Right Before His Very Eyes: An Encounter with the Mysteries of Africa

By Donovan Russell

This is a story about people whose ancient way of life is threatened by social upheaval and violence. It is a story of Africans (black, brown and white) during the convulsive height of apartheid made worse by the great power struggle for Africa during the incredible Cold War. It is a story of people caught in something they do not understand.

But, the story is about more than this. It is also about the dilemmas that people have when face to face with a vastly different culture. It is about their helplessness as events wash over them, as modernization steals their children and as hard times reach into their homes.

The story is also about the suffering of ordinary people when big men step into the breach in Africa, to exploit, intimidate and struggle with each other for power and riches.

Issues of socioeconomic development come alive through the story. Peoples lives are seen in relation to the initiatives of development organizations.

But this is not a story entirely about the negative side of life. It is told through the touching lives of people who manage remarkably well. It is a story of people from vastly different backgrounds who have hope where there is little room for it, civil relations where there should be antagonism, patience in the face of extreme frustration and who trust in an atmosphere of suspicion. The story is at times even amusing. It takes place in a complicated, fascinating and overwhelmingly beautiful part of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 24, 2001
• ISBN: 9781475907605

Donovan Russell

Donovan Russell served in schools and colleges in New York, Maryland and Quebec. His graduate studies were completed at Cornell University. Dr. Russell was Director of Education Planning for a Canadian province and served in the North Carolina Department of Education. Later he managed several overseas projects. He was a Peace Corps Director in Africa and Asia. He currently manages an Asian Development Bank project for the Academy for Educational Development.

Book preview

Contents

Illustrations

Foreword

Introduction

About the Author

Glossary

Illustrations

First Section of Illustrations Page One:

1. Top Left-Boy waiting for a bus in Maseru, the capital

2. Middle-Mountain man with an ancient musical instrument

3. Bottom-Lesotho and U.S. officials at an official ceremony

Page Two:

1. Top Right-Village ceremony in the high Maluti Mountains

2. Middle-Birthday party in Maseru

3. Bottom-His Majesty the King of Lesotho addressing a University crowd

Page Three:

1. Top Left-A traditional dance

2. Bottom-A Basotho send-off

Second Section of Illustrations Page One:

1. Top Left-The South Africa/Lesotho border crossing at Maseru Bridge

2. Top Right-Maseru, the capital of the Kingdom of Lesotho

3. Bottom-A South African farmhouse

Page Two:

1. Top Left-A blanketed man on a Maseru street

2. Top Right-Likhapha Mokhele, a friend of the author

3. Bottom-A road sign in the South African highveld

Page Three:

1. Top left-Francina Moloi and Likhapha Mokhele, friends of the author

2. Bottom-At school

Third Section of Illustrations Page One:

1. Top Left-A U.S. Peace Corps ceremony in the high mountains of Lesotho

2. Bottom-A U.S. Peace Corps school construction project in Lesotho Page Two:

1. Top Left-An old-fashioned store in a South African town

2. Middle-Friends. The author and A.M. Sets’abi, University Vice-Chancellor

3. Bottom-Religious opening of a public ceremony

Page Three:

1. The face of wisdom

2. Traditional dancing

Foreword

Look, look from this rooftop of Africa, look from this cathedraled pinnacle in the Mountain Kingdom. Look from Lesotho down silent canyons toward Transkei, toward Natal, toward the northeastern Cape. Listen, listen to the wind, listen to revered ancestors watching over their people and whispering of the new arrivals.

Listen in the wind for a place where people have time for each other and there is security in family and community. Where there is respect and courtesy between the generations and sharing is still a virtue. Where life is a spiritual thing and being is as important as doing or having.

What does the wind say about such a place? What does it foretell?

Introduction

While this is a work of fiction, it is based on actual events. Some names in the story refer to real people, some to fictitious characters. While meant for the general public, the story will also appeal to:

• High school and university students of African or American history and culture.

• Graduate students of history, political science, anthropology, international development and international relations.

• Managers, specialists and volunteers with NGOs and INGOs.

• Administrators and volunteers with international volunteer organizations.

• Cross-cultural communicators and trainers.

• Administrators and specialists with international development organizations, relief agencies and missions.

• Foreign affairs professionals.

• Schools and other organizations with programs in character and values education.

Jacob arrived in the Kingdom of Lesotho on the afternoon of April 4th. Amazing, he thought as he stepped from a South African plane at the small airfield amidst blue mountains. The wind was blowing hard and the plane had taken a dive as they crossed the rocky border between the Republic of South Africa and this mountain kingdom. He had been sitting next to an Indian woman and in fact filled out her customs declaration on the way from Johannesburg. In taking the necessary information from her passport Jacob noted that her birthplace was Delhi and that she was born in 1929. The rest of the passport was in neat Hindi that he couldn’t read. On the trip he had studied the passengers, trying to figure out what kind of country he was headed toward. With the exception of two Englishmen, a Chinese woman and his Indian seatmate, the seventeen passengers were African. They had been treated well by the tall blonde South African hostess.

As he crossed the windy little field, Jacob could see a small terminal building. A sign said, Welcome to Leabua Jonathan International Airport. His was the only plane in evidence. There was livestock on the runway. A large crowd of people waited for the passengers behind a waist high fence. The sun was shining brightly. When he neared the fence a handprinted sign caught his eye. Welcome Dr. Jacob Olmstead. Walking toward the sign he could see a young African woman with a beautiful smile holding it. Hi, that’s me, he said unsteadily. She shook his hand, replying, I’m Francina Moloi, there is a group of us here to meet you. You must go into the building for your luggage and formalities, we will meet you on the other side. A pleasant first encounter.

Inside the building he found himself in a crowded line being processed by two women behind a counter. It was a tiny place. Overhead, the smiling face of Prime Minister Leabua Jonathan looked down from a large photograph. Oh, boy, I’m really in Africa now, he thought. The picture was of a heavy man wearing a dress hat. Jacob knew however that a few short years ago there had been a rebellion and that many of the Prime Minister’s opponents were jailed, exiled or killed. He had mixed emotions about being inside the borders of the Mountain Kingdom. At the counter his passport was examined and his customs declaration papers were placed in a neat stack. You have 72 hours to report to the National Customs Office and the National Alien Control Office. A gentleman helped him retrieve his bags and Jacob was on his way through the thick crowd to meet the waiting delegation.

Once through the building he was again met by Francina Moloi who introduced him to the USAID Human Resources Officer, an American Higher Education Advisor and to Lois Sebatane, a Japanese-American woman working at the National University. Everyone was most pleasant. Jacob got into a black Peugeot with Lois and Francina and they headed for town. The official American car followed. They entered a narrow street where cows and sheep grazed along the shoulder. There were crowds of people walking in the highway. Some were barefoot. Many were wearing large heavy blankets, even though it was fairly hot. An early autumn day in the Mountain Kingdom. They drove rapidly between small (mostly one and two room) brick, stone and adobe houses. Some had thatched roofs. Some tin. The tin was kept from blowing away by large rocks. He tried not to show the surprise and immense fascination that he felt. The place was free from litter and he could see that the people were clean and neat, albeit poor. As they got closer to the center of Maseru, the capital city, they passed larger homes. Lois said, On your left at the top is the King’s palace. It cost 1,000,000 rands. The King doesn’t live there though-he is in London studying law. At the top of a little mountain they were in

Maseru West, an exclusive part of town. The houses were a little larger; the streets paved. Still a few cows and sheep along the highway and servant women walking with baskets on their heads. A black Mercedes was parked by the street. A blanketed man on horseback moved over so that they might pass. They stopped at a house under construction. This will be your house, Francina said. It would be pleasant when completed. The view over the valley was magnificent. Beyond those trees, in the valley, is South Africa, Lois told him. The house was supposed to be completed last month but it is a few weeks behind, Francina explained. When do you expect your sons? Jacob explained that they would be arriving upon the completion of the American school year in late June.

After touring the house, they began a 30-kilometer drive to the University. The road was paved but was especially narrow on some of the steep mountain curves. Leaving suburban Maseru they passed hundreds of tiny adobe houses set against the hills. Jacob could see no evidence of electric or telephone lines. The highway, for the first 10 kilometers or so was crowded with people walking. There were also fast moving, banged up Datsun taxi vans, large Leyland buses emitting thick foul clouds and horses and mules. They waited for livestock to cross the highway in several places. He had a tight feeling. His voice was hoarse-a tightness in his vocal cords. What on earth have I gotten myself into? he kept thinking. Lois and Francina were pleasantly pointing out villages and landmarks. There were badly wrecked and rusting automobiles along the sharp curves. Lois told him that they had lost seven University students to bad auto wrecks in the past month. Speed and alcohol are a problem here, she said. He thought her striking-long black hair and clear soft complexion. She told him that she had come out from Utah as a Peace Corps Volunteer several years ago. She had married a Mosotho and they had settled down in the University town of Roma. Francina was Acting Director of the Institute of Extra Mural Studies at the University. She had studied in California.

Suddenly the car slowed and turned into a small country gate. A guard waived them through. They drove along a dirt lane to a stone building. Jacob was told that this was the administration building of the National University. Several years back this was a Roman Catholic mission school, Francina explained. The USAID car pulled in behind them. They were met in front of the building by Mr. Sets’abi, Pro Vice-Chancellor of the University. A gregarious individual with a big smile, he was most probably in his late thirties. A man of obvious energy and enthusiasm. Jacob was immediately drawn to him, subconsciously feeling they could become fast friends. They walked to a special dining room. Several new buildings were in evidence amongst the old. That is Netherlands Hall, he was told. This building will be the new library, it has been contributed by Canada. The walkways were not paved. Women sat under Mimosa trees quietly displaying fruits and vegetables. A calf grazed in front of Netherlands Hall. Students were dressed in western style. We have a lot of refugees here at the moment from South Africa, Rhodesia and Uganda, Lois explained. A sign on the dining room door read, The Rhodesia elections are an insult; our people will not lay down their arms. Another one read, White man-we cannot forget Steve Biko.

Inside the dining room Jacob was graciously met by some Africans and quickly learned that these were the people with whom he would work. A wine toast was proposed. The USAID representative said a few words. Then, smiling, Mr. Sets’abi said, We have waited a long time for you Dr. Olmstead, we welcome you wholeheartedly and look forward to great progress with you. Soon you will discover the hidden agenda and realize that success will be measured by the accomplishment of just two things. Everyone laughed and toasted. Jacob replied something about looking forward to working with them and said he hoped the two things were not serious problems. I’ve brought along enough of my own. More laughter and polite conversation. After a period of light talk, the University Registrar, who was seated next to him asked, How do you see theapproach to the project? Jacob went into a fairly long theoretical explanation. The Registrar silently reserved judgment.

That evening at his temporary house in Maseru West, Jacob had many thoughts. Exhausted in the strange bed he felt a touch of panic. Here I am, 11,500 miles from loved ones, he thought, and I cannot just turn around and head home. He couldn’t sleep. He felt terribly isolated-as if suddenly in jail. There was a burning sensation in his stomach. Fright at suddenly being in such a strange environment. Our balance is built on being with familiar people, in familiar scenes and in places where the ways are second nature to us. When props are removed we risk mental well being. So much of what we are is delicate and tenuous, he realized.

He made a vow to himself to push on hard with the project-to make so much progress that no one could complain if suddenly after a few months, he just up and went home. In fact, that is what he imagined would probably happen. But he would keep the thought to himself.

April 7

He awoke this morning to the insistent cries of a rooster. There was a smell of wood and coal smoke in the air. People in the valley below the house were cooking breakfast. He wondered if they had been able to keep warm during the night. April is fall in the Southern Hemisphere and it had been cold. Many were cooking on open fires. But then, servants in fine houses had prepared breakfast for others this morning on kitchen stoves.

Jacob went to the Customs and Alien Control Office several times during the day. Each time there was something that could not be done or he would have to go to yet another office someplace else in town for something. People were polite; it’s just that things were done much differently. Just as he thought he had everything in order he would be told, Sorry, we don’t have a yellow form here today, or Please go to the Post Office and get this stamped, or Next time you go to the University, have the third form signed. I can’t believe it, he would say to himself. Circulating to appropriate offices was extra difficult because most streets and buildings were not labeled. Computers and systematic processing methods were not available. Officials in small offices dug through piles of paper to locate appropriate forms. Jacob couldn’t figure out how things are kept straight. There was an inefficient task differentiation. A particular official would only handle one or two kinds of form. Another man or woman handled related tasks.

Jacob went to the Post Office to see about getting the phone in his temporary house connected. He finally told the official the name of the man who had lived in the house before. The official traced the phone down by looking up the previous occupant’s name and number in the telephone directory. It will cost R50 to hook up the phone, sir. How long will it take? Jacob asked. Three months.

Later he went to look at auto advertisements. In the city, he discovered that one goes to the bulletin board at the Maseru Cafe to check advertisements. He took down information on several used autos. The ads read, 1974 VW, good condition, can be seen at the third house beyond the stable next to turn off before Maseru Bridge. 1973 Toyota pickup, in good condition, can be seen at the sixth house on the mountain road. Turn off the Roma highway past the maize field by the river. He got some phone numbers and walked to the Hotel Victoria to call. Aha-no public phones as we know them. At the hotel you use one of two lobby desk phones. It works this way. You pick up the receiver and dial the operator. His operator said, Yes, darling. He gave her the number and she said, Hang up the receiver, I’ll try and call you back. He waited 10 minutes-15 min-utes-finally the phone rang. I got it to ring Sir, but there is no answer. This sort of thing went on for a couple of hours and he gave up. Leaving the hotel it suddenly hit him. He was in an old west town at the turn of the century. Holy Hannah, he whispered to himself. But that was only partly accurate. There were several shiny new Japanese cars in front of the hotel. Walking back toward Maseru West he noted the price of petrol-37 cents per litre. When he computed the rand/dollar exchange, that was over twice what he had been paying in the U.S. Ouch, he thought.

That evening Jacob had dinner with Molopi and Lois Sebatane. It was very pleasant. A comfortable stone house on the University campus. But like all houses, there is no central heating. One makes do in the evening with a fireplace. Molopi expressed severe bitterness about some of his experiences in South Africa. He said he doesn’t leave the International Airport when passing through that country. In his country he is used to being free-but in South Africa it’s easy for a black person to get into trouble. He doesn’t go there unless he absolutely has to. He also said that when he has tried to travel into other African nations he has encountered problems entering because there are South African border stamps in his Lesotho passport. He finally had to get a second passport that he uses just for passing into black African states. They talked about the Sebatane’s visits to the United States. Molopi is a small Mosotho man. He’s handsome and bright. Has an advanced degree in research and statistics from a prominent American university. They have a one-year-old daughter, very observant. Partly Mosotho and partly Japanese, Jacob found her intrigu-ingly attractive.

Tonight Jacob felt the loss of breath and tightness again. Still not over the confrontation of cultures. If he lets himself think about his people back in upstate New York for more than a couple of minutes, he is in trouble. His days as a boy on the farm, great friends at Savannah High School, fascinating undergraduate experiences at ACC and SUNY Oswego, his teaching at Port Byron, the years at Cornell-all should be comforting memories. But it is too painful to let any of them into his consciousness.

April 8

This afternoon Jacob bought a seven-year-old car. It probably wasn’t a very good idea but he was so lost without a way to get around that he just did it. A 1972 VW with infinite mileage. It sort of lopes down the highway. He paid R700 which is about $850, reasonable by values in southern Africa. The Greek businessman who sold it to him is from Cyprus. After finishing the deal, he gave Jacob a lecture about the American position in his homeland. Jacob didn’t know enough about it to respond intelligently. It’s amazing how our country is so involved around the globe while the average American is ignorant about foreign places and international affairs, he thought.

Lying in bed after a busy day he could not get her out of his mind. That morning while waiting for someone at a petrol station he had struck up a conversation with a girl, perhaps twelve. She was sweeping the lot with a thing that looked to him like a large whiskbroom. She spoke a brand of English he had never heard before. But the amazing thing is, she just said, I don’t know, when he asked her name. People were calling her ausi, which means girl. Beyond that she did not know of a name. Has no one ever bothered to tell her her name, he wondered. Or does she truly not have one.

April 9

The start of four days of celebration in Lesotho. An anniversary of the ruling party. As the day progressed there were speeches and parades. Several thousand people gathered at the airport stadium. There were sound trucks travelling the streets throughout the day, broadcasting martial music and speeches in Sesotho. Some friends told him early in the day that as the celebrations wear on and people start on the local brew-you should perhaps refrain from frequenting certain areas in the city. They said that nationalistic celebrations like this might stir up vehement anti-South African feeling and any white could appear to be South African. Toward the middle of the day, Jacob did run an errand. There were hundreds of celebrants walking into Maseru from the country. Suddenly an old man pointed a stick at him and shouted to the others in Sesotho. He couldn’t understand what the man was saying and tried to ignore him. The man insistently followed-shouting at him and to the others. It was as if he was accusing Jacob of something and as if his presence was somehow insulting. He seemed enraged! Fortunately no one else took up the crusade and the man finally turned back. The whole thing frightened Jacob enough that he went home. He would wait until after the celebrations to run errands.

In the evening the parties in the valley below Jacob’s house and indeed at the fine homes on his hill really got going. People were doing outdoor cooking everywhere and the smell of beer was in the air. There were hundreds of people sitting on lawns singing in Sesotho. As the evening progressed the singing got stronger. He could hear large groups doing traditional music all across town. When one group stopped the song of another floated up the valley. The rhythms were fascinating and there were intricate solos accompanied by chants. Wild rolling drums accompanied the vocal music and every now and then one would hear a strange female sound. A single female in a wordless solo called ululating; a pitch higher than Jacob imagined the human voice is capable of. An eerie performance. Incredible, he thought, incredible. The music went on all night.

April 10

On the way out of town to the University Jacob stopped at a laundry. It was 7:30 a.m. The air was dusty from moving vehicles in a dry land. Waiting to get in, people stood around in blankets. A man came along and examined the garbage for valuables. His shoes were nearly soleless and he was consuming something from a plastic detergent bottle. His blankets were no more than rags. Inside the tiny laundry a woman handled the counter while the owner sat behind a desk overseeing operations. He was told his pants would be ready in four days.

At the University Jacob sat in on an all day staff meeting. People were articulate. The meeting was run in a formal, rather British manner. A fair bit of grandstanding. Frustration was expressed about such things as not having secretarial services, not having money for printing, travel or materials.

He took a colleague, Mrs. ‘Mota, home after the meeting. A stately and very attractive woman from a prominent family, she lives in a comfortable home in Maseru. Mrs. ‘Mota did special studies at the University of New Brunswick in Canada a few years ago. She talked about the polite reserve of the Canadian people. Jacob could relate, having lived for several years in Ottawa, Quebec and Prince Edward Island. She put her finger on misconceptions that Americans have of Canada and that Canadians have about the United States. He thought to himself, here we are, Canadians and Americans, right next door to each other and an African woman has to tell us what it is we don’t know about each other. She expressed admiration for the freedom and freedom of speech in both the United States and Canada. My goodness, the Canadians really tell their Prime Minister off. She also told him about a boy she has come to know and would like to help. He’s polite and well spoken for someone so young, ‘Ntate. But he wanders the streets, just doesn’t have the money for school fees.

Jacob was beginning to know what being a minority person feels like. He decided that he would be more sensitive to the feelings of minority people upon returning to the States. He had felt subtle discrimination at the University today, even though by and large the Basotho are not racist. Still, they look out for their own. I am beginning to be color blind, he reasoned. Hopefully, I’ll forget the stereotypes in my head. Rationally I know that such things as competence and integrity have nothing to dowith color. Yet there is still that occasional gut reaction. But after a while out here, I’ll not notice color at all.

April 11

This morning when Jacob got ready to leave for the University there was a woman raking leaves and sweeping his drive. A smallish woman, perhaps thirty-five or so, she wore a pink maid’s outfit with a colorful Basotho blanket around the waist. She wore a matching wrap on her head. Her feet were shoeless. She said, Good morning, ‘Ntate, I am working for you. I will clean your house today. He asked her name. It is Agatha. She lives in servants’ quarters nearby and has been the maid for several occupants in his house. She said, I must work for you now, my daughter is hungry, ‘Ntate. After much confusion, they arranged a starting date. It shook him up to have a servant. He is so used to doing things for himself. She said, I must get your breakfast tomorrow, ‘Ntate. He told her she could work but that he would get his own breakfast. What would become of her if I didn’t employ her, he wondered. She would have to leave the house she considers home. It might even mean that she would have to leave town for her country village. Suddenly his idealism about how things should be was being turned upside down. Flashing an immense smile and shouting, hey, hela, in a strong, deep voice, Agatha went back to sweeping. At the end of his drive, she did a little dance before disappearing into the garden.

April 12

Jacob stayed at home to work. This morning a Mrs. Miles visited him. A rugged little woman and well tanned. He guessed her for about fifty-five. Mrs. Miles explained that she was originally from North Dakota. She and Mr. Miles have been missionaries all over Africa for twenty-five years. She is bright, very together, seemingly a rugged individualist. She and Mr. Miles are staying in a van at the bottom of the hill until they receive residence papers. They have become persona non-grata in Rhodesia because of anti-war convictions and Pretoria won’t let them into South Africa. She spoke warmly about the Shona people of Rhodesia and the Basotho here. Having her in the house made him recall the missionary he met on the plane between Rio and Johannesburg. He was with something called God’s Smugglers. They find ways to get bibles into Communist countries. They are also working in South Africa, bringing black and white Christian congregations together in the spirit of love and respect for the dignity of all people, the man had told him. Mrs. Miles said the Basotho and Shona understand the Christ message more readily than white people do.

That evening he was invited to a prominent Mosotho home for dinner. There were several national leaders there. It was interesting to hear them talk about New York City and Washington. They know the United States pretty intimately. It was even more interesting to hear them talk about African personalities. They have personal acquaintances throughout Africa. There is a network among African leaders Jacob suddenly realized. That made him wonder about the security of South Africa if the blacks ever decide on concerted action to right injustices. They talked of Kings and Princesses, of Prime Ministers and Dictators. It was intriguing to hear of brother against brother infighting at the Ugandan Embassy in Maseru, as Idi Amin becomes less and less predictable. Evidently the infighting has become physical. The Amin insanity has repercussions far and wide. They said that Ugandan Embassies in some countries are a physical shambles because of the differences among staff members. The evening was a new kind of experience for him, an incredible experience.

April 13

Good Friday. So, he went down the hill to the old Anglican Church, getting there at 8:00 a.m. Too late, they had started at 7:30. The little church typically Anglican in design, is constructed of heavy gray stone.

There is a stone entrance arch under which parishioners pass on a narrow dusty path. Maseru has grown up around the Church. Behind it there is a grill and a disco. To one side a Toyota dealer and on the other side, the main Post Office. As he walked to the entry, a sandled foot pushed a lazy dog out the door. Jacob could see the bottom of a black robe and then Father Mullinger appeared. One by one black parishioners came out behind him. The priest spotted Jacob in the lawn, came over and said, so, you are a churchman are you? Not a very good one but on occasion I attend. Father was a tall, handsome man with long white hair. Jacob went into the church with him to talk. Father Mullinger put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder and in Oxford English said, You will be welcome here. I’m not Anglican Father. The priest laughed and said, You’re human aren’t you-all we care is that you are human. They talked on as young boys cleaned and rearranged the church. There was a time when this was a white garrison church but it has become increasingly black during the last few years. They walked outside and Father Mullinger pointed to the hill behind the Maseru Cafe. I live up there, see that house, I live up there. I came here from England; a Cambridge man once.

At 5:00 p.m. Jacob returned for the Good Friday service. A moving experience. He reflected that it was only a couple of weeks ago that he attended the National Cathedral in Washington before getting on the plane for Africa. The little church was packed. It looked like the ancient chapel at the Tower of London. He found himself reviewing the life of a dedicated Christian, Dag Hammerskjold. He thought of the humble feeling he had once standing with thousands at Notre Dame on a cold wet and very dark Paris night. Tonight, about half the congregation was black, half white.

There were English women with black children and black women with tiny white children. There were crippled people. A black man came in wearing a tattered gray blanket. A bearded Canadian read scripture. There were black and white robed sisters. A ruddy faced man played a pipe organ in the rear of the church. Jacob was reminded of the old organ in Bruton Parish Church at Williamsburg. A tiny black boy snuggled up close to him. Tall, handsome, white-haired Father Mullinger seated people so that everyone could fit in. He handed out