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Malutis on a Horse 3

From here on we leave the beaten bridal path for the not so well trodden goat trails and they get thinner. Somehow these routes cling to the edge of the mountain and it seems that they could fall off at anytime and so could we. Our direction always south-easterly, follows the lay of the valleys. At the top of the next one a strange man appears to stand out from the cliff face; it is a large standing stone – ‘Fika-la-Motho’. Over the pass and down again into the valley is a vast marsh, flat and luminescent with lush grasses and streams on every azimuth. Like good children they all find their way past the village of Qhoasing and into the mother river of the same name. The Morena’s (Chief’s) wife ́Me Maté gratefully accepts our 20 Maluti note and sends boys to show us the camping ground outside the village. The boys tend to the horses for a few left-overs of papa and beans.

The hospitality of the Basotho is well known and has been a cornerstone of Lesotho nationhood since the Great King Moshoeshoe. If the traveller is well looked after by the villagers, it will be safe for the villagers to travel themselves. A good premise for civilised mobility which is so vital for life in Lesotho. So it is to expected that the Morena will want to have you close by. You are his responsibility. This camp site has everything you want on such a journey. The village is just out of sight over the hill, so the children visit but do not outstay their welcome. There, twenty meters away is a fresh stream of crystal clear mountain water that does not come from anywhere near the village. It is a five minutes walk to a river deep enough for a swim. In front of our small amphitheatre pasture are the objects of our desires; The Qhoasing falls and a majestic view of the valley and mountains of central Lesotho and a clutch of cathedral-like cliffs just made to catch the setting sun. The rain comes to order once the camp is set-up and the evening repast is over. Phakané and I don’t find our tents; instead stand with our tea cups staring in silence at the spires through the rain mist. The regular pitter-patter of the rain drops falling from the easterly nimbus is a surreal poetry of sound. New clouds slide in from the north, larger and darker, to change the light and our senses. The regular rhythm of the rain drops on the tent is now syncopating with a new drummer, the northern drops hit “pluck” – “pluck” as the second rains begin. It is raining twice.

The third dawn rises on a tough ride ‘holimo’ and even further away from the main trails. Phakané shows his small horse Alex much mercy by zigzagging up the more difficult slopes. My horse, known as “Braai Pack” at the lodge but quickly renamed Matla (Power), is shown the idea but he declines and races up the straight line to the top. He is not even out of breath and I can sit at the top of the next lekhalo (pass), take pictures and wait for the small caravan to catch up. There are a lot of ups and downs in this business and the ride between camps is a hard 6 or 7 hours. Today takes us down to the village of Ha Matekane, a mill, a clinic and an airstrip serve the whole valley. The noise and wind change our tack however and we look for a camp further on. Good decision; 1 km out of ‘town’ is the Majapereng river and an even more idyllic camp site.

A pair of black ducks seem to own the place. A male masked weaver is building yet another nest over the river, waiting for the approbation of his spouse. Malachites play in the late sun and tickle at a few samples of the mass of flowers that adorn the opposite river bank. Our side is flat and grassy, as ordered. The name of the river and the village far upstream, means “The place where a horse was eaten”, obviously referring to times of famine. This evening the horses are tethered on shorter ropes.

The morning brings another day of sunshine and the horses have eaten well but have not been consumed. Grateful for this small mercy we clamber on upwards, ever upwards. And then down of course and that is actually the harder bit. Horses do not like going downhill. Nor do my knees but if this rider was to consider that the horse is in fact walking on his middle finger and finger nail, he might have more compassion for his mount. And that brings us to the next down bit. Very down.

The trail we have chosen to follow to the Ketane Valley is not well known outside the local villages and even they don’t like it. Past the Quorong River and its magnificent cascades and over the hill to Ha Oesi where we receive our first warning; – “You can’t take a Lekhooa (European) down there” they say to the guide. Well Phakané did and we lived to tell the tale of a 700 meter slide down a goat trail of zigs and zags, each less than a horse length and each dropping a mans height. Matla was breathing down my neck as I led him down this terrible path, both of us slipping on our bums at every turn. Of course you learn to lean back when going downhill on a horse. Well, you must remember not to do that when walking downhill. Phakané led the way with Alex and controlled Thaba Ntso, the poor pack horse, somehow managing far better than Matla and I. The decent took two hours but the much awaited shade and water of the village at the bottom was a great disappointment. Ketane village is the last development at the top of the Ketane valley. It is also known as Ketane Ha Letele after the Morena of that name. A friendly inhabitant attempted kindly to find a suitable camp site and water supply but there was none to be had. The ground was ploughed and the stream came right through the village. No shade either and no grass for the ever hungry horses. The worst news possible was that there is a Maphato (initiation school) on the river and we cannot go past it, so no access to the great Ketane Falls from here.

I was to regret the next decision. As the conditions were not favourable at the village and because the next waterfall could only be viewed by climbing another mountain on foot, I ordered the retreat. Another trail of what was to turn out to be equal in pain to the previous descent was indicated. “Very short” said the kind villager, not wanting to discourage us from departing. So for another two hours we slogged back up the mountain. Tired to the extreme we summited at Selomong (The place of the Precipice) into a beautiful, high valley and one of the best camps I have ever seen; near the village of Morena Mathias and his sweet lady Georgina. This is Ha Hlalele and no problem sleeping that night and no hungry villagers scouring the valley for plump horses. We are a few hundred meters from the head of one of Lesotho’s most spectacular waterfalls – Ketane Falls. The hundred meter single drop falls is hidden from view by a narrow and contorted gorge. To view the falls at all it is necessary to descend a long, precipitous and slippery path. The place breathes vertigo. All other attempts to improve the angle of view proved to be fruitless. In hindsight it would appear that the best view would be from that damned mountain that I declined to approach from “down” at Ketane yesterday! Too late now that we are “up” again.

And more ‘holimo’ to come, this time turning west again in the direction of home. The six and a half hour ride from Ha Hlalele to Ribaneng is mostly climbing over the very heart of the Thaba Putsoa range. With hardly any trace of a trail, this is definitely ‘off the beaten track’. Following the contours and the sun we picked our way through the valleys of marshy ground covered with a hundred shades of green and over the stony passes, clumping hooves and scraping shoe iron over the basalt rocks. The air is still all day, disturbed only by the whistle of the robins, and the rock-jumpers, the shriek of the Jackal buzzard and our own caravan noises. The gods of the pony trek have watched over this little train and kept the rain away every day until we were tucked up in our tents. Every morning the sun dried the rain or dew from the canvas and brightly lit the scene for my records. (to be continued)……………..

 

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