THE KING OF NAMES
WE’VE STROLLED INTO town this Saturday to watch Lesotho’s annual high-altitude marathon, which culminates in a sprint along the wind-whipped main drag through Mokhotlong, the largest town in Lesotho’s northeastern highlands. Hundreds of townspeople have gathered along the road. As my wife and I amble with our friends Nthabeleng and Kokonyana, I consider the logistics involved in running this marathon. The lowest point in Lesotho is 4,593 feet above sea level, the world’s highest low-point. The elevation here in Mokhotlong District, where I get shortness of breath from chewing too quickly, ranges from 7,000 to 11,000 feet. The runners will be finishing this 26.2-mile race along these murderous gravel roads, up these roller-coaster grades, with times just over two hours.
We head toward the finish line, scouting for prime spectating locations.
“Hey, Moshoeshoe!” Nthabeleng yells at me. “Get moving or I’m going to watch this race from your shoulders!” Nthabeleng is a tiny dynamo who runs the local safe home for children with AIDS, where Ellen and I volunteer.
Kokonyana, her sister, breaks into her giddy round-cheeked laugh. “Yes, yes, Moshoeshoe, you must make haste!”
Nthabeleng and Kokonyana delight in addressing me by my Sesotho name. They do this as often as possible, in front of as many people as possible.
in Lesotho for any amount of time, you will acquire
