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We had been travelling all day on local minibus taxis from Winterton by the Central Berg in KwaZulu Natal. By the time the sun had set we had reached Fouriesburg just 10km north of the Caldenspoort border post. I was travelling with an Australian girl, Rebecca, who I had met in St Lucia the previous week; we had just spent three days hiking in the Central Berg. We were now off to discover some of the hidden secrets of this little known mountain kingdom, known locally as, 'The Kingdom in the Sky'. There were about four other people on the minibus heading to Lesotho, including two girls returning from work in Qwa Qwa for the weekend. We all paid an extra two rand each to the driver who then drove us down to the border, stopping at a shop along the way so that everyone could buy something alcoholic to drink. The two girls befriended Rebecca and myself and we crossed the border together into Lesotho. As we walked in the dark across the bridge over the Mohokare River we left the modern world of South Africa behind us and entered the mountain kingdom.
The Lesotho immigration post was very relaxed and the border guards huddled around a fire to keep warm as we had our passports stamped. There was no transport on this side of the border and we walked together into the night along the rough, dirt road, the two girls swigging their bottles of what looked to be cider. Soon, out of the dark appeared a minibus that we flagged down and we drove at an unsafe speed the short distance to Butha-Buthe, which in the local language means, 'The Place of Lying Down'. One of the girls invited us to stay at her family's house, which we accepted as there really weren't any other cheap lodgings in town and it was getting late. I have also found that staying with a local family is always an interesting insight into the local culture and these two girls seemed honest enough. Before taking a taxi to her house we stopped in the centre of town for them to buy some more alcohol and I grabbed a quick meal of beef stew and rice. Everyone in town this evening appeared to be drunk, people staggering along the road in the gloom claiming to be our friends before asking us for money. We didn't hang around too long, after being in South Africa I found this environment of dark, chaotic streets populated by mostly drunks rather intimidating, although exciting as I really didn't know what would happen from minute to minute. We took a battered old taxi the short distance out of the town centre along the Maseru road to the girl's house.
The house was a short distance from the road and was a simple cinderblock structure under a corrugated iron roof. We walked through the front door and into the kitchen where the girl's family were sitting; they appeared to be overjoyed to see us and stood up clapping and welcoming us into their home. The house was larger than I thought it would be; apart from the large kitchen there was a large dining cum sitting room and three bedrooms at the back of the house. It was just as cold inside the house as outside on this clear winters night. We were ushered into the sitting room where the Mama lit a paraffin heater and the whole family and ourselves gathered around it to keep warm. There was no electricity in the house; candles and a kerosene lamp lit the room. They told us that one-day soon they hoped to have electricity connected. In anticipation of this there were two television sets sitting on the sideboard as well as a stereo system that appeared for the meantime to be powered off some flat batteries. The reception on the radio was hopelessly out of tune and just emitted a drone of white noise all night interrupted occasionally by a few bars of music.
I lost track of the number of relatives and children in the house, even though we were introduced my memory failed me miserably. There were brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, second mothers, cousins, fathers and mothers; it all became very confusing very quickly. The house was soon packed as word spread through the neighbourhood that two tourists from distant lands were staying there. The conversations were interesting covering the usual topics you would expect; where are you from? What do you think of Africa? What work do you do? Etc. We had a discussion about movies and I had to quickly refresh my memory on eighties cinema and Rambo movies. I think it was one of the uncles who went out to buy some more bottles of cider during the evening. Even the kids were drinking the stuff; one two year old drunk more than I did and whenever he had his glass taken away would start to scream until he had some more cider. One of the kids, I think he was fifteen, was very sensible and had a clear idea what he wanted to do with his life. He already owned four cows, a donkey and a snow-white dog and was studying agriculture at college. He wanted to be a farmer and definitely had the right ideas and I hope that he is successful in the future; he deserves it.
The commotion of the evening came when I went outside to use the latrine. The fifteen-year-old kid escorted me and introduced me to his cows and donkey that were tied up at the back of the house. It was dark and in the gloom I could see a lot of people milling around. Word had spread far about our arrival in this neighbourhood. Most of the characters hanging around seemed to be drunk, like the people that were in the centre of town earlier that evening. As I made my way back into the house I was surrounded by these drunks staggering about the house trying to shake my hand, be my best friend and ask me for money. One of them feebly tried to pick my pockets, there was nothing in my pocket and I grabbed his hand and bent his fingers back until he started screaming and shouting. Chaos ensued as everyone began shouting and my escort quickly dragged me back into the house while a huge argument ensued between members of the family and what they called 'these street kids', although most of them were grown men. The situation settled down again after a few minutes and we continued our conversations inside, although I could feel the atmosphere in the house had changed. Not long after that incident we retired for the night and went to sleep; the Mama gave us one of the bedrooms for us to use. The night under the tin roof was freezing, but at least the blankets on the bed did their best to keep us warm.
The next morning everything was quiet and still as the sun began to stream through the dusty windows and the household woke up and prepared breakfast. That morning it was hard work to try and get out of the house and back on the road. One of the uncles offered to get his car and drive us to Maseru; the girl who originally befriended us said that she would come with us to Maseru for the weekend. In these situations I often find that it is easy to get hijacked by a family. We politely turned down their offers of help and said we didn't want to put them out anymore and that taking the bus to Maseru was not a problem for us. The Mama served us a large breakfast of homemade doughy bread with peanut butter, donuts and a large pot of tea. Before we left the whole family gathered outside the front of the house to pose for photos. We gave the Mama some money to thank her for her hospitality, which was greatly appreciated, and then walked to the main road and caught a minibus to Maseru, the capital city of Lesotho.
It was a Sunday morning and everything was very quiet, hardly any traffic moving along the road. Presently though, an old minibus came down the road that was going to Maputsoe, about a third of the way to the capital along the A1 road. We waved goodbye to our hosts and were once again back on the highway and travelling; our planned destination was Roma, 35km east of Maseru. This was our first chance to see Lesotho in daylight and it appeared to be a very different country compared to it's neighbour South Africa that surrounds it. This was a land where oxcarts plodded alongside the road and tribesmen rode past on horseback wrapped in their traditional blankets called a kobo to keep warm. In this mountainous country the Basotho pony, which is a hardy, sure-footed horse, has become the preferred method of transport. Small villages of round, stone huts with thatched roofs were dotted alongside the road and in the valleys. In the villages there was an interesting system of flags on various huts indicating what was for sale there. The most common flag was either white or yellow signifying that the local home-brewed sorghum beer was available. A red flag meant that meat was for sale and a green one, vegetables. As it was the middle of winter nothing was green, the grass was dry and brown, the few trees that there were, mostly along the rivers, were bare of leafs. The fields were fallow; some still with the previous seasons maize crop standing dead and dry waiting to be harvested. Small herds of cattle and goats grazed in the harvested fields and the dry grass.
Lesotho is a land of rugged mountains and covers an area of just over 30,000 sq km, about the size of Belgium with a population of 2.1 million people, the majority of who are Basotho. Over three-quarters of the country is highland with the highest peak in Southern Africa, Thabana Ntlenyana at 3,482m in the southeast of the country near the Sani Pass. Even the lowlands along the northern and western border were the capital lies and the majority of the population live is between 1,000m and 1,800m. The Basotho culture is still very strong and thriving. It is centred on the family, village life and the seasons of the year with a respect for the older generation. So often, especially on the African continent, I have found that traditional cultures have been abandoned or swamped by Western culture and all the hollow promises it holds. It was exciting to see the Basotho culture flourishing hand in hand with the modern world.
The minibus dropped us at the junction to Maputsoe on the A1 where we waited with some locals in the cold, crisp air for a Maseru bound bus to come past; litter of plastic bags, cans and bottles drifting in the wind. There was very little traffic on the roads; after all it was a Sunday morning, but presently another minibus came past that took us all the way into the city. I was surprised to come across a traffic jam when we arrived in the city as we turned off Main North and onto Market to the minibus station. The road was a chaotic mix of minibuses, cars, pedestrians, hawkers and market traders; we eventually inched our way into the bus park where a local women on our bus showed us where to catch a minibus to Roma. The bus park was no different to the road leading up to it and was a bustling hive of activity, very different to the organised bus parks of South Africa and much more like an African transport hub. We were the last two passengers to board the bus to Roma and once again were driving through the commotion in the surrounding streets and back out of the city.
It was only a short drive to reach Roma, but as we left the capital the skies looked heavy and grey and it wasn't long until it began to rain; by the time we arrived in Roma it was raining heavily, very unusual weather for this time of year. Winters are generally clear, sunny, cold and dry. We planned to stay at the Trading Post Guest House that was 2km west of town but we had passed it on the way from Maseru. We tried to phone the Trading Post but there was no answer and there were also no taxis in town so, in the pouring rain, we explained to a driver of a Maseru bound minibus where we wanted to go. He dropped us at the turnoff on the main road just as the rain stopped and we walked the short distance to the guesthouse. As we approached children surrounded us all asking for money and sweets with big smiles on their faces. The owners of the guesthouse were out, hence why no answer on the phone, but the weekend caretaker showed us in and we made ourselves at home.
Roma is a university town, although like the country it is a small place. The town was founded in 1862 when Moshoeshoe the Great, the father of the Basotho nation, allowed Father Gerard and his missionaries to settle in the area and establish the first Catholic mission in the country. The National University of Lesotho was founded in the town in 1945 by the church and is now run by the ministry of education. The Trading Post was established in 1903 by John Thorn and is still owned by fourth generation Thorns, Ashley and Jennifer. Over the years the family used this base to pioneer their trade into the Blue Maluti Mountains and established other trading posts including one in Semonkong. The guesthouse is in an old sandstone building in a beautiful garden setting alongside the original trading post that is still busy with trade today. Tribesmen still come from the surrounding mountains on horseback to buy supplies or to have their maize milled; it had a very frontier feel to the place as though nothing had changed over the years. Despite a respite in the rain when we arrived during the afternoon, by early evening a heavy thunderstorm passed up the valley. Jennifer, who ran the guesthouse, told us that it never thunders here during the winter.
We used the guesthouse in Roma as a base to explore the surrounding area and on the next day went to Morija for a day trip. Luckily the weather had cleared up and it was back to normal, blue skies and sunshine as we made our way on minibus taxis west to Mazenod and from there south to Morija. Morija is a very small town, more like a village and was very quiet and peaceful. Despite it's small size it has played a big role in the history of this kingdom. In 1833 Moshoeshoe the Great invited the French Protestant missionaries to come to the country to educate his people and they set up their mission station at Morija nestled at the foot of Makhoarane Mountain. Moshoeshoe the Great sent his eldest sons to Morija to be educated by the French missionary's and to learn the secrets of the West. The town soon became known as Sedibeng sa Thuto, the Well-Spring of Learning, due to the contribution the town played at developing leadership in the country.
There is an excellent little museum in the town, called the Morija Museum and Archives, which was the main reason we came to visit. The small display covers the history of the nation including Stone and Iron Age relics as well as dinosaur fossils. There are also displays on Basotho culture and documents and photos detailing the history of the country. The museum is housed in a new building built in 1988 funded by the Ford Foundation and the Goldfields Foundation Netherlands. The museum collection is a lot older though and was founded as a private collection by one of the first missionaries to come to Morija, the Rev. Hermann Dieterlen, 1850-1933. There is also a good crafts centre in town, the Morija Iponeleng Handicrafts, which was established by five local women in 1994 as a centre to display there talents and to earn a living from tourists visiting the area. We went on a short hike up the side of the mountain to view a set of dinosaur footprints; there are many fossilised dinosaur footprints around the country. It was a pleasant walk through small forests and past reservoirs with stunning views across the valley from the top.
When we returned to the Trading Post in Roma from Morija some other guests had checked in during the day; the previous night we were the only people staying at the guesthouse. Tonight there was a mother and daughter from South Africa and a couple from the United States. In the lounge a fire was ready to be lit on this cold night and we spent the evening gathered around the fireplace. The American couple, Chris and Mo had a hire car and the four of us agreed to go on a day trip to visit some more of the local sights tomorrow.
In the morning Jennifer photocopied a map for us and told us about three places that were worth visiting. The first were the bushman paintings at Ha Baroana, meaning 'The Home of the Bushman', not far from Roma. We drove the short distance along the road towards Mazenod and turned off at the small settlement of St Michaels, named after the church that sits on a hill overlooking the village, and on to Nazareth. Just before we reached this village there was a sign on the left pointing to the cave paintings a distance of about 6km. The dirt road lead past empty fields and through a small village, men on horseback riding past us, young boys herding cattle and villagers harvesting maize in the still, desolate fields. Everyone waved at us and smiled as we drove past in a South African Toyota Tazz. As we neared the 6km distance the helpful signs that had lead us this far disappeared and we came to a junction. A man was coming up the road with an oxcart and we asked him directions and he pointed us along the correct road and very soon we were at a small visitors centre.
Two young girls were sitting on a wall; they looked like sisters, who led us to the paintings after we had paid an entrance fee of a few maloti each. This cave painting site is supposed to be the most important one in the country and a visit here was highly recommended to us. A lot of money, by Lesotho standards, had been spent here constructing the visitor's centre and building two bridges across the river in the gorge where the paintings are. It was still early morning when we arrived and walked the short distance down into the gorge. In the shade on the opposite side of the gorge, where the early morning rays of sun hadn't yet reached, the ground was frosty and icicles hung from the trees and the rock face of the gorge. This was the second bushman painting site I had visited on this trip through Africa, the other being in Swaziland, and again I felt disappointed. This was a large site of great importance but it had been vandalised. There was graffiti on the rock walls informing us that some brain-dead idiot had visited this place at a certain moment of time. In addition, tourists had sprayed the paintings with water in order to achieve more dramatic photos with the consequence that the pigments had faded. Despite these disappointments the paintings here were fascinating and gave a glimpse into the past and how life used to be in this mountainous land. There were depictions of people hunting and dancing and many animals including lions, leopards and eland.
From here we drove back the way we had come along the dirt road and the tarred road to St Michaels and continued down the main road towards Mazenod. At Ha Makhalanyane we took a road to the right and after a short distance stopped at the tourist information centre at Thaba-Bosiu. The man at the tourist office was extremely helpful and eager to help us; he had a passion for his job that I hadn't seen in anyone else for a long time. He explained to us the history and significance of this flat-topped mountain that is now a national monument, before locking up his office and taking us on a tour of the mountain.
This mountain was the stronghold of Moshoeshoe the Great who founded the Basotho nation. He was born in a village near Butha-Buthe in around 1786 and it was at Butha-Buthe on a flat-topped mountain that Moshoeshoe built his original fortress until in 1824 he moved to Thaba-Bosiu after hearing about this fortress like mountain. The mountain rises 107m from the surrounding valley and is surrounded by cliffs averaging 15m in height with only six passes leading up to the plateau that covers an area of 6.4sq km. Moshoeshoe named the mountain Thaba-Bosiu meaning, 'Mountain at Night' because he and his people arrived at the mountain during the evening. During this time there was conflict between the Zulu state and surrounding tribes resulting in a large number of refugees and people being forced off their land. Moshoeshoe gave refuge to these people and in return they helped to defend his mountain stronghold and as well as providing protection to refugees he also gave them land and cattle. He became a great diplomat and managed to placate the other stronger, local leaders.
During 1858 a battle erupted between the Free Sate and the Basotho, which Moshoeshoe won but the conflict continued to simmer until 1865 when another war broke out. This time Moshoeshoe was not so successful and in a treaty had to sign away most of his western lowlands forming the border with the Free State today along the Mohokare River. In 1868 Moshoeshoe called on the British Imperial government in London for protection during the ongoing hostilities with the Boers of the Free State and the country was declared a British territory and the Basotho people became British subjects. Moshoeshoe the Great died in 1870 and two years later Lesotho was annexed by the British Cape Colony. Today the mountain is the most venerated site in Lesotho as it is the place where the Basotho nation was founded and is also the burial place of Moshoeshoe and of all the leading chiefs of Lesotho.
Our guide led us up the Khubelu Pass on a buttress on the northern flank of the mountain. The pass was steep leading up through the cliffs. It was easy to see how Moshoeshoe and his followers managed to defend this fortress by hurling rocks down on invaders. Once we reached the plateau the path lead past a large cairn. All visitors to the mountain are required to leave a stone at this cairn as a symbol of leaving behind your weapon; we each placed a stone on the pile before continuing onto the plateau. There are still some ruins of Moshoeshoe's settlement on the plateau that we walked past towards the eastern side of the mountain. From this vantage point we had a superb view of the Qiloane pinnacle below in the valley. This extraordinary, conical shaped mountain with its pinnacle of rock at its summit is said to have been the inspiration of the Basotho hat, which is made of grass and is the national symbol and headgear. From here we walked to one of the eight natural springs on the mountain, which was enough to provide fresh water for Moshoeshoe, all his followers and their cattle. It was extraordinary to see this spring right on top of this mountain of solid rock, the crystal clear water pouring from the rocks and forming a small stream that cascaded over the cliffs. At the centre of the plateau is the Royal Cemetery that included the simple grave of Moshoeshoe the Great as well as the far more elaborate grave of Moshoeshoe II. King Moshoeshoe II became the first constitutional monarch after independence from British rule in October 1966. Today the great, great grandson of Moshoeshoe the Great, King Letsie III sits on the throne. Wandering around the royal graves was fascinating and it really felt like we were at the spiritual heart of the nation with the graves, some of them very simple, of Kings and chiefs around us.
The tour of the mountain really opened up the history of this small nation and brought it to life for me; our guide was excellent. By the time we had climbed back down the mountain it was early afternoon and we stopped at a small shop just along the road to buy some fruit and biscuits for lunch. We continued driving along the road from Thaba-Bosiu, which turned to gravel, past the Qiloane Pinnacle and on to our next destination, the cave dwellings at Ha Kome. Jennifer at the Trading Post had given us directions on how to find this small place out in the mountains, there was one complication and that was at the village of Mateka where we had to turn off and take the road towards Pulane. The road wound dramatically through the rocky, mountainous landscape and turned to tar at the small settlement of Fako. The problem at Mateka is that no one in the village could actually agree where to build the tarred road to Pulane. The road starts at the other side of the village and we had to make our way along rough, narrow tracks winding through the village to get back on to the road.
The road soon turned back to gravel and we drove on down a winding road down into a deep valley until we reached a large river that had no bridge. We doubted the Tazz's ability, being two-wheel drive car, of crossing this fairly large, fast flowing river; so we stopped. Nearby was a man herding cattle so we asked for directions for Ha Kome. We had passed it, so we doubled back along the way we had come and climbed up out of the valley. On the way we stopped to ask directions again and gave a lift to a local women who showed us exactly where Ha Kome was. It looked like a fairly long walk down into another valley to the cave dwellings. The sound of cattle bells clanging seemed to echo everywhere. It was now 16.00 and getting late, the sun low in the sky; it wouldn't be long until it was dark. We didn't have time to walk all the way into the valley but stopped at a viewpoint that looked down to Ha Kome. We had almost made it, I didn't feel too disappointed though as the whole day had been excellent and had far exceeded my expectations. Just trying to find Ha Kome had been an adventure in itself and the afternoon spent driving through the mountains and past the small villages had been rewarding enough.
We drove back to Roma as the sun sunk below the horizon, the last rays of sunshine illuminating the mountains in a spectacular orange glow. We planned to leave Roma the following day and to travel to Semonkong in the mountains. Jennifer told us that her husband, Ashley, would be driving to Semonkong in the morning to visit a couple of his mountain trading posts and that we were welcome to hitch a ride.
We left at around 11.00 for the drive through the spectacular mountains to Semonkong; Mo and Chris came along as well on a day trip and planned to return with Ashley back to Roma later that afternoon. The dirt road twisted and weaved its way up into the mountains passing through the villages of Nyakosoba, Moitsupeli and Ramabanta. Ramabanta is in the Makhaleng River valley and from here we left behind all traces of civilisation as the road climbed out of the valley and around mountains whose southern slopes we covered in ice and snow. We crossed desolate, windswept alpine plateaus covered in low heath-type vegetation, mostly heathers dominated by Erica and Helichrysum species. In the middle of winter the landscape looked very bleak and inhospitable. We stopped briefly at the highest pass. The wind was howling across the tops of the mountains and behind us the mountains were all covered in snow; it was difficult to stand on your feet in this powerful gale. Ahead of us the road lead down and on to Semonkong on a plateau. After driving through this breathtaking mountain scenery I knew that I could not leave this country without spending some time trekking through the mountains.
During the drive through the mountains Ashley told us about the current situation in the country with the looming famine that has been sweeping across the south of this continent. The situation in Lesotho was becoming critical and last years harvest will only last through to August, which is the start of the next growing season. The problem in Lesotho was slightly different though to countries like Zambia and Malawi where drought has caused the crop failure. Here there was too much rain during the planting season and many of the fields could not be ploughed and sowed, the ones that were had seed washed away. Maize is being imported from South Africa but the nature of market economics has meant that the price of maize has almost doubled since last year. Ashley has already found that staff are pilfering stock from his trading posts, but in the situation the people are in here he says it is only to be expected.
Semonkong in the local language means 'Place of Smoke' and is named because of the nearby Maletsunyane Falls, also known as Lebihan Falls after the French missionary who first reported the falls in 1881. Semonkong is a small sprawling town on the plateau and really felt like a frontier town. Everywhere there were men on horseback, clad in their traditional kobo riding through the town. Outside the shops would be a row of horses tied up. Shepherds herded goats, sheep and cattle along the streets and donkeys would wander past on their own carrying sacks of maize. The buildings were low and spread apart, the roads dirt, the dust blowing in the wind. It was also cold at this altitude surrounded by mountains and the first thing I bought when I arrived in town was a woolly hat. Looking at the scenes around the town I doubt that they had changed much over the past one hundred years, we had arrived in an outlying mountain town, hardly touched by the modern world.
Ashley stopped at his trading post in the town, which only stocked maize, before dropping us at the Semonkong Lodge, which sits in a small gorge beside the Maletsunyane River. We dropped our luggage off quickly and Ashley gave us a lift to the Maletsunyane Falls, which are about 5km south of Semonkong. He dropped us off there and drove off to his other trading post in the area and arranged to pick us up again in about an hour and a half. The falls were spectacular and drop 192m in a single vertical drop; this allegedly makes them the highest waterfall in Southern Africa. The gorge that the Maletsunyane River cascades down into is huge and cuts a giant swathe across the landscape. The noise of the water thundered as it hit the large plunge pool deep in the gorge; spray from the falls had frozen to the rocks on either side, occasionally a large chunk of ice would break away and tumble onto the rocks below. It was very cold, an icy wind was blowing and the sun did very little to warm us as we sat at the edge of the gorge marvelling at this natural wonder. We presently walked back up the hill to wait for Ashley to come past and pick us up; we hoped that the walk would warm us up. We didn't have to wait long beside this deserted road before Ashley drove past earlier than expected and dropped us back in Semonkong.
By now Rebecca and myself had decided that, depending on the weather, we would trek to Malealea, about 50km to the west of Semonkong through the Thaba Putsoa Range of mountains. We had planned to visit this village and now the opportunity to trek through these mountains seemed like an option we could not miss. Mo and Chris were also travelling to Malealea and we hoped to meet them again there in a few days time at the end of our trek. Therefore, we said goodbye as they returned to Roma with Ashley and we walked through the town and back to the lodge in its peaceful location beside the river.
The Semonkong Lodge was a very comfortable and homely place to stay. It was a fairly large place with rondavels along the banks of the river and up the steep sides of the valley. I think we were the only guests staying there that night and we made ourselves at home in the cosy, thatched pub and restaurant, keeping warm by the fire. The electricity was not all that reliable, despite a new hydro generator installed in the Maletsunyane River to supply the whole town. We spent a lot of the evening with just candles for light. The owner of the lodge arrived during the evening and we discussed our plan to trek to Malealea. Through him we organised a guide and a packhorse; as we would not be returning to Semonkong we needed to carry our entire luggage as well as food for the three days across the mountains. The owner also lent us a spirit stove and a couple of sleeping mats for the journey. We paid about ZAR500 each for the trip; this included the horse, money to pay for accommodation in the villages along the way and for the guide, including his return walk to Semonkong.
It was a cold nights sleep in our rondavel and the fire we had lit that evening didn't do much to keep the night chill away. We had a busy couple of hours first thing in the morning buying supplies for our trip. The morning air was cold and crisp, puddles alongside the road were frozen and the grass was covered in frost. An early morning mist soon burnt off as the sun rose above the mountains. The dog at the lodge followed us all around town that morning as we visited a handful of stores, everyone looked at us as we walked along the aisles of the basic supermarkets, the dog following closely at out heels. We just shrugged and said it's not our dog, but still he followed us. The selection in the shops was fairly much what we expected, very basic but we found enough suitable food to take on our trek. When we returned, still with the dog at our heels, back to the lodge, there was a horse tied up outside. We met our guide called Sofargo (spelt phonetically) but in the local language meaning Hail and our horse called Star, which I can't remember in Basotho, I just called him Dobbin. Once we had loaded our packs and supplies of food onto the horse we began our long trek through the mountains.
The weather had again turned out perfect and the sky was clear and deep blue, the sun shining brightly as we walked out of Semonkong, across the dirt road to Maletsunyane Falls and along a valley heading west. As we followed the path up through the valley we passed many people on horseback heading down to Semonkong. As we reached a plateau above the valley it felt cold and I put on my fleece as the cold wind blew off the surrounding mountains. Behind us we could see Semonkong sprawling in the valley, I wish I could of stayed longer in this remote, frontier town. Behind the town on the horizon the Maluti Mountains stood majestically capped in snow; I could see why they call this country the Kingdom in the Sky, the mountain views were breathtaking. The path wound it's way into the mountains passing small villages, all the round huts were built traditionally out of stone and thatch. The walking was not too difficult although Dobbin, the packhorse, didn't seem the most energetic of horses I had ever seen and was in fact fairly stupid and lazy and farted at every hill we had to climb.
We walked up through a high pass, snow lying in the sheltered places along the path and covering the southern slopes of the mountains. From here we dropped down into a valley where there were a couple of small villages. There was also a river to cross in this valley and no bridge; it wasn't too deep and we took off our boots, rolled up our trousers and waded through. The water came about halfway up to our knees, it was freezing cold and the rocks slippery; by the time we reached the other side our feet felt like ice-cubes. Sofargo, our guide, stopped briefly at one of these villages to have a smoke. We sat on a grassy slope admiring the views and watching village life. The children were curious at who we were and would stand and stare at us. None of them would ask for sweets or money, a problem we had found in most of the rest of the country. We were a long way from normal civilisation and the usual places tourists visit.
Soon we were on our way again following a path back out of this valley and through another pass. Along the way we met other people travelling on horseback or shepherds herding goats, the clang of bells strung around the necks of goats and cattle never far away. Everyone was very polite and they would wave to us and say hello, or stop briefly to chat with Sofargo. At every high point we reached we had panoramic views of the mountains and the valleys stretching out before us; this had to be one of the most beautiful and remote treks I had ever undertaken. Below us in the distance was a small village on the opposite side of the Kitane River, this would be where we would spend the night, but first we had another freezing cold river to wade across. Again the river was not too deep but by the time we reached the far bank our feet had turned to blocks of ice. The village was no more than a collection of round thatched huts and a few more modern cinderblock and corrugated iron constructions. The huts only numbered about a couple of dozen and they were strung along the bank of the river, sheltered in the valley. The village was more a series of homesteads with each family having a number of huts set around a courtyard with cattle kraals, sheep and goat pens surrounding them; chickens roamed freely, scratching around in the dirt for scraps of food.
Sofargo stopped to see the village chief to ask for permission to stay the night. We were soon shown to a family's homestead and lead into a hut. The wind was howling down the valley and as the sun had sunk behind the mountains the temperature quickly dropped. Our hut for the night was one of the more modern, square, cinderblock constructions. The traditional round huts built of mud with a stone cladding and a thatched roof are far more comfortable to live in. They provide excellent insulation against the cold of winter as well as the heat of summer. Our corrugated iron roof did none of this and the wind howled through the broken windows as we sat huddled around a table cooking our dinner by candlelight. I was surprised at how well equipped and furnished the hut was, especially considering that there were no roads anywhere near this village and the only way to get here was either on foot or horseback. There were two beds, a wardrobe, table and chairs and a sideboard with all the crockery, pots and pans you could ever need. As it was so cold and dark, after we had eaten our dinner we went to bed and wrapped ourselves in our sleeping bags and blankets to keep out the cold.
The next morning we woke at sunrise with the rest of the family and village. As we warmed ourselves with a cup of tea and a bowl of maize porridge, outside the young boys began herding the livestock out of the kraals and off for another day grazing on the surrounding mountain sides. Everyone's horse stood patiently waiting along the bank of the river for another days journey, including our packhorse, Dobbin. The chickens were soon back at work scratching for a living while the dogs just lazed about lying outside the huts in the first welcoming, warm rays of morning sun. The wind had eased since the previous night and once again the skies were clear, not a single sign of a cloud; it looked like another days perfect hiking weather. To the north, at the end of the valley, were a large range of snow covered mountains, this village was in a beautifully remote setting and I felt that we had left modern, urban life far behind us. The family were very friendly and really made us feel welcome during our short, overnight stay. Everyone seemed happy and the kids always had a big smile on their faces. The corruption of other tourists had not reached this tiny, remote village and nobody asked us for money or sweets. Children smiled and said hello rather than just shouting, 'Give me sweets' or, 'Give me money'; a chorus that followed us through so many towns and villages across this small relatively unspoilt country.
We were soon packed and ready to leave for the next stage of our trek to Malealea. The whole family gathered to say goodbye and we thanked the Mama for her kind hospitality before heading north, following the Kitane River up the valley. As we neared the head of the valley we took a path to the west that lead up through another pass. Dobbin's digestion had not improved and he still farted all the way up the hill. At this high altitude there was once again snow lying in the sheltered places; along the banks of small streams, that were still frozen or in the shadow of the heather, shrubs and grasses that grew in this mountain environment. From this pass we looked down into the Ribaneng valley and across the plains at the foot of the Thaba Putsoa range of mountains. We had crossed the final pass. We now just had to climb down the steep valley of the Ribaneng River and cross the plains to Malealea that sat at the eastern foot of the Matelile Range.
The path leading down from this pass was steep and rocky, the southern slopes of the mountains to our north all covered in snow and ice. The walking became tough as we had to carefully weave our way along this rough trail. By early afternoon we reached a village near the bottom of this valley where we stopped for the night. This village was far larger than the one we stayed at the previous night and was a popular overnight stopping off point for both hikers and pony trekkers from the Malealea Lodge. The owners of the Malealea Lodge specifically built the huts we stayed in here for tourists. We stayed in a small traditional round hut that was far more comfortable than the hut in the last village. The village was set on the steep side of the valley, dogs lay around in the afternoon sun, and the occasional donkey or tribesman on horseback would wander through the village. Dozens of chickens were again scratching around the huts and some noisy pigs were eating from some bowls of food scraps. A Mama was busy next door to us all afternoon cooking, the smoke from the fire, fuelled by maize cobs, blew past our hut in the strong, gusty breeze. I'm not sure exactly what she was cooking but it involved four cow legs that she heated up in the fire before scraping off the burnt hair and prising off the hoofs. Once this exercise was completed the bony legs were chopped in half with a blunt axe, after that I did not see them again as they were taken inside the hut. The village seemed quiet during the afternoon until the shepherds returned and the pens and kraals filled with livestock, the sound of the goats and the cattle with their clanging bells waking up the village from it's afternoon slumber.
We spent the afternoon sitting on the stonewall of a cattle kraal in front of our hut soaking up some warm sunshine and watching village life in between doing some reading. It was not so cold here now that we were almost out of the mountains and the wind had eased considerably; the night was still chilly though. Later in the afternoon some more tourists arrived in the village from Malealea. There was a large group of pony trekkers who were just on an overnight trip and a group of hikers who were heading the way we had just come from Semonkong.
At 08.00 the next morning we left the village on the last leg of our trek to Malealea. Again the weather was perfect and the walking looked fairly easy as we just had to walk out of this valley and across the plains. Within half an hour of leaving the village we were at the bottom of the valley and the first obstacle of the day, the Ribaneng River. It was still cold down here as the morning sun had not yet reached the bottom of this valley, the small streams across the path were frozen, as was the mud. The river was just as cold and deeper than the others we had crossed as the riverbed was covered with large boulders that we had to wade around, as they were so slippery. From there on we followed a well-worn trail out onto the plain passing through many villages along the way. Now the children would stand shouting, 'Give me sweets' alongside the path; we were back near civilisation. Cattle grazed on the grasslands, dry stalks of maize still stood in the fields, rustling in the wind.
We were nearing the end of our trek, only a couple of hours of walking remained to reach our destination. It all looked easy now crossing this flat plain until we reached the edge of a gorge with the large, fast flowing Makhaleng River in the bottom. There was no bridge and as we descended the steep, rocky path that clung to the edge of the gorge, the challenge of crossing this large river looked more and more difficult. We reached the bottom of the gorge and stood on the sandy banks of the river calculating how we would reach the other side of this torrent. The water looked as though it would be at least waist deep and very cold. While we stood there another man arrived on horseback and he rode his horse through the river to the far bank. I watched him cross now able to accurately gauge how deep and fast this river was flowing. We took off our boots and trousers and waded out into the river, the water coming up to the top of our legs . The riverbed was sand rather than rocks, which made the crossing easier, although the current was powerful and the water icy cold. We all managed to keep our footing in the strong current and safely reached the opposite bank where we sat down on the grassy bank to dry off and eat lunch. Shortly after we had crossed four local men arrived by the river and attempted to cross. An old man was the first to attempt the crossing and he gingerly staggered out into the river keeping his balance with a long walking stick. In the middle of the river he lost his footing and was swept under by the current; he eventually reached the bank where we were sitting, completely soaked and freezing cold. His three friends on the opposite bank were even more nervous at crossing after seeing their companion being washed off his feet. They held onto each other as they waded across and finally made it to the other side.
It was a steep climb back out of this gorge but once we reached the top it was an easy walk for an hour and a half or so to finally reach the Malealea Lodge. Sofargo was keen to get going and we thanked him for an excellent job over the last three days and he left with Dobbin. He wanted to get back to the village on the other side of the Makhaleng Gorge that evening where some of his friends lived. I'm sure he had a good night with the tip we gave him. The Malealea Lodge is the largest tourist centre in this small country and it felt odd after our past few days in virtual isolation in the mountains to be here surrounded by so many other tourists. At the back of the car park we saw Mo and Chris' Tazz 'all-terrain vehicle' and soon ran into them at the bar and told them about our adventures trekking through the Thaba Putsoa Mountains.
We only spent a night at the Malealea lodge before we hit the road again, this time bound for Bloemfontein in South Africa. Mo and Chris gave us a lift to the tarred road. We passed through the Gates of Paradise, a fantastic viewpoint with views across the plains and to the Thaba Putsoa Mountains. From the road we said goodbye to Mo and Chris and took a minibus taxi to Motsekuoa, where we changed at the junction for another minibus to Mafeteng, close to the border. One more minibus ride took us to the Van Rooyens border gate where we joined a queue of about fifty people waiting to enter South Africa. After queuing for about twenty minutes we reached the front of the queue and were once again in South Africa.
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