Lesotho Breaks, Lesotho Mends

I knew Lesotho would be hard. At 1600 meters, the country’s lowlands are still higher than almost any other place I’ve ever experienced, and at nearly 3000 meters, the mountains of the Central Region around Thaba-Tseka, have tested my lungs, my legs, and my tolerance for the cold. 

Maybe visiting this mountain kingdom in the dead of winter was a poor decision.

I’m not going to deny that this has been the most challenging leg of the journey so far. At 2800 meters, the air is always cold. At night, temperatures plummet, dashing any idea I had of camping my way through the country. Even indoors, without electric heating, the cold gnaws away at my bones, confining me to an early bedtime beneath layers and layers of blankets. It spills its way into everything, and at times I feel as if I shall never be warm again. On the bike, the sun keeps the cold at bay, but too much time dawdling in the shadows of a mountain quickly reminds one that the cold is real and that the ride must be completed before the night falls. Without the heat of an African sun, the wind bites, and the threat of rain or even snow can quickly ruin the prospects of a day’s ride.

I became painfully aware of this on the road to Thaba-Tseka, on a fifty kilometer stretch of gravel known as ‘The Pass of the Jackals.’ The day may have started out warm enough in the valley surrounding the town of Marakabeis, but it soon grew chill, as clouds blanketed the sky and hid even the dimmest rays of sunlight.

Five kilometers uphill, then ten, then fifteen; finally after twenty kilometers, you think it’s impossible to climb anymore, there’s nothing left but sky. You’re up on top the roof of Africa, above 2800 meters, but then you round the mountain, and there, in the distance, you can just make out that white bush taxi, the one that passed you over half an hour ago, a mere speck, climbing still and disappearing into the fog of a cloud. The weather here is dangerous. In these mountains, it can change in an instant, and the warm air that hung over the valley has risen, condensed, and now patters at your helmet, your jacket, your panniers, and the stones that make up a heavily pitted road.

The view is stunning. Somehow, the road manages to chart a course over the very tops of the mountains, at times staring down into immense chasms on either side: wide, fertile valleys reached only by foot or by horse. A herd boys moves with his cattle, goats, and sheep, a solitary figure in gum boots, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a woolen balaclava covering everything but his eyes, walking stick in hand, a mangy, but powerful, dog never far away. We see one another across kilometers of open space, both thinking the other is equally crazy: him for standing out in a field with virtually nothing to keep him safe and warm but a blanket from Pep, the South African equivalent of a shitty Wal-Mart, me for cycling through such terrible weather in a search for, what, a sense of adventure? A mark of pride that only I can carry with me, that only I may truly know?

I’ve had several people ask me what prompted this journey, and, especially here, they wonder, “Why Lesotho? Why Lesotho in winter?” The only answer I can come up with is pure, unadulterated masochism. It is a personal journey, one that I knew would challenge me, and one that I wanted to experience, to test myself and take a measure of my own character.

I anticipated a physical challenge, especially from the mountains. I’m from Indiana, a part of the United States that, when asked for a description, I will openly reply, “It’s about as flat as the table we’re sitting at.” I never even had stairs in my house, and when I ran cross country in high school, the only incline training we could get consisted of a set of bleachers overlooking the football field.

Here, in Lesotho, the altitude alone is enough to make you question the sanity of such an expedition, one undertaken with virtually no training other than zipping through London traffic on my way to work or school. Here, in Lesotho, your lungs simply never feel like they can get enough oxygen. Climbing these mountains, your body aches for a full breath of air, and every gasp feels like you’re drowning, clawing for an invisible lifeline you’ve always taken for granted.

Such is the environment I’ve entered into, but these are challenges that get easier with time. I’ve reached the highest mountains in Lesotho, and I’ve felt myself growing stronger with every passing day.

What I couldn’t have anticipated were the mental challenges that would await me, as the rugged landscape has tested, to the breaking point, both bike and rider. An early attempt to leave the pavement and take to the gravel roads from Mohale’s Hoek to Malealea proved more difficult than I could have imagined. In Lesotho, there is only one tarred road. Everything else is paved with, well…nothing. Cow shit, maybe, and rocks. The heavy summer rains carve ruts into the road that lead off the sides of mountains. Stones jut from all angles, some lodged in the earth, some free to slip and fly, forcing the rider to chart a haphazard course or risk damage to gears, spokes, wheels, and brakes.

I fear that the road has not at all been kind to the bike, and after a day and a half of riding on these back roads, forced to push the bike up hills too rocky and rugged to stay in the saddle, a bolt that held my pannier rack sheared off at the base, the result of a particularly brutal downhill jolt and a particularly large rock thrown up by the front wheel. A hitch and a trip to the hardware store fixed that problem, but only a few days later, I realized that the valve stem on my front tire had snapped, ruining the tube and leaving me with no backups until I reach South Africa. I’ve had to ride gingerly, regardless, as the pannier rack, bent from the incident with the broken bolt, touches the back wheel at even the slightest bump, and the risk of another broken bolt has been almost too much to bear. This frustration only compounds the mental exhaustion of long days in the saddle, and added to the physical toll of bad roads, high altitude, and inclement weather, these last few days of riding have been unbelievably difficult on both mind and body.

What Lesotho has broken, however, Lesotho will mend. The bike and I are currently taking some time apart. I’ve been fortunate enough to hook up with a Peace Corps Volunteer who teaches at a trade school, and her fellow teachers have been so good as to give the bike the care it needs. I, meanwhile, am taking the week off to experience Basotho culture in the remote highlands of the Central Range.

Some time apart has already done us some good, as, like a lover after a particularly petty argument, I realize that I miss the company my bike. I miss the freedom of the road and the thrill of feeling as if you’re on top of the world. We’ve come through some pretty tough challenges already and seen some pretty amazing things together, and I want to keep on going. Lesotho can bend, but it can’t break, and it may turn out that the country acts as a crucible, forging a stronger bond between us. Maybe it sounds silly to speak of an inanimate object in such a way, but I’ve found the longer that I’m on the bike, the more it becomes an extension of myself, just as a backpack, a water bottle, or a warm jacket becomes indispensable, and thus, invaluable on a long trip. Every item I carry with me carries with it the scars of experience, and thus become symbolic of everything I've overcome. The road may be hard, but it rewards those who suffer its challenges.

Cast of Characters: The Artist

Truth be told, this one could probably have been titled any of the following: The Artist, The Soldier, The Rebel, The Radical. Chris was one of those guys you meet that seems to have done it all and maintained a great sense of humor throughout an adventurous life. 

I met Chris and his wife Adelaide in Stanford, just outside of Hermanus, on my third day of riding. I pulled up to the farm stall for second breakfast, something that's become integral on days where I'm hitting upwards of 100 kilometers in the saddle. Before I'd even taken off my gloves, let alone dismounted, I was approached by an older couple, sweet as molasses, as they were leaving the shop. Where was I going? Where was I from? Such an adventure! Best of luck to you!

The conversation lasted less than five minutes, but within that time, I had an invite to stop and stay the night in Groot Braak River, halfway between Mossel Bay and George. They'd make sure I had a solid breakfast if I came through. It was about 400km away, but it was on my route, and they'd love to have me. 

I was floored. I had their address and their phone number and I hadn't even left the saddle. Who were these people? Why would they invite a complete stranger to stay with them after a two minute conversation? Were they planning to harvest my organs?

I arrived in Groot Braak about two weeks later, but the vagaries of the road being what they are, I did not have a chance to stop and spend the night with Chris and Adelaide. I did, however, pull Chris away from his work for an hour or two for brunch at one of his local haunts, a place so local that the only menus were printed entirely in Afrikaans.

Chris runs an art gallery, or, rather, Chris is an artist who sells his work through his gallery. But he isn't the typical artist that one is likely to find among the various hippy communities dotting South Africa's Garden Route. You know the type, the ones who sell various trinkets that only serve to clutter up your living room when you get home and realize that you wasted a few bucks on crap that you don't really want and never would have bought if you weren't on vacation. 

Instead, Chris paints beautiful works like these:

 

Chris's background in art stretches back to his youth, when he was one of the most daring up-and-coming artists in South Africa. At the age of 27, Chris's work was on display in 24 countries across world, including the US and Europe. 

At the height of his critical acclaim, Chris was approached by the Broederbond, Afrikaans for "The Brotherhood," a collection of the most powerful men in South Africa. These cultural, political, and economic elite were the architects of Apartheid, and they ruled almost every facet of South African life. 

They made Chris an offer typically unheard of for someone of his age, to join the Broederbond and gain access to South Africa's inner circle, the power brokers, the movers and the shakers, the godfathers. It was an offer he couldn't refuse.

But refuse it he did, and within months, his artistic career was over. He was blacklisted in South Africa, and the government made sure that his work couldn't reach the outside world. Chris told me, "Their attitude was one of, 'If you aren't with us, you're against us.' And that was it. I was out, and there wasn't anything I could do about it."

Like nearly every other South African man of his generation, Chris had been forced into military service, becoming a part of the behemoth that made up what was at the time the world's fourth best army. Many forget, or perhaps never fully realize, that South Africa, under apartheid, came as close as any government ever has to fully realizing an Orwellian vision of control and coercion. The army was one of the central pillars of the old South Africa, and every white man of a certain age was drafted into the machinery of oppression. 

Chris was no different, and it was in between marksmanship training, stick fighting, and jumping out of trucks eight to ten times a day that his rebellious spirit and his opposition to the Apartheid government grew. 

It wasn't that he couldn't handle military life. Indeed, he excelled at it, gaining notable recognition for his skill with a rifle. But the artist's spirit was strong within him, and he never lost his critical detachment from the powers that be. 

So when the Broederbond came knocking, he closed the door.

Chris would eventually go on to work for the government, in the Ministry of Information, rising high in the civil service, but on his own terms. As the political thaw that represented the end of apartheid was working it's way through the system, he happened to run into Cyril Ramaphosa, one of the ANC's most powerful figures in the transition and the current deputy president of the ANC, a man who has since gained immense wealth in mining, real estate, telecoms, energy, and banking. 

Chris, documents in hand, not knowing who he was speaking to, naively asked, "What happens to my position when the new government takes over?" The response? "Your previous service will be commended, but there will not be a place for you in the new South Africa."

So Chris jumped before he could be pushed, moving with his wife to Groot Braak to make a go of it with the career as an artist that he had let go so long before.

And it worked. Chris and Adelaide have lived very happily in Groot Braak for a number of years now. By his own admission, Chris doesn't make much, but it's enough for the lifestyle that they cherish. And that, according to Chris, is the most important thing in life: to lead the life that you want to lead. To live simply and appreciate what you have. 

Despite some of the hardship that he's faced in career and in life, Chris maintains a positively brilliant, or perhaps brilliantly positive, view on the world. He laughs easily and readily, a high pitched, infectious guffaw that carries its own vim and vigor. He's keyed in to many of the hardships faced by his fellow citizens, both in South Africa and throughout the world, but he somehow maintains an energy and an enthusiasm for life that is admirable beyond description.

While writing this entry, I keep coming back to the word life. Every adjective related to Chris: life, life, life. Perhaps that's what Chris represents for me. He's continued on and is doing what he loves in the place he wants to be. I think there's little more that one could ask from the world.

Plus he bought me breakfast. Small victories.

Stage Two: Headed North

I've been out of Internet range for a while now, but as of this writing, I've ridden over 1300 kilometers in just under one month. That's about 47 kilometers per day, though that average could be higher if it weren't for some extra days of rest with various hosts from Couch Surfing and Warm Showers.

Here's what I've got so far...


View Larger Map

So that's the first third of my journey out of the way. It's taken much longer than I'd initially planned, and my intentions of making it through Lesotho before the snows came have come to naught. The best laid plans of mice and men...I guess.

To be fair, the snows have come to the mountain kingdom much earlier than normal, but I never would have made it regardless. Cape Town to Port Elizabeth marked the first third of the journey, and I naively thought I'd be able to make it in two weeks. Two weeks, however, have quickly stretched into four, and a trip initially planned for six weeks is ballooning into a three month saga. 

Like a weapons program unsupervised, this project is sucking away time and money, but I've gone too far to quit now.

So from Port Elizabeth, I turn north. This is the truly masochistic section of my ride and one that I am both looking forward to and dreading with my entire being. From the coast, I will climb to over 3000 meters above sea level, winding my way up through the Winterberge and Stormberg ranges, mere foothills to the towering heights of the Drakensberg Mountains, the teeth of the dragon that separate me from the highveld and the final third of my journey. 

It is, quite literally, all uphill from here.

And I'm still not quite sure what has prompted all of this. Others have asked me, "Why not cycle along the coast and up through Mozambique?" I've heard the coast is beautiful, with sandy beaches warmed by the Benguela Current drawn from the Indian Ocean's equatorial waters.

But even with the difficulty of several thousand more kilometers, that trip would just be too easy, and thus, it's not for me. Even at the age of 28, there's still something to prove. Not to anyone else particularly, as I'm not sure who I'd be trying to impress. 

Instead, it's me. It's all for me. There's some critic hidden inside of me that's demanded more and more and isn't too impressed by any of my former travels and experiences. 

"An iron ore train through the Mauritanian desert?" he says' "Call me when you've spent 80 days with the salt caravans crossing the Sahara. Border posts in Cote d'Ivoire's Wild West? Yawn. I hear Kashmir is where the fun really is." 

Because these stories and experiences have been lived by me, they fail to impress, and I often overlook how adventurous they actually are. Instead, I devour stories of others' adventures, their experiences, the crazy things they've done, and I want more. I want to bike up and over the mountains. I want to struggle in the thin mountain air and fight it out in the Pass of the Jackals. It's only in the challenges and the suffering that I feel truly alive, and I don't know why that is or if it will ever go away.

I meet South Africans who hear my story and their first reaction is typically, "What possessed you? That takes some courage and strength." But it doesn't. It just takes getting on the bike. Some construe that as humility, but every day that I'm riding is just another day in the saddle. Clipping off seventy-five, eighty, ninety kilometers is something that is steadily becoming more and more routine, as innate as breathing, and just something that powers me through some of the most stunning scenery I've ever encountered.

And I'm beginning to wonder if I'll appreciate this climb after the fact. When I finally hit the Monontsa Pass and descend out of the mountain kingdom, will I truly think, "That was an accomplishment," or will I turn back to the mountain, shrug it off and think, "I wonder where the next challenge lies?"

I've never been an adrenaline junkie, but I'm starting to understand the mentality that goes into finding that next peak higher, that next gear faster, that depth unplumbed. I don't know if it ever ends, or if once you get a taste of adventure, you're left searching for the next great thing.

I'm not sure, but for now, all roads point north.

Time to climb.

Passes? We Don't Need No Stinking Passes!

I hate to start it with a quote, but when it's Hemingway, you get a little lee-way. Hemingway once said, about cycling,

"It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of the country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle."

He wasn't half wrong, and in the past few days, I've learned this lesson through some very intense experiences with this stunning landscape.

In the previous five days of cycling, I have gone up and then down, or down and then up two mountain and ten river passes. Eleven if you count the Gouritsrivier, which we really should, because it looks like this:

See those cliffs? Fuck those cliffs.

So what have I learned from these beautiful, but beastly, roads?

Well, for one, the two are not created equal. Even if they're the same length and climb and descend the same distance, river passes are far preferable to mountain passes. I was due to stay with a host from Warm Showers who, I discovered after about ten kilometers, lived just off of "Seven Passes Road."

Dear Lord, I'd just spent the last three days battling with Tradouw, Cloete's, and du Plessis Passes on the back road from Barrydale to Herbertsdale. This would kill me.

Not at all, it turns out. It was actually one of the best days of riding I'd had yet. Unlike the mountain passes in the semi-desert of the Klein Karoo, the seven passes of the namesake road (actually eight: Black River, Kaaimansgat, Silver River, Touw River, Hoogekraal, Karatara, Homtini, and Phantom Pass) all dove down into valleys or gorges, completely shaded, cool, and wet. Moreover, they were amazing! Bombing down winding roads at 40 km/hr is just a ton of fun, and when you're doing about 100km per day, a mental boost, having fun on the bike, is one of the best ways to power you through a ride.

Mountain passes, on the other hand, give little indication of the terror that awaits. You hit the base of the pass, check the sign (Tradouw Pass - 14km), and start to climb. And climb. And CLIMB. AND HOLY FUCKING HELL WHEN WILL THIS EVER END?!

Okay, it looks like I'm almost, OH WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM?!

Mountains hide mountains that hide even greater mountains. Worse, what seems like the end of the climb is often just a level stage that gives you just enough breathing room to curse your ancestors and all the stupidity that ever took you on this trip before HITTING YOU WITH ANOTHER MOUNTAIN.

When you've finally overcome the pass, and you're on your way down, you're too exhausted to really enjoy it. You've sweated it out, often under the full blaze of a noonday sun (I seem to be hitting mountain passes right in the middle of the day), and now you have this amazing view...and all you want to do is roll into the ditch and die.

But you can't, because you're clipped into the pedals, and you've still barely learned to unclip in high traffic areas. So even if you died, your body would just carry on down the hill, strapped to the bike, flopping about like some wacky, Weekend at Bernie's set piece.

Where was I? Ah yes, passes.

The longer I'm on the bike, the more existential the ride seems to get. Hit a river pass, and everything is golden on the way down. Even when you hit the climb, the energy you've built up and the fun you've had make the challenge a lot more manageable. The difficulties faced as a result of a hard uphill climb, on the other hand, can strip you of your ability to truly enjoy the great things in life (like getting a wicked downhill ride).

So you have to attack the hills. Seriously, it's the only way to get through it. Attack the most challenging parts that life (or landscape) throws your way, then pause to enjoy it once you've overcome it. Don't forget to stop and take a look from the top, but then carry on. You have many more miles to go.