Speaking Sesotho to the Basotho of Lesotho
Trip Start
Unknown
1
41
45
Trip End
Ongoing
Semonkong, Lesotho
Monday, February 28, 2011
Every single day, Fakazile and her team cook up a feast to provide over 250 local kids with the adequate nutrition, which most fail to receive at home, in order for them to be able to concentrate at school. Privately funded feeding centres have become a more common occurrence in townships, highlighting the sad state of affairs of the country’s social services for those most in need. At Zenzeleni, they have also begun courses in computer literacy and sporting projects and were the perfect beneficiaries of a few footballs.
After the feeding centre we ventured further into the settlement, tracking down another wonderful project, Ethembeni HIV ministry, which offers free childcare to Aids orphans in order to allow their older siblings to stay on at school and not have to pack it in to look after their younger brothers and sisters. Zwelihlee, the centre’s head football coach, runs several youth football teams, all named Manchester United, and were extremely worthy recipients of a few footballs (not just because of the Man Utd connection). While we have always been a bit wary of voluntourism and "aid-for-Africa" initiatives, the projects we encountered in Mpophomeni are the type of programmes which really do give kids living in poverty a decent shot at life.
From Mpophomeni the jagged silhouette of our next destination was looming on the horizon; the Drackensberg Mountains. The Drackensberg (dutch for “Dragon Mountains”) form an impenetrable wall encircling the land-locked, highland nation of Lesotho. It is claimed that childhood vacations to the area provided the inspiration for J.R.R. Tolkien’s Misty Mountains in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, although, the fact that Tolkien emigrated from SA at the age of 3 and never returned, does bring the local Tourist Board’s claim into some disrepute.
Our plan had been to traverse over the 'Berg into Lesotho via the renowned Sani Pass, which loops it’s way, back and forth, like an intestinal tract draped across mountainside (as you can see from the photos). Every corner, rise and fall of the track is christened with a reassuring name such as Haemorrhoid Hill and Suicide Bend. The 8km ascent to reach the 2873m summit can take anything between 45 minutes and 3 hours to complete, depending on weather, oncoming traffic and the sanity of the driver. The dangers of the pass are not to be taken lightly, which has claimed many lives (and bakkies) over its 60 year history. With Kwetu so heavily overloaded, a descent down the track’s loose (and often icy) gravel and hairpin bends was simply not on the cards, so for us it would be a one-way journey into Lesotho, once we started there was to be no turning back.
The future of Sani currently hangs in the balance due to the decision by the SA road’s authority to embark on a 500 million Rand upgrade to the road surface. While 4x4 enthusiasts are up in arms about the thought of losing their Holy Grail, they are probably correct in pointing out that the terrible condition of the road is actually saving lives by forcing drivers to slow down. So we had arrived at the right time, it would be our last opportunity to see the Sani Pass in all its raw, untamed glory before the bulldozers and graders move in. Everyone that we’d spoken to who had completed the pass, regarded it as one of their ultimate trip highlights and with over 25,000km of African driving experience under our belts, we felt fully prepared for an assault on Sani.
Regrettably however, the pass wasn’t quite so ready for us. The previous week’s heavy summer rainfall had sent a deluge of water down the mountains, washing out bridges and several sections, while burying other stretches beneath several metres of landslide. The outlook wasn’t positive with the most accurate forecast being the pass would remain closed for 2-3 weeks while repairs were undertaken. Missing out on Sani was soul destroying, as the anticipation had been building for so many months, but we figured that it was just not meant to be and were sure that there would be other bone-rattling, death-defying mountain passes to cross before our journey’s end.
The advantage of having to loop around the Drackensbergs, was getting to spend a few fantastic nights at Inkosana lodge. Located amongst some of the most spectacular scenery in Southern Africa, Inkosana is a hiker’s paradise. While it may be costlier to camp at Inkosana than any other hostel we had visited in SA, the advantages of a free herb and veggie garden, fresh cow’s milk every day and not having to do any of your own dishes; combined with THAT view made Inkosana one of the standout hostels of our trip. Edmond, the owner and hands-on host at the lodge, is an eccentric hiker who knows every trail in the area like the back of his hand. He suggested an easy day walk near to Monk’s Cowl (a much more serious hike) and even gave us the keys to his vintage SL Mercedes, as he didn’t want us to go to the hassle of packing up Kwetu’s rooftop tent in order to reach the hike start point. While we would have loved to have done a bit more serious hiking in the area, the pyrotechnic, afternoon lightening storms that struck like clockwork at 3pm every day, meant that anything more than a day hike was risky business for all but the most experienced hikers.
Our walk to Nandi Falls, with Champagne Castle and Cathkin Peak as a backdrop, was very pleasant, but once we could see storm clouds brewing high on the escarpment above us we made our way back to the car swiftly. On route back to the start of the trail we passed a Swedish choir group (also staying at the lodge) just setting out on the hike, who were skipping along the trail clad in only shorts and t-shirts with the vivacity of the Von Trapp family on ecstasy. Needless to say, after they had spent 2 hours sheltering from the storm in a dark, damp forest with the temperature approaching freezing, their spirits were somewhat dampened. It turned out that they were the lucky ones from the group, as those Swedes who opted for horse trekking did not return until well after dark, having been forced to wait for several hours for the rivers to subside enabling them to cross. The age old parable to, “Never disrespect the mountain”, is particularly applicable in the Drackensberg, as the sleeping Dragon does have a tendency to breath fire (and rain) up the arse of any disrespectful hikers.
When the storms refused to pass over, Edmond’s recommendation was that we head further west to explore Royal Natal N.P. and spend the night at Karma backpackers in Kestel. At first glance Kestel is hardly postcard-perfect, playing second fiddle to nearby ‘boutique & delicatessen’ towns like Clarens, but once we met the owners of the hostel, Vera-Ann and Lucio, we knew we were in the right place. Vera-Ann welcomed us into the warmth of her kitchen with a batch of pikelets fresh from the oven, smeared with liberal lumps of her incredible array of homemade jams. The best way to describe her whiskey and orange marmalade is an unadulterated orgasm in a jar.
The night was spent in Vera-Ann’s kitchen cooking up a curry and chatting to her well into the wee hours about South Africa’s colourful history and her hopes for the future. It is always intriguing to meet white South African’s who shared (and voted for) Mandela’s dream, but who are now faced with the reality of a country still very much divided and struggling to create a unified identity. Our time with Vera-Ann was definitely too short but we had to move on from Kestel and head into the Golden Gate National Park, to don our hiking boots in an attempt to work off the damage caused by scoffing platefuls of Vera-Ann’s pikelets.
The hike of choice at Golden gate is an easy saunter past the landmark Brandwag Buttress up into the aptly named Echo Ravine. The ravine is the result of millennia of weathering on the sandstone which has carved out a 200m deep tube into the rock. It was the perfect place for a picnic lunch, listening to the dripping and rippling sounds of water reverberating off the smooth sandstone walls, without another sole in sight. After lunch it was onward and upward into county #14 of our trip; the Kingdom of Lesotho.
Lesotho, as briefly mentioned in our previous blog, proudly boasts the highest low-point of any country in the world (4,593 ft). This statistic meant that we were now entering the coldest country in Southern Africa, where temperatures, even in the peak of summer, can plummet to -20 in the highlands. The people of Lesotho, the Basotho, have developed an interesting national dress in order to cope with the extreme climate: a pair of wellies (gumboots to you Aussies), a long thick blanket worn like a poncho, topped off with a balaclava. Our crossing into Lesotho at Maseru Bridge was by far the easiest border of our whole trip. The fact that so many Basotho work in SA and commute home at weekends meant that although traffic was heavy, we didn’t even need to leave the ‘comfort’ of our Toyota’s cab to clear immigration. Drive-thru passport control - the way forward in African border technology.
Passing through the capital, Maseru, we instantly noticed the plethora of vintage Hiluxes, the solid old bakkie was clearly the vehicle of choice to tackle the terrain of Lesotho. We had been told by many South African’s that our bakkie was the most stolen model of all cars in SA - I think we had just worked out where they go to when they are stolen and reach bakkie heaven; high up above the clouds of Lesotho.
We had been forewarned by many South Africans about the growing trend of Basotho kids setting up road blocks in order to extort a handful of sweets from passing tourists. Pay up or get a rock through your windscreen, fair deal? It wasn’t long before we encountered our first road block, but we took our chances and sped through. A shower of pebbles ensued from the sweet-jacker’s accomplices who were hiding in the ditches alongside the road. At first we thought their aim was abysmal, but then we realised that all their balaclavas were about 3 sizes too big, with the knitted eye sockets not matching up with the eyes behind the mask. Perhaps the local store was sold out of kid’s sizes, or their preferred pieces of terrorist attire were in the wash that day, but either way, the irony of a Belfast boy being saved by a balaclava was not lost on us. Once we were past the rock-throwers, the warmth of the Basotho took us completely by surprise. In all our travels around the continent we have not received so many smiles and waves (especially from the elders who are usually suspicious of the muzungu travellers) as we did in the highlands of Lesotho.
The tarred roads out of the capital, Maseru, gradually deteriorated into a rocky, dusty track; not an issue for a vehicle of Kwetu’s stature. As a wiser man once said, a bad dirt road is preferential to a bad tar road, which we were about to discover. The steeper sections of road were tarred back in the 1980’s to provide traction for heavy vehicles, but they look as though they have not seen a minute of maintenance since. The effects of 30 years of freeze/thaw weathering has peeled the tarmac off the road, like the skin off an onion, exposing dangerously sharp ridges primed to slice through your tyres. The only thing more treacherous than the razor-sharp potholes was the game of cat-and-mouse we were forced to play with a rusting old coach, driven by a maniac who clearly got his kicks from embracing the effects of gravity on every down-slope. The tailgater kindly kept us company for the next 2 ½ hours. Almost 11 hours after we had departed Kestel we finally made it through to Semonkong, “the place of smoke”, named after the cloud of spray generated by the nearby Maletsunyane Falls. The problem was that in the pitch black of night we were struggling to make out even the edges of the road, never mind the mist from the falls.
Whist checking in at Semonkong Lodge we were promptly told that the campsite was closed due to floods, and there was no room at the inn but we could camp out at the stables - we were only 3 wise men short of a nativity play. It had been a long day; we were tired, hungry, cold and devoid of any other options so we parked the car up and wearily headed for dinner. Our spirits were lifted by the unbelievable calibre of food at the lodge’s excellent restaurant, complimented by a massive bottle of Maluti beer, as we reflected back on an eventful day, proud of our achievement at making it through some really tough stretches of track. After dinner, the manager of the lodge came over for a chat about the ever worsening condition of the road. He took great pleasure recounting the story about the 1970’s, 2 wheel drive, Mini Cooper that made it through to the lodge only a few weeks earlier. Suddenly our achievement lost a bit of its shine.
Leaving the warmth of the cosy restaurant behind, we followed the manager’s complex directions up along a bumpy track (made for horses, not cars) to reach the stables where we found our resting place for the night. It seemed to be a perfect spot; overlooking the lodge and the river below with not a sound around us, apart from the gentle tones of few snoring horses. After losing a game of paper-rock-scissors I was lumped with the task of boiling some water, a laborious task at high altitude, in order to fill up the most essential of all camping accessories for Lesotho; the hot water bottle. When I eventually clambered up to the tent it took a while to locate Lani, who had buried herself under multiple layers of jumpers, sleeping bags and duvets. The time was 11.55pm and the temperature was already minus 5 degrees and falling. It was going to be a long night, or so we thought.
Our long night ended at precisely 4.56am, when the campsite’s serenity was vanquished. We quickly realised that with horseback being the most common form of transport in Lesotho, we were essentially camping in the equivalent of a Basotho car park. Tired, cold and a little bit grumpy, we did what anyone would do in that position; enquire at reception to find out what extreme sports were on offer. The primary reason for our visit to Semonkong was to see the source of the “smoke” up close and personal and what better way to do it than on the world’s largest commercial abseil at Maletsunyane Falls. Bearing in mind that Lani possesses a fairly brutal fear of heights, convincing her to partake in a potential 204m-drop to certain death was actually easier than I had thought. After a few trial runs on the lodge’s mere 25m practice wall (still equivalent to an 8 storey building) her bravado wasn’t quite so evident!
24 hours later, perched at the summit of the falls looking down at the view (or amphitheatre of certain death as Lani labelled it) that lay below, Lani’s ‘excitement’ grew when the guides informed her that she would be descending first, because once the rope was saturated by the spray of the falls it would be too heavy for her to lift. It seems like it defies logic, but to descend you actually have to pull yourself down the rope. After what felt like hours, but was probably only 20 minutes, the crew had performed all the necessary safety checks and with minimal fuss or protest, Lani quietly stepped over the edge.
During the first section of the descent your brain coolly reassures you, “Whatever you do, don’t look down. Just watch your feet walking down the rock face and this will all be over in a few minutes. You’ll be fine, this is perfectly safe”. 20 metres into the abseil, an overhang gradually separates you from your composed, vertical stroll down the wall. Firstly the soles of your boots are peeled from the wall, until you struggle to make contact with even an outstretched tip toe. You are now suspended by only a nylon harness, dangling in thin air. The scene then unfolds something like this:
Brain (now in a noticeably higher pitched, distressed tone) - “It’s still fine, honestly! Just don’t even think about looking down!”
Queue a gentle waft of breeze through the valley, which sends you slowly rotating until you to face the best view in the house; a 180-degree panorama of the canyon, with your harness developing a wedgie of epic proportions in the downstairs department.
Brain – “Did we just soil ourselves? Yes, I think we did. But hey, what a view!”
The ensuing adrenalin rush certain rivals that of cage diving, rafting the Zambezi or United beating Liverpool; you really can feel your heart trying to pound its way out of your chest. After a couple of minutes your pulse settles down and you are able to catch your breath. It is right about now, as your feet are reunited with the rock face, that Brain says to you, “Shit, maybe we might not end up dead at the bottom of the falls. Happy days”. With the toughest section behind you, all you have to do is just lean back and enjoy the ride down through the mist of the falls. By now you should be comfortable enough to force the occasional stop in order to look down between your legs to try to estimate how far through the descent you are. Although even when you approach the halfway point, it is almost impossible to make out any of the abseil crew on the canyon floor....and they are wearing luminous safety jackets.
A couple of minutes later, your feet are back on horizontal rock and the abseil is over all too quickly. Gazing up through the mist, the view of falls is truly phenomenal, but it does throw up the question, “How the hell do we get back up?” The hike out of the canyon was by far the most difficult part of the abseil, but gave you a real appreciation for the natural wonder of Maletsunyane Falls, as well as a good heads up on how unfit we had both become. We left Semonkong Lodge that afternoon on a high, so much so that the crappy roads could not dampen our spirits. We even decided to take shortcut on the horrendously dangerous, but stunningly beautiful back-roads to get to our next destination; the village of Malealea. You will occasionally pass local villagers tending the track with 14-pound sledge hammers, shovels and pick axes. It wasn’t until we had passed them that we realised it wasn’t actually their job, but they repair the roads in exchange for food. A fair deal I am sure you will all agree, but perhaps it is worth erecting a sign to explain the scheme to us dumb tourists, rather than flicking us a dirty look as we drive by.
Malealea is renowned for its Basotho pony trekking. While Lani is a big fan of horses, my last memory of being on a horse was a short-lived stint in 1987 when I lasted about 20 seconds before being bucked off. The closest I have ventured to a horse in the 25 odd years since, was the finishing post at the Melbourne Cup. I was willing to give it another shot at Malealea, where the horses resembled true-salt-of-the-earth workhorses, and less of the pretentious show-pony who knocked me off (and hopefully ended up in a kebab shop as a result of his stroppiness).
The Basotho are old-school cowboys, riding bare-back on a blanket in place of a saddle. They possess a proper no-nonsense approach to their horses. Lani quickly got me up to date with Horse Riding 101 tips such as: always mount and dismount on the left, keep your back straight, toes out etc.... In reality the Basotho ponies are a bit more of a jump on and ride affair. My horse was very sympathetic and patiently endured my horrific riding style, but he did take advantage of my novice abilities every time we approached a maize field. He would slowly breakaway from behind Clement, our guide on the lead horse, and before I could steer him back on track he would be munching mouthfuls of the local farmer’s precious corn. This pattern continued for several hours, leaving my horse feeling extremely satisfied and I particularly useless.
The pony trek was broken up with a hike down into a small canyon (well, small by Maletsunyane standards!) to visit a series of San rock paintings. The art is stunning, but it is just another sobering reminder of a culture which has perished. Overall, the day on horseback had been a resounding success, and I am in debt to my maize-addicted horse for clearing my equine phobia (technically known as Hippophobia!?). Unfortunately time was beginning to run out for us on our ever tightening schedule to reach Cape Town, otherwise we could have spent at least a fortnight in Lesotho. For the amazing culture and smiles of the Basotho mixed with breathtaking scenery, Lesotho ranks as one of the highlights of Africa.
As we exited through the border, the friendliest customs official in Africa said to us, with a beaming smile, “Hey brother, why you leave? You must stay longer”. In hindsight, we probably should have listened to him. What a country.
PS for those hoping to speak Sesotho to the Basotho of Lesotho here are a few phrases to get you on your way:
Yes - E!
No - Tjhe
Please - Ka kopo hle
Thank you - Ke a leboha
Hello - Dumela
Goodbye - Sala hantle
How are you? - O/le sa phela?
I'm fine thanks - Ke phela hantle
Comments
This is along journey Brian.Will you follow the same way when you come back to Africa again?