I have been recording the stories of a few of the oldest people in my village. It has been fascinating, especially the stories of one ntate moholo, who could not remember his age. He vividly recalled political fights, where he and other men of the village had to hide in the surrounding mountains. There were times when he was afraid to sleep. When he returned to the village, the women has stories of being threatened and forced to drink twenty liters of water as punishment. He said this went on for a whole year, though he can’t recall which year or even how old he was. The fighting ended when Basotho soldiers came to protect them and ended the political fights. Maybe he was 60, but no his wife was alive, maybe he was 30. He estimated that he’s in his 90s now (but claimed to be born in 1988…)
He talked about woven baskets, clay pots and animal skins that his family used to make and use, that have almost all disappeared now. Replaced by plastic buckets and cotton t-shirts.
He talked about times of fighting and peace. Although we are currently in a time of peace, he preferred some of the old times. Now he doesn’t have cows for plowing fields. He still has fields but no one helps him hoe them by hand. In those good times he live4d in Nqobelle, on the steep mountains beyond my village. The chief came and moved them, the dozen families that lived in that small village because it was land designated only for cattle. He remembered being forced to move as a very sad time, and spoke about it with a husky voice. They had to leave their houses and build new ones, gathering all the thatch grasses, trees and mud for them. He remembers his old village as where life was good and noy hard. The cattle could graze next to the house. Now when the river is full he can no longer get to the mountains to graze his cattle (maybe he meant his relatives cattle).
Part of the reason I am doing these interviews is to see how life has changed with the recent developments in my village. He said getting electricity did not change his life, he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have money to pay for it, and he likes candles better anyway. He didn’t think the village had grown, he claimed it used to have more people, a lot have died. He thought the mill in the next village over was an improvement. Women used to grind maize on a large stone, using a smaller stone, and would take the whole morning. And if you wanted to have a celebration you would invite many bo-‘me (women) over to grind all of the maize meal, laid out on cow skins. He remembered mornings when his mother would grind maize meal then make papa. He would roll five balls of papa and take them with him out in the mountains to look after the cattle for the day with the other herd boys. None of them went to school.
They wore animal skins when he was young. The men wore cow skins and the women wore sheep skins. And shoes were made from the skin on face of the cow. He demonstrated how he wore the animal skins—wrapped around his middle and covering his upper thighs. Though he had nostalgia for the old traditional skin clothes, I noticed that he didn’t have any. He wore an old sweater and pants, and shoes with holes in the toes.
When I asked him about the new paved road, he told me about a time before there was even a dirt road. The people had to walk to Ha Khabo, 17km away to get to a dirt road that eventually led to town. People in the village would wake up at 2am to start the walk, or ride on a donkey if they could borrow one. If you couldn’t get to town and back in a day, you would stay in the thatched cattle posts overnight (normally built and used by herd boys). Having a donkey meant you were rich in the village. Even though the paved road now makes the trip to town only take an hour and a half, he rarely takes it. It costs money and there are small shops in the village now.
I was surprised by a lot of what he said, development did not seem to have touched his life as much as I had thought. He still lived in a couple of mud-thatched rondovels with his one remaining son. The modern concrete houses and electric radios sprouting up around him were bought by the younger families. He is one of the last of his generation, and in this rapidly developing village, it seems that some of the history, the stories and traditions may go with him.
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