Solitude (Lesotho 1)

Solitude – Andrew McKenzie 24th October, 2004:

Solitude, that is the name of my cabin in the Drakensberg Mountains and it’s truly the place I call home. Unfortunately in order to live I am not able to stay here as often as I would like to. I have not been able to bring myself to rent it out to all and sundry though, as it somehow seems like a violation of my privacy. I know it sounds selfish but to think that someone else might be able to spend more time and derive more pleasure, in using it, than me, does not exactly make me happy.

I live in Yeoville, Johannesburg and I lecture in Political Science at the University of the Witwatersrand. More often than not I only manage to visit my cabin when I am on vacation, which luckily as an academic is more often than your normal nine to five job would allow. I have been coming here ever since I can remember, the cabin was my fathers originally. Back in the seventies we would pack-up, leave our home in Pietermaritzburg, Natal and spend our Christmas’ and New Year here. This is the height of the summer although on a number of occasions we came down the end of June and had great fun in the snow. My father had an old Land Rover, which he needed to be able to visit all his patients in the countryside. My recollections were of an overcrowded, overloaded Land Rover struggling up the Sani pass over the Drankensberg into Lesotho. Then a quick stop in Mokhotlong (the name means ‘Place of the Bald Ibis’), you always knew you were almost at the cabin when you arrived here. Mokhotlong, the closest town to the cabin, was once called ‘the lonliest place in the British Empire’ or so my father told me and I always remembered that, it was a rather desolate place. The Drankensberg has its highest peak, Thabana-Ntlenyana at 3482m (11 424 feet), not that far from where our cabin is. This part of Lesotho is referred to as ‘The roof of Africa’.

As a child I could not have asked for a more adventurous and exciting setting. I used to play for hours on end with Sipho (the son of our house help), Phule and Sibongile (brother and sister from the village), we were all more or less the same age. After breakfast, every morning, Sipho and I would be off and we normally would not walk far on the mountain path before Phule and Sibongile would turn up. With shouts of Lumelang (pronounced Dumelang, meaning, Hullo) we were off playing amongst the trees and streams, clambering over the boulders, shouting and laughing without a care in the world. Those were innocent and carefree days, something, I think, I remember most, when I think back to my youth.

It is sad, but I suppose inevitable that as I grew older, Solitude and my annual sojourn to Lesotho lost its appeal for me. Strangely enough, one of my reasons then, that there was nothing to do, is why it appeals to me now. It wasn’t until about twenty years later that I had a deep longing and felt myself once again drawn to Solitude. I was about thirty five years old by now, my father and mother had passed away by then, I was an only child. I had been married and things had gone really well in the beginning. Then somehow we had grown apart and things had deteriorated until we both realised that it was only a charade of a marriage and we had agreed to separate. If there had been children we might have been motivated to make more of an effort but as it was we had merely drifted away from each other. Helen now lectures at the University of Cape Town’s graduate business school in the Waterfront.

Solitude is very remotely situated in Lesotho with the closest neighbours being roughly eight miles away, although I can assure you, it seems much further, due to the steep gradient from there. The Swanepoels farm is approximately 10 miles from Mokhotlong. I leave my jeep down at the Swanepoel’s farm, my closest neighbour. There is no road beyond their farm and I usually have to negotiate with some of their farm workers to bring some goods up to the cabin, for me, with a pack horse. They are usually more than willing as I reward them generously and have made good friends with Manunu, one of the foremen. He usually brings the goods up the next day and is very fond of sharing all the local news, a willingness which is oiled with a glass of mampoer (local alcoholic beverage) and a cigar or two. This scene usually repeats itself once a week, when Manunu brings the mail.

Solitude is itself virtually invisible until one is almost upon it and then it is often obscured in a mist, which regularly swirls around the mountain slopes. Whilst climbing the steep path, one may catch a glimpse of it, only for it to disappear again. Solitude itself therefore takes on an almost ethereal, mystical quality, as it is only half visible through the haze, and one is never sure whether it is actually a man made structure or a rock formation resembling a cabin.

When I am at the cabin, it usually takes a day or two to rid myself of all the stresses of city life. It is as if I myself transform into a different me, a quieter more peaceful person one who is both happy and seeks nothing more than that which solitude has to offer.

I often sit for hours at the open window gazing at the swirling mist. As it changes, so to do the rock formations that jut out from it. At one point it is as if the whole valley is actually an ocean, with the rock formations taking on the shapes of a fleet of ships, afloat in this imaginary sea. Then it suddenly changes and in my mind it resembles a First World War battlefield, with the gas floating across the field. The various shapes are piles of bodies and or ancient abandoned tanks. At any minute I expect to see a group of soldiers bursting out of the gas / fog / mist.

It is strange how the mist itself seems to intensify the solitude of the cabin, it elevates it onto another level or plane as you can no longer see anything beneath the mist, one is left with the only option being to look up towards the last of the peaks and perhaps a more optimistic outlook on life. I find that, any time I spend in Solitude, seems to strengthen and equip me for the arduous journey that lies ahead. If I know that I have a significant challenge ahead, I always make time for Solitude.

I am almost seen as one of the tribe here locally, they have seen me grow up with their children and accept me as a local. Even although I disappeared for a good few years, this is accepted as a ‘rite of passage’, everyone knows who I am and I am warmly greeted when encountered out walking. For years my father used to run a local clinic whilst he was here on holiday, nothing formal mind you, but it was his small way of contributing to the well being of the community and this has been remembered and appreciated. Sibongile is a teacher now in Leribe Hlotse and often comes home to her village to visit, she has apparently never married. I have seen her and we had quite a pleasant conversation at the story tellers event, last year. I have taken it upon myself to sponsor this festival every year. They have a strong tradition of story-telling, often handed down from one generation to the next. The event that I sponsor, with Manunu’s help, has become a annual event. Shortly after the arrival of the New Year a Saturday is put aside. From about two in the afternoon the stories begin, a sheep and a calf are slaughtered and a variety of liquid refreshments are on hand. There is an accepted sequence, with the younger story tellers starting first, and the more experienced orators on last bringing the whole event to its climax. The meat is cooked slowly over the coals that will simmer for the rest of the weekend and the food is only served well into the night

As each speaker takes his place – he will call out to the crowd ‘U phela joang? (How are you?) to which the crowd will answer, as one ‘Ke phela hantle, Kea leboha’ (I am well, thank you). The story-teller will then launch into his story which often lasts for nearly one hour. I might add that this day is the culmination of events which have taken place over the year, with only the finalists being allowed to tell their stories on the evening. I do not speak Sesotho, other than a few greetings and pleasantries, so I am forced to closely watch the reaction of the assembled villagers, to each story and story teller. They are a very animated group and most stories are very interactive. There is an art to the whole process and from an early stage in their career the more successful orators learn to take their audience along with them, often acting out various parts of their story for emphasis. The crowd love to interject and there is much clucking of tongues and cheering when the heroes are victorious. Some of these stories have been told in their current format for a number of generations, the truly skilful orator blends the traditional with more current affairs and in so doing re-affirms the village’s identity within history and culture of their tribe.