Entries from April 2010

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 3 - The Ladybrand Disappointment

We packed up early and left the Vleihuisie with a tear in the eye. Then it was back over the hills and onto N9, direction Ladybrand. Reaching Middelburg, we branched off to the east towards Burgersdorp and Aliwal North, which we reached in good time. We were now ready to climb off the western flank of Lesotho.

Aliwal North marked our passage from the Eastern Cape to the Free State. Our old friend the Orange River flowed through town on its winding way to the Atlantic Ocean where it would form the border with Namibia. We headed north on R26. That road pretty much followed the neighboring country and was in incredibly bad shape, a minefield of deep potholes to be avoided at all costs and that had cars swerving dangerously across the full width of both lanes.

When we finally entered Ladybrand in early afternoon, we were just a few kilometers away from Maseru, the capital of Lesotho which we’d decided to avoid the next day by crossing into the Mountain Kingdom further north, towards Tsehlanyane National Park in the Maluti Mountains.

Ladybrand, against all odds, was a shock. Bigger than we had anticipated, the town was also disgustingly busy, ugly, hot and disorganized. Most of the central streets had been dug up in some global repair or improvement effort and then left as is, the funds having either run out or been diverted to sleazier pockets. Downtown looked like a war zone with a bit of a Central American or Southeast Asian anarchic twist to it - bustling activity, dirt roads, dust, chaos.

We tracked down the Tourism Office promised by our brochures, hoping someone there could recommend decent accommodation or safe camping within that big mess of a place, but said Office was found closed, no reasons given despite a weekday afternoon. A nearby internet cafe allowed us to retrieve information online about our next leg and while Marie was negotiating Gmail on a slow connection, I drew the map out and thought hard and fast.

Ladybrand was a nightmare. My idea of camping there had just been a bad one. But we had driven steadily from Nieu Bethesda and could possibly make it all the way to Golden Gate, past our Lesotho entry point, by the evening. It would mean an extra 200 to 300 km of driving. We didn’t have a campsite booked there but they might agree to change our future booking. The campground was unlikely to be full and would certainly be thousands of times prettier than Ladybrand. Sitting in the Landcruiser, I looked up from the map and scanned the street around me. Noise was ever-present, and smells, too. A poor man was crouching behind the car, taking a break if nothing worse, after begging non-stop for at least a few minutes. I made a mental note to avoid him when backing up.

Back from the cafe, Marie was easily convinced. I could almost hear relief ooze out of her skin. We hit the road again. Flicksburg, Fouriesburg and Clarens flew by as we drove along Lesotho, so close we could now actually see the typical Basotho rondavels on the other side of a deep valley. We arrived at the National Park’s gate around 5 PM. Exceptionally, the road crossing the Golden Gate Park is a public one, leading from one side to the other. We registered at the gate and were let in.

The Golden Gate National Park, not to be confused with its American counterpart and the bridge that goes with it, lies at the northern foot of Lesotho’s Maluti Mountains. It is a relatively small park with its campground located at the western entrance.

A very unfriendly lady - this is a rare thing in South African National Parks - refused to transfer our down payment for the upcoming booking and we just started from scratch and got a campsite - with power. However once investigated, it appeared said power was only meant for caravans and thus required a special blue plug we didn’t happen to own. I scouted the entire campground, didn’t find a solution, then checked the Park’s convenience store and discovered the blue adapter for the price of a night’s stay. I passed. We would have to get by without power. The fridge, the fantastic little fridge, would need to be left alone and shut for the night, and was likely to stay cold enough to preserve our supplies.

After getting a dispatch from a well-informed source that warned us about Lesotho Border Officers confiscating any and all alcohol brought into the country, we had parted with a few of our wine bottles and donated them to our hosts at the Doornberg Farm. But we still had 4 bottles of red with us, and in preparation for the next day’s trip into the neighboring country, we decided to leave 3 of these hidden behind at the campground and retrieve them on our way back. I crossed the beautiful little stream that flowed right next to our tent and hid my bottles carefully out of sun and sight, behind a log into tall grass.

The campground was nestled in a narrow valley at the foot of an immense stone wall that strongly reminded me of Zion and Arches National Parks in the U.S. As the sun set, rather early because of the surrounding mountains, the cliffs above us began to glow in a most beautiful palette of orange tones.

The site was a bit noisy though, because of the road’s proximity. A campsite within a park normally quiets down after dark when campers have all arrived but this one was different; cars and trucks were still driving by on their way through, and we lamented the obvious lack of regulations that allowed engine brakes and motorcycles to destroy the peace. The campground had been located on an incredibly stunning spot and the price to pay was relative noise. The campers were noisy too.

We got up early and hit the road to Lesotho, but this will be another story by itself. Two busy days later, we were back at the Golden Gate Park to consume our original booking and the down payment. We chose a much better spot, away from everybody, and settled in for a rest. I ran to our previous campsite, where a young couple were enjoying the afternoon laying down on their backs and looking up at the cliffs, and crossed the river with a mysterious smile. Their gaze followed me, a mix of curiosity and suspicion. When I crossed back towards them with the 3 wine bottles in my hands, they looked perfectly puzzled. I explained and they laughed. I exulted. We’d have wine for dinner.

In the morning, Marie and I went horseback riding. She was dying to get back on a horse and had booked a tour with the park rangers. She’d asked if they catered to all level riders and they’d said yes. So she’d requested a horse-horse for herself and a donkey-horse for me, since I hadn’t been on one since the day my cousins’ tall brown beauty Copain had ejected me while jumping over a fence some forty years ago. As it turned out, I got the horse and she got the donkey. Mine obeyed simple commands, hers didn’t and stuck to the next horse’s buttocks no matter what. After a while, we switched mounts. I figured Marie would, better than me, appreciate a horse that knew the meaning of desperate stopping signals.

A family of 4, South Africans from Gauteng, joined us for the ride. Two rangers were accompanying, one leading and the other trailing. The horses were short, Lesotho-style, and as is often the case where tourists ride, accustomed to following their leader - which meant that directing them individually was nearly hopeless. Those folks from Gauteng turned out to be a major handicap. The girl fell off her horse while it was walking and decided she’d had enough, posing the rangers a problem because they’d have to split up to take her back, which they elected against. Because of the family, we did most of the ride at a snail’s pace, the girl being towed behind the second ranger. Marie bit her tongue and swallowed her frustration. Only towards the end did the leader dare a restrained canter and some of our steeds finally followed. I managed to stay atop mine.

But the scenery was just worth the trouble. It was all like I had imagined in my childhood dreams of cowboys riding across green fields and onto harsh desolate mountains. There was no noise other than the wind, rare birds and the mythical sound of horseshoes on the path. I let the animal’s slow rhythm rock me, I melted into the saddle, tipped my hat low on my face and caressed the stock of an imaginary Winchester by the pommel. The dream was all around me. I’d finally arrived.

Once back at the campsite, we took a drive on a couple of paved scenic loops within the park. It was late afternoon and as the golden hour set the mountains alight, we realized how well named the park had been.

The gate, as it turned out, not only allowed safe passage to a set of golden cliffs but also into one’s own mental imagery. As is often the case, beauty seeks itself. And maybe, by enjoying and appreciating a beautiful moment in a beautiful place, would we become a little better ourselves.

Posted at 8:38 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 4 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

The best of human nature...

... is sometimes the desire to survive.

Posted at 5:30 PM in New York: & Photoblogs: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

Nieu Bethesda, last moments

These are a few very moody shots taken near the Doornberg Farm cottage but which didn’t make the cut because they were perversely hiding in the wrong folder. Bad, bad, bad files!

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2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 2 - Once Upon a Time in Nieu Bethesda

From Beaufort West, we drove steadily east and as our morning unfolded, the Karoo’s unflinching dryness mellowed out and slowly gave way to encouraging traces of vegetation. By the time we’d reached the town of Graaff Reinet, two-thirds into our daily leg, green had appeared all around us in a surprising display of tenacity. There had been much rain recently and we were witnessing its almost instantaneous effect on the landscape. Roads were flanked with high fluid grass waving in the wind and fields had turned from barren to lush.

We continued northwards through a series of narrow mountain ranges of medium elevation until we found our turn to the west and into rolling hills of the most amazing green hues. The tar gave way to dirt, we slowed down to observation speed and left civilization behind as we climbed over the hills and disappeared into the remote countryside of Nieu Bethesda.

Some 20 km later, on a very winding path that finally descended into a luxuriant valley, a few houses and a church tower materialized below us. Of Nieu Bethesda, we knew very little apart from the fact that it was home to the strange Owl House. From the village - I still resist calling it a town - our instructions were to head north for another 10 km at which point we would reach our destination, the Doornberg Farm.

We looked around us curiously as we cruised through a few tree-lined dirt streets, taking in the old houses and their quaint gardens, a soft afternoon quietness, the curious exclusive use of white pick-ups called bakkies and the customary crumbling shacks at the edges of town. This probably was prime farm land. Lots of open space despite the bumps, few people to share it, a seeming abundance of water. The sheep looked happy. I wasn’t so sure about the few people I saw.

The Doornberg Farm is so literally part of the countryside that the public dirt road runs right through it on its way to elsewhere. Following some signs, we branched off towards a group of sheds and a large house resting in the protective shadow of a gigantic oak tree.

We were greeted by our hosts Hanna and Peet who welcomed us in and offered coffee and rusks, as it is customary on a South African late afternoon. Peet then launched into a long introduction of the farm, telling us more than we could absorb about his sheep, their sturdiness, an aborted attempt at supplying Woolworth’s with organic lamb and many eye-opening facts about the cost of farming and the reality of feed lots. It was all fascinating and he obviously cared deeply for his work, but we were tired and anxious to settle in our cottage for a rest.

The cottage we had booked for one night, called the Vleihuisie, was isolated far away from the main house in the fields and the farmer led us there at high speed in his white bakkie, negotiating the narrow muddy path like a rally driver. After a few kilometers, a low-lying stone house appeared at the foot of pepper trees, the body of an old WW2-era car rusting melancholically in pretty grass nearby. Marie and I looked at each other incredulously: there was nothing else around. This was almost too good to be true.

The cottage was sitting right in the middle of vast lucerne fields in the progress of being harvested. A tractor was slowly plowing its way through a flock of beautiful storks resting on their long migratory journey. The old but carefully renovated little house was nested against three ponds and a small enclosure into which sheep and their endearing lambs were drinking from a tub.

Peet showed us around the cottage and then left to go tend to the harvesting. We unpacked with a growing sense of peace, already regretting not to stay longer than a night. The place was well decorated, very well equipped for full self-catering, perfectly comfortable and cozy, had a working fireplace, plenty of space, couches, chairs everywhere, a spacious bathroom with a tub and a shower, and no one around for many kilometers. The rental cost R400 a night, which came up to about US$50 for two people. It was going to be the best deal of our trip.

The farmers had told us of a braai place they’d carved right out of the ground, far into the dry veld on a plateau where only short plants grew, and after settling in, we decided to get back on the Landcruiser and investigate. To get to that remote spot, we had to venture deep into farm land, opening and closing many stock and game fences along the way and driving slowly through puddles in the dirt road.

When we found it, a simple circular hole with a central plate dug straight into the very hard orange soil, we looked around us, sweeping the horizon for signs of anything like us. There were none. Our cottage was far out of sight, the farm even further so, and only a few bokkies could be seen fleeing in the distance. The silence and isolation were almost ocean-like. We were standing in the middle of a dry sea of greens and reds, its gentle rolling waves forever frozen in a final spontaneous pose.

It was late and the sun was now rushing to greet the antipodes; we stayed and enjoyed the perfect peace as the day came to a beautiful end. Then we drove back to the warmth of our shelter’s inside lights and Marie prepared to braai on the porch while I walked away from the house to take pictures of the solitude.

We slept like babies and in the morning, while sipping on strong stove-top espresso coffee and despite having already agreed on a road plan for the day towards our next stop Ladybrand, we caught ourselves lingering and resisting the need to pack. The feeling of peace had worked its way to our bones and all we needed to stay was an excuse.

That was easy to find; this was February 17th. Our next booking was 3 days later in Lesotho. We had allowed for 3 driving days to get there and were hoping to find camping or cheap accommodation along the way. But that wasn’t much more than 700 or 800 km and even on unknown roads, we confidently could cut the ride short one day. We’d head towards Ladybrand the following morning, and would still make Lesotho on the 19th.

So we stayed at the cottage. We checked in with our hosts, advising them of our decision and buying lamp chops from the source for the night’s braai, and then headed back down the dirt road to investigate Nieu Bethesda.

Parking the truck in the shade, we set out to explore a few dusty streets that form the heart of the small town. Very few cars were in sight and the place felt half-asleep. We found the post office/souvenir/coffee shop and went in to mail postcards. A few local ladies were engaged in a conversation at the counter and the post-mistress was nodding right and left.

I stood aside, sizing the place up and browsing the shelves, while Marie approached the group. I wasn’t paying much attention to the ongoing conversation even though it was held in English, and before I could catch up with what had been said, I realized Marie was jumping in and addressing an older lady in a very reproachful tone. « You cannot say that! » she said bluntly. I glanced at her. Her face was flushed and angry.

Everyone else went quiet while the two argued. I pieced the situation together the best I could and figured the woman had used a forbidden word, one that belonged to South Africa’s troubled past, a word ever-loaded with racism and intolerance and forever banned by enlightened South Africans, by the ones who had emerged from a long hatred tunnel into relative sunlight and moderate justice. She had called a colored man a kaffir.

I only knew of the word because of reading The Power of One, and hadn’t realized how loaded a weapon it was. The verbal fight escalated. The lady was throwing wild accusation at people she obviously hated and finally barked at Marie: « You’re not even South African, » as if it meant you’re not part of the issue, or you don’t deserve to speak. « Actually I am, born and raised in Bloemfontein! » Marie fumed, losing the little bit of control she had left. I put my hand on her shoulder but she didn’t even feel me and stormed outside after a last altercation, refusing the post-mistress’ offer to mail her postcards.

I followed her, distractedly feeling the sun’s bite as we stepped into the street, and I attempted to support and encourage and understand and stand by, while being acutely aware that I was left far behind and outside of a very sensitive issue. Marie was shaking. I had rarely seen her so upset. She had lived in South Africa during the dark ages, while a pale Mordor ruled over the land with an iron fist of absolute racial discrimination, and she could not bear to see the past awakened.

We walked around for a while until a pick-up truck drove up to us and we recognized one of the ladies who had witnessed the post office scene. « I’ve come to apologize for our town, » she said with a friendly but embarrassed smile. « We’re not all like that. » Marie took a deep breath. This was a welcomed relief. « She’s a frightened old lady, » the woman added, « they are all on drugs and commit much petty crime. They have tried to break in her house repeatedly. »

We thanked her and moved on. The apology was sincere, and yet had left us with a sense of unresolved trouble. « We » as in the rest of them might not all have been « like that », but it still seemed they understood and might even have agreed.They just wouldn’t have had the guts to use the forbidden word to express such discomfort with the opposite race.

The scars of Apartheid were nowhere more visible than in this small town that we had thought to be much more progressive. We later learned, while having lunch at a nice joint that served homemade cheeses and sausages, that there actually was an « other » Nieu Bethesda, like anywhere else in South Africa, just a few hundred meters away. It turns out that despite our literature advertising the town as having no available supplies - « Bring everything with you, » we had been cautioned - one only needed to cross over to the other side and go to a spaza.

We then visited the Owl House, giving the town a chance to redeem itself. It was just strange. An alienated artist named Helen Martins had once had hundreds of bizarre cement sculptures built and arranged in her garden. She was now dead but the house remained and has been turned into a quirky museum. She probably had been going cuckoo. Her vision was eccentric. But then again, maybe eccentricity was a prerequisite to be an artist and to live in such a place.

Returning to the cottage was a balm on our chafed emotions. We walked in the fields and took pictures of the silence. The night was chilly and we opted to cook and eat inside. While dinner was on the oven, I stayed out and stared at the stars for a long time, lost in thoughts. They were all there, all my friends, my favorite constellations united in the same sky even though part of different stories.

There were the Gemini, Castor and Pollux. There was Orion the Hunter and his two dogs, protecting the Seven Sisters from the mean bull. Betelgeuse and Aldebaran shone their giant red eyes at me while Sirius, brightest object in the Earth’s sky, glowed with a cold and shimmering white. There was my dear Southern Cross and its two trailing stars, which, along with Canopus and Achernar, allowed for the actual south celestial pole to be found.

And there was me, down here, infinitely small but reaching out to touch them, arrogantly confident, like all human beings, until I looked up and remembered that I knew nothing. That day, I had just received another involuntary lesson in all things South African. Somehow, though, I didn’t feel like I understood anything better. It was saddening and humbling, but the truth is, it was still out of my grasp. I wondered if I ever would reach the breaking point of enlightenment on South African racial matters.

They are so easily judged and categorized on the surface: everyone knows that racism, in all its forms or tendencies, is evil and to be banned from our society. That’s the easy judgment part. But then arises a need to understand the causes. And as Tolkien said it so well, « All That is Gold Does Not Glitter. » When it comes to racism and its politics, so many intricate levels of complexity are involved that one might get lost along the way.

If we, for a moment, decide to accept all human beings as equal and thus as having some good and some bad inside of them, then racism becomes a complex two-way challenge where both victims and oppressors could begin to share blame and merit, and Power emerges as the only real oppressor, one that ironically is fueled not by strength but by fear. Still, defining racism - and this isn’t a pun - is a black and white matter. It’s simple. There is good and there is evil. One hates and stands on the side of evil. One tolerates and joins the good side.

But then, when sides have been taken, as we insist on digging deeper, black and white and evil and good blend into each other, and the human race emerges in all its messed up complexity, and suddenly, there is nothing left but shades of grey.

* A spaza is an informal convenience store, probably without a proper license and run from home, a shack or a container, selling goods and food in the townships where proper stores may not be available.

For the record and a great story, here is Marie’s take on the event.

Posted at 2:45 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & On the road: 6 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

Brooklyn inches closer to Manhattan

The newly opened Pier 1 section of the Brooklyn Bridge Park improves on the old Fulton Landing site dramatically and provides a refreshing new alternative for evening strolls and even picnics. A stone’s throw away, across the murky waters of the East River, Manhattan seems even a touch closer than it was. It’s very encouraging to see the New York waterfront revamped and handed back to the public. So to speak.

Posted at 5:35 PM in + Panoramas: & New York: No comments yet » Post one!

2010

Temps mort

While New York experiences science-fiction spring weather (the actual all-time record-breaking max yesterday was 32°C - the forecast max for tomorrow: 15°C!) and we re-adjust tant bien que mal to the Big Apple, chafed by the « hum » - that constant background noise and vibration so characteristic of mega cities, but comforted by the vibrancy and exhorted by the very real notion that we are standing on the belly-button of the known universe, my poor laptop is agonizing in the heat, plagued with the multiple symptoms of a widespread decease that leaves no hope of recovery and has me looking at alternatives in a most inconvenient time.

The seasonal bloom is all around us, fragrant, impressive and colorful, in a Vancouver-like fashion if I may say so, with magnolias, pear and cherry trees competing for the welcome domination of our streets. Marie has been incredibly active and prolific and much beauty can be seen and read over at 66 Square Feet. She also has started a food blog in an effort to regroup all her food writing under one cyber-roof.

And as for me, well, I’m just doing my best...

"And far away in some recess
The Lord and the Devil are now playing chess,
The Devil still cheats and wins more souls,
And as for the Lord, well, he’s just doing his best..."

Chris De Burgh - Spanish Train