The latter was only funny (in it's own disturbing way) because I was on playground duty, therefore, someone else had to go clean him up.

AND Sean just skipped into the room, smiling, gave me a big hug. The bell has't rung yet, so he's gone out to the playground where I hope he won't express any emotions in the form of bodily functions.

The Kid Who Did Nothing With Blocks Except Throw Them at Other Children and Dump Them On the Floor for Two Months Makes the Taj Mahal

Seriously. The first few weeks this child was in my class, I would dazedly stumble into the principal's office, croak out the child's name while throwing my hands in the air, and return to class in a disoriented blur. There was no way to describe what this child was doing that wouldn't end with the words, "and I quit." Refiloe drank paint, threw stuff at me, threw himself on other children, scribbled on every available surface in the room, dumped out the contents of any box, basket or bucket he could find, tore pages out of books one by one. And he did all of these things non-stop. Cleaning up after him was a full-time job and he wrecked my room with a peculiar disinterest in the fantastic messes he was making. The principal once observed Refiloe rip the alphabet from the wall. He apologetically handed me a mangled letter and said, "He didn't mean to tear your W, but he did mean to steal it."

In the beginning, I would actually dream about this child, and wake up soaked in sweat. I started working with him one-on-one, mainly with language, and while he became less disruptive, to a point, he didn't do much of anything with purpose and seemed to be getting very little out of his time here. And then today, out of nowhere, he looked at the pictures of the famous architecture I laminate and post near the blocks, and methodically, intentionally, constructed the Taj Mahal. (It was even more elaborate than the pictures suggest, but I had to crop some of the building out since I avoid posting the child himself). Today, I practically skipped to the principal's office, cried, "Refiloe!" and dragged him to the room for once showing him something that wasn't an utter disaster. Later today, Refiloe jumped on a sand toy and broke it in half, tore apart the reading area while I read Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse, and drank the backwash out of everyone's water cup, but baby steps, baby steps.

The World: How Facebook Made it Smaller and How Peace Corps Made it Bigger Again

When I was in third grade, a girl, hereafter to be known as Long Lost Friend (LLF)* moved to my hometown. She joined my third grade class and we quickly became friends. I remember her lighting the menorah at my house on Chanukah, and joining her as an angel in the Christmas pageant at her Methodist church. I swam in the pool in her backyard, and she came to my dance recitals. Her mom taught me how to decoupage (an embarrassingly formative moment of my life). When we were in fourth grade, we went to the public library together to gather research for the report and diorama about the animal of your choice project. She chose a panda bear and I chose a koala. The research session was cut short by my becoming suddenly ill, and later that evening she dropped off a get-well card at my house. On the front was a koala bear hugging a eucalyptus tree. The message printed inside read, “Sorry you’re feeling ‘down under.’” Maybe I even still have it somewhere.
I also remember when at the end of fourth grade, she called me crying, to tell me that she was moving. I for some reason know that she was sitting on her father’s lap when she made this phone call, but have no idea of how I came to have this knowledge. I have a photo somewhere of the two of us with my sister hanging onto the back of the moving truck, and there is an identical photo of both of our brothers.

That was fifteen years ago. Soon after she moved, we saw each other a few times, but the most memorable part of these visits was the time her grandparents attempted to drive me across the border to Canada (she was living in Toronto then). I had no passport then, just a hand-scribbled note from my mom asking the patrol to allow her daughter to cross an international border with Mr. and Mrs. X. The guards were not impressed, but let me through anyway after giving us the requisite hard time. LLF eventually moved from Canada back to the states, and I think I saw her once in Massachusetts. After that, we lost touch for more than ten years.

A month or so ago, I received nearly identical e-mails from my brother and sister in quick succession (both more social networking on the internet savvy than I) alerting me to LLF’s Facebook status. Apparently, she joined the Peace Corps, was assigned of all places to Lesotho, and had enthusiastically posted this information on her profile. I immediately tried to contact her and subsequently, we sent a few exclamation point-riddled emails back and forth. She said in one that she had chills. So did I. She of course had some questions about Lesotho. I unfortunately did not have many answers; most were along the lines of “wait and see and enjoy being challenged and surprised.” And of course, we made tentative plans to find each other when she touched down in the mountain kingdom.

This did not seem like it would be difficult. She would actually be staying down the street from my work for a little while. Even while attending the same elementary school, we did not live in such close proximity. We will practically be in shouting range of each other, and certainly close enough to meet up. In my mind, this grand reunion takes approximately five minutes. Why? Because I can’t just leave 21 preschoolers to go play with my friend, and I am sure her training schedule is packed. But five minutes with someone you haven’t seen in more than a decade, half way around the world from where you met, in a country most people have never heard of, promises to be a pretty amazing five minutes. (Of course, I imagine the first five minutes will lead to other and longer meetings after she settles in to her more permanent placement on a mountaintop somewhere). I started thinking about how these sorts of unbelievable coincidences must happen all the time, and if it was not for Facebook, how few we would know about! Everything seemed perfect and perfectly easy.

Then Peace Corps heard about the intended reunion, and in a display of stunning paranoia informed me that LLF and I are not allowed to see each other until she swears in, early next year, and becomes an official volunteer. Apparently, trainees may not make any “trips.” Apparently, walking down the street qualifies as a trip, as trainees may not step foot out of the training center during their stay in the capital, except on the supervised and bussed trip to Shop-rite (also around the corner). I have also been told to not attempt to stop by where she is staying. Why? Peace Corps trainees may only have contact with Peace Corps employees and selected volunteers and trainers. I was told, bluntly, that were I to see LLF, I am liable to give her wrong and/or prejudiced information about Lesotho!

Wouldn’t want that. Too bad about Google, Wikipedia and the blogs of disgruntled PC volunteers and expats (this one included) that LLF is probably obsessively searching for information, any at all, about her home for the next two years. Too bad about Facebook where I can discover a long-lost friend is headed to Lesotho, and within seconds can give her all the wrong and prejudiced information I want about Lesotho.

Yeah, I could do that in person too, but mostly, I just want to see her face, so that when I run into her on the street, I know that it’s her I’m running into. But now two buildings on the same street seem no different than two buildings on different continents, though thoughts of a furtive encounter in the frozen foods aisl of Shop-rite seems an appealing option. Meet you at the fish fingers, LLF.

*I don’t want to use her real name, or a real-sounding fake name, because although I think my blog is fairly difficult to find without the address, I don’t want to get her (or someone with her pseudonym) into trouble with Peace Corps. BUT if you’re curious who this mysterious ex ‘field-dweller is, particularly Tamaques grads, shoot me a line. If you guess it, you definitely win something.

(And in my own display of paranoia- it is my heritage after all- after noticing that my blog is getting significantly more hits than usual, since I am writing so often about work, I've tried to more or less remove my name from the postings, though again, the blog does not come up on Google or anything like that.)

How I Came to Africa and Became a 16 year-old Chinese Muslim

If you’re pale and go to Africa, you have to get used to being addressed as White Person. Or obrunni. Or mzungu. Mulungu. Toubab. This is sometimes followed by a list of countries. England? Australia? You come from Germany? America, ah! Go Obama! I was often called “ama” (mother) in Malawi, “sistah” in Ghana or by one man, “small small American” (the additional “small” replacing the word “very” in Ghanaian English vernacular).

Here in Lesotho, I should be Lekhooa. Though I find Ausi (sister) or ‘Me, (mama) or even banana or nana (little girl and baby respectively) preferable to being called by a color, for every one time I hear “Lekhooa,” I get about ten “Machinas.”

Machina, if it is not obvious to you, means Chinese person. I must have been called Machina for months before I realized it. In May, when my Sesotho was at its most competent, while running in the morning, I heard clear as a bell, “Ha uena, Machina” (“Hey you, Chinese person”). I stopped in my tracks turned back to the two men who had passed me and said, “Are you blind?!” They laughed and said, “Oh!” and my neighbors and I had a good laugh about it on the way to school.

But since then, I started noticing that I was being referred to as Chinese in various ways at least two or three times a week. As I said, more often than being called “Lekhooa,” I am addressed as Machina, Chinese, Chinesey and Mao Tse Tung by Basotho of all ages from toddler to the elderly and seemingly of a variety of social classes. I am often greeted on the street with a “Nia hao” (hello in Mandarin). On more than one occasion, I have been taunted with streams of fake Chinese (including once by a group of students in the uniform of a prestigious international secondary school). At the bank, the teller once stared at me dumbfounded when I told him I wanted to make a deposit. After an awkwardly long pause, he came to, and said, “Sorry, I was just surprised you are speaking English because you look so Chinese.” (Where to start? “There are Chinese people in America?” “There are Chinese people who speak English?” “You were a moron to think that in the first place, and an even bigger moron to say it aloud?” “Shut up and process my damn deposit before I scream?”)

Oh, by the way, in general, I think it is fair to say that the Basotho hate the Chinese. The Chinese own successful businesses, not just in Maseru, but seemingly in every small village and town in the country. They own the textile factories, which along with mining provide more jobs to Basotho than any other profession. The main complaint of Basotho people is that the Chinese steal business away from the locals. One of my dearest colleagues also informed me “they keep dirty houses.” Needless to say, it’s not nice to be associated with a group that attracts so much animosity (more bluntly, it’s not nice to be hated), and arguing that I’m not Chinese in some ways seems like a tacit agreement that “Chinese” is indeed something to be ashamed of.

Also, by the way, in case it’s been so long since you’ve seen me that you forgot what I look like, I have pinkish skin, herbal tea-colored hair (no milk) and eyes wide and round enough to suggest a thyroid disorder. And whether it is right or wrong, accurate or not, un-PC and racist, I associate none of these features with those of Chinese people. I’ve started surveying people of various ethnicities and nationalities (American, Indian, New Zealander, Zambian, Italian), as well as Basotho with varying degrees of education to ask them what the heck is so Chinese about me. Most of them act completely shocked and only one Mosotho finally conceded with, “Do you have a Chinese grandmother?” This suggests that most Basotho do not think I’m Chinese, but those that do feel compelled to remind me of it. Most agreed that my height (five feet) could be a contributing factor. Round face made sense enough. Some Basotho said it was probably my hair style and glasses. I didn’t think that the haphazard arrangement hanging down from my scalp counts as a “style,” and moreover, whether I’m wearing glasses or contacts, or have my hair in a bun, tied back, braided or hanging loose, seems to have no bearing on my presumed racial/national identity of the day.

When I told my boss about this phenomenon he said incredulously, “You’re definitely a WASP.” Well he got the W right (despite what the Basotho think). Being a Jew in Lesotho has it’s own set of complications. I have yet to meet a Basotho who isn’t Christian and when you befriend one, it isn’t long before they invite you to their Mormon, Pentacostal, revivalist or non-denominational Christian church. The following is a compilation of various conversations that then ensue.

Me: No thank you, I’m not a Christian.
Christian: You don’t like Christians?
Me: No, I just happen to not be one, and churches are for Christians.
Christian: Are you a Muslim?
Me: No, I’m a Jew.
Christian: Oh. Is that some kind of Muslim?
Me: No.
Christian: So what do you do?
Me: You don’t know what Jews are? You know, the people who live in Israel that aren’t Muslims? They follow only the old testament of the bible? Jesus was a Jew?
Christian: Jesus! So Jews believe in Jesus!
Me: Nope.
Christian: Why?
Me: Because they don’t. Christians believe it, Jews don’t. That’s why they are two different religions.
Christian: But I don’t understand. Jesus was a Jew. And he’s for Christians. But you are not a Christian?
Me: Correct.
Christian: And you still don’t like Jesus?
Me: It’s not that I don’t like him. But if I have to be any religion, I’m going to go with the one I was born with, and in that religion, Jesus is not prophet or the son of god any more than anyone else is a child of god, just a nice guy who liked to build stuff.
Christian: But you accept Him as your personal savior, right?
Me: I accept that you believe He is your personal savior.
[awkward pause]
Christian: So you go to the mosque?

One of my colleagues is a praying machine. She prayed that my class would settle down, she prays that I will find a husband, she hasn’t admitted it but I’m pretty sure she prays I’ll convert or at the very least not end up in hell, and once she told me, “I will pray that you never leave Lesotho. I will pray even though you don’t believe in god.” I replied that I never said I don’t believe in god, only that I don’t believe in Jesus. The Fijian-British librarian overhearing the conversation thought this was a hilarious statement, so I once again patiently explained this apparent irony, meanwhile wanting to scream that I did not ask to be the spokesperson of the Jewish people, and if they could know the most basic information about world religious, I could go back to being a heathen instead of disgruntled Hebrew school teacher.

On only one occasion did the church invitation end up going down a different road. When I told the Ugandan kindergarten teacher that I don’t go to church because I’m Jewish, she told me, “I see. Yes, we have Jews in Uganda.” I almost kissed her for saving me from a mind-numbing conversation about why Jews don’t believe in Jesus and are also not Muslims. Hoping she could offer some insight on my prior conversations, I asked her how the Basotho could know nothing about Jews, especially when there are Jews in South Africa. She said simply and disappointingly, “Because Basotho are ignorant and small-minded.” So much for insight.

So apparently tolerance (see Chinese example) and world religions are not taught in schools, and I should know, because apparently I’m sweet sixteen (with a massive case of deja vous). Although I got stopped a couple of times in the NYC Port Authority by police thinking I’m a runaway teen, and my driver’s license got mercilessly scrutinized in the doorways of bars, my birthdays have never been sliced off so dramatically as they are in South Africa and Lesotho. If I mention the word “school,” people ask what grade I’m in. Other expats ask what my parents do (as in, which NGO or embassy or mission do they work for and why have they let me out at night alone). Teenage girls looking for cleaning jobs knock on my door and ask if my father is home, high school boys hit on me, middle school boys hit on me, fourteen year old girls link their arms in mine and want to be my friend. And the first time we met, at least one colleague and one parent thought I was a student, not a teacher (and the school only goes up to eighth grade)! When people find out my age, or ask me, and I make them guess, 16 is the most popular answer, followed closely by 15.

While WWOOFing on the farm of a woman with two teenage sons in July, we met their friends for a picnic in the forest. Chatting with the 10 year-old son of the other family, he was surprised to hear me mention teaching. He looked slightly disturbed and asked how old I was. When I said 24 his eyes widened further and he said, “But how can you be Matt’s girlfriend?” Unbeknownst to me, the matriarch of the family friends informed her kids that I must be Matt’s (the sixteen year old son of the farmer) girlfriend. When I had finished choking on the last of my laughter-induced tears. Both mothers conversed rapidly about my young looking skin and wondered if it was an American thing. Matt guessed South Africans have more stress than Americans which contributes to aging, although I thought the sun was the likelier aging culprit on the South African side of things. But what do I know? I’m just a teenager who can’t speak English and has a one-way ticket to hell.