A Hop, Skip, and a Jump: Border Hoppin' in Basotho Blankies

"I don't think Paul's gonna make it." Rochelle says grimly.

I shake my head in disbelief, gaze straight ahead. Behind me, Sophie cries out in a strangled voice "What do you mean he's not gonna make it?! He can't die, not now!"

Paul is the 1980 Buick Centurion we borrowed from a friend. Our task was simple: drive three hours to the neighboring country of Lesotho, cross the border to extend our soon-to-be expired visas, and return home, with a sense of accomplishment and a new stamp in our passports.

It didn't exactly go as planned.

"Simple" was the word on my mind as we hovered at 16,000 feet, where Paul had sputtered to a halt on a 75 degree incline of the dubious Moteng Pass ("Moteng", I've since decided, is the Sotho word for Death). We had no phone reception, the sun was setting, and the nearest village was hours away. "This was supposed to be simple" I thought to myself, as I stared at the steep incline ahead of us, "how the heck did we get into this mess?".

Lesotho is a bit of an anomaly. Completely surrounded by South Africa, it has nevertheless managed to maintain its independence and completely avoid apartheid. Racism and segregation are not part of the vocabulary, and crossing the border is like stepping into a time-warp: horses outnumber cars, villages replace towns, and the Basotho people live simple lives as farmers and shepherds, swathed in their traditional dress of colorful woolen blankets.

Now, had we done any research before embarking on this journey, we might have known not to attempt Lesotho in a vehicle boasting -2 horsepower. But I've always been a "fly by the seat of your pants" type of gal, and in this instance, it was proving to be more of a weakness than a strength.

I'd like to say the story had a more dramatic ending, that we were rescued by a lusty herdsman and delivered to safety on the back of his noble steed. But no...fortunately, Paul decided life was worth living after all, and Ro is a pro with a stick shift. We got out of the pickle, found shelter for the night, and had a brief yet illustrious glimpse into the splendor that is Lesotho.

Writing from the safety of docile little Memel, I can look back on the 24 hours of terror and admit that it's one of the things I love most about traveling. You never know when the next adventure's going to happen, when a simple border run will turn into a memory you will laugh about for years to come. Travel challenges you and throws you off guard when you least expect it. And the reward is always worth your effort.

Oh! I forgot the best part. We were denied our visa extension. Next stop Zimbabwe?!?