Oh, how I've always wanted to be a cowgirl - springing up into the saddle, a dig of the heels and off into the sunset in a cloud of dust and clattering hooves. This was to be a day where we could indulge that fantasy - albeit clad in a pair of sunflower-yellow wellies with a turtle motif and a pair of stretchy leggings. I left my chaps and gingham shirt at home unfortunately.
When we woke up, two saddle bags and two pack bags were waiting outside our hut. The saddle bags really were the stuff of cowboy movies. Made of dusty old leather and smelling very horsey they were big enough to pack a few apples, a bottle of water, a tin of chewing tobacco and some beef jerky (or a less cowboy-like cheese sandwich and a cereal bar). We filled the pack bags with all the kit for an overnight stay and rushed out to met our horses.
Mike was paired up with Sani and me with Jobo and our guide was Pakiso. As we set off it became apparent that Sani was testing Mike at every step, stomping his hooves, pawing the ground, changing his pace. We explained to Pakiso that I have ridden a lot more than Mike and suggested we swap horses. He replied "your horse is lazy, you will need your experience to keep it moving". Mike struggled on - as soon as Sani felt that his rider didn't have the requisite experience he stopped dead in the path and refused to continue and Pakiso had to lead him. My horse needed constant clicking and kicking to keep up and Pakiso cut me a stick and instructed me I had to use it or we would never get to our destination.
We set off into the mountains. The first bit of the ride involved walking gently through the fields, Besotho shepherd's passing us and children smiling and waving. It wasn't long before it became more challenging. We started to pass down a steep mountain valley - paths covered in boulders and sheer slippery plains of rock. The sure-footed Besotho ponies navigated all of this with barely a stumble and scary though it was, you just had to put your faith in the horses.
The day moved on in a blur of sunshine and we both relaxed into the ride. In the late afternoon Pakiso told me to go in front so that I could dictate the pace and on some sandy tracks in the valley I spurred the horse on to trot and canter. I was beaming with pride as I turned after one such stretch to see Mike confidently mastering a rising trot, reins in one hand, the other nonchalantly on his thigh looking every bit young John Wayne.
We arrived in the village as the sun was turning golden. A small gathering of Besotho huts and livestock perched on a steep hillside. There was only time to drop off our stuff before we ushered off again on a three hour return walk to the Ribeneng Waterfall. I introduced myself to our guide and he told us his name. After 100m or so he turned to Mike and started up a conversation
"What's my name?"
"What's your name?"
"Yes, what's my name?"
"I'm sorry I wasn't really listening, tell me again..."
"What's MY name?"
"I'm really sorry, honestly, I am very forgetful with names - ask Sarah"
"What's MY NAME?"
(Me: "Mike I think he's got a bit muddled with the old possessive pronouns, I think he means what's YOUR name")
"Ah. what's MY name, it's Mike"
"Ah, Mike..... Daddy."
"Not Daddy, just Mike"
"Yes Daddy"
He then proceeded to call Mike 'Daddy' for the rest of the walk. "Come on daddy", "keep up daddy". The more I laughed, the more he carried on. He spoke no other English. I taught him to say "Who's the Daddy?" and he shouted it louder and louder as we continued up the hill. It was very surreal and absolutely hilarious.
At the waterfall I stripped off and went for a quick dip in the ice cold pool before we had to return as the light was fading.
When we returned to the village it was a hive of activity, the shepherds were bringing in the livestock and outside our room was a pen of perhaps 40 goats with their new-born kids bleating pitifully and a stone coral of bullocks.
We stoked up the gas stove in our simple mud hut, lit a candle and ate a delicious bowl of pasta on the mud floor. Outside the hut the stars were heavy in the sky and all across the hillside you could see the cooking fires in the villages glowing red.
The night was not a peaceful one - the wind howled, the door creaked open and a cacophony of animal noises continued through the night. When the cockerel started crowing outside our door at 2.30am we realised sleep was not going to come that night.
The next morning after drinking tea on the step of our hut and watching the famers begin to take the livestock back out to graze it was time to saddle up and return to Malealea. The day was equally as pleasant as the day before and we made a great pace. Mike's horse was raring to get home and he had a tough day holding him back but we both thoroughly enjoyed the experience. We reached the camp in the early afternoon and relaxed on the terrace with some cool beers, enjoying the knock-out view of the mountains.
When we woke up, two saddle bags and two pack bags were waiting outside our hut. The saddle bags really were the stuff of cowboy movies. Made of dusty old leather and smelling very horsey they were big enough to pack a few apples, a bottle of water, a tin of chewing tobacco and some beef jerky (or a less cowboy-like cheese sandwich and a cereal bar). We filled the pack bags with all the kit for an overnight stay and rushed out to met our horses.
Mike was paired up with Sani and me with Jobo and our guide was Pakiso. As we set off it became apparent that Sani was testing Mike at every step, stomping his hooves, pawing the ground, changing his pace. We explained to Pakiso that I have ridden a lot more than Mike and suggested we swap horses. He replied "your horse is lazy, you will need your experience to keep it moving". Mike struggled on - as soon as Sani felt that his rider didn't have the requisite experience he stopped dead in the path and refused to continue and Pakiso had to lead him. My horse needed constant clicking and kicking to keep up and Pakiso cut me a stick and instructed me I had to use it or we would never get to our destination.
We set off into the mountains. The first bit of the ride involved walking gently through the fields, Besotho shepherd's passing us and children smiling and waving. It wasn't long before it became more challenging. We started to pass down a steep mountain valley - paths covered in boulders and sheer slippery plains of rock. The sure-footed Besotho ponies navigated all of this with barely a stumble and scary though it was, you just had to put your faith in the horses.
The day moved on in a blur of sunshine and we both relaxed into the ride. In the late afternoon Pakiso told me to go in front so that I could dictate the pace and on some sandy tracks in the valley I spurred the horse on to trot and canter. I was beaming with pride as I turned after one such stretch to see Mike confidently mastering a rising trot, reins in one hand, the other nonchalantly on his thigh looking every bit young John Wayne.
We arrived in the village as the sun was turning golden. A small gathering of Besotho huts and livestock perched on a steep hillside. There was only time to drop off our stuff before we ushered off again on a three hour return walk to the Ribeneng Waterfall. I introduced myself to our guide and he told us his name. After 100m or so he turned to Mike and started up a conversation
"What's my name?"
"What's your name?"
"Yes, what's my name?"
"I'm sorry I wasn't really listening, tell me again..."
"What's MY name?"
"I'm really sorry, honestly, I am very forgetful with names - ask Sarah"
"What's MY NAME?"
(Me: "Mike I think he's got a bit muddled with the old possessive pronouns, I think he means what's YOUR name")
"Ah. what's MY name, it's Mike"
"Ah, Mike..... Daddy."
"Not Daddy, just Mike"
"Yes Daddy"
He then proceeded to call Mike 'Daddy' for the rest of the walk. "Come on daddy", "keep up daddy". The more I laughed, the more he carried on. He spoke no other English. I taught him to say "Who's the Daddy?" and he shouted it louder and louder as we continued up the hill. It was very surreal and absolutely hilarious.
At the waterfall I stripped off and went for a quick dip in the ice cold pool before we had to return as the light was fading.
When we returned to the village it was a hive of activity, the shepherds were bringing in the livestock and outside our room was a pen of perhaps 40 goats with their new-born kids bleating pitifully and a stone coral of bullocks.
We stoked up the gas stove in our simple mud hut, lit a candle and ate a delicious bowl of pasta on the mud floor. Outside the hut the stars were heavy in the sky and all across the hillside you could see the cooking fires in the villages glowing red.
The night was not a peaceful one - the wind howled, the door creaked open and a cacophony of animal noises continued through the night. When the cockerel started crowing outside our door at 2.30am we realised sleep was not going to come that night.
The next morning after drinking tea on the step of our hut and watching the famers begin to take the livestock back out to graze it was time to saddle up and return to Malealea. The day was equally as pleasant as the day before and we made a great pace. Mike's horse was raring to get home and he had a tough day holding him back but we both thoroughly enjoyed the experience. We reached the camp in the early afternoon and relaxed on the terrace with some cool beers, enjoying the knock-out view of the mountains.
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