No Stopping for Lions (24 page)

We've booked the Zuurburg Mountain Inn in Addo Elephant National Park thinking that it will be bang in the middle of elephants and eland, and that we'll be game driving through the park to get to it. But it turns out that the park's borders aren't straight up and down, but a confusing pattern of indentations and bulges around railway lines, public roads and privately owned land, and that it's sectioned to accommodate the various biomes that it encompasses. Only one section, the one in the middle, actually has the famous elephants. This population of Eastern Cape elephants, now at over 400, has grown from just eleven in 1931 when the park was established to save the sub-species from extinction through poaching. The park has subsequently expanded to cover additional landscapes and biomes, and now a diverse range of species call it home. Because of its accessibility the park is popular and we've been able to book just one night's accommodation at Main Camp. We're disappointed that we'll only have 24 hours in what we think could be the last wildlife park we'll be visiting.

Well, it may be just 24 hours but it's an exceptional day. There are fields of eland and waterholes of buffalo, and all three types of warthog, namely brunette, blonde and redhead. And of course there are the elephants and, almost as precious as those, the dung beetles, and flightless ones at that. Signs all over the park warn that dung beetles have the right of way and on game drives you see cars erratically swerving or screeching to a sudden halt as they come upon a dung beetle rolling his perfect ball of dung across the road. Sometimes the road is scattered with dung beetles and it's only with some very fancy driving that they can be avoided. Even so we come across more than a few squashed bodies, not so much victims of a heartless motorist but unavoidable due to their sheer numbers.

On the afternoon drive we round a corner to see below us a fabulous sight. A series of waterholes surrounded by and filled with elephants, 60 or 70 of them, drinking, playing, larking about in the mud or wandering through the car park where some lucky people are parked, cameras working overtime and big smiles on their faces. Out of the bushes more herds wander in while others, slick with mud and dark with water, move off to make room. It's ordered and stately, and after what seems like just a few minutes they've all gone, engulfed by the surrounding bush. Twice more before we leave the park we visit this waterhole but there is no one there. Our earlier encounter could have been a dream, an illusory trick of the harsh African light.

As we continue towards Cape Town it becomes apparent that now we're heading westward, not south, as the coastline has flattened out and runs roughly from east to west. It's a concept that continually confuses me, as set in my mind is an image of South Africa with Cape Town sitting on a point at the southern extreme. When we were in Cape Town I assumed that I was looking out south towards Antarctica, but I must in fact have had my sights set on Argentina. My sense of direction has been thrown and I fear that from now on I'll be continually guiding us 45 degrees away from our destination.

Our initial intention had been to stay at Jeffreys Bay, home to the Billabong Classic of surfing fame, but it looks bleak and wind blown when we arrive, and we've heard bad things about property safety from previous visitors so we decide to push on to St Francis Bay. This little town looks as pretty as a picture on approach; all whitewash and thatch nestled into a gully amongst sand dunes and the low-lying coastal heath known as
fynbos
. We continue down the peninsula to Port St Francis and then, because we're almost there anyway, Cape St Francis. Not quite as quaint and ordered as St Francis Bay but arranged around a wide sandy beach that stretches as far as the lighthouse. This is the beach that attracts international surfers in winter when tides and winds combine to give a magic mile-long ride right across the bay from the rocks in front of the lighthouse. Now the sea just looks rough and there's not a surfboard in sight.

We choose a place to stay which meets only half of our requirements: there's no view, no international news on DSTV, no Internet facility to track the progress of the Troopy's sale, and what's more, there's an interconnecting door — but we like it all the same. We like it even better when the manageress gives us a discount and says she'll keep the connecting room vacant for the duration of our stay. We continue our get fit campaign with the bravado of the weak-willed, but do manage to stick to a loose regime of morning and afternoon beach walks.

I love this sort of walking — dodging waves, picking up shells, patting dogs. I think about why so many bluebottles have been washed up, and plan what we'll have for dinner. Why do some walkers greet you and others ignore you? And what could that lady have been thinking when she came to walk on the beach in high-heeled espadrilles? When I raise this last important issue, in fact have to repeat it twice, Neil looks suddenly askance and says, ‘What?' He's been discussing with himself the future effects of South Africa's policy of Black Empowerment and Affirmative Action, and we laugh at the disparity in our thoughts. We may have, finally, learnt to respect the other's ideas and interests, but my froth and Neil's earnestness will always be there. Now we can appreciate that, underneath it all, we both whistle the same song. I think back to a night in St Lucia. We were sitting at a table in a restaurant and, in a heavy drizzle, a group of black entertainers sidled up to the owner and asked permission to busk. In imitation of the upmarket Khula Happy Singers who entertain tourists all about town, these were dressed in white tuxedos and white gloves, black and white minstrels in reverse, and they sang and danced their hearts out. I don't like to think what it cost them to put their costumes together but there they were, in the rain and with reserved reception, hoping to make a buck. Other diners sat at their tables, eating, drinking, some turning their backs to the boys. As the dancers hummed and clicked their boots I felt a sense of hopelessness for these earnest young men with big dreams but little future. I glanced over at Neil, who was staring into his plate, so wretched did he feel about their nightly humiliation. When they'd finished and the hat was passed around Neil emptied his pockets of change to try to make up for the indifference of others.

We've booked two nights in Tsitsikamma National Park, not really knowing much about it except that it is by the sea and has good walking trails. Ho hum, I'm thinking, as we approach through scanty pine forests and old maize fields. We check in at the gate, where we're given a key and a map, and head off for Storms River Mouth Rest Camp, immediately entering thick forest. There are a couple of marked walking tracks veering off into the undergrowth and through the trees are glimpses of water. The road continues and then in front of us a dramatic stretch of coastline is revealed. We notice tents and caravans and mobile homes spread along a grassy verge right on the rocky shore. Down a little track and we find our chalet nestled up against a ridge of
fynbos
, right on the rocks, 180 degrees of ocean staring back at us just metres away. Wow! Inside it's even better, with a lounge room designed for lounging and a big bed facing the water. Feng shui or whatever, this place immediately feels just right.

We sit on the deck in the sun, watching giant gulls weave, timing the breakers between sets, and above the roar of the ocean we can hear others oohing and aahing as waves blast like water bombs on hidden high-tide outcrops. We've been sitting there for some time when we realise that we haven't investigated the rest of the camp, so we wander over to the public areas. These turn out to be perched right on the mouth of the Storms River, which is pulled to the sea through a deep dark chasm. It's wild, wonderful and untouched, and the feeling that something special is happening here affects everyone.

During the day car parks full of visitors arrive, and some go walking and some go splashing about on the tiny perfect little beach. We go for long walks, a boat trip up the gorge, and on the last afternoon we cut short a three-hour waterfall walk so that we can spend more time on our deck. As the last of the day-trippers disappear up the hill and the afternoon shadows grow longer and darker, a quiet, peaceful mist descends and the dassies come out on the grass to catch the last of the sun. They squeal to each other and race about the rocks, and later when it's dark and cold, their calls carry over the thunder of the sea.

Sometimes it feels like we're leading a charmed life. So much has fallen our way and so little has gone wrong that we've come to believe that all those warnings of doom and disaster were delivered out of jealousy, not concern. But there have been many near misses. As we approached Port Elizabeth we thought we'd drive in to Marine Drive to check out the beach and to look for a shopping mall with an ATM and Internet café. At the last minute we decided to drive on, and a couple of days later we read in the paper that a family of four were held up at knifepoint on Marine Drive and their car stolen. The perpetrators were later caught in a police sting, as this was their modus operandi, high-jacking fancy vehicles on Marine Drive. Then on page three is the news that a gang, again in Port Elizabeth, has been robbing people at ATMs and the last victim got shot in the stomach. Add to this, the plane crash in the Selous in Tanzania, the closing of the Serengeti due to flooding days after we were there, and Cyclone Flavio leaving Vilanculos flattened in our wake. The tail end of another cyclone hit Durban and Umhlanga Rocks four days after our visit, and all this on top of high autumn tides causing windows in Neil's aunt's apartment block to blow out and the road south being closed due to flooding. You have to admit that we're leaving behind a trail of devastation.

The press here carries daily articles and letters to the editor about Mugabe and Zimbabwe's slide into insanity. The statistics are sometimes incomprehensible. An inflation rate of 3000 per cent; four out of five people out of work; life expectancy one of the lowest in the world at 37 years for men and 34 for women; 3000 deaths each week from AIDS; and so it goes on. Some of Mugabe's edicts are barely believable, like Operation Nyama announced early this year. In tacit acknowledgement that his people are starving, his cunning plan is for them to go out and kill the wildlife.
Off you go — an elephant should keep you going for a week or two
. Never mind that without animals there will be even fewer tourists, many of those lucky enough to still have work will be jobless and the input of foreign currency to the street economy will dry up.

The man has been out of control for years and any hope of him seeing reason has long gone, so now the South African press has turned their attention to his best mate, their own leader Thabo Mbeki. This man must have had some very good spin-doctors when he took office after Mandela. He was heralded as a quiet academic, a deep thinker who would, through diplomacy, honesty and subtle cleverness, take South Africa to further greatness. His performance since has been underwhelming and has disappointed both blacks and whites. Not only disappointed but embarrassed. Take the AIDS issue, for example. First, he proclaimed that AIDS wasn't an issue at all, then that it may exist but wasn't a problem in his country, and then his Health Minister got up in front of a world AIDS conference in Canada and told delegates that the disease can be cured with lemons, garlic and beetroot. As we travel through South Africa, it's evident he's becoming a joke and can't control his party, the African National Congress, any more than he can break the ties that bind him to Mugabe.

As we head towards Knysna, the newspapers are full of the Zimbabwean police beating up Mugabe's main opposition, Morgan Tsvangirai. Mugabe is unrepentant and somehow uses his tried and true argument of Britain not honouring its land reform obligations as an excuse for the beating. Similarly, Mbeki constantly plays the racist card whenever criticised, no matter that racism has nothing to do with the point at hand. It could be union corruption, government incompetence or a health issue, but you can be sure that white racism is the cause. When recently asked a question by a journalist regarding the culpability of one of his ministers, the response, wrapped around the statement that there are still whites who refer to blacks as
kaffirs
, left everyone scratching their heads.

Great news! Donald, one of the Troopy's admirers has agreed in principle to buy. There has been much to-ing and fro-ing, the price has been reviewed, things excluded being included, convincing, cajoling, but now our friend in Namibia has come good. It's not quite a done deal yet, as he'll have to establish the legalities of buying an Australian-registered vehicle that is travelling on a
carnet
, while at the same time trying to minimise the high duties that will apply. But he wants it, and badly. Neil's confident enough to abandon the plan of sending the Troopy home and cancels the shipping container, but still, in the back of his mind is that old salesman's maxim of waiting until the money is in the bank before acknowledging that it's in the bag.

Everyone who mentions Knysna speaks of it in glowing terms and confirms that it is a place where we must spend several days. Brochures show trendy shops, a beautiful wide blue lagoon and people canoeing through secret peaceful inlets. An image of a tranquil but upmarket holiday town has lodged in my head and I advocate staying a week, at least five days. We approach from the east and drive through a neat township with unruly shops, and a not-so-neat informal settlement. There are people all along the road hailing taxis, selling carvings, wanting lifts or handouts. A bustling place full of life and music. Up and over a hill and the first view of the main town shows a large lagoon with new, soulless estates on the shores and a low sand island jam-packed with uniform houses, and no greenery in sight. We can see a railway line running right across the water below, and up on the hills are massive, over-the top mansions that South Africa is so good at. These would easily house a dozen township families (let's face it, they'd house two or three Australian families), but are most likely the home of one lone retired couple.

We've lost some enthusiasm for the place and head straight to Knysna Quays at the North Wharf. There we take a small apartment overlooking a canal and settle in. It's quiet and the outlook is pretty but what sells us on the place, after weeks of hand-washing, is the presence of a washing machine and dryer. Downstairs in the complex there are boutiques, jewellery shops, an Internet café and restaurants, and an elegantly dressed transvestite is doing a roaring trade at a tarot table. Another time and we'd love it here, but we both seem to be unsettled, our mind on the immediate future and looking for something without being sure what it is. After just two days we pack up and move on.

The road westward out of town winds around the north shore of the main lagoon. It passes family bungalows with little dinghies in front and inlets with fishermen in tinnies floating in the reeds. This must be what people were talking about, a lazy fishing village before the developers and architects came to town.

The town of Wilderness sounds like it could offer what we're seeking so we drive in with high hopes. Expecting a wilderness, we find a busy little hub squashed between the sea, the highway and the railway line. The beach foreshore is lined with those same grand houses that turned us off Knysna, but here they don't dictate the heart of the town. We drive around for a couple of hours, looking for accommodation near the beach, but it's school holidays and two days before Easter, and we get turned away time and time again. As a last resort Neil phones a place that I've seen an ad for, not on the beach but off in the bush somewhere. Yes, they have a cottage and off we go into the hinterland, expecting a log cabin with a view of trees.

What we find is Clairewood, a wonderful, peaceful haven with a stylish cottage looking out over valleys of mist and blue tall mountain ranges. We've just walked in and we know we want to stay longer. It has everything; besides the view there are friendly dogs, a visiting old horse, well-thought-out interiors with the best bed we've slept in so far, a considerate host who very soon becomes a friend, a pack of marauding black baboons, and neighbours so far away that they might not be there. It's so quiet that noise carries kilometres across the valley and the sound of someone calling in their dogs at a farm two hills away drifts across and weaves into our sitting room as if the dogs are here at our feet. Each day we ask to stay a day longer and each day we hang around the cottage, forgetting the walks and canoeing we'd talked about doing the night before.

Sweetness comes each day to clean and she embarks on a project to teach us Xhosa. Basic grammar and common nouns are interspersed with stories of her family and we gradually learn a little of her life. She left her husband when she discovered he was playing around, and she is training to be a natural healer because it's a way of helping her people. She's very religious. Easter Friday she spends six hours at the Zionist church, praying and singing to the beating of drums. When asked how far she must travel to the church she answers that it's about an hour's walk but if it's raining she runs. No one could have been better named. Her gentle nature warms the days and generosity flows around her like a sea mist in a secret bay.

One morning there's a hue and cry in the garden and we go out to find our host, garden boys and dogs trying to catch a runaway piglet. With the little pink porker in front they all hurtle about in diversionary directions, down a grassy slope one minute then into the undergrowth, followed by shouts and the sound of branches snapping and dead leaves cracking. But the funniest participant in the chase is the old horse who, tail out and neck arched, canters around behind the little pig, not letting anyone or anything else get close to it. No one's seen him move like this in years, and afterwards he's very pleased with himself and prances and dances about like a three-year-old.

The southernmost tip of the African continent lies in the Agulhas National Park, 170 kilometres south-east of Cape Town. It lies on the meridian of 20 degrees east and this meridian also marks the official division between the Indian Ocean and the Atlantic. Neil and I decide that we'd like to see this point, if for no other reason than to photograph each other with one foot on either side of the divide. When we arrive in the settlement of Cape Agulhas it's sunny but blowing a gale. The town is treeless, under siege from the elements, only a place that fishermen would love. And fishermen there are, dozens of them lined up on the rocks, leaning into the wind with the spray whipping into their determined leathery faces. We head straight for the most solidlooking accommodation in town, the Agulhas Country Lodge, nestled into the
fynbos
in defiance. The wind is so strong that each time we venture outside we find another piece of hardware lying in the car park, blown off the exterior of the building. We take a drive to nearby Struisbaai to visit the National Heritage–listed thatched fishermen's cottages, but it's blustering too much to get out of the car. Instead we go to the harbour where we struggle against the force of the wind into a bar full of locals watching a Springbok–Wallabies match. No English spoken here. Neil goes to the bar and orders a beer in a low voice, trying to cover his Australian accent in a room full of Springbok supporters. I'm offered a stool by a gentlemanly young Afrikaner and I can't figure out if it's because I'm female, older then him, or if he's picked up on my nationality and feels sorry for me.

Around the corner and beyond a lighthouse lies the national park, a broad coastal plain that looks stark and windswept under these conditions, and down on the nearby shoreline are ancient fish traps where some smart Khoisan generations ago worked out a method of stranding fish in a series of stone corrals after they'd been borne in on incoming high tides. We like this battered, historic corner of the country and despite the wind and the Wallabies' loss we leave town the next day with a positive feeling, a sense that here is a place still connected to its past and a people who have learnt to live with the elements and thrive.

Our last port of call before Cape Town is Hermanus, one-and-a-half hours' drive away. It's a favourite seaside destination for Capetonians in search of a weekend away, but is more famously known as offering the best land-based whale-watching opportunity there is. Tourists from all over the world flock to these shores around the month of August to view the southern right whale at very close quarters. The town's bays and inlets become one giant maternity ward as they harbour cows calving and mothers with their young, and cliff paths and vantage points overflow with expectant observers watching life played out in the waters just metres below their feet. One local puts a slight dampener on it though when she confides in us that, yes, it is wonderful and the whales are truly awesome, but
ag
, the noise, the crying and moaning as they give birth is heart-wrenching. She also tells us that the first of the northward-bound whales have been recently seen, four months out from the peak of the season. Just two on two separate days, but that's enough to give us the whale-watching bug. From the verandah of our flat we gaze out to sea, hopeful of a splash and a flash of white, and we walk the cliffs daily peering down into the lonely inlets. But for the duration of our stay, the whales aren't cooperating.