Lesotho is a small, land-locked country within South Africa, and it's to this small place that author Will McGrath and his wife Ellen traveled so she could conduct research on AIDS and orphans, two topics very sadly intertwined in this country. But that wasn't all they found there, as McGrath recounts in his memoir of his first year there.
If your gut reaction is, oh no, another book about a white guy who goes to an African country and either acts as savior or uses the local people to learn more about himself or save himself, I've got great news for you: Neither of those scenarios is this book. He makes that clear early on in the book:
"I can say one thing with certainty: I did not come to Lesotho to find myself. There is nothing more tedious than white people venturing into foreign territory in search of self-knowledge, in search of authenticity--which must be among the language's emptiest words. There is something deeply unsettling about people who collect the essential stuff of someone else's existence for exotic furniture in their own small-scale dramas. I did not come to Lesotho for set dressing; I came to learn about the different ways that people live."
That's exactly what he does. His wife's career is what brings them to Lesotho, and he uses his teaching credentials to lead a classroom in the local school. He keeps his eyes wide open and his mind as well. He's willing to explore, to talk, to get to know people at all stations of life. Granted, it's his book, so if he personally engaged in some "let me show you a better way", he left it out. But I'm trusting from this account that he didn't do that. He (and his wife) seemed to honestly want to see how people lived in Lesotho, and he shares what he's learned, with little judgment and with plenty of context. If there's an anecdote that seems to gently push fun at something someone there said or did, you can bet there will be one where McGrath mocks himself.
There's plenty of fun here, but plenty of sadness too. A huge percentage (25%) of the adult population has AIDS, and 28% of the children have lost one or both parents to it. That's a profound epidemic that cannot help but have sad moments, and McGrath doesn't shy away from them.
But neither does he shy away from the wicked and sometimes bawdy senses of humor many of the Lesotho people he meets have, or their generous socializing; he's game to try anything they put in front of him, even the mysterious joala, a home-brewed maize beer that varies greatly from home to home.
Which is likely why, even though the country battles disease and poverty, McGrath and his wife--along with kids--opted to return after their first stint was up. They made friends. They became part of the local society. They respected the local society and worked when possible to operate within its rules and customs (well, other than that pesky patriarchal part that sometimes raised its head).
Besides being interested in these kinds of stories in general, I had another reason to be curious about this book. Back in the 1980s, when I graduated from college, one of my best friends from college joined the Peace Corps and was sent to Lesotho. She was an engineer tasked with helping the local villages develop better access to water. There was culture shock for her, of course, but she, like McGrath, was sincerely interested in the culture and the people and wanted to see life as they saw it. Which she would have done, but sadly, she was murdered a few months into her tour. The murderers were robbing her lodging to sell her belongings. The village, in turn, created a needlework tapestry illustrating the work Lesa (my friend) had done in helping them get water and sent to Lesa's family back in the US. I have often wondered about the country, which she was excited about, and which responded to the unthinkable in such a beautiful way.
I think she would have enjoyed McGrath's book, and more, the spirit in which he embarked on his exploration of Lesotho. If you'd like to learn more about my friend (and see photos of Lesotho), click here.