It's Official

"Here goes nothing..." - Lando Calrissian

Without realizing it, nearly an entire year of my life had been slowly building up to twelve noon on August 5th. The hours spent wondering whether I really wanted to give up two years of my life; the months spent in hand-wringing agony waiting for that final invitation from the State Department; the confused and heart-wrenching “goodbyes” to everyone and everything I’d ever known; the final nine weeks of exhausting, humbling training--all of it leading up to that moment when I raised my right hand and solemnly confirmed that I would well and faithfully discharge my abilities in the Peace Corps, support and defend the Constitution of the Unites States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that I did so freely and without any mental reservation (though I left off the optional nonsense about “so help me god.”)

All sixteen of us had passed our language assessment exams, our group receiving some of the highest overall scores in recent memory. And though I know immodesty is highly unflattering, I feel I would be remiss in my duties as reporter to you, dear reader, if I did not mention that I, along with two others, received the very highest marks. This assessment was our last step, meaning that we all made it and we would be swearing in as exactly the same group who had met on June 2 in that basement conference room in Philadelphia.

The ceremony was held in Maseru’s Mathabiseng Convention Centre, a hulking, apparently underused monstrosity of modern Chinese architecture, and also about the classiest place for a ceremony of this kind in the whole country. Congratulatory speeches were delivered by the Peace Corps Lesotho Country Director, Training Director, and APCD. Elizabeth Powers, the Charge d’ Affaires swore us in in place of Ambassador Nolan who was back in America with his newborn grandchild. Then we were treated to a few words by Mrs. Mathato Mosilisi, the first-lady of Lesotho. Her presence was the reason we were in such an elite venue and for the newspaper, television, and radio coverage. PCVs are not supposed to involve themselves in politics, and I will not do so here. But with the allegations that sometimes swirl around her husband, the Prime Minister, (not to mention a recent assassination attempt) I’ve never heard anything negative about Mrs. Mosilisi and it was kind of her to attend.

Finally, it was time for my speech, the last one and something of a climax of the afternoon. I was introduced, stepped up to the podium, backed by giant flags of the United States, Lesotho, and the Peace Corps. Photographers crowded around and their flashbulbs burst in my eyes like it was a press conference or something. And very much to my surprise, I found that despite my BFA in Speaking in Front of People, I was nervous. Sure, part of my nervousness may have been due to my following the wife of a head-of-state, or to my words being nationally televised to a country of 2 million people, or to my new bosses all listening intently, or to the trainers who had tried to get an advanced copy of my speech so as to censor out any objectionable material begging me with their eyes not to embarrass them or start an international incident with an ill-advised joke. But what I was really uneasy about were the fifteen other new PCVs whom I was speaking to. Of course I wanted to entertain them with a few jokes, but I also wanted to represent them honorably in front of the leaders and citizens of our new home. I wanted to mark the pride and importance of this moment, a feeling to which only they and the few PCVs in the audience could truly relate. In the end, I think I acquitted myself pretty well. I got laughs where I needed them, solemn nods where I wanted them, and was told later that I even drew a few tears from the more sentimentally inclined.

Like landmark birthdays, graduations, and other events one looks forward to for such a long time, I didn’t feel any change in myself after the event from how I’d felt before. Sure, it was a mark of accomplishment, but it only led to more responsibility and more yet to be accomplished.

Afterwards we had a party and, in true Peace Corps fashion, reached levels of drunkenness usually reserved for sailors, poets, and sports fans. The next morning we said goodbye to each other, the people we’d spent nearly every waking hour of our lives with for the past 2 months, and parted way, off to different ends of the country, turning to different pages of the choose-your-own-adventure that will be the next two years.

For my part, I headed up to the north-country of Botha Bothe, where the winds hit heavy on the borderline of South Africa. My house is a mud and brick hut with a high thatched roof and linoleum floors that would be right at home in tenement kitchen. The furniture is a bit sparse, but I have the nicest bed in Peace Corps: full-sized double with box-spring, pillow-top mattress, and no bedbugs. Peace Corps gives you a chunk of “moving-in” money for anything you might need in your new home. I spent all of mine on luxurious, brushed-cotton sheets and a tremendous down comforter. The Congressional Peace Corps Act of 1961 states that volunteers will serve “under conditions of hardship if necessary,” but whatever discomforts I may endure, at least I’ll sleep like a king.

There’s a good reason why the major settlements in Lesotho other than Maseru are called camptowns and not cities. Botha Bothe is pretty typical: one paved road lined with stores like something out of and old western. But it’s an up-and-comer…there are two gas stations, two liquor stores, two ATMs, and a KFC coming soon. There’s even a pizza place, though they have no tables and often no pizza. BB has a sizable Indian population (the largest in Lesotho), so wonderful curry and masala spices are available for pennies and make cooking much easier. The streets are lively and most modern amenities--from internet to diet Pepsi--are available if you know the right people. (And you can bet I already know most of the right people). It takes me 30 minutes flat to walk at a New York pace from my house to the edge of town. It’s a lovely stroll through the mountains and neighboring villages. If it gets too late or I have been shopping and am loaded down with groceries, I can grab one of the frequent kombis (van taxis) to my place for 4 Rand (USD 0.50). They are crowded and smelly, but being a “lahoa” (whitey), I usually get first dibs on the front seat.

This is my life now. Dirt roads, dusty mountains, and each night a breath-taking sunset outside my front door. There’s so much more to tell--about the other maniacs stationed in my district, about the other American who lives in my village, a Col. Kurtz-type ex-pat missionary, about the mountain literally in my back yard, and of course about my new job--but that will have to wait for another time. Be well, and enjoy the three things I miss most about America: bagels, draft beer, and the New York Times.