A road trip through South Africa and around Lesotho

+ Lesotho Trip: A road trip through South Africa and around Lesotho

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho - The Teaser

It’s been weeks since we came back from the road. With so much to do in Cape Town, including flash training sessions for the Argus Cycle Tour, I’ve only had moderate amounts of time to sort out the many pictures taken and throw a few ideas on paper. But it is all taking shape.

Some might remember that in early 2009, Marie and I set out for a memorable road trip up the West Coast of South Africa, into Namibia’s incredible Namib Desert, across to southern Kalahari and back to Cape Town. I then wrote a series of 9 stories around the common theme Roasted in the Namib; they are regrouped here for sequential reading (yes, I thought of everything...)

Similarly, this year’s upcoming trip report should feature some 10 stories along with plenty of supporting photography. My current theme Cartwheels over Lesotho was inspired by the acrobatic driving style required for such expedition and also by the sobering fact that our Lesotho experience remained fast and superficial but was quite aerial.

In the coming weeks, look for tales of dirt roads and torrential rains, of camping kleptomaniacs and good-hearted traffic cops, of wine bottles hidden by a riverside, of game grazing freely on rolling hills and of wonderfully lush lands, of stars and satellites drawing perfect skies, of solitude and silence and peace, of unsettling poverty and proud herders, of hairy mountain passes and differential lock, and of all the small traveling links that glue all these together.

For now, though, here are a few simple panoramas to illustrate the many faces of the land we explored. At times hot and dry and harsh, later lush and green and soft, the South African landscape never ceases to amaze me. Voyez plutôt:

Posted at 5:50 AM in + Lesotho Trip: & + Panoramas: & On the road: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 1 - War and Peace in the Karoo

The Karoo has not always been hot. Long, long ago, it lay covered in ice for some 100 million years. Then, another 250 million years before this blog post was written, the area turned into a basin and as the millennia passed, featured various water bodies, some as vast as inland seas. Enormous coal deposits were formed. There was ferocious volcanic activity and lush forests emerged for life to thrive in. The Karoo was a happening place.

Today, what remains is a 400,000-square kilometer semi-desert no man’s land, a gigantic and desolate damper zone between the narrow temperate belt located at the very southern tip of South Africa and the rest of the continent. The Karoo is rich in fossils and has made it into the geological Hall of Fame, having given its name to the Karoo Ice Age after providing the first clear evidence of such glaciation.

While modern days began when the Cape was colonized around the mid-sixteen hundreds, it wasn’t until the 19th century that roads were actually carved into the Karoo. The local tribes of Khoi and Bushmen began a slow but irremediable descent into oblivion and game was slowly replaced by sheep. Some nasty fighting took place between two white antagonists tribes selfishly pretending to control the land early in the 20th century, and then, while a fierce sun shone unflinchingly in deep blue skies and fried people, stock and grass, the Karoo seemed to recede away from colonialist attention.

There, not really out of reach nor out of sight but isolated nonetheless, it lay dormant again, covered this time not by ice but heat, barely surviving on difficult sheep farming. Until recently.

The Karoo has now reappeared on all maps and is being conquered once more, albeit superficially, by a new breed of pioneers in high heels and air-conditioned motor vehicles. They are called tourists. For better and for worse, from time to time, I happen to be one of them.

There are in fact two Karoos, Little and Great. Marie and I visited the former two years ago on a short trip that took us to Ronnie’s Sex Shop, Prince Albert and Die Hel. The Great Karoo, however, had eluded us. So Marie booked us in for two camping nights at the Karoo National Park to begin the Lesotho trip. From Cape Town, we were facing an easy 475 km drive on the N1, a rather good road by South African standards despite its bad reputation.

This time around, packing up for the road was a breeze. When we left Constantia in the morning of February 14th, the brave Landcruiser, which we affectionately call Mogashagasha (spelling unsure - it’s Selina’s Sesotho nickname for the car and means « She who goes over everything »), looked the same as it had the year before. Full, heavy, eager.

The N1 bypasses the Little Karoo to the north and desolation soon settles in; the road stretches far, far ahead as kilometers tick and diesel burns. We stopped for lunch in the very picturesque hamlet of Matjiesfontein, had a sandwich and a beer and pushed on. Around four o’clock, 7 hours after leaving Cape Town, we were at our turn-off to the park located just before the town of Beaufort West. We passed a gate manned by an exceptionally jovial ranger and drove some 7 or 8 km to the reception area. It had been an easy day. Trouble could now begin.

We registered and headed down to the campsite, an unfenced loop hidden into thick vegetation. Huge tortoises were roaming freely within the area. We thought that was really cute and half-seriously agreed we’d have to watch out for them, especially after noticing a medium-size specimen with a seriously damaged shell. Arriving late, we didn’t have much of a choice of sites and stopped at one that seemed to yield minimal shade and power to plug our fridge in. The power outlet, however, turned out to be for caravans only and we decided to move. Marie got into the Landcruiser after looking under the Toyota for tortoises, and started forward.

There was a loud crushing sound and a neighbor camper started yelling warnings, telling her to back up. My blood chilled. I knew exactly what had happened. The stupid tortoise with the broken shell, probably seeking shade, had managed to sneak under our wheels in the 5 minutes we’d been parked there. Somehow, when Marie looked under the truck, she hadn’t seen it.

The next hour was very sad. The poor animal was badly injured and bleeding profusely. Marie was crushed too. She alerted the park rangers who came and took the tortoise away. The campsite superintendent, when told about our fate, didn’t seem too concerned. « It happens a lot, » he said. We couldn’t believe such casual lack of interest.

This was a National Park. Animals here were protected and valued. Signs were posted about not feeding them, about this and about that. Yet there was absolutely no warning about the danger of driving over a tortoise in the campground, despite the fact that it had happened before. In the 2 days we spent in the park, we had multiple instances of tortoises crawling under the Landcruiser. The same must have happened to others. Why didn’t the Park Administration bother to post notices and warnings, or advise people at registration time?

It was a sad Valentine’s Day. The afternoon had taken a dark turn and Marie tried unsuccessfully to put the tragedy behind her as we prepared for dinner. Later, having eaten and cleaned the camp up a bit, we took showers and readied for bed.

When I came out of my shower in the ablutions block, my toiletry kit, containing my electric shaver and a headlamp among other small articles, had disappeared from the counter I’d left it on. The t-shirt I’d tossed with them was hung neatly on a nearby hook. Puzzled, I assumed Marie had needed something of mine, sneaked inside the men’s showers and gone back to the tent.

She hadn’t. After returning to the ablutions block, I ran into a short older man walking out of his shower with my pouch in his hand. He had the guts to pretend it was his, in a strong German accent. When I grabbed the kit away from him and opened it, revealing my possessions, he mumbled he had merely « taken it and put it in the shower. » He didn’t try to make any sense. He was justifying himself worse than a school boy caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Back at the tent, I realized my headlamp was still missing. Getting madder and madder, I stormed over to the thief’s caravan but he said he knew nothing of it. I checked the ablutions block again unsuccessfully, and then saw the bloody fool walking casually over to our tent, my headlamp turned on and swinging at arm’s length. He handed it over with an incomprehensible speech. I was stunned. I had never met a kleptomaniac before.

The man obviously was pathologically addicted to theft. He was only unwillingly letting go of his prize because of the threat I posed. A campground is a small place. It must have been terribly difficult for him to renounce the lamp.

As I have written in a comment on Marie’s related post, I pictured the thief’s caravan as this incredible museum of strange artifacts stolen here and there, power cords, tooth brushes, dirty underwear, glasses, plates, running shoes, old dentures, a handkerchief with initials, half-burnt braai coals, a license plate from Congo, a broken pair of binoculars, books, hats, matchboxes, and the most daring piece, a bicycle with a missing wheel, stolen while the biker was walking to town to get his tube patched. All labeled with dates and location and dusted every day...

The following day, after a beautiful morning drive deep into the park, we decided to evade the growing heat by heading to Beaufort West for supplies. As I was slowly driving around the small town, local cops pulled us over. A strange eccentricity of my father-in-law who despite brilliantly practicing law has decided to challenge it when it comes to the license plates of his vehicles, the Landcruiser’s plate font was illegal and had just finally attracted too much attention.

Being stopped by cops who are paid a misery in the middle of nowhere is always a little disheartening. One immediately smells trouble and the specter of bribes comes gliding in with an evil grin. But our traffic cop, a friendly female, was in a good mood. After hearing our worried and apologetic explanations, she simply declared that she was going to make us remove the plates on the spot and replace them, otherwise he (the father-in-law) never would. Marie burst out laughing. It was so true.

I tore the plates off the truck under the curious watch of various onlookers and then took the wheel again and we followed the two very obliging cops to a local shop that made 5-minute plates. We never got a fine. The plates cost $20 and we were off the hook. We waved our good cop good bye and she waved back. She didn’t have to know the offending plates would be back up in no time. Henri, at 77, has earned the right to stubbornness.

The afternoon heat was rather intense; we ended up in the park’s deserted swimming pool to cool off, then drove around for more game watching. Later, the sunset was incredibly beautiful and I spent a long time in the bush behind our camp stalking zebras and shooting a mesmerizing rainbow in glowing orange light. The following day we’d be off to a farm near New Bethesda, on the eastern edge of the Karoo.

Trouble had come close but not defeated us. It was, however, a complicated start to a long trip. There remained, far ahead of us, much uncertainty in terms of dirt roads, mountain passes, distance and weather. We both silently wished for things to improve and hoped for the upcoming border crossing to be less eventful than last year’s entry into Namibia had been.

One spends an eternity awaiting adventure and suspense, sharpening blades and packing for the unexpected. When they occur, though, out of the blue and in fast-forward, one suddenly remembers the sweetness of peaceful, uneventful days. The longing for home and its quiet safety returns like an old forgotten friend. When we are there, we always wish we were here. And vice-versa.

Posted at 7:24 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & Photoblogs: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

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

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!

Posted at 10:00 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & Photoblogs: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

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

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 4 - Thy Mountain Kingdom Come

Like most storytellers, I enjoy the occasional temporal digression. It keeps me (and hopefully you too) sharp and focused. So let’s rewind a bit. The last post recalled the end of our stay at the Golden Gate National Park and was leading up to a second incursion into Lesotho, a full crossing this time, to culminate both metaphorically and geographically with the infamous Sani Pass ascent. That story will come soon. But we had already ventured into the Mountain Kingdom between our two stays at Golden Gate and this, should you choose to read on, is the report of such excursion.

We left the National Park with an open red wine bottle in the fridge along with a couple of beers. We were willing to part with these, should the border crossing officials prove to be as thorough as we’d been warned they could be.

A short drive took us back along R711 and R26 to the vicinity of Fouriesburg where we turned sharply left and headed for the Caledonspoort border post, entering the small country from the northwest. This was an out-of-the-way crossing; one that, we hoped, wouldn’t delay us much.

The first stop was the South African control post. It had consisted of a triple-authority checkpoint at last year’s major crossing into Namibia: Customs, Immigration and Police. Out here, a rural location where many seemed to cross on foot and most were possibly unable to sign - let alone read - a form, all formalities were expedited at a single window. We parked the Landcruiser, walked over to a shaded booth, showed our passports, offered the Vehicle Owner Authorization letter that we had lacked the previous year - it was politely disregarded as a nuisance - and were waved through.

A few hundred feet down the road, similar in its modest attributes and size, was the Basotho control. We parked again, noticing that we’d have to pay an entry fee of R40 and presented ourselves at the booth, where we were handed a couple of forms to be filled. Forms were expedited and handed in. A loud stamp echoed twice as our passports were approved and we were sent on our way. At the gate, which remained closed as we drove in, a friendly female officer explained that time had come to pay the fee. The gate opened. We were in Lesotho.

Marie and I looked at each other. It had been an anti-climactic border crossing; we wondered what all the fuss had been about and had to agree we’d wasted a lot of good wine for no reason.

The Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho is worth a few words of introduction. Completely landlocked within South Africa, the 30,000-km² country is roughly the size of Belgium, or of the U.S. State of Maryland. Its lowest point is located at 1400 meters above sea level and 80% of the country lies above 1800 meters, inducing the possibility of snowfall all year-round on the highest peaks that culminate above 3000 m.

Lesotho’s two most significant and diametrically opposed resources are diamonds and water, the latter being mostly sold to South Africa. The country is plagued with typical third-world calamities such as a high occurrence of child labor and an HIV rate among the highest worldwide. Surprisingly, its literacy rate is one of the strongest in Africa, even though 75% of the population is rural. But 40% of these 2 million people live below the international poverty line of US$1.25 a day - Wikipedia dixit.

From the border, we headed towards the nearby town of Butha-Buthe, watching our speed as the book mentioned a country-wide limit of 50 km/h with the exception of rare « freeways » where the limit was bumped up to 80 km/h. There was no way of telling whether or not we were driving on such freeway, the road being ordinarily narrow and unmarked, and we took no chances. Local drivers and taxis were passing us at high velocity but such is the fate of innocent travelers in mysterious foreign lands: you err on the side of caution until you get baptized with fire and then decide to either never return or become a fire-walker yourself.

Immediately, Lesotho was different. Subtle differences for the most part but that blended together to paint a shifting reality. We had entered a small new world. People were very short. The kids that played everywhere were so tiny it was hard to figure their age. That could have been a result of malnutrition, or not. These folks walked a lot. Very few cars were used, and most of those were farm pick-ups, not private vehicles. Short donkeys were the local transportation icon. Basotho adults looked proud, or maybe unfriendly, or even just distant. Very few smiled or waved back, but most stared with an inscrutable gaze.

The kids were a different story. They sometimes stared, sometimes shouted, and at times smiled and cheered. The outcome seemed random. We obviously stood out like a sore thumb, in our Luxurious Landcruiser packed to the roof with supplies. The kids who waved at us did so with gestures we didn’t understand. They could have been asking for money. As a matter of fact, they probably were. This was the 21st century. News of the First World’s riches had reached even the most remote of places, and the word was out that the inhabitants of said World liked to travel and display their wealth. And occasionally, distribute it.

Butha-Buthe was bustling with activity. Lots of street vendors, lots of improvised stores, lots of shacks and containers. I have always been amazed and fascinated by mankind’s visceral need to acquire goods, whether from the top of empires or the bottom of abysmal poverty levels. Lesotho is said to be one of the poorest countries in Africa. Yet everyone, it seemed, was out buying and selling. A hat. A fruit. Fly-covered meat. Cheap DVD’s. Water. Phone time. Hope.

We left the small town behind us and turned onto a freshly paved road that lead to the newly opened Tsehlanyane National Park. There were so many obstructions on the road, people, kids, donkeys, dogs, sheep and horses that the speed limit was actually out of reach. The younger woman wore modern dresses and held colorful sun umbrellas. Older woman, their clothes more typical of the fields, carried huge loads of wood the traditional way, on their head, a terrible chore that had us ponder the condition of their necks and vertebrae.

Men herded sheep, mounted on Basotho ponies - a local breed of short horses - with the help of dogs. They wore heavy blankets despite the heat. Kids were coming back from school and we had to keep our eyes on the road in fear of an accident. The accident might not have been what one would expect. We had heard stories of stones being thrown at cars and were a little nervous, our football project postponed.

Because you see, behind us underneath some cover, were two cheap footballs. Back in Cape Town, Marie had decided to buy them on the spur of the moment, with our Lesotho trip in mind. The FIFA World Cup is coming to South Africa this summer and football is a hotter game than ever. She figured that rather than handing out monies, thus teaching the kids to beg, we might as well bear real gifts. Once on Basotho roads, however, and after being exposed to the local indecipherable attitude, we suddenly felt reluctant to go through with our plan. We had become poverty-shy.

Eventually, we reached the National Park. We were granted access after registering at the gate as guests of the Maliba Lodge, a high-end resort located entirely within the park but privately operated. We’d booked a self-catering unit for more money than we should have, enticed by the remoteness of the premises and rumors of a locally run botanical garden, highest of its kind and irresistible lure to Marie’s deeply rooted floral instincts.

Everything at the Lodge looked and smelled like new. The resort had only been up and running for weeks, maybe months. The managers who greeted and registered us in, were not yet too particularly knowledgeable about the area. I think they were focusing on newly-built and not-properly-tested-yet kinds of issues - water leaks, peeling paint and plumbing surprises, I suppose. The botanical garden was disappointing. We never saw another guest. The huge resort appeared to have been running at idle.

We got our key and drove down a very steep road to our cottage, a gigantic two-story house lined up with 3 other identical units by a beautiful mountain stream. The place had four bedrooms, could sleep up to 10 people and featured 3 toilets plus a bathroom with a full bath and twin shower stalls upstairs, something I had never seen anywhere in the world but that makes so much sense.

It took me 5 minutes to back the Landcruiser up into a minuscule parking space at the front of the cottage. They’d built a mansion able to host a large family but hadn’t given much thought to the vehicle that was likely to carry such a group. We offloaded our supplies and prepared a snack. The stream that flowed clear and fast just outside the back door was so loud we had to speak up when sitting on the porch. But it was pristine mountain water and for someone who suffers from typically brown South African water* disdain like me, it looked heavenly.

After having lunch on the porch, we set out for a walk across the river and along the opposite bank, in search of endemic flowers and all things new. We found a beautiful pool in the stream and I couldn’t resist a splash. The water was quite chilly but still warmer than Lynn Creek had been back in Vancouver. We then walked further up into a valley, finding many incredible flowers and a few porcupine quills. When we hit a locked gate, we turned around. The park was protecting its content: us. We were back for sunset. Dinner was cooked on the BBQ, or braaied, and savored at candlelight while the sky turned dark and stars appeared one after another.

We slept like babies. The following day, we relaxed and bathed in the chilly stream water that sparkled in the sun. Later, we hit the road again and drove the way we came, out of Lesotho and back to Golden Gate. We would spend more time there and later cross once more into Lesotho to go tackle the Sani Pass, all the way to the east into the Drakensberg mountain range.

Little known to us, our differential lock was finally going to be put to the test. Through the repeated assaults of Mother Nature, in-cloud zero visibility, landslide-grade torrential rains, and with the steepest, rockiest, most unnerving dirt roads we’d ever seen, the Drakensberg was going to challenge us. It had, after all, a reputation to uphold. But so did we.

* South African fresh water isn’t necessarily dirty, though. Its brown coloration is due to a pigment in the fynbos that covers most of the land. Sigh.

Posted at 9:13 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & + Panoramas: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 8 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

1 - Marie says:

« How very beautiful. I don’t know how I’m going to write about that place. »
Date of comment: 2010-05-04 01:27 • Reply
2 - Val Palk says:

« Beautiful pix, Vince. I’ve never been to Lesotho so it’s interesting to read about your experiences. »
Date of comment: 2010-05-04 04:38 • Reply
3 - Sigrid says:

« This is my idea of travel: a man, a woman, absolute remoteness, exploring. Wow. And the scenery? Wow. Just wow. The things you’ve seen and the places you’ve been... »
Date of comment: 2010-05-04 08:47 • Reply
4 - Jay says:

« Wonderful report Vince. Makes us want to go. Thank you! »
Date of comment: 2010-05-04 11:56 • Reply
5 - Vince says:

« Thank you all! It’s nice to know you’re enjoying the saga...

Marie: You will write something beautifully different, as always.

Val: Thanks! The place was begging to be photographed, it’s was just hard to do it justice...

Sigrid: Estorbo asked me to protest loudly. What are a man and a woman without their cat?

Jay: Do go! We can never thank you guys enough for lending us the wonderful little fridge... It changes the way one travels! »
Date of comment: 2010-05-04 19:26 • Reply
6 - frank@nycgarden says:

« I love that you’re drinking Miller draft! Marvelous landscapes. And that funny eared umbrella! »
Date of comment: 2010-05-06 00:42 • Reply
6.1 - Vince answers:

« Well Frank, it would seem, to my surprise, that Milwaukee-based Miller Genuine Draft has strong South African ties... I believe it’s made by Millercoors, a joint venture majorly owned by a giant of South African origin called SABMiller. »
Date of comment: 2010-05-06 01:03 • Reply
7 - Emannuel says:

« It is such a priviledge to live in this beautiful country of ours ... your brilliant pictures just reminded me of that again, thank you! »
Date of comment: 2010-05-07 14:03 • Reply

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 5 - Differential Lock on the Sani Pass

We attacked the next leg with dreams of grandeur. Just like Sossusvlei had been the apotheosis of our 2009 Namib trip, Southern Africa’s highest mountain pass was going to be something to write home about.

Located in the Drakensberg mountain range, on the easternmost flank of Lesotho, the Sani Pass leads from Basotho Highlands to South Africa’s KwaZulu Natal province, in a hairy descent that drops pretty much straight down from one of the highest roads in Africa.

That road, as most in the area, is made of dirt and gravel. In fact, dirt, gravel and boulders, as we would soon find out. A few hundred kilometers long, it climbs irregularly all the way from the northwestern border of Lesotho through the Maluti Mountains and into the Drakensberg, then flattens out for a while on a ghostly high plateau inhabited only by solitary herders and then, suddenly, plunges down towards South Africa, in a tight zigzagging series of hairpin turns only negotiable by 4-wheel drive vehicles.

Strangely, the Basotho border post is perched at the top of the pass and the South African one at its bottom, some 10 kilometers below. South African authorities strictly prohibit access to unsuited vehicles - in other words if you don’t drive a real 4x4, you don’t go up. The road ascends (or descends, depending on the direction of travel) from 1586m at the Sani Pass Hotel, South Africa, to 2873m at the very top, 22 km all in all - or in the steepest section, about 1000 vertical meters from border post to border post in a mere 9 km. A couple of kilometers from the top of the pass rises the highest peak in Southern Africa, Thabane Ntlenyana, 3482m.

As one can imagine with such staggering statistics, the Sani Pass is associated with many a scary story and we had heard them all, from automobile carcasses lying at the bottom of the valley after failed attempts, to ice and snow closing the road in the deep of winter.

Our itinerary was going to take us across Lesotho and into South Africa - hence down the pass, the easiest direction of travel, so we didn’t worry too much. Coming from Golden Gate, we again crossed at Caledonspoort. There were a few other high passes to be scaled along the way and one of them, the Moteng Pass, climbed to Afriski - highest ski resort in all of Africa below the Tropic of Cancer. Well, that’s not such a big deal since there are only... two.

Now used to the reality of pedestrian traffic on narrow roads, we took our time and by early afternoon, we were becoming acquainted with the Drakensberg slopes. Then we suddenly came upon a tight open bend in the dirt road. Workers up ahead waved and yelled at us to stop. I stepped on the brakes and pulled over. There was a problem.

A few pick-ups were parked in the way and the scene showed surprising human activity, an ephemeral oasis of life after hours of quiet nothingness. Right above us to the left, where the road continued its steep ascent to a neck, a large truck was stopped and people had gathered around it. Their body language was easily deciphered: they moved and talked according to the international code of mechanical trouble: the truck had broken down, they were trying to fix it. It was stopped right in the middle of a steep narrow section, there was no way to drive around it. However little traffic arrived in both direction, it would be held up.

Marie and I sat back for a while, watching the scene and trying to gauge the possibility of a positive outcome to this delay. We were on the only road leading to the Sani Pass and South Africa. If it remained blocked, we’d have to drive back for hours in order to find another way out of Lesotho.

Light rain began to fall. Donning my rain coat, I ventured out and walked up to the scene. A road worker was talking to another crouching inside the truck’s high cabin. He turned around and answered my question grimly. « It’s the clutch. Broken. We can’t even back down the slope to the bottom of the curve. » « Does he have any hopes of fixing this? » I asked waving at the guy in the truck who was handling a very large wrench. « Maybe, » the man said.

I returned to the Landcruiser and spilled the news. The Sani Pass had become optional. We tried to remain optimistic but evaluated our options. We had already been stuck there for some 45 minutes. We might have to escape backwards.

Suddenly, there was movement above us. I looked up. The truck had crept back a few inches. Then it happened again. Everybody got agitated and men began shouting at each other. Someone walked to the back of the truck to guide while the improvised mechanic was sitting behind the wheel. Freeing the clutch, he managed to start the engine and reversed slowly all the way to the widest section below. Traffic was free to go. The few pick-ups that had been held up all went by screaming in both directions and I let them have at it, knowing full well they would be driving twice our speed. We could now resume our quest.

Our maps had proven to be a little unreliable. Distances were variable and small Basotho towns randomly vanished and changed names from one edition to the next. When we suddenly found ourselves at the top of a long climb and a sign announced an altitude I’ve forgotten, we thought we had reached the infamous Sani Pass. A long plateau stretched far into the distance to a new mountain range. Something was off. The pass was supposed to drop straight down the slopes of the Drakensberg into relatively low terrain.

After a thorough analysis of all maps, we figured that not only had we not arrived, there was a long way to go. We drove on as the sky darkened and clouds descended to meet the high desolate landscape. Solitary herders were riding their horses, slipping in and out of the mist, ghostly figures in a world of remote and harsh beauty. The mountain air was very chilly and as we cruised at altitudes between 2500 and 3000 meters, we had to reflect on how far in our conscience the other Africa had receded. We were slicing our way through the continent’s roof, our imagination flirting with shapes and legends in the descending fog.

Eventually, we came upon a few Basotho houses and a longer shack on the right side of the road. There was no gate and no one in sight, but we knew we had arrived at the first border crossing. We were about to leave Lesotho. Ahead of us and below, the road would plunge towards the South African post, some 10 km further down. We had found the actual Sani Pass.

Marie parked the Landcruiser and we walked over to the low prefab building with our passports, glancing around us curiously. This was one of the most isolated border crossing I’d ever seen and the fog made the place Hitchcockesque. We stepped into the outpost and were greeted by relative warmth. Two officers were looking at a laptop screen, probably watching a movie. A fire burned at the end of the room in a small chimney. It was like entering a movie scene.

Formalities were expedited and we went back out into the cold. A few hundred meters away, we could see another building that was probably the Sani Top Chalet, a backpackers’ hotel hailed on the internet as featuring the highest pub in Africa. We didn’t even see a road leading to it. Our attention was focused on the path down.

Marie got behind the wheel and we slowly headed into the vertical no man’s land that separates the two countries. It was rather dramatic. With the clouds closing down on us and limiting visibility to a few hundred feet, we had no view and could only imagine the drop-off. Immediately, the road seemed to disappear from underneath our wheels and Marie found herself negotiating a series of tight turns with her foot on the brakes, trying to keep the speed slow and the wheels from sliding on the wet rocks that paved the way. She doesn’t like heights and each turn was a torture to her as, to go around, she had to first lead us straight into the cloudy void and turn at the last minute.

The road was incredibly bad. Despite the Landcruiser’s high clearance, she was forced to work her way around huge boulders. Soon, she’d had enough. « This is crazy. It’s too dangerous, » she said. She wanted out. Out, however, meant up, which was not really an option. We could have gone back to the hotel and waited for the clouds to lift but probably would have had to spend the night. We were committed.

« It’ll be fine, » I said with more bravado than I felt. « I’ll drive us down, you’ve done your part. » We had switched the differential to Low, locking the wheels together two by two and slowing us down to a sick turtle’s pace. Down we went. The road was so steep that in some spots it felt like I was standing on the pedals. I tried to use engine braking as much as I could to keep the brakes from overheating. In the sharpest turns, Marie got out, as much to guide me as to be out of the vehicle as I drove it over and around boulders straight at the precipice. I often had to come a meter from the edge, on slightly slipping wheels, before I could turn back towards the road and prepare for the next curve. She made me unbuckle, anticipating a forced jump out of the car.

I don’t have any pictures of this section of the pass. There was no time. Marie took a few when she was walking down the tight bends. At one point, a horrible smell drove her to the edge where she was greeted by the gruesome sight of a decomposing horse. The Sani Pass had killed an innocent; but it had that reputation. On the way down, we would see a few car wrecks at the bottom of the ravine, silent reminders that not all who had attempted the pass had succeeded. The internet classified it as dangerous, requiring intermediate to advanced off-road driving skills, depending on the season. I could not even imagine that road in snow and ice.

Eventually, though, the clouds thinned and light improved. We caught several glimpses of the valley below, and then, just like that, we were out in clear air. We had already left the steepest part above and behind us, and slowly worked our way down. A few vehicles caught up with us. They seemed to be commercial 4x4’s doing the official Sani Pass tour and were just plummeting down the path, their occupants bouncing in all directions as the driver swerved right and left in the bumps.

We reached the South African border post at the same time as two other 4x4’s but managed to get ahead of them while tourists were slowly getting off and stretching. The dirt road continued on South African soil, now rather flat and better maintained, and we left the Drakensberg behind us after a last photo stop to look back at the formidable mountains that had finally spat us out like insignificant specs of humanity.

Some 300 km and ten hours after leaving Golden gate, we arrived in Himeville. We found a small but rather expensive hotel and had dinner there before showering and going to bed. The room was infested with mosquitoes. Marie fell asleep but I was up well into the wee hours. The Sani Pass might have taken its toll but mosquitoes were a much more tangible threat and I fought them bravely.

Posted at 6:23 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho - Space addendum to Golden Gate

On the 20th of February 2010, around 19:20, while camping in South Africa’s Golden Gate National Park, Marie and I were busy preparing our evening meal in the rapidly darkening valley. I happened to glance up at the sky, as I often do for no particular reason, looking for planes, for birds, for friendly or threatening clouds, for signs of times to come or navigational clues in a complicated world...

Then I looked again. Ascending some 30 or 40 degrees to the east from a rough southern origin, bright and crisp in a sky that was barely inviting its first stars, two satellites were racing each other, in the immediate intimacy of shared orbit.

Despite having disconnected with worldwide news while we were scouting desolate roads in South Africa, I instantly knew what the two lights were. Only two of our Earth-made satellites could manage to coexist in such bright proximity. The International Space Station and the Space Shuttle were dancing a space ballet, a rendez-vous far above the ground that would be witnessed by millions.

Very few, however, would get such a privileged seat. There was virtually no light pollution and the air was clear. One of the orbiters seemed to be catching up with the other. I called Marie over and we watched, fascinated, as the two man-made crafts zoomed across space and disappeared towards the north. I took note of time, location and elevation and promised myself to look it up when back to civilization.

I turned out the ISS and Endeavour had just recently finished a joint mission and the shuttle was proceeding with post-separation maneuvers. I am still amazed. That they were so clearly visible, obviously much brighter than any other Earth-orbiting objects. That we could see them from such a remote location. That I just looked up.

Of course, anywhere on the planet is equally good to stare at the sky and satellites don’t think in terms of population. They overfly what they will and that’s that. But for us, lost in Southern Africa, far from the internet, TV, traffic, news, worries and toaster ovens, seeing these two beacons in our night sky was a direct link to all things wonderful, to the best of what mankind has managed to create, to dreams come true and those to be born.

The least I can say is that I was moved. And they too, were moving. At over 17,000 mph.

Thanks to Marie for reminding me.

Also see my previous post about some amazing photography of the Space Shuttle silhouette against the sun, and my own silly attempts on the matter...

Posted at 1:43 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & Cool: & On the road: No comments yet » Post one!

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 6 - Flash Flood on the Road to Rhodes

My mosquito bites soothed and Himeville left behind, we drove southwestwards, keeping the dark Drakensberg walls to our right, through rolling hills and immense fields. This was Zulu land. We had already noticed around Himeville that the locals were friendlier, more self-assured. The Zulus are a dancing people. It seemed to show.

We took two shortcuts. The first one, a long and rather straight dirt road across vast fields, was pleasant and efficient. So we got back on the main road and soon after Mount Fletcher, took another right into the unknown. Rhodes was less than 100 km away, now. We’d have to go over two more passes, through the Drakensberg itself and down onto Rhodes on the western flank.

There were giant storm clouds on the horizon, stuck on the mountains, dumping copious amounts of water where they sat. We kept an eye on them and I think I recall saying that we would most likely avoid the worst. As they say in cartoons, duh!

It becomes very tricky to judge the direction of travel of a storm when driving on a winding road. One minute it escapes, the next it is charging right at you. Rain began to fall. We didn’t worry. The Sani Pass was behind us, and with it, all memories of difficult driving.

Then it began to poor. The dirt road got wetter and wetter. Our Landcruiser was getting a real mud baptism, to Marie’s absolute delight - she hates a clean 4x4, a sure sign of urban driving and cowardly itineraries. She would aim for puddles and relish in the sound of splashing, momentarily speeding up the washers in a triumphant gesture.

Soon, however, those puddles were so deep they slowed the vehicle as if we’d dropped into molasses. We began aiming around them. The soil was a striking red and small rivers started forming under our wheels, reddish and still hesitant in their downhill path.

The downpour had somewhat weakened, but rain had been heavy on the high peaks above us. All that water was, at that very moment, finding its way down the slopes, gathering momentum and strength as a thousand small rivers coalesced and grew stronger and meaner. We were now climbing steadily towards the Pitseng Pass. The zigzags reappeared and once more, we were inching our way along steep and exposed terrain.

Road conditions here were still a blessing. Despite the absence of paving, the soil and gravel surface had been relatively well maintained and kept free of boulders. But this turned out to play against us because the red floods seemed to flow along paths of least resistance, and the road was such a path. The largest rivers cut straight across our way, flowing with gravity, but a lot of water was running down the road against our travel.

A man was standing outside his jeep at the bottom of a slope, legs firmly planted in the flowing red water, gauging the weather and the day. I stopped next to him and inquired how far we still had to go for Rhodes. He waved at the mountains: « You have to go over the whole Drakensberg. » That wasn’t encouraging. I asked what he thought of the conditions. He tapped the ground with his submerged boot and said: « It’s solid for now. Don’t know if it’ll last. » Marie understood it’s strong now, which could have meant the same, so we decided to go forward.

The largest rivers began to dig trenches across the road and forced us to slow down further, and steer towards the shallowest spots. Things were becoming unnerving and we had a long way to go. When one is driving uphill at a walking man’s pace, negotiating a flooding dirt road alongside a precipice, a simple kilometer takes on the scope of a small world. And we had many worlds to go.

Then there was a deeper submerged pothole and we bounced to the roof. That one had caught us unaware. By the time we figured things weren’t looking good, we had been driving uphill in worsening conditions for about an hour and I had to admit the way was closed behind us. There would be no turning around. We had to push on through. Marie was behind the wheel and despite the bumps, doing a masterful job of navigating through the growing rush of water.

To keep spirits up and make us move forward, I set our aim to the simplest goal safely achievable: we would make it to the top of the pass and assess. If things were still getting worse, we’d hunker down and wait it out up at the top where we would be safe from the threat of water. Worse came to worse, we had our tent and could pitch next to the road in a field.

To achieve that goal, though, we’d have to make it up the pass. The terrain had become almost vertical and rivers coming from uphill were now falling onto our path in real waterfalls, digging further into the road that was becoming badly damaged and cracked. The threat of a landslide was now on stand-by in my mind.

All into her driving, Marie asked me to take pictures of the incredible liquid mess we were plowing our way through, and I replied much too dryly that this was no time for pictures. One hundred percent of my attention was focused on the road and I wanted hers to be there too. While she negotiated the torrents at our feet, I would gauge waterfalls up ahead and calculated the safest spots between them, in case she had to step on it to get us out of trouble and needed a shelter. It was a long way down to where the water was pouring.

And yet, we made it to the top of the pass without serious trouble, took a deep breath and wondered whether to push on as far as we could, without exposing ourselves to a similarly risky descent. We had arrived on a high plateau. Water here couldn’t flow down as easily and had instead accumulated, forming deep puddles on the muddy path.

Some puddles seemed so deep that I decided to walk through them before letting Marie drive in. I took my shoes off and ventured out in the red mud, never getting water much higher than my knees. But the mud was extremely soft and slippery and the heavy Landcruiser would sink in and struggle. Marie was having a hard time, the back of the vehicle slipping sideways and threatening to get her stuck in a bad place.

At last, after slowing down a bit too much, she felt the truck slide to the left and could not hold it back as it leaned into the ditch. There was nowhere to fall and we stayed there, at a 30 or 40 degree angle, while she swore softly. She had been driving for many hours and handled the flooding slopes brilliantly, but stress had taken a toll and she was just tired.

I offered to take the wheel, hurting her feelings a bit. « You think you can do better? » she said defensively. « Maybe you have more experience driving through mud? » « No, » I answered diplomatically, « but driving in snow, yes. It’s the same. One brown, one white, both slippery. I’ll manage. »

I switched to low gear, drove us out of the ditch carefully, and then opted for a forceful entry into subsequent puddles. With enough speed and power, I could retain directional control and steering. Too little or too much speed and I would fly off-course.

A pick-up appeared far ahead, coming our way. When he got to our height, the driver slowed down and lowered his mud-covered window. We asked him about road conditions ahead. « It gets better, » he said. « There are maybe two remaining puddles, and then it dries up. The road to Rhodes is good. » We thanked him with relief and he took off in a splash.

The rest of the drive was an easy ride. We drove through the following Naudesnek Pass in thick clouds, unbothered by water, and down into Rhodes. It was an interesting small town, showing signs of having been a happening place in high season, but for now asleep and peaceful, or even ghostly. The dirt roads were shaded by tall trees and all surrounding fields were impressively green. Here the mountains ended and a lush farmland began again.

The very cheap campground we had anticipated to use was a horrible backyard disappointment. No electricity, certainly no other campers - who would have wanted to camp there, really? - a miserable, dark and stinky ablutions block, flies buzzing around the toilets. We bailed and found a neat self-catering little house instead, run by the campground owners who also had a B&B and located at the village’s entrance right across from the police station.

It had once again taken us over 8 hours to cover 300 km. The truck was dirty, our backs sore and our stomachs empty. It was time to rest. In the morning, we’d change beats and leave the Drakensberg behind us, headed down to the coast and Addo Elephant National Park.

Posted at 2:00 PM in + Lesotho Trip: & On the road: & Photoblogs: 7 Comments » Toggle display • Reply

2010

Cartwheels over Lesotho, Part 7 - Stalking the Mountain Zebra

Out of Rhodes by mid-morning, we drove lazily through patchy fields, their freshly plowed soil dark as coal and contrasting strongly with lush green vegetation all around. In Barkly East, the dirt road was left behind and with it, all driving worries. We drifted north to Lady Grey and Aliwal and then plunged directly south on the wide N6, picking up speed and making up for a slow start.

Cruising towards the sea, we realized we hadn’t booked a campsite at Addo Elephant National Park - a potentially fatal oversight on a Friday night due to the close proximity to East London and Port Elizabeth. The city folks were likely to escape for the week-end and Addo would be a prized destination.

We stopped in Queenstown and found a small computer store that offered internet access. The National Park web site was navigated to easily, and sure enough, it was fully booked. I came to grips with a disappointment the size of its object: I would not see elephants on that trip.

Scrambling for options, we remembered seeing a sign for Mountain Zebra National Park on our way to Lesotho, while we traveled on an opposite course further north. It was in the general direction of Cape Town and would allow us to keep our subsequent legs relatively unchanged. We called the reservation office and they had space, so we took off westward-bound with renewed hopes.

Mountain Zebra is a small park located near the town of Cradock. It stretches across tall hills resembling those of the Karoo National Park and we arrived there in similarly unsettled weather. Thick dark clouds hung in the distance and fleeting curtains of virga appeared here and there, as an unusual amount of rainfall still affected this normally dry region.

The reception building was far inside the park and we spotted some bokkies along the way. Surprisingly, 2 of the Big Five were present in the park: buffalo and black rhinos, in addition to cheetahs and many species of antelopes. And of course zebra.

Our tent was pitched facing the hills, and braai prepared. Vervet monkeys were everywhere and labeled a pest. We witnessed them pillaging the supplies of fellow campers gone on a drive and who had left their food a bit too accessible.

We spent 2 very nice days in the park, dealing with rain and wind as much as heat and sun and driving around on scenic loops filled with game - though the elusive black rhinos and cheetahs remained hidden in the park brochure they inhabited.

On the second night, Marie was braaiing lamb chops and boerewors in a rapidly thickening dusk when she suddenly noticed a chop was missing on her grill, and the sausage coil seemed shorter. She had merely turned around for a few seconds to prepare something on the lowered rear hatch of the Landcruiser that we used as our kitchen space, never stepping further then 10 feet from the braai. She swears the chop count went down by one and I agree the boerewors looked quite short. So something with an obvious disdain for fire and red-hot coals might have jumped up and pulled a fast one on us. It could have been a jackal or a monkey, or her imagination. We’ll never know. But from then on, we watched our food very carefully.

Moody weather actually made for some incredible colours. Most of the park was located atop a long plateau from which the eye got lost into this distant horizon of storms and steel-blue rolling mountains melting into a foreground of fluid golden grass.

Walking and hikes were prohibited outside of the campground boundaries because of potentially dangerous animals, but since we never saw them, we felt cheated of a very much needed bout of freedom. Our mood was changing subtly as the trip neared its end. We would soon return to relative civilization and while there remained almost three weeks before our flight back to North America, the precariousness of our upcoming situation was starting to creep into daily reality.

The last leg of our road trip would finally take us down to the coast where we’d camp in Tsitsikamma, near the Storms River mouth. After that, we planned on stopping in George to see our friend Bevan, and that would be that. A dash along N2 would lead us back to the Cape where two corgis and a lab were waiting for us to take on the green belt. The Constantia garden would smell of many flowers. Wine would be poured, along with memories, and stories would spill into the candlelit night.

We would have done cartwheels over Lesotho and returned.