Lesotho: The Boatmen of Lesotho – a Lifeline for Villagers

These boats are an essential mode of transport, ferrying people across the Senqu River in Qacha’s Nek

Every day at about 6am, Motlalepula Lethala pushes his small aluminium boat onto the Senqu River in Qacha’s Nek.

Lethala has ferried people across one of Lesotho’s largest rivers for years, starting when he was still in primary school. Though the money he makes is no longer enough to support his family, Lethala always avails himself when a villager needs to cross the river.

As a young boy, he learned to steer a boat by using a punting pole, reading the current and avoiding rocks. Nearly four decades later, he still relies on these skills. “My job is to ferry people across the river,” he says.

He is one of seven private boat operators at the Senqu River crossing point. There are a few other operators upstream at Ha Mothesele and Ha Noosi. The boats are small, patched aluminium vessels that require consistent repairs. “We try to fix them, but materials are expensive,” Lethala explains.

For trips, the boatmen take turns to avoid conflict. Some days, only three or four boats operate. They charged M20 (M1=R1) per person. On a good day one boatman said he can can earn up to M500, most days much less and some days he makes nothing. Another, who rents his boat, said on a good day he only makes M70.

Community ferry

Despite the low income, ferrying passengers across the river remains essential. Communities on both sides of the Senqu River depend on boatmen to reach schools, shops and most critically, healthcare.

A hospital boat, owned by a church, ferries patients for free between 8am and 5pm. But outside these hours, villagers rely on rowers like Lethala.

“At night, if a pregnant woman or an injured person needs help, they call us and we come to assist them.”

Regular users keep the boatmen’s phone numbers and share them widely. “When the river floods, we cannot cross,” he says. “Even if people call, we can’t help. It’s too dangerous.”

“We need a bridge,” Lethala says.

During winter, temperatures drop to below freezing. “In the morning, everything is frozen: the punting pole, the seats,” says Lethala. “Even if you wear warm clothes, you feel the cold in your body.”

At night, Lethala says, he prefers rowing without a torchlight, because the river reflects light in a way that can disorient even experienced operators. “When I turn on my phone’s torchlight, I cannot see because of the reflection. But without the torchlight, I can see where I am going as water shines even in the dark,” he says.

Leroba Ntereke, a boat owner who has worked on the river since 2017, recalls a fatal incident last year when strong winds overturned a boat, killing two people. “The paddle broke, and the rower lost control.”

Ntereke says before a bridge was built in 2019, about 35 kilometres upstream at Ha Mohlapisoe, he earned up to M600 a day ferrying people.

“After the bridge, things changed,” he says. Before the bridge, people from Ha Rapase in Linakeng crossed the river on boats before they could take public transport to their destinations. Now taxis are able to reach most villages there.

Ntereke says he lost business and relocated downstream to Whitehill, near the Tebellong Hospital crossing, targeting patients who cross there. But competition is fierce, and income has dropped sharply.

Lethala and Ntereke work on rotation to allow other operators a chance to earn. They say the system is self-managed, with no formal authority overseeing it.

The presence of the hospital boat, while vital for patients, has also cut into the boatmen’s earnings. “People pretend they are going to the hospital just to avoid paying,” says Lethala. “We lose customers.”

The hospital boat operator cannot turn them away or question whether they are really going to the hospital or about their illnesses, leaving the system open to abuse.

For Lethala, who does not own the boat he operates, the impact is severe. He only earns a share of the daily takings. “The money is not enough to support my family,” he says.

Resilience

Despite the challenges, the boatmen prefer their work to other jobs.

Ntereke, who once ran a small taxi with a second-hand car he bought with his earnings from the river, says the boat is less costly to maintain.

“With a car, maintenance is expensive,” he says. “Here, we don’t need fuel. The river moves the boat.” He eventually sold his car and now relies solely on the boat for income.

Ntereke says a new boat costs between M30,000 and M40,000, far beyond what many can afford. He says he bought his second-hand for M12,000.

For Lethala, the work is less about choice and more about necessity. “I don’t like this job,” he admits. “It is very hard.”

“The only reason we keep working is that people need us,” he says.

By GroundUp.