And so to the first trial by border officials - out of (South) Africa and into Lesotho. South African immigration was faultless but the girls of their customs office seem genuinely surprised by the carnet.
The carnet is in effect the car's passport and it proves that you have taken the car out of every country you enter. Each new country has a three-part page - the top bit is the permanent record and has provision for stamps showing entry and exit for every county. The bottom bits of the page are two tear off sections that have to be filled in and torn out to form part of the country's paper trail. At the end of the journey I have to represent the fully completed and stamped document to the RAC in England. If I don't I have to pay twice the import duty for any country that hasn't had it pages stamped correctly. I had to produce a bank guarantee to cover this before the RAC would issue it (the alternative is an expensive insurance policy). The bank guarantee will cover any extension of the carnet, whilst I would have to take out another policy.
Eventually one of the girls muttered that she remembered something about carnets on a training course and looked out her course notes. Things were fine from then on. The second installment in Lesotho was almost the same: a quick stamp of the passport and off to customs. Here the girls was adamant that the document didn't need stamping. After some persuasion, she stamped the entry section and the top (I had to fill in the actual form) and I had to tear out her section of the page for her to keep - which I'm sure will end up in the bin!
Once across the border there wasn't much change in the physical geography but the was a startling increase in the population density. There were houses and people all the way - as soon as we stopped there was somebody at our side. The roads were much narrower than in the RSA and the tar not quite as even. From the border and the capital (Maseru) we headed South into what the map showed as fairly flat country. It was at first but soon the mountains (they were now really more than just big hills). They rose precipitously from the plains ending with a scarp at the edge of a flat top. The afternoon sun emphasised their reddish and brown colours and as the sun sank towards its setting the lengthening shadows highlighted their valleys and runnels.
Small villages on the road's edge were little more than a few basic huts, a few doubling as small shops - very occasionally you could see public phones and one had a dusty petrol station. Then we turned Eastwards off the tar onto the dirt road which snaked off into the foothills and gradually climbed to a small pass through the mountains - the temperature guage was rock solid - called the "Gates of Paradise".
The vista was stunning and this was echoed by an inscribed plaque in the rock at the side of the road that stated "Wayfarer pause and look on a gateway of paradise". Spread out before us was a wide plain that was heavily cultivated - shallow terraces mounted the start of the mountains before they became too steep and only sure footed sheep and cows were able to graze - each minded by a small figure swathed in a thick blanket with gum booted feet. The plain was dotted by many villages each not more than a half-dozen dwellings but with only a mile of so between them. Consequently there was surprisingly high population density. The dwellings included traditional thatched muds rondavels, stone versions, rectangular ones of breeze blocks and the very occasional ones made of bricks. All the fields and terraces had been tilled ready for the Spring planting season - given the stony nature of the ground and the seeming lack of tractors - this must be a hard task.
The road bumped down the slope until we arrived at Malealea. [link: www.malealea.co.ls] This is a large establishment with over 50 rooms in a variety of standards, together with dorm & camping provisions - in all it must be able to accommodate 100+ people. Our rondavel overlooked a lawn across which strutted peacocks and the occasional dog. The bedside table was a tribute to somebody's hard drinking habit as it was made of (empty) beer cans. We sat outside in the sun for a while quietly drinking in the view across the valley to the soaring rocks opposite.
As the sun went down it became very chilly and we adjourned to the bar. Almost as soon as we bought our beers we were ushered into the large dinning room. Dinner was a 'vegetable' soup, chicken & veg and carrot cake & custard - excellent. We sat with a French couple who had flown out on last minute cheap tickets to Jo'berg, picked up a hire car and just seemed to be wandering around the country. By 2000 we were back at the rondavel and Mary kindly gave me the double bed and graciously took the single for herself.
Next morning, having consulted the local weather forecast the idea was to walk from Malealea to a waterfall a few miles away. Having run the gauntlet of lads wishing to be our guides, we walked down through the village school - going faster than a big group going pony trecking - we decided we were on the wrong trail. Rather than again fighting off the guides, we took the Landy back up to the Gates of Paradise Pass and walked through a number of villages were were greeted with curiosity and friendly waves. Eventually we walked up hill towards the ridge through the cultivated field awaiting Spring and the new crop of maize. Maize is ground into flour and mixed with water forms bland 'pap' which, with a basic sauce to give some flavour, forms the foundation of the diet of many people in Africa. We stopped at the top and were able to look over both sides. In the back ground there was the occasional toll of cow bells and the calls between herd boys way up at the top of the mountain. One of them must have had a string instrument as music occasionally drifted down on the wind. After a banquet of cheese portions, crackers and a papaya we headed down the other side, skirting the villages, and eventually reached the car at the pass again.
Rather than driving straight back to Malealea again, we took a very minor road/track that held on to the side of the mountain and was supposed to be an hour or so round trip. Progress was slow for a number of reasons: the surface was poor, there were the occasional cow or donkey to circumnavigate and there was always the views to stop and admire. Along the way the Apricot trees were coming into bloom and from a distance they made the hillside look as if it was covered in blooming heather. One village looked as if it was hiding in a pink cloud of blooming trees. Eventually we found that the track had been washed away, so after backtracking, we returned early to sit outside the rondavel to soak up the sun and view.
Dinner was soup, T-bone steak and some kind of frozen fruity caramel sweet. We shared our table with an Irish lady of a certain age who had for a number of years worked on an education project in Leshoto. She was traveling with a friend: the trouble was her friend like the bright lights whilst she wanted to go on a day long walk in the hills. We never found out what compromise they came to but they were off to the bright lights of Durban so perhaps both were happy.
The Lesotho police seem very proactive as during the morning we encountered half a dozen road checks. These experienced ranged from being waved through; being stopped but not wanting us to bother getting our documents from the safe in the rear; through asking what food we had in the back - "you always have lots of food" - and being satisfied with a couple of Pappya; to a detailed look at my driving licence and a check that my tax disc was up to date. He was most perturbed that it had no expiry date but seemed happy with my explanation that those from the UK didn't and automatically were valid until we were 70 yrs old. I chatted to him during these stops and it appears that the stops are targeted at unfit vehicles, illegal firearms and drugs. He said that they did not try to catch speeders - there were separate hidden speed traps.
The borders were fine and I continued my on going training programme for customs officials on the use of carnets. There was a slight panic for 10 minutes when I mislaid my passport - it was found on the desk of the customs officer.
We traveled through Clarens which was a twee little town full of galleries (art & wine), coffee shops and B&Bs and the road then climbed into the northern Drakensberg Mountains to the Golden Gate National Park. We went through the gates which were two high bluffs flanking both sides of the road. They were streaked with different shades of yellow, red & brown and undercut and sculpted by water and wind. As we stood at their foot they loomed above us seeming to almost meet overhead.
We had tried to phone our destination for the night - the Karma Backpackers - to confirm that it had room for us - but was told that "Madam was out" and it wasn't known what time she would be back. We eventually arrived and Madam still out. But we were given a cup of tea and Madam eventually arrived. It wasn't so much a hostel as a room with bunks in a house. We were given the use of the family kitchen, made to feel most welcome with the family and given a free glass of wine. When we eventually took to our beds there were hot water bottles already warming the beds.
Next morning we had breakfast in the kitchen as the family slowly awoke and one by one the Mother & two daughters arrived in the pajamas. As I eat my cereal the 12 month grand-daughter crawled around my feet and pulled herself up on my trousers. Madam came out into the garden - still in her pajamas - to open the gate for us. All in all it was the best accommodation we had found so far.
As we headed South from Bethlehem, we headed back to the hills and came across a massive reservoir tucked into their folds. It was probably five miles long and a couple wide - with the wind blowing there were substantial white horses racing across and washing the shore. Down out of the hills the country side was hilly but flat enough for intensive large scale cultivation. There were very large watering gantries that rotated creating massive circles of green vegetation (maize?). There were no small farms and most local dwellings seemed to be linked to the large farms.
A sign that we were approaching tourist-land was a large craft centre cum restaurant cum internet cafe. It was a welcome break providing excellent coffee and toast but, unfortunately, no way for me to plug my laptop into the WWW. Frank must be thinking that I've given up on this blog - but with the laptop having fallen out with the CD writer sending material is providing a challenge.
Following the directions from Madam, we headed into the foothills of the Drakenbergs (Dragon Mountains) up a green valley with trees in between the expensive resorts, hotels and golf courses. We decided not to take the advertised helicopter rides. Unfortunately, despite local advice, we had ended up at the head of the wrong valley: we were at the camp site under the looming berg called "Monk's Cowl".
So we backtracked and then found the right valley. This one was much more practical with small subsistence farm dotted along the road and cows & goats competing for the road. After about 5 miles the tar vanished and we bumped and rattled over the dirt for a further 10 miles until we reached the Injusthi Camp nestled in a valley with a small river confined between cliffs. It was very well kept with a large manicured lawn (well dead grass really) around trees and the chalets were dotted. Our campsite was a bit further off - again with well cut grass and longer bits left to define individual sites. The ablutions had a definite gender bias with only the girls have the luxury of soaking in a bath! At Addo the men also had this facility.
After reintroducing Mary to the delights of the canvas dome tent, we walked up the valley along one of the well defined and sign posted paths for a short walk. The hill side was mostly rough short bush but as we continued we crossed a well defined line where the ground had been burnt and there was a profusion of new green shoots poking their heads through the black ash. Mary had read that the park authorities undertook controlled burns to promote growth. As we progress we spooked a small herd of Reedbok who bounded off with whistling/barks of alarm. Along the way we came across an old stone pen and dipping trough - proof that the was once farming even way up here. As we dropped into a small stream bed, there was another pair of Reedbok 30/40 yards away - but these were much more confident and stood their ground as Mary look their photos. So confident was the male that it even lay down as we approached a bit closer and we then turned away from them down the valley.
Dinner was cooked over the campfire - me with having a T bone steak, mushrooms and rice and Mary having cheese over the rice. The wood we had was very poor and after a while we gave up on sitting around for a post meal chat and headed for bed.
Next day Mary was determined to go for a 'proper' walk and I, having declared the previous day "You'll never drag me all the way up there", agreed to go at least part of the way with her. Starting in the camp we crossed the river over a rather ramshackle and spring wooden bridge and headed through a small forest at the base of the valley side. The path then started gentle upwards through the low bush. Along the way were a number of Tree Ferns similar to those that seem to have become so popular in UK garden centres over recent years. Some were over two metres high and, having been told that they only grow one millimetre per annum, they must be of a considerable age.
About a third of the way up the path joined one that followed the contours back along above the camp. Easy-peasy I thought! Then things took a turn for the worse - a left turn to be precise. Above us was a sheer - well very step - small valley cut into the escarpment and way above us the sky showed through a small nick where it tipped over onto the top. The path wound it way through the trees that clogged this defile and crossed and recrossed a boulder strewn stream. With the noise of the stream ever present, we zig-zagged our way up past small alpine flowers just poking their red and yellow flowers into the colder air and Natal Bottle Brush Trees whose brilliant red blooms evidenced their name. One plod in front of another saw me reach the top where the land opened out into deserted meadows and a spectacular view point that looked down on the campsite where the Landy was just a barely discernible speck and the range of jagged peaks stretched for miles North & South of us - some on the Lesotho side even having a dusting of snow.
Back at the camp we both collapsed whilst the water for a well earned cup of tea boiled. After eating we both slept the sleep of the knackered!
The original plan for the next day was to head North-East for Dundee and then seek Rorkes Drift - the site upon which the film "Zulu" was based. On reflection, it seemed a couple of long drives to go Northish to then have to go South the next day to reach H/U National Park. I suggested that we should head South and spend the following night somewhere on our direct route.
This took us through the Midlands which had once been the heart of SA's sugar cane industry. This was now restricted to a few pockets within the relentless coverage of Eucalyptus (Gum) trees - for close to 50 miles there were these trees for as far as we could see. At the road side were piles of naked logs: each stripped of their bark & branches and cut to a uniform length. After reaching the coast, we headed to the beach to pay homage to the Indian Ocean. We then took to the main E3 road up the coast and stayed at the Isinkwe Backpackers fairly close to the Park's entrance.
This was an odd maze of little buildings that contained individual bedrooms, showers, toilets and the dorm. The closest WC to our dorm looked as if it had started out life as a potting shed at the bottom of somebody's garden. We were the last two people to arrive in the dorm and consequently had the worst two beds (bunk) just inside the door. As I am slightly taller than Mary (14 inches to be exact) I was persuaded to take the top bunk - the first time since I was a teenager.
The bar and kitchen were based around a small swimming pool and had plenty of stools and chairs in which to sip a cool beer at the end of a long day's drive. Over a roast chicken dinner, we chatted to a spanish couple who were driving straight from there, through Swaziland, to Kruger National Park. They hadn't made any bookings and I talked to them about my visit and lent them a book which had details of the Park.
The night's sleep wasn't the best we had had: a couple seemed to need the lights on to read in bed (after a while I reached out and hit the off switch - an unexpected benefit of being close to the door), the room was very hot (despite having a big window with no glass - just a loosely fitting piece of canvas) and people started stirring very early to go out on game drives). When we left the Spaniards were desperately trying to contact SA National Parks to make their bookings.
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