May | 2014 | René Paul Gosselin

It took six months to get there but I did it.

However I did not expect to be invited to the State Banquet as a guest of His Majesty King Letsie III. Frankly I am not really the banquet type and these formal functions scare and bore me at the same time. This event was different because the people are friendly and two lovely people dragged me in by my ears.

In March 2012 some insect must have crawled into my ear and told me to get my book “Basotho People at Work” into the hands of King Letsie. Moreover I knew that there was to be a banquet in November for all of the more important diplomats from Southern Africa. In fact there were to be over 100 ambassadors, high-commissioners and senior VIP’s from as many countries. So it appeared to me, that vision of my book, in the hands of each of them as well as in those of the Basotho High Society.

The path to success was interesting and involved meeting extraordinary people; Mrs. Michele Thoren Bond, the Ambassador to the U.S.A., the most charming, friendly and relaxed ambassador that I have ever met, helped me find the right people to talk to and was so charmingly appreciative of my work. This was despite my dirty boot marks all over her pure white wool carpets. (It was snow and slushy mud time in Maseru!)

Michele’s interest in this project led to Dr. Mathase Nyaphisi, ex Ambassador to many EU countries and for a long time based in Berlin. Ntate Mathase called me several times from Europe and made many long distant calls to assist me in this endeavour.

Eventually after this long haul, I was in touch with another super lady Mrs Itumeleng Rafutho-Labuschagne, Director of the Europe & Americas section of the Ministry of Foreign Affaires and International Relations for the Kingdom of Lesotho.

Thanks to all of the calls and suggestions from all of my friends, I was able to deliver 100 books, personally to the DG on the 23^rd of October.

There again the surprises continued; dressed in my safari gear, delivery boy style, I arrived at the government complex in my old landy ‘Mathubathuba’, loaded with the books. Thinking along the lines of “drop off the books and get a receipt and then bugger off quickly” ~ I arrived in the office of ‘Mme Rafutho-Labuschagne. I was charmed and was received like a VIP, despite my lack of protocol and negligent sartorial effort. Even more-so by a colleague from the Protocol Department; Mr. Japan O. Mntambo, Counsellor, Directorate of Protocol. ‘Ntate Japan was enormously helpful with my back-country approach to “society-and meeting-important-people”. Above all Ntate Japan, linguist, expert in Arabic, and fluent in many european languages gave me insights into Sesotho protocol that I could not have found elsewhere.

So when the DG returned and asked if we could take the books upstairs I thought that we going to the store room.

Ntate Japan was making me repeat the phrase~”Mohlompehi Letona Lehabane” and I did so all the while climbing the staircase to the next floor. Entering the large room at the end of the corridor I was greeted not only by the unusual sight of a Cabinet Minister holding the door for me but also by the DG and a T.V. Crew and press photographer. “Mohlompehi Letona Lehabane” I repeated automatically thanks to my Arab speaking friend. “Ke thabile o tseba”… Honorable Minister I am glad to make your acquaintance. Thank the gods for the protocol man.

The T.V. and press thing had been put together in the few minutes that Ntate Japan and I had been whiling away chatting about protocol and having tea. The Minister, Mohlabi Kenneth Tsekoa was waiting for me and we sat after the formalities and chatted about the Maluti Moutains and equestrian adventures for a good half an hour. From his leather armchair and in his very smart suit he looked at me in my togs and said diplomatically and with no doubt a little humour that he could see that I would have no problem to dress in ‘Black Tie’ so “would I mind if they invited me to the State Banquet?”

Well that was all a very great surprise. Although my sponsor were very jealous as no-one had expected this very formal meeting and handing over of the book ceremony, they were nonetheless envious. I did not care as I had made three new sincere friends.

One month later the real thing is happening. My pictures are on show at the Maseru Sun and they are sitting on the efficient little low-level easels designed by David Randel and laser cut and painted just in time for it all.

The programs are printed and the audience is arriving by the limousine load on the great day.

As this was an ‘evening affair’ and even though my rôle was to be Expo curator to a certain extent, I was sure to be confined to the foyer and not invited to the banquet. Long past were my expectations. After all a month was more than enough time for busy diplomats to forget their promises.

Well that was without counting on my good friends.

Camille Perdereau, Consul Honoraire and Directrice of the Alliance Francaise of Maseru and Petri Salo, Ambassador of Finland in Pretoria were at my side at the exhibition of my photographs. They were not having this ‘not invited thing’ and went to investigate like two member of the Famous Five. Returning only a few minutes later to embarrass me for my doubting Thomas attitude; ~ “Your name is on the list”!

So as three musketeers, arm in arm we braved the protocolary reception and eventually found our tables for the evening, unfortunately all at separate places.

“No. 23 Ntate Gosselin” said the pretty young Mosotho in the foyer. I was now without my support team and heading into the unknown. I followed the tuxedo suited usher through the maze of tables and found my place. My friends were no-where to be seen and I was un-nerved. I stood behind a chair, fuming that I should let myself into this at all. I could be in the fresh air talking to everyone about my work and not being a rag-doll here. Then the Ex-Prime Minister of Lesotho ‘Ntate Pakalitha Mosisili arrived a sat down at ‘my’ table with several friends and their wives and things began to look less miserable. Professor Teboho Kitleli, Secretary General to the Red Cross and his spouse a long standin W.H.O. Cadre sat on my left and the Director of UNICEF of my right. It was going to be an interesting evening. No one knew who I was or why I was there!

Well I spare you the detail of the delayed arrival of ‘important people’ and the tediously long speeches. Nor shall I mention the half hour prayer in Sesotho which had most foreign guests a little bewildered.

The evening began as the formalities stopped and the senior ambassadors climbed onto the stage to dance with the choir and show their solidarity with the adorable singers. The wine arrived at the table, the delicate euro-centric dishes were delectable and mercifully small. In no-time at all the singing and dancing and eating and meriment moments were over and His Majesty and entourage were making for the door, no doubt as keen as every-one of us to find the evening air. It was 12 O’clock.

All that was left was to plod along the pavement outside the venue and say one’s adieux to the rare visitors to Lesotho and the even rarer real friends amongst the departing crowd, standing there waiting for their shiny Limousines to whisk them away to who knows where.

Fortunately there are always two friends waiting in the cocktail lounge with ready night-cap of Jamesons.

René Paul Gosselin. 28th November 2012

I am not sure why I undertook this trip. I had left a warm heart behind me and had no excuse for being the hard assed separator. Wether it was about about emerging, resurfacing, coming up for air or simply keeping one’s head above the water I don’t know but I know that I can breathe now. Perhaps it was the sea air. Essentially I felt that I needed to find a place to throw my gear, a place to set up some lighting for my portrait sitters or for myself. The remote village of Bedford, Eastern Cape, came to mind. I was starting from a place which already had the required dimensions but I could not annoy my best friend Mick with extended use of his hospitality at Hill Billy Haven, miles from anywhere, somewhere on the Western Approaches to Lesotho.

My light came in a flurry of silk and straw, scarf and hat in a green old Mercedes late one afternoon unannounced, under the golden evening Free State sky as the sun began to to send it’s signal of beer time. She took my breathe away again. The week-end took on a completely different shade and heart beats became irregular. And then Beer, Ballantynes and Boxed Wine imbibes made the blood heated and nothing could stop the silly state in the Free State. Disaster was on the cards. I drew the joker and take the blame.

On that morning of the 28th of March, we split and I Ieft Mick’s Farm in the Free State and turned right, obviously. South.

I supposed that she went left. Toward the beloved Free State, like Brand and Steyn, Claerhout and Krog, irrevocably. The dry cold winter calls from deep within the beige rock and the burnished mauve grass heart of it’s plains, irresistible to all those with blood and tears in their past.

The long free falling from the highveld to the land of the Settlers is always salutory and it was not hard for me to rest far away, a few nights With the Fairies in Hogsback in the treed and mossy greened Amatola Mountains, cooled by the spirits and the idiom. Walking and dining in Hogsback is easy on two roads and two restaurants. I walked and thought for four hours and dined in each cabaret for as much.

The third day let me down from my high place and to the tee-junction where I flipped a coin and headed towards East London. I had missed Bedford, country retreat, deep in contemplation or by negligence. Was it perhaps just a name in my head?

The little Buffalo city somehow always reminded me of Jersey. I remembered small unpretentious houses in quiet streets with few cars parked, unlocked near their white picket gates, the owners home for lunch. I found only endless streets of walled mansions and face brick suburbs-by-the-sea. A greasy café where eggs are ever plastic and the burnt coffee draws smokey bikers from the suburbs and repulses all else, the only viewing deck over the Indian Ocean. I turned Mathubathuba around and let her big heart roar out of town lest we came close to hitting the big lights.

Instead, I made it in one sleep to my haven the other side of Port Elizabeth at Van Stadens River and walked four hours in the dunes, completely alone and free on a beach that stretches fifty miles to a surfers paradise. Little thatched cottages along the very sand of the beach are kitted out like the old National Parks huts of a by-gone era, comfortably and simply. Hard to leave the next day, I had no idea where this voyage was taking me and vaguely thought of heading back up the N6 to Bedford.Then my family called and said that I am half way there! The Karoo and kids summon.

Huts at Van Stadens River — Little Huts from a bygone era

That tedious N2 Garden Route can surely not be a magnet to tourists. It is boring to a point of despair and no-one seems to stop or even reduce speed for the Big Tree, (but do so for biltong, beef-burgers and BP) if it were not for a few jewels of Knysna and Natures Valley. And of course the very with-it Wilderness; there are more tales at Fairie Knowes backpackers than I care to tell but they say that it is just the name of the abandoned railway siding. I sat there that evening sipping on my terrace a last paced ration of Ballantynes before it was to be felloniously whisked from me a week later, admiring the passing scenery and the humid tropical growth enveloping the little lodge. Evening around the fire and bar with Digby and a guitar are what it’s all about.

The road and dry heights of the Klein Karoo echoed down through Montague pass and over the Touwsberg. I was powerless to resist, so I packed the car and left the fairies behind. Mathubathuba had her own wings to fly us up the Outeniqua Mountains and over the passes to Oudtshourn,Calitzdorp, Ladismith and Barrydale the little jewel of the Langeberg and gateway to Tradouw Pass. Also the home to my daughter and her familly and their base for adventures around the world.

After four days and nights with the children I managed to catch a mother of a cold and they persuaded me to go to do business in Cape Town. Perhaps for my health. I did, despite my reticence to take Mathubathuba into the big city with all her loads of un-hideable stuff.

Cape Town was not good for my Land Rover as she battled with the excess of air and inevitably with thieves. I saw friends, arranged my printing to be done on request and spoke to the gallery, dined in places with beautiful people and some not so. A few skinny dips in the Indian Ocean and away, back to the Wilderness unavoidably.

Cape Town beaches — Blouberg Strand, Cape Town

If ever one is taken with the idea of a stroll, then the Giant King Fisher hike along the Touwsrivier is a good place to go. If one is of slight nature however, don’t take the “short cut” over the Bosduif Loop! The mountainous route and the “flat” route are both great little 3~4 hour hikes even though the waterfall is quite miserable and not really worth the visit. Leaving the Wilderness after only three days (and not the prescribed 40) was made easier by climbing up to the Village of Hoekwil and trundling along the old road to Knysna through green pastures littered with monochrome dairy cows, tall dark ancient trees and a multitude of zig-zag passes on all kinds of surfaces and with wafts of sweet rural smells which Mathubathuba contrived to collect about her skirts and retain a nostalgic souvenir of the coast.

The idea of going north alway seems to put Mathuthuba’s brakes on and we laboured up to the distant blue Suurberg towards Bedford, resisting the temptation to visit Anne’s Villa again. This was a mistake. Bedford is closed on mondays. No food, no drink, no bed in Bedford. So it was, to the Tuinhuis in Craddock, for dinner with silverware and hordes. Then morning coffee with Chris and Julienne, the Karoo-Spacemen, authors, journalists and independent publishers, was a surprise for me as much as for them. Two new friends who became old ones over a cup of coffee and a few minutes natter on mutual interests; books, photographs and the Karoo! And of course the source of the very water in our cups; ~ Cradocks Great Fish River, supplemented by the Lesotho water of the Orange/Senqu/Gariep River via the famous hand-hewn Orange-Fish River Tunnel.

I took only one picture; ~ that day somewhere near Burgersdorp, on the way back to Mick’s hill billy farm. 6000 kms on a broken spring and shocks and only one image. There must have been another on my mind.

René Paul Gosselin

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