But life in Africa doesn’t work like that. It moves in no particular direction without adhering to frivolous agendas, only to bring you exactly what you need.

One Friday I headed home from school to a free afternoon (school closes at 1 p.m. on Fridays). I wanted a quiet evening and was leaving the day before, so the floor needed sweeping, water fetching and dishes washing. I also hoped for a quick run and hair wash before nightfall. First, a nice lunch and reading/napping.

After my tummy was full and my eyes rested I woke up on schedule. Time to do the chores so I could get in that run. As I warmed water for the dishes I heard a knock on the door. It was my host brother, Thebe, and my friend, Malete.

I joined them outside and we traded “how are you”s and “what have you been up to”s. I hadn’t seen either in a while so I was surprised and delighted to see them at my door.

Not much longer after they appeared, so did Edgar, a villager who is around the same age as the other two, 23-24. The three of us chatted, me directing new questions at a different person and taking turns with each of them when the conversation lulled. They teased me about my poor Sesotho and then I rambled off a paragraph to try and impress them. I teased them, mostly Edgar, about having a crush one of my American friends and they asked me why I don’t have a boyfriend. “They are troublesome,” I said. I showed them pictures of other PCVs and my life back in America and Malete pulled out a few of his family. We traded opinions of American presidents and Thebe talked about his job encouraging people to vote in the May 26 election. We joked and chatted for nearly an hour before Malete needed to return to his home in a nearby village. We walked him about halfway before returning and each going our separate ways.

I went back into my house. My dishes still had crusty food remnants. My floor was still filthy. And that run was still not ran. Yet, I had a big smile. In a rare village moment, I felt like I had friends. We teased each other like old friends. We didn’t empty out the bag of conversation topics. We truly enjoyed each other’s company.

I often get annoyed when my schedule is disrupted. But that day it was a welcome change. It means so much more that clean dishes and floor and I need to remember that day more often. Sometimes if I just stop trying to dictate each second amazing things will happen.

Yesterday was a really good day.

They day started with doubt. I must have had a dream or read something before bed that triggered this feeling of coming up short. Was I really doing everything I could for my village? Is there more I should be doing? I hate these pestering thoughts that drive my mind through a “You should be better” storm. They came during the reporting life and I really didn’t want them to ruin this one as well. All I could do was quiet them and go about my day.

With no classes until after the 10:40 tea break I spent my morning working on a project for the Peace Corps office while students read in the library. The principal came in to deliver notice of a visitor and I was a bit startled. I hadn’t expected anyone, I never do, and when I walked outside I did not recognize her.

We greeted and she began in Sesotho. At first it was just syllables and then I understand she was thanking me for helping her son, a Form A, get a scholarship. The principle later explained that she can not pay the school fees so this money, coming from a group of Lesotho RPCVs, made the difference between an education or herd boy life for her son. I told her I was so happy for her visit, but realized I used the word for “sorry” instead of “happy.” The principal was right there and fixed the miscommunication. We shared giggles while saying “thank you” over and over.

If the day had ended there it would have been one of my best in Lesotho. It didn’t.

This week the students are preparing to compete in sports day in a nearby village over the weekend. We have ended classes after lunch, at 2, so students could practice football (soccer), netball (like basketball but without dribbling) and volleyball (just volleyball). I usually sit and watch, waiting for the time to pass because I have watched a lifetime of volleyball thanks to my sports reporting days, but today some of the students asked me to join in.

One either side of the volleyball net, teams of four took turns lobbing the ball over. There was a point system – which made no numerical sense to me – and when a team loss another would take its place. The kids I was teamed with were pretty awful; they kept hitting the ball in the wrong direction and sometimes would swing and miss, unlike me who hit perfect spikes and sets. (Note: The opposite of that maybe closer to the truth, I forget.) One teacher completely wiped out while but he still claims to be better than me. Sure.

See, I like volleyball as much as I like bowling, which is not in the least bit. Still, I caught myself laughing. I was having fun. And it was more enjoyable to just chuckle along with my students as we (me) made ourselves (myself) look like dorks (dork). In a very Hallmark-like moment, I stared out at the mountains with my students running around in the foreground and said to myself, “I have a pretty darn good life.”

This day was not alone in its goodness – much of last week was pretty good. What it reminds me is that, although the emotional roller coaster will continue throughout my service, things are feeling more comfortable. I am starting to believe that not only do I belong – and as me, not some adapted version – but I can actually be of help.

Fall is my favorite time of the year. It’s marked with Jackrabbit football games, pumpkin-flavored everything (I only visit Starbucks once a year and it is for the Pumpkin Spice Latte and autumn beers beat out any other season of craft drafts) and great anticipation for my birthday (the best of all holidays), Halloween, Thanksgiving (my favorite of the national celebrations) and Christmas.

Yet none of that is relevant this fall.

While all of you are booking summer vacations, enjoying the outdoors, engrossed in the “marathon of American baseball season” (BBC’s words, not mine) and trying to take off those last few pounds before bikini season, I am on the other side of the world throwing back hot cups of tea and wearing as many layers as I can.

It’s cold, and it’s only April. Winter will reach the high point of its wrath in June and July. I know that I am from South Dakota, where your ability to withstand cold is a badge of honor. Hey, I walked from the HPER Building to Yeager in -20 degree temps in Brookings’ flat, wind-prone terrain. But, it’s another ballgame when you do not have heated buildings to interrupt the blasts, literally, of cold.

Fall in the southern hemisphere is weird and lack luster. There are no pumpkin drinks and it’s incredibly disappointing to think Christmas is only a few months away. Try eight.

Yet, I find myself enjoying the change. As Peter, the British man who lives in my village said, another season allows you to make a check mark and say, “Well, I lived through that season.”

When I first came to Lesotho it was the end of spring, start of summer. There were hot days and lots of pining for iced drinks. Now, the temps have flipped and I am nearly a veteran of this place. The elapsed time means something to me, yet it is still a new experience. I am not old but I am not new.

My hands are partly frigid stiff as I type this, but this season is like a new beginning. Still, I could go for something pumpkiny right about now.

But there was no me.

Although I’ve said it before, one of the arduous parts of this life that I have freely chosen is the sacrifice. Being here means that I am not there for that happy hour drink or the weekend trip. But it stings the most when life’s defining events – marriages, births and deaths – of my loved ones pass by and I am on the other side of the world.

Last weekend my dear friend Amy married her long-time boyfriend, Kevin. Amy and I became friends when we both worked at our college’s newspaper, The Collegian. In fact most of our staff meshed into this joking, beer-drinking, loving group and many of those connections stayed strong beyond the diploma getting and force into that so-called “real world.”

Throughout my Peace Corps saga, Amy has been one of my most supporting friends. She is constantly reminding me what I am good at when I fail to see it in myself. She even sent me a Christmas care package, full on candy and thumb drives of my favorite television shows. Amy is one of those people who you never doubt the basis or strength of your friendship; it’s always there.

It pains me that I wasn’t there on her big day. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her how much I love her. I wanted to dance to some silly song and cheer drinks together. I wanted to support her the way she supports me.

Missing her wedding also means missing a good time, which I always hate. Several former Collegianites attended the wedding and even the DJ and photographer are friends that I made editorial decisions with in the wee hours of Wednesday mornings. Many were there, all with different lives now, but still appreciating the bond that brought and keeps us together.

On the night of her wedding (or day for her), my ntate offered me a piece of corn and told me to roast it. I sat by the fire and gazed into the flame thinking of the event. I imagined Amy getting ready for the wedding, putting on her dress with a curled up do. I thought of my other Collegian friends arriving at the wedding with wrapped packages. And I pictured them on the dance floor, smiling just to be around each other again.

Holding back tears I wondered if not being there is just a symbol of who I am becoming. Me on the other side of the world sitting by a fire while my friends proceed on with fun and merriment. Maybe I am naturally being sifted out because my life has taken a radical turn and I need to accept that. I lost other friends before, maybe these names will just be added to the list.

Yet, that thought doesn’t sit with me. Not because it is painful, but because I don’t believe it.

When I think of the people likely to attend my coming home party, a majority of them were at that wedding. I know that moving to Africa comes with the loss of a few friends – I saw that in Niger – but Amy and many of the other Collegians are not among them. Even though I’ve been known to doubt a lot of friendships, I’ve never doubted these ones. I just know they’ll be there, in two years or ten.

Amy’s is not the first wedding I’ve missed – my dear friend Lindsie married three weeks after I left for Niger – and it will likely not be the last. There will also be babies, new lovers, new jobs and, probably, a few funerals.

But what I’ve learned, rather what I know, is that those good friends, like Amy, forgive me for missing out on their big moments. In fact they don’t care. They love me so much that what they care about is that I am happy. And there is no sign of truer friend than that.

Still, it hurts to miss out, but being here is making me a better friend, daughter, sister, human being. That is the best wedding present I can give right now along with a promise of a lasting friendship.

Yet, there is one question I really don’t like: “Do you like it more than Niger?” Or the varied, “How does it compare to Niger?”

Yes, both countries are in Africa but they are utterly different, so is my experience. I thought maybe I would try to spell that out in a blog post, mostly for my sake.

In a few weeks I will be going to my Phase III training, the equivalent point at which my service in Niger ended. My time in both countries will then be equal but Lesotho will past that and my Peace Corps experience will be defined by time here with Niger as a side bar.

Looking back at my time in Niger compared to what I am currently living in Lesotho, it seems that this experience is much tougher. It could be I will forever look at Niger with rose-colored glasses because of how I left that country or that I feel the struggles of Lesotho because they are happening right now, but I don’t remember this many lows in those moments at site in Niger. I maybe had them but they don’t stick compared to what I feel right now.

Does that mean that I would rather leave Lesotho and go back to Niger? No. I do really enjoy it here. Lesotho is much easier on the eyes than Niger, with beautiful mountain and lush, rolling green pastures. Then desert has its own beauty but it can’t live up to this.

Despite that both countries rank high on the list of the world’s poorest, Lesotho is above and beyond Niger. For example, my school actually has classroom compared to the school in DanTchiao, which was made of sticks and thatch and the students sat on plastic bags. My students here have desks and even have a computer lab. They still don’t books and I look up most of my lessons on the Internet, the teaching conditions are much more favorable. Because the structure is better, I have the ability to do more. In DanTchiao I spent time looking for projects but here I have an actual job I go to every day and really have the potential to make a bigger impact than I ever did in Niger.

I also have electricity and better access to water. I still have to walk outside for phone calls but it’s far better than the 10-minute walk in Niger. Also, I have access to more and better foods. In my village I can buy tomatoes, potatoes, onions and cabbage or take a taxi to Maseru and get almost anything I want, including cheese. In my Niger village the only fresh food I could get was potatoes and oranges. Trips to Zinder allowed me to get a few more things but that was about six hours away compared to the two to Maseru.

Lesotho has a unique situation because of its enclosure by South Africa. Although some traditional songs and dance are present in the society, the culture has definite western influences. In Niger the culture is much more visible from the clothes to the traditional ceremonies to the trinkets and art sold on the street. Sometimes it feels like it is too western here and it doesn’t feel like Africa in the way Niger felt like Africa.

My experience and relationship with natives is also different because of the lack of language barrier. I can have deep and honest conversations with the Basotho in English that I could never have with Nigeriens because of my limited French and even less Hausa. I still can only talk with the educated members of the community because my Sesotho isn’t great, but the conversations that I do have include more of a cultural exchange than in Niger.

They are some things that are similar, such as the difficulties of transportation and the ability to get a Masotho or Nigerien to show up on time for anything. But those experiences feel very different.

Is one better than the other? No. They both mean something to me and I would never put a favorite label on them they way a mother won’t say which child she prefers the most. They are different experiences with different meaning to me and that is how I will always look at them. Niger and Lesotho will be tattooed on my heart in the same ink and stroke for the rest of my life, and although I sometimes compare the experiences in my head, it doesn’t make one better than the other.

This quote was from my friend Brian Bieber’s podcast, Ghost & Horses. Last year he invited me to be a part of a show about living in other cultures and, fresh off the evacuation, I explained my six months in Niger and how I ended up in South Dakota. He also interviewed Kat about her time for at-risk youth organization in Honduras. That episode began with Kat talking about the reason why she went to Honduras, which happened to be the reason to Niger: to help these people we just figured needed our help. But you leave with something so greater and you find out that they really helped you.

I now have five months in Lesotho and I don’t want to prematurely describe how much this experience has changed my life, but it has. It did the first day I stepped off that plane. Yet, my Basotho interactions are just starting to flourish and it’s hard to predict how my life will change and what kind of version of myself will re-enter the United States.

Still, this experience is about self-growth and that is why many people apply for the Peace Corps: to find the best versions of themselves. They say Peace Corps is one of the toughest jobs you’ll ever love and there are so many reasons why that statement is true. For me, this earlier in my service, one major obstacle is fighting myself. Every insecurity, issue or intern-battle is now forcing me to deal with it. Maybe it’s the ample free the time, this structure of automatic growth or my personal resolution to be a better me. Either way I am staring down all of my ugliest parts, determined to fix them or accept them.

It sucks and it’s easy to be even harder on myself than I am already (one issue that definitely needs smoothing). However, I refuse to come out of these two years not a better person myself, and maybe I will do that naturally still it’s time to stop avoiding the things that hold me back.

In my short time, I’ve made some progress with a few things and YOP has really helped that. Putting those goals online and forcing myself to write these updates do help keep me in life, yet I know there is more progress to be made. And, to be honest, I am ready to fight those self-battles and to let the best version of myself persevere.

March wasn’t the in-tune-to-myself month, or to my community, that I wanted to be. As you can tell by the types of pronouns I used in this post, I am still very focused on myself. Eventually, I hope that fades and I think it will. I am still new at this and it is OK for emotions to the jump up and down as I find my role here. More and more I find myself less concerned about how I feel, but more worried about my villagers. I want to be a great volunteer and that can’t happen over night. It will come.

I end the month at my Phase III training, the exact point in Niger service where I was evacuated. I’ll admit that a part of my wonders if it will stop there because I don’t know Peace Corps beyond this point. Yet, another part is confident that I’ll make these two years and this is just the beginning.

When I left Niger I was devastated that my self-growth would stop in Africa. In a way it did and I could return to America ignoring those issues again. In Lesotho I see them and refuse to stop here. I have got 21 months left and I will use each one to keep pulling back layers until I reach the ultimate goal: a true and deep love for myself.

April will begin with a vacation to South Africa and then diving back into the rest of the term before winter break. It will be a good month and more time to find the best of me and turn that into work for others.

Part of my job description is to live like my villagers. I eat their food, wear their clothes, ride their transportation and speak their language. I also have to adopt their values, or learn to manage them.

It never occurred to me that the countries we were raised in determine our values, ones that control our everyday lives, and that others might not see the small things the way we do. It wasn’t until I left America that I realized how American I really am.

There are small differences between the Basotho and Americans. In America, I go from one place to the next without looking up at the stranger I pass. In Lesotho, I greet every man, woman and child on my way to and from school.

Greetings are a simple adjustment, and a pleasant one. However, there are gaps in values that harder to adhere to and, for me, the toughest is time.

In America, almost every activity is given a start time and, often, an ending time. We don’t like things that take too much time and we aren’t fans of waiting. Late people are thought of as rude and we operate on the philosophy “Time is money.”

But in Lesotho, time has very little impact. It’s not uncommon to plan to meet someone at a certain time and they show up an hour late. To them, showing up at all is more important than the actual time.

Buses and taxis have no schedule and when they arrive and depart depends on the car’s fullness. You get in a taxi and may have to wait five minutes or an hour for the driver to be satisfied with the number of passengers. Even when he does leave, he may stop a dozen times to wait for additional customers walking along side roads. The other passengers don’t scream or threaten to find another vehicle; they just wait.

Meetings, events and church services don’t pay attention to run-time and can go as long as four hours. No one leaves upset or stands up to say, “This is a waste of time.” It’s just African time.

I am the only person who wears a watch in my village. I may think the meeting could be wrapped in an hour and there should be no excuse for students who come to school 15 minutes late but I am the foreigner and the only one with time standards. So, I must adapt.

I’ve learned to take a book with me and watch the scenery like a movie. Patience is not a virtue of mine, but I am trying. For 27 years, I lived by the clock, but now I have to relearn to live without it. It’s not easy, but, if I want to live without frustration, I must.

The rest of the boys were on the other side of the field kicking a soccer ball and setting up practice penalty kicks. Still in his uniform, he was on the girls’ side of the field.

He was headed to join the others when he noticed a circle of girls passing the ball in diameter paths. “Drop and pass,” he offered and they stared blankly.

He murmured something in Sesotho and the girls formed a cue and gave him the ball. He kicked it to the first in line and she stopped the ball with one foot, using the other to kick it back to him. After the ball was gone from her foot, she went to the back of the line and the next girl came forward. A simple soccer drill made new to this group of Basotho secondary girls.

The boy did this for several minutes, showing them ways to stop the ball and what part of the foot to use when passing. He switched to another drill that was practicing passes without the stop.

“Good.” “Better.” “Great work.” He never let a girl leave the front without an encouraging word.

I watched this scenario for 10 minutes. The other teachers were absent or busy, so I was the lone leader of sports. Sports are hard because I have to control 65 students and most don’t understand English. Each time I nearly lose my voice trying to carrel them and give order to the activity. Just getting them to walk from the school to the field is hard work. I want to help and guide them, but frustration sets in deep and I lose hope.

Yet, sometimes, when I just stop and let things happen something incredible comes out. An unintentional byproduct of good. This boy was helping his classmates, even encouraging them, both things unheard of for typical Basotho students. He may not have done that if I or another teacher was bossing the students around. The girls didn’t need me to lead them, one of their own stepped up to do the job and in a much better way than I ever could have.

That is what I am here for. Not to be the leader but to plant seeds for others to be leaders. Did I do something to encourage this kid to help his classmates? Not really. But I didn’t do anything to prevent it and sometimes, in this tough work environment, that is a success.

The first time I met Will was at the Philadelphia International Airport. It was July 5th. I noticed the lanky blonde because he was holding a book I knew well: The Peace Corps Handbook.

As it turns out, Will and I were two of four Peace Corps Invitees that just walked off the plane from Denver. We all happened to meet at baggage claim and took a bus to the Historic Holiday Inn in Downtown Philadelphia. Two days later, we were all on a plane to Niger.

The last time I saw Will was at the hotel in Rabat, Morocco. He was about to get on a plane, well a series of planes, to start his Peace Corps journey over in South Africa. He was worried that he didn’t have the right shoes.

When I got my invite to Lesotho, Will was one of the first I emailed; we were going to be PCV neighbors. He was ecstatic and we both made promises for a meet up or two while living in southern Africa. It was just a pipe dream, especially for me being on lockdown for what seemed like an unfair amount of months (three), until I got an email. The title: “I AM COMING!”

Will and two of his PC South Africa friends wanted to see the Kingdom in the Sky and it worked out that he knew of a place they could stay for a few days. We exchanged emails back and forth for a several weeks, making plans and giving out directions. Late Sunday, in a rented silver Volkswagen Polo, they arrived.

In between Niger and Lesotho, I was able to see a few of my Niger friends. Alex and I, both proud natives of the Rushmore State, had a brief catch up at a bar in Sioux Falls before he moved to North Carolina. Known in the Zinder hostel for his baking skills, he brought me truffles.

And last March, we had a mini-Zinder reunion at South by Southwest. Sean, Audrey and I all made the trip down and we stayed with Laura, an Austin native. (I actually went down with some other friends but I got to see this group a lot and spent a night at Laura’s). Still heartbroken in Niger, we consoled each other with good music, memory stories and plans for the next thing.

Yet, I hadn’t been reunited with anyone from my training class. Most of them direct transferred or re-enrolled quickly and were gone before any meet ups could be arranged. Also, I was in the middle of the country without transportation, so a quick trip up or down the coast wasn’t a possibility for me. I was eager to see Will, to see a piece of that life that means so much to me.
Danielle was also a PCV in Niger, but she had only been in her village eight days when we were ordered to evacuate. I wasn’t in the mood to meet many new people in Morocco so most of the new group went unknown to me. I was eager to meet Danielle and hear her perspective of life after Niger.

Also, it’s always fun to meet other PCVs and, as PCVs of the country that completely surround mine, I thought they would have some good insight.

There were only around my area for two nights but it was fabulous to share stories, compare PC Lesotho and PC South Africa and talking longingly of Niger. We spent a good chunk of the time in my house talking and cooking. I had prepared quite a bit of food and they brought sacks full of groceries so we were never hungry.

They visited one of my classes and my students were more well behaved then I have ever seen. They even paid attention and really focused on their work. After the lesson I invited the students to ask our visitors questions and, in typical Basotho fashion, they asked them to sing the national anthem. They only agreed if the students would sing Lesotho’s, which they did and it was breathtakingly beautiful as always.

Before my guests arrived, I asked the teachers if it would be OK to have the last hour of class for PCVs from South Africa to make a HIV/AIDs presentation. They agreed and we gathered all the students for a game that demonstrates how HIV/AIDs inhibits the immune system. Their presentation also talked about how ARVs can help a person and prevention.

After we took a walk in the village, exposing them to this beauty that I get to live with everyday. At one point, Will said to me, “I know you may not feel like it, but this experience is very close to Niger.” They all commented on the calm and serenity of this place I call home.

They wanted to experience a traditional Basotho meal so I asked my ‘m’e to cook papa and meroho (spinach with pumpkin) and she prepared pieces of pork that I bought at a butchery in the next village over. It was a delicious meal and my host family was delighted to have the guests. They beamed and kept saying, “We are happy.” So were we.

After we polished off a chocolate cake that I made from scratch in a dutch oven and drank the most delicious Merlot I’ve ever tasted. We talked more and then settled in for a good night’s rest. The next day they were off to explore more of the country.

The days leading up to their visit were stressful. I was so worried about getting food, cleaning my house and giving them proper directions that I completely lost the excitement for seeing my friend. But, once they got here, those things didn’t matter and what did was the ability to spend time with someone I wasn’t sure I would see again.

Their visit was nice breather for me as I end Phase II and prepare for Phase III. It was a break from daily work to actually see my village and my life for what it was. I saw my village and work through their eyes and I realized that I have a pretty darn good life here. I was blessed with a genuinely kind host family and given the opportunity to live in a gorgeous village. I have incredible students who are motivated when I stop yelling at them. My life here is very good, which I couldn’t see on my own.

Hosting others was more than just a few days of chatting and good food. It was a reminder of where I came from, where I am and where I can go. It was exactly what I needed at this point in my service, and seeing an old friend is the best type of fertilizer for the heart.

I was part of the cross country, track and swim teams. I was an editor for the school newspaper and a member of the yearbook, National Honor Society, choir and band. I had a part-time job that paid for gas, fashionable clothes and popcorn chicken from the gas station down the street from my high school.

My biggest worries were science tests, whether or not I overdrew on my checking (which I did A LOT) and why my so-called friend wasn’t talking to me. At the time, my problems felt insurmountable. Yet, I didn’t drink, do drugs or have sex. I lived with my both of my parents inside a warm house. I got good grades, traveled around the state and to a few major U.S. cities with school organizations, wore a letterman jacket plump with athletic honors and went to prom. Eventually, I won several scholarships and went off to college. I had a pretty nice run at the teenager years.

My Basotho students, who range form 12 – 21, only use computers in their typing class and don’t know the ends of the Internet like American teenagers. Some walk two to three hours one way to school, no matter the weather. They eat the same dry maize and oily vegetables for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Their only activities are dedicated sport time two hours a week. When not in school, they must look after animals or do the family’s washing. Some have lost their parents to HIV/AIDs and must scramble to pay fees. Some could eventually become prostitutes to earn money. Teenage pregnancy and overuse of drugs and alcohol are problems they share with American teenagers, but here they aren’t some local news story to scare parents into caring or a show on MTV. It’s a fact not talked about.

My students worry about being left alone to fulfill their own basic needs while students. They worry about were the money will come for their education. They worry about not ever breaking out of poverty and fulfilling their dreams. They worry that one day HIV/AIDs will carve their grave too.

They don’t think these things are abnormal. They act like immature teenagers, flirting with each other and laughing while a teacher is disciplining them. They frustrate me the way American teenagers would if I was there teacher. They don’t know life any different and it makes me cry thinking they never will. And yet, they act happier than I ever did.

It’s true that joining the Peace Corps comes with a lot of sacrifices. One of my dearest friends in the world is getting married in April and I only get to enjoy it through pictures. There are smaller moments, such as causal weekends at home or random nights out, that I miss too. But, there are smaller things as well. I gave up the ability to run to my favorite sandwich shop for lunch, watch movies on rainy days, wear shorts when I run and feeling clean. Mostly, I gave up being comfortable.

Now, I am not complaining, these are (mostly) small points compared to this incredible experience, which I wouldn’t trade for all the hot showers and veggie subs in the world. However, in this new state of living I must find some sense of normal.

The volunteer with sacrifices list is home now. When I asked her boyfriend (who is still in country) how she was doing, he said she enjoys being able to take care of herself and going to the gym. That made me realize that I do a pretty terrible job of taking care of myself here because I am so wrapped up in other emotions. I need to do more of the things I love while eating well, exercising and just being nice to myself.

A piece of advice I got in Niger was to do whatever you needed to in the morning – run six miles or dance to music as loud as your speakers would allow – to get yourself out the door. In a place where I feel constantly like an outside, I try to do my favorite things to make me happy.

A daily cup of coffee, “This American Life” in the background as I do dishes, running along the dirt road that leads out of my village, wearing my favorite necklace, meeting a friend for beers and blogging (of course) are things I enjoyed in the states and they help me feel like Heather. Even reruns of “How I Met Your Mother” and “Glee” bring some kind of comfort and feeling of home.

Slowly, I am starting to recognize this as my life for the next two years, a time frame that is truly daunting. It’s not some quick vacation or adventure, but a life and I need to treat it like that. And it’s in the smallest of moments I see the real Heather come out: singing to myself in front of a group of girls at sports and joking with the teachers.

It’s the small things that make us who we are and what we cling to when everything else is different.

Hidden away in a ravine, it was the only problem I faced at the moment. The trees and woodland smell tricked me to believe I was somewhere else. The event was to simulate camping, and unlike most things in Lesotho that are designed to imitate Western things, it actually felt like camping.

One of my fellow Maseru district volunteers, Evan, had been working with his Masotho counterpart to plan this event, introducing camping to Basotho. Despite that the Basotho spend so much time outside – cooking, cleaning, socializing – the need to get away to nature with a fire and starry sky isn’t one for them. That’s daily life. Yet, Evan’s counterpart wanted to share with his nation the fun of bringing people together, cooking, playing games and enjoying the Earth. He also wanted it to be a cultural exchange and encouraged Evan to invite other PCVs.

I met Evan, Nathan and Hannah (all Maseru District volunteers) at a nearby junction and we rode the remaining distance together. When we go to the taxi stop two familiar faces were waiting for me, Malete and Mohau. Malete and Mohau are Basotho friends I’ve met since my time in village. They both live in nearby villages, but are motivated and strong young people and I thought they may like the event. Because Lesotho is a small country the way South Dakota is a small state, they already knew each other.

We met up with Evan’s counterpart and hiked down into the valley. Instantly, we set into chill mood. Some tossed a Frisbee in an open plain and Mohau, Hannah and I started a thrilling game of “Go Fish.” We stopped to gather firewood when a caravan of women and children came down the valley’s rocky side carrying pots and buckets of papa and moroho. (Papa and moroho are the standard Lesotho dishes. Papa is corn mill and moroho is usually cooked spinach with oil and seasoning, but this version included squash). When the bo-‘m’e had enough wood to cook, the rest of the fairly large, mixed group started to play games. The Basotho taught us four Americans a few of their games and we all giggled and ran around each other.

At first, I was nervous about inviting Malete and Mohau. I knew they would enjoy the event but some volunteers like to keep their American and village life separate. Although in America I love to mix my groups of friends, it doesn’t always go well. People are lumped into friend categories based on how they know me and sometimes there isn’t always synergy, even though to me they are all my friends and I want to spend time with all of them. Someone doesn’t get along with someone or someone else doesn’t like hanging out with such and such people. In this completely foreign environment, where both my American and Basotho friendships are still new, I was sure how it would play out.

Yet, there was never a sheen of awkwardness like there can be in mixed friends groups in America. Mohau spent much of the day taking pictures of the games and songs and Malete, as a coach for K4Life – super cool program that uses games and activities to teach students about HIV/AIDs – he ended up leading several of the games. My favorite was something called “Let me see your funky chicken” and the boys next to me barked when they couldn’t understand then ‘n’ in “funky” through my thick American accent and thought I said a similar word. Malete also brought his poetry and shared it with Nathan along with someone of the hardships he faced.

After we played a few games, Evan brought out his guitar and the Basotho started singing. Basotho sing all the time – at school, at church, in the fields – so they have a large collection of songs they all know. I never understand them but they are beautiful. Evan strummed along to their voices and they beautiful harmonies between the men and women calmed any other thought or concern outside of that exact moment.

When the event was over, it’s customary for a representative to give some kind of closing speech. Both Evan and Nathan thanked all participants for a great afternoon and reminding us how special Basotho were. In those few hours in the sun, nobody asked us for money. Nobody stared at us. They just laughed with us and sang to us. I didn’t feel like a freak show or an outsider, just another person enjoying the outdoors and company of others.

On the way home, I sat in the back of a taxi with Evan and asked him if he thought the event was a success. He said yes. His counterpart had told him there was man at the event who has a mental disability and that day was the first time he has seen the man smile in two years. It didn’t matter what else had had happened, that right there meant it was worth it.

During the week I can get discouraged. My students aren’t performing like I hoped and act just like the teenagers they are. Projects fall through and some villagers see me as a bank. Yet, this event reminded me why I came to Lesotho, why this place is special, why these people are special. For just a few hours, we weren’t Americans or Basotho, but just people being together.

In Lesotho, I’ve been eager to jump into projects and actually begin Peace Corps work. I feel like I have done that with the library and the health workshop. For the first time, I felt like a true volunteer.

And then I hit a brick wall.

The planning for the health workshop was going very smoothly, almost a little too smooth. The villagers did not expect me to bring in all this money for the workshop, which is unusual. Many times, villagers want the help of a volunteer because they see dollar signs.

However, I recently met with the nurses at a nearby clinic, who will conduct the workshop, and it turns out they can’t host it at the clinic because of renovations. They want to do it in the village, which means they need transport money and lunch. To provide this isn’t a ton of money, not enough to ask for a Peace Corps grant, but the bill is too large for my villagers to foot. I am worried they will be discouraged by the money and give up. We can raise the money, I think, but I am not sure how.

A volunteer’s work is rarely simple and easy. They are roadblocks and hurdles and the definition of a good volunteer is how you can work around them. I plan to take the information to our committee and tell them that giving up is not an option. We’ll figure out away to get the money.

For so many years, I wanted to be a volunteer, a good volunteer. Here is my chance and I’m going to seize it, no matter the number of roadblocks.

I barely remember the last time I took a shower or the actual color of my feet.

Last week, a drunk man passed out on me in a taxi. A day before, I was on a taxi that came to a screeching halt when the wheel and axle flew off.

At least a dozen times a day I catch someone staring at me, and not just a casual glance but a full-on, mouth-open stare that often lasts as long as I am in the persons peripheral.

A rooster wakes me up each morning and, thanks to the dozens of animals that roam my yard, my roommates are hundreds of flies.

The other day I wanted to do a track workout and shared an inside joke with myself, both signs that my sanity may have walked out the door.

Still, this is the best job I’ve ever had.

When I landed in Philadelphia for staging of my Niger service, I was filled with intense emotions. As I passed through the terminals to get to baggage claim, I came across a poster for Peace Corps. “Never start a sentence with ‘I wish I would have …’” it said. It was a sign that I was on the right path.

Despite all that I been through with Peace Corps, I’ve never been more proud to belong to an organization. The PCV behind my name means more to me than anything else I’ve accomplished in my life and it’s something no one can take from me, not even Al-Qaeda.

Within my 10 and half combined (Niger and Lesotho) months in Peace Corps, I met incredible Americans and Africans. I’ve learned three languages and how to do daily chores without the conveniences of modern technology. I’ve been more engaged with the world and myself. Mostly, I feel like I am contributing something to humanity.

It’s not easy and some days do end in tears, but I’ve never had substantial doubt that I shouldn’t be here. This is right.

Today is International Peace Corps Day and I’m blessed to be one of the lucky few to call themselves a Peace Corps Volunteers. To all of my fellow PCVs and RPCVs, you are an amazing group and I’m humbled to be included with you. You make the world better.

While devouring a letter from a good friend and a small vegetarian pizza, the author of the letter asked, “Are you lonely? I would be lonely.” I looked around the restaurant, it was only me and the server. Yes, I thought. I am very lonely.

Loneliness is a main part of the Peace Corps process, almost as universal as training and medical exams. All volunteers experience it and have to find a way to deal with a deeper loneliness that most have ever felt.

The first three months of service, which I am currently experiencing, are the hardest. Still new to the village, most of the relationships are acquaintances and it’s hard to indentify true friends. I smile and greet people through their harmless stares, but I am still an attraction and foreign.

In Lesotho, the first three months, or Phase II as we call it, is also deemed as lockdown, meaning we can’t travel anywhere over night or make trips out of district. My closest neighbor is about two hours a way and I get to see her fairly often for day-trips to Maseru, but most of my friends are spread throughout the country and it won’t be until the end March till I see them again. I can’t run down the hill to Katie or Caitlin’s house when I need to laugh with someone nor can Lauren and James sit on my porch to enjoy zimbas and Fanta over venting.

My connection to home is also fading. Although I have some incredible friends and family who have gone out of their way to remind me that I am loved, I feel so disconnected to their everyday lives. I miss watching TV with my mom after work. I miss coffee dates with Melissa. I miss the casual lunch or beer with old friends. The lack of those small moments hurt the most.

With all of this alone time, my thoughts wander into the back of my memory bank, uncovering moments and feelings I would never recall in everyday American life. Things that I never really got over or situations that were so painful it was best to bury them are now forcing me to replay them in my head. I go over broken friendships and relationships, sometimes twice, and wonder why I screwed up so much instead of accepting that those things are a part of life and allowing loneliness to sting sharper.

Loneliness is something we are taught to fear, an emotion we want to avoid if we can. Here, though, I can’t out run it. It hits me and brings out my burliest of insecurities. An unreturned message sends me into a panic that I have one less friend. A less than cheery from hello from bo-‘m’e worries me that I am not doing enough to integrate. All while, my mind is spinning memories and coming to a very scaring conclusion: I am alone.

But this concept doesn’t have to be so daunting; loneliness can become solitude.

I don’t need to fear my time alone. Instead, I can use it to focus on me and addressing some issues that I must in order to be the person I want to be. This can be an opportunity.

Next month, I plan to seize the last stint of Phase II and really focus on what is here and not what I am missing. I will also use that time to address this loneliness and what it is that I am really afraid of.

It won’t be easy, but nothing about being here is. That is exactly why I came.

I steal attention.

Men tending to grazing animals forget their flock for a few minutes and focus on me as I run by on the main road. Children stop their play to stare, barely blinking, as I walk home from school. Even the boys that work for my host father can’t stop looking at me as I complete daily choirs.

No matter what I am doing there are always eyes on me.

Before coming to Lesotho, I was warned of the fish bowl effect. You will be the main act in town, they said. And privacy is no longer a right, but a gift, that is if you are lucky to catch a few seconds of it. I didn’t realize how much I value anonymity until I no longer had it.

Now, I am not the first volunteer in my village nor am I the only Caucasian currently living here (the previous volunteer ended his service in 2010 and an English man moved to the village 22 years ago and never left) but I am still this creature that villagers love to gaze at and gossip about when they don’t think I understand.

I have no intention on reaching A-list celebrity status in my lifetime, but I like to believe that I kind of know how it feels to be Julia Roberts – strangers knowing my name and curious about my marital status. Marriage proposals, as well as requests to be my traveling companion back to America, come daily and I can’t go anywhere with at least one person, often someone I don’t know, asking me where I am walking to.

When I see eyes are locked on my every move, I wonder what they are thinking, or more, how they are judging me. All of my insecurities flourish doing these moments.

To be honest, my villagers can’t help it. I am the entertainment. Most children don’t have toys and adults don’t carry around smart phones or computers connected to the entire world. Television is reserved for the wealthy (only about 10 families in my village have electricity) and the culture isn’t known for reading. When they see a strange woman, who acts and talks different than them, it’s fascinating.

Being the center of attention does have some powerful benefits. Instead of screaming at the man staring at me I can talk to him about the villages’ water sources. I can ask gawking teenagers about how HIV/AIDS is spread and if they know where they can get tested. In order to inform my villagers about serious issues, I need their attention and I already got it, but it’s what I do with it that will determine my legacy as a member of the community.

That takes a lot of strength, which I am not sure I’ve built up yet. Still, I can try and remember that in two years, when I return to the United States, I will be just another face in the crowd. So, I might as well make the most of my 15 minutes.

Heather Mangan is a Pierre native and Peace Corps Volunteer in Lesotho. You can read more about her service on her blog, heathermangan.com.

In about a month and a half, two-dozen dirty boxes from New Hampshire were transformed into a functioning library. It’s not perfect, but it’s new and exciting.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of my first projects at school is a library. The library was a godsend, something to do in those early days when school was not in session and I was trying to maneuver the village. Unpacking boxes, sorting books into genres and stamping inside pages with the school seal were a great, and seemingly useful way, to spend the first month.

To be honest, I had no idea what I was doing. I like libraries but I am no expert on how they operate. I reached out to a few volunteers and consulted Peace Corps manuals, but mostly I did what made sense.

There are more than 1,400 books in the library, including novels, non-fiction and textbooks. The day I unpacked all of the books, I nearly burst into tears – I had no idea what to do. So, I stuck to what I know and what I like, simplicity.

I sorted the books into several sections and, eventually, decided to lump them into three categories: fiction, nonfiction and textbook & reference. From there, the textbook & reference and nonfiction were separated into sub categories and fiction was put into classes based on reading level. Then everything received colored stickers (or masking tape inked with markers because that is what my school could afford) to help the students determine what they wanted and for easily re-shelving. If you are in Form A, you may only want to look at the green and blue sticker books. If you wanted to read about animals, look for the red books and find the “Animals” label on the shelf.

At first, I organized books by alphabetical order, using the author’s last name. The concept of libraries is brand new to them so it was best to avoid the Dewy Decimal System. We also didn’t have a card catalogue (no resources for it and the students wouldn’t know how to use it, or rather they wouldn’t) so there was no real need for it. But, I could hear library enthusiasts judging me for not alphabetizing, so it was the least I could do. However, when I asked a few girls to help me copy the names of the books down for our records with specific instructions to keep the books in order, they put them back in way that made sense to them – by size. At that point, I realized it didn’t matter if my library followed proper protocol, this was for Lesotho students and it should be organized in a way they can understand (Basotho are extremely particular about cleanliness and neatness).

With most of the organizing done, I needed to sticker the books and record what I had incase something goes missing, but it was a lot of work for one person. Most of the teachers weren’t interested so I asked for student library monitors, one from each class so there would be three. I got 10 helpers. They were eager to be in the library and took great pride in staking the books just so and placing the stickers. During their class’ scheduled library time, they were in charge of re-shelving books and making sure students follow the rules. For their leadership, they get to wear a special ‘LM’ badge I made and I gave them American candy (thanks Mom and Amy) after workdays.

It took a month and half, but last week, we opened the library. When each class walked in for the first time, they “wow”ed it. The school board had the same reaction.

Most students checked out books the first day and some were so excited that they picked up a book but decided to find another several times, thinking maybe there is a better one in the bunch. Finally, I had to make them chose one and said they could get another next week.

The library is not a finished project, but a work in-progress. Eventually, I want to start a reading program similar to Book It and use late-fee money to buy the top readers snacks at the end of the year. I have a few hand drawn signs, but I would like to plaster the walls with “Reading is fun” posters and create special reading spaces throughout the room. There is a small magazine section that I would love to expand (hint to those who want to send packages) and I would like to incorporate Sesotho books. I also want to open the library to the community at night or on the weekends.

One awesome soon-to-be addition is bookmarkers. My lovely mother talked to the librarian at her school and he donated a bunch of bookmarkers my students can use and will love.

I am proud of this library because it’s a visual representation of my work here, but mostly because the students are excited about it. It’s not that these kids have wanted a library for years; the whole idea is new. Even casual reading is unfamiliar to them. But, when they come into the library, they smile and are eager to find the perfect book.

A few days before the library was to open, one of the teachers came into the room while I was working. He took a look around and sighed. “You know, at first, I thought you were being top optimistic about this library. But you really did it. It looks wonderful.”

That is all I need.

Announced at morning assembly, today was a special day. It’s Election Day. Despite their clear instructions to speak in English at all times on the school ground, their chatter with each other is often in Sesotho, which means I can’t eavesdrop on their conversation. If I could, I like to imagine hopeful candidates spent the day smooth talking their classmates, saying things like, “A vote for me is a vote for you.”

The election was to determine the Head Boy, Head Girl and prefects of the school. Sadly, I wasn’t familiar with the concept of prefect until one of the Weasley brothers was so named at Hogwarts, but since many Basotho western concepts are borrowed from the British I was eager to find our own prefects. Although the leadership is not as formal compared to the student governments in America, the Head Boy and Head Girl act as liaisons between the students and teaching staff. Students should feel comfortable enough to approach the Heads about an issue with a teacher or the school and then those in charge will try to resolve it. The prefects are the vices.

The population at my school is the average size of one first year class at other schools. It’s both a secondary (equivalent to the U.S. middle school) and high school and the students are allowed to elect two boys and girls from each level to represent them. But because of the low enrollment there is only one student in the entire high school – a very shy, but sweet and intelligent girl – there would only be one set, with the lone higher schooler automatically claiming the Head Girl post. The other spots, though, were subjected to the democratic process.

After lunch, we cancelled all classes for the afternoon to make this important decision. The students were allowed to nominate themselves as a candidate with up to four in each race. The boys went first and, when they had three already at the front of the class ready for a spicy debate, two others made their way at the same time so the teachers decided that five would run in the race.

Bill* presented his platform first: a promise to work with the kitchen staff to make sure “students are satisfied” and to ensure only English is spoken at school, which is already a rule. The following students offered the same ideas, some including “keep uniform” or make sure uniforms look nice. Most of what they presented were expectations from the staff and principal and it wasn’t until the fourth candidate, Tom, used some true campaign lingo and mentioned changes to “benefit the school.”

The last nominee was Mark, a student I knew of because of his involvement with the library. Shifting his weight from foot to foot while clutching a worn backpack, he delivered a list of promises: more peaches for students, a change in the lunch menu to include sausage and assurance that sports would definitely happen this year (the previous year, there wasn’t sports and the students went on strike). His campaign platform had the tone of many student presidential speeches I heard in college and high school: a good way to get elected but the administration would never allow it.

The students then set out to vote, writing their preferred candidate on a torn slip of paper. Once collected, another teacher and I began to tally. Mark won by 12 votes, with Tom coming second. The problem was that final vote count reached 95, about 30 more than actual students in the room. So, we called for a revote. The second time, the count was two more than heads but it was close enough. Again, Mark in first. Again, Tom in second.

While we were counting votes, three girls were vying for the prefect spot, since the Head Girl was already chosen. Because I was working on the boys’ vote, I heard only bits and pieces of their declarations and commitment to the school, which didn’t seem different or more energetic from the boys. We were passed those votes, this time three under the number of students, and one nominee, Morgan, stole the race with 44 votes. I didn’t know the name let alone say it but I wondered what kind of girl she was. Was she elected because she was right for the job? Or was she elected because she is popular? Sometimes, in student elections, it can be hard to tell the different.

The teachers were able to quiet the students down enough for me to read the final tally. I felt awful revealing that two boys only received five votes and one girl’s name showed up a mere two times, but when the winners were announced the entire room erupted in cheers. I glanced at Mark as I said his name and count vote. He buried his head into the backpack with a deep smile. I have a feeling he’ll be good at this job.

The schools’ newest leaders stood in front of the class and I recognized Morgan as a good student. They all were. They smiled sheepishly as I ordered a round of applause for them. Tom stepped forward and said we’ll be there for you.

Both Lesotho and the United States face presidential elections in 2012. Both have opposing parties constantly screaming at each other and both have economies that desperately need saving. It’s sometimes hard to have faith in the democratic process with so much hate and blaming, but when I see these kids that faith comes back.

I doubt Mark will convince the groundskeeper to allow the students more peaches and students will still speak Sesotho in between classes, but these kids wanted to be something to their peers, they wanted to be their voice. It’s democracy in a pure form and it’s coated in hope.

*All names of students are pseudonyms. 

You need to accept that you will not change the world. Also, that there are many things that will not differ, regardless of your presence, and, you are the one that needs to adjust behavior and thinking.

You need to accept this isn’t a project or something you can neatly wrap up. It’s a process and, at times, it’ll kick your butt.

You need to accept that you made this decision, knowing the sacrifices it will entail, and you need to live with that.

You need to accept that with some patience and a smile you will be accepted.

You need to accept that this is your life now.

You need to accept that this isn’t about you. It never was.

You need to accept you.

For an hour on Tuesdays and two on Thursdays, I teach a lifeskills class to the Form Bs, the equivalent of high school freshmen. We discuss making good decisions, communicating opinions and wants and, eventually, HIV/AIDs, early pregnancy and drugs and alcohol. Today, though, we took a break from assertive behavior for Valentine’s Day.

Most of the classes are straight lecture, without much play let alone crafts. Lifeskills is a class where I can incorporate more hands-on and fun learning as opposed to English, which requires a lot more board work and notes. We have been talking about surrounding ourselves with people who help us make good decisions, such as a teacher or parent, so I took a bit further, to incorporate the holiday, and reminded them to tell those people we love them.

One of my loves, Amy, sent me a box of crayons in a Christmas package so I brought them to class and instructed the students to tear out a sheet of paper and write a message to someone they love. I showed them an example that I made the night before and dumped the crayons on to a desk. But before they began, I handed them each a little paper heart with their names and a simple declaration: I love you.

I do love my students. On the tough days, the why-am-I-here ones, they change my attitude. They make me laugh and scream at the same time. Their smiles dissolve all the hate in my heart and I am ready to try again.

On Valentine’s Day, we get so wrapped up in romantic love that those who don’t have it are bitter and jealous. But, this day isn’t about that for me. Maybe it’s because my romantic life has been put on hold for many years to make this dream happen and happen without any reason to look back but it could also be that I have so much love around me that it doesn’t matter who it comes from.

At home, there are many people that I love and miss greatly, but, here in this tiny country, I have new loved ones. They are scattered throughout the kingdom but also in this tiny village. Love, I have it, and lots of it.

There will be no fancy dinners, boxes of chocolate, shiny red cards or bouquets of roses for me today. Instead, I had 40 minutes with a group of coloring teenagers singing Akon and Justin Bieber. It was the perfect Valentine’s Day.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my loves.

I met her a few months earlier, during training. Our topic for the day was orphans in Lesotho.  With HIV/AIDS infection rate at 24 percent, it’s not uncommon for a child to lose a parent, sometimes two.  Like in America, this population falls through the cracks. Sure, they can live with family members, but it isn’t always a guarantee that that family member can feed them or even wants them.

Megan is a double orphan, meaning she has lost both her mother and father. I am too afraid to ask how, but HIV/AIDS is the assumption. She was forced to quit school to look after her three younger brothers.

Thanks to the help of one very good Peace Corps Volunteer, Megan’s three younger brothers now go to school and the family has money for food and other daily needs. The volunteer also helped her turn her situation into an opportunity. Megan runs a youth group for children who are not in school because they are orphans or their parents can’t afford to pay the fees. She teaches them income-generating activities, such as planting vegetables to sell at the market, raising chickens to slaughter for meat and making brooms. She’s also collaborated with local offices of international organizations, such as World Vision, to put on clinics about poverty and HIV/AIDS.

The girl dreams big. She is now hoping to finish a few of her high school credits to go to school for project development. She wants to start more groups like hers in surrounding villages (we hope to work together to get one started in my village) and eventually create her own non-profit for the region.

No big thinker, politician, writer, celebrity or athlete inspires me the way Megan does. She doesn’t want other children to go through what she did, and if they do, she wants them to know they are not alone.

There is nothing I could do during my time in Lesotho that will make as big of impact as what Megan is doing. Unlike me, Megan won’t leave in two years. She will most likely spend the rest of her life trying to make her country a better place. She is the kind of person this world needs more of and I’ll do whatever I can to resemble even a 10^th of her character.

*Megan is a pseudo name. 

The first three months of the year always seem to tug on and, no matter where I am in life they tend to be emotionally down points. Even though spring is a ways off, in my case fall then winter, a new month is upon us and that feels good.

As part of my Year of Presence project, I want to recap each month and hone in on a few items that really need my focus.

January was a good to start to the YOP. After a bad class, I would take a breath and remind myself to have more patience, or give people a break. I don’t want my short temper to ruin relationships here, so I constantly am reminding myself to breath and try again. It’s helping, I think. Recently, I was extremely frustrated with one of my classes because I can’t motivate the students and get them to participate. I vowed the next day that I would walk in with a smile and encouraging voice. The class started rocky, but I continued to smile and eventually hands started to rise when I asked questions. I left the class skipping.

Lately, a strong bout of loneliness has set in. I miss my friends and family back home and my relationships here still developing, so I crave life chats, silly antics and just retelling my day to someone besides my journal. The loneliness directs me to Facebook, which I really need to wean myself off of. To battle both issues, I’ve written more letters this month than I did in all of training. If I want to hear from a friend in the U.S. I write a letter instead of a wall post or message. I love the feeling of taking a stack of thick envelopes to the post office and imagining people’s reactions as they open their mailbox and find a letter from Africa.

This month, I’ve also really focused on my health. If I feel strong and happy about how I treat my body, I’ve realized, it impacts how I react to the rest of the world. Before 6 a.m., I am usually out the door, enjoying familiar tunes and a hard run as the sun peaks over the mountains. It’s an amazing start to the day.

Although I’ve made some adjustments, there are still many things I need to do in order to live fully in the present. It’s OK for me to miss home and certain comforts, such as coffee shops and yoga classes, but I need to let go of worries about what will become of me when my service is finished. The next phase will happen when it does, but I can’t let anxiety about it now overshadow the incredibleness of this experience.

The first month of the YOP was a great experiment and am I excited to continue work on it and grow in the second month.

Happy February.

Heights and I do not get along well and I detest anything that involves moving downhill, i.e. skiing, sledding and even descending while biking and hiking.

But lately, I find myself on a never-ending roller coaster, with high highs and low lows.  A Peace Corps Niger friend, Judy, recently discussed the idea of the Peace Corps roller coaster on her blog and it is something that has been on my mind a lot lately.

The roller coaster theory is presented to us in training as a roadmap for our emotions for the next tow years. At some points, you’ll be very confident in your work and excited to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. At other times, you’ll doubt your ability to make a difference and you decision to come here.

One of the prime up-and-down times is the first three months. You come off of training, emphatic to have the language and cultural lessons over and actually begin working. Eventually, the newness and excitement wears off and you suddenly realize how lonely this experience is, how you can’t express or even be yourself. But, like any roller coaster, it will pick back up again and bring you to a different high.

My first few months in village have been filled with a swirl of happy-sad. Some mornings, I wake up feeling energetic and optimistic about my role in the village. Other days, I am full of doubt and indecision.

The lows can be hard to get through. Often, I want to lock myself in my house and eat as much American-sent chocolate as I can manage to stuff in my mouth. Yet, what always gets me through is knowing the next high is coming. If I hold on until the next day, or even the next hour, sweet reassurance will come.

And, without fail, it does. Like any trial or tribulation in life, the hard is make what the good good. The low points make the high points so very worth it, and when I look back at these two years later on, the highs and lows will both be highs.

Katie was my neighbor in our training village and is one of my closest friends in this country. The girl doesn’t know how to utter a bad word about another person and meets every obstacle with a smile and “OK!”

A few times, I would come out of my house, where I was studying or reading, and see Katie 200 meters down the hill surrounded by kids. She’d be entertaining them in dance-off or showing off her incredible jump roping skills. On our walks to and from our training center, while the other trainees and I were hashing out items in the Peace Corps rumor mill, Katie was usually chatting up a group of schoolgirls, making them giggle and adore her. I love kids, but Katie never seemed to be annoyed or irritated the way I can be. She played, smiled and loved every second of it.

Now that I am in my village and Katie lives on the other side of the country (boo!), I try to channel her energy and vibrancy to enrich my experience and break down the walls between my villagers and I.

One day, while out walking around the village, I greeted a woman and when she asked me where I was going I explained that I was walking around the village because I wanted to see it. When I say this in Sesotho, the concept of “taking a walk” is lost and she thought I should climb a nearby hill so that I could literally see the village so she assigned a few children to be my companions.

We walked up the hill, not really saying much. I tried a few simple English phrases and they didn’t understand. I flipped to Sesotho, and with my accent and poor pronunciation, they still didn’t understand. We made our ascent nearly in silence and not much more was spoken as I took in the scenery from the top. On the way down, I thought that I needed to make this experience better, not only for myself but also for the kids. What would Katie do, I thought. And, then I knew.

“If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

The children stared at me, but, when I repeated the phrase, their eyes lit up and they joined along, trying to mimic my pronunciation. From there, we moved on to the “Hokey Pokey,” “This Little Light of Mine,” and Rhianna’s “Umbrella” (Rhianna might as well be the queen of Lesotho). We sang all the way down the hill, giggling and enjoying each other’s company much more than on the way up. An OK hike turned into a memorable one.

Recently, I had another What Would Katie Do moment. The few days leading up to this one weren’t really spectacular. On the emotional roller coaster that is being a Peace Corps Volunteer, I hit a few lulls. I had a few “What am I doing here” and “Am I actually going to bring any substantial good to this village” moments. There were all internally-fueled, self-despair thoughts, yet it took me a few days to shake them. When I did, I had a productive day. I accomplished at work and I felt more confident about my role. Yet, I still needed something to completely rid myself of these toxic feelings.

Walks around the village generally make me feel better, but I didn’t get far from my house when I stop. Down the valley a bit, a group of children were playing. I could’ve continued my walk, greeting men and women along the way, but I knew what my dear friend would do. I joined them.

The children were kicking and punching bottles of dirt suspended from a tree by weathered rope as if they were a punching bag in an overpriced gym. When I asked them what they were doing, they replied “training.” I watched and giggled with them when they punched fast or hard enough to knock it down. For a solid 20 minutes, our only conversation was giggles. Once the bottles had been kicked down too many times for repair, we started to play other games. In one, we just jumped up and down and screamed, “We are jumping!” Another, we yelled 1, 2, 3, stop and posed. The person with the best pose earned the right to conduct the next round. We also played some odd game where we split into pairs, constantly shook each other’s hand and acted out some type of business deal over a stove that led to arguing and eventually hugging.

For most of our playtime, I had no idea what was going on, so to make up for it, I flailed my arms and laughed. It seemed to do the trick because the children laughed along. These games reminded me of those my brothers, other kids in our neighborhood and I would play for hours on end in the summer. Before we had our own TVs, practice for whatever sport or jobs, we just had a rug and a group of kids to entertain us. It is the type of childhood memory that comes straight from a Country Time Lemonade ad. With these kids, in the Lesotho village, I could relive those times of innocence and youth and make new friends in the process.

Each day, I am trying to be a better volunteer and letting go of inhibitions and just playing helps me do that. Katie taught me that, so did my villagers.

I read about others’ projects and do-gooding and started to doubt my capabilities to even do something worthy. I spent so much time observing and learning, that when it actually came to the doing, could I? I wasn’t sure.

Yes, I know that I’ve only been a volunteer in Lesotho for a month, however, combined Niger and Lesotho and I’ve spent nice months under Peace Corps. However, five of those have been in training and the other four were spent integrating. I haven’t really done anything, although my time abroad seems like a good chunk.

This line of thinking was starting to impact my attitude. I walked out the door with doubt and negative thoughts swarming me like killer bees. Of course I wouldn’t be able to help anyone with a grumpy demeanor.

In attempt to answer some questions for my Phase II assignment (a series of tasks that each person must complete during our first three months at site; they are meant to help us integrate and learn about our villages) I arranged a meeting with the chief and a few other village leaders. When the day came for the meeting, I realized there would be several people, more than I thought, in attendance and my list of history and what do you do questions didn’t seem adequate. I needed something bigger to show my interest and so I whipped out PACA.

Volunteers all over the world use PACA as an information gathering technique. You use it to learn about the community happenings, such as seasonal calendar and day-to-day activities. It’s also a great way to identify possible projects. We started with strengths, so the villagers could plainly see what good their communities already have to offer. Then we moved on to strengths and needs. Eventually, we indentified a top need and a solution.

I’ll admit that I am not the biggest fan of PACA. In Niger, my training on the activity wasn’t smooth and left a sour taste in my mouth to the point that I denounced the technique in my Lesotho training. One of my main problems is that people often indentify problems too big for lowly volunteers to solve, such as lack of electricity, hospitals and jobs. I feel defeated before we even start anything.

Now, to be fair, I’ve never actually done a PACA session outside of training. I really had no desire to try, but, at this particular meeting with the chief and village leaders, a voice inside my head screamed “DO PACA.” So I did.

To my surprise and delight, the group identified a project that was manageable, a health workshop. They want to teach surrounding communities about hygiene, drinking clean water and basic first aid. Not a small task, but something we could definitely do, so we organized a planning group and another meeting time.

The group members understood that I was there to help co-facilitate, not give them money. They were willing to work with me, but lead the project themselves. In addition, the man I asked to help translate took over the meeting and is now extremely excited to help with the project. I honestly couldn’t stop smiling after the meeting.

It may the first time that I actually felt like a real volunteer. There will be bumps and hurdles, and more than likely failures, but this one meeting gave me hope that I can make the most out of the next two years and be a great volunteer. It was my breakthrough.