On the road by 5.30am, and we started a mammoth journey from Addo up and into Lesotho. Awe-inspiring landscapes unfolded in front of us at every turn. We passed throbbing country towns - a hive of activity for just a few seconds - before the sparsely-populated plains of the north-eastern highlands beckoned once more. The sun was high in the sky and fluffy clouds sat atop strange rock formations that even the poet within couldn't deny look like large, generously nippled breasts (or maybe it was the sleep deprivation). The hours passed but boredom didn't set in - the scenery is just too inspiring.
In the late afternoon a group roared by on Harleys, leaving us for dust. This seems to be countryside made for bikers. We passed them an hour later, two bikers lying prone in the road, one bike smashed up, the rest of the group wandering aimlessly in shock. We stop but other locals had got there before us and it was obvious there was nothing we can do and that both bikers are not seriously injured - bar bruising and shock. It was a very real reminder of how a perfect day and a perfectly laid set of plans can be scuppered with a tiny twist of fate.
We arrived at border control in the late afternoon. We left a very formal South Africa and walked to the Lesotho passport control. African music pumped out of the small booth and three ladies sat around cooing at a chubby baby. They teaseed us at our pronunciation of the village we were going to - Malealea. It was the least official boarder crossing I have ever made and a fabulous welcome to the Kingdom in the Sky.
Lesotho is a fascinating country. To sum up their history the Basotho people are the last bastion of opposition to Dutch and British occupancy of Southern Africa. They spent most of the 19th century fending off the Boers under the leadership of King Moshoshoe and after a period under British rule in the late 1800's they have hung on to their independence by their nails. As it stands today the country couldn't be more different to it's neighbour. In just a few seconds at passport control we were transported back in time.
We followed one of the main highways through tiny villages, a hive of agricultural activity. Shepherds in the distinctive Basotho uniform of a blanket tied around neck, a pair of wellies and a bobble hat, herd cows along the roadsides and through the terraced fields. Tiny rondavels dot the countryside and the roads are lined with small huts or shipping containers proclaiming 'pay phone', 'HIV centre' (a reminder of Lesotho's frighteningly high infection rate) or 'professional hairdresser'.
We eventually turned off the pot-holed tarmac road and start to climb on a gravel track towards the Malealea lodge. Originally a trading post established in 1905 it was converted in the 1980's into a backpackers by a forward-thinking South African couple. They have set up an amazingly well-organised sustainable tourism venture. Locals are employed in all shapes and forms and a proportion of revenue goes towards one of the many community projects.
We arrived in time to sit and watch the sunset while the local choir performed. Fourteen voices warmed the cold night air and uplifted our weary spirits after a day on the road. They were followed by the local band, who impressed us with their exuberant dancing, singing and playing on homemade instruments. We settled into our simple rondavels and slept like babies.
In the late afternoon a group roared by on Harleys, leaving us for dust. This seems to be countryside made for bikers. We passed them an hour later, two bikers lying prone in the road, one bike smashed up, the rest of the group wandering aimlessly in shock. We stop but other locals had got there before us and it was obvious there was nothing we can do and that both bikers are not seriously injured - bar bruising and shock. It was a very real reminder of how a perfect day and a perfectly laid set of plans can be scuppered with a tiny twist of fate.
We arrived at border control in the late afternoon. We left a very formal South Africa and walked to the Lesotho passport control. African music pumped out of the small booth and three ladies sat around cooing at a chubby baby. They teaseed us at our pronunciation of the village we were going to - Malealea. It was the least official boarder crossing I have ever made and a fabulous welcome to the Kingdom in the Sky.
Lesotho is a fascinating country. To sum up their history the Basotho people are the last bastion of opposition to Dutch and British occupancy of Southern Africa. They spent most of the 19th century fending off the Boers under the leadership of King Moshoshoe and after a period under British rule in the late 1800's they have hung on to their independence by their nails. As it stands today the country couldn't be more different to it's neighbour. In just a few seconds at passport control we were transported back in time.
We followed one of the main highways through tiny villages, a hive of agricultural activity. Shepherds in the distinctive Basotho uniform of a blanket tied around neck, a pair of wellies and a bobble hat, herd cows along the roadsides and through the terraced fields. Tiny rondavels dot the countryside and the roads are lined with small huts or shipping containers proclaiming 'pay phone', 'HIV centre' (a reminder of Lesotho's frighteningly high infection rate) or 'professional hairdresser'.
We eventually turned off the pot-holed tarmac road and start to climb on a gravel track towards the Malealea lodge. Originally a trading post established in 1905 it was converted in the 1980's into a backpackers by a forward-thinking South African couple. They have set up an amazingly well-organised sustainable tourism venture. Locals are employed in all shapes and forms and a proportion of revenue goes towards one of the many community projects.
We arrived in time to sit and watch the sunset while the local choir performed. Fourteen voices warmed the cold night air and uplifted our weary spirits after a day on the road. They were followed by the local band, who impressed us with their exuberant dancing, singing and playing on homemade instruments. We settled into our simple rondavels and slept like babies.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment