The Trek To Heck Pony Ride Not As Romantic As It Sounds

Does pony trekking in Africa sound like an exotic adventure? It must, because every tour operator, travel agent and guidebook writer outside the U.S. has already been through here, judging from the zillions of business cards plastered to the walls of the Malealea Lodge bar. They’ve even pasted up some helpful articles for the novice.

The sport must be world-renowned because one of the articles began, “Sure, everyone’s heard of pony trekking in Lesotho….” Another went for the classic, I’m-braver-than-hell-for-doing-this-but-here’s-how-easy-it-is approach. A third writer took the descriptive route and explained the color of every rock his pony had stepped on. Trotting through the rugged gorges outside Malealea just seems to be the thing to do, like riding a mule in the Grand Canyon.

Lesotho is a tiny country completely surrounded by South Africa. I hitchhiked to Malealea with a group of Germans in a minivan. Once in town, we made arrangements with a guy named Mick for an overnight pony trek, at about $100 each. We bought our food at the only store in town (to be honest, the store is the town).

I also picked up a Lesotho pony-riding hat for $3 right off the head of the hat maker, complete with a year’s worth of sweat stains. The most interesting feature of this hat, other than the smell, was a small knob on the top which made the head of whoever wore it look like a kitchen pot.

The next morning, we met our two young guides, Clement and Izekiel, packed up the ponies and headed off down the trail at the speed of teenage facial hair growth.

I must say these ponies didn’t look like the kind I sat on at the state fair when I was 6 years old. They were more like small horses, which is just as well because one of the German riders, Martin, weighed about 225 pounds and would have crushed a lesser steed.

“What’s the name of my pony?” I asked. Izekiel and Clement didn’t know. Seems the lot were simply numbered one through five. I mounted No. 2.

None of the Germans had ever been on a horse before. Reiner, who was as close to “The Odd Couple’s” fussy Felix Unger as anyone could possibly be, picked Pony No. 3, which went wherever he wanted, largely because Reiner wouldn’t steer him, kick him, or raise his voice, for fear of causing physical or psychological damage. He just pouted until Izekiel or Clement passed by and lead his pony out of the bushes.

Half an hour into the trek, we were supposed to descend a rocky trail into a beautiful gorge. Pony No. 2 did not want to carry me down the trail. No. 1, No. 3, No. 4 and No. 5 quickly joined the strike. We all had to get off and pull our steeds down the trail. At the bottom, we came to a river and a bunch of 6-year-old kids rode/swam the horses to the other side. We rowed across with the saddles in a boat made out of, I think, aluminum foil.

Back on dry land, the ponies struggled up the steep trail to the first picturesque village, where we were greeted by the “friendly Lesotho villagers” mentioned in one of the travel articles. Most of the children greeted us with demands: “Give me sweets!” or “Give me money!” (No one said, “Your head looks like a kitchen pot” but I knew they were thinking it.) We wanted to punch the tourists or travel writers who first gave in to these kids. Upon reflection, however, we figured if someone had handed out, say, pocket lint, we’d probably be hearing, “Give me pocket lint!”

Once past the village, Karin, the lone woman on the trip, noticed one of our guides had disappeared.

“Where’s Izekiel?” we asked Clement.

“Izekiel has girlfriend in village. He come soon. Don’t worry.”

By the time Izekiel caught up with us 20 minutes later, we’d reached the next village. Again, kids ran up to us with smiles and open hands. This time, we left without Clement. I was beginning to understand why we needed two guides.

We rode for about eight hours before reaching the village, where we were scheduled to spend the night. But the fun wasn’t over. We still had to hike for an hour to see a waterfall before sunset. Apparently, seeing this waterfall was the main goal of our journey. Izekiel and Clement, exhausted by their extracurricular activities, found a local guide to take us to the falls.

We got there only to find the sun had already set and the water was approximately zero degrees. A few of us, who smelled a lot like our ponies, jumped in, then hurried back to the village. After a savory beef jerky dinner, we fell asleep in our “rondavel,” a round, thatched hut with a mud floor. Ours was a VIP rondavel with glass windows, a gas burner and some foam mattresses scattered on the ground.

Heading back the next day, we took a slightly different route so Izekiel and Clement could rendezvous with two other girlfriends. We never managed to improve our speed much because Reiner had no more control of his pony than when he started out. He was the sort of rider who’d get lost on a rocking horse.

Back at the river bank, most of us decided to ride the ponies across ourselves, much to the disappointment of the 6-year-olds. We doffed our pants and plunged into the water, which was deep enough in the center so the ponies could just keep their heads above the surface. I began to wonder if I was drowning No. 2, just before I felt him touch the solid river bed. I have to mention this because it was the most exciting thing that happened on the entire ride.

The ponies marched us up the steep path they’d refused to walk down, then raced the remaining two miles back to camp. They hadn’t gone faster than a slow trot the entire trip but, smelling home, they broke into a bouncy trot, with occasional low-speed cantering. Martin’s pony was clearly straining under his weight. The other Germans were bouncing neck and neck. Except for Reiner on No. 3, who’d settled in a bush at the top of the path.

Back in Malealea, I dismounted, wobbled into the bar and triumphantly added my business card to the collection.