Although dawn was merely a suggestion in early morning darkness, i woke to sounds of cheery banter and laughter as men and women greeted each other in my end of Hamahlong village. Thatched roofs aren’t sound proof.
I turned over – a challenge in a tub-shaped torture device masquerading as a bed – and put the pillow over my head to block out sounds, which meant that my cheek felt bed springs and wires through underblankets. There was no mattress. My efforts proved futile. I surrendered to another day.
I mostly ignored my sore neck as i put my bare feet on the cow dung/clay floor, assessed levels of dirt and body odor on my clothes that lay heaped on a chair, and decided they would suffice for another day. I dressed, coaxed my stockinged feet into Wellingtons, pulled on my coat, and stepped outside into brightening chill that was no colder than air inside. I walked around to the backside of my circular home i rented from ‘Mamohale, former chief’s wife, and peed on the ground while facing the rock wall. “A man’s back is as good as a mountain,” goes the saying here.
I confirmed that Semate, my horse, stood securely roped where i had left him – which was not always the case, then went inside to fetch him more water and grain. Semate liked me; i fed and curried him. A good bargain for both of us.
I went back inside, picked up and jiggled the little gas stove. It needed refilling. Even with a yellow plastic funnel, i managed to spill some paraffin (a.k.a kerosene) as i refilled the stove’s small reservoir from the large blue can. Spilled kerosene disappeared almost immediately into the floor. The smell dissipated quickly as mountain air gently and continuously refreshed my rondavel. Thatched roofs aren’t wind proof.
I pumped up the stove – appropriately called a pumpa by my neighbors – lit the burner, poured creek water from a large tin container into a pan, balanced the pan on the diminutive stove, and adjusted the flame. I let water heat as i put away written assignments from ‘my’ teachers that i reviewed by kerosene lamp late the night before. When i judged that all infectious parasites and bacteria had died a suitable boiling water death, i used some of it to make a cup of tea and a bowl of oatmeal with powdered milk.
Thus refreshed, a little added cold water and soap cooled things down enough to wash my hands in the pan and swipe my face and neck with a washcloth. Then i washed dishes and set them to dry on a towel. As the final act of this quotidian ritual, i stepped outside with the pan and flung soapy water with its bits of breakfast out across the rocky slope. (Little did i know this act was an affront to ancient powers.)
I turned back to my abode just as the sun illuminated the crest of the hill to the south. But there was something up there commanding the view. A hut? A wall of rocks? I was certain it wasn’t there yesterday. A mystery to be sure, so i carried the empty pan back inside, re-donned my coat, and hung the strap of my Polaroid camera case on my right shoulder. Thus prepared, i ascended the hill, but only part way because i had to stop to reoxygenate my thin blood. The altitude here is 7,400 feet and each step meant finding a spot that would hold my weight on the steep slope
The ‘something’ was a sturdily-made chest-high cairn with seven sticks coated with something black and radiating out to the sky from a dung/clay mound that topped the cairn.
I walked around the ‘thing’ a couple of times, somehow expecting its purpose or provenance would be revealed. I took the curved metal developing sleeve from my camera bag and stuck it in my left armpit under my coat. As it warmed, i surveyed the gorgeous, albeit treeless, panorama. I then took a picture, pulled the developing film from camera, put it into the warm sleeve, returned the sleeve to my armpit, and started the timer. I took another picture while the first one self-developed. While waiting for the timer so i could remove the first photo from the sleeve, cows appeared with a young herder. I barely had time after the timer dinged to pull the first photo from its developing sheet, plop it into the camera case, put the second photo into the sleeve, and shoot a picture of the cows before they strode down and out of sight. Because of the cold wind, i hunkered down during the minute the third photo developed in my armpit. As soon as it was done and stashed in camera case, i descended the slope with only one scary slip and slide on my butt.
Of course i had to know the story behind the cairn, so i went directly to my ‘goto’ guy, Bernard Cher Makheta, son of a schoolmaster. They were the only two in Hamahlong who were fluent in English. Bernard wasn’t in but his mom directed me to a fenced pair of huts farther up the village. Two dogs challenged me as i approached the fence gate. They barked and snarled nastily. I reached down as though i were picking up a rock – appropriate behaviour to get dogs to back off – but they were only momentarily deterred. I called out, “Ntate Bernard, na u teng?”
“E, Davida. Kea tla,” came Bernard’s voice from somewhere near.
Seconds turned to minutes as the dogs became disconcertingly more aggressive. Instead of just feigning picking up rocks, i slowly backed away from the dogs until i found a real rock, picked it up and pretended to throw it. The dogs paused only slightly before continuing their threatening advance.
“Bernard, these dogs are scary!” i shouted.
“I’m coming.”
Bernard appeared at the flimsy gate and became the dogs’ focus of aggression. Bernard commanded, “Tsoa, tsoa,” as he exited the gate and menaced the dogs with the heavy wood stick he always carried. The dogs immediately gave him plenty of room as he came to greet me.
“Hey Davida. How are you?”
“Glad to see you. Those dogs got pretty close. I pretended throwing rocks. Didn’t help much.”
Right on cue, the two dogs lunged at us and Bernard swung his stick, nearly hitting one. That brought more fierce barking as they backed away.
“Davida, you need a stick. Everyone carries a stick.”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m supposed to represent peace. A stick would make me look … uh … not so peaceful.”
“You can throw rocks.”
“But i don’t want to hurt somebody’s dog.”
“It’s ok,” he laughed. “We all do it. Go ahead.”
I didn’t need a second invitation. With adrenalin-heightened force i flung the rock that i was carrying. Two things happened simultaneously: (1) the rock slipped out of my grasp early and flew a good 30 degrees right of where i intended; (2) the two dogs had sensed that this was not a fake throw, and streaked off to our right to avoid getting hit. Result: the bigger, badder dog was hit hard on his head by my errant rock. He yelped with surprise and pain as both dogs ran back a comfortable-for-us distance before resuming their noisy guard duties.
“Davida! Very good throw!”
“It slipped out of my hand. I was trying to throw it over there.” I pointed to where the dogs had been before running off.
We started down through the village.
“You have good magic. That was perfect.”
“No magic, just good luck. And clumsiness.”
“No, ntate. Good magic! How did you know i am here?”
“Your mother told me. I came to ask you about the thing up on that hill there,” as i pointed.
Bernard briefly glanced toward the hill and then turned to me. “That isn’t anything.”
“Well, it is something. I went up there and took these pictures.” I stopped, opened the camera case, and presented him with the three pictures. “What can you tell me about it?”
“Our ngaka builds one every year. It’s just superstition.”
We resumed walking.
“What’s it for?”
“It’s supposed to protect our wheat fields from – how do you say – ice from sky.”
“Hail. We call it hail.”
“Right. Wheat is soon ready to cut and bring inside but now is when hail will hurt it and we cannot sell it.”
“How is that thing supposed to work? What kind of black stuff is on the sticks?”
“I don’t know. Ngaka talked to everyone yesterday and told us he was building it and we are not to throw out wash water this morning.”
“What? But i already did that. I washed up and tossed out wash water next to my ntlo. Only this one morning? Is it OK to throw out wash water tomorrow? What will happen now?”
“Not to worry.” Bernard laughed. “It’s only superstition. Nothing will happen.”
When we reached Bernard’s home, he excused himself and went inside.
(You’ve probably guessed that “ngaka” is Sesotho for ‘witch doctor’ or shaman. People told me our village ngaka made himself invisible to me so my ‘anti-magic’ wouldn’t interfere with his ‘real magic.’ All i can say is that i never saw him during seven-plus months i lived in that village of 200 people. Hamahlong was also home to Ngaka ‘Masekolo – “Doctor Mother of School” – who specialized in patent medicines. “Ngaka” is also used for a medical doctor. Some villagers refer to me as “ngakana” – meaning “little doctor” – because i frequently took care of small injuries like cuts and gashes before sending ‘my patients’ downhill to the clinic a couple of miles away.)
[Later that same day.]
“Ko ko.”
I looked up from my peanut butter sandwich to see a neighbor woman at my open door.
“Kena, ausi,” i welcomed as i rose to meet her.
Rather than enter, she stood there with one bag perched on her head and another in her arms as she told me, “Fensetere ea hau a lebenkeleng, ntate.”
“Kea leboha, ausi. Na e ntle?”
“Ha ke tsebe. E ka lebokoseng.”
“Kea utloisisa. Ke tla ea lebenkeleng haufinyane.”
“Sala hantle, ntate.” And with that she left my doorstep.
My wooden-framed glass window had arrived! I ordered it from a catalog at Mantsonyane Store – our local “lebenkeleng.” Glass windows were not seen here before Europeans, so people in Lesotho use the German/Dutch word for window: Fenster. English even has “defenestrate.” She told me it was in a box – lebokoseng. I had decided that my rondavel could use another window in addition to the door window, and the partial collapse of the rondavel wall afforded just such an opportunity. I had asked a father-son team who did repairs to leave it closed but unfinished where they could install a twenty-inch square four pane window after it arrived.
I finished my sandwich and tea while contemplating whether to ride Semate three miles to the store and three miles back. But since Semate sometimes exercised his inalienable – and unreinable – right to break into a run, i decided to walk rather than risk shattered glass. It had warmed up nicely since this morning so i left my coat and hat inside and headed down the half-mile footpath that meandered through fields of tall wheat and led to the jeep road to Mantsonyane Store.
I greeted several folk along the road this sunny afternoon, but as i approached Maletsunyane Store, clouds streamed over and wind picked up. After getting the cardboard box, the clerk suggested i open it. It could be a wrong item. I cut open the box and inside was a window that was a perfect match to the catalog sketch. I then regaled clerks with the full story of wall collapse during heavy rain and impending window installation. Very pleased, i stepped out into cooler weather and began my walk back toward Hamahlong.
About half a mile from Mantsuyane Store, the road curves around a hill, where store, mill, and other buildings can no longer be seen. Does this matter? Maybe not, but when i reached that point, gusts picked up and a light hail began to fall. Rather than have hail pelting my head, i perched the three-inch-thick square cardboard box atop my head; a huge improvement. However, hailstones quickly increased in intensity and size. Hailstones the size of large marbles struck my exposed fingers atop the box with painful blows. The best i could do was to hold the box with one hand while warming fingers of my free hand in my mouth – then i switched hands. I tried supporting the box from its underside but wind pitched it over and i was barely able to catch it before it would have smashed to ground. Without a coat, my clothes became soaked through with icy rain and i quickly became uncomfortably cold. My fingers became red, swollen, and excruciatingly painful.
All i could do was to quicken my pace, but fierce gusts made even that difficult. Continuously, i passed alongside fields of nearly-ripe wheat, and feared my community would suffer economically from hail damage. It also occurred to me that perhaps – if one tosses aside renaissance attitudes toward magic spells – just perhaps i was to blame because i tossed out wash water this morning. Were there really such phenomena as supernatural spells? Of course not.
After thirty minutes of misery – curiously having met no one during that time – i left the jeep road for the footpath through wheatfields that led up to my ntlo. Abruptly hail stopped falling but my fingers throbbed with pain and i shivered in soaked clothes. When i reached my rondavel, a bit of sunshine broke through but i was a miserable wreck. I could not bend my swollen red and purple fingers, so getting out of my soaked clothing into something dry was difficult. I did not even try to light the pumpa to help me warm up. Instead i crawled into bed, fully clothed, and shivered uncontrollably for a time.
I crawled out of bed as dusk settled on Hamahlong. My fingers were less swollen but still painful and they looked like hell. Would they heal without medical treatment? I took two aspirin.
After lighting the kerosene lamp, i set about cooking up dinner. After canned soup, a slice of bread, and hot instant milk with a bit of protein powder, i washed up my dishes – but kept wash water just where it sat.
Reading another paper from another of ‘my’ teachers was easy; trying to make notes for the teacher with my sausage-fat fingers was not. I gave up, poured myself a Johnnie Walker Red, turned on my portable Panasonic radio to Radio South Africa’s classic music program, and sat down to read a few more chapters of Stranger in a Strange Land, reflecting briefly that i had a great-great-something-grandfather named Valentine Smith.
Next morning after breakfast and ablutions, i took the window to the men who would install it. Malebo said he and his son would install it on Sunday.
That afternoon i spotted Bernard Makheta walking quickly up past my home.
“Ntate Bernard, wait a second.”
He paused as i jogged over.
“Ntate Davida. I am hurrying now. My brother wants help. Walk with me.”
“I just wanted to know how badly wheat was damaged yesterday.”
“Damaged wheat? What kind of damage?”
“From yesterday’s hailstorm.”
“Hailstorm? No hail yesterday.”
“Yes there was, afternoon, on my way back from Mantsonyane Store. Look at my fingers. I was carrying a package over my head and hail was this big.” I held my thumb and bruised forefinger to indicate hailstone size.
“No one talked about hail. I will ask.”.
I stopped and then called out, “What’s the word for hail?”
“Sefako,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Kea leboha.”
Bernard walked away swiftly up toward his home as i pondered what he said. It was true that the hailstorm ended as i reached Hamahlong’s wheat fields, but there were other wheat fields i passed that belonged to other villages – while i was being pummeled by hail and buffeted by wind on the jeep road.
For the remainder of that day and during the next, whenever i bumped into one of my neighbors, i asked if they heard about a sefako storm or sefako damage to wheat between here and Mantsonyane Store or anywhere in Mantsonyane Valley. Each told me – Bernard confirming – there was no wheat damage; there was no hailstorm.
I stopped asking.
Following completion of the first draft, i returned and deleted a couple dozen definite and indefinite articles, not only in deference to the Sesotho language, but also because after a few months in Hamahlong, i ceased to think in English with so many a’s and the’s.
Using the lowercase “i” is something i’ve recently adopted, in part because we do not capitalize “she” or “he” or “we”, so capitalizing this particular first person pronoun seems a bit egotistical. Of course imagining that other people would adopt this convention is undeniably egotistical.
¿Did events truly unfold exactly as described? Yes, except for inconsequentials such as what food was eaten and which book i read by kerosene lamp that day. I kept my bottle of Johnny Walker Red in my trunk and it was still half full when i was thrown out of the Peace Corps in August of 1968. Also, i do not remember what Bernard told me at the story’s end about why he was in a hurry, so i made up a plausibility.