My Trail Ride into Lesotho with Khotso Horse Tails

Wednesday 11.20 a.m.
We left the border post in broiling heat- our impatience matched by that of the ponies, who stepped out like power walkers. Following the river valley, we immediately began a series of river crossings, made epic by the heavy rains of the past few days. For the others, who were all new to the delights of horse-riding, it was a baptism of fire...but not of water; the Basotho ponies, I recalled, have always been praised for their hardy sure-footedness and tractable natures- and despite slippery banks and strong currents, no-one went down. Steve, owner of Khotso Trails, appears to have a semi-conscious aversion to overburdening novices with complex instructions, preferring to let people find their own path to the horse, and I watched with curiosity as the ponies moved stolidly onwards while their riders sat variously hunched, holding their reins as if feeding their card into an ATM, alternately bumping and slipping, some yanking, others losing the reins completely. And while all that continued above, these willing little beasts of patient eye continued negotiating boulders, steep descents, clay slides and gullies.

As the ascent of Bushmansnek Pass began below the crags of Devil's Knuckles, massive clouds drew over and the angular peaks turned lead grey. Half way up the pass it struck, a violent storm with rain slicing like knives. With barely enough time to swop sun hats for full-body raincoats, Slovakians and South Africans unitedly bent beneath the onslaught, basic instincts driving ponies and people alike to turn tail to the wind and huddle. The rain, and then hail, came on a tremendous wind which tossed the long seeding grass with manes and tails; the protea bouncing under the bludgeoning onslaught. We stood thus, flagellated and humbled by mighty forces for perhaps a half hour. Then, as abruptly as it began, the tempest passed- onwards down the valley, and we, whose teflon coatings had carefully channelled huge volumes of water into our boots and down our necks, slowly uncrumpled and looked around us in awe. The mountains had cleansed us- the initiation was over. At peace, Malachite Sunbirds flitted between the proteas. The peaks, before so black and damning, were now mild in shades of green and lilac, as pretty and peaceful as a children's nursery after the children have gone to school. The steep trail had become a series of waterfalls up which we lead our steeds, scrambling and leaping, but we exulted with the curving swallows and returning sun, topping the pass a few minutes later.

Steve and his teenage daughter Candace, who had sat out the storm under an overhang, met us with sandwiches and flasks of hot tea and we dismounted and lunched with a view over the lip of the Drakensberg, a sumptuousness of soaked green valleys and rocks shining with waterfalls. The veld was lush underfoot with bushels of dark pink harebells. The ponies were so eager now that we could no longer hold them and we cantered swiftly through the gentle Lesotho uplands, splashing across wetlands, jumping streams and passing shallow tarns. We swept past Sehlabathebe Lodge and on through spectacular sandstone formations and then the sombre basalt extrusion of Black Mountain. Steve expounded eagerly as the horses pounded side by side, of routes he had run, cycled and ridden over the years. He gestured to distant peaks as his horse thundered up the rise- the point where The Mutter (a marathon of 90km over two days) topped out. From there, he shouted, the top runners could run down to the border post in 28 minutes.

Now as the sun went behind the next cumulo-nimbus uprising, we began our final descent into the Leqoa River valley. Light caught the sheets of exposed limestone all shining with recent rain.This was tricky footing for the ponies. My willing beast lost her grip while crossing the perilous wet rock, and came crashing down, then scrambled up only to slip again, this time onto her side, sliding helplessly as the saddle bags were catapulted down the mountainside. But amazingly undeterred, she righted herself, we secured her load again and on we went. We pulled in to the lodge as the last light faded on the peaks around. Beers, baths and beef stew seemed infinite luxuries to our whipped but exhilarated bodies.

Thursday
There is something about riding a horse that connects to our primitive inner selves. The heroes of D.H. Lawrence frequently had encounters with the horse. In their art, Franc Marx and Picasso sensed and explored the powerful forces of conflict and subjugation and harmony embodied in this ageless union. And as I sat high above the lodge early the next morning and watched a pair setting off out of the village, the trippling pony held indomitably by his blanketed rider, I contemplated the universality of this relationship.

On this second day our trail led over into the next valley which narrowed rapidly to become a bold and spectacular canyon. It was like a entering a giant's mouth with massive sandstone bouldered teeth. Yet the sunny weather , bobbing yellow Helichrysums and super-sized daisies belied any danger. We stopped often to swim in the swift and swollen Leqoa river, the black and tan cliffs rising above streaked and glittered by falling water.

This canyon has been inhabited for thousands of years. Under the sandstone overhangs, delicate eland pranced the rock face, the outpourings of san trance.Two robed shaman figures, with highly decorated animal heads stood among the dancing figures and their animals. Some overhangs had been partially enclosed by Basotho herdsman in the last few hundred years. Their closely laid rock walls created enclosures for sheep and huts for themselves as protection from jackals and winter cold. As my pony and I emerged from the canyon, I again found myself pondering the perpetuating relationship between mankind and his animals. Relatively few ever see these paintings due to their inaccessibility.
The horses were eager for home. As the valley opened out we let them stretch out into a gallop, passing swiftly by painted huts, terraced wheat fields, and herdsboys bringing in the cows. Excited by fast riding, we arrived back at the lodge in high spirits. The ponies were put out to grass, boots kicked off and beers opened. We lay sprawled on our saddle blankets under an old plum tree in the late afternoon sunlight and watched the villagers below at their evening chores.

Friday
Morning comes late to this village which lies in the shadow of a ring of peaks. The Basothos, in positioning their homes and villages, have to choose between having early mornings or late afternoons because the steep valleys never permit both. When first light washed the dewy village, I got up. Imagining myself the only one awake, I was amazed to see from my window, that a long queue was forming on the street below. This odd sight was soon explained y the equally amazing arrival of a long bus. It carefully reversed between cattle paths and dongas and duly carried off the awaiting villagers.The beauty of this lodge is its singularity in the valley, so that one has the privilege of observing village life continuing mostly undisturbed by one's own presence. Tourism, in an ideal world, benefits the people one visits without altering those aspects of their lives which are unique and valuable. Perched on a ridge to catch first light on the green flanks, I watched the day scramble to its feet as blanketed herdboys whistled and cursed their two or three cows out onto the slopes to graze, a mother with baby on back and little child in hand meander slowly towards an isolated outhouse, an elderly man riding sately on his pony towards the next village. Cocks crowed, their cries connecting the scattered hats, and floating down from the ridges came the tinkle of cow bells and herdboys songs.

The inhabitants of the lodge were pulled out of bed by the 7 o'clock arrival of a 4x4. Three Lesotho Tourism Board officials had been dispatched from Maseru to collect information from outlying areas such as this on tourism activity and occupancy. Steve had forms to fill out and submit. Tourism is valued by the Lesotho Government for its tremendous potential to bring money into these isolated villages. Lodges like this must be registered and pay local tax. Steve employs three villagers to assist in the running of it, and supports the local store. When it came to cooking breakfast, I was sent off to the shop- a wattle and daub building with no sign to announce its purpose. But there we could get fresh bread and eggs and in a neighbouring rondavel, retrieve our bacon being stored by a local who has a gas freezer. Electricity has not reached the village, so a generator and gas serve the purpose.

After breakfast we saddled up for our return. I think we would all have gladly taken Steve up on his urgings for us to stay "a couple more days." Riding back through Sehlabathebe National park, we picked a new route through the Valley of the Wild Horses. The horses we saw only in the distance. Their spring foals were still small and the mares nervous, though Steve sometimes gets to gallop with the herd. He claims nobody is too sure of their origins. The valley is magnificent, at first languidly spread wide, the soft green stitched by a long chain of blue oxbow lakes, then narrowing to a spectacular neck. We picnicked here at the foot of a thundering waterfall, and we cavorted about in the turbulence of the plunge pool below it . When we met up with Andreas Duma, Steve's second in command, at the top of the pass and prepared to return to the border post we were all feeling glum. Steve was still making suggestions as to how to arrange our other lives so as to extend our ride a few more days. Fond goodbyes and hugs all round. And then all round again. And when Steve asked Roman, the Slovakian, "Did you like it?" he replied with fervour, "Yeah. I'm never gonna eat horse again!"