My Journey to Lesotho – Afriski: A Snowy Adventure to Remember

Fifteen hours. That’s how long it takes to drive from Cape Town to Afriski in Lesotho. We split the drive over two days: 10 hours to Bloemfontein, then another 5 hours to Afriski. Add about 3 hours for bathroom breaks and lunch, and you've got yourself a serious road trip.

As we approached the snow-capped peaks, our excitement peaked too. By 4 p.m., we were just 10 kilometers away from Afriski. Snow blanketed everything around us, turning the world into a winter postcard. Suddenly, my car lit up the dashboard like a Christmas tree. Warning lights I'd never seen before started flashing — one even showing a road with a snowflake on it, warning that the road was slippery. "Yes, I know its slippery, I'm driving and I can feel it too!" I muttered, half amused and half nervous.

Then, we saw it: a long queue of vehicles. A massive truck had gotten stuck, blocking the road. The snow was too deep and too icy; cars couldn't gain traction to pass. People were already turning back, warning us that unless we were prepared to wait indefinitely, we should do the same. But we had already crossed the border and had nowhere else to go.

So we waited.

An hour and a half passed. The sun dipped below the horizon. Darkness fell. Snow started falling again, thicker this time. The temperature plummeted. We were cold, hungry, and, worst of all, my wife was getting desperate for a bathroom.

Another two hours passed. It was now pitch black outside, and icicles were forming on the windshield. Still no movement. But then, finally, some good news: Afriski had sent a tractor to tow stranded vehicles. We could see it making its way down the line toward us. Relief washed over us—until I tried to start the car. Nothing.

Turns out, all the short intervals of turning the engine on and off to keep warm had drained the battery. Worse, the electronic gear selector was locked in Park. No power, no shifting. No shifting, no towing.

The tractor driver moved on to help others while I tried to figure it out. Normally, this is where I’d pull out my phone and Google the problem. But I had crossed the border. No roaming. No signal. No help.

So I did what every IT guy eventually does: try turning it off and on again.

I got out into the snowfall, popped the hood, and looked for the battery. Nothing. Where the hell is it? I've had this car for over a year. How could I not know where the battery is? I climbed back in, tried to warm up, and opened the user manual. No help. Then I remembered—some cars have their batteries in the back.

So I unloaded a week’s worth of luggage into the snow, digging through layers to access the rear compartment. After some trial and error, there it was: the elusive battery, tucked away in the bottom right corner. But I didn’t have a spanner to disconnect it.

Just when I thought we were completely stuck, the tractor returned. They offered to jump-start the car instead. Cables connected, engines humming—and boom, the car roared to life. I shifted out of Park. Hope had returned.

My wife was now visibly in pain, needing a bathroom more desperately than ever. We followed the tractor through a particularly treacherous stretch of road. Eventually, they waved us on, saying the rest of the road should be manageable.

We managed to move forward a few kilometers, but then traction failed. I reversed, edged forward again, only to slip once more. It was like a snowy Sisyphean task. Then, the inevitable happened.

My wife, who runs cold under normal conditions, couldn’t take it anymore. She jumped out of the car, ran into the darkness behind a snowbank, dropped her pants and all the layers beneath, and made yellow snow. It was desperation, survival, and human vulnerability all at once. I was worried this level of cold could actually hurt her, but thankfully she made it back safely.

Just then, the tractor returned like a knight in snowy armor, pulled us over the final icy patch, and led us straight into Afriski.

We made it. Exhausted, frozen, and a little humbled—but we made it. And that, dear reader, is how our snowy adventure became a story we'll tell for a lifetime.