God Made Dirt And Dirt Don’t Hurt

“Some see oceans and mountains as great divides. We see them as playgrounds.”

This was certainly the case this weekend as Casey, Aly, Meg, and myself returned to the foothills of the Southern Drakensberg and frolicked into Lesotho Sunday afternoon. An extended weekend was just the remedy for our stir-crazed days in res and increased pressure of studies (…by study abroad standards). So by the kindness of my friends’ ceramics professor, Susie, we were invited to a getaway on her beautiful farm for a little home cooking, freedom, and champagne.

Her property overlooked the mountains and stretched for kilometers on end. We woke up to the crisp fall air and sunshine beaming through the farmhouse windows to Susie and her husband, Shane, tugging four Adirondack chairs to the edge of the lawn. That was our cue to roll out of bed, sip on tea, nom on toast, and take in the postcard-worthy morning. A philosophy I have gathered while abroad is the dogma that every day is full of possibilities. If there ever were an archetype moment for my new outlook- that morning would have been it. The sun was shining, the cows were moo’ing, and every cliché of a handsome day was present. As pleasing as it was to bask in the morning rays, we decided to venture off into the wild and see what kind of trouble we could muster up on hectares (acres) of land. And so, like any good adventure begins, we laced up our takkies, told our mother for the weekend where we were headed, and scampered off into the hills.

Between the four of us, there is never a breach in pandemonium… we attempted “log rolling” on hay rolls, pull up contest on trellises, wading in the melted snow stream, and excavated some buck bones. We were a Bear Grylls gang, lost in the adventure- like children at play.

…so why expect anything less for our excursion into Lesotho? Susie specified sincere concern for our derrieres freezing up the mountainside, so we naturally paid homage to our main American man, Macklemore, and “thrift shopped” in the closets of Sean Dwyer, Susie’s grown son. The gems we found only added to the glory of the day as we blazed up the Sani Pass in our 4×4 with our trusty guide, Warren. Every turn was a photo op and let me tell you…the Pass is like Lombard Street on steroids…we had quite the shoot modeling our bucket hats and rugby jerseys. At times we felt as if we were going to tumble down into the ravine but when the dirt road hit broader strips, I somehow finagled my way into the driver seat and learned how to drive stick shift (like a champ). When we hit the peak, it was time to exercise our legs and our collegiate stomachs as we hiked to perches for the best views and taste tested, what we deemed, the worlds foulest beer. If four college students declare Maluti premium lager worse than PBR…that should be a red flag to all you beer connoisseurs out there. But then again, it made for a great story as we attempted to shotgun our cans over a four-hour period.

Nothing was going to stop us from being on top of the world-literally. The “kingdom in the sky” was barren with flocks of sheep grazing just beneath the snow-capped peaks. I had never experienced a quiet that was so settling as we entered into the village…and by village I mean 5 mud huts covered in soot from the cow dung fire that murmured inside. It was strange to be on this grand adventure and realize that we were walking into peoples’ lives, becoming a spectacle to them, as their lifestyle was a marvel to us (granted, we did look like total goofs in our little bucket hat gang). For a hot sec we even considered the sick idea of waking up to that raw terrain every day, we even had some la bola offers (dowry in cows)…. (no worries Mom and Dad) that moment was just as fleeting as we realized the mundaneness and solitude in sheep herding for days on end. Could you imagine Han the shepherd? No ways. But it was interesting to note that in the remoteness of our location we still found the simple joys of being kids, like climbing rocks, to be the highlights and common ground between the mountain people and ourselves.

Now there isn’t much to say about the trek back down, it was just as rickety and just as scenic. I got another shot at driving down the easy grade and we maintained our touristy spunk asking questions about the Zulu culture. Overall, the weekend was one for the books. Susie celebrated our presence with red wine and champagne each evening as we sat around the fire and enjoyed the company of one another; discussing everything under the sun from Africa’s development to our personal campaigns for presidency. We may stomp through the hills like the lost boys and find humor in fart jokes but you should never underestimate power of fresh air, sunshine, and good friends.