In the serpentine bends of the Sani Pass, Lesotho, beyond the limits of cars, a traveller traces trails carved by the relentless hammer of hooves and gum boots, finding a kingdom where traditional clothing and transport remain the optimal tools for navigating Africa’s highest, toughest terrain.
Sweat pooled upon its deep chestnut coat, a bareback steed gallops past at full pelt, glistening in the midday sun like a sheet of closely knitted stars against a darkening sky. Legs astride, its rider could not be more obverse as he sports a cerulean woollen Basotho blanket: the national dress of the Sotho people, a distinctive symbol of identity, status, and cultural heritage, and a necessity at a crisp 2,500 metres above sea level.
And yet, it is not the sound of rapidly clopping hooves that rings through my mind, nor the hailed Sesotho greetings from passing villagers, but instead the words of America’s president, Donald Trump, when he spoke of “the African nation of Lesotho, which nobody has ever heard of.”
We pass the traditional hand-sewn, thatch-roofed rondavel huts (mokhoro) dotted upon the sloping hillsides to our left as we follow Tebaho, the local secondary school’s design and technology teacher, out of Linakaneng, a rural community council in the south of Lesotho’s Mokhotlong district, in which we are residing. A junior football match takes place on a worn grass pitch past the corrugated tin-roof buildings to our right, with onlookers ranging from schoolchildren and the kindly village elder who welcomed us into her home to the resident cattle and donkeys.
The dust from the sprinting steed has not yet settled as I find myself, in comparison, barely reaching a trot along the sandy gravel mountain pass, trusting in a Basotho pony for my maiden horse-riding expedition. Should I have paid more attention to the Canadian TV series Heartland?
A seemingly endless massif rises to the left, dotted with the blue-green swirls of Lesotho’s national plant, aloe polyphylla, or spiral aloe, while sheer drops to the valleys below teeter on our right. Luckily for me, my allotted horse is as much at one with Lesotho’s winding mountain passes as the country’s inhabitants, each step full of assurance and intention, no guidance required—much like the nomadic civilians we pass deep in the rugged countryside, walking into what seems to us to be one of nature’s mazes, yet always with a clear destination in sight.
It is not by accident, then, that one finds themselves in Africa’s highest country, where each locale is at least 1,400 metres above sea level and where the highest peak, Thabana Ntlenyana, reaches a lofty elevation of 3,482 metres.
Having very much heard of Lesotho and its natural beauty, it was with an intention of direction aspiring to that of my current equine companion that we had set out on the first portion of our cross-country expedition the previous day, beginning with the renowned Sani Pass, the highest pass in Africa, climbing to approximately 2,876 metres. The serpentine bends of this high-altitude, gravel mountain pass, connecting South Africa’s Underberg with Mokhotlong, put our Toyota Hilux to the test, but a pint at Sani Mountain Lodge, the highest pub in Africa, was certainly worth the climb.
From here, our aim was Thaba-Tseka, the capital town within the district of the same name in eastern Lesotho, and a four-hour journey according to our digital maps. We were making steady progress north-west along the tarmac road leading from the Sani Pass towards the city of Mokhotlong, passing a sign marking the highest point of this road, at 3,240 metres, beneath which three men rested, head to toe in grey woollen wraps. Yet just over an hour into the journey, upon heading further west away from the A1 road leading to Mokhotlong, this kingdom in the sky showed us that nature, not the timings of man, reigns supreme here.
Tarmac ended, gravel ensued, and our steady pace shifted to a jolty crawl along rutted mountain passes, moulded not to the tread of tyres, but to the feet of the nation’s rovers and animals—the very beings who passed by and unwittingly left us trundling along in their wake for the next three hours.
For this is a country in which an air-conditioned car is often superseded by a man on foot, clothed in his Basotho blanket, large rain boots (or gum boots) and a woollen balaclava, cap or mokorotlo: a conical woven hat with a top knot, made of local mosa grass and displayed upon the nation’s flag. As he strides up and down the steep mountain paths alone, on horseback, or herding cattle, it is here that tradition and a centuries-old way of life remain.
In fact, the Basotho blanket itself dates to the 1800s, when in 1860 a British trader by the name of Mr Howel presented a blanket to King Moshoeshoe I, who much preferred its warmth and durability to traditional animal skin cloaks (karosses) and so endorsed it as the new national dress. Now, versions of the Basotho tribal blanket, or seanamarena in Sesotho, are worn by many across the country, including herd boys, who also don large gum boots to wade through muddy mountain terrain with their animals.
Still deep in rural Lesotho, where many miles lay between villages, we could count on one hand how many other cars we had seen in this district during nearly four hours of travel. The country’s road network remains limited, with improvements and expansion localised to cities such as the capital, Maseru, while rural communities, like those in the Mokhotlong district, face prolonged journeys on foot to reach the nearest town.
As the mountain pass approached the winding course of Linakaneng River, and with the sun slowly sinking on the horizon, salvation came in the form of a navy-blue Isuzu D-Max, packed with food and clothing supplies, moving at the same laborious pace as us. Hailing the driver, we enquired whether we would reach Thaba-Tseka before dark. The answer was a firm but sympathetic no, yet the young driver, an employee at a shop in a nearby village, explained that he could help us secure accommodation for the night. Faced with the prospect of a reclined car seat and a flimsy sweatshirt as the only comforts for the upcoming night’s sleep, in a country where temperatures often drop below freezing at night, the decision to follow the young driver was unquestionable.
And so it is that we find ourselves on horseback in Linakaneng, having been welcomed by its inhabitants and introduced to Tebaho, a teacher, village stalwart, and friendly, amusing man who supports Chelsea FC and who challenged us to a game of snooker. His work at the village’s secondary school, where the annual fee is 9,000 Lesotho loti (£400 / $550), has made him a well-known figure in the area, regularly involved in community events and school projects, so who better to hear from as we explore the surrounding mountains?
“Wool, mohair, and meat—they are the three main ways of living from the animals here,” he says, as we exit the village, passing a herd of cattle plodding towards the village centre. “We are in the richest district of Lesotho. There are four diamond mines in this country that are competing worldwide, and charcoal is also significant. But the sheep are the diamonds to these people,” continues Tebaho, reflecting on the lives of his neighbours.
“The bigger problem here is the management of resources. There is a dam nearby that benefits four countries, including South Africa, who take water from here because it is pure to drink. But we don’t benefit from the sale.
“It is peaceful here, but we need better politicians. This place is rich in natural resources, but we have no good politicians to fight for this district,” he says. “Our lifestyle is natural, with little education, and people are taking advantage of that in the rest of the country.
“The townships are better because they take this economy down into the town, not here,” Tebaho expostulates, sharing what his community desires. “We want freedom of movement, we want an African passport, we want one African currency and no tariffs.”
As he guides us back towards the village to settle indoors for the night, before the temperature drops, I make one last survey of the village as seen from a distance. Yes, we had very much heard of Lesotho before our arrival; we had craved its natural beauty, imagined the scale of its mountains, and heard of the friendliness of its people. Yet perhaps what will always remain exclusive are the traditions and knowledge of its inhabitants: the whispered tales of moving mountains during tribal wars centuries ago, the long-established practices of living off the land, the inherent mastery of Lesotho’s weaving mountain passes. These remain landlocked in the country, secure despite its challenges, a way of life as steadfast as the surrounding mountains.
“You and me, we are the world together,” says Tebaho, as we bid each other goodnight. “We are happy for you to be here.”
