Story: Snow in Africa

The South Drakensburg stood frozen in the low winter light as the Sani Carrier truck driver uncerimoniously deposited me in the main section of Underburg. He had supplies to drop off; I simply happened to be the only cargo with a pulse. The town reminded me of many rural hubs in the western US: one main drag, a couple of grocery stores, small strip mall with craft shops and the modern addition of an Internet café, the rendevous spot for transport to Sani Lodge. My wait was a short one. A Land Rover pulled into the parking lot; a twenty something man with tangled, mousey brown hair sporting a Himalayan knitted cap rolled his window down and shouted.
“ You Chrys?”
“ Yes”
“ I’m Matthew. Let me help you with your stuff.”

I handed him the sleeping bag; my internal frame backpack was at it’s limit, judging by the stress on it’s seams and I felt obligated to shoulder it’s weight myself. Matthew would have easily blended in at the Haight Asbury district of San Francisco. Reminded me of the lead singer from the Spin Doctors. The one and only guide currently on staff with Sani Lodge, he'd come from Capetown to this isolated part of South Africa two years ago. Didn’t miss the city at all. He hoped I wouldn’t mind if we stayed in town a bit. Wanted to check his e-mail. I needed provisions anyway, heading into the closest grocery while he connected to the outside world.

The smoke from the day’s field burning lay low against the horizon, turning the sunset lavender and pink. The farms and ranches were large, cattle snuggled up along feeding troughs before calling it a night. Well kept houses waking up with interior light. Sani Lodge lay tucked away from the main road behind a tea house. Only a couple of cars in the parking lot, seems only seasonally displaced residents of the Northern Hemisphere frequent this part of the world in June. The main room was cozy, fire blazing in the stone hearth, blankets and throws the color of spring wildflowers draped over a trio of couches. But the perfect accent were the pair of three month old tabby kittens making the entire living room their personal playground. They unabashedly pounced on my lap, their loud, percussive purrs disproportionate to their slight frames while Matthew fetched the manager.

Mark was there in minutes, rubbing his hands to revive their circulation, offering his right for a hearty handshake. His cheeks apple red from being outside, he simultaneously scooped up the lighter toned kitten, throwing it on his shoulder while he introduced himself. I noticed his South African accent was a bit muted.
“ Chrys. Where are you from in the States?”
“Las Vegas.”
“ Ah..I never made it out there. Lived in New York for two years. Visa ran out in May.” This explained his hybrid English perfectly.
“ Would love to go back. Think you could help me out?” His laugh was deep and genuine and I found myself immediately thinking of ways I might do just that.

I had a room with a pair of bunks to myself. Still a kid when it comes to this type of arrangement I grabbed the top right bed, marking my new territory by unfurling my mummy bag. Probably wouldn’t need it judging by the thickness of the comforters. I established a modest personal cosmetics counter on the small desk facing the window. Time for a shower to shake off the cold....if there was hot water left.

The single stall faced out towards the mountains. The water pressure powerful, the temperature wonderfully hot, I placed my right shoulder blade against the pounding spray, hoping to unfurl the knot I’d acquired back country skiing a decade ago. Making the ninety degree turn to face the steamy water face first, I watched Venus appear in the spectrum border between gold and aquamarine. My breath made a visible arc into the sub-zero air. I’d hike into these mountains the next day or so.

Like many solo travelers, my countenance calms once food and shelter are secured, if only for the night. After one of the most scenic showers I’d ever experienced, hunger propelled me towards the kitchen. The German couple I recognized from my wanderings in Pietermaritsburg the previous week ate a staff prepared meal in uncomfortable silence. No comments on the splendid scenery, no compliments on what appeared to be a delicious supper. I pawed through my groceries, opting for a chunk of excellent local cheddar and a hunk of brown bread, trying not to lust too obviously at the underappreciated culinary offerings one room away. A carmel colored cake sprinkled with cinnamon and a pitcher of milk sat on the edge of the table. Two perfectly paired food items ready for consumption. I peered from my perch on the counter by the sink, amazed when the taciturn pair left the table, dessert untouched.

It was the moo juice I craved. After two months of nothing but powdered, canned or boxed milk with funky aftertastes, the idea of a cold, fresh glass was downright orgasmic. My palate was recalling the last carton consumed, a half liter, downed in two gulps in Heathrow last April. Petty theft crossed my dairy deprived mind when Mark came bounding in, both kittens on his broad shoulders. He plopped down at the table, moved the cake and milk in front of him, cutting himself a generous slice.
“ Ah leftovers. Chrys, care for some?” I quickly grabbed the necessary plates, forks and glasses and saddled on in.

Between bites of the moistest cake I’ve ever tasted washed down with my all time favorite beverage, Mark informed me milk was complimentary here. The lodge had two Jersey cows they milked twice a day, placed a couple gallons in the fridge, unskimmed with the cream in tact, free for the taking. The Wisconsin side of my genetic coding was doing an internal victory lap.

The kittens, unhappy to being ignored on the floor, crawled up Mark’s pant’s legs in tandem. I blurted out loud what I’d been thinking for a few hours now.
“ Mark, you can have the keys to my house, my car, my life. I’ll even line up some tasty Vegas girls to show you around town, if I can just stay here for the rest of my life!”

He laughed and winced simultaneously. The kittens were attempting another ascent. Mark poured milk onto his cake plate, crumbs melting into the white liquid . The offering deterred the young felines from their mountaineering efforts, lapping with gusto at the sweet treat.
“ Sounds great! We’ll sort it out." and then he was gone.
""Off to the pub.” leaving three contented, full bellied critters alone to our own devices

Montages of photos of available day trips acted as the primary wall decoration. I circumnavigated the room as if in an art gallery. The images captured warmer days, people diving from rocks or moving down smooth granite slides into deep swimming holes. Proteas, South Africa’s national flower, in bloom on the hillsides. Pony treks into Basotho villages. The sun shone brightly on happy, sunburned faces. Wind burn would be the only coloration for those of us traipsing through the South Drakensburg on the cusp of the winter solstice.

A driving tour over Sani Pass, a visit with a local Lesotho family in their home, a drink at the Sani Chalet, Africa’s highest pub, was one of the few excursions I could book this time of year. I planned taking two self-guided hikes during my stay, each between six to eight hours. The coach potato in me leaned toward parking myself with a book by the fire while entertaining the resident cats. Enter hibernation Africa style maybe for one day out of three. Matthew had other ideas.

He came in bringing a blast of chilly air with him. Threw another log on the fire for good measure to warm his Grateful Deadhead bones by. He’d recruited four Brits and the solemn German couple for the run into Lesotho the next day. With me on board he’d have a full load to ferry to South Africa’s rooftop. His enthusiasm contagious, I readily agreed, abandoning my lower energy intentions.

The following morning I was on the verge of a calcium overload. No one else seemed as thrilled with the fresh milk, so I polished off the remainder of last night’s pitcher, plus part of another (with a couple pieces of cake to soak up the liquid) before heading off to see what the day might hold. A strong wind carried dull gray clouds into the valley. Three British women, best friends from London, Sex in the City types on their obligatory African holiday, a recorder (wooden flute) maker from a more rural part of England, myself and the silent Germans piled into the Land Rover. The women chatted and giggled in the back, talking fashion and boys. Tim, traveling on his own before attending an art festival in Grahmstown, sat next to me. The German pair actually smiled as they settled in the front seat beside Matthew. Voiced a desire to be back in time for tonight’s World Cup match. Germany was playing Sweden. Matthew assured them we’d be back in plenty of time, then launched through a checklist of necessities for everyone in his care. Besides warm clothes, cameras, binoculars and guidebooks, passports were the critical item. Big day for stamps: Lesotho (1), Sani Pass(2), back into South Africa (1), four in total. Great visual proof to go with the stories we’d tell friends and family when we returned to our real world lives.

We’d be one of several vehicles crawling up the mountainside towards the “kingdom of the sky”. Lesotho has an interesting history. Completely surrounded by the Free State province of South Africa, the local Basotho spent a good part of the 19th century protecting it’s lands from Boer intrusions. Matthew told battle stories of king Moshoeshoe the Great, his alliances with the British and the twist of political fate allowing the country to escape the tyranny of apartheid. At the border Matthew gathered our passports to get the first stamps. As we waited for approval to cross, the six of us began to break down the international boundries, starting with each other’s names. I chided Richard and Anna for unknowingly providing me with dessert the previous evening, breakfast the next day. Turns out they’d started their morning with cinnamon cake and cold milk too.

Road conditions reflected the crossover from one of Africa’s richest nations to one of it’s poorest. The smooth, graded gravel two lane quickly deteriorated into a deeply rutted path a little over one lane across. The road serpentined in horizontal waves, seventeen hairpin turns stitched together before reaching the summit at 2896 meters in elevation. Matthew's historical narrative continued, then shifted to more recent events cataloging the engineering of the road we were now on.

Constructed by crews between 1948 and 1954 headed by an Englishman named David Alexander, it's purpose was to provide an improved trading route between South Africa and it's smaller neighbor. There were plans to start paving the road in December of 2006. Tour companies fought this effort at modernization, believing it would put an end to a good chunk of their business if just any old family sedan could make the climb. I knew from experiences in the southern Sierras that improving a twisty mountain road only increased the number of visitors to an area, but they would come under their own horsepower. So the companies concern’s about an asphalted Sani Pass were not without merit.

The snowflakes started falling around turn ten. A big surprise, especially to our guide. Being from the coast, Matthew had never seen snow, much less driven in it. Not the most comforting notion as the Mkomazana River became a small ribbon below unforgivingly steep canyons. More than one rig, 4x4 or not, had been sacrificed to the rough terrain. The snow increased in intensity with each meter gain in elevation. We could have been anywhere in the Great Basin: Utah or the isolated ranges of central Nevada. Had it not been for the right-hand drive I might have offered to take the wheel, having logged tens of thousands of miles in this kind of weather when I worked for the Forest Service. The frozen precipitation came in at a thirty degree angle, pushed by a northwest wind. Matthew pulled over at turn fourteen across from a frozen waterfall. Our childlike leader celebrated his first snowfall catching flakes on his tongue, doing an exhuberant dance. A band of baboons watched from the top of the cascading ice, their fur coated on one side by snow. I swore one of the adults had a snowball ready to launch on it’s silly primate cousins below.

We crested the pass fifteen minutes later, the storm even more impressive on the other side. Again the similarity to the cold desert of the American West was striking , red barren hills over 2500 meters on either side shrouded in snow, short scrub vegetation, few if any trees. An inch of snow lay on the ground with more coming down. The vehicle crept slowly across the flat towards the lookout fo Thaba Ntlenyana peak. Normally a twenty minute ride, it took an hour to reach the viewing spot. We hiked the short distance to the vista point. Unable to see the famous mountain in the swirling storm, our entire clan quickly high tailed it back to warmth and safety of the vehicle and an inside picnic.

After lunch Matthew backtracked for our visit with the local family. A widow and the village’s local brewmaster, she was paid for these repeated invasions of privacy. She welcomed us, a green wool blanket draped over her left shoulder. Her rondavel warmed by a central fire, she had her guests sit opposite four of her children. The baby, perhaps eighteen months, rested against her right hip. Her youngest was very ill, the left side of her face grotesquely swollen. As the woman offered us bread and yeasty beer, Matthew exchanged quiet phrases in Sesotho while slipping some bills into her hand. A bit awkward with the translation, he managed to convey her difficult story. She hoped to get a ride to Hlotse to get the baby to a clinic. The bad weather could mean several days before a car passed by she could intercept and plead her case to come along.

Other houses scattered to the west and south were delineated by light smoke plumes perpendicuarly reaching into a partially clearing sky. As if on que everyone in the car turned around watching our slight hostess become smaller and smaller through the window. Would a car come by soon? Would her child get the treatment she needed? The ride towards Sani Chalet was quiet, anticipation of more modern hospitality subdued after this fresh, unexpected intimacy.

We overtook a horseman before turning into the pub. A dead lamb lay across the front of his saddle (tragedy or supper, I silently wondered), which he quickly covered with his blanket as Matthew approached. We got permission to take his photo, again for pay. A modern blue canvas briefcase strung diagonally left to right across his body. Possibly a stash of marijuana on it’s way down the mountain. Smuggling is the highest paying job in a sheep herding society where the once burgeoning textile industry cannot compete in the new global economy. We didn’t leave the rig to snap our pictures. The cash was handed to him toll booth style; he barely acknowledged the currency before spurring his bay pony forward into the wind and cold.

On the deck of Africa’s Highest Pub, the London gals threw snowballs. Richard and Anna playing along. Tim and I shared personal histories while downing something warm next to the fire. Married to a woman for twenty-five years who didn't share his wanderlust, he truly enjoyed being on his own, schemed of ways to stay away longer and not end up divorced. We surveyed the collection of antiquated skis lined up on the chalet’s walls. Apparently there is a conical basin somewhere in Lesotho equipped with a pommalift where they come in handy. I sipped my hot chocolate, spinning a fantastical geographic mantra through my increasingly flipped out consciousness:
“Snow in Africa! Skiing in Africa. Snowball fights in AFRICA!”
These were not the scenes my inner child had fashioned from hours of watching Marlin Perkins and Jim Fowler on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.

Matthew slipped into four-wheel low, a necessity for the return trip on the throughly snow covered road. Vehicles from competing tour companies were just summiting from the other side, cutting it close for a return trip. The border shut down at four and it was now a little past three. Matthew successfully let gravity, his familiarity with the route and his newfound courage as a winter road warrior move our merry band in and out of customs with time to spare.

By the time the sprawling property of the upscale Sani Pass Hotel filled the windscreen (where we could watch the World Cup in their state-of the art sports bar), the snow had dissipated to light flurries. Still on a adrenaline high from negotiating seventeen switchbacks in Arctic conditions, Matthew sprinted towards the common room, anxious to tell anyone and everyone about this latest accomplishment. One worthy of a line or two on his CV I think. I had another warm, aesthetically pleasing shower planned for my immediate future...then perhaps more of that milk.