Madmen @ work (part II)

“Go aside all of you, we are coming!” A herd of cows is looking at us in a very dull way while we approach them, ringing our bells and shouting loud. Only at the last moment they anxiously step aside, so we can pass them on the narrow mud path. After the junction from Semonkong to the southeast, these are the only fellow travellers we encounter. Next to the road and a little further away, eagles, butterflies, ice rats, lammergeyers and orange-yellow lizards sit on rocky hills, waiting for us to disappear.
After a few kilometres the dirt road changes into a bridle path. The landscape is the most rough we’ve ever seen with stunning views of the surrounding mountains and deep gorges of the Maletsunyane and Senqunyane River. Thousands of cows, horses and donkeys must have walked on this narrow path and made it into a wobbly mass of mud, water and stones.
Half of the 34 kilometres we accomplish today, we sit on our saddles; for the other part we walk, pushing and pulling the heavy bikes.
We find a level stretch for the tent on a plateau, from which there is a 360 degrees view. Except for the wind, the clinging of cow bells and the sound of birds, it is dead quiet. What a life…

Four kilometres after our early departure, we drag and pull our bikes through the village of Ha Leronti. Dozens of children’s eyes look at us dazed, one child dares to ask a question: “What’s that?” The boy points at my bicycle that I push up on the steep path. “This is a bicycle my friend!” Obviously he has never heard of or seen one before. Which we understand in this landscape, on these ‘roads’.
A woman, that speaks English quite well, asks us where we are going. We mention the names of two villages across the rivers: Seforong and Sekake. She shakes her head vigorously: “That’s not possible with a bicycle. There is no road, only rocks, stones and two rivers.”
Well, so much for hope.

In the next outstretched village, Ha Lepekola, we loose the right track a couple of times. Dozens of the same small paths and tracks confuse us; which one leads to the river? The astonished locals however are very helpful; one by one they point us the right path. A large quantity of children accompany us whilst we arrive at the last steep descend to the ravine. The path is completely in shambles, except for when you’re a donkey. Rocks and boulders everywhere, from as big as a fist to the size of a soccer ball. Awkwardly we scramble down, squeezing the brakes with both hands. The children have a gorgeous day: they laugh a lot because of what we are doing; they pose for the picture, help me descending and push away hundreds of stones trying in vain to clear the path. The eleven kilometre descend takes us three and a half hour; we have been faster before.
After Ha Nkau we climb down the last stretch into the gorge. Frightened we see the Senqunyane River in front of us: twice as wide as expected, caused by the heavy rainfall of last weeks. There is no bridge and no boat. At the waterside Peter puts on his bathing suit, watched by four boys and a number of giggling children.

 

Wearing this and his shoes, he wades to the middle of the hundred meter wide river to find out how deep it is. The water flows fast and it is difficult to keep balance on the rocky and uneven bottom. In the deepest part the water level rises to his belly, so it must be possible for us to cross. Then he starts negotiating with the four boys about the price of their help, and they finally agree. For fifteen Meloti each (two euro) they will carry our bags to the other side, Peter will carry the bicycles. Reluctantly they watch Peter take one of the bikes on his back to start crossing the river. They take off their trousers and follow, each with one or two bags. The deal includes a drop to ten Meloti when they by accident lower a bag into the water. I start taking pictures of this strange cycle-stretch while Peter and the boys cross the river twice to bring all the stuff to dry land. Then it’s my turn, carrying both steering bags full of our valuables. Without accident or damage I happily reach the other side. Pfff… the first river, the smallest one, is behind us! Gladly the boys accept their wages and return to the village Ha Nkau.

After a short break we continue our way and arrive five minutes later at the Senqu River, which is called Orange River in South Africa. Being twice as wide and streaming much faster, the Senqu is impossible to cross by wading. A small rowing boat brings the few people that come her to the other side, like we hoped. For forty Meloti we cross the river safe and dry. We did it!

This evening we sleep in the village of Motiki; we have been invited by Claurinash Motiki into her small home. Whilst preparing our supper on the petrol stove in front of the house, the entire population of the village is looking at us, giggling and talking. Today we have broken a record once more: we’ve been on the ‘road’ for eight hours, managing to travel nineteen kilometres, of which eighteen by walking and scrambling.

At night we wake up twice by the loud activities of our hostess. She is finishing preparing the popular maize beer. In the morning, at half past five, she hangs out the white flag: the beer is ready to drink and every villager is welcome to fill up his bottle or bucket for a fair price.

After the last thirteen kilometres of hard work and sweat we arrive at the eastern gravel road. We made it!! The hellish path has been conquered, just as two rivers. Tears flow down on my face when we hit the smooth road; Peter feels waves of pride and joy that we really made it. What a bunch of madmen we actually are; we could have sit in the office, drive home in a luxurious car and sit on the couch whilst eating a delicious meal and zapping. Those days are definitely over, for good; it seems impossible to return to that way of life ever again.
The reverend of missionary Christ the King doubts for a long time, before he agrees to let us sleep in his own house. Probably our tired faces made him take the (right) decision. We walk to the Senqu River to say goodbye to and enjoy the beautiful and rough scenery of Lesotho with a feeling of relief.
We discover that today is Good Friday when we see the procession of the Catholic believers that walk to the church in the pouring rain.

The next day we reach the new tar road. Our tyres and we ourselves sing and whistle, even on the hundreds of climbs to Qacha’s Nek, the border town. For the last time we hear children shouting: “Father, stop!” when Peter goes ahead too far.
In the village we indulge in homemade fresh potatoes, celebrating the temporarily end of our sufferings.

Lesotho, you are a marvellous country for cycling. That is to say, if one loves climbing and rough wilderness…