Stories from ntate moholo

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.

Gender Equality? But I love you too much!

Growing up in a liberal college town in the U.S., I never faced much discrimination based on my gender, at least that I perceived as affecting my life. Coming to live in a developing country, where women only gained the right to own land several years ago, I was in for a bit of a shock. In my life skills classes I teach a couple of sessions on gender, and some of the responses I have gotten have alarmed me and my liberal American upbringing. According to some of my students a woman’s place is in the home, raising children and obeying the man, the “head of the household.” And if she isn’t being a good wife (such as spending all day doing chores and doing anything the man wants) a few thought it was acceptable for him to beat her – “if you don’t beat your wife it means you don’t care, which is worse.” This was a pretty heated debate, surprisingly with boys and girls on both sides. Trying to introduce gender equality, I told my class that I had gone to school in the U.S. to learn how to design buildings, so could I help build one of the traditional houses here? There was no debate on this, it was unanimously no. That was work only for men, I could smear the mud on the finished hut. I’m not used to being forbidden from doing something because I’m a girl, and the list of things is pretty long here. Also the fact that I’m 24 and not married or have any children is looked at as a bit incredible here, and I don’t think they believe me half the time. I must have some children squirreled away somewhere.

The chauvinism can be seen in too many conversations I have with men here. Below is a typical conversation I have almost every time I leave my village, and which sadly, varies very little (I have not put my side of the conversation in since it does not seem to matter what I say, and it reflects how I’m treated as an object rather than a talking, thinking, equal human being.) :

-What is your name?
-Ah! Limpho, a Sesotho name! Where are you from?
-You stay in a village? No, really?
-Where are you originally from?
-America! I have a question I want to ask you.
-How can I go to America? How much does it cost to go to America?
-Ah, Limpho, that is too much! What can I do?
-How can I visit you?
-No I must visit you, I love you too much.
- Are you married?
-Ah, I am the one!
-Why not Limpho?
-No, but why? Why will you not marry me?
-Ah, I do know you, you are ausi Limpho from Tsehlanyane.
-What is your phone number?
-But how will I contact you? How can I come and visit you?
-Ah Limpho! Come on, I must have your number.
-Ah Limpho, come on. Fine, goodbye.

I once was proposed to by someone resting, hidden behind some bushes. It seemed as if the bushes were offering me its surrounding cattle to marry it and couldn’t understand why I said no.
While I have several friends that are men that treat me as an equal, with respect, it is not typical. But I have never felt myself in danger of any physical harm. While it can be a nuisance, these interactions are harmless. I guess I should consider myself lucky, but it’s hard to feel that way while I talking to some of these men. Maybe I’ve given some something to think about, a woman who refuses them always seems to baffle them. But with tv and radio programs, I have a feeling that times are a changing.

Our Ha Mali Community Center

We are only a month away from opening the Ha Mali Community Center! The idea for its creation came from hearing all the different problems facing the families in my village when I went door-to-door for my household survey. My work at the schools didn’t seem to touch many of the problems the people in my village complained of: not having easy access to a clinic, not having jobs or training for them, the number of orphans living with elderly grandparent and sanitation issues. What seemed to be needed was a center for outreach and skills training within the village. World Vision recently built a pre-school, the only communally owned building in my village, and one that fit the outreach/ community center scheme perfectly. Maliba Lodge’s Community Development Trust was equally enthusiastic about the idea and agreed to help with the funding and applied for another Peace Corps volunteer to help make it a reality.

The progress started pretty slowly. It was winter, not the right time to start gardens or to motivate people within the community. As spring arrived, so did our new volunteer, Maggie, who has extensive experience with eco-tourism and project management, and the project quickly got underway. As of this week, we have started 9 small garden plots, with 18 of the 30 orphans in the village. Chickens, and chicken tractors, are planned to arrive next month to provide eggs and protein for the orphans. Chicken tractors are a type of free-range chicken run, placed directly on top of the plots to fertilize them as well as removing grubs and weeds before they are planted. It seems pretty fun, we have a chicken tractor building session planned for the village next month, using locally found materials.

There have definitely been set backs. The recent number of funerals in my village, five in the past month, reveal the real need for clinic outreach and HIV workshops. But culturally you cannot dig or touch soil when someone is being buried, which has been every weekend this month. The more funerals there are the more eager we are to get our program going, but the slower the progress actually is. However, we have been making progress. The building is starting to take shape after several repairs and coats of paint. Soon it should be ready to host after-school literacy and business classes, as well as a monthly clinic outreach program. There is so much that the center could potentially do, it’s very exciting! Whatever the current issues the people within my village see themselves facing, we now have a place to hear them and hopefully address them, or better yet—give them the skills to address those problems themselves.

My Daily Walk

I have an hour till class. I put down my book, I grab my worn, patched bag, I head out.
Down the slope, passing dry grass and old corn stalks, my shoes turning a brown to match the dirt.
I pass a baby goat, chewing sideways, showing its small pink tongue.
The wind blows at my skirt and I pass small children calling me. Where am I going, where is the candy, my name over, and over.
At the bottom, I stomp off some dust as I start down the paved road. My shoes crunching the uneven tarred gravel, dodging broken glass and manure scattered on the road.
Next I’m going up a steep hill, I hear the rush of white noise and turn to see a car, but it’s just the river, the wind carrying its sound up the hill.
Bo-‘me wearing blankets and carrying buckets, saying hello as they work to keep everything balanced on their heads.
I go on, passing mud and thatch houses, a glimpse of the fading past, then concrete and metal ones, attempts at an idea of modern life.
I pass some cows, rambling down the road, trailed by a tan, wrinkled calf and a whistling herdboy in oversized white boots.
I wave at a group of old women sitting, laying in the grass, soaking in the sun, wrapped in blankets to keep out the wind.
More houses, more children, more waving, greeting.
Going past mixtures of cows, goats, sheep, sometimes a dejected donkey with a load, all heading out to pastures in the mountains, followed by their herdboys and their tuneless songs.
I pass a couple of chickens pecking away at debris in the ditch beside a curve in the road. It’ll be full of water soon.
At the outskirts of the village, I pass the school, with children shouting, running, playing, in their matching black sweaters showing holes from wear.
Now it’s just me and the road, surrounded by mountains in varying shades of green, patched with narrow, dusty rows of corn stalks.
I can still hear distant cowbells and calls, but the wind blurs it and blows me along. I have to stop to fix my skirt again.
Around another curve, I step aside to let the speeding taxi-van pass me, its horn sliding into dissonance as it rushes past.
Up a gentle slope, my feet are tired from the pounding on the road, step after step after step.
Some bird, high above, soars past me, riding on warm wind pooling and rising between the mountains.
The last incline, the mast curve, and then I’m there. For a couple of hours of teaching, rephrasing, gesturing, drawing, trying to get them to understand.
Then it’s back out, down the road, everything in reverse but for the growing soreness in my feet and the number of children calling.