The first journal entry from my recent South Africa trip is not, oddly enough, about South Africa. “TIA. This. Is. Efffrica,” to quote Leonardo Dicaprio from the epic film, Blood Diamond. In other words, anything goes. Here’s an introduction to the amazing people and landscape of the mountain kingdom of Lesotho.
Amphitheater Backpackers
Lesotho (pronounced /lɨˈsuːtuː/) is “highest” country in the world. And by that I mean two things: 1) it sits 1,100 meters above sea level — hence the biblical tagline, “Kingdom in the Sky”; and 2) marijuana production is one of the 3 main sources of income, according to a UNESCO study — the other two are international aid and money sent home by those working abroad.
Landlocked on all four sides by South Africa, it is a poor, poor nation where 56% of women are HIV positive and the average life expectancy is about 40.
How we came to meet this country’s acquaintance was completely unplanned. After getting oriented in Johannesburg and getting our safari on at Kruger National Park, we were on the way to the beach, as is the great tradition. But in order to get to the Wild Coast of the Indian Ocean we either had to cut through the tumultuous Drakensburg Mountains (more awesomely known as, the Dragon Mountains) or the small nation of Swaziland. After some debate, and a chat with a Swaziland native who convinced us her country was better experienced with a lot of time rather than a pit stop, we decided on the mountains.
Prior to our arrival, we had read about the mighty Drakensburg range, the highest in South Africa with peaks rising 11,420 feet above sea level. It’s a hiker’s playground with plenty of challenging climbs, including Tugela falls, the second highest waterfall in the world at 3,110 feet. But we weren’t interested in conquering any great peaks or waterfalls on this particular vacation. In fact, we (regrettably) didn’t even bother packing hiking shoes. This was to be a vacation of ongoing visual and edible orgies, risk and adventure need not apply.
But we wanted a peek of the big mountains, and what better way than from the safety and comfort of our rental car? Or so we thought. As with most mountain ranges high and dramatic, weather conditions can be extreme. Within moments, a pleasant, sunny day can shift into torrential downpour with winds that threaten to toss your car off the road. We experienced such an episode, and only got through it by shadowing the blinking hazard lights of the 18-wheeler going 5 mph in front of us.
After that amazing-after-it’s-over rush, we realized we needed a place to crash during the night. We weren’t exactly in Times Square, but luckily, we had one of two South Africa’s backpackers bibles on us, Alternative Route (the other being Coast to Coast). A quick phone call later, we had our own private hut booked and were on the way to the excellent Amphitheater Backpackers, a hostel that made me discard all previous notions of the phrase “small paradise in the middle of nowhere.”
Or, at the center of everywhere, as the owner would proudly tell you. A white Cape Town native, she purchased the land 70 kms from Harrismith, the only place with the resemblance of a “town,” because she wanted to get away from the European vibe and live in “Real Africa.” In fact, the hostel was so remote that the next day when I asked her if there was a store en route our Lesotho trip where I might find a U.S. electrical converter, she stoically replied, “You won’t even find tampons.”
What was meant to be a mere pit stop from point A to point B ended up being one of our favorite portions of the trip, as it so frequently happens in backpack travels. It was at this hostel where we met great people (mostly Germans), ate delicious home-cooked meals prepared by local Africans, and at night drank without care and lounged in the jacuzzi musing of all the possibilities of the following day. And it was here where we learned about Lesotho, and embarked on a village tour with our funny and knowledgeable guide, Z.
View TIA: Lesotho in a larger map
Our trajectory so far.
Touring the Kingdom
Most Lesotho village tours take place in the Sani Pass area of the Drakensbergs further south, often on ponies. Neither tourists nor ponies interested me, so I felt lucky to be going to a remote northern village that wasn’t accustomed to tourism. Here, the only tourists the native Basotho people see are the ones brought by Amphitheater. The hostel has, in a way, taken the village under its wings, having built a portion of the school, providing supplies and their vehicle for delivery of goods from the world down below. Initially, we felt the 400-rand fee was a bit steep for a possibly cheesy African village tour. (Terrifying images of Sally Struthers infomercials flashed through my mind.) Beer, for comparison’s sake, usually costs 8-rands at a bar, so that was 100 beers between Kelly and me! But once we learned about the hostel’s involvement, we were more than happy to contribute.
Upon our minibus arrival, we were greeted with smiles and waves from everyone — goat herder to construction worker. “I feel like the Queen of England,” Sabine, a fellow traveler from Germany, said. We visited the school the hostel was associated with and then jumped rope with kids in the schoolyard.
You needed a 4WD to get around these roads. At one point, our minivan got stuck, but nothing Thomas (center) and the Europeans couldn’t handle.
Then, we embarked on a hike along a steep cowpath where schizophrenia set in — I spent half the time layering myself from the cold wind and occasional drops of rain, and the other half taking off my jacket when the sun showed itself. This was very typical of the high elevation landscape.
“Which way is the trail?” at one point someone asked.
“Whatever way leads you to the top,” Z replied.
Along the way we explored caves and ancient rock paintings, until finally, coming upon a flat rock with incredible views of the country. We settled there for Z’s stories and a simple picnic.
The Basotho People
The Basotho were a poor people, sure, but poor didn’t equate to pity. “Not a single person in this village goes to bed hungry,” Z explained. Why? Because if you lived here and you looked hungry, you were going to be fed. “They’ll ask you,” Z explained:
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
They’ll ask again, “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
“Then you will eat with us.”
It was given that if at any time you smelled meat cooking, you were invited. Slaughtering of cows and goats was not an ordinary practice and reserved for only the most special of occasions, such as marriage, as livestock was the closest thing to a 401K people had here.
This was also the kind of African village I had read about in grade school textbooks — with great horror — where young boys go into the bush to survive alone for several months, and then come back to have their foreskin removed with a single scrape of a blade. And the prospect of screaming was unthinkable, if not likely to get you mocked for the rest of existence. Of course, the boys looked forward to this episode of their life more than anything, and for good reason too, as only after you’ve completed this journey of manhood then are you allowed to marry a wife.
Marriage, by the way, happens like this: Girl calls “dibs” on her Boy. All other bitches back the fuck up. Boy becomes sad from constant rejections and starts to feel unlovable, until one glorious day, Girl comes along. “Hey, she likes me,” he will smile with sunshine on his teeth, “She really likes me!” And that’s how it all goes down. Fancy, no?
As we were hiking back down, I asked Z if the people, in particular, the children, have ever visited the outside world.
“Only if they happen to break their arm,” Z replied, and I could see how that was possible as the trail continued to become narrower and steeper. “Then the parents will have to sell one of their precious goats to fund the hospital trip that’s 3-hours away. But first they break the kid’s other arm to really make it worth the hassle,” she joked. At least, I hope?
After our hike, we passed a rondavel with a white flag. A white flag was the symbol of a very good thing. It meant beer being brewed and sold at that home.
Clockwise, from top left: A typical rondaval in Lesotho; a Basotho woman gathering firewood; Sabine being a total tourist!; a white flag signaling beer is being sold.
We entered a rondavel that was used as a cooking hut, the flooring at the center uneven from fire. Someone stuck a tape into a old school boombox that was perhaps donated by Radio Raheem (“Fight the power!”) and an elderly man wrapped in a colorful shawl started to accompany the music with a lekolulo, a kind of flute used by herding boys. We had previously noticed several shawl-wrapped people on horseback watching us from the distant mountains as we were driving into the village. The shawls, made of wool, was once a functional garment. Today, the Basotho, mostly the elderly, wear it as a symbol of hope and better days to come.
We, the dozen or so paying customers, squeezed into wooden benches that bordered the rondavel and watched the man play the flute. Soon, he started to dance in a fawn-like whimsical manner. There were half a dozen other Basotho people, both men and women, all watching and listening intently, nodded their heads to the rhythm.
I spotted two kids — brothers, it appeared — standing across the hut from me. The smaller of the two, maybe 4-5 years old, had half his tongue sticking out from the corner of the mouth as he bounced his tush against the bench. His big eyes shone bright in the dark hut.
“Dance!” I called, waving for him to come to the center.
He froze in mid-rump shake, caught in an intimate moment.
“Come! Dance!” I repeated.
He stared at me for a couple of moment, then, without warning, bolted.
I had never seen anyone move so fast and were my fingers not already on the shutter of my camera, I would never have reacted fast enough. His relatives tried to bring him back but he was nowhere to be found.
I ran after him waving a piece of candy, a leftover from my Amphitheater lunchbox, which I ultimately used to lure him back.
Oh, sweet freedom. His shirt says, “I’m Pure Mischief.”
Meanwhile, beer was being passed in a white bucket the size of a potted plant. As it got closer to me, it appeared to be filled with wet cement. It tasted worse. But, as I felt the eyes of the proud fathers of Basotholand, I took another sip. They smiled and nodded. Tears had to be restrained from my eyes. I understood what Anthony Bourdain must sometimes go through, like in that Oaxaca, Mexico episode of A Cook’s Tour where he had to eat a boiled lizard in front of the eager cook. Not everything local and authentic is delicious, my friends.
Later, Z promised to take us to a real bar, one that didn’t involved maize-based products. Two Sisters was the only business establishment we had seen in the entire village. The place even had a “Be Disarmed” sign outside so you knew it was the real deal. Inside the bar we saw an immaculate pool table with a felt so green, it could’ve been… well, we were in the “highest” kingdom of the world. How a village this poor could afford a pool table that fresh, I did not know. But at least I had the good notion not to ask.
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you’ve outdone yourself, my friend, which is no small feat.
i look forward to the rest of these.
there will be talk and tales this NYE. bring your water, T.
wow, K looks like a deity here. It’d be awesome to see more of the photographer too!