The Amatola Trail, Eastern Cape 2022.03.18

 While I was a freshman in highschool, sat behind a wooden flip top desk  in English class, we were tasked to write an essay on whatever we desired, however it needed to be 'personal experience'. Now, at 13 years old I had had very little personal experience other than sunday ice cream outings to Carvel, and honestly, I didn't even know what  'personal experience' even meant. 

And so, excited like a fat boy eager to bury his head in a sugar dusted jelly donut,  I rushed home, reached for my yellow BIC pen and began scribing my opus. 

It would be the late 80's early 90's, I would be clothed in khaki pants with side pockets and a matching colour-coordinated button-down shirt with yellow Camel Trophy badges emblazoned on my shoulders. I'd be wearing military utility boots. I'd have hitched in my velcroed top pocket my Swiss army knife from before The War, a soft pack of Camel filter fags, a box of timber matches, a picture of my girl back home, a pack of elastoplast plasters for the unforseen tyre puncture and, I'd be buckled into the driver's seat of a mustard-yellow Land Rover Defender 110, revved up, and torqued down to navigate and usurp the densest, wettest, muddiest terrain in a tropical jungle in Borneo in the elite Camel Trophy Challenge.

Thoughts of adventure of leaving my suburban home and tackling the mangled forests of Borneo excited me to write. My brain was all consumed by the idea of getting dirty, of roughing it. My writing hand took its cue from my imagination and began gushing streams of consciousness across the lined foolscap sheet of white paper. Blue ink dripped with excitement, adventure and daring.
As a kid clutching a winning Willy Wonka ticket, I was Michael-Jackson-fan hysterical  to submit come Monday morning.

Having plonked my creativity onto the teachers wooden desk alongside a red apple, it was, after a week, returned to me... as a blood curdling failure.The teacher's red ink, splattered across the sheet like a Jack the Ripper crime scene, dripped off of the edges of the page weighing heavily on my submission. As I stood dead still, the world stopped, and silence blanketed the classroom. I was in a slasher scene of a friday the 13th horror movie but it was just a monday. It was a horror show, and I was being hatched with a blunt rusty meat cleaver.

Some 30 years later that rugged diesel powered hard edged mustard body of the Defender morphed into me, it's hard working BF Goodriches became my Hi-Tec boots, its halogen lights, my LED lightweight Pestl headlamp. It's iron-clad winch my erg-powered forearms, the modified suspension my rickety knees, and its roof rack, my 60litre Deuter backpack.

Though not in a Landy, it'd be my legs, my arms and my brain that'd get me through the most gruelling hike I'd ever endured. I was about to gain experience, personal experience.

The Amatola hike is a gruelling 6 day trek through rain forests covering 100plus kays with an elevation of 5000m. It is South Africa's toughest hike and it makes the Otter Trail a walk through the cheese section of Woolies. Cool, breezy, cheesy, creamy easy.

The Amatola hike is set in the Amatola mountains in the Eastern Cape inland. It begins and ends in Hogsback, a tiny little village that sits as a relaxed, tye-dyed, hippified, foot to the Amatola mountains. With its veins gushing with halucongenics, it's in stark contrast to the stress that awaits me embedded in the Amatola Trail. 

Immediately we are enveloped by the embrace of the forest. It's trees loom, it's vines dangling as Rapunzel's plaited locks reaching down to the forest floor, its shards of grass have us entangled as we puncture the bubble of this biome. A daylight darkness shrouds the interior. Shafts of sunlight pierce the canopy, striking the ground to light our path. The cracks of twigs under foot rifle through the silence, sending hares scurrying, and frogs leaping-the only other movements in this still womb.

In this moisture saturated environment, this greenhouse, mushrooms burst from the rich dark soils packaged in Dr Seussian colours, larger than your garden variety, and easy to pluck. Hallucinogens are in abundance. Radioactive-glowing-green moss carpets fallen trunks like the dash boards and steering wheels of drifting box-car BMW's softening edges and offering comfortable seats for moments of relax. 

The path we take each morning sees the detailed geometric webs of spiders strung precariously between mangled trees like slackliners tied tight across crevasses. Crayola colours splash across the backs of spiders.Red, black, and yellow specks like a Pollockian painting. These 8-legged arachnids sit still awaiting unsuspecting insects to come ploughing into their snare. As our troop marches forwards we machete our way through the swathe. 

The hike courses through fast and slippery downs, up slow, cog-turning steep rocky inclines. Slipping, bruising, cutting, oozing, the blood drains from us as our bodies are pierced by jagged rocks. Our lungs expand, soaking up the oxygen-heavy forest air.Punching through the forest walls the trail plateaus, from here we see the light of day, fluffy clouds and the expanse of the trail. From up here we scout the villages below, white rocky outcrops, mottled nguni cattle and babbling brookes.

Waterfalls careen down the ravines of the mountains, plummeting with rapturous ferocity into a series of pools that slink across the trail down the mountains edge. The pools of ice-cold water that pepper the hike give us the opportunity to refresh as we unbundle our gear and make the plunge revitalising our spirits to go forth and trek on. 

Rain on the trail slowly soaks our clothes, seeping towards our skin, catalysing goose bumps to prick up and ice bite. I see no joy in dancing in the rain. so i put my head down and pick up the pace towards the rudimentary,though dry, overnight hut. Foam mattresses sag on wooden frames await exhausted bodies.There is no stress, my mind is at rest for there is no thinking other than the number of rusks i'll be dunking at sunrise.

Towards the ends of the hike, we skirt the crown of the mountain, its rock face bears down heavily above us minimising us. Against the face of this wall of stone we are as minute little dwarves of Thorin's Company.

The trek took us way back to when life was simple and we had to work extra hard to achieve. No amount of tech could get us further, faster or higher. No amount of space saving weight reducing aluminium could assist us in gaining ground. Only the steel of our minds, the elasticity and strength of our muscles and the grit of our teeth would allow us to conquer the toughest hike in the country. Here we hiked dirty, we hiked raw. We hiked like it was the 1800's, a period of unchartered territory, a period of paving new paths, of cutting across swaths of overgrown brush, fallen trees, rocks littered haphazard as a kids fallen lego's.

The eastern Cape landscape from the air looks agrarian, peaceful, slick and clean, easily surmountable, easily caressed  and beautifully drawn. the patchwork of farms and forest glow emerald green and sparkling. Scrolling into the terrain of the Ciskei reveals itself as treacherous, and rugged as Mordor.

As I sat down outside the backpackers on a stone slate floor, my scuffed boots sidled alongside me caked in mud, sweat, rain and salty tears,my hiking shirt encrusted in 5 days of grime, my toenails reflecting a Hobbitt's curling over days of dirt, I sat hugging my knees, shell shocked, maybe crying, reeling from PTSD  from the experience i just endured.

as i shoot my hand up, seeking attention, i inquire, 'ma'am, may I resubmit my essay?'

A Short Story about a High-school Crush

Layla was the apple of my eye. Not only was she strawberry-sundae delicious, she was the hottest girl of our school in her age group and probably of every age group in the school. She had dark rich 85% cocoa chocolate colour hair curled in the style of Veronica Lodge, she tucked her white button down shirt into her blue school skirt, and rolled her socks down. 
She carried a tiny school pack, neat and square.

While I played in the Sunday League, she sat atop the Premier League. 

Being in the B team of any sport I played, studying Latin, and having less than nimble fingers when it came to playing snake on my Nokia 6110, opened very few doors in me being boyfriend material. But still harbouring the confidence and exaltation of three years prior as I walked off that cricket field in my black blazer, I decided I'd throw any caution, and any reputation i had to the wind, and ask Layla to accompany me to the Matric dance. 

Munching my triangulated snackwedge and watching Britney and Justin star in Mickey Mouse Club after school I grabbed with two greasy hands the tomb-like White pages. I thumbed through the G's, punched the phone number with my index finger I thought was 'it', scratched a heart shape in red koki around the number, and set the following Monday to make the call.

The whole week waiting in fear, but in anticipation, from science to Latin class, I etched 'DC 4 LG' encircled by a heart cementing my love, on every wooden desk I sat at with my red Swiss Army pen knife. Finally Monday eve arrived and with the hairline cracks in the irises of my eyes oozing blood, and my palms dipped-in-water wet, I dialed her digits. As the ringer rang, with heaps of anxiety, I drew imaginary circles with my toes turning the shaggy rug to a heap of knots.And then she answered. 'uhh uhhh', my voice pitched high, 'Layla, hi, hello, is that you?'

Across the wires, with a little delay, a little silence, 'Oh no, I'm afraid not, it's her aunt, here, let me give you her number'. Panicked to scrawl the number down, I thanked her and with that the slow puncture of relief relaxed me. Having achieved very little regarding my goal, I'd wait a full week to try again.

That following week I agonised. With the feeling of having Bruce Lee do repeated roundhouse kicks inside my stomach, squealing every time he did a full 360, my stomach churned for a full week before I made the call again. The waiting strained me, strained my gut. I barely ate, I barely slept. I barely had control of myself.The next Monday my heart racing Monte Carlo, I dialled in. 

Now Layla's brother was ranked like number 1 in jock status at school. His crowd, they were built like mine-craft characters-square jaws, square muscles, square fists, with six packs harder than the fender of a Ford pick-up. They ate tuna and rice every day, and pumped iron till their veins popped, and their hands calloused. They commanded such respect that they had the First-Years polish their rugby boots till the glint of their Aquafresh smiles reflected in their leather uppers. These bruisers 'owned' the stairs by the quadrangle, it was their lair. No one could sit on the quadrangle stairs. And no one could pass through unless you offered up your tuckshop sarmie as collateral. On trying to gain access, the pasty kid would extend out his arm clawing the polony roll, turning his face in fear, he'd shy away trying to hold back from blubbering in public. There they'd grab it, biting, tearing off three-quarters of the sandwich like Ozzy biting the head off of a bat, leaving the sweet kid with a tomato-sauce drenched stubby stump of a roll. The teeth marked polony, a remnant of its former whole, clung to the carbohydrate like Alex Honoldt cleaving for dear life to a creaking overhang on El Capitan. Though the bun was slobbered in gob, the kid would cringingly swallow the remainder. But access to the stairs was his.Though he'd go hungry. He'd appeased the big cheese.

Now I loved number 1's sister. and no matter what, I was gonna call her.

'Hello, hi, is that Number 1, it's me, Dan Chaity?', 'Chaity?,Whadda you want?'Can I chat to your sister?' Borderline stunned, he says, 'hold on', and sets the phone down. 

I hear ruffling, I hear voices, I hear footsteps. clop clop clop.'Bud, she's busy. She asks, 'whadda you want?'.'Uhm, I'd like to take her to the Matric dance'.Again he sets the phone down, and in moments returns."Chaity, Sean the Love Machine has asked her to the dance.''oh oh okay', i croaked, 'no problem, see you at rugby practice tomorrow.'

Plunging the off-white receiver into its cradle, my back drenched, I slump back into the wicker chair, grabbing the ice cold coke before me, I drain its contents in one gulp,and let out a huge... sigh. Just as I conquered the can, I felt I'd conquered the call.

I didn't win, but I inflated that limp ego like Chucky the Clown blowing up a balloon noodle.

Short Story-A School Boy Cricket Match

 Back then when summer days were spread thick across the loaf of life, Wednesday's smell of freshly mowed cricket fields, the ripe scent of fresh cut orange quarters and syrupy lecol juice, joyously flared my nostrils.

On half-day Wednesdays, as the school brass bell rung the end of the day, we shouted, 'Match day!'and on that day, we played cricket against KES.  

Having lost the toss, King David was sent in to bat.

The KES bowling attack was furiously ferocious. and before the opening bat could doff his cap and say 'centre, please sir', his middle stump was doing Simone Biles flik-flaks across the village green.

The sound of rattling wickets echoed, and the holler of 'howsat?' reverberated against the hallowed halls of the KES Res disrupting square meals and latin conjugations.

Amidst the devastating fall out, I padded up, and made my way to the crease. Blocking, cutting, charging, I smacked the shine off the red Kookaburra leaving it pasted to my linseed-oiled rapier. I caressed that little red cherry to all corners of the ballpark making bolognaise sauce of their front line seamers. 

Thinking i was a cat, I lobbed a delivery down the gullet of a boundary fielder. Tucking my bat under my armpit, I strolled back to the hut, punching myself in the ribs. 

At the change, I was top scorer for King David. 8

Fielding next, we had no chance defending the paltry 40. Off the first delivery they made our fielding placements look like a leaky reusable nappy.

Standing at the Jonty Rhodes position, nervous and shaken as a Bond martini, a ball was rifled at me. Hurtling at me at a rate of knots, I stuck my hands out at the ready. The earth stopped spinning, silence settled across the field, and only the sound of the seam, and my hard swallow could be heard in the surrounding Houghton and Hillbrow areas.  (mainly Houghton, cos Hillbrow was partay-ying). The ball bladdy well stuck.

That Wednesday I was a headline even on mainstream media news reels. 

We grabbed our flings and apple juice cartons and went home to Sunny Side road to celebrate.

Tossing my grass-stained kit in the washing machine, and inspecting my bludgeoned bat, my day of glory had ended. 

The Fish River Canyon 08.08.2021

Zip, tear, tighten, press, push, squeeze. Undies past your knobbly hairy knees, socks over toes, pants past your bones. Belt buckled, zipper up, button-down shirt thrown over your back. Buttons and holes lined up, collar popped. Boots on, laces tied bunny ears. backpack bulging slung over your shoulders. Hip support locked in. The slack is tacked. Peering over the edge, the earth plummets. Final photos. We drop off the precipice deep into the yawing canyon, leaving behind a sky blue as the iris' of an icelandic's eyes.

The colour palette of earthy brown hues, goose greys and charcoal blacks, rusts and reds, we leave behind a world of shiny, glossy, swipey metallic.

Once we leave the height of the canyon, our swashbuckling journey begins as we lay eyes on the whipping Fish River. Still as Evian, we catch the river in its eerily quiet wintery months. These are the remnants of the gushing summer. The River swings and swoops back and forth along the canyon's floor as Indiana's bullwhip. We keep it close to us, never straying too far from this life blood.

The sedate River responds to movement by reflecting the hiker's daily march, the lapping lips and tongues of wild horses, the swoop and dive of ravenous raptors, the flitting fish that never made it downstream and the swimming Namibia guy, his belly a barrel, his bulky legs pistons, and his skin tanned coffee by the countless hours of daylight exposure.

The landscape on which we tread is forever changing. The dirtied rim of the subsiding river, as the blazing sun sips, is revealed as concentric circles on rounded pebbles. The now exposed rocks form fields we need to hop, balancing like pirouetting ballerina's.

The crunch of boot tread on the course gravely terrain, scrape, clink as an aluminium pole pierces a crevice.   

We hurdle rising rock formations, graze our knees on sharp outcrops, we cut across swathes of sinking river sand so soft its arms tear at our legs pulling us downwards,as we find ourselves immersed in a battle between the moon's gravitational pull and the doughy dirt. The heavy heave as lungs expand and contract as we lunge, drop, squat and pivot.

Regardless of the immense physicality of the hike, the silence, the peace, the freshness is serenity. It allows for mindless contemplation, stressless thinking, soulful reflection ...until...

Bang! it's popped like a grass blade to a balloon by the bouncing crew that we meet en route. Their flower power outfits and leisurely laissez faire attitude abound. Where we're kitted for survival, they're kitted for lounging lazily around campfires smoking kilograms of mary jane and singing REM songs. We share little but passing 'Hi's' and then they're off, oddly, like mountain goats.

The dampened sounds of our chatter are soaked by the serrations of the towering Manhattan-like walls of the cavernous Canyon. We are aware of the sun tracking across the sky. As it peers from behind the Canyon walls, googling at us, we rise. Rising, no thing protects us from the streaming scorching sun beams during the long day, and as we pitch our tents at day's end and the sun crash lands, the lengthy shadows drawn turn icey. 

After 5 days chasing the mileage, we returned with beaten bodies, a feeling of achievement andbody odour so rancid it could strip paint. As we recovered in the post-hike hot springs, that was time for our bodies to experience some euphoria.