“Quick,” I cocked my head towards Jessica and her brother Tim, two young Americans who had boarded the fifteen-hour bus from Cape Town, “let’s go. We’re at the border.” He had noticed a sign that said Ladybrand 10 miles in the other direction. So I checked with the driver and sure enough, we passed the destination on our ticket. But it suited our purposes as we were heading to Lesotho, a small country completely surrounded by South Africa. A proverbial pimple on your huge neighbor’s face.

We walked to South African customs. I gave the official my Canadian passport. He passed it a couple of times and checked each page. “It comes from South Africa, but has no entry stamp.”

“Wait a minute,” and I handed him my Australian passport. The same slippage, the same scrutiny of the page.

“Sorry, sorry. I forgot that I left Argentina with my New Zealand passport.” I blushed to the roots of my red hair. After 103 countries, you’d think I’d at least know the routine. The customs woman gave me back my passport and chided me like I was the slowest kid in first grade: “Remember to present your New Zealand passport when you leave.” Behind me Jessica laughed. “You looked like a spy pulling out one passport after another.”

We pass Lesotho customs and walk towards Maseru. Suddenly I felt like I was back in Africa. Yes, South Africa is part of the continent as well, but a chronic two-week diet of high walls topped with electrical cables and security guards had me baffled. There was an undertone of raw violence and I felt like I was under house arrest. Suddenly I was able to breathe and walk down a street without fear of being mugged, or worse.

At the taxi rank I asked a local for the ticket to Maseru. One thing I’ve learned from traveling is that as long as you know what it should be like, no one argues. Ignorance can lead to an unpleasant argument. The driver took us to the tourist office which was actually a tourist shop and the staff were unable to offer any help. Tim and Jessica headed to the taxi parking lot that would take them to Semongkong, where they planned to walk.

What to do what to do I hadn’t been able to book anything online that wasn’t terribly expensive. So I asked and found out about the Victoria hotel. On the way there, I saw a travel agency walking up a flight of stairs on the way to reception. I lumbered up with my carry-on and diaper bag, perfect with all sorts of compartments, and met Violet, a delightfully friendly and helpful woman. One of those types of people you instinctively know you can trust with your cash and passport.

The only thing on my travel schedule was that I had to meet friends from Canada and Australia in Johannesburg on January 13th. So the plan was to spend a few days in Maseru and then go to Swaziland and Mozambique.

“Are there buses or trains from Maseru to Mbabane?”

Violet shook her head. The only way was to go through Johannesburg. Too much for Plan A. He called a couple of expensive boarding houses that seemed impossible to find.

So I thanked Violet and wandered through downtown Maseru, the two square blocks. I had a momentary deja-vue from being back in Shendam, Nigeria in 1981. All the taxi drivers that passed were honking at me. But that made sense because I was a white woman with luggage and everyone knows they don’t walk. But I didn’t take it personally, as he did it to everyone else on the street too.

On the way to an internet café, I passed the Alliance Francais, an open-air restaurant. The cook assured me that he would be there until 3:00 p.m. It seemed like a good place to have lunch.

Nothing exciting in the inbox that required immediate attention. I checked places in Bloemfontein, a city in South Africa an hour and a half away, and it was rumored to be one of the most boring places on the planet. Hmmmm, there is nothing very interesting there. But never mind, I’d go with Plan B and see what I could find when I got there, spend the night, and take a bus back to Johannesburg.

As lunch was going to be the highlight of my Lesotho trip, I was going to enjoy every bite. And I did it. Chicken, rice, and some veggies might not be the most exciting food in the world, but it was the ambiance and atmosphere that made up for any lack of flavor. And the people who watched were fascinating. Drinking a locally brewed beer, which is another of my rituals in each country, although I don’t particularly enjoy foam, on a hot day quenched my thirst.

After lunch, I headed back to the taxi parking lot to go to the border. When I got out of the taxi, a tout asked me if I was going to Bloemfontein and I was led to a waiting car. There was a small woman sitting in the front seat. A couple of touts got rocked with a big mom. And I mean big, since only Africa can produce. It took two rounds of negotiation and pleading to convince the little woman that she would give up her seat to the one stretched out over the consul in the middle of the car.

Then we leave. It was a new car and the guy drove well. On the way to Bloemfontein I switched to Plan C and said, “Please drop me off at the bus station.”

When I asked the Intercape employee about buses to Johannesburg, he said that the first available seat was three days later. Similar in the next bus company. Then I found Eldo’s office.

“When on the next bus to Johannesburg?”

“Tonight at midnight.”

“Is there a seat available, is it a luxury bus and does it have a bathroom?”

Yes to all three. As it turned out, the definition of “luxury” should have been clarified. And it should have been “Do you have a working toilet?”

I spent the night at Barrel and Basket, drinking sauvignon blanc, nibbling on seafood, and using their free wi-fi at will. It was one of those connected moments where there was nowhere I would rather be or whatever else I would rather be doing.

Then midnight came and he left without an Eldo bus in sight. When I looked back at the counter, the woman assured me “she’s coming.” And he did, just an hour and a half late. When it showed up, I seriously thought about staying in Bloemfontein for three days to catch the Intercape one.

Eldo’s bus looked mechanically questionable. Plus, it reeked of sweaty bodies huddled in tight confines. The bus was full and people were scattered in various contortions of sleep. And it was dirty. The front seat was free, so I slid into it and propped my carry-on next to me. There was no way I wanted to part with that bag.

The bus backed up. Even though I am an atheist, I did an Insulallah (Arabic by God’s will that we would) just for added protection and a little chant of ju-ju. Once on the open road, the driver was driving as if behind the wheel of a sports car. When he started talking non-stop on his cell phone and texting, I had enough. So, in no uncertain terms, I told him that I was going to report him for dangerous driving. He yelled at me that I was a good driver and I told him to give it a try. He cursed me out loud for being a white bitch, but put his phone away and slowed down.

At 07:00 we arrived intact at Park Station in Johannesburg. It was hard to resist acting like Pope John and kissing the ground, but I managed to restrain myself. Barely.

Thirty-eight hours is a long drive just for lunch in Lesotho. But I got a passport stamp, a meal, and a story. Cousin.