Until I reached the Drakensberg Mountains on my road trip through South Africa, I had given Lesotho very little thought. When I got the chance to visit for the day, I’ll admit my primary purpose was to tick another country off my list. Unexpectedly, I enjoyed my day trip to Lesotho so much that, looking back, my memories have the same filter I associate with being tipsy!
Separated from South Africa by the mountains, which act as a natural border, the enclave is known as ‘The Mountain Kingdom’. In our few hours in Lesotho, we hiked through these mountains, and the Basotho who live there welcomed us.
We set off early, as it was nearly a two-hour drive to the Monantsa Pass border control in the north of Lesotho. There were few enough of us to pile into one of South Africa’s classic minivan taxis. It was November—spring in Southern Africa. Normally I really struggle in the sun and the heat, but this day was cloudy and mild. I can’t think of more perfect weather for hiking in a country named ‘The Mountain Kingdom’.
We drove for a couple of hours though some of South Africa’s national parks, until we were stamped out at the Monantsa Pass. As we trundled down the winding road into Lesotho, the track changed from tarmac to gravel.
“Lesotho’s actual border with South Africa is that river,” our guide, Siya, told me, pointing it out as we reached the bottom of the valley. The Mohokare River was more of a wide stream, and crossing into Lesotho felt anticlimactic.
After continuing down the bumpy track, we eventually reached Lesotho’s border control, which consisted of a cabin to the side of the road. I’ve read various travellers’ accounts stating that this cabin was closed and they technically had to enter the country illegally. This wasn’t the case for us. A stern-faced official—unimpressed by my thanking him in (very poor) Afrikaans—stamped my passport at the booth.
Back in the minibus, we followed the track deeper into Lesotho. After hugging the base of the Maluti Mountains for a while, we headed further inland. Siya explained that we were visiting a small, rural community that works closely with the hostel we were staying at in South Africa. Eventually we arrived at the community’s school, which is sponsored by the hostel. As we clambered out of the minibus, I finally got my first proper look at the countryside of Lesotho.
With its patchwork of green and brown fields, the scenery nearly matched that of back home in England. Yet the rolling hills became the contours of the mountains. Instead of roads, the fields were interspersed with winding paths of sand. The trees rose in tiers, mirroring the form of the eroded sandstone foothills. It was beautiful.
I turned my attention back to the school, a simple concrete building accompanied by a couple of rondavels (circular shelters, as the name suggests). The headmistress, who was incredibly smiley and friendly, welcomed us brightly. Humour on point, she showed us around the school, telling us about Lesotho and her role within it. With her direct connection to the hostel on the other side of the border, she was clearly used to dealing with tourists.
After showcasing some of the students’ craftwork, she bid us farewell and we began our hike, heading for a cluster of rondavels halfway up a distant hill. As we hiked upwards, we passed people leading carts, cows and horses, all of who paid us no attention.
When we arrived at the village, breathless and sweating though the day was mild, a Basotho man greeted us enthusiastically in Sesotho. Siya introduced him as a sangoma, a traditional healer.
At his indication, we filed into the sangoma’s home, making ourselves comfortable on the floor. I was grateful for the shade after the hike uphill. The sangoma began to tell us about himself, still in Sesotho. As he spoke, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the cool of the hut and the peacefulness of listening to a language I could not understand. I wrenched my eyes open again as Siya then translated to English. He told us the sangoma knew he was destined to be a healer, and all about his close relationship with the local community.
Emerging into the sun from the darkness of the house, I was pleased when Siya told us our next stop was for food. The community we visited put up coloured flags if they have cooked a meal or brewed beer, so that they can share it with their neighbours. We were lucky enough to be invited to share one of these meals.
We entered our host’s rondavel and perched on crates and wooden benches round the wall. The meal she had cooked for us was a traditional Basotho dish. It consisted of a boiled, leafy vegetable (known as “moroho”, though I’ve also seen it spelt “moroko” and “morogo”) and maize porridge (known as “pap”).
The dish circled the room a couple of times as everyone politely helped themselves to tiny portions. We used our hands to scoop it into our mouths, as is the traditional Basotho way. Our host sat with us as we ate, though she declined to eat the dish with us. Her children, too young for school, poked their heads in the door before running away shyly when I caught their eye.
“Which vegetable is this?” I asked our host as I scooped it up with the pap. Siya translated for me, but our host merely repeated the name of the dish, still not revealing what it consisted of.
“So is it cabbage or kale or spinach or . . .?”
“No, it’s all the same,” Siya explained. “In Lesotho, “moroho” encompasses all the leafy green vegetables. It could be cabbage or spinach; they just use whichever one they have at the time, under one name.”
Eventually people began to decline the dish, until it was making full rounds untouched before landing back on my lap. I ended up clearing the plate as my companions passed round a bottle of local Maluti beer. I’m always down for some salty, boiled spinach with a side helping of carbohydrate. It was the perfect late-morning snack before we continued on our hike.
Leaving the village behind, we joined a path leading up the mountain. There weren’t any people around now, only cows and the occasional dog. For at least an hour we hiked upwards through a forest of fir trees, finally emerging in a clearing at the top of a cliff.
Below us, the valley rolled away in swells. I could see the village from earlier amidst a knot of dark trees. The Maluti Mountains, which mark Lesotho’s border with South Africa, created a natural frame for the scenery below. We settled ourselves on a cluster of boulders overlooking the valley. It wasn’t a bad place to stop for a packed lunch.
As the cloud cover began to dissipate, we scrambled back down the side of the mountain. On our way, we hopped streams, discovered a cave and stopped in an overhang with San paintings on the rock wall. I have to admit I didn’t hear what Siya had to say about these. I was too busy conducting a photo shoot with my friends from the hostel (worth every second).
Unsurprisingly, we lingered so long on the rocky mountainside that we raced to reach border control before it closed. However, had we been forced to stay overnight in Lesotho, I’m not entirely sure that would have been a loss.
Like South Africa, Lesotho was far more verdant than the other countries I’d visited in Africa. It reminded me of England’s countryside, yet, with the mountains surrounding me, it was impossible to forget I was in Lesotho.
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