Over the edge – The world’s highest commercial abseil in Lesotho

Lesotho’s mountains make it a perfect destination for extreme adventure sports. Best of all, it’s right on our doorstep. Scott Ramsay tackled the world’s highest commercial abseil.

Legend has it that a serpent lives in the pool in the abyss at the bottom of the Maletsunyane Falls in Lesotho, the highest single-drop waterfall in Southern Africa. Whether the beast exits or not, this waterfall has claimed two victims in recent years.

The first was a young shepherd, who became disoriented by the thick vapour spray and fell backwards off the 200 metre high cliffs. The second was an old man whose mangled body was discovered on the sharp basaltic rocks below. His cause of death remains a mystery. Local abseil expert Jonathan Halse buried the corpse nearby.
“The Basothos keep well away from the falls – they believe in the serpent. And I’ve lived here long enough not to deny them their beliefs. They’ve taught me plenty about how to survive here. Who’s to say they’re wrong?”

Jonathan stood on the top of the same cliff next to the waterfall and clipped his abseiling harness onto the rope. He looked nervous, despite 15 previous abseils off this rockface. He said goodbye and, as he disappeared over the edge, added, “I never quite get used .” The bass tones of the pounding water obliterated his last syllables.

They weren’t the words a first-time abseiler wanted to hear, tightening his harness and trying not to rationalise what he was about to do. So you breathe. Deeply. You’re about to attempt what the Guinness World Records rates as the world’s highest commercial abseil.

Adventure isn’t a catchword in Lesotho, it’s a way of life. The local Basotho people inhabit a country where 65 per cent of the landscape comprises mountains and only nine per cent is flat enough to cultivate. It’s a country that boasts the highest point in Southern Africa (3 482 metres) and highest low point (1 500 metres) of any nation in the world, including Nepal.

Lesotho living
Temperatures can plummet to -20C in winter, when snow can cut off entire regions from the outside world. To ward off the chill, Basothos wear colourful blankets, a custom started by the nation’s founder, King Moshoe-shoe I, in the 1800s and continued today with aplomb by most people who appear resplendently resilient to the encroachment of Western fashion.

It is here that the great rivers of Southern Africa, the Orange, Thukela and Caledon, have their source. The summer thunderstorms lash the landscape, carving out deep gorges as the surging torrents make their way off the southern watershed of Africa.

The Maletsunyane River that drops over the falls near Semonkong Lodge is one of the bigger tributaries of the Orange, gaining momentum in the Thabo Putsoa (meaning ‘blue-grey’), a range of mountains that reaches a height of 3 096 metres in the middle of Lesotho. Here, travellers talk of distance in days on horseback, not kilometres, because the erratic mountainscape makes road building and maintenance difficult. Basotho ponies are ubiquitous, leaving 4x4s looking awkward in comparison. Descended from Arab and Javanese breeds, they are hardy, regal horses that negotiate the tricky mountain paths with heavy loads on their broad shoulders.

The environment has moulded the horses, as it has the people. It was King Moshoeshoe I who gathered the survivors of the Mfecane slaughter and took them high into the mountains of Lesotho, out of reach of Shaka’s empire building. There they encountered San Bushmen, who had been in the area for about a thousand years. Over the years, they joined forces, living peacefully in a country that has never been wholly controlled by a foreign power, despite being a British protectorate for many years. Lesotho achieved full legal sovereignty in 1966 and its independent-minded people are quietly proud of their past.

The white folk in Lesotho are also patriotic about their adopted homeland. There is a zeitgeist of inclusion of white outsiders. People like the Halse family have been around since the days of the nation’s founding father. Jonathan Halse, who operates the abseil down Maletsunyane Falls for Semonkong Lodge, is the fourth generation of an English trading family that first came to Lesotho in 1890.

From an early age, Jonathan used to steal his mother’s vegetables and barter with the locals. Today he speaks Sesotho as well as English, conversing with his Basotho friends in rapid, syncopated tones. Despite his blonde hair, fair skin and blue eyes, the 38-year-old is immersed in all things Basotho. Jonathan even laughs like a local, a sonorous, echoing peal that reminds you of the distant crashing of the Maletsunyane River over 200 metres to the pool below.

The sound and the fury
And so it is that you find yourself hanging next to the source of this sound, a noise that doesn’t limit itself to your sense of hearing. The thunderous vibrations transmute right through your bones and internal organs. You feed the rope through the rack, trying not to look down between your feet. You drop slowly. Next to you the plummeting water cools as it falls. The south-facing waterfall is in almost constant shadow throughout the year, making for a cold reception. The rock is slippery, sprayed constantly by the falls, which get whipped up by the swirling wind from the gorge below.

Fortunately, the river isn’t in flood. When it is, abseiling is impossible. Even standing a few hundred metres from where the water hits the pool would be crazy. “The spray is like a fire hose that knocks you over,” warns Jonathan.

You lose your footing, and spin round and round on the rope. Shiiite! The dark, cold rock behind you, the sphincter-clenching view of the gorge in front of you and the
waterfall all over you.

Statistically, you’re safe. The 11mm rope has a breaking strain of three tonnes and the carabiner can take 2,5 tonnes. There are six bolts drilled deep into the granite at the top of the cliff, each connected to a smaller rope that can each hold a 100-kilogram person. The main rope is connected to all of these six smaller ropes.
But fear ignores the statistics. The fact remains: if you were to fall the 200 metres, an 80-kilogram abseiler would hit the ground at a speed of 225 kilometres an hour, with a force of about 800 tonnes – “extremely and totally dead” in the words of a physicist who helped calculate the impact force.

It is then that you ask yourself: why? Why am I doing this?

Back to basics
As you descend, the falls spread out wider, dispersed by gravity, wind and air friction. By then, you’ve gained some confidence and look around, admiring the two tall basalt peaks that stand guard on either side of the waterfall. The gorge is more than a kilometre wide, but you feel you could reach out and touch the other side.
Bearded vultures fly overhead and swoop a little, coming level with the human form. These rare birds are in their element in this natural theatre that seems so daunting to the human eye.

Eventually, half an hour after leaving the top, you touch horizontal earth again and emerge into the warm sunlight. Euphoric smiles. Endorphin overload. Sensational.
Jonathan helps you unclip your harness. It dawns on you: while you were on the rope, your brain was empty. No worries about your mortgage, job, boss – it was as if your cluttered brain was sprayed out by a giant fire hose? It was just your hands, the rope, the view – and remembering to breathe.

“Most people in the city would kill for this feeling of freedom,” said Jonathan. “But you can’t have this and the city – you have to sacrifice something. The trappings of city life – ‘stuff’, basically.”

From the bottom of the falls, Jonathan led us down the gorge, following a narrow track. A lonely shepherd joined us for a while, whistling to his herd of angora goats. On a small buttress stood his shelter, a little tent-like structure of grass. From there he could see the entire valley spread out below, the king of his castle. His two mongrel dogs snarled when we approached but, on recognising their master, they wagged their tails.

We stopped to say goodbye, giving us a chance to catch our breath – the lack of oxygen at this height was taking its toll and, while Jonathan and the shepherd’s lungs were primed from years of living at altitude, visitors often find themselves breathing hard.

But the surroundings are enough to take anyone’s breath away regardless – for the most part, the scenery’s completely unspoilt by human intervention. Within the space of a few kilometres were five imperious waterfalls, plunging masterpieces that had no names on the map, but were deserving of monikers of queens and kings.

Near sunset, we arrived at the village of HaNthlasinye, about 10 kilometres from the falls, utterly exhausted. The chief and his wife welcomed us formally and we passed out in the accommodation provided.

Dawn arrived, lighting the scene: huts made from cow dung and mud, a pig that thought it was a dog, old and young folk chatting to each other – and listening. A mother breastfed her baby. A young woman swept the earth with a reed broom. A young man passed through the village with a herd of donkeys.

“This is the developed world,” mused Jonathan sleepily over cup of coffee. “They’re not contributing to the world’s problems. They use what they produce. No more, no less. Isn’t it ironic that if we’re to stop global warming, then this is how we should all live? And you know what, I bet you they’re not any less happy than someone living in the city.”

It’s not that Lesotho doesn’t have its problems – Aids continues to ravage the young adult population, there is increasing pressure on resources and a lack of access to education and health services. Nevertheless, these problems seemed more manageable than the world’s conflicts over oil and economic growth as we contemplated the peaceful, optimistic scene outside the huts, where people still greeted strangers as they passed by.

A reverence for nature
The horses arrived to take us up and out of the valley, back to Semonkong. They were sure-footed and their muscles flexed beneath a healthy coat of fur as we made our way back, passing along the top of the falls.

To outsiders, especially Westerners, the serpent that lives in the bottom of the pool is just a myth. But to the locals, it’s very real. Their respect for the Maletsunyane Falls is founded on a reverence for natural power, for the earth and for something greater than their own immediate needs. The adventure of those few days made us realise that too.

Lesotho adventure checklist

Do the highest commercial abseil in the world. At 204 metres, Semonkong Lodge holds the Guinness World Record for the highest commercially operated abseil in the world. You descend next to the Maletsunyane Falls, which, at 192 metres, is the highest single-drop waterfall in Southern Africa.

Do an overnight pony trek. This is not for novice riders, as you can expect to be in the saddle for as long as six to seven hours each day. Despite this, it is the real deal – and a great way to see Lesotho as you sleep in Basotho villages. Call Maluti Treks on 082-452-0633, e-mail marketing@malutitreks.com or web http://www.malutitreks.com

Hike on foot. It’s the next best way to explore. There are no set routes, but Jonathan Halse at Semonkong Lodge will be able to guide you to some of the most spectacular viewpoints in Lesotho.

Fish for trout. The river above the falls was stocked in 1954 with a mix of brown and rainbow trout. Even though the rivers are less pristine than back then (thanks to the washing powder that locals use), you are still able to catch some monsters. Ask Jonathan about the best spots along the river.

4×4 across Lesotho. There are two trips worth doing from Semonkong. The first is to Ketane Waterfall, to the west of Semonkong, about a seven hour drive. The second is to Senqunyane Gorge, which takes about two to three days. Like the hiking adventures, there are no set routes, but Jonathan can customise one for you.