Dear Family & Friends,
Some of the lessons I’m learning in this Peace Corps assignment are very
difficult to accept. Perhaps the most challenging one is that “different”
does not necessarily mean “wrong”.
Let me tell you the story of one of our family’s donkeys.
I called this little donkey “Sweetheart”. She was the oldest of our three
donkeys and the one I always used to fetch water. She was so patient. She
would stand motionless at the side of the high mountain spring while I
carefully filled the two containers hung over her back. I never filled them
all the way – they were so heavy and she was so small. Sweetheart would
then lead me back down the steep mountain trail to the house where I would
transfer the precious water to my storage containers. She often followed me
around like a puppy. I always gave her special treats – apples and an
occasional watermelon rind.
The family and villagers considered my gentle treatment of this animal very
odd. Donkeys are beasts of burden here and are beaten more frequently than
any other animal. I’ve seen donkeys loaded down with enormous burdens
beaten until their knees buckle for not walking fast enough.
At any rate, last week Sweetheart was taken with the other family donkeys to
fetch long grass from a distant field to feed the cows. On the way back,
burdened with a load taller than she was, she fell off a ledge and either
broke or dislocated her leg. The herd boys somehow got her home and placed
her lying on her side by my hut. Matjeeka said they would probably have to
slaughter her. I begged her to give me a day or two to see if there was
anything I could do. I gave her some of the painkiller I had left over from
Lance’s accident, petted and brushed her, fed her apples and sweet grass and
hoped for the best. By the next day, Friday, she could stand although the
leg was obviously badly damaged. She could put no weight on it at all but
she could hobble around a bit on three legs before falling over.
By Saturday she could hobble around for a few hours then would get as close
to my hut as possible and collapse.
During all this time we were visited by many of the men of the village.
They all gave their opinion that this was now a useless animal and should be
slaughtered. I knew they were right about the useless part. By Sunday, her
fate was sealed. Five very somber men came with the tools of slaughter. My
brother Tjeeka came to me and said, “Don’t worry, don’t worry.” I went into
my hut, closed the door, curtained the windows and cried. I cursed these
people for their “cruelty”.
By Monday morning I’d gained enough composure to once again join in the
family activities. My first sight upon coming outside my hut was several of
our dogs gnawing on Sweethearts sawed off legs. One of the puppies was
swinging her tail around like a toy. Sweetheart’s hide was stretched and
drying in the sun. Her severed head lay beside the largest cooking cauldron
ready to be boiled and her flayed body lay covered with flies by the cooking
hut. I rushed back to the seclusion of my hut but threw up before I could
get inside.
Later that day my friend and village elder, Setsomi, came to visit. He is a
very wise man. The news that I was upset and perhaps ill had spread. In
our now quite effective part English, part Sesotho conversational style we
discussed our different cultures. While we were having this conversation
Matjeeka brought him, as is the custom here, a large plate of food. It was
papa (maize meal) and donkey. She asked if I wanted to eat. I said, “No
thank you.” Setsomi said, “But this is meat – a great gift from your friend
(meaning Sweetheart)”.
Although there is no way in this lifetime that I could eat this meat, I knew
he was right. Sweetheart was providing her final gift – much needed protein
to many villagers. The men who slaughtered her had the privilege of eating
the brain. When they came to do this later that evening they made a little
ceremony of it. They said, ”This donkey was old like M’e Ntabby (that’s
me), and M’e Ntabby loved her. We thank her for her kindness to this
animal.”
Although this was in no way any apology for slaughtering the animal I know
this was their way of acknowledging my relationship with her and trying, in
the way of their culture, to help me feel better about it. These are very
good and kind people. They are trying as hard to understand me as I am them
and they are giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Not one morsel of this fine animal was wasted. For two days we had a
continual stream of visitors – many orphans and the poorest of the village
came to dine on this precious meat. Sharing with the underprivileged is
such an engrained part of this culture that it is never questioned.
The clearest message I’ve gotten from this cross-cultural experience is that
there can really be only one life. The key for each of us is to live the
sliver we’ve been given to the very best of our ability. I know Sweetheart
did.
With love from the strange but beautiful heart of Africa,
Peggi
by Katana Abbott 
