THE  ROAD TO LESOTHO

It is painful but necessary to leave Stellenbosch.  A nearly 1500 mile road journey awaits to get to Kruger National Park by March 27^th.   The well-known “Garden Route” eastbound along the Indian Ocean side of the South African coast is long, and uneventful.  The road itself is almost perfect.  You can travel nearly any speed you like.  There are few potholes.  The asphalt is smooth, and there is a well-adhered to protocol where if you have another vehicle coming up on your tail, you get over into the emergency lane partway so they can pass.

After about a 350 mile haul from Capetown, the first stop of note is Knysna, a charming coastal town famous for its shopping, its views, and its Rastafarian community.  Like so much else apart from the promotional considerations, you find out after the fact you can not really visit the community without getting reservations and paying for a tour.  No quick stop by, get a feel, snap a few pix, and move on to the next roadside attraction.  You feel like your timeline (given as little control as you have over that anyway) is being violated under such controlling circumstances.

What does bring great enjoyment in this burgh is two massive cliffs which form gates at the city’s seamouth, called the “Twin Heads” by locals for their headland function.  I prefer to call them the “Cold Gates,” in respect of the geographic bookends they represent (for those driving out to the river inlet at the ocean’s mouth) in honor of King Leonidas and the Greek 300’s heroic stand at Thermopolaye circa 490 BC.  The twins are huge (both broad and tall), direct a powerful tidal surge through a narrow inlet between them, and are composed of the most beautiful layers of red and chocolate and gold sandstone so that the feature presents itself as if a giant sliced piece of chocolate layer cake.

Plattenberg Bay, a bare 30 miles up the N2 coastal highway, is a delightful place to stop for lunch.  The white scimitar-shaped beaches present a curved picturesque background for a meal and a glass of wine or two before heading up the coast. 

While there, I get a chance to compare perspectives with Andre Dutoit, an actuary and economist going under the moniker of “The Big Positive Guy” who was giving a speech that evening at the coastal hotel providing the meal.  The Capetown based Andre (attended by his affectionate adopted daughter Julia) had spent appreciable time working in London and had both a European and South African perspective once again on political developments and economic opportunities in his home country.

The notes taken during this conversation would bore most readers here.  And they are too lengthy for sharing at this time, at a time when I must write and/or post virtually every day just to stay even, or get permanently behind – given that there is always a daily necessity of moving on and a fresh adventure on the morrow.  Suffice it to say, he was a fascinating fellow, well-versed in world events that somehow always got tied back to what lay in store for South Africa – no matter the good or bad turn elsewhere.

The second coastal overnight was taken at Grahamstown, roughly halfway between  major pits stops at Port Elizabeth and East London.  I was very fortunate here.  While pulling off to the side to let a faster vehicle pass, the rented Hyundai’s wheel hit the rough edge of the road and let off a loud explosion.  The ride was rough after that.  I checked the tires, and they seemed fine.  But by the time I got into town, the left front was completely flat.  So even before dinner and finding a hotel for the night, the tire had to be attended to.

And this is where the “Car Attendants” come into play.  Many black South African youth are unemployed.  They rent themselves out therefore, as car guards or watch attendants to make sure your vehicle is not broken into.  They are remarkably cheap.  One might be very happy with $1 US for an overnight watch.  You don’t ask how many others he is doing this for concurrently, and on how broad a range … within eyesight, or for multiple blocks?  Many who never watched the vehicle for a second may descend on you, also, after seeing you head for your vehicle and ask for “a tip” for guarding the vehicle.  So when I roll in ever so carefully, and announce that I needed help with a flat tire (meaning: where is a tire shop that might still be open at 7 PM?), there is practically a rugby scrum to remove the wheel. 

Every lad from within three blocks descends on the car.  They are either giving advice, srestling for access to the tire wrenches and spanner (or jack), or telling me how stupid the others are and how I ought to let a real man handle the job.  There is no mention of price.  That all comes later.  They must first complete the “King of The Hill” battle just to be first in line to organize tools and touch the tire.  Watching this competition is rather like watching a combination of a Chinese Fire Drill and Abbott & Costello’s famous “Who Is On First?” movie short.  I watch the Battle Royale with fascination.  It takes little time at all to forget about hunger pangs and dinner.

Eventually the spare is replaced.  The victors line up for the spoils.  And then some.  I once read of a New York City bus accident, where the capacity of the bus was only something like 54 persons, but fully 94 made claims for injuries sustained (some artful dodgers having slyly maneuvered themselves onto the bus ex-post facto).  The tire episode went something like that.  Seven shamefully presented themselves for recompense.  I started asking prosecutorial questions, very lightheartedly at first.  With scrutiny, the numbers receded.  We got down to four.  I decided to pay two dim fellows who were nevertheless first on the scene, the one who raised the jack, another who put the tire on and tightened the bolts, and an undeserving fifth just because of his brash expectation and comic relief.

The staff at Grahams Hotel were much more professional.  General Manager Steve made several calls and directed me to a tire shop the next morning (a national holiday, Human Rights Day, so that everything was closed) and Lulu greased the skids on hotel matters so I could concentrate on what was necessary to keep moving.  The next morning, Steve at the local Hyundai shop sold me a brand new metal rim (mine had been crushed in four places – I am lucky the tire did not explode), then arranged for a man to come in off holiday and replace the ruined tire.  Richard van der Merwe, at the local Hi-Q Tire  dealership, also came in off his holiday as a manager, fired up the credit card mechanism, then sold me the tire at discount. He had interrupted his holiday to open his shop for a complete stranger.  I call these folks in my extended travels, “Road Angels.”  Grahamstown is loaded with them.  Steve & Steve and Richard and Lulu, you go down in my personal Hall of Fame.

What was neglected in all the excitement over meeting genuine “Car Watchers” was the day’s excursion, to Addo National Elephant Park – about 30 kilometers outside Port Elizabeth.  Initially, I thought this first exposure to wild South African game would be elephants only.  This notion was quickly abused.  A couple miles from the main camp on quality dirt roads brought us face to face with multiple bands of warthogs.  Then the massively elegant Kurdu , with their spiraled rear-facing horns.  Also the Red-Hartebeest and shaggy-coated Eland (all three from the antelope family.  (It makes you wonder why nature gave them horns at all, when they are rear facing and can’t really be used in self-defense).

Then ostriches.  Followed by Zebras.  And black-backed redcoat jackals.  Blue Cranes, and Black Headed Herons.  A Leopard Tortoise or two.  And massive Cape Buffalos.  “Where are the bloody elephants?” I wondered to myself.  I knew they were close.  Fresh pachaderm scat littered the roadway in still steaming piles virtually everywhere.

Almost prepared to accept the notion that this was the wrong time of day for sightings (fisherman know not to pursue their prey at 4 PM, but at sunrise and dusk), I round the corner and see eight foot high brush moving with great energy.  Or being moved.  A grey mound appears above the foliage.  A trunk slowly curls even higher, as if transfixed by an Indian snake charmer.   Looking backward into the clear cuts that punctuate the route between curves in the road, one is spotted.  Then another.  Soon a group.

These are not the sad looking creatures with the crusty wilted eyes and the look of resignation one views in narrowed confinement at the zoo.  These are robust creatures in their prime, and fully in their own element.  They are huge.  They are quick. They are proud.  They are determined not to be approached, nor to give ground.  You can almost hear them saying: “Back that little white four-legged tin can up just a little further and I will provide you with a real lesson in the application of physics.”

A subtle negotiation occurs afterward.  You back the car, or turn it broadside to the road, to get the best viewing and photography angles.  The elephants observe.  Then move.  You in turn back up or move forward, or turn a bit.  Other cars, seeing you have stopped, follow suit.  A dance ensues.  A very slow waltz.   Elephants and very tentative cars.  Always the vehicle is in gear for a quick getaway.  Especially when babies are involved or get too close to the road.  Mama San reacts very quickly then.  The parallel reference to escaping Grizzly Bears that has become almost a stock joke remains true in this circumstance: “I don’t have to run fast, just run faster than you!”   Finally visually sated, you leave, only to see even larger elephants elsewhere.  Usually knocking down trees.  But luckily not near the road.

A turn is made finally off the semi-coastal primary west-east highway of the N2, north on the N6 toward Lesotho.  I am still struck by the fine qualities of the road (even if the shoulders are a bit suspect).  The country opens up as if it were a massive high alp, mindful of scenery from “The Big Valley” or “Bonanza” from bygone television years.  It is akin to being in the middle of the ocean, passing by or through lengthy and low crested waves only to emerge on to yet another vast green expanse.  It is lulling.  Sheep and goats line the roadway.  There is very little agriculture, however.  I am later told this is too risky, due to rains and harsh winters.  What is not clear is: too much rain, or too little?

You pass Bish, Stutterheim and Queenstown before stopping in Aliwal North – a point at which it is necessary to turn east to transit Lesotho.  This makes for a fine opportunity to sample one of the local pubs.  Usually this has a dual purpose.  To whet one’s palette, and to get a scouting report.  I have always said the best intel comes from bartenders – and those that hang with them.  They see and hear everything, faster even than the internet.

Is the pass closed?  What time does the border station stay open until?  Are there potholes along the way?  Cattle or sheep in the road?  How far?  Where do I turn?  You can not always count on maps for this info.  In fact, the roads in South Africa and particularly this section of the country are not particularly well labeled.  This is in marked contrast to the quality of the road itself. Turnabouts and reverses of direction are frequent.

It is dark by the time Lady Gray is achieved.  This small town about 30 kilometers outside Lesotho therefore serves as the base for the night.  Arriving late, you get last choice of rooms.  Driving from one to the next, it is discovered all are booked due to the National Holiday (Human Rights Day).  The proper thing to do in that case is retreat to a local pub.  Not only do they have the best intel, they also have decent and affordable meals.  And local regulars, who know other people.  Generous people.  People willing to accommodate strangers.  A young woman by the name of Pye Cloete offers a room for the night at her family’s farm, and for half the usual rate for the trip (which has been about $35 nightly).  Upon seeing the home, I suspect the money is simply a means of paying the servants for their extra efforts to accommodate the “man with all the questions.”

I find out in the course of the evening’s remaining hours that it is my good fortune to stay the night with the community’s leading family.  The 150 year-old Dutch colonial style home has seen six generations come and go, often overlapping each other in residency.  The home is huge.  There are four bathrooms there, at least 16 beds, two living rooms, a separate family room, and more photo wall pix than exist at Ranger headquarters in Kabul for identifying Taliban insurgents.  A recent remodeling project – to scrape three coats of paint off all the original Oregon Pine woodwork inside the home – took 18 years.

It is often joked that the home’s perimeter is “larger than the community church.”  The family just happens to also own the local dairy, and Annie’s Café where dinner was first  eaten hours earlier.

Soon Cloete, patriarch of the family, was formerly mayor of the town before blacks were given the vote around 1994.  Before departure from this most welcoming family, there is also an opportunity to meet Elsie, the ever gracious family matriarch, and Neil, who works the ranch and is also an accountant in town.  Brother Van Ardt and sister Rika live much further away.

Reluctantly the farm must eventually be parted from.  Muitual promises to keep in touch are made.  Lesotho – “The Kingdom In The Sky” -- awaits.  I have little idea of what to expect, except an unusual opportunity at some juncture to see rare dinosaur tracks embedded in the rock hardened edge of what used to be a muddy river bank 180 million years ago.