Now normally on Christmas Eve, I would be drinking hot chocolate on a comfortable couch inside in front of a 60” LED Television watching the cartoon version of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer on Cartoon Network. But the story I have written is going to be a Christmas story I plan to tell many times in the future to any stranger I meet
December 20th 2012
Amanda texts, “So we’re gonna slaughter chickens and attempt to not get sick from homemade unrefrigerated egg nog...Oh and you’ve been volunteered to slaughter the chickens.”
I respond in text, “Haha. Definitely. But good new! I will be using a fridge! And I’m game! Although I don’t think Kyle trusts me around a knife haha.”
December 24th 2012
Our friend, Mary Beth, shows up with a bag of two chickens, one dead, and the other alive. Right away, multiple people have said I was going to slaughter the chickens, and Amanda reminded me that I already agreed to do it. Now looking back at the textual conversation, I think I was more intrigued about making homemade egg nog and took the chicken slaughtering volunteer as a joke. But after having read some blogs on people witnessing or participating in chicken slaughters I decided it was my time. Granted less than three months into country, and only a few weeks at my site, Fobane, I felt rather ill prepared.
But I was not worried about seeing blood, or hearing the chicken scream. I was more worried that I would slip, and cut myself with the knife. Slightly selfish, but I don’t trust myself cutting potatoes and onions many times. Luckily one of the chickens was already dead, so everyone suggested I should practice on it. We gently placed the dead chicken along a wooden log, unsteady but useable. I grabbed the head of the dead chicken and kept dropping it for fear that a zombie chicken would arise. Many “experts” were repeating instructions, but the only instruction I fathomed out of it all was Cut the Neck. On this already dead chicken, I sawed away at the neck and what seemed like 15 seconds finally the head came right off, not too bloody. I knew cutting the head of the dead chicken would be easy, but I constantly thought of how can I do this when the chicken would be writhing around? Also what made my efforts more difficult was that my 5 Rand green and red Reindeer Antlers kept falling in my face blocking my view, although this was a problem I had no intention of removing the ridiculous festive accessory.
With less than two minutes of time to think of how to do this, we pulled the live chicken out and placed it just the same as the dead chicken on the log. I think it was able to see its dead friend, although it made no peep. People gathered, but of course we waited for someone with a camera. All the while, thoughts are buzzing around my head trying to figure out how best to hold this chicken down and slice its head off. People at this point were telling me I didn’t have to do it, but I knew I wanted to and had to. This Lesotho Bucket List isn’t going to finish itself. A friend was holding the chicken down; I placed my foot on its wing and applied pressure. The chicken didn’t stir much. I grabbed the neck of the chicken close to the head with fear that it would bite/peck me. I almost instinctively stretched its head out, and without warning to the others I just sawed away harder than I did before. I couldn’t hear anything, and I thought nothing. Everything that was done was pure action and in the moment. The head cut right off. At this point I became conscious of what I had done, and threw the chicken head on the ground. My reindeer antlers were covering my view the entire time but I only realized when I stood up. The decapitated body writhed for at least thirty seconds, and the lonely head seemed to gasp for breath. I found out all during the guillotining, a female volunteer was blood curdling screaming in the back, and I had no recollection. After my victorious murder, I decided to step back and let others do the hard work of skinning, gutting, and cooking. I did my job, and am very glad I manned up and did it.
Christmas was very different, very fun, and now I know where meat comes from!
December 29th 2012
The wedding was December 29th, and most everyone in the village told me I must attend. They said it would start at 9am at the church close to my school. I live right between the primary school and high school, which are both just 1-minute walks. The church itself, I can see from my home. Now I knew, from stories and from experiences, that Basotho are very, very fashionably late and always start things much later than they originally said.
My first experience of this was when I decided to see how far another volunteer lived from me. My school often has soccer games with that other school of Ralehlatsa and Ralikariki. Before I set off, I decided to ask everyone how far each thought it was. They told me 5km, maybe 1-2 hours of walking. Some just told me, “oh it is too far”, or “oh its not too far.” Regardless, I decided I will just see how long it will take me, and it will help me understand where I am better. I left and walked a good 1 and a half hours before I got to a different Fobane Village. At this point I saw the mountain I had to climb, and every Basotho person told me Ralehlatsa is just right atop and beyond the mountain. So I was excited that it would have only taken me an easy two hours. I went on top of the mountain with the help of a local tour guide, and then all I saw were fields. I asked him where Ralehlatsa was and he pointed off into the distance at what looked like one tree. He told me it would take 20min, and I was astonished by how close it was even though it looked very far. We walked about 40 min, and that tree now looked like a forest of five trees, still very far. We walked another 40 min and then there I was. This little episode was just to show that Basotho do not understand timing or distance. That trek took me about 3 hours, which I also walk much faster than the Basotho, and 5km was a much smaller distance than it was. I checked a map, and it must be at least 12km.
Now this takes me back to the wedding, which was intending to start at 9am. At 9am, a Mosotho friend of my brought my clothes that she washed (I am incapable of washing clothes). I got mostly ready by 9am, but I decided not to shave because I just knew the wedding wouldn’t be for at least two hours. Two hours passed, and people visited me, I asked them when it would start and each said, “In thirty minutes, or in one hour.” But I live close enough, that I could see no one arrived, and each friend that visited always was never ready and went back home rather than to the wedding. I passed my time with Pokémon on my computer, decided to read a little, and even made some food. It was now 1pm, and still no one is showing. I decided now to shave, because the wedding would not just be called off. Finally, my neighbor next door, the priestess of the church where the wedding would take place, told me to follow her. I quickly dressed and walked with her to the church. Still no one was there. It was now 2:30pm, and I was the first to arrive at the 9am wedding. By 3:30 the bride and groom showed, and slowly trickled everyone else. The wedding was nicely decorated in the church for what was available, and the ceremony for me was just too long. I enjoyed the singing, which all Basotho partake (they sing perfectly in tune without any formal practice). I got slightly bored because it was all in Sesotho, and with words I generally didn’t know. I could tell the pastor was joking because many people would laugh, and he mentioned the word Jesus and God quite a bit. I had always heard Basotho weddings were fun, but I just wanted to be out.
Eventually by 6:30 we left the wedding, and walked a short way over to the after party and reception. Little did I know, this boring wedding ceremony had an extravagant fancy reception with lots of food (meat) desert drinks and dancing. What I have learned here is that Americans are treated like VIP. We are the eternal guests that everyone wants to impress, be hospitable, and talk to. I walked over to hang out with everyone I knew, but I was quickly taken into the house where I was served large portions of food first in actual plates with silverware. I even got servilletes (napkins). They gave me lots of snacks to take home, and I just talked to so many people who wanted to know my story. I then decided to go outside of the room and see what everyone in the wedding was doing. My friend was rapping on a really intense sound system to songs I knew. Then the dancing started. I am not much of a dancer, but I knew here people would enjoy it (and I would integrate better) if I tried the Basotho dances they were doing. Dancing here is all line dancing where everyone knows the moves to each song and does it together. So I decided, not knowing any of the dances or songs, to try my best. Everyone was holding my hands teaching me, drinking joala (local alcohol) and enjoying themselves. I was having a great time, and then it became dark so I left before I could no longer see outside.
Basotho weddings are just like any other wedding I should have guessed, ceremony boring, but reception incredible. Side note, so many people told me they would show up to the wedding, and almost none of the people I expected showed up. But I met a whole bunch of new great people, and learned that Basotho always say “yes” just to be polite, even when they will not come. Next Basotho Wedding I plan to be decked put on traditional pants and hat as well!
