Notes from a small city, tales from a big town - Chapter 2

Notes from a small city, tales from a big town - Chapter 2

The Mountain.

Not long after I came to Cape Town, I had a look at the low mountain range extending from Cape Point to Table Mountain. With inviting peaks and names such as Devils Peak, Skeleton Gauge, The Three Sisters – who could resist the urge to toss  a bottle of Oros and a sandwich in the backpack, jump over the fence and go for a little stroll?

So I decided to listen to the little voice - (who speaks English btw... and opens up so many questions for me: Do Xhosa speaking folk a have little voice that speaks with that *clicking sound in their heads? If so, I’m glad mine doesn’t... I wouldn’t be able to understand a word... I hope those with multiple personality disorders have voices they can understand lol) – who said: “Don’t be a wuss! It’d be Legendary! Do it!”

So it gave me something to chat to the guys in Camouflage flannels at Gringos pub about. No longer would I feel like a Koeksister. Once completed, I’d be able to strut into the pub, look them in the eye, sniff and gloat “Yeah, I shat on a mountain”.

And there was a more convincing reason to do it as well. I’ve not heard of anyone who did it before. So, seeing as the 6 degree principle applied, I’d be the first one ever to give in to stupidity and tackle the enitre range. I’d be a hero. People would sing songs about me. Brad Pitt would star in the movie. Johnny Depp would play the puffadder that nested in my backpack and used my sock as a squishy toy. I’d be famous!

 So off I went to CapeUnion Mart to be convinced by Johan, the salesman, that I needed the ‘juxta-cushioned NASA designed inner sole with enhanced thermodynamic diffusion and super transmogrified abrasion resistant carbon alloyed rubber” hiking boots (we call sneakers ‘Takkies’ locally just in case you wondered) that were specifically designed by top notch scientists in a laboratory just for me. I would cost a billion Rand and have a lifetime guarantee as long as I didn’t break them and they were never worn by a human being and were never removed from the packaging it came in.

I asked Johan, who was charming and always chuckled at the appropriate times, if the price tag and boots included a few Asian girls donned in skimpy outfits and palm tree branches fanning me down whenever I needed them. He said No... Johan was also against the exploitation of Palm trees, felt hurt and in revenge, sold me a backpack that set me back with a further gazillion Rand.

I politely declined the neon green mini-poop spade he offered for “when you have to go”... the word ‘Wussy’ kept echoing though my mind.

So, after reading about scary baboons and evil snakes and hippo-sized spiders that live on the mountain range and will happily gobble me up if I’m not careful – as well as  hearing stories about toothless knife yielding humans who first kill you before shouting “Money or your life!” – I decided to tackle the Range.

It was an early warm November morning when I left home and grabbed a train ride to Kalkbay. And from there, hitched a ride to as close to Cape Point as the roads would allow. My journey started. My legendary trip had begun.

My epic voyage of discovery and wonder was slightly hindered by heat-seeking laser guided mosquitoes, but I wouldn’t let them change my mood. Nor would the ‘Dangerous’ or ‘Rock Falls Ahead’ signs deter me from the overwhelming desire to conquer this mountain.

And as I took my first step on that gradually inclining slope, I recalled Neil Armstrong’s first words he uttered when He stepped on the Moon... I could lie and say mine was just as historic and awesome, but it wasn’t. I said “Eina, you bliksem!” (Ouch you bastard) – because I stepped into a 100 metre long razor sharp thorn that easily slipped through my diamond hardened intergalactic boots.

If anyone tries to convince you that Hiking is easy, giggle politely and smile and nod, but know this: It isn’t. It’s difficult. It’s tiring. It’s strenuous. It’s demanding. It saps you from all energy and the slope is always up for five million kilometres and down for only four centimetres. Though closer to the sun, it’s always cold. Wind has a new meaning when one is higher up. Trying to peer through early morning fog is like trying to look through a concrete wall.  

Don’t get me wrong though. The view is phenomenal. The flowery scents, the pine tree aromas, the cool shaped rock formations – are amazing and beyond a mere mortal’s ability to describe. The stunning views of Cape Town, it’s harbours and beaches are breathtakingly, mouth-openly, teary eyeingly beautiful. One can immediately sense why Buddhist Monks travel and live so high up on snowy mountains and arrange their limbs in awkward positions and hum “ommmmmmm”...

It. Is. Stunning.

After an hour of walking on an old trail, I stumbled upon a dirt bin. I am convinced it is strategically placed for people like me... My back pack contained enough food and items to feed and care for an army. This said, it weighed about as much as it costs. So, sadly, I chucked a few items to help my arched back recover.

...which I regretted later that evening. Sleeping bags, torches, the extra sandwich etc would’ve made the cool night pass faster.

I once read in a newspaper a few years ago that a British couple went up one of the mountains here and got lost... I found this so weird. And funny. All they needed to do was walk down! There’s civilisation and people and public phones all around the whole range... I guess they must’ve chucked common sense in that bin I used.

The hike lasted for two days. It was and still is one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I recommend it to everyone and anyone. The air is crisp, the spring waters clear, the streams icy-cool, path fantastic. There’s a beautiful dam above the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and many caves and springs. The only hiccup I had was the puffadder the following morning, but it left on it’s own shortly after I finished my cold flasked coffee, dragging my sock with it into the rocky shrubs.

I met and chatted to some friendly fellow quick trail hikers along the way and tried keeping up with super fit people of various ages running up and down the slopes. When I finished my four centimetre decent at the end of the trail, I ran into Clifton’s icy waters and splashed around while bikini wearing babes ignored so much about me.

In the end, no songs were sung. No Hollywood movie starring Mr Pitt was made. The puffadder probably still has my sock. And when I stiffly and painfully stumbled into the pub with my broken super designed hiking boots and told them what I did,  all the camo-clothed chaps in the pub merely grunted “That’s nice” ...and carried on sipping their brews.

Would I do it again?
Definitely!

...after I survive taking a swim to Robben Island because that crazy voice is suggesting shit again.