Kingdom in the sky
- Nov 1, 2015
- 5 min read
The dusty track vanishes into thin air. The firm ground beneath me moments ago has floated away like the dust motes created by my horse.
My grip tightens on the reins and I find myself perched precariously on the edge of an escarpment. Far below a brown river cuts its way through a deep sandstone gorge.
I am on a plateau high in the Maluti Mountain Range in the Kingdom of Lesotho.
With more than 80 per cent of the tiny kingdom sitting above 1,800 metres it's often described as the 'Kingdom in the Sky'.
Completely landlocked by South Africa, Lesotho belongs to a unique group of countries hemmed in by another single country. It shares this unique geographical quirk with San Marino and the Vatican City.
I am exploring the highlands of Lesotho on the back of a Basotho pony.
The ponies - actually small horses - are bred specifically for their mountaineering capabilities and have earned a reputation for traversing the region's rugged plateaus, steep gorges and remote mountain passes with confidence and ease.
The ponies have adapted to the mountainous terrain and serve to transport the population and toil as beasts of burden for a nation that survives predominantly on subsistence farming.
However, the ponies are also becoming a valuable resource for Lesotho's developing tourist industry.
My pony trek begins at Malealea Lodge about 90km south of the capital of Maseru. The lodge began life as a trading post more than a century ago in the village of Malealea.
While it still trades in staples, the lodge is also a comfortable base for the Basotho pony treks and other activities including 4WD tours, mountain biking and hiking that take in majestic ravines, cascading waterfalls and ancient San rock art sites.
Children with wide eyes and wider smiles are eager to lead you on a tour of their village or perform an impromptu musical show with kerosene can guitars and drums stretched taught with cowhide and rubber tyre tubing.
Alternatively if you need a doctor, a Sangoma (witchdoctor) can be summoned for a reading of the bones and tea leaves.
The ponies and guides are supplied through a co-operative established between the lodge and the villagers.
This form of community based tourism takes advantage of local knowledge and expertise and contributes to a sustainable mini-economy.
Staring down into the abyss before me and then across at my guide Ra, I don't recall riding off the edge of a cliff coming up in the pre-trek brief earlier in the morning.
They say animals can sense fear, I was hoping they could not sense incompetence. Ra returns my look of fear with a smile, utters a few words of wisdom and then spurs his mount forward and disappears over the precipice.
I instinctively lean back in the saddle. We zigzag down the side of the cliff-face making several cutbacks to counteract the steep drop.
Every once in a while a loose rock is sent skittling to the valley floor and serves as a reminder my life is entirely in the hands, or more precisely the hoofs, of the animal beneath me.
At the foot of the towering sandstone bluff I loosen the vice-like grip of my thighs and dismount. My legs are jelly and my testicles have gone into hiding, however, I am alive.
The Basotho pony's ability to defy gravity is truly a marvel of nature. During the moments I did have my eyes open, I caught glimpses of the precision and patience these animals are revered for.
On the banks of the meandering Makhaleng River, flowing like melted chocolate in the heavy midday heat, I look up and across to the plateau far above on the opposite side and realise coming down is just the beginning of my journey.
We ford the river and after the steep ascent pass through a small village where several stone huts stand clumped around the kraal - an enclosure for corralling livestock made of thorn tree branches.
Old men sit in the shade of a tree smoking their traditional pipes while the women wash clothes in the nearby stream and the village children chase us down the trail making requests for sweets.
On hills covered in gently bending grass, shepherds draped in colourful blankets stand on one leg, leaning on their staffs. Wide-brimmed conical grass hats shade their faces from the sun as they keep a relaxed vigil on their equally idle flocks.
The traditional Basotho hat, its shape inspired by the mountains, is the recognized symbol of Lesotho and has pride of place on the nation's flag.
However, the ubiquitous blankets, worn throughout the country during all seasons are less an inspiration of nature and more the happenstance of colonial prudishness entrenched during a time of trade and commerce in the mid-nineteenth century.
A blanket - "a handsome railway wrapper made of light blue pilot cloth, heavy and hairy" -presented as a gift to King Moshoeshoe during this time set a fashion statement that continues today.
The garment can symbolise status and wealth and by its virtue of being clothing by day and bedding by night is very versatile. In Lesotho, it is said you should always carry a blanket and a pocketknife with you. "For then you can sleep and you can eat."
We stop for lunch and I take a small walk. An ochre landscape, dotted with the green of recent summer rains, spreads out in front of me like one of the traditional Basotho blankets and waterfalls trickle down the sides of distant conical hats.
The clang of goat bells and the excited chatter of children greet us as we ride into the small settlement of Ha Lebona. The village chief, adorned in his bright blanket and gumboots, emerges from his stone hut to welcome us.
After a cup of maize beer the shadows start to grow longer and dance across the face of the imposing mountains on the other side of the valley.
A fire crackles and the ever-present black cast-iron pot of the African kitchen bubbles with the rich aroma of meat. The sky turns purple and is torn with streaks of orange and crimson as the sun sinks behind the Maluti Mountains.
As darkness envelops the village, the smell of wood smoke drifts on the cool night breeze and a pony whinnies in the kraal. From the threshold of my hut I see the men of the village sitting on a stone wall silhouetted against the glow of their pipes at each puff.
Across the valley, flames flicker as families light their evening fires and above, within arms reach, the first stars begin to shimmer. I am truly in the kingdom in the sky.
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