Lesotho – Semonkong Lodge – Spring Part 5

I miss the colourful guy dressed in an Island style shirt, making Rolex (Roll Eggs) in Uganda, watching him swirl and flip his frying pan on a small brazier behind his pop-up stall, the magpie gossiping of the ladies in African markets where women sell plump Roma tomatoes as if they’re precious rubies, today a bucket of fresh peas would make the perfect snack as I type this blog. (Here are some random photographs for colour and to prove my point!)

The buzz of motorbikes, or the joyful tinkle of bicycle bells and the petrol fumes of Tuk-tuks are illuminated in my mind, and I can clearly hear the fishmonger announcing himself by pumping an ancient, tiny copper bugle. Where is the call to Prayer at sunrise?

My hike to see the Gorillas through the Impenetrable forest in Uganda only now makes me realise how extraordinary that was, and sitting on the embankment of the Mara River waiting for the Wildebeest crossing and having breakfast at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro seem like figments of my imagination.

Oh, what I’d give to be on the milk train to Watamu or sit down to the meal prepared and served by the kind, young mother, in Tanzania, who, just before we departed, removed her necklace and presented it to me, turning me around and fastening the precious beads around my neck. All in remembrance of her. 

 

Butch has gone off to buy our Friday fish for supper, which reminds me of Abdullah, the old guy on his bike, who made a turn every day with his fresh fish. He’s been doing that for 40 years, he told us—fresh fish from the morning fishing boats launched from the beach in Kenya.

A few nights ago, I dreamt I was sitting in the Honey Badger’s driver’s seat, without the keys, when the truck started rolling forward. I had two choices: one was to turn slightly to the right and have a wall stop the truck from moving, but if I did that, I’d flatten my bike leaning against the wall. The other option was to roll down a hill, through a gate and proceed into oblivion!

Being back in the Honey Badger was the point, and I loved it.

Two Harders (southern Mullet) will be on the braai for dinner. I am hoping the sky will turn orange and that the sliver of a moon will guide a fishing trawler home tonight.

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On the road again

Our route would take us through Mohale’s Hoek. The tarred road ribboning ahead of us twists and turns, doubles back through passes, up hills, and down long stretches on top of the world, on a plateau that stretches as far as the eye can see.

We criss-crossed over a river wending its way to the sea, hugging the cliff and mountainsides as it slithered all the way to the Natal coast. There were seamless crossings over gorges and rivers on modern bridges on this world-class new road.

Although the farms were smaller and less engineered, the dark, fertile soil was contoured to prevent further erosion.

Settlements were small and seemed cooperative, in the sense that all hands would be needed for planting and, later, for harvesting the crops and homes. Although small, they were neat and well-constructed with well-maintained thatched roofs and stonemasonry. There was hardly a soul about.

 

In the afternoon, we entered the Maseru district (according to my phone’s geotagging), which echoed much of the landscape we’d been travelling through.

We were on top of the world now, and looking down was the most magnificent canyon.

A good time to stop. Stretch our legs and have an afternoon coffee from Uganda — our last beans. We have since only purchased African coffee beans.

I refuse to dip my rusks into Colombian, Vietnamese, or Brazilian brews; only African will do from now on. (Woolies does bag an excellent African coffee; we highly recommend it.)

 

Just as the caffeine kick started wearing thin, we entered the village of Ha Mosi, where we’d be spending a few nights at the Semonkong Lodge on the Senqu River.

 

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Semonkong Lodge

During our stay at Semonkong Lodge, we were hoping to explore Lesotho’s picturesque Maluti Mountains to experience firsthand why this small, landlocked African country is called ‘The Kingdom in the Sky’.

In fact, Lesotho’s lowest point (1,400 m) is the highest low point of any country. Located in a valley on the banks of the Maletsunyane River, this Lesotho lodge is surrounded by peaks rising to 3,000 metres. 

The rustic stone-and-thatch lodge is a retreat from which to explore the area with various activities – we saw guests on the back of a Basotho pony, and camping near us, a guy on his mountain bike, who couldn’t wait to do the trails, and we heard there’s a donkey pub crawl. 

We certainly were not brave enough for the world’s longest single-drop commercial abseil, according to Guinness World Records, but you could rappel 204 metres down a basalt cliff and hope to glide with a Bearded Vulture or a Cape Vulture.

The books all say the Maluti Mountains ecosystem boasts around 250 bird species and more than 300 endemic plants, including the spiral aloe – Lesotho’s national plant – that form alpine floral communities.

On our hike, we didn’t see many plant species, but I was able to capture a few flowers and the last of the stone fruit blossoms in the garden.

On our to-do list was a hike to the mighty Maletsunyane Falls, which is the second-highest single-drop waterfall in Africa.

During the rainy months, in summer, the gorge would be enveloped in a plume of mist from the water that plummets into the canyon below. This is how Semonkong, The Place of Smoke, got its name.

We would only see a trickle (a relative trickle) of water, but that was good enough for me, too. While we sat enjoying our cold drinks —apples and wine gums —we watched the crashing water into the river below, where we were told keen fishermen wade through the waters on either side of the waterfall, attempting to hook browns, rainbow trout, and endemic yellow fish during a multi-day fishing and camping trip.

En route to the waterfall, we met a class field trip from St Stephen’s High School in Maseru, who asked to pose for a group photograph along the way. Of course, I agreed and stepped up to be surrounded by these delightful teens.

It is uncommon for children to have smartphones, one of the girls told me, and seeing my phone and the photographs we were taking prompted her to ask me to take a few pictures of them.

On the one hand, it saddened me because there’s no way I can forward the pictures to them; these teens, unlike our more privileged youngsters, are not permanently hooked up to the internet and hardly even have access to computers, emails, SMS, or WhatsApp.

It was good to observe them, though; they chat incessantly, they laugh, joke, and actually take note of their surroundings. They eagerly huddled around their teacher, who occasionally gave them tidbits of information. They were happy, carefree, well-spoken, and well-informed. It was a privilege for us to be invited to spend a little time with them.

The primary industries around here, it seems, are guiding, farming, or running a stall. Before stepping over the last ridge, we were able to spot the village and the lodge far off in the distance. We were almost home.

Most families would have a horse and a pack of mules for riding and to cart goods from the village below up to their homes on the mountain.

All along the way, we were entertained by the sight of goats, sheep, donkeys, and the ever-beautiful ponies, with their riders cloaked in the traditional Lesotho blanket.

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The remainder of our afternoon was spent watching a very protective duck and her chicks waddling around on the lawn in front of the truck. They were in search of snails and were richly rewarded with a bumper crop nestled along the lichen-covered walls.

We were not in the mood and decided to try the colourful Duck and Donkey Tavern, a popular meeting spot for a wholesome, home-cooked meal. It gets chilly early, and soon we were warmed by the blazing fire in the dining room.

We decided to have an early night. Nothing like our warm bed in the Honey Badger, where we each have our own iPad for watching a movie or series. No flicking through channels in a search for the perfect slot. Butch can catch up with the rugby, and I can binge on the latest season of The Diplomat or Slow Horses.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Butch smiling. He was probably thinking, “happy wife, happy life.” While I could see he was as happy as Larry with his earphones on, listening to one of his rugby podcasts.

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Early to bed, early to rise, my Mother would say, and there we were at 7:50 sharp on the road again.

I think the joy of our travels is that we’re not exactly sure where we’ll be that night. The road is our guide, and so far, this extraordinary road has been very kind and very good to us.

Once again, we were on the plateau where, from my lofty position in the truck, I had a bird’s eye view of the landscape.

I have often thought that, with my camera, I have been witnessing sights that very few other travellers in town cars or even in pick-up trucks are likely to see.

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That night, we slept over at Moorosi Chalets in Quthing, managed by a delightful gentleman and his charming wife.

While Butch took a well-deserved break, I went for a walk and discovered an abandoned graveside at the foot of a koppie. I believe it is the grave of the British sniper. There, on a rock, I sat for a while keeping this forgotten man company. I do that.

Later, while walking around, investigating the property to find a good spot to photograph a sunset, I perused the small “reception” area and there, on the wall, was a newspaper cutting with the title “A Sniper’s Cave – With a Famous Name Inscribed on the Wall.” From the Talk of the Town. Written by Roderick Random.

“In Basutoland, in the Quthing district, near the confluence of the Quthing and the Orange rivers, there is a curiously shaped mountain or promontory, rather like a crouched lion, or an Egyptian sphinx. It is called Mount Morosi and has a curious history. A friend in Mohaleshoek was telling me about it the other day.

It is named after a Basuto chief who, in the 1870s and 1880s, made a great nuisance of himself. He defied the Government of the time and kept the Free State soldiery busy by making constant raids into the territory. At last, governmental ire forced him to take refuge on the top of Mount Morosi, from which the wily warrior defended himself successfully for many years. The top of Morosi is a plateau, and the attacking burghers and British troops were strategically in a poor position. The chief was heavily armed with rifles and could take the soldiers off if they attempted to climb the steep face of the promontory.

A Slogan?

His mountain stronghold was to Morosi what Thaba Bosigo was to Mosh…. However, in the end, he was dislodged.”

(illegible) Burgers and British snipers used to take potshots at the chief. (illegible) A friend visited the cave some time ago and brought back this (illegible) number of photographs …. On the walls of the cave, he saw the names of the soldiers who campaigned against Chief Morosi carved. Among them, written in big letters, is the name Paul Kruger, and next to it the date 1879.

Can this have been the signature of President Kruger? Most unlikely, Prof. C.J. Uuys, Professor of History at the University of the Orange Free State, tells me. At that time, the President was engaged in other matters, matters of state. How does the name come to be there then? There are two feasible explanations: either it was written by a trooper also named Paul Kruger, or it was inscribed as a patriotic slogan. The latter would seem to be the most probable- soldiers have always been given to the  writing of such slogans.”

An excerpt from The Friend Newspaper Fri 26th Aug 1958.

This article was very informative and amusing. At least now I knew a little bit about my surroundings, the mountains enveloping us and the river we’d just crossed was the Orange River.

I did try to make it up the hill to the cave, but the path was so overgrown and unkept that I would not have made much headway before sunset.

Instead, I waited for sunset and managed a few shots.

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The Basotho Blanket

A blanket was gifted initially to King Moshoeshoe I by a British man known only as “Mr. Howell” in the late 19th century, and soon gained popularity.

Basotho men wear these traditional blankets based on the  Kaross, an animal-skin cloak/throw. By 1860, fur pelts were becoming increasingly difficult to find for Karosses, and by 1872, a large majority of sheepskin Karosses had been replaced by poor-quality cotton or wool.  

The King introduced the production of “special blankets” in 1876 after meeting with Scottish textile manufacturer Donald Fraser. These new blankets were not only sturdier but also more closely resembled the Kaross, and they quickly replaced the poor-quality imported cloth that the people of Lesotho had previously been wearing.

Across the kingdom, people in Lesotho wear a variety of these blankets to mark different rites of passage.

The Moholobela is a fertility blanket worn by young Sotho men in preparation for their transition to manhood. After the initiation ceremony, the young men in Lesotho will don a different blanket known as the Lekhokolo, which confirms that they have reached adulthood.

In the past, a Mosotho bride would wear a Motlotlehi blanket on their wedding day. Traditionally, the groom would present a  Serope blanket to his wife when their eldest child was born. A Seana Marena blanket is a chief’s blanket, or one sworn to the king. The king and his chiefs exclusively wear this blanket; it has the highest status among Basotho blankets.

Lehlosi is a blanket made of patterns from the skin of wild cats or leopards. Today, chiefs wear commercially manufactured blankets bearing the print of a leopard, rather than actual leopard skins.

Victorian/Malakabane: According to a local legend, in 1897 Queen Victoria visited Lesotho (this did not actually occur). She gave King Lerotholi a gift —a blanket. He wore the blanket with panache, like a Poncho, over his shoulders, and there the blanket-wearing tradition began. The blanket was named Victoria England.

The Victoria England blanket has become a sought-after status symbol. There are blankets worn by married women, and even one marking the Pope’s visit to Lesotho in 1988. The blanket presented to the Pope has been placed in the Vatican in Rome

Louis Vuitton’s designs for the 2017 menswear collection featured Basotho Blankets, sparking controversy in South Africa and accusations of cultural appropriation. Fashion designer Thabo Makhetha-Kwinana is known for her Basotho blanket designs.

The next morning, we set off at what was becoming our “usual” time, 8h00, our last morning in charming, delightful, beautiful, and amazing Lesotho with its majestic mountains, plateaus, and natural beauty, which surpassed all our expectations. I hope that visitors flood this magnificent country in the future.

Mondays are wash days, and no sooner had the sun peeked over the mountains than ladies had their laundry hanging to dry. These are industrious women, and their days start as soon as the sun comes up, and their labours do not stop until after the sun sets. We hardly saw a soul. 

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“Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” David McCullough Jr.

“Hike more and worry less.” Mick Jones 10/10/1950 – 15/01/2020

We re-entered South Africa at the Mdeni border post near Barkly East.

Our future was creeping up on us, and I wish I could slow it all down or start again in an endless loop of travel. In my opinion, we’d only conquered the tip of the iceberg.

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Talk about four seasons in a day. A thick mist has rolled in, covering the calm sea in a thick blanket shortly after a magnificent blood orange sunset. The male humpback whales are preparing to leave our shores, and soon all we’ll have are the nursing cows and calves. The foghorn’s soulful moans, like an unrequited lover, call all ships to safety and remind a pod of whales to return. Throughout the night, the mournful reverberation fills the air —an echo of warning, loss, and loneliness.