Letters from Africa - Letter #23
Dear Family and Friends,
So much has happened here since I last wrote to you. Nothing earth shattering and so I’ve just been pouring it into my journal-which is now pushing 300 pages. But I love keeping in touch and sharing a bit about life as a PCV in Africa. It’s been another period of good news and bad news events.
On the positive side we have little Motlatsi back. He is the beautiful baby boy I had the privilege of helping into this world my first night on the job here in the village. I think I told you about the lobola issue. Tjeeka, Motlatsi’s father and the son of the family with whom I live, “stole” his wife. That is he took her from her home and kept her away in hiding for several days. According to tribal custom they were then legally married but there was still the question of the lobola or bride price to be paid.
Malineo, now known as Mamotlatsi (mother of Motlatsi), is a beautiful, gentle, obedient girl from a good family in a neighboring village -her Dad figured she was worth a lot. The lobola negotiations did not go well. Then she had a son. This increased her bride price considerably. As soon as little Motlatsi was deemed old enough to travel - three months by tribal custom, her family came en mass and took mother and child away. There were absolutely no visiting rights. Nena, the father of this family, has been sending every dime he can home from his job in the South African mines for the past year to buy back his daughter-in-law and grandson. Last month we were finally able to get them back. I chipped in two cows.
The celebration party went on for days. It was mostly a women and girls thing but there were plenty of men here as well - we made 55 gallons of joala (beer)! We started cooking and bringing precious water from distant wells several days before the actual homecoming. We slaughtered two sheep and countless chickens. On the day of the homecoming dozens of women from Bethe Bethe (Mamotlasti’s village) came in a singing and dancing procession carrying all the brides possession on their heads - it was like a dowry - plates, blankets everything presented for all to admire. All the young women and girls from the village were here dancing, chanting and doing a lot of ritualistic bathing. The chanting and praying went on all night and throughout all of the next day. I don’t know how they do it. All night celebrations are much the norm here. I was totally exhausted and I, unlike any of the family, could escape for moments of repose in my hut. Anyway, the party lasted from start to finish - meaning when all the joala was gone - five days!
Now we have mom and baby here and they are a joy. Little Motlatsi crawls around bare-bottomed and charms us all. He picks up language so quickly.
The first words he learned from me were “No, no, no”. For a while he was calling me “No,no.” He crawls into my hut and pees on the floor - oh well.
The worst recent news is that Lance had an accident and is now lame. We have a new herd boy named Liphapang who is in serious trouble with me. He did a dreadful thing to Lance. I’ve mentioned previously that Lance chased mares.  Well, Liphapang decided the thing to do was to hobble him so he couldn’t run away! Not only that but he didn’t undo the hobbling ropes before sending Lance up a torturous mountain path. Lance took a bad fall and has sprained or torn muscles in his rear legs. He can hardly walk.
This happened in the evening two weeks ago.  I was in my hut cooking when Matjeeka came running in saying, “Come quick, Lance very hurt.” I dropped everything and took off at a run with Matjeeka at my heels. If I’d realized how far away Lance was I would have at least changed shoes. I was wearing a cotton dress and my house clogs. Lance was on a narrow ledge of a particularly difficult path down the back of the mountain we live on. Two herd boys were with him - both looking very guilty. It took us a quite a while to get down to him. His back legs simply wouldn’t hold his weight he kept falling - it was horrible.
It was also getting dark and a nasty lightening storm was engulfing us on the mountainside. The lightening was terrifying Lance. We managed to get him to a broader ledge where he could lie down and I told Matjeeka to please go get my raincoat and blanket so I could spend the night with Lance and figure out how to get him home in the morning. She refused. We had our first big altercation. She said she was in charge of my safety, it was too dangerous, and the chiefs would punish her if anything happened to me. I said I wasn’t leaving Lance on that ledge; he would panic and fall again. We were both crying.
Finally, it was decided the herd boys, who were willing to do anything to make up for this bad accident, would take turns staying with Lance. By then it was pitch dark. We found our way back up the mountain by waiting for lightening flashes to see where we were. We actually had to crawl part of the way and arrived home soaking wet, covered in mud and pretty scratched up. At home I gathered up all my flashlights, blankets and rainwear and sent it with one of the herd boys back to Lance. Word spreads fast in this village - even in storms. Lots of herd boys got involved in rescuing Lance. I really don’t know how they did it but at dawn Lance, looking much the worse for wear, was home.
It just happened that I was having a council meeting at my house that morning. The first elder to arrive has a horse and had the “perfect” remedy for Lance. You won’t want to believe this but this is a “modern” traditional Basotho remedy for injured animals. He took a dry cell battery apart, scraped out some of the black powder inside of it, ground it on our grinding stone, mixed it with water and gave it, mixed with some wheat-germ porridge, to Lance to drink. As other elders arrived they all sagely agreed with this remedy. All I can say is it didn’t kill him. I’ve since talked to a vet - I can’t get one to come to the village, they simply don’t come here but he told me to just rest Lance and hope for the best.
It’s now been two weeks. He’s still lame but seems to be getting better each day. He is living the life of Riley. I keep bringing him more food and water and grooming him. He whinnies when he sees me coming.  I just wonder if I’ll ever be able to ride him again.
Once again this letter is getting too long. And I want to tell you about our new, income-generating village chicken farm. It will have to wait for next time. All I can say, having just returned from an inspection of the noisy, smelly nasty birds, is (in the voice of Willie Nelson) “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be chicken farmers.”
With love, from the heart of Africa,Â
Peggi
