The open Land Cruiser bumbled and scraped through the rocky dirt road. We had been driving for about half an hour, it was dark and I could almost hear the collective rumble of stomaches that anticipated the bush dinner. The silver beam of a spotlight darted into the bush on either side of the vehicle, looking for cats. We saw none, but surprized some Kudu and a herd of Impala on the way.
I had spent the last week hosting staff and students from Canada and Australia on an authentic wilderness experience as a prelude to their Round Square Conference that was taking place in Cape Town. This was our last night, and I ruminated the adventure that we had experienced together in Tuli. As my mind wandered, I picked through a myriad of highlights, some captured by my camera and some locked away in my memories. I recalled spotting a leopard in the distance on top of a ridge and seeing it slowly disappear like a secret; the family of elephants digging for water in the sandy Motloutse River bed; listening to Scops Owls "krrup" at night from my tent; the two lionesses and their six cubs feeding off a fresh wildebeest carcass; laughing at a young cheetah bound around her mother; or scanning the valley beneath Eagle's Rock for game. I thought about the shard from an elephant tusk that I found along the Limpopo flood plain and the prehistoric puzzle we made from ancient elephant bones, holding the tibia, femur and pelvis into a tower above us. There were the countless Kori Busterds (called Bastard Birds by our group) and freshly baked vedkoek for brunch. We watched the awkward trot of a pair of giraffe that we startled while on foot and the pink ears of four kudus that listened intently to our every movement. I thought about the aardwolf that sprinted away from our vehicle as we came across her den: a once-in-a-lifetime sighting. We were captivated by the aerobatics of lilac-breasted rollers and the easy thermalling of the pair of black eagles. I remembered the hyena den and how inquisitive the pups were as they came close to the vehicle and then retreated back to the rest of the clan, their blackish bodies loping into the night, not yet painted by the spots of their elders. At night, I thought about the sounds that had put me to sleep. I remembered the crunching and trumpeting of elephants close to camp and the elongated roar of a lion in the distance. There was the whoop of a Spotted Hyena that felt as if it was right outside my tent. The repetitive whistle of Pearl-Spotted Owlets and the twirl of a Mozambique Nightjar sang my eyes shut. I thought about the contrast between dry, twisted Mopane scrub and the gargantuan Leadwood or Mashatu trees. The seeds of Weeping Boer-Beans that attracted orioles, starlings and bush shrikes were the source of constant chatter. I thought about the pairs of Namaqua Doves that were beautiful to watch as they flew or the undulating flocks of Red-Billed Quelias that made movements like water in the sky. I savoured the dust, the constant sounds, the conversations and laughter around a campfire and the elemental wildness of it all. My reverie was interrupted as the game vehicle slowed down and descended into some open veldt. The area was dotted with paraffin lanterns, a few open fires and a handful of decorated tables. We had arrived at our bush dinner: a sumptuous pop-up feast in the wilderness. The light was subtle, spectacular, and with the animals around us calling in the distance, the atmosphere was surreal. We filled up on tender stew and sipped red wine as stories from our adventure in Botswana made their way around the dinner table. The students soon moved off to make a circle around the campfire, and after a while they began to sing songs into the night. Our torches trailed to a spot behind them where a pair of hyena were squabbling over a bleached bone: unconcerned by our presence so close to them. I watched the animals tug and scrape and play with each other, singing voices filling the spaces between them. Tuli had been a place of wonder, introspection and a slice of authentic Africa for the oast few days. I was certain that Botswana had touched the hearts of each one of us, creating calm clarity, friendships, memories. It had certainly fed my soul and I felt enriched by being able to share this place with other people. It had truly been a remarkable experience...
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I have always enjoyed hiking. Even since my scouting days, climbing mountains has brought liberation, freedom and perspective. I experienced these same emotions this past weekend whilst perched on a bicycle seat.
I have never tamed a bike to the top of a mountain before, and at Tranquilitas I was given just that opportunity. As part of a trial run cycling camp for the school, we headed towards the Drakensberg Escarpment that falls off from Waterval Boven. Our home for the three nights was tucked away in a secluded valley, and to get to the start of the trails, we followed a single track that wound its way along the edge of a cliff, dodging Marlothi Aloes, large boulders and the occasional baboon. These 5 km were a warmup for the real deal, a 40 km route that would take us through pine forests, gum tree forests, ravines...and over two mountains. It was a day filled with aching muscles, dust and sweat, but I loved every minute of it. The trail started with a technical climb through wattles and gum trees: their tall trunks stretching upwards to compete for sunlight and the result was a dappled path lined with shavings of bark that crunched under the wheels. The trees groaned in the wind, and all was silent except for the pounding if my heart in my ears and the thud of my heaving breaths. We exited the forest unexpectedly, and found ourselves moving along some open grassland. The warm sun was a welcome change from the cold thickets and I felt my skin bristle with the heat. The path took us to the edge of a hill and we dropped down to follow a contour which left little margin for error. To my right the valley dropped off and some distance below I could see pockets of green trees and the shimmer of a river. The contour took us over a rise, and soon we were at the top of another false peak that reached into the pine forests. The trees felt somehow gentler and the silence became broken by the calls of black-headed orioles that protested our intrusion. I heard a fish eagle call in what I knew must be a valley below, obscured by the forest. Small trails and tracks padded with fallen pine needles gathered speed over jumps and obstacles. We climbed higher and higher until we reached a true summit. I stopped to look at the view, gathering my breath and thinking how the 20 km we had covered would probably mark the overnight point had I hiked the route. Right up the the edge of the horizon rolled one mountain after the next. The sky was a piercing blue, so that the Drakesnberg was acute and focussed. I could not see a road or building or fence. It felt pristine. We made our way onwards, my legs feeling more in rhythm with the 29 in Giant bike that I had borrowed. I was gaining confidence hopping over stones and logs and obstacles. The brakes were agile in my hands and the gears snapped with anticipatory efficiency. Back into another forest we headed, a downhill section. On each of the downhills there was not much reprieve from the exertion of long climbs because I had to be up in the saddle, navigating the winding trail littered with challenges at speed. The slight reprieve was short lived, with another long climb that took us to the top of another mountain. I was humbled by a similar view and another reclusive valley that fell from my feet. The copper veldt had a rustic winter beauty, and I watched a pair of mountain reedbuck flush their white tails and leap for cover further down the mountain. Our lodge at Troutways extended well beneath us, and I could make out the green and red roofs of the lodge breathtakingly descended from us. Our trail would take a similar descent through a series of unforgiving swithbacks that swung 180 degrees down the steep slope. We challenged a herd of cows to move from our descent, and eventually were at the bottom, some five kilometers from the summit we had experienced a moment before. The climb back to the start was difficult, with an ache in my back and legs, but the throb of adrenalin in my chest spurred me onwards. I felt like a master of the berg, and my spirit lifted with the satisfaction of witnessing real beauty. |
ContentSome thoughts about things, sometimes philosophical, sometimes just musings. The world through my eyes... Archives
March 2023
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