“Quick,” I nodded to Jessica and her brother Tim, two young Americans I’d put on the fifteen-hour bus ride from Cape Town, “let’s go. We’re at the border.” He had noticed a sign saying Ladybrand 10 miles in the other direction. So I checked with the conductor and of course we overlooked our ticket destination. But it suited our purposes as we were heading to Lesotho, a small country completely surrounded by South Africa. A proverbial pimple in the face of your huge neighbor.
We walk to the South African customs. I handed the official my Canadian passport. He went through it a few times and checked each page. “You come from South Africa, but you don’t have an entry stamp.”
“Wait a minute,” and I handed him my Australian passport. Same swipe, same voting page.
“Sorry, sorry. I forgot I left Argentina with my New Zealand passport.” I blushed to the roots of my red hair. After 103 countries, you’d think I’d at least know the routine. The customs woman handed my passport back to me and admonished me like I was the slowest kid in first grade: “Remember you have to present your New Zealand passport when you leave.” Behind me, Jessica laughed. “You looked like a spy pulling out one passport after another.”
We cleared Lesotho customs and walked towards Maseru. I suddenly felt like I was back in Africa again. Yes, South Africa is part of the continent, too, but a two-week chronic diet of high walls topped with live wire and security guards had made me uneasy. There was an undercurrent of raw violence and I felt like I was under house arrest. Suddenly I was able to breathe and walk down the street without fear of being mugged, or worse.
At the taxi rank I asked a local for the fare to Maseru. One thing I’ve learned from traveling is that as long as you know what it should be, no one argues. Ignorance can end in a nasty discussion. The driver took us to the tourist office which was actually a tourist shop and the staff were unable to offer any help. Tim and Jessica headed to the taxi park that would take them to Semongkong, where they planned to walk.
What to do what to do? She hadn’t been able to book anything online that wasn’t terribly expensive. So I inquired and heard about the Victoria Hotel. On my way I saw a travel agency that was up a flight of stairs on the way to the reception. I loaded up my carry-on and diaper bag, perfect with all sorts of compartments, and met Violet, a delightfully kind and helpful woman. One of those types of people you instinctively know you can trust with your money and your passport.
The only thing on my travel schedule was meeting friends from Canada and Australia in Johannesburg on January 13. So the kind of plan was to spend a few days in Maseru and then go to Swaziland and Mozambique.
“Are there buses or trains from Maseru to Mbabane?”
Violet shook her head. The only way was to go through Johannesburg. She’s done with Plan A. She searched for a couple of expensive rooming houses that seemed impossible to find.
So I thanked Violet and wandered around the center of Maseru, the two square blocks. I had a momentary deja-vue that I was back in Shendam, Nigeria in 1981. Every passing taxi driver was honking at me. But that made sense since I was a white woman with luggage and everyone knows they don’t walk. But I didn’t take it personally, since he did it to everyone else on the street, too.
On my way to an internet cafe I stopped by Alliance Francais, an outdoor restaurant. The cook assured me that he would be there until 15:00. It looked like a good place for lunch.
There is nothing exciting in the inbox that requires immediate attention. I checked out places in Bloemfontein, a city in South Africa an hour and a half away, and it’s rumored to be one of the most boring places on the planet. Hmmmm, nothing very interesting there. But never mind, I’d go with Plan B and see what I could find when I got there, stay the night and catch a bus back to Johannesburg.
Since lunch was going to be the highlight of my trip to Lesotho, I was going to enjoy every bite. And I did it. Chicken, rice and some vegetables may not be the most exciting food in the world, but it was the ambiance and atmosphere that made up for anything that might have been lacking in flavor. And the people watching were fascinating. Drinking a locally brewed beer, which is another one of my rituals in each country, although I don’t particularly enjoy the foam, on a hot day it quenched my thirst.
Finished lunch I headed back to the taxi park to go to the border. As I got out of the taxi, a salesman asked if I was going to Bloemfontein and led me to a waiting car. There was a petite woman sitting in the front seat. A couple of vendors got together with a great mom. And I say big, as only Africa can produce. It took two rounds of bargaining and pleading to convince the petite woman to give up her seat to the one looming over the consul in the middle of the car.
Then we left. It was a new car and the guy drove well. On the way to Bloemfontein I switched to Plan C and said, “Please drop me off at the bus station.”
When I asked the Intercape employee about the buses to Johannesburg, he said the first available seat was three days later. Similar to the next bus company. Then I found Eldo’s office.
“When’s the next bus to Johannesburg?”
“Tonight at midnight.”
“Is there a seat available, is it a luxury bus and does it have a bathroom?”
Yes to all three. As it turned out, he should have clarified the definition of “luxury”. And it should have been “Do you have a working toilet?”
I spent the evening at the Barrel and Basket, drinking sauvignon blanc, nibbling on seafood, and using their free wi-fi to my heart’s content. It was one of those connected times where there was nowhere I’d rather be or anything else I’d rather be doing.
Then it was midnight and he was gone without an Eldo bus in sight. When I looked back at the counter, the woman assured me, “It’s coming.” And she did, barely an hour and a half late. When she arrived, I seriously thought about staying in Bloemfontein for three days to take the Intercape.
Eldo’s bus seemed mechanically questionable. Plus, it reeked of sweaty bodies crammed into close confines. The bus was full and people were scattered in various contortions of sleep. And it was dirty. The front seat was free, so I slid into it and propped my carry-on next to me. There was no way I wanted to part with that bag.
The bus backed up. Even though I’m an atheist, I did an Insulallah (Arabic by God’s will we would) just for extra protection and a bit of ju-ju singing. Once on the open road, the driver drove as if he were behind the wheel of a sports car. When he started talking non-stop on his cell phone and texting, I got fed up. So, in no uncertain terms, I told him I was going to sue him for dangerous driving. He yelled at me that he was a good driver and I told him to prove it. He cursed me out loud for being a white bitch, but he put the phone away from him and slowed down.
At 07:00 we arrived at Park Station in Johannesburg intact. It was hard to resist acting like Pope John and kissing the ground, but I managed to hold it back. Barley.
Thirty-eight hours is a long drive just to have lunch in Lesotho. But I got a passport stamp, a meal, and a story. Bonuses.