Getting home

So, kyla and I left Windhoek on Friday, june 11, at 5:30. this was once again a 2 part bus ride: to upington, and the to bloem. It was uneventful. No hyperactive kids this time. Customs was colder and made me dread what Lesotho would be like, but we made it through without having our bags checked, so that’s good. We did get a seat at the very front of the double-decker bus, which was nice. The poor girl across the aisle kept having the electric panel above her fall on her head. But she said it didn’t hurt and wasn’t that heavy, so I guess that’s nice. We barely had a stopover at upington before the next but came to take us to bloem. It was the same driver we’d had before. Once again, uneventful. I finished the fourth part of Stephen king’s dark tower series. I’ve been sucked in to it. We got back to bloem an hour ahead of time. I thought this was really exciting, as it insured that I could make it all the way back to site, not just to maseru. We got to the taxi rank to discover that prices had risen r10, but that was ok. I hopped the bus and waited maybe about 45 minutes for departure. The bus left, drove about 10 minutes to a shopping center, and stopped. Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Oh, so it turns out that taxi wasn’t actually going to van rooi, it was just taking us to another taxi that was. Ok. I switched taxis with my luggage and we were off. It takes about an hour to get to van rooi from bloem, and I noticed as we approached the border that it was getting kind of dark out. It was at this time that I realized that I’d forgotten south Africa is an hour ahead of bloem. D’oh! I crossed the border into Lesotho at dusk and turned on my phone, intending to beg housing from another volunteer living in mafeteng. Apparently my phone had gotten turned on sometime in the previous almost 3 weeks of travel, and the battery was dead. It lasted just long enough for me to get a response from the person I’d texted: “I’m in maseru. Try these other 2 people living near mafeteng.” And then it died. So, mafeteng is not somewhere to be stranded at night. It’s thug-ville. Some volunteers have been held up there. I apprehensively asked my taxi driver if there would be a taxi to mohale’s hoek that night. He responded “yes” and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We got to mafeteng and I switched taxis. Eventually the taxi to the hoek filled up. More than filled actually, by about 5 people. The guy next to me had his hand on my left thigh. He’d actually seemed nice enough at first. We chatted for a minute or 2. then comes the inevitable, “where are you from?” he guessed denmark, which surprised me. That’s not one of the better known countries to most basotho. I told him that no, I was from the states, and of course he responds by telling me that he would love to visit the states sometime. I count down, 3…2…1…and then “do you have a boyfriend?” I say I do, and he asks if the guy is black or white. I tell him that is none of his business, put on my head phones, and crank up the music. But does this deter him? No. he keeps trying to talk to me. Now, this is not an uncommon form of harassment for a female peace corps volunteer, but i’ve been on a bus for over 24 hours, I’m tired physically, I’m tired of being hit on, and on top of everything else, he’s interrupting my bon jovi. Is nothing sacred?! He ended by asking for my phone number so that he could make sure I got home safely. Many basotho men are a bit thick headed. I told him I’d be fine.
I got back to mohale’s hoek only to find that the 4 + 1 drivers were going to charge me r30 to get to my house. It usually costs r3.50. I knew it was late, but r30 is an exorbitant fee for traveling 10 km. that’s how much it costs to get to maseru. So I trudled the block to the police station, thinking that if this didn’t work I’d go and sleep in the back room of the maluti hotel, the kind of closet given to the peace corps volunteers where I am now writing this blog.
I entered the police station and explained the situation. I was returning home, forgot about the time change, r30 is too expensive to pay to get home. I was asked to sit down and a couple minutes later the policeman said, “ok, let’s go.” He apparently had gotten permission from his superior to take me home. I guess I played the lekhooa (white person)/damsel in distress card to positive effect. Or he was just really bored. It looked like a slow night. I hoped in the truck with him. A minute later another officer opened the passenger side door and got in, so I was now sandwiched between two officers. Apparently it takes not one but two male police officers to escort the white girl home. The other passenger kept up a running conversation, too, and loudly. He had taken a narcotics course in Namibia, and another police course in Botswana, and he was really scared the first time he flew in a plane. They were very nice, though, and drove me all the way to my front door. They actually started to yell to wake up my ‘m’e and ntate, but I tried to quiet them as best I could, explaining that I had a key. And my dog came out to greet me. Her entire body was wagging. Nice to have someone great me so excitedly upon my arrival home. I opened my door and walked into my house to discover I had no sheets and not blankets. Curses! I assumed my ‘m’e had taken them to get washed. She’s really thoughtful like that. I was also too tired to be very concerned. I just busted my sleeping bag back out of my backpack, curled up, and passed out.