Sylvia's Journal

This is a peaceful country, something that would please its founder, Moshoeshoe, a man who struggled most of his life with conflict and angry neighbors, because, paradoxically, he always selected the more peaceful solution when they came calling.

One telltale sign of the peacefulness here is the way security works. Like any other place in the world, probably a legacy of 9/11, everywhere are barriers and booms and lanyards with security cards and security personnel armed with the paddles that beep if they come across something suspicious. Yet at the ministry the card that allows you through the turnstile is sitting on the turnstile, not around the neck of a human being in uniform. Anyone wanting to get inside simply swipes the card and places it back on the turnstile.

At the hotel the guards standing at the entrance never use their paddles, there is no gate one has to walk through and the ‘security incident’ record book sits forlornly and unused on a shelf in the lobby. I love it.

Our driver told me he can leave his wallet on the car seat and it will still be there when he gets back. When I insisted he put my backpack, which contains my life (passport, computer, cellphone, etc), in the boot of the car he said it wasn’t necessary. OK, so it may not be like Jo’burg.

But I am getting some pieces of information that indicate a violent streak underneath the amiable presenting surface: a peace corps volunteer was killed one year, another raped and there is much abuse of children and women, by family members and those who are supposed to help them.

The culprit seems to be alcohol, widely, cheaply and easily available. The bars at the hotel have an extraordinary collection of hard liquor. There are places that sell beer everywhere, well-advertised and clearly visible from a distance. One of my drivers, who had a can of beer in his car’s cup holder, told me that even an open beer container would not be a problem. Having a liter of beer would not be a reason to take a taxi or stay put – he was astonished about the strict rules in Holland and the US – what, no driving after a few pints of beer?

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I had been eyeing the gym down in the basement but its loud thumping music has scared me away. I did feel like I had to do some exercise with all those buffet dinners and breakfasts. After a few hours of work, that opportunity offered itself. But I was reminded in rather painful ways that I have gotten quite a bit older since I was first here – both in mind and in body.

I had hired a driver to come and pick me up at 9:30 to help me escape from the hotel. He suggested a trip to Morija and Thaba Bosiu. My ears perked up – those were just the two places I had been reading about and I was anxious to see for myself what they were like.

First we drove to Morija. It is the place where the first French missionaries settled around the 1820s. They became very close to the Basutho Chief. Casalis, the first of them, played a role of spiritual and later also political guidance counselor and stood by the Basutho Chief through a lot of turmoil during most of his career. There is a little museum in Morija with faded pictures of those days, the first chief and his descendants (up to now) and stuffed animals, artifacts and pieces of the meteor (and pictures of those who found them) that fell in this area some 9 years ago.

My driver suggested I go up the mountain and see the dinosaur foot. An 11 years old guide, Popi, offered to take me up for about 4 dollars. The driver stayed behind saying ‘been there, done that.’ Innocently and full of youthful arrogance I followed the young boy straight up the steep slope of the mountain for about 45 minutes exactly at the hottest part of the day. Older doesn’t always mean wiser!

Living in hotels had been easy on my joints and so I thought I was good to go. The boy was cool, walking slowly, drinking my water and asking me a thousand questions in his 4th grade English. After the questions about family came the questions about cars (yes, he knew what a Subaru was), about church (who did I go to see there) and places I had been. He spelled the Sesotho names of some magnificent birds we saw, apologizing for not knowing the English names.

The destination of the climb turned out to be a variant on Old Man in the Mountains – a rock formation that, with some imagination, could be a giant footprint of some pre-historical animal. When I asked him which animal he said yes to all my suggestions: lion, puma, tiger, elephant. He didn’t seem to understand dinosaur which was the reason I had climbed all the way up there. I felt a bit misled.

Walking down was another ordeal and severely tested my ankle and knee joints. By the time I came back to the tiny guesthouse from where tours are arranged I had the color of a boiled lobster.

While I was waiting for my driver and replenishing liquids I fell in with a small French/South African party. As it turned out they had grown up in Lesotho and one woman was the great-great-grandchild of one of these first missionaries.
I don’t think these missionaries could, in their wildest dreams, have imagined the success of bringing the gospel to Lesotho. All during the day we saw throngs of women and men, dressed in capes with colorful ribbons and sashes that, I presumed, showed which church they belonged to. They did fail to convert the first Chief, who died one day before his baptism. That must have been a big disappointment.

The second stop of my sightseeing tour was the mountain (Mountain of the Night). According to the biography I read it was given that name because the first Basuthos to arrive there under Moshoehoe’s leadership climbed the mountain at night, fleeing from marauding tribes. But my driver told me otherwise. “You see,” he said, “the old Bashutos seem to think that mountains grew overnight.” I imagined something much older than these first Basuthos, when the earth was boiling and volcanoes popped up everywhere like basty pimples. The landscape does look a little pimply.

Moshoeshoe (Moshoesh for short) spent most of his adult life on this flat mountain top, keeping maurauders and attackers down. All the while some of his own people did the marauding in the flats where the Boers were whenever they ran out of meat and grains (and later weapons). It was an endless and lethal game of tit-for-tat.

As we walked up the steep path to the top of the mountain, more insult and injury to the already worn joints, snippets of vague memories started to come into my conscious. When we turned a corner I realized I had done this trip before, 21 years ago. It was as if a light in a dark corner of my brain suddenly was turned on, like the clothes closet in my hotel room – when you open the door the light goes on. Of course I had been here and explored the mountain top, with Michael, when I was young and supple and probably raced up and down without any effort.

Lesotho must be the only place in the world where you have to walk up a mountain to see the grave of the nation’s founder – an unassuming pile of rocks that stand in sharp contrast to the marbled mausoleum of the current king’s father who died in 1995. All that stuff was brought in my helicopter no doubt.

At the base of the mountain a giant re-creation of the mountain top ‘kraals’ is nearly finished but not open yet. For now the few tourists are cramped in a few open rondavels with braai pits. The Seventh Day Adventists were on an outing, travelling in buses with HIV/AIDS messages all over them (we pray for, no against, HIV/AIDS). Although praying is not an approved public health measure, in this country with its staggering numbers of infected people, anything is welcome.

There is not that much to see at the top, except for the giant agave plants that used to delineate kraals, and a few roughhewn structures – the chief’s house among others – built by and Irish builder who has escaped from the war on the flatlands. On the request of the chief, dictated by one of the missionaries, he excused for his AWOL by the Brits and so he continued building. If there had been water lapping at the edges of the plateau, you could have imagined being in Ireland.

The final descent was a killer – my painful joints and feet complained as I carefully positioned my feet on the millions of small and larger rocks that had been thrown throughout the 1800s from the top to keep the attackers down. It made for a very bumpy road up at the time and now it makes for a very bumpy road both ways, but especially down.

T’s mom was the Planned Parenthood volunteer coordinator who hired and trained me, some 25 years ago as a counselor in Cambridge with the Planned Parenthood League of Massachusetts. He is now a peace corps volunteer in Lesotho. He traveled 5 hours to come and see this friend of his mom.

He called me when he arrived in town and told me he was going to be a little late as he had to take advantage of being in the big city and stock up on things not easily available where he lives. I asked what that was: canned tuna fish! The things we take for granted.

We compared notes on working with the public sector, he in agriculture now – setting up a fisheries scheme at the local hospital, but child welfare in the future; me, for now, with child welfare. He is getting a good grounding in dynamics that some people never quite get, such as, ‘people don’t change just because you tell them to.’ It’s basic but will save you from major heartache and disillusion later.

He has decided he will continue in international development, in one direction or another. He is about nine months into a Peace Corps assignment and loves it. I told him that if I have two candidates who have equal credentials for a job, I’d hire the Peace Corps volunteer any time. I think it is a great preparation for the kind of career he is choosing for himself, or, for that matter, for life, anywhere.

Today an early morning massage at the iron hands of diminuative Patience and my lunch with T provided some distraction from an intense relationship with my computer. To break the monotony of hotel life, which revolves essentially around meals, I have decided to arrange a short sightseeing trip tomorrow to Thaba Bosiu, the ‘Hill of Destiny,’ where the founder of this country, Moshoeshoe, spent most of his adult life. From atop that hill, during a good part of the 1800s, he resisted countless attempts by neighboring tribes, including the Zulu, the Matabele, the Boers and the British, to subdue him. Having finished reading his biography I would like to see this historical place. I am told it is close by and worth a visit. The nice gentleman from Perfect Taxi, with the unpronounceable name, promised to call me back early morning with a quote and a plan.

It is weekend now and the slot machines are running at full tilt. One of the machines is like a telephone booth with glass on all four sides. A man stands inside while a powerful blower whirls 200 Rand notes around him. He has to try to grab as many as he can. It sounds easier than it is. He has to stuff the caught notes in a slot on the front of the booth, the stuffing takes some effort and makes for lost time. He doesn’t get as many notes as I thought he would. And then the blower stops and he has to get out. I assume he had to pay for the privilege of money blown at him. Weird.

The casino will be open till 5 AM tomorrow (Sunday) morning, nonstop. Luckily my room is far removed from that excitement; it is quiet on the fourth floor.

Buffet dinner was half price tonight, I am not sure why, but it was clear Maseru knew about this as there was a long line of people wanting to get in.

I went back to the hotel early; my colleagues were busy running other parts of the program and there was no point in staying in the office. Here too Friday is quiet day. We received the self-assessment from the chief and I have started to comb my files for specific materials, while waiting for cross validation from people on her team.

Workshops in the districts are being organized, not an easy thing here. This means some travel and another 12 days in Lesotho to accommodate all this.

Weekend is not entirely restful as it is the time to pay attention to other stuff I promised to complete by this weekend. But tomorrow at 9 AM I will present myself at the spa for a full body massage.

For dinner I ordered a Greek salad, guess my surprise when I got this:

I spent most of yesterday pulling together observations from my own experience, looking at executive competencies, reading my file about ‘the specialness of the public sector’ to come up with a profile for a self-assessment by the chief. She asked for it and today we delivered it. It will form the foundation on which to develop a customized executive leadership program. She promised to fill it in before the weekend and asked the UNICEF consultant who we consider part of our team, to give it to a cross-section of her staff – to validate (or contradict) her own assessment.

In the meantime she has asked to already put together a package of materials for her to work on while she travels out of the country. There appears no time to spare. I love the challenge and will spend tomorrow combing through my ‘Eng Materials’ file to put something together.

The teambuilding retreat with her team will have to happen after I have left but I will be able to interview various staff and help with the design. That too is exciting. And then there are some short workshops with various district level coordination teams that we will pilot – an attempt to help put some wheels under the coordination that these teams have to do. We received the green light for all of these.

The MSH project I am consulting to is run by an Indian doctor whose style is thoughtful and collaborative in a way I have not seen in years. He took me over to one of our partners today. It was refreshing to see how much effort he puts into aligning agendas and approaches. It effectively doubles his manpower and leaves me feeling good about carrying through what is being started. This is how things should be in the usually much more competitive world of technical assisters and developers.

Back at the hotel I watched part II of one of Donald Trumps apprentice schemes. This one is where a group of male and a group of female superstars (film, music, acting, sports, etc.) must accomplish some challenging assignments (raise money selling 10.000 pizza slices and writing, publishing and performing a children’s story all in one day). We can then watch them, as in a fishbowl, and see how they handle (or don’t handle) the stress that gets generated when you put eight prima donnas in a pressure cooker. Trump, and what I believe are two of his sons, act like A.K. Rice consultants, asking the kind of questions that bring out our survival reflexes.

It is hard to understand what compelled these famous people to engage in such an activity that leads to complete emotional undress. It can’t be money, as these stars belong to the super rich. May be it is some perverse sense of serving society (the proceeds from their assignment go to a charity of their choice).

I had just finished re-reading Eric Berne’s Games People Play. And so I was able to test my knowledge of the games. The show is full of them. There is NIGYSOB (Now I Got You Son of a Bitch), or SWYMD (See What You Made me Do), or IOTBH (I Am Only Trying To Help You). The bonus feature of having individuals speak privately (if on camera can be considered private) and candidly about what they think of some of their team mates just added to the drama – one Child wanting to talk as an Adult but speaking like a Parent to another Child who also pretends to be an Adult. In fact I saw very few Adults, and mostly stern Parents and hurt Children. I highly recommend the combination of Berne and Trump, it is a delicious stew.