I convinced myself not to travel into
Lesotho.
A detour, it would add unnecessary mileage when
I've barely any tread left on my tyres. Also,
'The Kingdom In The Sky' is entirely above 1000m so, this being winter, the notoriously
poor roads could be snow-blocked, icy or greasy with mud from any melt
waters. They get enough snow to run a
small ski resort...
Coming in from sea level, altitude sickness
could be a problem, too: I had the map
open, and noticed that the most plausible route would require navigating the
following:
- the Sani Pass (2,874m);
- the Kotisephola Pass (3240m); and
- the Tlaeeng Pass (3251m).
The first two of these are only supposed to
be tackled with a 4x4 or special permission, and a biking friend recounted a
very tough ride up on unladen off-road motorbikes: 'Lots of feet down,
paddling... ' he warned.
All told, this landlocked country was best
avoided and left for another trip.
Figuring I'd have to be brave or foolhardy
to ignore sage advice and my own thorough rationalisation, I put in a full tank
of gas and swept off along the R617 towards Underberg and Himeville, busy little
gateway towns to the southern Drakensberg, and - oh, my - the start of the Sani
Pass. Naughty bike: look where you've
brought me!
 |
| Gorge-ous views on the way in... |
Ok, well, the weather forecast was very
positive, and I'd found a picture of the Sani pass that made it appear no worse,
shall we say, than some other rufty-tufty routes I've ridden. By the time I
reached the police checkpoint (where two-wheel-drive cars get turned back), I
was in good spirits and feeling confident.
'Only 8km to the top?', I repeated back to the grinning policeman,
'Well, that should be easy then - I've got plenty of time'. And, with Hubris now dancing a jig in the sun,
I set off up the gradient.
The road to Sani Top (as it's known) sneaks
through a curvaceous valley, softening you up with lumps and bumps but
generally just providing distraction from the towering cliffs up above. The views are 'gorge-ous'. This incline was steep, but undulating and I
never really wondered where the huge altitude gain was going to come from. At the head of the valley I had my
answer: hair pins and switchbacks led up
to the heavens. I frowned at the rocks
and shale thrown loose by the convoys of 4x4s skidding their way down, or
gasping their way up.
I found enough grip from my tyres, and
enough grunt from my huge Bavarian mountain goat, to slowly climb the steepling
track. It was difficult and, in the
thinning air, tiring too. I was sweating
with the concentration and my forearms were aching with the exertion: I had to
stay on the pegs and lean into the slope, whilst keeping the front wheel light
enough to thread through gaps in the rocks.
I caught and passed the grinding 4x4s ahead
of me (nice to know they'd be my broom wagons, if needed), and kept up the
steady control of my cylinder heads, whilst all about were losing hair: the frightening corners gave passengers
saucer-sized eyes.
Rocks, shale, cambers, incline, corners...
all dispatched with calm efficiency, I felt.
But I didn't spot Hubris until too late:
she was positioned on a corner, just below a little waterfall... where
the overflow (and night time temperatures, presumably) had laid a thick layer
of ice across the turn-in point. The ice
was dirt coloured, and I had no inkling of it until my front wheel lost
traction and started slipping backwards-downwards-and-sideways - which is quite
a manoeuvre to deal with when you've got a huge drop off behind you.
With my feet down I steadied the bike - the
back tyre had found something to grip, so we teetered a little whilst Hubris
tittered into her hands. I had to
somehow get the bike diagonally across four feet of ice, on a 1 in 3 cambered
slope, from a standing start; plus, generate enough momentum to get up the rocks
steps blocking further progress. Hmm,
we didn't cover that on the Wales Off-Road
Skills course, as I recall.
After a game attempt, the Bavarian lay down
for a little rest, whilst I contemplated how to get across the ice. Some of the 4x4 drivers gave me a hand to
haul the motorbike upright and across to some solid ground. Always have a broom wagon, I tells
myself. From there, I launched skilfully
up the inside of the hairpin, executed a very tight turn and smoothly continued
the ascent. Up, up the last half dozen hairpins and I crested the pass
chastened, but proud of my steed. What a
bike!
 |
| Good looking blanket, eh? |
The time was only 2.30pm, and across the
desolate plain the conditions seemed quite benign. I felt it would be prudent to get over the
next pass and back onto asphalt... who knew what the weather might do
overnight? (The forecasters had been
very wrong before, I noted grimly.) So, I
added more altitude to the day and set off.
I took my time with a few photos and movie
footage. I was riding into the low
winter sunlight and the scenery glistened strangely - the grasslands appeared
silver and patches of snow flashed gold onto my tinted visor. The goats and sheep, in silhouette on the
high verges ahead of me, had back lit outlines that glowed like the characters
in the old adverts on TV for ReadyBrek.
It was beautiful up here - remote, barren
and dirt poor... but beautiful nonetheless.
 |
| ReadyBrek glow? |
With scrabbling tyres I crested the second,
Kotisephola Pass (3240m); this time feeling a little breathless with the
altitude. The familiar tingle on my lips
and toes reminded me that I'd already taken my last dose of mountain medicine,
but as I couldn't detect a headache or any other symptom of altitude sickness I
felt reassured. It was cold though, so I
switched on the electrics for some comfort.
I bumped past deserted half-build huts, and
these soon became inhabited dwellings. When
I paused for a photo fifteen children quickly surrounded me: hands outstretched pleading for coins. I gave them my loose change, but felt sorry
that such 'donations' probably do damage to their community in the long
run. On the other hand, I've read that
this highlands area of the country is so poor any contribution may be worthwhile at the moment.
A few kilometres down the road I paused for
one photo too many. I shuffled to a halt
- worried about a camber that wasn't - and promptly dropped the bike,
again. I swore loudly and started berating
myself like Andy Murray used to. It was
such a dumb mistake to make - I'd put my foot down into a hollow and
overbalanced. My embarrassment was
compounded when a battered minivan pulled up and the passengers jumped out to
help me lift the bike out of the hollow.
Yes, I could have put into practise the proper solo lifting techniques;
but better to swallow that pride and accept a helping hand or five. The locals thought it was a hoot.
I stayed the night in a Farmer's Training
Centre at Mokhotlong - as cheap and cheerful as it was cold. I'm getting used to beautiful star-scapes
(this last six months has taken me to many areas with no surrounding artificial
lights), and this night was superb - only a sliver of new moon, so the
constellations were pin-sharp in their complexity and the Milky Way curled
across the sky like a plume of smoke. I
slept like a log.
-----------------------------
Day 2 in the Mountain Kingdom, and I start
by fixing a few little knocks and scuffs picked up yesterday. The delay is deliberate: I want the sun to melt
as much overnight ice as possible! Then,
it's off along the asphalt A1 to my last major pass: the Tlaeeng Pass (3251m).
I pootled slowly through the Mokhotlong
town centre: it's a trading crossroads really, with plenty of bustle. Small tin shacks line the road, selling a
tiny quantity of goods - a dozen pairs or jeans, say, or just a single tray of
homemade jewelry. Outside the dimly lit,
dusty supermarket a few horses stand patiently - they make me feel like I'd
ridden into a Wild West movie.
But, instead of ten gallon hats, the locals
are in warmer headgear and - wrapped up against the cold - in full length
woollen blankets. The latter are very
important here, signifying many different aspects of local custom. The original designs (first imported by
English traders in the 1860's) have been adopted and adapted, and are now a
source of national pride (as well as warmth).
Particular colours or designs have significance: for example, young
brides are supposed to wear a blanket around their hips until their first child
has been conceived. Boys get different
blankets, corresponding to their stages in life.
The asphalt took me north, away from
town. The sky was clear and the light so
very bright it seemed to have burnt and bleached the land. Up high, I could see vast distances through
the thin, clean air. Yet, the sweeping
views were missing trees and topsoil in equal measure: a characteristic of damaging
farming practises carried out for decades.
Scratching a living from the thin mountain soil - by comparison with deep, fertile plains - has
brought the local tribes to the brink of starvation on occasion. They retreat and try to cultivate higher up
the hills. When the summer rains come, I
learnt, the roads turn to mud and the rivers wash away forever tons of fertile
soil. Only recently have farmers been
taught the long term value of terraces.
I ride through hills lined with huts, and
narrow valleys with a few small flocks of sheep or goats. Some folks just stare, but many raise a hand
in friendly welcome as I pass by. Young
guys, sitting out on a road fence or lounging close to their cattle, simply
stop talking and watch me take the bend.
I note there are no bicycles or mopeds to be seen, in contrast to almost
any village in Asia.
 |
| Hardly the fertile surroundings a farmer would pick, I imagine, given a choice... |
Like the soil, settlements thin as the road
starts to climb again. I ride gingerly
up to and past the snowline, then follow the signs for an hour until I reach
the ski resort. This mountain has the
Tlaeeng Pass (3251m), and by now I'm properly cold - why did I pack away my heated
waistcoat this morning?
The terrain is getting rougher, and
potholes require careful attention. On
the way down, my self-restraint is rewarded: I get a good look at the ice
sculptures hanging off the cliff edges of the road. Potholes on the apex of bends, and ice
sheets in the shadows remind me that this is no place to lose concentration.
Leaving the highlands, I'm struck by the rust
coloured grasses and sandstone. It a
different pastel shade from this morning, though I fear the movie won't pick it
up. I ride further, impressed by the
picturesque settlements - these are beautiful scenes in their own way.
At last I reach the northern edge of
Lesotho, and the frontier town of Butha Buthe.
I've stayed in the country only 24 hours and seen so much already. I will resist the temptation to
circumnavigate the rest of the nation.
Nevertheless, from the 'Roof of Africa Road', as this route has been
called, I feel I've gained a valuable perspective.
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