Moshoeshoe’s day

For the last three weeks many of the classroom doors have been secretly shut every day in my school, and one has heard steady rhythms, clapping, drumming and chanting voices in the air…

Tuesday was the day of reveal… Moshoeshoe’s day!

My school arranges a Parade of Nations every year, to honour the great Basotho leader King Moshoeshoe, so for morning assembly all pupils turned up in different tribal outfits, and in my international school, even some Western Africans, Indians and last but not least the Welsh (yeah, I do pretend I’m Welsh!).

We paraded around the school in proper African style… no marching in rows, more a random mish mash of singing and dancing. After seating the parents under umbrellas in a big circle, the show began... Traditional stories acted out, stick fighting, ST1-ST2 boys jumping like frogs in traditional undies!?! (haven’t figured out this dance yet), little girls flicking and shaking their bottle top skirts, the tough ST6-ST7 boys doing Ndlamo, rhythmically slapping their massive! Wellie boots, threatening us with their molamu (shepherd) sticks, the older girls were dressed like their mothers, with Seshoeshoe dresses and padded bums and breasts, doing Mokhibo, a kind of housewife’ish dance, pretending to clean and sweep (I think…) Their mothers got totally overexcited during this dance and came running into the circle, screaming and shouting, with money and sweets for their daughters. I decided to keep myself in the background at this stage…

But, I had to force myself into the spotlight as the leader of the Welsh group. “Oh my God”, I thought, how can “Mi Villais Jackador” compete with these amazing rhythms and dances… (Sorry Welsh, not disrespecting your dances).

The novelty factor saved us!

I found out that a boy in my school owned a proper Scottish kilt (…again, flashbacks of “The Last King of Scotland”… happening a bit too often… ) so I decided on a little cultural mix of Welsh and Scottish… They’re all tribes on the same Island, right?... So, the Welsh group consisted of 5 boys dressed up in kilts and 5 girls in “Welsh” costumes, meaning kitchen towels for aprons and handkerchiefs for shawls. Very smart I have to say! They danced very well to the 20 man/woman Welsh choir, singing “Mi Villais Jackador” I don’t know how many times. Both parents and teachers were very impressed, so the concept will be carried on next year!

After entertainment it was time for food. The Welsh (me) dishing up Cawl for 500 people! The other groups were serving traditional Basotho food, including sour bread, sweet bread, fermented sour bread, fermented sweet bread, corn cobs, corn bits, corn + beans mixed, fermented corn + beans mixed, corn + sorghum mixed, corn+sorghum+beans mix, fermented corn + sorghum mixed… you get the idea… makes you feel pretty bloated after a while! I’ve never been so happy to see a pumpkin stew ever before!

After food it was time for the traditional beer, a thick misty liquid that makes you even more bloated and also drunk in seconds! Luckily our self invited guests drank most of it.

By this time most children had randomly gone home. Parents and teachers carried on partying together, becoming VERY excited when I attempted to join them on the dance floor… Ha ha, look at that Mokhoa (white person) trying to move like us. Embarrassing!

Just as most of the teachers had downed a few Smirnoff Spins each, and I thought the party about to really kick off, they all decided the party was over and it was time to go home… very confusing, but probably for the best! The beer had got to me, and at an attempt of a little nap back home, I didn’t wake up until the next morning ready for school again… Not needing to say, not much going on that day!


Sports day

Friday was another important event… Athletics day for the public primary schools!

I rushed to meet the girls and their pupils, as my school is private and does not attend the event.

The children have been training for weeks; the winners will compete against other districts, and finally go to the finals in Maseru. Apparently the boy’s teams are spiked up with shepherd boys, not attending school, but from the district and picked out for their incredible fitness and speed… And calling them boys, many of them are 18-25 y old men, competing for their local schools. Many of them do actually go back to school after working as shepherds, so it’s not unusual to teach married men with children in your class here.

I have to say a few words about the ground. Forget about perfectly painted lanes. The running track was more like a random grassy patch, filled with pupils, teachers, randomers and vans. The poor athletics were sprinting barefoot on stones of all sizes, broken glass and rubbish. But, helek! (oh my god) how they could run! And that in all sorts of random attires, old pyjamas, skirts, shirts, school uniforms, everything goes.

They would have completely overshadowed our children back home!

We left 10 min into a big row of who had won and not. Nothing seemed to be solved and no one seemed to have the authority to say the last word, so we thought the hotel bar was a better option on a Friday afternoon…