Some of the most enjoyable moments for me in Lesotho come after school when I am able to talk to individual or small groups of students about anything and everything, in Sesotho. This is when we all really learn. Or should I say this used to be when we all really learn?
On this day it was three girls, Mahlape, Nthatisi, and Moliehi, all of which are in 10th grade. Light rain was falling, and lightning was striking in the distance, so first we started discussing that: Is there lightning in America? Does it kill people often like it does here? Do people in America also say that God is taking a picture when lightning flashes (and that the picture came out poorly if the lightning bolt struck someone)?
Then a taxi whizzed by us on the paved road. "Are there taxis in America?" asked Nthatisi.
"Yeah," I said. "But they don't look the same as these ones." Taxis in Lesotho are almost exclusively white Toyota minivans.
"How do you stop them in America? Do you do this?" Nthatisi began waving her arm up and down, palm down, as people do in order to stop a taxi in Lesotho. I was thinking. No, they don't do that, I don't think. But what do they do. "Um," I stalled. Still thinking. Girls staring. Do you wave, and if so, how? Do you shout, and if so, what? How do you stop a taxi in America, dammit?
Finally, I whispered, "I can't remember."
The girls began dying in laughter. "You're a Mosotho now!" yells Moliehi. "You can't remember! You're going to do this at home and the taxi will just keep going!"
I knew this kind of thing would happen at some point, and I guess I'm somewhat surprised that it had taken so long. But because I've been here for two uninterrupted years now my memory of customary ways of doing things in the States has faded, and therefore I've become less useful as a cultural liaison between Lesotho and the U.S. My trip home in December will be beneficial in that respect. When I return to Lesotho I'll again be able to relate to people how taxis are stopped in America, and other such vital pieces of information.