After a longer than usual day at teen
club and accidentally enjoying time with two other PCVs I bumped into
in town, I was officially late, even by Basotho standards.
As I approached the mokete (mow-ket-ee
or party), I greeted over a dozen women leaving for home. 'M'e
Matsepo greeted me warmly and walked me into the yard. We passed two
tables cluttered with used plates sitting just in front of the
remains of the two cows my brother had helped slaughter the day
before. The yard was full of men. Seeing few women made me question
whether I should go in the direction of the women I had previously
greeted. Arriving only an hour before sunset may be too late. Perhaps
I should have simply stayed home.
Finally I spotted two women I know and
started walking towards the cooking fire to greet them. 'M'e Matsepo
stopped me, pulling me to the door of the small tin cooking shack. As
she pushed the door partway open, I realized two things: the shack
was incredibly full of women and they were responsible for the
singing and drums I had assumed were coming from somewhere else on
the compound.
At 'M'e's prompting, I squeezed my way
into the shack. With the sun sinking low, very little light was
reaching the one window. The room was packed full of women, all of
whom were singing and clapping. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness,
I realized that two of the women were wearing only bright red bras,
their underwear, and the skirts used for litolobonya
(dee-tow-low-bow-ne-yah).
 |
| This photo shows young women dancing litolobonya at the Cultural Day I attended earlier this year. The dance was historically used by women a few months after childbirth to confirm her core was strong enough to return to the physically demanding Basotho woman's role, including carrying water on her head. It involves popping the butt out without moving the front of the body. The skirts accentuate the movement profoundly. See my blog on the Cultural Day for a video of this dance. |
As the two danced to the rhythm of the
song, clapping, and bucket turned drum, women started pushing me
toward the center. Smiling and trying to appear more confident than I
felt, a moved forward hoping them just wanted me to see the dance
rather than joining it. Suddenly, my host mother came forward and
grabbed my hand telling me there was a seat for me. Relieved, I found
myself sitting on a stump along the back wall of the shack watching
the women dance and clapping along.
My mother asked if I had my camera and
I found myself denying the phone in my pocket. Somehow, this moment
felt like it was meant to be experienced rather than photographed. I
continued smiling and clapping along, gradually learning songs much
different than those sung at church.
Eventually the two women removed their
skirts and stunned me by pulling their underwear down in the back to
do another dance while showing off their buttocks. Around me, the
women went wild with cheers. I smiled, laughed, and cheered along as
each of them shook their now naked buns in our faces.
When the original women tired, other
women-fulling clothed-donned the litolobonya skirts and the fun
continued. This moment highlights one of my favorite aspects of
Basotho culture. Women are celebrated regardless of their shape or
size. The only negative remark I heard in the hut was that one of the
women was using her upper body to pop her booty out instead of using
her legs and hips. This activity was for married women and a lucky
PCV only, most of the women had nursed, grew up without bras, and
have a little extra padding as being big is celebrate, however,
modesty around other women does not exist and each person's body is
celebrated for what it can do instead of knocked down for not being
magazine quality. In America, most women would be too modest or
insecure to start shaking their nude booties in the faces of their
friends.
Finally the women and I moved outside,
the special women only part of the party concluded. As it was nearly
sunset, I took a few minutes to speak with the men I knew, being
careful to stay in the presence and women. As parties are accompanied
by beer and joala-a homebrew made from sorghum-some of the men had
been drinking most of the day and were more likely to forget the
respect they usually show me. Additionally, parties bring in people
from outside of my village and those guests are not used to a white
person living amongst the Basotho as part of the community.
Just before I was given a plate of beef
and bread, a man was trying to speak with me about marriage but
slurring his words together enough that I was not exaggerating much when I
repeatedly told him I did not understand his Sesotho. A grandfather
came over, also clearly drunk, wanting to know who I was at the party
with. Despite knowing I spoke correct and clear Sesotho, he could not
understand as I explained that I was there with my brother and mother
and that I lived in this space. He called my brother over and gave
him a lengthy speech about how I needed to be taken home because it
was nearly dark and unsafe for me to be out.
He apparently was from a neighboring
village that just got its first PCV two weeks ago and was taking the
Peace Corps safety and security instructions incredibly seriously.
This is, of course, a great thing, but it made me laugh to think
about how things change in a year. I am never out alone at night in
my village and a year ago I would never have even considered
attending a party near dark if I considered it all. The two times my
transportation had returned at night, my brother has met me at the
taxi stop to walk home with me. But this party was not only in my
village, but in my neighborhood. The only thing between the party and
my own hut was the chief's house. My brother and my mother were there
with me along with numerous other villagers who would protect me from
any harm.
'M'e Matsepo brought me a plate of
food, which seemed to stop the man's lecture. He left to walk home
and my mother joined me as I ate. When I was full, I begged her to
finish my plate as we sat and chatted with 'M'e Matsepo. My other
brother and his best friend stopped by to say hello. Then, with some
food packed up to go, my mother and I walked the short distance home
together.
I absolutely cherish moments like this
party. Despite arriving late because of more traditional work and
cherished moments with fellow American, the chance to chat with
villagers and truly experience things that most people only hear
about or see at cultural day celebrations is incredible. I have also
set a new goal of donning the skirts (fully clothed though) and doing
litolobonya with the women before I leave Lesotho. Considering their
excitement when I wear traditional clothing or admit I can cook
traditional food, I know they will be ecstatic to see me trying their
dances. Now to find a teacher...
