The Long and Winding Road

When I sat down to write this piece, I wondered if HIV infections - and its dreadful consequence AIDS - make for a suitable subject anymore. Hasn’t all that needed to be said already been said? Haven’t the horrendous reach of the affliction in the land we live in, the heart-wrenching human story, the pathos and the urgency of meeting the challenge already filled up all the print space – and all of our consciousness? Are we not oh-so-completely aware of statistics like over 23 percent incidence, the problem of the ‘missing generation’, the budding adolescents who embarked on the journey of life with the unwanted inheritance of disease already stamped into
their fibre, the hapless women who may not be in control of their own destiny and the dispossessed strung out in inaccessible areas unable to benefit from the growing support system and the contours of the massive combat that is underway?

It has been some time since I began to educate myself on the extent and depth of this issue that stands between progress and decline like a demon with arms crossed over its chest and defiance in his eyes. There are several questions I have been asking myself:

What is the true dimension of the problem?

Do we really have a measure of it or are statistics the convenient pegs on which the issue has fuzzily been hung?

Are we rising to the challenge or has rigor mortis of hopelessness begun to stymie our efforts?
Are we winning, losing or running hard to stay in place? How and by when can we beat back the
scourge?

I have adopted the route of observation and anecdotes to arrive at my own conclusions. This is no scholarly research – I flinch when I use the words ‘scholarly’ and ‘research’ – but a layman’s journey to understand one issue bedeviling the country I have come to love so much. As we go along, I hope to share my stories and conclusions here with fellow travellers.

Today, I want to begin with the end. What is it that, in my opinion, should lie at the heart of the matter? What is it that we, the civil society, should do to lend our shoulder to this gargantuan enterprise in which the government, the professionals and the NGOs are so deeply engaged?

It would appear to me that two picket fences separate us from the road that lies ahead. I call it a 'picket fence' because one can see the view across it and
with some effort, it can be torn down too.

One, there is the real danger of getting tired of spreading the message against the causes of the pandemic. Sometimes, sheer repetition can lead to ennui and enervation. No matter how horrendous the problem, human mind – individually and collectively – can begin to exercise
‘acceptance’ simply because there appears to be no light at the end of the tunnel. Some call it denial. Many a society has lulled itself into beliefs that flew in the face of all rationale. This is a challenge we need to guard against with persistent determination. No matter how long and arduous the road and how elusive the success, the messengers and the warriors must not allow inertia to chip away at the heroic battle that is underway.

More heroism, not surrender, is the need of every hour till we have the issue by the scruff of the neck.

Two, we must work towards destigmatization the existence of the problem. Once the matter is seen for what it is – a disease like any other that need support not shunning – communities will begin to engage in the effort far more than has been the case. There are successful stories from elsewhere – Uganda for example – where it was the civil society that became the biggest support system for those who were affected. I am no expert (of course!) but perhaps that is where the salvation lies. It is the community that can take charge and spearhead the battle;
that will only happen when layers of stigma are peeled off and the problem is looked at in the eye – not with shame or aversion, but unblinkingly, and with love.

A Basotho Wedding

We drove up to the mountains to the town of Teyateyaneng (quite a mouthful, I know. Everyone calls it TY) and then branched off on to a narrow road to the village of Ha Mohatlane. Brilliant African skies canopied over us and, as you can see from the picture, massive chunks of pure white clouds rested against the horizon, like elephants in afternoon siesta.

We were on time but like all weddings, things were nowhere near ready. The bride’s wedding dress hadn’t arrived from the shop that rents it for 2500 Malutis. The guests were trickling in. Smell of fresh vegetables being cooked over slow fire was wafting out of a window.

So we decided to explore.

We walked around, looking at the traditional Basotho hut where Mohtalane’s mother stays even today, the tent erected for the ceremonial feast with its rich decoration and the kitchen where beef, chicken, beans, vegetables, salad, rice, maize meal ‘pap’ and desserts were being readied.

Now, the Basotho hut is being very slowly but surely nudged out from Lesotho’s landscape by modern construction. But it is a marvel in itself, this Basotho hut is; its roof is a strong weave of grass that keeps the inside cool during summers and traps heat during winters. Not a drop of water seeps through it, Mohatlane tell me. And you need to change the grass only once in 20 to 30 years.

The weddings here are a two-part ritual; in fact, it is two weddings rolled into one! On Day One, the wedding takes place at the girl's place - church function, speeches and a grand feast. All the main relatives and friends of the groom travel to the girl's place - as this lot did to Mafeteng. They return home that evening with the bride and a couple of her relatives. We met the two sisters who had accompanied the bride.

On Day Two, it is the groom's family's turn to get into the act and another wedding ensues - church, speeches, a photo session and a feast fit for kings.

I met all of Corporal Mohatlane's people - his mother (we chatted, even though I don't know enough Sesotho and she is not familiar with English beyond a word or two!), sisters, wife, children (seen in a picture) and friends. And, of course, we met the groom – Corporal Mohatlane's younger brother – and the bride. We took pictures. Everything looked exotic to us. I am sure we looked no less exotic to everyone else.

The bride looked vivacious and radiant in a flowing wedding dress. During the photo-session (held at Blue Mountain Resort at TY to obtain a backdrop befitting a wedding), she laughed and giggled while the groom looked subdued, even puzzled. In one photo setting, he was made to lie down by her feet. The closest I have seen ‘another ones bites the dust’ in action! So what was on his mind?

Not the dowry. The ‘dowry’ is called 'lobola' and it is paid by the boys’ people to the bride’s family. The initial 'lobola' for this wedding was agreed for 25000 Maluti or Rs 1.5 Lac! And later they might have to pay another installment of the same amount!

Manish charmed many with bits of Sesotho (‘O shabahala hantle’ or ‘you look pretty’, ‘khotso bo n’tate’ or ‘May peace be with you revered gentlemen’ and ‘O phela juang me?’ or ‘How are you Lady?’). I chipped in too.

And I looked at the flowers and wondered if ‘rose’ can ever be any different in any language?

The Happy Mosotho!

I am picking apples in the local Fruit and Veg. Next to me is a Mosotho male,making his selection. I look up and our gaze meets. he breaks into an open happy smile and calls out, "N'tate!". (In-da-day) "How are you N'tate?" he goes on to ask. "Kea phella hantle, kealeboa (I am well, thank you)", I reply in my basic Sesotho. He breaks into a wider grin, clasps my hand in a Basotho hand-shake (hand shaken thrice in succession in different grips) and shows unadeltrated pleasure. We talk a bit and then he leaves, his N'tate ringing in that part of the store.

I see Basotho people as a happy lot. The above example is repeated endlessly everywhere. Don't get me wrong - the happiness is not merely at looking at a 'foreigner' or even at a foreigner who chooses to respond in a bit of Sesotho. It is the same when they greet each other in streets, shops and everywhere else. The word N'tate (a respectful salutation for men) is easily the most used word in Sesotho. Every man is a N'tate. It has nothing to do with his perceived status or station.

Politeness is endemic. Everyone smiles at you before speaking. Blowing a horn is considered a mark of discourtesy. People give each other way on street, allowing another car to pass before driving on. Pedestrians are treated with care.

They dance easily. As I mentioned in another post, one of my colleagues is sure that God chose to fit an iPod in the mind of each inhabitant of Lesotho. There is a tune on all the time and you can see that in the sway in their bodies. Add some external music and you have a party. Sometimes a party of one!

What makes them a happy people? Remember that we are talking about the people of one of the poorest countries on land and a nation that is battling with 23 percent (official figures) of HIV/AIDS prevalence.

And what makes us grumpy? Why are we perpetually impatient? Here, I am yet to hear a horn blow in a traffic jam. Back home, the INSTANT lights turn green, the entire cavalcade bursts into frantic horn-pushing, exhorting the man ahead to smash through the man ahead of him, if possible! We never acknowledge the presence of another stranger in a lift or street. We wear a scowl on our faces as if we are paid for it. Has life become too unbearable for us? Is it the pressures exerted on resources of all kinds by a population whose growth should worry us but doesn't? Are we in too much of a hurry? To get where?

There are things to be learnt from this happy people!

Under New Skies

Four months ago, on a pleasant day, I walked out of the tiny plane and walked the tarmac of Maseru's King Moshoeshoe Airport. I looked up. Brilliant blue skies with sunlight pouring down and filling up the vast open spaces. A few huge blobs of white resting against the blue, like elephants in impassive siesta. But, ah that sunlight! It was undeterred!

The skies over Africa continue to fascinate me. In my travels to Johannesburg and Pretoria and Kruger and Clarens (not to mention the aborted visit to Durban, given up at the railway crossing near Winterton after a car rammed mine from the rear!)

To revert to the blue skies and my first day. The picture here is not taken that day; I clicked it a few days later I visited Ladybrand, a quaint little town in South Africa. As we sat awaiting delicious pizzas in Little Italy, the skies caught my attention.

As they do every day.


I am leading a new life under these blue African skies, a life that is riding a rhythm different from any I had so far in 51 years of my life. I seem to have got off the roller-coaster and am getting a view. I am looking at Time with new eyes.

This blog is about the slice of my life at Lesotho.