A Journey to Africa

MAFETENG, Lesotho – There is a wall of people in front of me, and even more behind me. I’m squeezing my way between shoulders, arms and legs – someone’s elbow jolts my back, someone else steps on my foot, a stranger’s butt fits snugly into my stomach, body heat envelops me.

“Please, I need to take pictures, let me through, let me through,” I beg, swinging the camera above my head like the people around me swing their sticks.

“Public Eye Newspaper, Public Eye Newspaper,” I yell for added emphasis.

And I’m met with mostly blank stares. After all, the people in front of me have first-row seats to a big celebration and they are not going to give them up. Also, I am the only white person there and I look like a Boer – a descendent of South Africa’s former Dutch colonists – at that.

I’m trying to work my way through the last six feet of Basotho people, who have encircled a small celebration area, and I’m stuck.

Just then, as I’ve come to learn things go in Africa, a little man grabs my hand firmly.

“This way, ma’am, this way…” and he wedges his way through the last rows of people, barking left and right in Sesotho, a language of which I understand next to nothing.

My camera bag gets stuck between two people, and I feel my shoulders stretch as far as they can with the man firmly pulling at my right arm – then, like a cork out of a bottle, I pop into the celebration place, camera still in hand, camera bag still intact.

Lesotho media is already there, in a much more organized fashion.

I’m in Mafeteng, about a two-hour drive south of Maseru, the capital of Lesotho, a small South African country I’ve been in for all of six days.

Or as the Basotho say, “You are six days old in Lesotho.”

My host Mathapeli Ramonotsi is a reporter at the Public Eye Newspaper, where I’m spending a month volunteering as first of all a journalist, but also a combination of writing coach, editor and English teacher.

As soon as I arrived, she told me about this traditional dance and celebration that was going to take place the next Sunday.

At a party the Friday before, I tried my best to learn the traditional Basotho dance. I had some success – at least the men seemed to think so, but maybe they were just polite?

Mathapeli worries about taking me to the celebration. There may be trouble there, she tells me.

The police are looking for someone in this group; there could be a fight, she says. She worries how I’m going to hold up if things get out of control.

I plead as gently as I can, without being obnoxious. “Please take me – I’ll be fine,” I say, trying to come up with a similar scenario I have already survived. But, of course, I can’t.

It’s likely I’ll be the only white person there, says Mathapeli, carefully monitoring my reaction. I get it, I’m a symbol of all of what led to the pain the locals went through, a pain that’s finally healed at the celebration on Sunday.

I do get to go. When Sunday comes around I catch a ride to Mafeteng with Mathapeli’s sister and a bunch of friends. Eight people in a Toyota safari truck of some sort, we head out of town.

The celebration is held in honor of an amazing woman, Mamokhele Mokhele, who was transferred by the police department to Mafeteng to help end the local strife, warfare and killing.

To understand her accomplishment, here’s a little Lesotho history as explained by Crosbey Mwanza, CEO of the Swaziland Institute of Mass communication. Mwanza wears many hats and he’s the one who’s arranged my stay here; he’s also my reference lexicon when it comes to African history.

He explains that during apartheid, Boers hired Basotho people and trained them to do their dirty work, which sometimes included threatening and beating locals into submission.

At the time, these Basotho were called “Russians” – a derogatory term born from their culture of violence. These so-called Russians also worked in South African mines, so one could say that they did the white man’s dirty work in two ways.

Apartheid ended and the “Russians” found themselves unemployed.

Dismissed by the whites who no longer needed them, and shunned by the Basotho for having betrayed and harassed their own people, they settled in Mafeteng. And that district turned into one of the most violent areas in Lesotho.

From what I understand, this had nothing to do with tribal warfare or clans – it had more to do with a population with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

This type of local fighting and upheaval is common in African nations, and it often gets in the way of development, especially in rural areas.

Somehow, the people who settled in Mafeteng turned from violence to artistry. They became musicians, traditional craft workers and singers.

Or as Libuseng Nyaka, another Public Eye reporter, explains it to me at the end of the day: “They atoned those old sins. They were forgiven. Now they are artists.”

But the fighting didn’t stop until Mokhele showed up. She told the Public Eye back in July that she did everything she could to befriend the people of Mafeteng when she moved there. She was so successful, she says, that many of the locals believe she’s gone through the same rituals as they have. Mostly, she treated them with kindness and respect.

Now she’s respected by the Famo musicians as a great mediator and liaison. This Sunday, the community has come together to honor her.

At one side of the small celebration area, which is in the middle of a field not unlike that of an American fairground, are two canopies under which a long row of dignitaries sit, all wrapped in traditional Basotho blankets.

I envy the blankets as an ice-cold wind howls around my naked ankles. I’m wearing a skirt – I was told to not wear jeans or slacks at this celebration – and it’s cold. Dark clouds are gathering and before the end of the celebration, rain comes and tiny snowflakes gather on my coat.

There are long speeches and short speeches. Longest perhaps is the sermon delivered at the beginning of the celebration. Every time the poor pastor takes a break, the crowd screams “amen,” as in, “that’s enough sermon for now.”

Yet he preaches on.

I lose track as I understand nothing of what’s being said. Trying to control a cough brought on by a half-mile sprint in thin mountain air to get shots of the dignitaries – including Mathapeti – who were flown in by helicopter, I look around.

Mathapeti whispers in my ear here and there, pointing out dignitaries and a businessman, Thabiso Tsosane, I met the other night.

“The announcer is saying that if anyone here is not happy today, then that person’s mom is a witch,” she translates for me, smiling.

Police are here. As I scan the crowd behind me I count 12 officers, holding up a string of yellow police tape and each carrying a stick. When I turn my attention back to the main stage, two officers appear on my left, armed with automatic weapons. One of them casually and very demonstratively loads his weapon where everyone can see him.

There is no doubt about the tension there.

Mokhele receives a blanket in the colors that represent each fighting group, and many presents in the center of the ring. Wearing a purple cape (the uniform of The Mother’s Union), she looks like a black “Supernanny” – but her face is clear and strong. There’s no fooling her: She disciplined a rural, violent district, not just a couple of spoiled toddlers.

As I watch her self-consciously receive the presents and the applause, and finally a golden trophy of some sort, I think to myself that if the crowds get out of control she could single-handedly hold them back. She has that type of charisma about her.

Dancers enter the ring, some dressed in traditional Basotho outfits but most in T-shirts from various programs and support groups, with traditional skirts underneath.

“Save our jobs – end poverty” reads one shirt in bright red on a yellow background.

“Togetherness” reads another, in white letters on red.

The dancers carry gifts, food and clothing that are being piled high in the middle of the ring.

A group of ever-present African orphans has been rounded up from around the district to receive these donations. They are no more than 10 years old and they sit on the cold, short, winter yellow grass, nestled together for warmth like a little flock of sheep.

The symbolism is crystal clear: We have stopped fighting amongst ourselves, we have come together to help the children and the community.

A cynical voice inside this reporter’s head keeps asking: “Who’s getting something out of this? Who’s gaining popularity from this session which, seen through American eyes, looks like a giant publicity stunt?”

But no matter how hard I look I can’t find anything “off.” There is no dictator pulling the strings, there are no multinational logos plastered all over the place, there’s no group ready to take credit – come to think of it, there is not a single Western aid worker in sight.

Suddenly, the crowd presses forward and breaks through the police tape. Instinctively, I step backward, toward the tents – a decision I soon regret, as I realize I’d be trapped there if the crowd really went amok.

The police officers draw their sticks – not batons, more like broom handles – and they start hitting people over the shins and over the heads. They use the sticks much like Lesotho’s famous herd boys use their sticks to get the cows to move faster.

A solid smack over the legs works. The crowd retreats, a few people are trampled during the retreat, but no one seems hurt. A few shoes, a beer can, plastic bags and a few pieces of clothing are left behind, but order is restored. Dust hangs in the air over the dancing area.

My hands are dead from cold by now as the ceremony crests with a performance of a group of very popular Famo musicians.

At one point the press corps gets the stick, too. Focused on our own game, we’ve crowded in front of the dignitaries so they can’t see what’s going on. Suddenly the announcer is there with his own big stick swinging at us. No language barrier there – I move back on the spot.

The dancing is now going full speed and those who don’t dance are beginning to leave, as order disintegrates. It’s raining pretty good and I’m happy for my British hunting coat – it may not be chic, especially not paired with a flimsy skirt and tiny shoes, but it saved my last little bit of body heat. Shivering, I head for the car.

Back in the car we head toward Maseru with the heater blasting. In front of us are the little white buses – Toyota Hiaces, Volkswagen transporters – mostly white, mostly full to the brim.

Young men hang out the windows swinging their sticks and blowing whistles as they head back to Maseru. They remind me of Italian soccer fans who race through the streets with banners and flags, much the same way, after a home team victory.

I stare out the window and I see a woman at the wayside, bending over to fill a large, purple plastic bucket with water at a little stream. In one fluid motion she stands up, hoists the bucket to her head and walks up the path to her house.

I’m not in Italy, I’m in Africa.