One of the bravest things I have ever done was go camping for the very first time — at a big braai festival — alone, by public transport, for an entire weekend, with absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into.
Maletsunyane Braai Festival is one of the biggest annual festivals in Lesotho. It takes place near the Maletsunyane Waterfalls in Semonkong — the longest single-drop waterfall in the country — and draws hundreds of people from across Lesotho and southern Africa. Botswana. Eswatini. South Africa. Loud music, open fires, meat everywhere. Community in its wildest form.
I had wanted to try camping for a long time, but none of my friends were interested. So in November 2017, I decided to go alone — comforted only by the fact that I’d be surrounded by hundreds of strangers.
The first step was preparation. Or what felt like preparation at the time.
I bought a small two-sleeper tent, a mattress, a sleeping bag, a camp chair, and a cooler box. I stood there, looking at everything laid out, and said out loud,
“This should work.”
Even though my stomach was in knots.
Sleeping outside?
No proper showers?
What exactly was I trying to prove?
I added snacks — including a very ambitious KFC meal that I believed would last me at least two days — a large bottle of water, and a whole lot of doubt. But I was doing it.
Getting to Semonkong on Friday was easier than expected. The buses filled up quickly because of the festival, and before I knew it, I was laughing with people who were also on their way. Drinks were passed around. The driver was begged to stop for “pee stations.” We were loud, excited, and probably very annoying to passengers who were just trying to get home.
At some point, the bus couldn’t take us all the way, so we had to switch transport. None of us cared. It was already part of the story.
By the time we arrived, it was getting dark — but the energy was electric. Music blasted from giant speakers. People dragged tents across dusty ground. Others topped up drinks. Fires burned. And there I was, standing in it all, thinking:
I actually came. I’m really here.
We found a spot to set up camp with my new friends. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but immediately, people nearby offered help.
“Relax, ladies — we’ve got this.”
And just like that, I felt safe.
Happy people.
Kind people.
Adventurous people.
My kind of people.
The rest of the night dissolved into music, dancing, live performances, laughter, shared meals, and yes — a little too much drinking. Strangers became friends. Friends became familiar faces. Tents became temporary homes. And before you judge — everything was in good spirits. Nothing inappropriate, just humans being human, under the stars.
Morning, however, told a very different story.
It felt like we’d arrived in one place the night before and woken up in an entirely different city.
Let me paint the picture.
Imagine a massive campsite with no grass. Just dust. Add strong wind.
Now multiply that dust by a thousand.
It was everywhere. On faces. In hair. In food. In our souls.
People stumbled around — some still drunk, others already drinking again — all of us looking like we’d just come off a construction site. And then there were the bathrooms.
The organisers had built “showers” for non-VIP guests. Wooden poles and iron sheets, covering you from shoulders to knees. No roof. No real floor. A showerhead that released one sad drop of water every second. Somehow, you were meant to wash your entire body with that.
The toilets weren’t much better. No privacy. Long lines. If you bent down too far, everyone knew exactly what colour underwear you owned.
And there weren’t nearly enough of them.
This is where survival instincts kicked in.
People started getting creative — showering together to beat the queues. I am not proud to admit this version of myself exists, but in the spirit of honesty: I showered with a stranger I had met the night before.
And the cruel joke?
The moment we stepped out, we were covered in dust again — like we’d never even tried.
The day dragged on slowly. It was too hot to sit in tents, too dusty to relax outside. Food stalls began running out. Meat sat exposed to dust — and people still queued for it. We waited for the afternoon live performances, because DJs alone weren’t enough to distract us from the conditions.
But when evening came, everything softened again.
Live music. Cooler air. More laughter. More connection. Another beautiful night with strangers who had somehow become friends.
By Sunday morning, people began packing up. The festival would officially continue, but I felt complete. My experience had been short, intense, dusty, chaotic — and absolutely enough.
I went home tired, dirty, slightly traumatised… and incredibly proud.
Because sometimes wonder doesn’t look like comfort or beauty.
Sometimes it looks like dust in your hair, strangers helping you pitch a tent, and realising you’re braver than you ever thought.
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