When the policeman standing in the middle of the road vigorously waved us down, we presumed he wanted to check our papers. We were a rare occurrence on the Lesotho roads: first, we were in a vehicle (not on foot or a horse), second, and far more novel, we were two white people driving themselves independently. The policeman wasn’t interested in our speed or our papers; he wanted a ride to a friend’s house a couple villages over. We complied. While this turn of events amused me, he was meanwhile terribly amused by our talking GPS unit. The other policeman we saw in Lesotho passed us in a yellow van, barely surpassing our own speed. Because of the dramatic topography of mountains and valleys, a distance of one kilometer as the crow flies takes more like 5 kilometers to drive. Because of the serpentine nature of the roads, we could chart the progress of the van ahead of us for almost an hour. I love this picture for the way it depicts the lonely affair of driving in Lesotho. A type of loneliness I adore, laying tracks on unbeaten paths.