A Botswana Cultural Escapade - Day 3: The Basket Weavers of Etsha 6 (Tues. March 14th)

On Tuesday I had an extraordinary experience. I had the opportunity to visit Etsha 6, one of the villages where Botswana’s baskets are made. These boldly patterned baskets are a key symbol of Batswana national identity. Every classroom that I visited had a ‘cultural corner’ for the children that displayed these baskets. They are mounted in hotels, offices, museums and churches - all over the country. Their traditional use is to store sorghum and other staple foods. The baskets of the Etsha weavers are in the Metropolitan Museum, the Smithsonian and the British Museum. Although they once were made throughout Botswana, they are now primarily made in the north-western Okavango Delta region by Hambukushu and Bayei women weavers living in the Etsha villages. Many of the weavers are originally from Angola. The Etsha villages were established to house Hambukushu refugees of war from Angola in the 1960s. There are thirteen Etsha villages. I first learned of them at my first visit to BotswanaCraft. The handmade baskets there are sold for up to four and five hundred dollars, depending on their size. (I want the biggest ones (smile) - they are like sculptures) I became very curious about the women who make these beautiful art pieces, so I bought a book called Botswana Baskets: A Living Art. I read the whole thing in one sitting.The story of each weaver is fascinating.

Before I continue, I have to share another lie I believed that has been debunked. It is that of the so-called African ‘village.’ In Ghana the term village refers to a small town. The same with ‘villages’ in the eastern area of Botswana. They are rather large towns with forty and fifty thousand people. (Heck - from 2008 to 2010 I lived in the incorporated 'Village of Freeport' in Long Island, New York - also populated with about 40,000 people.) Generally, at this point in time, the term village refers to a small town.  As we drove to Drotsky's Cabins, our hotel here in the area, we passed numerous villages, complete with rondavel dwellings with thatched roofs. Way down deep in my heart I felt dread. There is a line in  Lorraine Hansberry’s play A Raisin in the Sun connected to the dread that I felt. The younger sister in the play (Beneatha Younger) has a date with a young man (George Murchison) from a well-to-do African – American family in Chicago who is a fellow college student. In the play, Beneatha is interested in her African heritage (like me!). When George enters the front door, she is in the middle of dancing to an album of Nigerian drumming, with her head wrapped and arms draped in fabric, in a way that she perceives is ‘African.’ He mocks her and they have an argument, which ends in him pronouncing “face it – your ‘heritage’ ain’t nothing but some raggedy spirituals and grass huts," or something like that. And that is what many think about Africa and believe about their heritage. Huts. Huts have come to represent so-called ‘primitive’ Africa. Even though I have come to understand that people all over the world traditionally build housing to fit the climate and environment that they live in, I still had a nagging fear that the 'huts' I saw dotting the road side indicated a perceived inferiority of my people. When we pulled up to one of the basket weaver’s home’s, I was nervous. Her’s was a small rondavel with a thatched roof, enclosed by a reed fence. Once I entered this small homestead and sat down, another lie about my people flew out of my mind. The village and so called huts are not primitive, nor are they inferior. As our group was greeted warmly and seated in chairs, I found a peace and tranquility I never knew. There is nothing like a home coming. My aunty’s homestead was breezy and cool, surrounded and shaded by flowering trees. The ground was sandy and comfy for taking shoes off. Her rondavel was made for enjoying an inside/outside life of farming, weaving and creativity. Just a simple bed inside for sleeping and a chest for storing clothes. The rest of life is enjoyed outside in the warm sun and breezy, balmy air - farming, marketing, sitting outside and chatting, nursing babies and weaving. As I settled in I realized that this is the way life is supposed to be lived in Botswana.

These rondavels are comfy homesteads perfect for an indoor/outdoor life in a warm climate

We were invited to sit and ask questions. We were given permission to take photos and video. Our guide acted as an interpreter. The Aunties that I met spoke Hambukushu, Bayei and Setswana. No English. When we arrived there were two Aunties weaving. They were soon joined by a third, who came carrying her grandson and was accompanied by a gentlemen who I think was her husband. They were surrounded with the stuff of their craft – bundles of long palm leaf fiber dyed orange, dark brown and black. Push needles and small buckets of water.  They sat in the traditional way on reed mats – straight backed with legs extended forward and crossed at the ankle. They explained what each element was used for. They also talked about the sometimes treacherous journeys into the Delta that they have to make to collect the choice palm leaves that they use to weave the baskets. Sometimes they have encountered poisonous snakes (some have been bitten) and crocodiles (some have been attacked.) The house turned out to belong to one of the best basket weavers in the country, Ms. Gabotsholwe Selemilwe Ntwe, the Managing Director of Okavango Baskets. She has traveled to several countries in Europe, Luanda, Angola and Tokyo, Japan to exhibit her work and to teach her craft. She told about a time when she was gathering grasses that she encountered a leopard and her cubs. She ran for her life and made a pattern in a basket based on the experience called ‘Leopard Running’ for which she won the Presidential Award. 

Ms. Gabotsholwe Selemilwe Ntwe (left) with fellow Basket Weaver

 One thing that I have learned here in Botswana is that music and art are informed by environment. This differs in the contemporary United States where one can just order on Amazon what ever he or she wants to use to make anything. Although that can be creative as well, there is a certain inauthentic feeling about making art in that way. This is not the case with traditional arts. Here in the country where the trees are taller, the drums that are made are larger. In the southeastern area where there is less rain, the trees are shorter, which means that the drums are shorter. The basket weaving art of these Aunties is connected to the land that they live in. The material is gleaned from the land, and no money is required, but the cost is in time and risk. They said that they do not know if they will come back alive as they go on each gathering trip. There is nothing about their baskets that is inexpensive – not the risk they take to get the palm leaves, the delicate process of dying the fibers with various tree barks, the hours it takes to put together just one of them (the large ones can take up to a year to complete) or the price at which they are sold. 

The Bible says to relate to older women as mothers, and so I did. That is the ‘approach’ I took to my field work in this instance (And the approach that I try to take in daily life. All elders are to be respected and treated as mothers and fathers.) I gently asked if we could learn how to start a basket. One weaver each sat next to my colleague and me and patiently taught us the basics. Mama Edna and our guide interpreted each direction they gave me in Setswana. Push…pull...too tight. Learning from the gentle and soft Aunty who taught me was like learning from a Grandmom. 

  

When they told me that they often weave together, I told them about my Black American grandmothers who quilt together (With the Gee’s Bend Quilters of Alabama specifically in mind.) Both groups of women create their work stitch by stitch. I asked if they ever sing while they work. They do. They extemporaneously compose songs that tell of the difficulties and dramatic events that they undertook to gather the material that they are using to weave that particular basket. They also sing Christian praise songs. They told me that sometimes when they weave, they stop to get up to sing praise songs and dance, to thank God for the ability and creativity that He has given them to weave their beautiful baskets. Smiling, I softly asked them to sing one of the songs. The laughed shyly and then began to discuss what they would sing. They knew songs in all three languages, but finally settled for one in Setswana that our guides could understand. It was a praise song for Modimo, the Setswana word for God. As they sang, I silently praised Him too and tried not to cry. I shared that my African – American grandmothers who quilt often sing praise songs and Christian testimony songs like How I Got Over. They tell of the difficulties that they survived as well – of the Jim Crow south, wicked land owners, the hard times of the Great Depression and how their grandmother Dinah survived slavery and taught them how to quilt. When I shared, Auntie Gabotsholwe Ntwe said ‘Yes, this is how African women work’...I am home at last.

I guess it is obvious that I connected with these women. I relate to them in a way that is hard for me to explain, but can be summed up into one word – family. From this experience I have resolved two things. I will come back the week after next to spend time in an informal workshop with these Aunties. I would like to learn the basics of basket weaving and the songs that accompany their work. I think my ethnomusicology thesis project will be about these songs and the parallel songs that the women of Gee's Bend Alabama sing while they quilt. Craft and song go hand in hand. How and why is what I will discover and write about. I have also resolved to eventually lead cultural tours here in Botswana (And other countries in Africa.) Some people would love to come and learn traditional basket weaving and purchase the baskets from the women who make them, without middle men with questionable ethics (the Aunties also shared stories of being exploited by BotswanaCraft unfortunately.) The Aunties would love to teach and earn a good living while doing so. This area is remote and far removed from urban life. And that is what makes them valuable. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity to be able to visit and learn. I have made contact with traditional dance groups, folk musicians and ethnomusicologists. The cultural tours are going to happen in the near future. 

I would like to end by reflecting on how blessed I am to be able to engage in culture on this level. I am writing this in the wee hours of the morning just as the sun is rising. I am staying in a riverside chalet in Drotsky’s cabin. My chalet is rustic and contemporary at the same time. Rustic luxury. My handmade lavender oil (which I use as a mosquito repellent) blends with the cedar wood the entire cabin is made of, and smells like a spa and sauna all rolled into one. I am enjoying a view of beautiful grass - carpeted grounds, little monkeys capering about and listening to the melodic morning calls of the many birds of the Okavango Delta. The gently flowing river is just steps away. 

We ended the day with a trek through Tsodillo Hills, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This whole trip has been financed by the Fulbright program. I am blessed. And, to whom much is given, much is required. I am going to do something with these experiences. Something to empower my community, the artists that I have met and myself. Later today we journey to Gumare, Maun and Lake Ngami. Stay tuned for more!