Saturday Mourning September 27, 2009

I awoke too early.   A quick glance at the clock : 7:30; that’s sleeping in here.  “Bang, Bang.”  It’s my sister at my door.  “Kamihelo, Kamihelo?”   “Just a second,” I mumble searching for some pants.  I open the door with my eyes still half-closed.  My sister, Mabato, hands me shoe polish and a brush and leaves.  I glare at the shoe polish in my hand like former Blue Jays pitcher Dave Stewart would eye a batter.  “Woken up for this,” I mutter to myself, hurling a round metal container fastball onto my chair.

Nothing seems more counter productive to me in Africa than shoe polish.  Every morning I rub down my pointy toe Dockers until they gleam in the sun.  But within three steps of walking outside, the dirt latches on like leach. A few times I tried to do away with this pointless practice only to be foiled by eagle eye Mabato.  “Why didn’t you polish your shoes this morning,” she said.  It seemed more of a statement then a question.  “ugghh, I forgot,” I suggested.  Mabato just shakes her head.  It’s gotten to the point where when I walk in for breakefast she looks down at my shoes to make sure I haven’t played hookie with the polish.

But today I’m off to a funeral.  So it would almost be a felony offense to go without polish at my household.  I brush of my shoes, put on my nicest clothes and walk with my host mom down the dirt road to the taxis.

Saturday funerals are a way of life in Lesotho.  This one is for my co-workers, Maetola’s (My-ee-toll-a), mother.  The funeral is located at his house.  Three huge black pots rumble over their respective fires making the air thick with smoke.  Five open-air tents enclose the compound.  “Do you want to see the corpse?,” my host-mother asks.  “No, Thanks,” I say, remembering that she died September 12th and it’s September 26th.  I take up a seat under one tent and await the service with hundreds of Basotho.  Most men are done up in a suit and tie, while the ladies are wearing their traditionnel lesotho dress (she shway shway)with a head covering to match. Wrapped around their shoulders are the famous Lesotho blankets to fend off the 24 degree chilly temperatures.

The coffin is brought out of the house.  The gold handles are blinding in the fierce 10 a.m sun.  A man walks up to the microphone and the service begins.  Hymn and a speech.  Hymn and a speech. Two hymns and a speech.  The funeral lingers on towards noon.  I can’t understand anything really, except for a few English phrases: “For she was a jolly good fellow,” and “pancreatic cancer.”  The crowd has doubled since the 10 a.m. start.  People lean against the Toyota Hilux at the edge of the compound.  Children start playing in the truck bed during the 10th speech.  The smoke intoxicates me with shortness of breath.  The service reaches it’s conclusion at 1 p.m. after the 12th speaker.

A slow walk down to the road to he graveyard yields 30 more minutes of speeches and the burial.  We head back to Maetola’s for lunch.  “How are they going to feed all of these people?,” I ask my friend Charlie.  “They slaughtered a cow,” he said.  “But there’s close to 1000 people for one cow,” I say dumbfounded.  The queue’s was a long 40-minute wait.  The beef was fabulous though.  “They had to slaughter more than one cow,” I said to Charlie.  “No, one cow and two sheep,” he said.  We devoured are plates and headed back home.  It was 3:30.

“Funerals in Lesotho are the most expensive thing,” Ntate Tsepo proclaimed (my host dad). He was filling up his watering can later that night. “You buy a good coffin that is 6, 000 Rands.  You have to feed all the people who come, that is at least 8, 000 Rands. You buy a tombstone; that is another 5, 000 Rands.  It’s a big, big problem.”

In a land that is so impoverished and that has the third highest AIDS rate in the world, these are pretty shocking numbers.  The three figures the Ntate Tsepo through out off the top of his head are the equivalent to 2,500 US dollars.  Granted, the family of the deceased was fairly well off, but still.  They don’t really have the money to spend 2,500 US dollars on a funeral.  It’s a real financial burden for families when people die here.

I awoke too early.   A quick glance at the clock : 7:30; that’s sleeping in here.  “Bang, Bang.”  It’s my sister at my door.  “Kamihelo, Kamihelo?”   “Just a second,” I mumble searching for some pants.  I open the door with my eyes still half-closed.  My sister, Mabato, hands me shoe polish and a brush and leaves.  I glare at the shoe polish in my hand like former Blue Jays pitcher Dave Stewart would eye a batter.  “Woken up for this,” I mutter to myself, hurling a round metal container fastball onto my chair.

Nothing seems more counter productive to me in Africa than shoe polish.  Every morning I rub down my pointy toe Dockers until they gleam in the sun.  But within three steps of walking outside, the dirt latches on like leach. A few times I tried to do away with this pointless practice only to be foiled by eagle eye Mabato.  “Why didn’t you polish your shoes this morning,” she said.  It seemed more of a statement then a question.  “ugghh, I forgot,” I suggested.  Mabato just shakes her head.  It’s gotten to the point where when I walk in for breakefast she looks down at my shoes to make sure I haven’t played hookie with the polish.

But today I’m off to a funeral.  So it would almost be a felony offense to go without polish at my household.  I brush of my shoes, put on my nicest clothes and walk with my host mom down the dirt road to the taxis.

Saturday funerals are a way of life in Lesotho.  This one is for my co-workers, Maetola’s (My-ee-toll-a), mother.  The funeral is located at his house.  Three huge black pots rumble over their respective fires making the air thick with smoke.  Five open-air tents enclose the compound.  “Do you want to see the corpse?,” my host-mother asks.  “No, Thanks,” I say, remembering that she died September 12th and it’s September 26th.  I take up a seat under one tent and await the service with hundreds of Basotho.  Most men are done up in a suit and tie, while the ladies are wearing their traditionnel lesotho dress (she shway shway)with a head covering to match. Wrapped around their shoulders are the famous Lesotho blankets to fend off the 24 degree chilly temperatures.

The coffin is brought out of the house.  The gold handles are blinding in the fierce 10 a.m sun.  A man walks up to the microphone and the service begins.  Hymn and a speech.  Hymn and a speech. Two hymns and a speech.  The funeral lingers on towards noon.  I can’t understand anything really, except for a few English phrases: “For she was a jolly good fellow,” and “pancreatic cancer.”  The crowd has doubled since the 10 a.m. start.  People lean against the Toyota Hilux at the edge of the compound.  Children start playing in the truck bed during the 10th speech.  The smoke intoxicates me with shortness of breath.  The service reaches it’s conclusion at 1 p.m. after the 12th speaker.

A slow walk down to the road to he graveyard yields 30 more minutes of speeches and the burial.  We head back to Maetola’s for lunch.  “How are they going to feed all of these people?,” I ask my friend Charlie.  “They slaughtered a cow,” he said.  “But there’s close to 1000 people for one cow,” I say dumbfounded.  The queue was a long 40-minute wait.  The beef was fabulous though.  “They had to slaughter more than one cow,” I said to Charlie.  “No, one cow and two sheep,” he said.  We devoured are plates and headed back home.  It was 3:30.

“Funerals in Lesotho are the most expensive thing,” Ntate Tsepo proclaimed (my host dad). He was filling up his watering can later that night. “You buy a good coffin that is 6, 000 Rands.  You have to feed all the people who come, that is at least 8, 000 Rands. You buy a tombstone; that is another 5, 000 Rands.  It’s a big, big problem.”

In a land that is so impoverished and that has the third highest AIDS rate in the world, these are pretty shocking numbers.  The three figures the Ntate Tsepo through out off the top of his head are the equivalent to 2,500 US dollars.  Granted, the family of the deceased was fairly well off, but still.  They don’t really have the money to spend 2,500 US dollars on a funeral.  It’s a real financial burden for families when people die here.

The Maternal Federer Instinct September 17, 2009

Is this guy my child ??????!

We have all been there before.   It’s late.  You told your parents you would be home by now,  but you got distracted by things.  The gear shift gets shoved into P and you stumble in the front door at 2:30.  There is a voice waiting for you at the top of the stairs.  “I have been up worried sick about you.  I can’t sleep when you do that.”  “Sorry, Mom I lost track of time.”

It’s a horrible revelation, but I am Roger Federer’s mom.  I can’t sleep when I know he’s still playing with his Tennis Pro friends.  Monday night,   I went to bed at 9 which was well  before the U.S. Open final between Federer and Argentinian upstart Juan Martin Del Potro.  I drifted off to sleep hoping for the 28-year-old Federer to celebrate his sweet sixteeen (Grand slam titles).  I would read about it the next morning.   The pundits would throw out the usual hyperbole.   “The G.O.A.T (greatest of all time), “The magician Federer waves his magic wand again,”  “Daddy Federer wins one for the twins :)” and I would move on with my life.

Except I woke up.  Adrenaline was rattling around my veins like a pre-game boggle shake.   My heart thumped like a Sampras serve.  It was 11:30.  I reached for my fix.

My fingers didn’t need any messages from the brain   WWW.ESPN.COM And that’s it.   I watched the match live chat with some reporter with the first name Ravi.   I checked out my internet records.  I signed off at 2:31:19.  And for what, Federer choking away his sweet sixteen party. 3 hours of “40-15 A nice forehand from Del Pot to the corner.”  Needless to say I’m disgusted with myself.   It’s time to cut the cord.   This has been happening way too long.   In fact, Federer’s loss to Del Potro in five sets was his fourth five-set grand slam loss since he started his reign in 2004.  The other three also sucked away my dignity and punctuate my Federer addiction.

Australian Open Semi-Final 2005  Safin d Federer 5-7, 6-4, 5-7, 7-6, 9-7

I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, only to find out that TSN was showing sport fishing instead.  Disgusted, I turned to listening to the match on radio.  Needless to say tennis on the radio is rather uninspiring.  Thankfully I had to work as a directory assistance operator at 8 which was half-way through the fifth set.   The result was eating at me while I fielded calls until the answer came.   “Bell directory assistance, how may I help you?” “Ya, I’m looking for TSN’s number.  Damn idiots don’t show Tennis.”  “No problem sir,  just one moment.”  I had to ask which was risking a verbal beatdown from my boss: “Would you by chance know who won the Federer match?”  “Safin in five.  People are calling it the best match in 10 years and expletive TSN doesn’t show it.”  “Thank you sir here’s your number:  416-384-7660.”

Wimbledon Final 2008  Nadal d Federer 6-4, 6-4, 6-7, 6-7, 9-7

I was suppose to watch what is called the greatest tennis match of all time, except a canoe conspired against me.  I picked up the phone at the Fraser Lake office.  “Hey Simon,  it’s Ted.  I need to speak to Eric.”   Those words eventually led me to the camp van en route to Camp Arrowhon.  Our outtrippers were stranded and down a leader.   The reception of 680 news kept ketting worse and worse and the match just kept going and going.  For three hours I listened to the same crummy newsloop, until eventually I made out through blasts of static.   “Nadal ends Federer’s reign.”  Thank god it’s over I thought.

Australian Open Final 2009 Nadal d Federer 7-5, 3-6, 7-6, 3-6, 6-2

I had an essay due on Monday.   So I needed to be productive on Sunday and write 10 pages.  I needed sleep.  Remarkably similar to this week, My maternal federer instinct shocked me out of my snooze at 3:25.  Five minutes before the match.  Miserably, I obliged to watch.  There’s no use fighting the power of the instict.   It consumes you.   I remember hopping on the 95 bus that morning towards the O-Train.  My eyes were bloodshot and all I wanted was a Page Break coffee.  Having your nerves jangled on the end of tennis rackets for four hours is a physical and mental bludgeon.

Cut the Cord.  Being Federer’s mom was so much more fun when he first turned one at Wimbledon.   Or when he turned 4, 6, 9, 12 and 13 at the U.S open.  His tears when he turned 7 in Australia were touching.  Even his 14th party at Roland Garros after a year of strife was memorable.  But now that he is on the cusp of his sweet sixteenth, it’s tiring.  Who cares about 17 or 20?  It’s not a big deal to him or to me anymore.   It’s just a bloody number.

The instict now, it’s a burden, not a joy.  It’s old.

My brother and his baby boy September 16, 2009

Tsebo at three weeks

The Language of ‘Football’ September 15, 2009

No match for this pitch

“Qui a la Ballet.”  It sounds like mangled French but these days it’s my favourite Sesotho Phrase.  Direct translation: I’m going to the grounds.  After work, the young men of Morija head to the bumpy dirt-born pitch that doubles as a cow pasture by day.  Young boys, who go by alias’ like Robinho and Messi, duke it out on the evening’s undercard.  The mountains watch while the elders on the touch line put their gear on.

We kick the kids off the field.  I don’t feel bad.  They respectfully watch and chase balls down for us.   I linger in the middle of the field waiting to be told where to go.  Eventually I hear,  “Kamihelo.”  A tall-slender Patrick Viera look a like points me to his side of the field.   (That’s my name here by the way … pronounced kah-mee-hey-low).

Our team gathers together.  Viera proceeds to start drawing our formation out in the dirt.  I have flashbacks to Our Lady of Lourdes in Waterloo, mapping the fundamentals of the double-reverse onto the palm off my hand.

“What you play,” he asks.  “Defence.”  The whole team breaks out in Sesotho arguing about something.  I stand meekly waiting for the debate to cease.  “Left or Right.”  I didn’t want to complicate matters further by saying it doesn’t matter, so I chose right.

The game starts.  The sun is setting by now; only about 50 minutes of light left.  I haven’t figured how to say pass or I’m open yet,  So I yelp like I just crushed a volleyball inside the attack line and raise my hand to signify my prescence.  The ball comes sporadicly.  It never really stays on the ground just bumps and jumps around on the hilly field.   I don’t dare pass it around the back in conditions like that.  Our defense coughs it up. Goal.

I gasp for air in the high altitude but am shepareded towards the goal line.  It’s practice hear to run suicides after your team gets scored on.  I started gaining more trust with some solid defensive plays.  I’m making forays up the wing now.  My body is caked in dirt.  My groing is aching.  Finally I’m found on a 1-2 (give and go for non-soccer folk) and my teammate buries it.

It’s the best communication I have had here with a Native Basotho and nothing was said.  We just knew.   That’s what living in your own culture is like.  You just know.  You don’t have to ask questions.  Your not always out of the loop.  Your connected.   Although many speak English here, it’s their second language.  And there is a cultural barrier, which makes common experiences quite tough to unlock for the moment.  But that’s expected.  It just makes you enjoy the simple things in life, like a good give -and -go all the more.

‘Good Morning Lesotho’ September 5, 2009

I was standing in my birthday suit a day after my birthday surrounded by the walls of my thatched hut.  I plunged my cloth into the luke-warm bucket of water absorbing what I could and then squeezed it over my head in attempts to wash myself.  I have never been an expert in hygiene so the wash-basin system only compounded my struggle. The water drizzled over me slowly as I tried to contort my body so it wouldn’t drip on the manure-polished floor.  Somewhere amongst this struggle I lost my balance and had to strike a Heisman pose to save myself like a true North American in Africa.

Surprisingly clean I tossed on some work clothes and headed for the rising-sun.  Ducking through the 5-foot door, the mountains greeted me in the distance with the sun just glancing through the peaks.  What a first sight.  I walked over to my house for breakfast and was informed by my host mother that my shirt was too wrinkly .  I guess she is a little more determined than my parents to make me look presentable.   After wolfing down hot dogs, eggs and toast I grabbed my freshly- pressed button-up and start my walk down the mountain to work.

It’s spring here.  The purple peach blossoms accent the horizon everywhere you look.  Parched-yellow grass thirsts for the rain that has been absent for months, while shriveled Aloe plants await their healing renewal.  My newly-polished Dockers loafers are no match for the dirt-blown landscape.  The shimmer erodes as the wind whips my shirt into a mold against my torso.  The Rooster, which nudged me awake at dawn, is now quiet and regal looking with his head held high like a guest at a Victorian tea party.  The house caretaker is milking a holstein behind the rondavel.  His hands move quickly as the milk tumbles into the pool forming in the bucket below.   The rest of the herd gnaws at what’s left of the grass.  Dung is strewn about like dandelions along the ground.  I bob and weave my way like Ali avoding the left jab of the manure, right hook of the fence and uppercuts from the dogs, seething behind invisible fences.  It’s a steep descent now; hopping down rock stairs two at a time.  There’s no looking up, just down at the chess pieces, plotting your next move as the landscape makes its own.   The bottom comes.  Kids greet me with wide eyes and rye grins as combies whip down the road towards town.  “Lumela,” I say.  The giggle to themselves, while I enter the gates of work.

View from my hut's front porch

I was standing in my birthday suit a day after my birthday surrounded by the walls of my thatched hut.  I plunged my cloth into the luke-warm bucket of water absorbing what I could and then squeezed it over my head in attempts to wash myself.  I have never been an expert in hygiene so the wash-basin system only compounded my struggle. The water drizzled over me slowly as I tried to contort my body so it wouldn’t drip on the manure-polished floor.  Somewhere amongst this struggle I lost my balance and had to strike a Heisman pose to save myself like a true North American in Africa.

Surprisingly clean I tossed on some work clothes and headed for the rising-sun.  Ducking through the 5-foot door, the mountains greeted me in the distance with the sun just glancing through the peaks.  What a first sight.  I walked over to my house for breakfast and was informed by my host mother that my shirt was too wrinkly .  I guess she is a little more determined than my parents to make me look presentable.   After wolfing down hot dogs, eggs and toast I grabbed my freshly- pressed button-up and began my walk down the mountain to work.

It’s spring here.  The purple peach blossoms accent the horizon everywhere you look.  Parched-yellow grass thirsts for the rain that has been absent for months, while shriveled Aloe plants await their healing renewal.  My newly-polished Dockers loafers are no match for the dirt-blown landscape.  The shimmer erodes as the wind whips my shirt into a mold against my torso.  The Rooster, which nudged me awake at dawn, is now quiet and regal looking with his head held high like a guest at a Victorian tea party.  The house caretaker is milking a holstein behind the rondavel.  His hands move quickly as the milk tumbles into the pool forming in the bucket below.   The rest of the herd gnaws at what’s left of the grass.  Dung is strewn about like dandelions along the ground.  I bob and weave my way like Ali avoding the left jab of the manure, right hook of the fence and uppercuts from the dogs, seething behind invisible fences.  It’s a steep descent now; hopping down rock stairs two at a time.  There’s no looking up, just down at the chess pieces, plotting your next move as the landscape makes its own.   The bottom comes.  Kids greet me with wide eyes and rye grins as combies whip down the road towards town.  “Lumela,” I say. They giggle to themselves, while I enter the gates of work.