Village Life in Lesotho

As I venture on this topic, I'm keenly aware there are experts in Lesotho - Kaybee, Lineo, Lipalesa, and Sebitsa - my nieces and nephew, who know far more than I ever will and who may be reading my blog.  So, let's rephrase: these are the observations of someone who grew up in a suburb of Boston on the beauty of Lesotho's rural life.

We have gotten into the habit of dividing the world into developed and developing nations, implying that becoming developed is the goal of developing nations.  But this was not my impression after living in Lesotho, my second home, for nine years.

My wife, Qenehelo, grew up in the small village of Tsoe'ng.  As a young girl, she fetched water by walking a fair distance downhill to a spring, filling a large bucket with water, and carrying it back on her head.  During dry seasons she had to get to the spring before dawn because the spring dried up early.   She fetched cow dung from the fields and brush from the mountain for cooking.  So meals were cooked outdoors and water had to be used economically.

Most of the dwellings were mud huts (rondavels) with thatched roofs.    Qenehelo's family had a round house for cooking and a rectangular house for sleeping. There was no electricity.  At the top of a hill was a large building (mud walls and corrugated iron roof) which served as a school room during the week, a church on Sunday mornings, and a concert hall on Sunday afternoons.

Outside the houses chickens clucked about and in the kraals cows, sheep, and pigs mulled around.

Because the houses were small, people left their doors open all day and visiting neighbors was the main way of spending the day.   The contrast with my current neighborhood, where we speak pleasantries across the street and close our doors is striking.  Qenehelo's mother, 'Matiisetso, one of the kindest, most generous people I have known, was a wonderful example of neighborliness.   When she was cooking, village people might loiter about the door.  'Matiisetso would always bring them a plate of food.  Once a neighbor came saying she has no money for her daughter's school uniform; 'Matiiesetso without hesitation went to her teapot where she saved money for sugar, tea, and the like, and handed all her money to her neighbor.

At risk of over romanticizing, the village seemed like a family of two hundred people.  At weddings of village girls, everybody joined in the procession to share the joy; at funerals the whole village joined a procession to the church and then to the burial site to honor the person's life and to see he or she was buried with dignity.   After the funeral, everybody went to the home of the deceased, first to wash their hands (removing death), and then to join in a feast.

Even the names by which others are addressed reflect the sense of family: a woman is called "'Mme" (mother), a man is called "Ntate" (father), a girl is addressed as "ausi" (sister) and a boy a "abuti" (brother).   These names are for everybody, not just members of one's family.

I don't want to imply that there wasn't both good and evil in Lesotho.   There was.   But the societal norms favored sharing, neighborliness, and a sense of community.  The heart and soul of life in Lesotho lay in the villages, where most people live, where neighbors look after neighbors. 

Getting out of the Easy Chair

I know that lectures on the need for exercise are tedious and annoying, so you won't get any from me.   But have you seen the reports on the 102 year old man who still goes to the gym working on weights and the rowing machine?  Three cheers for him.   He may not be typical, but he's sure great..

 

I'm nowhere near his age bracket but I still go to the gym everyday.   When I wake up in the morning I sure don't say to myself "I can't wait to get to the gym!"  It would be much easier to loll in bed sipping coffee and reading the paper.  I go because it's time to go: I do it every day.  I keep count of the number of consecutive days I've gone as a way of motivating me.   (I'm now at 72 days , but  once made it to 259.)  Above is a picture of me on my way to the daily wortkout.   And hey the other day a woman at the gym asked me "Are you 70 yet?"   Oh yeah!   Never mind that I left 70 behind years ago.  It made me feel it was worthwhile.

There are plenty of other ways to get out of that chair.   From my teens on, I loved to go mountain hiking, an activity I had to give up a couple of years ago because of my stiff knees.

 

 

Here I am with my daughter Palesa in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park.



And here are wife Qenehelo, friend Jeff, and Palesa about to set off on a 5 km. race.

 

 

And here I was in the Colorado Rockies on home leave from the Peace Corps.   So my thought is, go hiking or running if you enjoy it or go to the gym to get yourself into shape, if you are so inclined.

My Friend, the Queen





My Friend the Queen:

I first met the Queen of Lesotho when I was teaching English at Moshoeshoe II High School in Matsieng, the royal village.  Everything about her showed she was a woman of the people: she got down on her hands and knees with the gardeners to weed the flowers; she invited all the village children to the birthday parties of Mohato, her son, and Seeiso, her daughter.   (Mohato is now in his forties  and is King Letsie III, but I remember attending his 12^th birthday party.)  The Queen was also famous for dancing with the village women.     There was nothing pretentious at all about her.   No wonder she was universally loved as a symbol of all that was good about the Basotho people.

When I returned to Lesotho later as a Foreign Service officer, the ambassador decided she should go to the United States under our international visitor program.   When the two of us went to the palace to invite her and before we could say anything, she smiled broadly and said “I accept!”

The picture above shows us in Matsieng in front of the king’s village house.  I had gone thereto discuss her U.S. program focused on meeting groups that promote women’s issues.   As we were talking, she blurted out, “Oh, Ntate Bill, I’m losing my hair!”   “Well so am I,” I replied.   “But you’re a man.”  Can you imagine any other queen in the world making such an unpretentious comment?

Her visit was covered by the Voice of America and when she returned she invited Qenehelo and me as well as several women friends to the palace for dinner where she excitedly recounted her adventures in the US.   A true woman of the people.

The Unfamous Meet the Famous

Like most people, I'm not famous. I can walk down the street and nobody, except for an occasional friend, recognizes me: no hands to shake, autographs to sign. In the Foreign Service, however, we sometimes get to meet the truly well known; they're visiting our country and we in the embassy orient them, set up appointments, provide transportation, and so forth. It's a brush with fame without the inconvenience of fame. Here are some that I've met.







In 1988, around Christmas time I was de facto chief of mission in Gabon: the ambassador was on vacation deep in the bush, and the Deputy Chief was on home leave. One day I received a call from the Foreign Ministry asking what were my plans for the Jackson visit. What Jackson visit? It turned out that Jesse, unannounced, would be arriving in three hours. I called all the embassy staffers who were around and we quickly arranged a welcoming party in coordination with our Gabonese hosts. I managed to contact the ambasador who asked me to set up ma reception while he hurried back. Jackson turned out to be most gracious, patient, and knowledgeable. In the picture above, I'm posing with Jesse at the ambassador's residence.



In 1982, when I was Cultural Affairs Officer in Zambia, then Vice President George H. W. Bush visited the country. One of his events was a reception and talk at the American Cultural Center. I asked Jonathan, our staff photographer, to be sure to take a picture of me shaking hands with the Vice President. I greeted Bush as he came in, but Jonathan was looking in another direction. I again shook Bush's hand at the reception, but, alas Jonathan had been distracted. However, I was in charge of Barbara Bush's program and here we are at one of her events. I'm at the right, confirming that indeed my hair was receding.

And who is this gentleman that I'm greeting effusively? It's General Kekhanya, head of the army of Lesotho and leader of the coup that elevated my friend the king as head of state. I talked about this on my post about the king and I.

Finally in Gabon, where our American Cultural Center library was named after Martin Luther King, I welcomed Coretta Scott King where she donated a collection of books on her husband. I'm not in the picture, because I took it! Some fond memories of my transitory brush with fame without any of the inconveniences of actually being famous.

Gospel Music in Gabon

One  of the really good activities of the US government is "Arts America," a program sponsored by what was then the US Information  Agency.  American musical groups, one of the most popular of which were gospel singers, were sent overseas as a way of sharing our culture.

 

While I was in Gabon, I learned via cable that a group called the Stars of Faith would be arriving in a month, giving me four weeks to turn a hitherto unknown ensemble into national celebrities.  I did this via TV (I had a sample tape) and radio interviews.  I persuaded our ambassador, Warren Clark, to propose to President Bongo a concert in the presidential palace to which ministers and other dignitaries would be invited.   When the idea was accepted, I knew we had a first.

 

On the evening of the event we were all gathered, Ambassador Clark,embassy officers, ministers, generals and the like with the president's daughter acting as hostess.  The Stars of Faith came on stage: four women singers and a male pianist.  But when they started to sing, it became obvious something was wrong with the pianist.  Whereas he had played well during rehearsal, he was now banging out irrelevant and discordant chords.  While we wondered what was going on, he fell off the piano stool and crawled on all fours off stage.

 

The Stars of Faith quickly switched to a Capella songs.   Then, towards the end of the concert, the pianist reappeared on stage dragging a chair and resumed "playing."  As the group stood to bow, pianist and singers, the pianist fell off the stage to "oohs and ahs."   It turned out he was full of drugs and alcohol and there we were, the ambassador and staff, to absorb the embarrassment..

 

The Gabonese carried on with an after-concert reception, complete with Dom Perignon, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, ministers and generals shaking hands with us.   In the picture above with me smiling and bowing obsequiously, I'm shaking hands with the president's daughter (the lead singer is on the right) with Ambassador Clark in the background and Deputy Chief of Mission Ken Scott on the left.  

 

In the aftermath, I sent cables to all the posts on the singers' schedule describing what had happened, the pianist was sent back to Paris, and the gospel group, all professionals, completed a very successful stay in Gabon, relying solely on their a Capella repertoire. 

 

We were fortunate to have had such gracious Gabonese hosts.

 

 

 

 

"War Tales" from Zambia

A conventional view of life in the Foreign Service is that of officers living in fancy houses, and hobnobbing with the local elite while wearing pin striped suits. This is true of our activity about 90% of the time, but it’s the other 10% that’s really exciting. Here are a couple of scary events that happened shortly after my arrival. In 1980, two months into my tour in Zambia, while I was officially a Junior Officer Trainee, my boss decided a trip into the hinterlands of western Zambia was just what I needed to orient myself to the country. So I set off in an embassy jeep with Dave, the newly arrived consular officer, and Goodwin, one of our longest serving and most trusted Foreign Service Nationals, the title we gave to our local staff. All went well, calling on local officials and giving talks in schools to the effect that Ronald Reagan, our newly elected president, was appointing moderates so there was no need to worry. As we travelled farther and farther into the bush we appreciated the vast diversity, actually fragmentation, of a nation with some 80 spoken languages. Near the Angolan border, far, far from any central authority, we stopped at a folksy tavern, bought soft drinks and ate lunch. Locals were lounging on the porch with their beers. Dave thought that would make a great picture, something to remember our trip by. So he pulled out his camera and snapped the shutter. Immediately we were surrounded by angry men, one of whom opened the door to our jeep and climbed into the backseat with Dave, demanding that he turn over his camera, which Dave refused to do. I was in the driver’s seat and the guy behind said “I have a gun and I’ll shoot you if you try to drive off.” Apparently they thought we were South African spies intent on destabilizing Zambia. Help! How could we get out of this jam with our lives? Goodwin was calmly explaining we were from the US Embassy and Dave had the idea of showing our travel orders and his diplomatic passport. Our captors grudgingly agreed we weren’t South Africans and let us proceed, Dave still in possession of his camera. It was quite a while before my nerves settled down. Back in Lusaka, the capital, I was installed in a nice house whose walls were largely glass. I had been in the house a few weeks when on a Tuesday night the alarm went off, indicating an attempted break in. The sound scared off the intruder but made me feel rather vulnerable. In response the embassy added a second guard. Two days later, I was awakened by the crash of breaking glass. Two guys with guns who fortunately ran away. The guards had prudently hightailed it over the back fence and my boss said over our radio I could spend the rest of the night at his house. The next morning I went to the ambassador, a generally intimidating man, pounded my fist on his desk and said, no matter what, I wasn’t spending another night in that house. It was located on the path to the city’s shanty town, crime-ridden home to thousands of working poor. So I was installed in what I later discovered was a CIA safe house, where the male house cleaner in residence regularly pilfered my food, not the best , but a big improvement over glass houses and break-ins. Just two examples of the 10% of our time. In the Foreign Service we call these “war stories,” tales we love to swap when we get together.

Islands in the Sun: My Adventures in Sao Tome

Islands in the Sun:  My Adventures in Sao Tome

My third Foreign Service posting was Libreville, Gabon, on the west coast of Africa and right on the equator, a welcoming environment for a host of tropical diseases from malaria on down.  I was also accredited to Sao Tome and Principe, two small equatorial islands about 300 miles off the coast of Gabon.   Sao Tome was a former Portuguese colony and cocoa plantation with the indigenous people doing all the work.

I flew out there four times a year (on a rickety airplane with no seatbelts run by Equatorial Air) for two or three days.  I’d get interviewed on the national radio, speaking French (with a Portuguese voice over), call on the editor of the newspaper and organize a reception at the island’s one hotel.  Fairly routine stuff, except for the scary plane ride.

Once when the US Navy show band was visiting Gabon accompanying a US military official for talks on cooperation, the band decided to go to Sao Tome and give a concert.  We arrived at 3 P.m. and my job was to locate a venue and publicize a totally unannounced concert in four hours.  In the distance I heard an ompah sound and located the Sao Tome military band, dented instruments and, all in a stadium.  There was the venue.   Then I went to the radio station to publicize the event.  My hope was that people would hear the sounds of the band and come out of curiosity.   We got there, started playing and soon the stadium was full.   I was the MC, speaking in French with a Portuguese interpreter.  The whole event was a roaring success.

Another visit, however, was far from routine.   The US Ambassador to the UN at the time, Vernon Walters, was visiting Libreville for Gabon’s independence anniversary and indicated he wanted to visit Sao Tome as well.  The word was that he collected countries he’d been to and Sao Tome would be an addition to his collection.  I was asked to accompany him.

The day before we were to go, there was an “invasion” of the islands.  The “invasion” consisted of six guys in a row boat who were promptly detained.   Still even though Sao Tome was on high alert we decided to go ahead with the visit.  When we landed at the Sao Tome airport, I noticed the landing strip was surrounded by Angolan soldiers, who provided military support to the islands.

The president of Sao Tome had retreated to a hideaway in the hills, as a precaution.  Ambassador Walters and I set off.  When we arrived, we found more Angolan soldiers, presumably protecting the president, following the “invasion.”  My job was to photograph the ambassador and the president and step outside while the two talked.   I got my picture and moved out to sit down when I was promptly surrounded by the Angolan soldiers all pointing their rifles at me.   I couldn’t speak Portuguese to explain that I was with the president’s visitor.  The thirty or forty minutes I sat out there looking down the barrels of the guns were frightening.   If I tried to get up and walk around, they stiffened and motioned with their guns that I should stay put.   “Hey, I’m not a threat,” I wished I could have said.  Eventually Walters emerged and I breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded the ambassador’s car and headed back to the airport.

Libreville, Gabon, with all its tropical diseases, had suddenly become a welcome haven of safety.