ROADTRIP
THE LEGEND OF F#@K YOU VALLEY LESOTHO
IN A DISTANT LESOTHO VALLEY, TUDOR CARADOC-DAVIES EXPERIENCES THE HARD-FIGHTING YELLOWS AND FRIENDSHIP-TESTING BROWNS OF THE BOKONG “WILL YOU MARRY ME?” … is not something you should say just before going on a fishing trip. I’m not known for thinking things through and like an idiot, I’d popped the question to my girlfriend Ingrid a few days before leaving for a week’s fishing in the mountains of Lesotho. “Like an idiot” refers not to the question itself (she said yes and “praise be unto Yaweh” she is now my wife), but rather to my ill-thoughtout timing to then bugger off leaving her high on engagement vibes, alone. Unless she turned out to be a covert CIA operative with access to drones, messenger pigeons and explosive mountain donkeys, there was literally no way she would be able to get in touch. I in turn spun off, giddy about love and life and… freaking huge Lesotho brown trout and yellowfish. This was weighing heavily on my mind as we rolled out of Cape Town at 4am, with over half the country to traverse before crossing the border into Lesotho the next day. That, and the fact that Mick and Bells, based off a tip they “received” at a trance party, were convinced they could find San Pedro growing naturally at a petrol station halfway through the Karoo. Why the Bokong? Well, when Leonard Flemming of Feathers & Fluoro (who has guided and fished all over the world) says that a place
is as good if not better than New Zealand, you listen. Throw in the fact that it is only one long car journey away and you take note. Factor in that there will be no awkward ragging about the relative strength of our rugby teams (I’m pretty sure Lesotho sucks more than we do) and that you’ll have some spare change for beers and it quickly becomes a no-brainer. If you pore over topographical maps online to try and get an understanding of where Katse Dam and the Bokong River is, you only get a vague sense of just how incredibly mountainous Lesotho is. The crenellations flow on and on like unruly, choppy sets of waves as the Malutis cross our arbitrary colonial borders and become the Drakensberg. The near but far inaccessibility of the country was made even more apparent when after overnighting in Ficksburg, we hopped the border and could see that as the GPS crow flies, the Makhangoa Community Camp was right there, a mere valley or two away. But to get “there” involved high passes, multiple deep valleys and switchbacks while crossing Katse Dam’s many inlets on our way to one specific inlet, where the fabled Bokong River flows in. The plan was simple. A few days of fishing in and around the camp for the smallmouth yellows moving upriver from Katse Dam and then five nights up in the valley, donkey-trekking with guide Stu Harley and two muleteers to seldom-fished stretches of the Bokong that house both resident yellows and browns.
Story. Tudor Caradoc-Davies Photos. Micky Wiswedel 34
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