Scaling the Turret - A hike in the Kouebokkeveld

You can’t beat camping wild with a great group of people on the top of a rugged mountain.  It’s especially rewarding when you’ve hauled a heavy pack and tent up a steep pathless gorge.  Actually, you can beat it:  by being a lot fitter than I was this last weekend!

Here is a selection of photographs from the Mountain Club hike up to Turret Peak in the Kouebokkeveld.

 Turret Peak - View from the bottom.

Checking the route

The Waterfall

Cape Mountains - Need I say more?

Some bouldering practice

Impressions from Cuito Cuanavale

This story is also posted on my Angola cycle tour blog

A multitude of coloured buckets and bowls bloom in the sand next to Cuito Cuanavale’s high street.  The sight is as refreshing as a spring flower-bed.  And like a flower-bed they wait for water.  Down by the river, a water- truck is sucking water from the Cuito River to fill those containers and water tanks around the town.

I am at the site of the last major battle that the South African Defence Force fought in Angola.  Cuito Cuanavale, a town considered strategic during the war, is situated some 300 kilometres north of the border with Namibia.  It marked the end of government controlled territory.  To the south, Jonas Savimbi’s UNITA rebels were in control, supported by the SADF.  The outcome of the battle is still disputed, but whatever your view, most will agree that Cuito Cuanavale was reduced to rubble during the fighting.

Our Land Rover crosses the post-war bridge and we trundle down to the riverbank below where some men are washing their cars and motorbikes.  It seems like a futile exercise in a town where the high street is surfaced with sand.  Yet in a place so haunted by the horror of war, this most mundane of activities is one of many I witness that shows people are getting on with their lives ten years after the end of the war.  I join some of the men by stripping off and washing several days of travel-dust off my body in the cold river.  As I stand thigh deep in the water, rinsing soap suds from my hair, a fisherman poles past in his makoro, known in Angola as a chata or canoa.

Further on, the long, brown flood-plain grass doesn’t quite conceal the rusting dome of a tank’s turret.  I take a picture of an anti-aircraft vehicle, its cannons still pointed to the sky.  The remains of an abandoned pontoon bridge lies rusting in the silt below the road.

 We drive east past an outlying settlement, the Land Rover growling its way through the deep sand track into the Tumpo Triangle.  This area was first pointed out to me as we drove past Cuito Cuanavale Airport which sits high on the Cuito ridge.  “Down there,” said Patrick, our expedition leader pointing to the east, “that’s the Tumpo Triangle, where the South African tanks got caught in the minefield.  It must have been hell for them.”

A man in his late twenties is our guide to Tumpo.  He tells us that he looked out over the flood-plain during the siege.  He was seven years old.  He and his family sheltered from the bombardment in underground shelters.  His grandmother and several other close relatives were killed by South African shells.

We round a slight bend in the track and come nose to nose with a Halo Trust truck.  The Halo Trust is the non-governmental organisation, once patronised by the late Princess Diana, which clears minefields in many of the world’s past and current war zones.  The truck is packed with people returning from a long day of lifting mines.  There’s an impasse.  Neither we nor they are keen to leave the track to allow the other to pass.  If the Halo Trust crew is nervous about leaving the track then so am I.  Our guide is jittery.  He’s from Cuito and knows the dangers of landmines all too well.  “Don’t leave the road!” he warns.  Eventually the drivers compromise, each with a set of wheels on the track and the other set off it.  The two vehicles pass so closely that at one point I fear that the massive truck will tear the side off our Landy.

A little further on we stop at a small parking area, a clearing just off the track.  It is marked out by neatly placed stones.  There’s a little thatched shelter and a Halo Trust sign.  I gaze to the east, towards the tree line.  It’s where the South African assaults came from.  Occasionally a gentle breeze brushes the blonde grass.  The cooling Landy engine ticks away behind me.  What I’m looking at is just bush.  It’s quiet and peaceful here and in another part of Southern Africa I could be scanning for elephant, or kudu or even lion, but this place holds memories of war and the predators are buried in the sand. 

Patrick suggests that we follow the little footpath that leads from the parking area off into the bush.  He tells us that there are SADF tank wrecks out there.  He’s been to them before and thinks he can find them again.  One by one we shake our heads.  Our guide doesn’t know where they are, he’s never been.  As for me, the last time I was in Angola I had some near misses.   It’s probably safe on the footpath cut by the Halo team, but I have no intention of being blown to bits by a land-mine twenty-five years after my war here ended.

Back in town we pull over to buy some supplies at a little general store.   Like many of the buildings here it is made from grey breeze-blocks.  It’s hot inside and some children are watching a soap-opera on an ancient television set.  We buy our essentials and leave. The children don’t flinch from the screen.  When we start off again Patrick has to engage low range to get us out of the deep sand next to the road.  I find myself wondering why money has been put into building a new airport when the residents have no running water.  Why an expensive war monument has been built when electricity comes from small generators.  So much effort has gone into creating a “peace garden”, ironically full of tanks and rocket launchers and even a MiG23 fighter jet, when one needs a four by four just to pull off the high-street.  These questions are echoed by several Angolans I meet later in my journey.  People here are resilient, they have to be, but there are murmurs of dissent.

As in many countries, the marketplace is the hub of the community and Cuito’s colourful little market represents a community getting on with life.  Patrick is in search of fresh fish and I’m looking for fresh vegetables for my dinner.  I don’t speak Portuguese so I wander around plucking up the courage to ask for prices.  Eventually I buy a selection of delicious looking vegetables including tomatoes, onions, garlic and peppers.  Other stalls sell t-shirts and baseball caps, rucksacks and household implements.  The market is busy and it seems that there’s not much in the way of daily necessities that one can’t buy here.

Patrick can only find dried fish though.  “You have to get up very early in the morning and go to the river at about six o’clock if you want fresh fish,” our host informs him.   It’s too early so he doesn’t get his fresh, Cuito River, fish.

Once Cuito Cuanavale was a scene of devastation, and the war still clings to it in the form of military wreckage and bad memories.  Yet, as people do everywhere, the inhabitants are rebuilding their town and living their lives, blooming like those colourful buckets in the Angolan sand.

Deep in the Bush and Out of the Car

 This story first appeared in the Sunday Times Travel Weekly

Seven of us are moving through the bush as quietly as we can.  No one speaks.  We’re following two experienced guides in search of an elephant.  The guides alternate their attention between the spoor and the bush around them.  The elephant has huffed loudly somewhere not too far away.  It is hidden by trees but its loud exhalation is unmistakable.  The wind is not in our favour.  It has caught our scent so we move quickly at a right-angle to our previous direction to get downwind.

Suddenly the elephant is there.   Slightly below us on the slope I see its huge grey back in the greenery.  For a few minutes we stand, spectators gaping at the impressive lone bull as he tears branches and strips leaves.  We take photographs and smile silently at each other with the satisfaction of tourists who have reached the sight they came to see:  an elephant putting on his benign show.

We are in the Makuya Game Reserve, a concession bordering on northern part of the Kruger National Park where we will be deeply immersed in the bush for five days.  Our group will carry all the necessary food and equipment necessary to support itself.

Having dumped our heavy packs at the chosen camping spot on the banks of the Luvuvhu River, we have headed off with day packs to explore.  Our guides, Johna and Barend, patiently impart their deep knowledge of the birds, trees and animals.  Animal tracks are read in great detail:  this leopard is relaxed, this is a large male hyena, those tracks were made by a frog.

The elephant turns and looks in our direction, standing for a moment, watchful.  A blast of air rushes from his trunk and he turns to face us with ears fully spread.  Tension ripples quietly through the group.  He moves quickly up the hill towards us and the guides, rifles at the ready, are waving us to get behind them.  Then they shepherd us towards a large baobab tree.  The bull elephant pauses for a second, shakes his head, then blows loudly again and rushes at us, his massive feet drumming the sand and if I’d paid attention I would probably have felt the vibrations of his bulk under my boots.  The elephant stops dead, eyeing us, his ears still spread, trunk in the air trying for our scent. 

His hesitation gives the guides time to wave us behind the baobab before the animal charges us again.  This time he stops less than ten metres from the rifles.  He moves around to our left and we stumble further around the baobab.  I’m alive with adrenaline and in concentrating on the elephant’s next move I barely notice that my heart is throbbing hard in my chest.  For several long seconds we stand eyeing each other:  a small frightened group of humans and the largest animal on land.  Then he turns and is gone into the bush.

In the burst of excited whispers we realise that we are no longer tourists but part of the scene.  We too are surviving here and the knowledge of our guides is critical for our survival.  Game viewing from a vehicle provides a barrier from the dangers of the bush.  On foot, the only protection is experience and a cool head. 

As the days progress I become more aware of my surroundings as the skills and experience of our guides is slowly and patiently imparted.  They teach us the names of the birds, the grasses.  We learn about animal behaviour and what they eat and what to rub on a wound or what leaves to eat for a stomach complaint.  Smell this wild sage, feel that texture, lick this berry.  As time passes, I become more in tune with the bush though I realise how little I know and how much I don’t notice when I’m looking at it from my car window.  I’m like a child on his first day at school:  excited, in awe, sometimes afraid, yet very alive and learning all the time.

A campfire is built as the horizon rises to hide the sun which, for a while, leaves its rich orange after-glow.  After dinner we sit watching the flames and talking about the day.  Above our heads the stars begin to shine in the dark blueness of early night and someone starts explaining how to find south using the Southern Cross.  “Take the long axis of the cross.  Extend it with an imaginary line.  Then bisect the pointers towards the cross with another imaginary line.  Where the two lines meet, trace another line to the horizon.  That’s south.”  I’ve known this since I was a child, and I know where Orion is in the sky.  Tonight I am shown Scorpio for the first time. 

At 4am I’m woken by Norman for my hour on watch.  “It’s quiet out there.  Nothing happening tonight,” he tells me and hands me Johna’s powerful torch.  Still fuzzy with sleep, I leave my sleeping bag in the sand and head to the watch-fire.  It’s a black night and the star-scape is vast and bright in the sky above me, the broad sweep of the Milky Way a highway into the universe.  Scorpio has moved with the earth’s rotation. 

Periodically I scan the darkness with the torch.  I’m searching for predators, hippos , anything that could pose a threat to my friends who are asleep just beyond light cast by the fire.  Norman is right.  There’s nothing out there except the single visible eye of a crocodile.  It lies in the water a little way from where we swam in the shallows that afternoon.

I gaze at the flames, push a log further into the centre to keep the fire flickering.  It’s comforting and companionable.  Behind me someone is snoring.  I sweep the sharp beam across the night and stop at a pair of eyes.  A stab of excitement shakes the sleepiness from my head.  I hold the torch steady on the eyes.  They disappear for a second as the animal turns away. Then I see it side on.  It’s a cat and it’s standing next to a large fallen tree.  I don’t remember how far the tree is from the camp fire and at first I can’t judge the size of it but as soon as it moves I realise from the slow languid strides that it is a big animal. 

I wake Johna, keeping the light on the animal as he sits up in his sleeping bag and focusses his binoculars. “It’s a leopard!” he whispers.  “And it’s a big one.”  After a brief look, generously, he hands me the binoculars so that I can watch it.  The leopard is relaxed even though it is only thirty-five metres from our sleeping bags.  It jumps up onto the fallen tree, stretches itself, claws the wood then moves across the sand to the high bank and disappears into the bush.

Driving back to Johannesburg in a dusty old Land Rover one of the guys says:  “After this, I’ll never want to do a vehicle-based safari again.”  It’s hard to disagree.  For five days we felt not like tourists, but part of life in the bush.

The Murderer and the Lonely Wife

Another hitch-hiking road-tale from my youth

I’m standing on the hard-shoulder somewhere in the northern Free State with my backpack and my thumb stuck out.  It’s been a slow morning so when I see the blinking light and the car pulling over my spirits jump and I grab my pack and break into an awkward lurching run.  I glance at the other hitcher thirty metres down the road and notice with some irritation that he is sprinting to poach a ride.  He makes it and the driver, somewhat grudgingly, agrees to give him a lift too.

I understand the driver’s reluctance to take a second passenger because she’s alone driving long distance and I wonder why she decided to stop for me in the first place.  But I’m glad to be moving again.

She wears a suit and has short blonde hair and glasses and I find her rather plain-looking.  The woman is probably in her early thirties so she’s out of my spectrum of interest which doesn’t go much older than twenty-five.  She asks me about my studies and where I’m going and she tells me she’s a medical rep and her husband runs a farm in the Free State.  The winter-brown grasslands slip by and the road points straight to the horizon and my progress feels good again.

 What do you do? She’s looking at the other hitcher in the rear-view mirror.  I’m unemployed, he answers from the back seat.  For how long?  I turn to see him better.  Five years, he says.  Shew.  How come?  She’s trying to work out who she has in her car.  I was in gaol.  A brief silence.  For five years?   Yes, he answers and I’m  wondering what we’re into here with a lone woman giving a lift to a two lone men and now this other guy has a history I’d really prefer not to know about.  What were you in prison for, she’s asking him now and I’m thinking that maybe we shouldn’t pry too much and he says murder.   He was in gaol for murder.  We’re all quiet after that.

We know nothing more about the murder-hitcher when he gets out of the car twenty minutes later with his little blue hold-all and his purposeful eyes.  Some stories are best not heard from strangers on long roads.

Her husband owns the farm but it’s not profitable yet so she spends weekdays in Pretoria working for a pharmaceutical company.  He doesn’t really understand her anyway so it’s a good thing she’s away all week.  Their marriage hasn’t been going well for some time.  He’s emotionally distant.  She has needs.  The last statement lingers heavily with her pleasantly floral perfume.  I notice how her skirt has ridden up and I look quickly back at the road to avoid looking at her nylon-clad thighs.  I’m embarrassed and now she’s telling me that they don’t really have much of a sex life which only makes me feel more uncomfortable.

There’s a period of tight silence, like I’m expected to contribute something in response to her confessions of marital disharmony but I’m too young and inexperienced in matters of relationships, let alone marriage.  I let the silence string out. 

When time elapses enough for me to start a new subject I say I’m really tired and in need of a shower because I slept on the side of the road last night.  I don’t tell her that I was picked up by the cops for sleeping rough and was made to sleep on a bench in the charge office in Trompsburg.  I was irritated by that because the radio crackled with police chatter all night and cops were coming and going and talking loudly and even though it was warmer in the police station I would have been fine with my sleeping bag and groundsheet where they’d found me in the grass next to the petrol station.   I would at least have got some sleep.  But I don’t tell her that part.  Just that I’m tired and in need of a shower.

She nods in response and there is some more silence.  Then she says, you could come back with me for a bath.  There’s no-one at home at this time of day.  I share with my friend and her husband but they’ll be at work.  We’d have the place to ourselves.

I say no I have to meet friends in Zim and I need to stay on the road but really I can feel that I may be getting out of my depth.  Even without the slight hint of ambiguity in her invitation I have a brief vision of an irate husband bursting into the bathroom to find me, a stranger to him, naked in the bath tub.  And I try to ignore any ambiguity in the invitation that might mean that this older woman with the plain face and attractive thighs might be coming on to me.

I’m turning off at the next exit, she says to me somewhere near Pretoria.  Are you sure you don’t want to come back for a bath? She says as the car comes to a halt.  Again I decline.

I shoulder my pack and watch her car disappear up the road with a vague sense that I’ve just forfeited an adventure of an entirely different nature.