This is Africa #2: Children of Lesotho

Words and photographs — and my first attempt at a video compilation (with apologies to Ken Burns) to introduce you to the amazing children of the mountain kingdom of Lesotho.

Before embarking on my trip to South Africa, my former boss and a good friend had advised me to bring with me pens, t-shirts, stickers — little things to hand out along the way. He was telling me from his experiences of traveling to impoverished countries in southeast Asia. I’ve also heard of others giving away polaroids back when those didn’t cost $2.50 a pop on eBay. Most people in places like Africa and Asia probably have never seen a picture of themselves, so it would be something they’d keep forever.

I thought it was a neat idea but when it came to packing my luggage, things were — no surprise — tight. (We weren’t checking anything) I felt it was a small sacrifice as there were plenty more important things to carry on board, like iPod chargers, Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa and the hoards of camera equipment I was bringing.

Then I got to Lesotho (pronounced /lɨˈsuːtuː/), one of the poorest countries you’ll ever visit, and I was crushed.

Crushed by the friendliness and generosities of the people. Crushed by the tragic history of a small country plagued by wars and years of British and Dutch colonization. Crushed by the beauty of the terrain and mountains. Crushed by statistics like 56% of women are HIV positive; 8% infant mortality rate and an average life expectancies of 40.

Then there were the children. I was crushed by them the most.

We crossed the path of a boy walking home from school, wearing a brilliant white collared shirt and navy blue pants. I stopped him to say hello.

“Huh? Oh, hello,” he said, taking a step back, clearly jarred.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

“Uh, oh, it’s ______”

This wasn’t normal occurrence from his routine walk from school.

“How old are you?” I said, now laughing, making it worse.

He fumbled, understanding what I was saying but not having the words to formulate an answer.

I held up fingers to help him out. “Eight? Nine? Ten?”

“Yes!” He stopped me. “Ten.”

I let him go sparing any further sufferings. Swinging his arms and legs, he hurried away without turning back.

“You just made his day,” Sabine, our German friend we had met at the excellent Amphitheater Backpackers said. “It was probably the first time he ever used English. His friends are gonna think he’s so cool.”

***

There were smaller children, like the ones chasing our minivan with fists and sticks, and screaming “OOGA BOOGA ARGHHHHH ARGHHHHH!!!”

We stopped the minibus and I jumped out, yelling, “OOGA BOOGA ARGHHHH” right back at their faces. That made them rowdier. Sticks were being pounded. Then, before anyone knew what was happening, there were suddenly half a dozen little black heads inside the vehicle. They looked at our things, our Westernly possessions, and pointed.

Candy? Sorry, we have no candy. Toys? Nope. Pens or stickers or… anything? Nothing, we suck.

I don’t know why, but I felt a desperate urge to give them something, anything. Perhaps a classic tourist move, but I wasn’t going to be there long enough to teach them a skill or build them a hospital, so offering a morsel of something material was the best I could come up with — and I couldn’t even do that! Then I thought, our lunches! We just just hiked along a cowpath to an awesome view of the village where we were going to eat our sandwiches, but I hadn’t felt hungry at all. (Perhaps, I was too busy having my mind blown.) So, I opened the plastic lunchboxes the hostel had provided and started handing out the triangular pieces of cheese and tomato sandwiches.

The kids went wild. “ARGH!!! OOGA BOOGA NOM NOM NOM!” They were so elated that I started giving away other people’s leftovers. “Anyone gonna finish that? No? Okay, great!” I handed them out before hearing a reply.

“Did he get one? Make sure you give one to the little guy?” Kelly yelled, as the kids were already clamoring for seconds. She was handing me food from the back window like we operated a taco truck in Los Angeles.

“Share! Share!” Someone else yelled. “How do you say ‘share’ in Basotho?”

When the sandwiches were gone, I gave away apples. After those were gone, they pointed at the plastic water bottles our German friends had just bought from the gas station.

“It’s nothing. It’s just water,” Sabine cried.

“Yes. Yes. Water. Whatever. Sure. Give it to us!” Their shiny eyes seemed to say. Sabine shrugged and started handing out water bottles. They slurped it up like it was the elixir of the gods.

***

Pirates of the Kingdom

After all the food was handed out, they took our women.

I made sure to give a slice to the little one.

There were a lot of little ones.

This one didn’t want a sandwich. He preferred his fist.

Drama kings.

Around Town

As we were about to leave, we found this kid napping on the front tire of our minivan. His teacher woke him up by screaming in his face. He ran away, scared. Later, I found him hiding here.

I took several pictures of this kid. In every one, he was doing the same weird thing with his mouth.

At the Schoolyard

Not exaggerating when I say this kid held this pose for no less than 40 seconds.