Ascent into Africa

The glassy-eyed border official pressed the stamp down firmly on the ink pad and then smacked it onto my open passport. Nothing. It was too cold for the ink to stick. He breathed alcohol-soaked breath on the stamp to warm it up and then tried again. Same result. Finally, with the help of a cigarette lighter, he managed to produce a barely intelligible, upside-down entrance stamp in my passport. Welcome to Lesotho--the Mountain Kingdom.

So what had possessed me to take this monstrously steep detour from my bicycle journey through South Africa up to a country whose lowest elevation is about 3,000 feet? Cultural curiosity? Global awareness? Nothing so high-minded. The simple reason is that Lesotho is home to the apex of the highest mountain pass in Southern Africa--Sani Pass--and as a cyclist, I wanted to climb it.

My only obstacle, an ominous one, was winter. It was fast approaching. Numerous were the stories I’d collected from fellow travelers who’d been snowbound for weeks on ill-timed journeys to Lesotho (pronounced luh SOO TOO). Even in the summer months, January through March, temperatures can fall below freezing.

My first concern as I crossed the border was shelter. The sun was sinking as fast as the temperature, and at 8,000 feet I knew I’d spend a frigid night in my flimsy tent. But where? The road ahead wandered through barren mountains.

An hour later, with a tightly woven blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I stood outside a hut in the tiny village of Hamonyane, perched at the top of an expansive gorge, overlooking the River Tsoelike. Several children, oblivious to the cold, danced around me in their underwear. I didn’t know how to say, “Are you crazy? Get some clothes on,” in Sesotho, the local language, so I remained silent, watching the sun set behind an awesome curtain of jagged peaks. As the darkness crept up the deep river gorge, I became aware of a thousand stars in the sky--and a million goose bumps on my bare legs. Friendly voices called me in for supper.

I was the guest of Joseas, a Basotho, as natives of this small country completely surrounded by South Africa are called. We’d met on the side of the road shortly after I crossed the border and, after he convinced the chief of his village I was not in search of a wife, I received permission to stay overnight. Joseas was a grandfather at 39. His kind face had been spared the lines and wrinkles one would expect from a hard life in the gold mines. There is little work in Lesotho, so for 20 years he has traveled to the mines in South Africa: 12 months of mining followed by 56 days’ leave to visit his family and home.

We sat down to a dinner of sheep’s heart, lung and intestine, prepared over a cow-dung fire by his wife and mother-in-law. As the honored guest, I was awarded the largest slabs of fat. I managed to smile while my stomach turned somersaults.

As we readied for bed, children could be heard singing from a neighboring hut. I asked Joseas what the song meant. He translated in fluent English, learned during his years in South Africa: “The lyrics talk of how the rest of the world sees Lesotho as a tiny kingdom. But we think it is big because it is rich in mountains, water and cattle.” I fell asleep under three heavy blankets and the spell of the magical melody.

The next morning, after many cups of tea to chase away the morning chill, we hiked down into the river gorge. Our conversations echoed back as Joseas led me through the caves where shepherd boys sheltered their sheep and cattle during winter storms.

“How many days left in your leave?” my question bounced all around us.

“Thirty-three,” he sighed.

Back at the village, a squadron of nine boys and three dogs waited to guide me back to the road. Joseas and I shook hands, then embraced.

“I hope a time comes soon when you can watch the seasons change in your own country,” I said. “But for now I wish you 33 more splendid days in the kingdom you call home.”

Joseas smiled and wiped away a tear. I turned and began pushing my bike up the path.

*

During the next five days I struggled on roads with gravel the size of bowling balls. The locals wisely use ponies. As I passed small villages, I greeted the women with khotso (peace), the k pronounced as if expectorating phlegm. The men I greeted with ntate, pronounced with a roller coaster of pitch and intonation, which means father in Sesotho. Kids surrounded me, giggling and dancing around my bicycle, some bravely approaching close enough to “pet” it.

I pedaled along, feeling as if I was the first Westerner to venture there. This explorer mystique shattered when I heard a small voice from the heavens: “Gimme some sweeeeets.” I looked up to see a speck of a shepherd boy, 1,000 feet up the mountainside, frantically waving and calling, the phrase no doubt learned from tourists or Peace Corps workers.

Each morning I’d wake up shivering in a shelter or hut and wonder if the gathering clouds would lay down a blanket of snow. I was quickly reaching the limits of my physical and mental endurance. My less-than-expedition-worthy map had left out a few mountain passes here and there. Coming around a corner expecting to see a pristine valley and discovering yet another seven-to-10-mile hill was devastating. Tears of frustration mixed with cold, salty sweat.

In the middle of one of these climbs, I’d had enough. I lay next to my heavily laden mountain bike in a ditch, my legs quivering, and vowed to wait for a bus. This was the onset of delirium, as I had not encountered a single vehicle in over two days. I struggled back onto the road.

I made it to the top and discovered a small roadside settlement. An old Basotho woman beckoned me into a large windowless thatched-roof hut with a smile. I hesitated, but she grabbed my hand and led me inside. I stumbled blindly, like a late moviegoer entering a darkened theater. My ears heard music and laughter. My nose smelled wood smoke and pungent sweat. My skin sensed bodies swaying and twirling. My eyes saw nothing.

I had entered a shebeen, a local drinking and dancing establishment, and I’d lost hold of my elderly date. With my hands outstretched, protecting my face from large, solid objects, I made my way slowly toward the music. Live or recorded? I couldn’t tell. My hands made contact with flesh. There was a yelp and all percussion ceased. I had my answer. I’d nearly thumbed the drummer in the eye.

Light flooded the shebeen as someone opened the door and many patrons became aware that there was a foreigner among them.

I apologized to the drummer. His one, waist-high drum was made of sheepskin stretched over a cylindrical wooden frame. Several pieces of metal, strung through coat-hanger wire, were positioned so that he could hit them on both the up and down strokes, for a muffled cymbal effect. I shook hands with the other half of the band, the squeeze-box player.

A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. An old tin can was thrust at me, and all eyes watched as I accepted it. The crowd laughed at my facial reaction to the lukewarm, bitterly sour, gritty liquid that bore no resemblance to the beer it was supposed to be.

Then the band played a tune that struck my ears as Cajun with a tribal beat. My dance card was full. Everyone, male and female alike, wanted to boogie with the American. My partners all had Lesotho’s harsh mountain climate etched on their faces, but in the shebeen it was warm, and all blankets and concerns had been checked at the door.

After buying a round for the band, I emerged squinty-eyed and rubbery-legged back out into what remained of a winter’s day. My progress through Le-sotho had been painfully slow; I had struggled to cycle 93 miles in five days. But the beauty of this mountain kingdom and the joy and friendship its people had shared with me diluted my goal. Reaching the top of Sani Pass no longer seemed important.

A car pulling a trailer drove up as I pushed my bike back onto the road. Familiar accents spilled through the windows--fellow Americans. They had driven the entire length of Lesotho on the main highway in one day. I got the feeling they were on the “17 African countries in 14 days” tour. They spoke of the vistas I’d missed and some roadside parks, then quickly rolled up their windows and zoomed off toward the South African border. True, they had seen more of Lesotho in a single day. But I had experienced more of Lesotho in a single hut.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

Guidebook: Africa by Bike

Telephone numbers: The country code for Lesotho is 266.

Getting there: To reach Lesotho, your best bet is to fly to Johannesburg, South Africa via American Airlines and South African Airways flights from New York. From Johannesburg, South African Airways and Lesotho Airways have regular flights to Lesotho’s capital, Maseru.

If you’re traveling by rental car, it is easiest to enter Lesotho at the Lowland region, which borders the Orange Free State of South Africa, and reach the highlands via A3, the main highway. You can also enter Lesotho from Kwa-Zulu/Natal via Sani Pass, but a four-by-four vehicle is required.

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Where to stay: Outside Maseru: In Sehlabathebe National Park, Sehlabathebe Lodge, tel. 32-3600. This park is the home of the rare bearded vulture. The Sani Top Chalet, c/o Himeville Arms Hotel, Box 105, Himeville, South Africa 4585. At the top of Sani Pass, the lodge has beautiful views, a bar, hot water and communal baths. Pony treks, a popular way to explore the country, can be arranged from here. Cycling is recommended only for individuals with slightly crazed, “I’ll try anything” personalities.

For more information: Embassy of the Kingdom of Lesotho, tel. (202) 797-5533, fax (202) 234-6815.