Preparing to leave - I'm cleaning out piles of old paperwork (stacks of paper are surprisingly tricky to burn in large quantities), putting things into boxes for "send home", "sell", "give away", etc. I have a large box of letters I've received - 2 years worth - and before I can think about it too hard I toss it in the "BURN" box and march outside with a box of matches. Any delay and the rest of my week would have been spent pouring over old letters in sticky nostalgia.

I find photos I printed long ago and make piles of things I need to distribute around Ramabanta. For Masekhampu, I have pics of us making the orphan's garden (that project flopped...) and her and her "Under 5" class for a library thank you (another bust, I moved the library up to the primary school). Ah, memories. So I head down the hill to her house, a nice rondaval with aloe plants neatly landscaped and the tidy swept dirt around her small compound. The word "Jesus" is written over her door, a good preview to the only thing she ever talks about. I had the pictures over and she asks, as everyone seems to lately, "When are you leaving?" Then, to my reply, "So early!" I know it's her command of English that leads to her word choice, but I can't help pointing out that two years doesn't feel "early". "Yes, and you are still with us, you are still alive." Ah, Basotho optimism. "And you have tried many things and ---" Here, she uses my favorite hand signal; arms out and palms up in the air as if to say "not here". It means any one of the following things: Doesn't/didn't work (as Masekhampu was indicating); I don't have; there isn't any; I don't know; it/he/she/they never came; I don't understand you; no money. The versatility of this gesture means that I use it often and I'm always grammatically correct.

The women of Tsohang Basotho tell me they're going to knit me wool clothing for my "journey" home. A sweater, hat, and scarf. And it's cold, too, so I'll need them to keep me warm. Plus food, because "it is too far!" I've told them my home is very cold in winter and forgot to mention the flip in seasons when you cross the equator (or feel overwhelmed at attempting this explanation; it does seem complicated when I look at it from their perspective). So now I'll arrive at Detroit Metro (in July) in full woolen clothing (and a skirt, obviously) with chicken, papa, a Basotho hat and blanket, and, if Mathapelo has her way, her son as my brand new hubby - who will propose once he reaches the age of 18 in, oh, 14 years.

(Felipe, my arranged husband)

But first, every woman in my village must succeed in fattening me up. Else my mother will think I wasn't well cared for here. Heaven forbid I go home anything less than rotund...

(local boys and their hand-made wire cars)

My belongings are fair play in most people's minds. Though, I must say, previous PCV's in Ramabanta must have exercised restraint in handing things out before they left because I don't get as many requests/demands as I expected. So while several times a week I hear the phrase "When you leave, you will give me ______?" I have to protest, "I need to wear a pair of shoes home, guys. No, I'll be using my cell phone." It's so tempting to simply throw pots to one person, clothes to another. But I know it makes a big problem even bigger. The handout mentality is so pervasive in this culture. So "No - I'm selling things. You can come buy them before I leave." I'll make a few rand, enough to buy a night or two of lodging when I travel, but at least it'll put a value on things and maybe help the next PCV - when ever he or she may come - to keep their sanity.

That's a source of confusion, too. For more than a decade there's been one PCV after another. But not this time? The point of PC isn't to keep a steady supply of Americans in a village. In fact, if people are saying "who's next?" then there's a problem. So it's time for a break, time for the people of Ha Ramabanta to try and get things done on their own, to keep some of these projects going without outside help, grants, direction, encouragement. It's one of those 'tough love' things that's hard to execute - or take, for that matter.

Of course, the hardest people to say 'so long' to are the ones that don't get it. Rapolang and Felipe (my future husband) simply look at me and grin when I try to explain that soon, I'm going home. I can hear what they're thinking: "What's that crazy white girl on about this time?" They ask for crayons to draw instead. "But the white people will still come?" *sigh* Yeah, the tourists will still come. "And the tu-tu-tu?" Tu-tu-tu are the motor bikes that South Africans ride around on here on the weekends. So yes, and the tu-tu-tu, too. Then they start arguing over who I'll give the crayons to when I leave. Felipe is my husband-to-be so it seems only fair that Rapolang keeps them as a consolation prize. I simply raise my arms, palms up, and shrug. This seems to take care of the debate.

(my neighbors made drums a few days ago and played a concert for anyone who drifted by. lots of dancing immediately began).

(that's my man, cuttin' a rug)