The road from the capital of from the capital of Maseru to Semonkong, “The Place of Smoke,” is 120 kilometers long. 70 kilometers of that road is unpaved, swirling around hills, trudging up mountains and barrelling down valleys. The road is impossible: where it is paved, it is more potholes than pavement; where it is dirt, it is chunky rock. Rolling hills pleated with agriculture, alternatively brown and green, flank the road. Mideval homesteads dot the long yellow grass, houses of stone with perfect cabbage patches and precariously stacked stone enclosures for the horses grazing near by.
We took a walk to the nearby waterfall. Everywhere are men wrapped in woolen blankets on horseback, on donkey back, herding sheep, goats, cows or leading donkeys loaded with sugar from the frontier town of Semonkong back to their villages. I stopped to talk to a herd boy and his two younger companions on the hill near the waterfall. They were all plaid blankets and Wellingtons, seemingly held in place by their herding stick, veLesotho, Semongkongrtically erect and clung close to their bodies. Fifty-four head of “cattles” and I got to pet one.
“Ki ya liboha.” Thank you. The cow’s fur is thick keep him warm in the cold alpine mountians in this Kingdom in the Sky. A nearby bull lets out a long urgent note.
“Is he hungry?” I ask.
“Yes,” replies the herdboy. “He want sex.”
We decide, despite the snow flurries already at eight in the morning, to go on an overnight pony trek into the mountains. We set off on barely tamed horses into the freezing hills. It is very haunting, very beautiful, very cold. We galloped through a rose and gold medow fringed by frosted hills. We passed over countless hills: steep cliffs, sheep grazing on impossible faces; rocky hills, homesteads perched on unreachable places. The hills are of full of livestock that surprise you with their camoflauge and the air is full of the tinkle of sheep bells and the clang of cow bells. Young herdboys run across the hills in the distance, grey blankets billowing like a cape behind them. Children, naked except for their blankets and boots, yell “bye-bye” and wave enthursiastically as we ride by. I try to smile but just manage to grimace back in the cold.
When we reach the village where we will spend the night, two boys slip-slide us over rock, billy goat style, to a heartstopping view a waterfall. Our host’s hut was so smokey it made my eyes water, but my feet were so cold, I toughed it out. We slept in the village’s health center/school/community cventer. We cooked some MSG laden soup and pasta and slept in every available articlue of clothing.
Letsotho was amazing. It was cold. It was beautiful. The fresh baked bread, cooked in a witch’s caludren over a fire, was delicious. The local “Luwala” brew was potent. And even the Grandmas are snorting tobacco and smokeing weed. Anything, really, to stay warm.
We took a walk to the nearby waterfall. Everywhere are men wrapped in woolen blankets on horseback, on donkey back, herding sheep, goats, cows or leading donkeys loaded with sugar from the frontier town of Semonkong back to their villages. I stopped to talk to a herd boy and his two younger companions on the hill near the waterfall. They were all plaid blankets and Wellingtons, seemingly held in place by their herding stick, veLesotho, Semongkongrtically erect and clung close to their bodies. Fifty-four head of “cattles” and I got to pet one.
“Ki ya liboha.” Thank you. The cow’s fur is thick keep him warm in the cold alpine mountians in this Kingdom in the Sky. A nearby bull lets out a long urgent note.
“Is he hungry?” I ask.
“Yes,” replies the herdboy. “He want sex.”
We decide, despite the snow flurries already at eight in the morning, to go on an overnight pony trek into the mountains. We set off on barely tamed horses into the freezing hills. It is very haunting, very beautiful, very cold. We galloped through a rose and gold medow fringed by frosted hills. We passed over countless hills: steep cliffs, sheep grazing on impossible faces; rocky hills, homesteads perched on unreachable places. The hills are of full of livestock that surprise you with their camoflauge and the air is full of the tinkle of sheep bells and the clang of cow bells. Young herdboys run across the hills in the distance, grey blankets billowing like a cape behind them. Children, naked except for their blankets and boots, yell “bye-bye” and wave enthursiastically as we ride by. I try to smile but just manage to grimace back in the cold.
When we reach the village where we will spend the night, two boys slip-slide us over rock, billy goat style, to a heartstopping view a waterfall. Our host’s hut was so smokey it made my eyes water, but my feet were so cold, I toughed it out. We slept in the village’s health center/school/community cventer. We cooked some MSG laden soup and pasta and slept in every available articlue of clothing.
Letsotho was amazing. It was cold. It was beautiful. The fresh baked bread, cooked in a witch’s caludren over a fire, was delicious. The local “Luwala” brew was potent. And even the Grandmas are snorting tobacco and smokeing weed. Anything, really, to stay warm.
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