News, Escapades, Snowstorms

Whew, time has started to fly. To sum up the last few weeks:

• I got a job! I’ll be teaching at a charter school based on a Great Books curriculum in Colorado Springs. So excited to be moving back to Colorado. The downside is that I will be leaving TTL a month early, i.e. almost exactly one month from now. Suddenly the year seems to be racing towards an end, making me want to soak up every moment of these last days in Lesotho.
• Reid and I celebrated our one-year anniversary. Speaking of the strange nature of time! As we told each other early on, after moving to Lesotho being married quickly became the least noteworthy thing about our lives, and the novelty of being newlyweds was thus much less intense than it would have probably been if we had been going about our American lives. So interesting to look back on this year and all the changes and developments that have occurred in our life and relationship. We spent a weekend in Clarens (which turned out to be a nice long weekend because we got snowed out of Mokhotlong) to celebrate, and had a lovely time. Very thankful that it has been such a great year for us and for our marriage. Plus—oh the glory—Clarens had a bookstore.

In my natural habitat

• Reid, Will, Ellen, Neo (Nthabeleng’s 14-year old son), and I went to Bloemfontein for the Confederation Cup, a kind of warm up to the World Cup. We saw Spain play South Africa, and people were suitably amped up. Let me introduce you to the vuvusela:

Neo Tooting his Little Heart Out

This is a much-loved plastic horn rampant at African sporting events. Neo was our group’s vuvusela-ist, and did a bang up job. Apparently the American and European teams complained because the noise was distracting. I can see their point, but the constant trumpeting really lends itself to a festive atmosphere. Plans for World Cup 2010 travel are currently underway…

• We picked up Lauren and Eric in Maseru and spent another unintentionally long (more snow) weekend away from TTL.

Reid Helping the Lesotho Defense Force Push Through the Snow

Usually our trips to Maseru are strictly business, so it was actually nice to have an extra day to walk around the market, eat good Indian food, and enjoy the heating in our hotel room. Also so excited to have Lauren and Eric here! They have already made friends with the babies, sung in a church choir, and generally endeared themselves to the citizens of Mokhotlong.

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So now just settling in for the next four weeks in Mokhotlong, hopefully spent tying up any loose ends with work, holding some babies, and relishing the pace of life and the community that we have built here. I promise more frequent updates to follow—there are nine babies in the safehome right now, and they all deserve some love.

Update on Tsepang

Sometimes, all you need is pictures....

Staff Profile: Nthabeleng Lephoto

This post by Reid

This is the first entry in what we hope to make an occasional feature of this blog: the staff profile. For the most part, this blog chronicles our perspectives and experiences as Americans working and living in Lesotho. But we are just temporary fixtures here at TTL. The real work is carried out by the remarkable staff, a group of 30 Basotho men and women who are on the front lines of TTL’s mission. These are the folks who change the diapers, feed the kids, drive the cars, visit kid’s on outreach, and counsel pregnant women in villages. They are also our friends and colleagues – the people who welcomed us as temporary residents of Mokhotlong, wave at us when we conspicuously walk down the street, and provide us with explanations when we are clueless. They are leading TTL to confront the challenges in their own community, and doing one hell of a job.

It seems only appropriate that the first staff profile on this blog should be of Nthabeleng Lephoto, who is the managing director, lifeblood, and spirit of TTL. Her life-story would make for a compelling triple-decker novel, an African rags-to-riches story that Horatio Alger couldn’t have dreamt up. But until Bridget gets a book deal, a blog post will have to do. So here we go…

Vital Stats

Name: Nthabeleng Lephoto
Position: Managing Director
Nationality: Mosotho
Age: 38
Height: 4’9 (this is not a joke)
Vertical: 13 feet (this is)
Family: Nthabeleng is a single-mother of 2. Her son, Neo, is 14 and her daughter, Retselisetsoe, is 6.

Player Profile

Nthabeleng is the prime-mover behind TTL. As managing director, she oversees all aspects of the organization and is responsible for everything from interfacing with international donors in Maseru to making medical decisions for children under our care. She supervises the entire staff of 30, makes sure all the i's are dotted and the t’s are crossed in our accounting system, and is also a great dancer.

But Nthabeleng’s most impressive characteristic is her deep commitment to the children in TTL’s care. Managing an organization like TTL, she faces pain, tragedy, and life-or-death decisions nearly every day. And while she handles these situations with the steadiness and aplomb of a pro, you always know that she still feels deeply for each child. She manages to resist numbness in an environment that is numbing. All of TTL’s kids benefit because of this.

Nthabeleng’s compassion and commitment to each kid have especially benefited her daughter, Retselisitsoe. Retselisitsoe was one of the first kids that TTL ever cared for, arriving at TTL just a few months old after surviving a harrowing first few months of life. When it became clear that there was no one to take care of Retselisitsoe, Nthabeleng adopted her and has cared for her over the last 6 years as her own.

If her compassion and commitment are her most defining traits, her leadership skills are no less impressive. Nthabeleng manages people like she was born to do it. When she speaks, the staff listens. When she needs something done, it gets done. She doesn’t need a MBA, because she’s a NBA: natural bad @$$.





Bonus material: For a considerably funnier, but no less true account of Nthabeleng, check out what our friend Will wrote about Nthabeleng on his blog: http://williamtmcgrath.wordpress.com/2008/11/30/the-graduation-of-retselisitsoe-moeletsi/

The Beautiful Songs of Rural Lesotho

This is ultimately a story about diarrhea and adult education, but no need to squirm if you are squeamish. It is a pleasant story about diarrhea if such a thing exists. To begin, however, we must turn to that other fundamental human activity: music.

Music in Lesotho is a vibrant part of the culture, embedded in the daily routine of life and omnipresent in the shops and public transportation throughout town. Some of this music takes the form of absurdly loud Famo, music built around shrill accordion melodies and pounding bass lines and inevitably played through expensive-looking and terrible-sounding public address systems. (Our neighbor is particularly fond of this type of music, especially between the hours of 9 pm and 5 am on any given night.) In addition to the ubiquitous Famo, however, Lesotho also abounds with lovely songs that make an appearance at any gathering of people. These songs sound like a combination of Gregorian chant and spiritual hymnals and induce feelings of tranquility and spirituality. I always imagine that these are the “Amazing Graces” and “We Shall Overcomes” of the Basotho, and I am impressed by the interwoven harmonies and seemingly complex patterns of call and response. They are known by men, women, and children, and everyone is expected to dance and sing along once they begin.

Each month, we conduct trainings for a group of Village Health workers on various health issues and I am treated to at least 3 or 4 of these songs. The Village Health workers are a lively bunch of women between the ages of 40 and 150 (no joking, one woman looks like she might have been alive when Lincoln was president) and the sense of camaraderie during the training sessions is always high. Any downtime during the training sessions - whether to wait for late arrivals or to excuse the moderator while she uses the restroom – is filled with songs. One woman will start singing and others will quickly join. Within minutes the whole room of 42 women is standing, singing, and dancing. I usually smile and clap along during the songs, oblivious to the meaning of the lyrics, but enjoying the tunes. Occasionally, I will make a small gesture towards dancing and am greeted by big smiles and laughter: “Look, the mekhooa is dancing!”

Last month was the fifth training we have held for these women, so I was not surprised at all when I heard the familiar songs begin. But moved by an unusual curiosity this day, I asked Matello for a translation of what they were singing, expecting something along the lines of “God is great”. But here is what they were actually singing:

Let us build the toilets

And Wash the Hands

To prevent the diarrhea

On the word diarrhea, they held their hands behind their butts and wiggled their fingers. A clearly brilliant move destined to be used in charades some day if anyone is ever bold enough to include the word diarrhea in the title of their work of art. Witnessing the spectacle of 42 grown - even elderly - women singing a solemn hymn to the anti-diarrhea cause while making a borderline lewd gesture, I couldn’t stop laughing. Life in Lesotho can be too strange sometimes.

With my curiosity now piqued, I listened closely as they started in on another song. Maybe all of their songs are that absurd, I thought. I pictured the many hours I sat listening to these hymns and realized I had been missing out all along. So I asked what this new song was about. “It is not that funny,” Matello informed me. Still, I wanted a translation:

Adult Education is Interesting

We Have Been Telling You

Adult Education is Interesting

Yes, indeed. It is.

(This post by Reid)

Tsepang

In our first month here, I wrote about our fool’s errand to Thaba-Tseka—the Thaba Tseka car had run out of gas and we had to make the 6-hour round-trip drive to deliver a container of petrol. A few weeks ago, we were sent on a similar mission. Lesotho, pre-industrial as it sometimes seems, necessitates trekking halfway across the country to deliver paperwork. So Reid and I set off on a Friday morning to bring Thabang, the outreach worker in Thaba Tseka, a spreadsheet. I joked to Reid that now, with my second trip to the Thaba Tseka district, I would have spent a total of 5 minutes there. Still, it was a nice day, and an excuse to leave the office. The police were conducting a case that required them to interview someone in Thaba Tseka, so we gave them a ride as well. People are cooperative like that here.

We drove the winding dirt roads out to St. Theresa clinic to meet Thabang. A group of women were waiting outside the clinic when we arrived, most holding babies or watching small children. I noticed one woman with a bundled child, her face smeared with the white zinc that the Basotho sometimes use to protect their skin from the sun. She must have walked a long way, I thought.

We handed the form to Thabang, and then decided that he would come with us to show the police the village where they needed to go. We were climbing back into the Land Cruiser when a woman, the one I had noticed, approached the car. She exchanged a few words with Thabang, and as she did the blanket slipped slightly from the bundle she was carrying. I froze, a cold feeling coming over me—the one that goes up and down your spine when a mundane situation suddenly becomes precarious and important. Thabang turned to us, “This m’e has been waiting for me, I need to go talk with her.” He jumped out of the car. I turned to Reid, “We need to go with them. That baby was not ok.” I had caught a glimpse of a wizened little face, eyes wide and cheeks taut—not the face of a baby at all.

We all trooped in to Thabang’s office, and the m’e unwrapped the bundle. We learned that his name was Tsepang. He was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. His eyes stayed wide open and observant as we gazed down at his skeletal body. I could not (still cannot) comprehend how a seven-month old child could survive such wasting. We didn’t bother taking off all his clothes in the cold room to weigh him. It was too apparent that this was an emergency situation. With all of his clothes, he was 6.4 lbs.

Tsepang on arrival at the TTL.

The m’e who brought Tsepang in was a neighbor—someone who had apparently taken pity on this desperate orphan, whose mother had died a month before and whose grandmother was gravely ill. Thabang told her that we would be taking the baby to TTL in Mokhotlong, and showed her a picture of our brochure—the one that has pictures of Palesa, the TTL poster-child who came in as a skeleton and left with the nickname “Tank.” The neighbor smiled, and handed over Tsepang with obvious relief.

I held Tsepang on the way back to Mokhotlong. The police with us were almost awed by his appearance. After a few miles one spoke up, in the first English he had uttered all day, “I have never seen a baby like that. I would not think that was possible.”

We had made up a bottle of formula at the clinic and I fed Tsepang as we drove. He ate well, thankfully. He had been sucking on his thumbs since we had seen him, sucking with desperation, and when we pulled them out of his mouth he would scream. The thumbs were pruned, like they had just come out of the bath, and the skin had peeled away so that they were nearly white. After his first feeding, his eyes closed and the thumbs finally slipped out of his mouth. I was grateful for his rest, but spent the rest of the drive in bursts of panic, placing my pinkie under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

We emerged from the car back at TTL, and several outreach workers saw the baby. “Ache, Palesa,” they would say, comparing him with the baby everyone had previously thought of as the worst it could get. We heard this over and over, as the bo’m’e and staff discussed Tsepang in Sesotho—a mention of “Palesa.” I think in all of our minds we were reassuring ourselves that a child like this could survive. Palesa survived, and so could Tsepang. Living in Lesotho, you realize that things so often go the other way, and thus cling to examples of children surviving against the odds.

Thankfully, Tsepang is confirming our hopes. In his three weeks at TTL he has gained enough weight to be almost unrecognizable from the skeletal baby we first saw, and continues to eat well and show no other signs of ill-health. We are hoping that we can continue to update with good news of how this boy, fighter that he obviously is, progresses and grows.

After just two weeks at TTL, and with a pacifier in place of his thumbs.

Great! Success!

Dear Friends and Family –

Thank you so much for your generous response to the letter we sent in December. Your outpouring of support was truly overwhelming and the “challenge” we set forth was dwarfed by your response.

We are pleased to announce that as a group we raised over $22,000.00 for Touching Tiny Lives. You may recall that the original goal was to raise $10,000, so we more than doubled our goal!

Of course, this thank-you has been a few months in the making. Just like my parents who don’t take down their Christmas tree until May, we are just now sending this follow-up. But please understand: we had to hire a choreographer, find time for rehearsals, and coordinate a lot of schedules. It was quite a production.

As promised, however, Bridget and I have finally recorded a video to celebrate beating the goal, featuring both traditional Basotho dance moves and ululating, as well as a small snippet of the butt-dance. The dance was performed in a large ampitheatre (Nthabeleng’s living room) with a troupe of professional dancers (Nthabeleng’s family) See for yourself:



Once again, thank you all so much for your support and generosity. Please know that the money is being put to good use here at TTL.

Love,

Reid and Bridget

Credits:

Director – Nthabeleng Lephoto
Director of Choreography – Reid Rector

Lead Ululating – Bridget Rector
Rhythm Ululating – All
Miscellaneous Talking – Nthabeleng Lephoto

Director of Blanket Folding (Female) – Kokonyana Lephoto
Director of Blanket Folding (Male) – Motsoane Lephoto
Assistant Director of Head Scarves – Nthabeleng Lephoto

First Grip (Lighting) – Neo Lephoto
Second Grip (Lighting) – Tseli Lephoto
Catering Services – MPs Kitchen

Dancers, in order of appearance:
Reid Rector
Bridget Rector
Motsoane Lephoto
Neo Lephoto
Tsili Lephoto
Kokonyana Lephoto
Kefoue Sekhiba
Mothusi Sebehela
Kabelo Sebehela
Seitebatso Sebehela

30 Babies

A baby named Tseriletso arrived at the safe-home today and it just happens that I am neck-deep in statistics working on a grant proposal. Because of this, I noticed that Tseriletso is the 30^th child we have had in the safe-home during the six-months Bridget and I have been in Lesotho.

Looking back through the names I am hit with waves of nostalgia; intense happiness for some of the children, and deep sadness for others. The children that find their way to TTL are some of the most vulnerable children in a wholly vulnerable country, so their stories often follow dramatic arcs.

The names Thoriso and Retselisitsoe bring me back to when we first arrived. They are both back with their families now, and thriving in their homes. More than anything else, I miss them as playmates.

Lerato reminds me of our first months here as well, but his name also elicits a kernel of concern in my heart. Lerato continues to struggle despite returning to a doting mother, held hostage to the all-too-common combination of chronic malnutrition, TB, and HIV. He seems destined to struggle no matter how much help we give him and how much love we can shower on him.

Mokete and Relebohile occupy the largest portion of my memories. They both arrived in the first few weeks we were here and both left recently. We watched their journeys from start to finish: from death’s door to relative health. Thinking of them causes me to whelm up with pride for the work TTL is doing.

And then there are Thato and Reitumetse, who didn’t make it. It is hard to utter their names without rehashing their last days, second-guessing, and cursing.

30 kids and 30 unique stories, and now there is Tseriletso, whose story waits to be told.