Sylvia's Journal

It was 7 years ago I was here last, and 21 years ago I was here first, with Michael, then HR chief at MSH. I don’t think Michael knew what an important mentoring role he played in my life. I was never able to thank him and he died much too young. He was a tormented soul but at the time I didn’t know that and eagerly listened to his wise words. I still have his handwritten notes which he left me to ponder, Michael’s Maxims – a piece of paper I treasure and have used ever since. There were ten maxims in all, “don’t swim upstream” has been one of the most used in my 25 years at MSH.

On the way from Maseru airport to town we drove in back of a small passenger bus that had hand-lettered on its rear window: Taliban II. I saw other buses with words like ‘Terminator,’ you see these all over Africa, but Taliban II was new. What’s up with these Basotho? The sequel to Taliban I cannot be good. And yet this must be the most peaceful place on earth.

Someone in the plane was talking about the good old days but I happen to know that in this place the good old days were pretty bad. I am reading a biography of Moshoeshoe, the founder of the Basotho. It was the time of the difaqane wars which were tribal wars aiming at nothing less than total annihilation of each other, transforming thousands of survivors into cannibals, sometimes wearing aprons and loins cloths made from human skins, reeking of putrefied human flesh, according to the author of the book (Peter Becker – Hill of Destiny). To my surprise one of the fearsome warriors was a woman and she was just as cruel as everyone else – there goes that theory.

I left very early this morning from my lovely guesthouse in a leafy and high-gated suburb of Pretoria, where the only pedestrians are the household staff of the owners of the fancy houses. It’s beautiful and yet, the high gates, eletric fences and countless advertisements for security firms, tell a different story: of inequities, wins and losses and much fear.

The flight from Jo’burg to Maseru is only 45 minutes, which turned out to be a very small part of the journey. Most of the time was spent waiting: for the bus to the plane, for the plane, for immigration in Lesotho and for a room that wasn’t ready. It wasn’t until 2 PM that I was ready to start work and meet my colleagues and counterparts.

I was shown around the MSH/Lesotho office and met colleagues from two different projects. Because I had the drug management unit in my portfolio in Afghanistan I can now converse easily with my druggie colleagues about pharmaceutical management. I know their language now.

We went to visit the Permanent Secretary who is one of my clients this week; an energetic lady who brings much management experience from the private (nonprofit) sector to the job and has big plans. She wants us to help her improve her leadership skills so that she can leave the legacy she has in mind, only three years away when her appointment ends.

She shared the legacy with us and we told her we are entirely at her service. How we can assist her is part of what I am supposed to find out. She has made time available for us. This feels very luxurious – usually a short courtesy call is all I can get with people at this level. It says something about commitment. But, she admitted, it is also an election year and so her time is not entirely her own. We will be grateful for whatever we get.

The hotel is part of a casino complex with slot machines and ‘tables.’ All this is right next to the restaurant – noisy, and tense with the hopes of wins and the expectations of losses. It is of no interest to me, luckily. I can think of better ways to spend money.

There are many Chinese here, filling about a quarter of the plane from Pretoria and then lots of them in the hotel. They have small stores along the roads, selling stuff cheaper than anyone else – it’s the same story everywhere in Africa. The small folks hacking away at the bottom and the big guys (having meals with government officials in our Namibian hotel) buying up the ground that Africa sits on without people seeming to notice that one day Africa, and everything below its surface, won’t belong to Africa anymore.