It’s now my daily routine to wake up at 5 and to race the sun as it rises over Macheche Mountain. Even if my alarm doesn’t ring, the bleating sheep wake me and tell me it’s time, for them, for breakfast.

Sounds of village children can be heard well into dusk as they chase after each other or play games etched in dirt.

The air smells differently – fresh and new – and I’m strangely reminded of Capital City Band concerts next to the Missouri River as I fetch water.

The sunset wears more vibrant colors, pinks and fiery reds, as it disappears for the evening.

Every animal seems to have reproduced as puppies, lambs and piglets scamper through the village.

The taxi rank is once again populated with vendors selling frozen pink bags of ice guava and large piles of fresh fruit cover every stand.

It is summer time in Lesotho. And like summer in South Dakota, it comes ironically with blasted cold days and late spring snow falls. This is my last season in Lesotho and the temperature will surely be in the sweaty range when I depart in early December. No matter what hemisphere you live in or what months constitute your summer, it’s still a magical season. Flowly skirts and Chacos are the only things that should be worn and your hair against the sunlight appears as if it should be in a shampoo ad, despite not being cut for two years. You feel young, like playing in the rain and staring at cloud shapes was always an activity for 29 year olds.

While you in American have your deep autumn smell and pumpkin-flavored everything, I get summer before I return to the retched Midwest winter. A summery goodbye kiss from Mother Nature.


Discsuss, please

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