Storybooks

That’s what I was thinking last year, in about August. Being a single dad, I was thinking this would leave me four months in which to arrange with my son’s mother what has become the annual Cape Town – Johannesburg flight to see our families. Such is the life of millions of single parents around the world. Parenting on our own we can’t help but observe how the lives of our contemporaries evolve, the change in the circumstances of respective friends; if not Fynn’s mates’ going to the proverbial family holiday house ‘at Kenton-on-Sea or Plett’, my now-global school friends are taking their kids to Europe and the US for skiing holidays, while our horizons by circumstance don’t stretch much beyond our shrinking families and Johannesburg. And I’m ok with that.               The relative peace of Joburg is welcome. The children spending quality time with their fast-ageing and generally immobile granny is also pretty key, to nurture their sense of paternal family.               There’s something calming in the Christmas quiet of Jo’burg, driving avenues lined with the trees of my childhood (the Joburg-Pretoria conurbation represents the world’s largest urban ‘forest’) and spending time surrounded by childhood memories. And Fynn especially loves being with his aunt and cousin. But before booking the tickets, the pressure of fitting in a little ‘real’ holiday made itself felt. I was aware that most of his school mates would be going to the beach, and anyway, few holidays can be better for a child – something for once other than Jo’burg. Which sent me off exploring both options; combining a little beach with Christmas in Joburg. I’d been meaning to visit a friend at his Sandpiper Cottages in Boggomsbaai (bay), outside Mossel Bay on the southern Cape coast. To make it sound more alluring, I could mention that Boggomsbaai is a nature conservancy, and that it is around the coastal corner from Pinnacle Point, which houses a collection of live archaeological digs, among them cave 13B; in here are the first examples of modern man learning to fish, honing tools and using ochre for decorating purposes. But it was the size of cave 13B that I knew would interest Fynn. Plus the restricted-access, stepped walk down a relative cliff-face to get there, with waves slapping the rocks below. So we needed to get to Johannesburg and George (the nearest airport to Mossel Bay) from Cape Town. The only airline I found flying to both without asking an exorbitant price was that relative new entrant to the low-cost runway, FlySafair. With legal fees these days ever-present in my mind, and knowing the two-day drive would rob us of half Fynn’s time with his family, I contacted the airline and offered a true editorial – critiquing the flight in exchange for our tickets. They said yes, and this is the way it was. I’d always known it in my younger days as Safair, the commercial arm of South African Airways, which, however complex and Machiavellian the goings-on at our national airline, meant it wouldn’t be a fly-by-night. The decision was an easy one; a five-hour drive to George would be fun, as Fynn’s aunt and cousin had meanwhile decided to join us for three days. This meant we could drive up together, stopping for legendary pies at the Blue Crane stall on the N2 (just before the town of Heidelberg) and playing the silly games that families do on long drives. The sort of thing we don’t get to do. The CT-Joburg leg we flew, and the reason was simple. At about R500 one-way (the same as the George flight), it was far more cost-effective than filling my car’s tank at least six times (at roughly R700@) and adding significantly to the wear and tear of a ten year-old car. Plus, if I remember correctly, it beat the other low-cost offerings by roughly R300 per flight. Most importantly though, driving would’ve stolen two days of four with his family. As it happens the flight was good, in what looked to me like a Boeing 737 maybe two years old. The food on offer was the standard low-cost offering of a refreshments cart being pushed up and down the aisle (although I prefer to make our food at home, in a possibly vain attempt at demonstrating that we don’t have to buy everything!     They even had a kiddies box which we didn’t end up buying (R60), as when he wasn’t playing with his Star Wars lego troopers I would read to him, and he played a little on the iPad. Nevertheless, the box had contents suitable for children from 3 to about 9, colouring and drawing games included, giving them the option to be creative. So all was good, if (or when) I forget his or his sister’s toys, I know they’ll have me covered. For part of the trip anyway.

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With the sun racing below the horizon and larks darting melodically between aromatic scrubby, bushes, we are making our way back to our room after dinner. The sandy path is flanked by fantabulous, upright sandstone formations to the one side and these aromatic shrubs, with names like Kakiebos and Skilpadbessie, to the other. The place is called Kagga Kamma, a private nature reserve bordered by the Cedarberg to the northwest and in the east by the arid Ceres Karoo. If you’re from these parts and familiar with Afrikaans, that early 20th century Dutch derivative, you’ll recognize the guttural exercise of scraping your throat when pronouncing the word ‘kagga’. But that’s just the sound of the word. Together the two words mean ‘place of water’, and first fell not from the lips of the Dutch, but San, or ‘Bushmen’ as they were originally known by the original European settlers. Some say they are the Khomani San, referring to a particular clan, others say otherwise, and therein lies many a squabble. I remember a Bushman I met in Botswana’s central Kalahari who, loosely translated, said he preferred being called a ‘Bushman’ because it referred to his ability to live as one with nature. But the story of these remarkable people deserves more than a page. And anyway, this isn’t an anthropology lesson. It is rather a short tale of a single Dad sharing two nights with his son in this destination of big skies and remarkable rocks, on which these ancient people sketched the first southern African stories. Knowing that it wouldn’t take more than three hours from Cape Town, and that his mind of a spongy six years would likely latch on to the experience, I had decided to introduce Fynn to the world of the bushmen. These original inhabitants of this remote part of the western Cape lived according to the seasons and stars, and in harmony with all living things. While sounding like great neighbours, simplistically put, they didn’t understand the early western notion of private ownership, believing instead that the earth’s bounty was for all to share. It was a belief system that saw them persecuted by most they came into contact with, from the Xhosa in the east to the settlers here in the west. ‘I want to sleep in the cave!’ had been the (expected) response when I give him the option of a thatched rondawel or a room built into the existing sandstone rock formations. I had been here before, and felt that the cave-rooms were in a need of a 21st century upgrade, but the‘cave’ was an easy winner. On the day’s afternoon drive our guide, Pieter Jan Heyman, stops the landcruiser in a valley at one of a number of standout rock formations. While Fynn clambers on sandstone rocks seemingly designed for young climbers, the guide contextualises the paintings we’re about to see, and points to evidence of pastoralists, the Khoi, having settled here at some point. These are Fynn’s first Bushmen paintings. Luckily they are clear, and with head cocked he takes an interest in Pieter’s telling of their story. A first for me is a depiction of the San Bushman deity Kaggen, the revered praying mantis.                 Pieter stops at what seems like a random spot and heads some ten metres into the bush. While we on the vehicle expect him to return with the likes of a snake, after he’s picked his way between scrubby tufts of hardy grass back to the vehicle he reveals in his hand a prehistoric-looking lizard. Observing big game in their natural environment is indeed a privilege, but after even a few such occasions you come to realize the value of such spectacular one-off sightings. This speaks to the merits of the little five versus big five (animals). Our next stop is the lookout point. With the Landcruiser parked and guests dismounted, Fynn bounds over the rocks after Pieter, who is carrying the cooler-box and snacks to the collection of weathered boulders that constitute the viewpoint. Displaying the instincts of a restaurant waiter, Pieter first sees to Fynn, who sets off with cold hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Grown-up eyes are meanwhile drawn to horizons north and east, with mountain ranges unfolding in different hues of blue to reveal all that is magnificent about this unpopulated landscape. Neither person, road nor structure can be seen, with a light wind the only sound. Within minutes of Pieter laying out the snacks, an elephant shrew appears. The size of a small mouse and common to Africa, this small insectivorous mammal with a mobile nose darts out from under a rock. Fynn is delighted and begins a futile chase after the creature, which is clearly well acquainted with not only the shortest and fastest route between rocks, but also the sundowner tradition. On my last visit here I remember similar feelings of delight at this new discovery, this marriage of landscapes and celebration of nature.               PS: On the subject of close relations, whether wife, partner or child, there is a bed at Kagga Kamma that is surely the equal of any on the planet. It is out in the bush, at the foot of an impressive collection of granite boulders. Looking across the valley to the profiled spine of the Swartruggens Mountains, with a shower jutting out of a nearby boulder, a packed dinner, champagne and the right person for company, you would struggle to find a better moment in time.

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Learned behaviour, whether a drunkard beating his wife or children growing up without a father, is what comes to mind when observing those waiting their turn in a family court waiting room. Which is a very roundabout way of how I got to cogitating about camping. I never had an option regarding the subject. In primary school, when buddies were going to the Cabanas at Umhlanga Rocks, I was camping somewhere in the Drakensberg. If the then Natal Parks Board had offered loyalty points, we would’ve owned a chalet by the time we were done with that province. The notion of a tent was first erected upon my chubby toddler consciousness at what I vaguely remember was a woody campsite around Canada’s east coast. It was the late 60s, around the time Woodstock happened, and we were living in Toronto. Chickahominy Park, in Virginia across the border, was a favourite with my father. I can still smell the tent. We had a large orange canvas creation made in the then Czechoslovakia. I apparently enjoyed placing my developing nostrils against the gauze of the flysheet, and sliding them downwards. It’s a sensation I vaguely remember even now. In fact I tried it out while no one was looking on a recent ‘re-acquaintance with camping’ trip to a Cape Nature site on the Ceres side of Bains Kloof. I had actually tried two and a half years ago with my then three year-old son Fynn and a classmate and his Dad at a rustic campsite called Beaverlac in the hills north of Piketberg. On that trip we realized that chairs and a table would’ve been nice. A kettle would’ve been an absolute winner. Nevertheless, we had fire, and just as it is meant to carry with it some sort of inherent power for men, so we saw the night through. Beaverlac is beautiful, with a large, lovely rock-pool a few hundred metres from the campsite and the shop, and a few trails to be hiked. Which isn’t dissimilar to the natural offerings at Tweede Tol , (Second Toll), the Cape Nature camping facility in the Limietberg Nature Reserve, some 30 minutes from Wellington on the Ceres side of Bains Kloof. However as my fellow Dad and German camping buddy Bodo noted, if there was a perfect design for waterfalls and rock-pools, those at Tweede Tol would be it. The camp itself was pleasant. We’d been given a shady although sandy spot, which apart from the braai-place and six-seater bench accommodated our two tents, plus cars. Next-door to us was the playground area. With its ‘monkey-bars’ and swing-seats missing it was evidently in need of a little care. But the children didn’t really care, it was all part of the adventure. Joe, the official manning the gate, suggested mid-afternoon was the best time to visit the pools on the day-visitors side of the road, as they started packing for home. With only 120 day-visitors allowed, it’s always crowded at the weekend. After passing the well-laid out braai sites and one character who’d seemingly spent the day with his head in a bottle, we arrived at the large rock pools. They were magnificent. The shadows were stretching out over the collection of expansive granite rocks surrounded by pools of varying clear, shallow and deep water. This was happy paddling stuff, and we were almost the last to leave. Back at the camp, with early evening wash-time approaching, thoughts turned to the ablution block. It was a full camp, and Bodo’s wife Amanda, with two-year old Leo in tow, said she’d just been there, and that none of the toilets in the newly-built ablution block were working. Joe had no idea when Public Works were coming to fix the bathrooms. After dinner, night-time was as I remember childhood camping. Returning from a walk under a full moon, we came across children dressed in giggles, flashing light-sabres and pyjamas. It was time for supper. The next morning, coffee was an issue – for us. We hadn’t brought any, let alone a kettle. So the charming woman and her husband opposite, veteran campers, came to our rescue. After which we set out for the serious waterfalls and rock-pools. Glancing back every now and then to see if said Mom and her brood – Bodo and their almost four and almost two year-olds – were doing ok, I was wondering if the hike was maybe further than we’d been told. That was when the first waterfall opened up before us. I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful. With two natural jacuzzi-type pools to the left of the gentle waterfall and the clear, fresh water no more than two metres in depth, we couldn’t have chosen better, and we made our base. There were ledges on either side of the pool from which both the boys and the ‘big boys’ could jump. In smaller pools behind us the boys found tiny fish, and we fashioned fishing rods from nearby broken branches to feed their enthusiasm. Bodo swatted a fly on his leg and put a thorn through it for a ‘fly’, I used a feathery leaf which I hoped resembled a dragonfly…and the boys dragged them to and fro in the water. Two groups passed through our little nirvana, asking if we knew about the two waterfalls further up from ‘our pool’. Further exploration was tempting, but as this was only a night-stay and we were packing up to leave that afternoon, we were happy to stay put. As in that grubby court waiting room, this one-night weekend had got me thinking. I’m hoping that one day Fynn remembers our first camping trips, not as something he had to do, but as something he loved ‘cos it was just such an adventure. Given that he’s privileged enough to have already visited a few game lodges, I know for certain that he happily sees the magic in both the ‘canvas’ and the roof.

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‘Khaki professorial’ is the mental picture generated while shaking hands with the not quite 70 year-old Jurg Wagener in the tjoep-stil, arid Karoo mountain landscape of Sutherland. Not quite what I expected as I roll into his sleepy town on a dead-quiet Sunday afternoon, for as one does, I had generated an image of the man (and the town) after our telephone conversation. But it was a friendly, genuine welcome, and his directions had been spot on when I pulled over and called him from the turn-off, as instructed. “Come up the N1 to Matjiesfontein, turn left and after about an hour you’ll arrive in Sutherland. We are just before town, it’s called Sterland (star-land), on the right, it’s where I keep my telescopes and give my star-gazing talks…ja, I’ll meet you there…but call me from the (Matjiesfontein) turn-off, because it’s a little over an hour and there is no reception on that road”. I can’t remember a lack of cellphone reception having ever been a problem before in my travels, in fact it’s an added attraction, but Jurg’s attention to detail – and his concern for a soon-to-be customer – was impressive. This part of South Africa has a wonderfully desolate feel, seriously less-trodden, with Sutherland appearing a bit like an oasis from the surrounding undulating scrub-land. The main regional road to Calvinia, which according to Jurg is some two hours drive away on a dirt road, runs through town. Some 20 minutes to the north down Sarel Cilliers street is the SALT (Southern African Large Telescope), home high up on a hill to the largest telescope in the southern hemisphere; a collection of tall, silver dome-like buildings periodically inhabited by bleary-eyed astronomers and researchers who take advantage of the location’s unsullied skies. Jurg too takes advantage, introducing tour groups to the nocturnal heavens with some serious telescopes of his own. It’s a worthwhile stop when the moon is new, as SALT – as impressive as it is – is all about computers and mirrors, with no telescopes to look through. A few mountainous rises to the west of SALT is the only live volcano in southern Africa – a favourite local hiking destination called Salpeterkop. Dormant today, geomorphological history tells us it was a heaving beast when active about 66 million years ago. These noteworthy locations are today two of the attractions drawing visitors to Sutherland. Just as travellers with the means look for new destinations, so the list in this area is growing; there’s a quality winery over one hill to the south and impressive, well-marked hiking and single-track mountain-biking trails to the north of the one long street (bisected by a handful of cross-streets) that is ‘town’. In these streets are numerous self-catering establishments. Among them are a couple of cottages owned by Jurg and Rita, in addition to the campsites at their Sterland ‘headquarters’ a kilometre outside town. In the almost-always quiet main street, across from the Sutherland Hotel (which caters for elderly bus tourists coming to see SALT and to listen to Jurg’s 8-10pm talks) is Kambro Kind. It is a period-piece self-catering establishment, one of six en-suite rooms this enterprising couple have in town. Equipped with DStv, fireplaces and electric blankets, the attention to detail – arranged by Rita and their daughter Juanita – is refreshing for a town not known as a mainstream destination. “It means ‘child of the Kambro’”, says the 60-something Rita as she shows me around, “it (kambro) is a veldkos (bush food), like sweet potato, and you have to dig it out”. Serious locals can apparently make jam from it. A feisty daughter of this arid, sparsely populated environment, Rita is obsessed with the plant-life of the Karoo. She grew up on one of the original farms of the area called Middelpos (Middle Post), purposefully positioned near a spring to the east of where the present-day town sits. Walking around the farm (with Jurg in obedient tow), Rita remembers her father building the pump that would carry water from the spring to their farmhouse. She also remembers him getting seriously ill after eating a type of euphorbia, dikloot melkbos. “He was always fascinated by how fast the steenbok could run and spring from side to side, and this was the only animal that ate the plant, so he decided to mix it with water and try it”. Deeply passionate about the flora in this arid environment, when the Wageners returned to Sutherland after 20 years in Swellendam (she as a teacher and Jurg working in a bank) Rita set about creating ‘plant routes’ for visitors to the area. She wanted to share her world with anyone interested. They soon bought back Middelpos, and made a cottage available to tourists. Jurg had meanwhile dived headlong into his new-found passion for astronomy, and having bought a sizeable telescope he had started giving talks and ‘tours of the night skies’ to tourists. It’s not only along the walking trails that Rita has named the plants. There is a roughly 150km route heading south from Sutherland towards Ceres into the Tankwa karoo, where she has pegged little white name-tags (as you find in nurseries) into the ground with the names of interesting plants growing near the side of the road. She says it’s a day-trip, best driven from mid-August to September’s end. The result of intense dedication, a paper guide with a key to every one of these plants (if they’ve survived the weather) is given to interested travellers. Similar guides are given to those who walk the well-marked trails on Middelpos. We visit the thatched Saffraan cottage in a far corner of the farm, a recreation built on the remains of the original shepherd’s dwelling, which back in the mid-1800s would’ve been an outpost on the farm De List – which eventually became Sutherland. Situated near a 300-year-old grove of pear trees growing alongside a stream, this secluded cottage is quite the lover’s getaway. Being a romantic herself, Rita has – using one one of her favourite poems from school, ‘The Passionate Shepherd to his Love’ (a series of verses by Christopher Marlowe, answered by Sir Walter Raleigh) – created a ‘lovers walk’ leading up to the cottage. The separate verses appear to the left and right of the pathway, on those same little signboards she uses to identify her plants. “Look”, says Rita, bending down to stroke the delicate petals of an ursinia nana, “we call this a ‘kleinbergmagriet’”. She turns and gestures to what appears to be a fat daisy bush. “And that’s a ‘spekbos’”, she says, “the original farmers thought it looked like a slaughtered fat sheep”. This area is rocky and hilly, and after a short walk (with Jurg still in attendance) to a tiny koppie, she explains how the ‘witgousblom’ appreciates the iron oxide in the soil. I ask if it’s unique to the area. “Nee”, she says, “it’s also found around Beaufort West and Calvinia”. And then she stops in her tracks. “Oh look”. “Here’s the ‘evening flower’ I was talking about earlier”, she says. “It comes out between five and seven, it’s called the ‘tierbekvygie’ because of its serrated edge”. She points out an almost indiscernible annual herb, the pink ‘drumstick’, or manulea fregrans. Much like discovering the life around a sand-dune on Namibia’s Skeleton Coast, getting down on hands and knees in this rocky highland landscape will hold the nature enthusiast spellbound. I have since found that the star tree, Cliffortia arborea, with its needle-like leaves, is indigenous to Sutherland and found only in the wonderfully named Unwieldy Mountains. Much like I learnt only recently that this is one of the Karoo locations where you could see the seriously endangered (1500 left) riverine rabbit. Initially surprised that Rita didn’t share these snippets with me, I then realize that in the 24 hours I was there, we had packed a lot in. “Ag ja”, says Jurg, “she is the driving force”. While this Ceres-born former bank manager is the go-to guy for stargazing here in Sutherland – the best location in the country – he quite possibly understands that Rita’s thirst for sharing her childhood knowledge of this, the dry earth on which she was born, has inadvertently made her the best advertisement for a compelling destination. Of course, as she would say, she couldn’t do it without the plants.

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In the September of 2002 I found myself lying face down in the dirt of Namaqualand for the first time… I’d been taken to a field on the outskirts of the one-horse-village of Nieuwoudtville by the local mayor to see what I think he described as something of great beauty. While that could set the scene for a dodgy storyline, the experience was the start of a beautiful relationship. It was a patch of what is for most months of the year unremarkable and vaguely stony arid farm land, but that every August and September morphs into a world of delicate colour, boasting the highest speciation of bulbs in the world. In layman’s language, there are more types of flower bulb in this field than anywhere else on the planet. Delicate and colourful with intricate designs so perfect in execution, Latin names like romula and sporaxis lend these princes and princesses amongst flowers a seeming weightiness in the floral kingdom. Much like the malachite kingfisher, this is natural perfection, given its own floral glow by the fact that some of these plants occur in a space the size of a football field, nowhere else on earth, for such a short space of time. This field, and many others like it found on surrounding sheep farms is on the Bokkeveld plateau, up the Vanrhynsdorp Pass, just beyond the northernmost tip of the Cerdarberg mountain range. In other words, unless you are a sales rep covering the usually dusty expanses of the northern Cape province or a sheep farmer from the nearby center of Calvinia, it is not an area you are likely to know well. Which adds to its attraction. Throw in the characters and history of this least populated part of the country and you have one of the standout attractions on the South African tourism calendar, an experience not far behind that of following a big cat on a hunt for the first time. The difference is that while it is possible for visitors to witness a lion or leopard-kill in a number of countries – assuming that lions aren’t killed off in our lifetimes – this exceptional natural event is a South African USP, better known to marketing types as a unique selling point. And in this case it belongs (mostly) to that chunk of the Northern Cape province known as Namaqualand. Here the spring flower season is a national happening, and the attitude of local farming families is also quite unique for the country. They throw open their farm gates to visitors for a small fee, as sharing the floral phenomenon seems almost as important as cashing in on the short-lived tourism aspect of the ‘event’. Generations of farming families – many named van Wyk, offspring of the first Europeans (two brothers) to settle in the area some three centuries back – gather around kitchen tables in old, thatched stone houses while catching up on gossip and selling home-made ginger-beer and chutneys. As can be found on the farm Matjiesfontein – the same folk will be found there year-in and year-out. Generally the woman run the guesthouses (there are only a handful) and feed the guests while the men do the farming. Men like Willem van Wyk, who’s not ashamed to say that he reckons it was his ancestors who shot out the Khoi bushmen in the area. ‘Farmers…have always shot first and asked questions later’, says a reflective Willem, who takes small groups of tourists on a tour around his farm in his landrover. It’s almost like this relatively new line of work, learning and sharing his knowledge of bulbs and rocks and the history of the early Khoi pastoralists and the early European farmers stealing each others’ sheep, has given him new insight, allowing him to view things with greater clarity. At least that’s what I think in the short time spent with him. With precious little time to chat before we start on the three-hour roundabout drive to Kamieskroon down below the plateau, he shows us Oorlogskloof (battle gorge), where the early farmers defeated the bushmen in an apparent battle, probably about sheep. Everything is about sheep in these parts. Willem’s wife Mariette runs what could possibly be the best-value guesthouse in South Africa, on their farm, Papkuilsfontein (where they farm sheep). The lamb as a main course is a good choice in these parts, given the herby, aromatic plants the sheep feed on, while the chef – who comes up ‘for the season’ from Darling on the west coast – creates a little buzz among the guests with her pear in butternut soup. The veggies are local and crisp, as is the wine, a sauvignon blanc, coming from Lutzville in the dry and rocky Strandveld region near the coast. Yes, we bucked the pairing of red meat with red, but the northern Cape feels like frontier country where anything goes, and what’s more there’s a story in the 40-something former well-built Springbok heptathlete who makes the wine. Willem’s daughter-in-law Alri bakes cakes as good as you’ll get. Carrot, cheese and Belgian chocolate, in this most remote of areas where ‘basic’ has long been acceptable. Full we were, but she insisted on a takeaway box. And that ended up being consumed a good couple hundred kilometers away the next day by a hard-of-hearing, 70-something gentleman in a suit we picked up when we passed him walking the sixty odd lonely km’s from Springbok to the coast with a walking stick on a road that hardly sees any vehicles. And the clouds were about to unleash themselves. www.papkuilsfontein.co.za www.experiencenortherncape.com Some Basics The flower spectacle generally kicks off in late July / early August around the Richtersveld, Springbok and Kamieskroon, before heading inland to Nieuwoudtville, down the gravel-road Botterkloof Pass through the Cedarberg to Clanwilliam and the west coast beyond – by which time you’re well into the Western Cape, with Namaqualand left far behind. The closest display to Cape Town is about an hour north of the city, in the private Postberg Reserve section of the Langebaan National Park, which usually peaks in September.

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A Sense of Place. Take five seconds and imagine yourself deep in a valley, surrounded by rocky outcrops and fynbos* – neither soul nor structure to be seen to the north, south and any other point of the compass. Sunbirds flitter between feeding, warblers trill and a deep intake of breath suggests an unusual clarity of air. Welcome to the middle of Cape Town. A group of us were hiking what is known as the ‘back-table’, on top of Table mountain. We’d hiked from Kloof Nek – that intersection where you turn off to the Table Mountain Cableway – along a trail known as the Pipe Track, with the Atlantic ocean like a broad canvas to the right and the affluence of Camps Bay immediately below. A scramble up Woody Ravine took us to the top. Far below, the dark arrowing shapes of surfing dolphins beneath the waves led us to the ageing piece of shipwreck off Llandudno beach. Here on top it was quite flat, the well-marked national parks pathway leading to two dams built over a century ago to feed an early developing Cape Town with water. For this resident of the city, it was an undiscovered world. Thirty minutes later we were descending Disa Gorge, the subject of the first paragraph above and the only place where grows the Disa Lily. While endemism is only of mild interest to the average reader, it does remind us that the Cape Floral Kingdom – although being the smallest – is the most bountiful of the six floral kingdoms on earth. The bummer was that the lilies had stopped flowering, and I didn’t get to see one. At the bottom of the gorge we turned left into Oranjekloof (Orange Kloof), spending the night in the SA National Parks self-catering camp at the edge of this part of Table Mountain National Park. The road to Constantia Nek was a short walk ahead of us, and Hout Bay a few kilometres to the right. The route we’d followed – even though we were heading in the ‘wrong’ direction – is actually part of a whole – the five night Hoerikwaggo Trail, which follows the peninsula, from Cape Point to Table Mountain. We’d spent the entire day walking and scrambling within the municipal confines of a city. Another part of natural Cape Town I enjoy is the Noordhoek area. More specifically, a place called Monkey Valley, at the bottom of Chapman’s Peak Drive, one of the most stunning coastal drives on the planet. This is ‘horsey’ country, in the sense of large plots – many with paddocks – and lots of money. There may be a couple of B’nB’S around, but there is a place that’s a little bit special. Spread in and around a rare patch of elevated milkwood forest (which is a bit pungent in the high summer months), Monkey Valley is at the end of a road, above a beach, and calls itself a resort. To me it’s a little like a large, thatched lodge, with standout views from the deck down the kilometres of the relatively renowned Long beach below. There’s a pool for the very hot summer months, and a walkway leading down to a remote little spot called Surfers’ Corner. Of big boulders, vaguely treacherous currents and the occasional stranded whale, this is a beautiful beach, where residents walk dogs and ride horses. Tourists can too, and it’s hard to think of a better place for a gallop. Most people won’t do what you really should here – and that’s lie back and read on your deck. That’s if you’ve got the right room of course, like one of the impressive, stand-alone premier suites. If you don’t plan you may be tucked away amongst the trees, behind the main building. In that event the highlight is the spacious bathroom with its ball ‘n claw bath. If you’re booked into such a room, as I was with my son while looking for a place to live in town, you will be more inclined to explore, and there’s a fair bit worth mentioning. About two km’s around the corner is the Noordhoek Farm Village, offering restaurants, bars, deli’s and a children’s playground. Around the corner from that is the Cape Point Vineyard – which apparently has a really good market. Further out (a ten minute drive) towards the village of Kommetjie is the Imhoff Farm, with deli’s and craft-shops again the offering. It’s less pretentious than the previously-mentioned spots, probably because it’s not as fashionable. Around the corner is the Masiphumelele township / informal settlement; populated by economic refugees from Zimbabwe and the maladministered Eastern Cape province (ironically the heartland of the ruling party) province. Close by is one of the largest exhibition sites of the trademark Zimbabwean soapstone sculptures. Just beyond the village of Kommetjie itself is the Slangkop lighthouse. Which takes us back to the beginning, and the Table Mountain National Park. The third camp on the Hoerikwaggo Trail, this one is a marine experience. With tents in a gully just back from the beach, the Slangkop camp is a place of rock-pools and kelp, where the ocean rumble is constant. And you’re still in Cape Town. * that vegetation peculiar to the smallest yet most diverse of the world’s six floral kingdoms.

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I was driving into town down McKenzie street last night when a hippo crossed the road. It was making its way from the grassed pavement outside the fish restaurant to the self-catering cabanas – he was making for the grass surrounding the palm tree. The number of spectating tourists in the adjacent parking-lot grew, most shooting with cell-phone cameras, while locals on the deck of a restaurant next-door continued chatting over their meals. A second hippo followed suit, lumbering across the road to the other side of the tree. For many years, my sketchy yet over-riding memory of the village of St Lucia, gateway to the Lake St Lucia estuary and a Wetland Park famed for hippos and crocodiles, has been one of fishing, ski-boats, dodgy 70s architecture and beer. But this holiday mecca has changed.Driven by developments in the beautiful countryside around it, it is a tale that involves elephants, lions, whales, wetlands and wooly-necked storks, prehistoric fish, ancient peoples and more recent arrivals from Europe. It’s the story of iSimangaliso Wetland Park, the latest thoroughly compelling addition to the South African wildlife tourism landscape. It was this combination of beauty and uniqueness that resulted in the Park being declared the country’s first World Heritage Site in 1999. In the demanding tick-box language of the United Nations, such recognition is supreme. Now for some relevant trivia: critical to being awarded such an accolade is what is known as Outstanding Universal Value (OUV). This comprises Biological Diversity, Ecosystems (and their functioning) and Superlative Natural Beauty. Outside the bureaucratic corridors of the UN, in the tourism world, this is big cheese. And iSimangaliso has OUV by the spade-load. ‘iSimangaliso’ replaced ‘Greater St Lucia’ as the name of the Wetland Park in 2007. And to paraphrase Park CEO Andrew Zaloumis, it makes sense – St Lucia in the Caribbean also boasts a World HeritageSite. Zaloumis is my guide through the park, and he’s big on branding. Having spent much of his youth here, guided by his environmentalist father, he clearly knows and loves this landscape. A political activist in his youth and previous project manager of a spatial development initiative linking Maputo to South African business hubs, he’s been driving the creation of this park for the past decade – and every year he is seeing milestones reached. In the roughly 500km we drive through and around the 332 000 hectare park, the signage, facilities and boardwalks are brand-new and everywhere. It’s a consistent destination reminder. Facilities, like braai and camping sites and birding hides have been created with a contemporary conservation ethos in mind. Everything is explained. And when confusion reigns around existing place names, Ziloumis has taken into consideration the fact that two profound cultures call iSimangaliso home – the Zulu in the south and Tonga to the north. Whereas it was once a place dismissed or ignored by tourism authorities, the Zulu legend of the conical hills (around lake Bangazi) becomes an item of interest. Culture, respect and tolerance are part of the fabric of this park. No surprise then that it was opened by Nelson Mandela, South Africa’s first democratically elected president, who also championed its World Heritage site application: “iSimangaliso must be the only place on the globe where the world’s oldest land mammal (the rhinoceros) and the world’s biggest terrestrial mammal (the elephant) share an ecosystem with the world’s oldest fish (the coelacanth) and the world’s biggest marine mammal (the whale).” Mandela saw the benefits of conservation and tourism for society as a whole. My most recent iSimangaliso experience started just outside St Lucia village in the Park’s Eastern Shores section. Populated with non-threatening plains game, the first fenced section is open to walkers mountain-bikers and horse-back riders. Once through the heavy-duty big game fence, it’s pretty much game-on for game-viewing. This is where rhino and buffalo could pop up any minute. Although park rangers say the resident herds of elephant have crossed Lake St Lucia to the Western Shores. Key attractions for me are the bird hides positioned alongside the numerous pans that sit alongside the lake and throughout the Park. Elephant, hippo, rhino, zebra, aquatic birds, everything can be seen here. Or nothing, that’s just the way of the bush. Here the rock-pools are marine treasures of note, taking families back to days when hours would be spent exploring urchins and starfish.From Cape Vidal we drive north for 70kms on the beach, to the diving hub of Sodwana Bay. Normally not allowed, Zaloumis feels the need to do an unannounced beach patrol, at the same time showing off the pristine beach. Out there in the warm Indian ocean water is whale and dolphin world.A turning above and over the grassland dunes to the west introduces Mission Rocks, host to Indian ocean waves pounding its rocky shore, and the Mziki picnic site. A boardwalk connects both. The lush and hilly uMkhuze section forms the western boundary of iSimangaliso, and on the 60km drive inland through rural Zululand, Zaloumis points out bridges that have been repaired and roads that have been built – all through SMMEs (small and medium enterprises).Tarred roads are crucial in these parts – allow for access to clinics and schools. And when local, rural communities have access to such basic services – thanks to a wildlife / tourism project – the poaching inevitably decreases.The positive message of the tourism projects associated with iSimangaliso continues in the bright red and yellow bicycles also seen on the roads. As we witnessed on the beach, locals who had grown 70 indigenous trees were given bikes donated by corporate sponsors. It’s just one effort at complementing alien tree removal. uMkhuze has long been recognized as one of South Africa’s top two birding spots. When my father dragged my unwilling childhood self and the family here in the late 1970s, all I remember was a staff member beating a snake found under the entrance mat to our chalet.One of the brand-new bird-hides we visit on the edge of Nsumu Pan wouldn’t look out of place in an architectural journal. Inside is a Nordic couple in safari gear. Surrounded by lenses and a couple of bird guides, with fever trees, reeds and mountain framing the pan, they want to share the osprey they have captured in their lens. Zaloumis looks chuffed.I’m impressed by the main camp. This is where I must’ve stayed as a child. With it’s thatched family chalets and children’s laughter emanating from the swimming pool, I want to return with my two little ones.Being one of the guardian reserves of our precious black rhinos, uMkhuze is an integral part of the Park. As is the pride of lion recently re-introduced to the Reserve (in a boma, ‘acclimatising’, at time of writing).The plentiful impala, zebra and giraffe – the latter having developed the unusual habit of lying down – will have received a nasty surprise by the time you read this.With the opening of the 25 000 hectare Western Shores section of the Park, and this revamped uMkhuze, the final pieces in the iSimangaliso resurrection puzzle are falling into place. Zaloumis seems to have directed the next big thing in South African wildlife tourism.

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Cyanide. It’s the last chemical you’d associate with elephants at a waterhole. But that’s exactly what poachers have been using to kill these magnificent creatures in countries like Zimbabwe and Mozambique for at least three years. It’s probably happening in other countries in the region too. At last count, as I write on this last day of October, well over 100 elephants* have been poisoned in and around Zimbabwe’s Hwange National Park. Watching the big herd splash and sup from the same dusty bowl at the wooden hide overlooking Hwange’s Nyamandlovu waterhole, with tourists glued to their phones, binoculars and cameras, it’s hard to take it in. Cyanide and elephants just don’t belong in the same frame. I was pursuing this ugly development while producing a recent TV insert on the fast increasing and dramatic threat to Africa’s elephant population. Poachers have been spurred on by the dramatic rise in demand for – and associated increase in the price of – ivory in China, Japan, the Philippines and Thailand. They’re wanted as religious figurines and totems. An article in the February 2012 issue of National Geographic details the almost astonishing demand from the Catholic population of the Philippines alone. It’s food for disturbing thought. As are the stories from a hunter I meet in Bulawayo. Although I cannot relate to hunting an animal, few people get closer to regular on-the-ground elephant encounters than hunters – and ethical hunters at least respect and value their prey. Chris Burton does his hunting in Mozambique’s Zambezi valley, and it was he who first told me of the widespread use of cyanide in that region. As journalists and narrators we often like to think we’re in touch with trends and developments in our field of interest. This news shocked me. From Cameroon through central and east Africa and now heading south, the hunting network reports rampant elephant poaching across Africa. Often linked to local armed militia capable of causing widespread damage, equally disturbing is the fact that Al Qaeda affiliates are using ivory to fund their activities. The way of our pressurized society today is that we are over-loaded with news and stuff. Everyone and every device is fighting for our attention –so much so that we won’t know about something unless we go looking for it. Much like the massive murder rate on the Cape Flats outside Cape Town, the staggering number of attacks on the elderly in the United Kingdom – and Zimbabwe’s poisoned elephants. So it is that in Hwange the sunsets remain seductive, the elephants socialize at the waterholes, the big cats bring down their prey and the jackals trot around the periphery, on the lookout for the proverbial opportunity. The circle of life continues. That’s the thing about Zimbabwe. Despite the dictatorial rule and often brutal crackdowns on any expression of public discontent, it’s ironically a disarmingly safe place to visit – more so even than South Africa. Granted, for us it was a bit tense as we weren’t meant to be there, and couldn’t be seen filming, but the tourists we met were simply on safari. Whether the local honeymoon couple or the visitors from the USA, by the looks of it they were loving it, swimming the pool, going out on private game drives and sharing tales of who-saw-what at dinner afterwards. With mosquito nets draped over the beds, a swimming pool, perfect sunsets and waiters on call, the answer to why tourists enjoy safari lodges is not a difficult one. Zimbabweans – in contrast to the Batswana, for example – have long been known for their friendliness and hardworking natures. The fact that they remain so – despite the consistently rigged elections and associated woes of the last 12 years – makes them quite remarkable and the situation somewhat tragic. But it is what it is and life goes on. Being on the US dollar and South African Rand for the last couple of years the economy is functioning, as opposed to 2008 when there was no food in the shops and available petrol was a luxury. However it’s still a good idea to fill your tank when in a city. We slept at a place called Ivory Lodge, a concession just outside the park (Hwange) proper. From an accommodation perspective the main difference is that it’s more private than the park and exceedingly comfortable. As for the wildlife, while Ivory does have it’s own waterhole that attracts parched creatures in the increasingly dry months before the rains, the waterholes in Hwange itself have been attracting the elephants since they were first built in the 1930s. In fact, locals tell me Hwange waterholes like Nyamandlovu were built where the elephants came to source the sodium (salt) – in what is known as a salt-lick – which is essential to their diet (it was such waterholes that were laced with cyanide). So where they once would’ve passed through, now they stay, giving rise to the notion that there are too many of the animals. A gent who’s been involved with aerial surveys of Hwange’s elephant population for a few decades tells me there could be anything between twenty 40 000. Either way it may sound like a lot, but we have to consider that these populations are highly mobile – with a number of them moving across borders to countries like Botswana and Zambia. And that Africa is losing 5% of its elephant population every year, with poaching rampant to the north and east – Tanzania having ‘officially’ lost 100 000 – half its estimated population – in the last decade alone. Which is what reminds me of the enormous privilege it is to observe Africa’s elephants. Whether a family herd gathering at the end of a day or a trio of bulls being vaguely destructive. From my chalet verandah one night I watched a pair of elephant madoda (Zulu for bulls) drinking at the lodge waterhole. With nothing but the odd nightjar calling, the sound of their slurping and rumbling was amplified tenfold. Briefly away from the ugly story of cyanide, it was a good place to be. * I have it on good authority that the reported figures of 300 appear were an emotional thumb-suck by a well-meaning but understandably awe-struck bush-pilot flying over those countless carcasses first seen in the reserve.

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I have a house in Knysna, on South Africa’s Garden Route. Well a share of a house, and for a short while anyway. Y’see my Dad passed away a few weeks back, and left it to my absent brother and I – with the unfortunate proviso in his will that we sell it. It’s got an unobstructed view of the lagoon and the Heads, and a good chunk of indigenous forest blanketing the steep slope that makes up the back garden – all the way to the top of the hill behind. Come early morning and sunset it’s packed with birdsong. If you’re interested, property prices in the area have been a bit depressed lately…. but if I had the option I wouldn’t be selling. To be honest, this place was my Dad’s dream – my Mom never had a say in it (she hated the wet winter lashings), and neither did we. But this association did introduce us to a place that as a student I thought never quite compared to the neighbouring beach-glam of Plettenberg Bay. I was wrong. Knysna is, by nature’s grace, a little bit of everything that makes a destination compelling. Granted, it hasn’t got an easily accessible beach a convenient walk away, but once you’re done with the beach-romancing teenage years, for most of us the obsession tends to fade – along with the tan. A great bonus for a destination is diversity, and this historical little town and its surroundings* have undiscovered little hideaways in spade-loads – even for South Africans. I think of the first time I came across Millwood creek, and the burst of frenzied gold-mining history that took place here. Deep in a forested valley I found jungly paths leading to an overgrown mine-shaft. Well-marked bike trails lead out again, whether to braai (barbeque) sites or the coffee-shop (Millys) in a clearing where the Victorian tin-shanty mining village used to be. Ever-present is the suggestion that elephants are around – for the famous (the translated classic, ‘Circles in a Forest’, is just one book written about them) population of five or six are somewhere in these expansive tracts of woodland. The forestry guards will tell you when last they saw or heard them – and often it’s only the trademark crack of a branch that gives away their presence. In thick forest these large creatures are masters of the vanishing act. But seeing for yourself is preferable, and one sunny afternoon while driving down the shady dirt-roads that wind through the Gouna section of the forest, I came across steaming, forest-green dung and broken branches. I’ve seen elephants all over the continent, but the validation of their presence here was special. Yet elephants aren’t the only ‘big five’ creatures that call the greater Knysna home. Riding the seemingly endless up-and-down hills surrounding the town my cousin-the-vet pointed out to me the leopard he’d once seen on a race. At 12cm in length, much smaller than the leopard and very delicate, is the Knysna seahorse**. Endemic to the Knysna and nearby Swartvlei estuary outside neighbouring Sedgefield, the design perfection of these remarkable little creatures reminds me of my favourite purpose-built species – the pygmy kingfisher and a tenebrionid dune beetle among them. Rather than beaches, Knysna has coves. Literally tucked beneath the Knysna Heads, they are good for dipping toes and a picnic under low-hanging tree canopies on hot summer days. The really swimmable ocean beaches are at Buffalo Bay to the west and Plettenberg Bay in the opposite direction – both within a 30 minute drive. I could go on about the awesome views of the craggy cliffs from the Kranskop picnic site and viewpoint, but I’ll stop there. Or nearby anyway, at the quiet, small and atmospheric Noetzie beach, with its castles and misty mornings. It’s another romantic vacation cliché, but so very different. And just one more of the reasons I wouldn’t like to sell it. * possibly the best place to experience the mountain and forest aspect of Knysna is Portland Manor – owned by three generations of the same family. ** most easily seen at the South African National Parks office on Thesen Island and at the 34 Degrees South restaurant at the Waterfront.

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The time was 1977, the place was a group of holiday chalets on the Zambezi river, and I’d just made a new playmate. His name was Zwanai Sibanda, also 11. My Dad had bought me a bow and arrow from the craft-sellers, with a hippo-hide drawstring and metal tip to the arrow, and we were using a baobab on the river-bank for target practice. Those days rank amongst my happiest childhood memories, and Zwanai and I corresponded for the next few years. I still have his letters, and once wrote in my 20s to see if I’d get a reply. I often wonder what became of him. It’s hard to believe that it was twelve years ago that Robert Mugabe unleashed the forces of hell on Zimbabwe in the form of the violent Chenjerai Hitler Hunzvi and his land invasions. I attended the annual World Travel Market in London a few months after it began, and in the Africa hall at the Earls Court Exhibition Centre the talk was about how long the madness would last. Sprinkled over the wintry pessimism in between coffee and soup was the muttered hope that it may all be over by the same time next year. As we know now, it wasn’t to be – and since that day, before 9/11, farms have been raided and seized, lives have been destroyed, and workers daring to support the opposition beaten and killed. This in a country better known for the highest bungee jump in the world, impressive wildlife and the Zambezi river. And as I’d learnt at such a young age, its warm smiles and friendliness. So it was good to see the Zimbabwe stand rather busy at last month’s Travel Indaba in Durban, South Africa. An annual event, the Indaba is essentially a place for those involved in southern and east African travel to do business – a forum where travel agents and tour operators come from around the world to buy suitable product to sell on to their clients (usually looking to escape a northern hemisphere winter). Such product could be a coach tour along South Africa’s Garden Route, a mobile safari following the Serengeti migration, or, more appropriately in this case, a luxurious or otherwise lodge on the edge of the Victoria Falls. Occupying space similar in size to other countries in the Africa section of the Indaba, there was plenty of business being done at the Zim stand, which essentially suggests that a lot more tourists are likely to be seen in Zimbabwe from later on this year (when Victoria Falls hosts its annual New Year carnival), when the interest is converted into bookings. To clarify things, the horrific stories – farm invasions and the like – that have made international headlines have, as far as I can tell, had little or no direct impact on tourists. Obviously their numbers dropped significantly, as such news tends to be a bit off-putting. But the major impact has been on those who staffed the industry. No destination could survive such news and developments unscathed, and a number of tourist establishments closed, with many staff losing their jobs in the process. Nevertheless, Zimbabweans seem to be a resilient bunch and remain overwhelmingly hospitable people. Four years ago I remember walking the aisles of empty supermarkets in the capital, Harare, to see for myself the results of hyper-inflation. It wasn’t a pretty sight, yet the people walking the pavements still had smiles for a stranger. I felt this country still had a lot going for it. Like humanity. And courage. Even though farmer Ben Freeth – author of ‘Mugabe and The White African’ – survived things too terrible for most to contemplate (abduction, torture and near death among them), he remained in the country, with his family. For as Anglo as his original roots may be, Zimbabwe is his home, and the reason he choses not to flee with his family to his parents in the UK. In 2002 Cedric and Gaye Wilde were kicked off the farm that constituted both their living and family home. In that relative sense that seeks to impart some sort of comfort to those who’ve experienced substantial loss, they’re amongst the lucky ones, in that they ended up working for their daughter’s safari company (Amalinda Collection), which enables them to work and still enjoy the Africa – with its sunsets, people and wildlife – that had become part of their daily lives. Often the workers on such farms have even more harrowing tales. But they have no United Kingdom or Australia or family members to escape to, for even the briefest respite. Nowhere to tell their stories. But back to 2013, and the re-emerging Zimbabwe. For a long while I thought it was better to cut the country off altogether and somehow be rid of its clearly bitter, evil and irrational leader, but time has proved that rational thought doesn’t always apply. The country’s tourism needs this seeming wave of support, it needs visitors, to help the industry keep the jobs, feed its people and even grow. Because even if he once more unleashes violence to rig the upcoming elections, Robert Mugabe can’t last forever. Which is something a few Victoria Falls tourism players* must’ve thought a few years back when they started marketing that iconic little tourism hub as a virtually separate destination. Whether cunning thinking on Mugabe’s part or not, there’d been no widespread land invasions in the area, and life had pretty much continued as ‘normal’ while most of the country wept. So Victoria Falls shouted out to the world that it was a place apart. And it worked. Soon enough the message got out that many parts of Zimbabwe were safe to visit, and when the country ‘dollarised’, the goods started flowing back in, pretty much followed by the tourists. So that now even Bulawayo and attractions around the granite Matopos are once again doing business. Things will improve in Zimbabwe, that’s just the way it is. My hope is that somewhere amongst the business, relative enthusiasm and growth of Victoria Falls, Zwanai is part of it all. That he’s doing ok. *www.africaalbidatourism.com

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