Watching ice melt has never been high on my list of leisure activities. It just seems like there are better things one could be doing with one’s time… particularly when you’re slap-bang in the southern heart of South America. But as they say, when in Rome; which is how my wife and I ended up on a bus headed west through the steppes of Patagonia.
“We’ll spend about four hours at Perito Moreno,” our guide shouted in her sultry Spanish-tinged English; battling to be heard over the rowdy backpackers at the rear of our small tour bus. That’s the problem with joining affordable excursions from backpackers’ hostels. The backpackers.
Nonetheless, as we strained to hear our guide pointing out the fauna and flora of the plains surrounding the town of El Calafate – the indigenous Austral parakeet is the world’s most southerly parrot species, by the by – there was a curious buzz of excitement at the prospect of spending one-sixth of a day watching ice turn into water.
Now admittedly the Perito Moreno glacier isn’t your garden-variety ice sculpture. Thirty kilometres long, roughly 60 metres thick, nearly two million cubic metres… it is one of the world’s few advancing glaciers. So perhaps no surprise that a morning at the ice-face would quickly turn into the runaway highlight of our whirlwind trip through the home of the gaucho.
As our bus rolled along to the overloud chatter of Aussie backpackers and the beat of Argentine pop, away to our right icebergs floated by on the blue waters of Lago Argentino – Argentina’s biggest lake, and the third-largest in South America.
It’s Lago Argentino that keeps the Perito Moreno at bay, playing an eternal argy-bargee with what is far and away the tourist highlight of the Parque Nacional los Glaciares. With a name like that, there’s no chance of being surprised at what lies around the final bend of the RP-11 as it heads towards Chile.
And predictable though it may be, that first glimpse of the Perito Moreno is – quite simply – jaw dropping; an ice-lolly that will stop you in your tracks.
Layers of cobalt, aquamarine and – what could easily be – Bombay Sapphire-infused ice lie in layer upon layer; a sandwich of frozen water up to 80 metres thick. On the surface, the ice river stretches from deep in the Andes like a hundred-lane motorway. The high Andean snows compacted down to form the bulldozer that ploughs into Lago Argentino. Slashed by crevasses and razor-sharp seracs, it’s as untamed a landscape as you could ask for.
On the viewpoint at Península de Magallanes this overcast early-summer morning, the parking lot is already full of tour buses like ours. The boardwalks that criss-cross the viewing area – separated from the glacier by little more than fifty metres – are teeming with visitors.
But, incredibly, there’s silence.
Bar the occasional click of a camera shutter or rustle of raincoats (be warned, even summer in Patagonia can get damp), everyone is speaking in hushed tones. Even the backpackers have shut up. This cathedral of ice demands it; wagging a finger at us all to keep quiet and pay our respects. To sit and appreciate the ancient creaks and groans which echo across as the ice battles the lake. Every few minutes the glacier wins, and a towering column of ice cracks, teeters, hesitates… then collapses into the waters below in an enormous column of sub-zero spray.
Against all expectations, it’s riveting. We sit, we watch, we gasp. We wait for the next fall. This is our honeymoon, but my wife and I barely speak a word. The Patagonian sierra finches chatter around us, but otherwise we only have eyes for the ice.
After what is surely only a few minutes our tour guide is back: “Your four hours are finished, the bus is leaving now. We must go.”
Four hours of melting ice and we’re desperate for more. We regret not signing up for the glacier trekking, where crampon-clad tourists toast their walk with a whisky on the rocks; the ‘rocks’ courtesy of the glacier. There’s no time for a boat trip from Puerto Bandera to the glacier face either; although it’s the best way to get up close and personal with a few thousand years of snow. No time, must dash, have to go… it seems there are never enough hours in the day to do everything you want to when travelling.
Destination? The end of the world.
But we have a plane to catch, and it’s the icebergs floating on Lago Argentino that are our last view of the steppes as our Aerolineas Argentinas jet climbs and banks to the south. Destination? The end of the world.
Nervous flyers would do well to take the bus if they want to visit Ushuaia. An hour or two after leaving El Calafate our jet dodges snow-capped Andean peaks, tries not to ditch into the wind-whipped Beagle Channel and skirts the edge of Chilean airspace before bouncing onto the runway at Ushuaia. Welcome to the most southerly town in the world.
Ushuaia (pronounced oo-swei-ya) is a workaday town unlikely to win any architecture awards, but for adventurous travellers looking for a taste of untamed Patagonia this little settlement on the big toe of the Americas is your gateway to heaven.
Clinging to the bootstraps of the continent at 54° south, this is as close as you’ll get to Antarctica without forking out a fistful of dollars for an expedition cruise.
And, as with most seaside towns, life in Ushuaia revolves around the quayside so there are few better places to blow away the cobwebs than a wander along the Muelle Tourístico.
We envy the Antarctic cruise ships heading off into the wild seas of the Drake Passage, but our wallets will only stretch to a few hours on one of the many sightseeing boats that cruise the chilly Beagle Channel.
The winds here blow straight up from Antarctica, and snow can fall at any time of the year. But tempting as it is to sip hot chocolate down below, it pays to wrap up warm and brave the upper-deck… you’ll be rewarded with sightings of black-browed albatrosses, giant petrels, Magellanic penguins and – if you’re lucky – orca.
Some sightseing boats also cruise west towards Ushuaia’s main attraction; the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, where we find ourselves the following day. From the dock at Lapataia Bay (you can also hop on a regular minibus shuttle from town, as we did) the park offers 630km² of dramatic coastline, pristine mountains, ancient beech forests and lakes overflowing with trout and salmon.
We wander happily along the sea shore; admiring beaver dams, beech forests and sea lions cavorting in quiet coves. You could happily spend anywhere from an afternoon to a week exploring the network of well-marked paths that traverse the lower reaches of the park.
But as I say, time is always in short supply and our day in the park flies by all too quickly. There’s still the historic homestead of Estancia Harberton, with its cetacean research station, to explore. And the original inhabitants to meet at the Museo Yámana Aborígenes Fueguinos. And a walk up to the Glaciar Martial to tackle. In season, the ski runs here offer an easy morning on the slopes too, or you can hop on the shuttle bus to Cerro Casto where you’ll find 15 kilometres of piste.
Those will all have to wait, we decide over dinner, for next time. Ensconced at a window table at the quaint seafront restaurant Volver, the white horses on the Beagle Channel gallop away like the time on our honeymoon itself.
While these snow-capped peaks and ancient glaciers appear immune to the passing of time, sadly we are not. The end of the world, the end of a holiday. But certainly not the end of my fascination with Patagonia. To steal a phrase from Winston, this honeymoon taste of southern Argentina wasn’t really the end. Perhaps just the end of the beginning… of more than one love affair.
First published in the Sunday Times, Travel & Food, July 2011 |
The muezzin is calling in the last days of Ramadan. His summons to prayer wafts across Ibo Island, echoing down faded streets lined with crumbling ruins. Trees grow through doorways and roots inhabit rooms once home to Portuguese traders.
Time on Ibo, adrift in the Quirimbas Archipelago in far northern Mozambique, seems to have stopped somewhere in the 1970s; in the early days of independence when foreigners fled, or were forced, from the country. Pack up and go in 24 hours, they were told, leaving behind lives and livelihoods.
“Allah hu akhbar!”
The muezzin’s call jolts me back to the present. The hurried evictions of the 1970s are a distant memory now; one of many stitches in the turbulent tapestry of Ibo’s history. The island’s mosques are a reminder of the days when Arab merchants controlled these waters. They arrived with Islam and ambergris, sailing home on the trade winds with gold, ivory and – occasionally – slaves.
The Portuguese were here too. Forcing the Arabs from the island, they entrenched their position with the Fort of São João Batista. The cannons are long silent, but the thick white-washed walls of the star-shaped fort still guard one of the island’s treasures.
Ibo is famous for its silversmiths, a craft said to date back over 800 years to the first Muslim traders. On the cool flagstones of the Fort a dozen jewellers patiently fashion molten silver into delicate bands, while in the old kitchen a wizened artisan uses a makeshift bellows to heat the small furnace, melting raw silver.
The fine filigree jewellery was originally made from colonial-era Portuguese coins, melted down and refashioned into the delicate bracelets, rings and necklaces. Today, the silver is flown in from South Africa; a touch less romantic, perhaps, but the quality of work is still outstanding.
This taste of living history is what draws most visitors to Ibo. It’s an island that steers clear of the stereotypical beach holiday of sun, sea and sand. You’ll find those here, certainly, but also a peek into the island’s rich history and daily life in the Quirimbas.
Ibo Island Lodge’s 14 en-suite bedrooms, housed in the old governor’s residence with its thick walls of coral bricks, are exquisite. Restored to their former glory they’re filled with rustic wooden furniture either imported from India, as the Portuguese would have done, or handcrafted on the island. Cool screed floors spill out onto private terraces with views of the dense mangrove forests. Dhows are moored safely on the mud flats, waiting patiently for the tide to return.
Except I’ll be leaving all of this behind.
It was nice while it lasted, but our small group of travellers wasn’t here to savour languid days at the lodge. We had following seas and fibreglass kayaks in our future. Dome tents and deserted islands. Starlit nights and coral reefs.
For travellers who can’t bear to sit still on holiday the new kayak adventure on offer at Ibo Island Lodge is ideal. You spend a few days on Ibo shaking off the city malaise and enjoying the lodge’s home comforts, before setting off into the blue horizon.
We’re up early to catch the tide; our sleek sea kayaks are lined up on a nearby sand spit. Guests at the lodge use this idyllic beach – only exposed at low tide – for lazy days under sun umbrellas, but we stand on it staring wistfully across the waters, our destination somewhere out there in the haze.
“We sometimes have to change where we paddle depending on the weather,” explains Harris Mupedzi, the head guide from Ibo Island Lodge who’ll be leading us north. “But the weather is perfect for us today, a nice gentle wind from the south, so we’ll head for Ulumbwa.”
That would be the village of Ulumbwa over on the mainland, some eight kilometres away. With the wind behind us it’s a fairly easy paddle that shouldn’t take more than four hours. The tropical sun is already warming up the day though, so we take to the kayaks. A few swift strokes and the crystal waters off the sandbank drop away into the deep. Below us lie fifty-odd metres of ocean, a deep channel where whales and dolphins are often seen.
Some distant splashes catch my eye, but otherwise we are alone on the water. The rhythmic rise and fall of our paddles the only sound to break the conversation that ebbs and flows with the swell. Open crossings are a watery meditation where your mind wanders easily as your shoulders find their stride.
A tender boat shadows in case any paddlers tire, but with a following breeze it’s easy enough to rest when we like, pushed onwards – like the Arab traders before us – by the soft trade winds.
Our support dhow has already set sail, plodding its way north piled high with our dome tents and camp crew. While you may work up a sweat paddling from A to B, that’s about the only hard work you’ll have to do on this trip. The dhow crew sail ahead, set up camp, prepare meals and provide a welcome bucket shower at the end of each day.
As our keels scrape the sand at Ulumbwa, situated at the mouth of a mangrove-fringed river, we leave the crew to set up camp and wander off to explore the local village.
It’s a simple place, where chickens and goats scratch in the sand beneath the boughs of majestic Common Star Chestnuts. Following us always is a gaggle of local kids, ‘mzungu’ the only word I can pick out of their cheerful chatter of local Kimwani.
Palm trees whisper sweet nothings at the water’s edge, where fishermen check their bait before a night at sea. They grin enthusiastically as they show off their tiny dug-out canoes; “Bom peixe! Bom peixe!”
I wish them ‘good fishing’ and wander off back towards our beach camp.
The camp, though rustic, leaves little to be desired. Dome tents with camp-cots provide a comfortable night’s sleep, with a bowl of steaming hot water greeting us each dawn. A large gazebo shades our dinner table, while the canvas screen around the bucket shower leaves a head-sized gap just big enough for ablutions with a view.
We have views aplenty on the next day’s paddle across to Mogundula. Except we’re all feeling a little lazy, so we take advantage of the dhow’s rooftop deck and hitch a ride. We use the strengthening breeze as an excuse, but honestly it’s simply too good an opportunity to pass up. The lateen sail draws us gently to the north as we wave to local fishermen, stop mid-channel for a swim and try our luck with a lure out the back.
After a few hours at sea an island emerges from the haze… Mogundula, where we’ll spend our last two nights.
The island is uninhabited, but by no means deserted. Most mornings a gaggle of local women arrive by dhow, buckets in hand and spears at the ready to harvest what they can from the exposed coral reefs. These seas are officially a marine park, but still provide a livelihood for the villages that line the mainland.
Our days are spent in more leisurely pursuits; snorkelling the coral bommies that fringe the island, meandering along paths through coastal forest, swimming off the sand spit that juts out to the south or simply soaking up the postcard views of the Quirimbas.
This is a kayak adventure where your hand is squarely on the tiller; where your days move to local rhythms, waking with the sun and lulled to sleep by the sea.
Harris and the skipper deal with the tides… all you need do is decide how busy you want to be. Paddle the long crossings, or relax to the creak of the dhow. A busy afternoon fishing and snorkelling, or pull a chair up to the water’s edge and watch the world go by.
The camp kitchen keeps busy all day though, with freshly baked bread and plates of rich prawn curry, piri-piri squid and grilled crayfish for dinner. Like the trip as a whole, it’s rustic yet indulgent. The only star rating you’ll find will be in the night sky above… and that’s exactly why adventurous travellers will love it.
Need to know
- For more information on Ibo Island Lodge and the kayak adventures, visit www.kayakquirimbas.com This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it or call 021 702 0285.
- South African passport-holders do not require a visa for Mozambique.
- Northern Mozambique is a malarial-area. Consult your travel doctor three weeks before travel for appropriate prophylactics.
First published in Indwe magazine; May 2011
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Every time I do it I swear it’ll be the last. No more. Finit. Nyet. Count me out.
And then the wheels touch down, bouncing along the gravel strip a few times. Antelope scatter, the propellers roar in disgust at their proximity to terra firma and the pilot throws open his window.
An elbow hangs out as if he’s cruising Voortrekker Street on a Saturday night, and a blast of blissfully cool bush/desert/delta/[insert exotic destination of choice] air wafts in. When feet meet firm ground, all is forgiven and forgotten.
Einstein allegedly once labelled insanity as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Well, that’s a little like me and getting into small planes. I keep getting into them, and keep wishing – usually somewhere around 3000 feet – that I’d learnt my lesson properly last time. I never do.
But insanity loves company, and I blame it all on the pilots, who rarely inspire much confidence.
For starters, bush pilots across southern Africa all appear to be just hours past their 18th birthday. Fresh-faced and eager, I’m willing to bet they’ve just received their driver’s licence, let alone permission to take a Cessna for a spin around the Namib. Where are the grizzled, cynical old dogs of the air that have battled every thermal south of Otjimbingwe. I’ll take sky-hardened and gruff over young and innocent any day.
The skies north of the border also seem to be a magnet for every wannabe Red Baron across 10 time zones. In the past few years I’ve flown with Kiwis, Cubans and Germans; and occasionally the ‘boykies’ from Boksburg. Young men (they’re almost exclusively male) from across the globe who spend their days ferrying rich American tourists from lodge to lodge, building miles so they can fly bigger toys with more souls on board.
So far I have a perfect record on these vomit comets, and despite some close calls I’m yet to redecorate the interior of a Cessna 206.
And close calls they were.
Whether you’re in the Fish River Canyon or tropical Mozambique, the lush Okavango Delta or sun-baked plains of Savute, the tried-and-trusted recipe for Green Travel Journalist appears to be deceptively simple.
- Schedule your flight for midday. Mid-summer is best, but any unseasonably hot day will work just as well.
- Find the smallest plane possible: anything larger than a six-seater takes away all the fun. The closest quasi-legal equivalent to a VW Beetle with wings is ideal.
- Allow pilot to lull passengers into a false sense of security with ‘Out of Africa’ scenic flights involving animals and scenery. Climb rapidly to 3000 feet, manoeuvring constantly to source the best thermals.
- Pay as little attention as possible to the controls, but occasionally tapping aged-looking dials to induce mild anxiety amongst human cargo.
- Once cabin temperature reaches 45°C, bake contents slowly for 30 minutes. When witty ripostes dry up, bake for a further half-hour.
- When you fear the faux-leather seats are in danger of needing a steam-clean, happily point out the approaching runway. But to ensure complete shamrock colouring in passengers, circle dirt runway endlessly in the name of checking for animals both real and imagined.
- Touch down at speed, circle wildly at the end of the strip. Serve guests to waiting lodge staff.
For the first hour of every flight, it feels like I’m going to die. After that, I’m simply worried I won’t. For sadly, I’ve yet to try a lethal dose of this recipe. Invariably our wheels touch down just as I’m beginning to jimmy open the plane’s side window, favouring a quick descent and rapid deceleration into a Camelthorn Acacia over slow death by nausea. Up in the air, I just can’t get my feet on the ground fast enough.
And as soon as I do… all is forgiven. All is forgotten. Days in the distant bush strap on those rose-tinted glasses, and before I know it I’m buckling up behind another pubescent pilot.
Just one more I promise myself. One more for the road.
First published in the Sunday Times; May 2011
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If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my few dozen safari trips, it’s that you don’t – you simply don’t – take chances with hippos. Ever. Period.
With his harem of females and a handful of young ones to protect, the territorial male we’d been photographing gave us a warning snort and promptly disappeared the waters of kuNhlange Lake.
Now finding yourself on a boat a stone’s throw from a grumpy hippopotamus is adventurous enough, but not knowing the whereabouts of said hippo? Well that’s asking for trouble.
With discretion always the better part of valour, Blessing – our guide from Kosi Forest Lodge and boat skipper of the ‘Silver Surfer’ – gunned the engines and left the hippos to their underwater ruminations. The day was heating up, the breezes were just beginning to ripple the waters of kuNhlange, and there was a lot to see before the afternoon winds got going.
kuNhlange is the largest of the four lakes that make up the breathtaking Kosi Bay estuary. Saline at the mouth, tannin-stained fresh water at the head, this necklace of lakes drains into the Indian Ocean just a few kilometres south of the border with Mozambique.
Kosi Bay is easily the best preserved of South Africa’s Indian Ocean estuaries, and has been a national park for over 60 years. In 1991 it was designated a Ramsar site, marking it as a wetland of global importance, and in 1999 Kosi and the rest of iSimangaliso Wetland Park joined the list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites; the first in South Africa.
And it’s a fitting spot for that accolade, for the Kosi lakes have a rich heritage to share with travellers.
The indigenous Tsonga people migrated to this area from Mozambique over 700 years ago. The Zulu nation had lived here before them, but their prized cattle suffered with the tsetse fly. However, the new arrivals were experts at living off what the sea – not the land – had to offer. They thrived, and today it’s the friendly, albeit shy, Tsonga locals that greet you with a wave and a smile on the sandy tracks that lead you from bush to beach and back again.
The most alluring reminder of the area’s ancient history is the famous fish traps that have formed a filigree necklace across the waters of maKhawulani and kuMpungwini, the first and second lakes in the Kosi system, since the Tsonga first settled here.
“These fish traps are very clever,” explains Blessing, as our boat idles up alongside the wood and raffia-rope traps. “They are designed to only catch the fish that have already bred in the lakes upstream, and the gaps between the poles allow the smaller fish to escape to return another day.”
It’s an ingenious, but labour-intensive design, for the traps need constant maintenance and frequent rebuilding. But are the lakes being overfished, I ask Blessing?
“The ownership of the fish traps passes from father to son,” he says. “And the number of traps in the lakes is controlled by the wildlife authorities to ensure that they don’t catch too many of the White-spotted Grunter, Kingfish, Mullet and Natal Stumpnose that breed here.”
Given that these traps have flung out their wooden arms for centuries, it seems a perfect example of nature nurturing without being overexploited.
The continued abundance of fish is certainly why the birding in and around the lakes is nothing short of superb. Kosi is perhaps most famous for frequent sightings of the endangered Palm-nut Vulture, but fortunate twitchers will also find Pel’s Fishing Owl, Narina Trogon and African Broadbill here.
Those star birds are scarce today, but there’s a lot to distract us. Our boat startles a flock of pink flamingos into an inelegant ascent, fishing terns do their trademark kamikaze dive into a shoal below, a white-breasted cormorant seems unperturbed while drying its wings on the exposed struts of a fish-trap, and a Goliath Heron flaps away lazily when we come too close for his liking. Pied Kingfishers hunt from the branches of the mangrove forests; six species of these remarkable trees are found in the lakes, forming some of South Africa’s most southerly mangrove forests.
To the north the water flowing beneath us joins the Indian Ocean at Kosi Mouth, where you’ll find snorkelling, fishing, and deserted beaches; a popular day-out for holidaymakers. But the wind is starting to pick up, and Blessing sets a course for home.
"...The lodge has a lived-in, low-key feel..."
The area has long been popular with overlanders and hardy camping-types, but the past few years has seen a surge in the accommodation options available to travellers looking to enjoy the rustic beauty of this corner of the iSimangaliso Wetland Park.
One of the best options in the area is Kosi Forest Lodge, situated right on the border of the Park. The lodge has a lived-in, low-key feel. It’s not the sort of place you’d have to dress for dinner. Likewise, the eight tented suites offer all the comfort you could ask for, but without too many frills.
Paraffin lamps are lit each evening, when lanterns light the sandy pathways that lead through tunnels in the coastal forest. Creaky wooden floors and chunky four-poster beds add a dose of rustic romance, while mosquito nets keep the bugs out and wrap-around fly screens do a passable job of ‘air conditioning’ your tent. The outdoor bathroom is the real highlight, with a shower and bath (gas-heated, of course) under the boughs of the forest.
It’s not for everyone, but if you don’t mind a little back-to-basics roughing it you’ll be quite happy here. If your first question is where to plug in your hairdryer, you might find it all a bit challenging.
I, on the other hand, was as happy as could be ensconced in the Adirondack chair on my private deck. The horizon ends a few metres away in the impenetrable wall of forest, which makes each tent wonderfully private with just the chatter of birdsong for company. Flappet Larks and Turacos replace cellphones and hooters. A Wild Jasmine unfurls its carpet of shade across my deck and – after the morning’s early start – I have to drag myself from an afternoon snooze. We have a date with some crocodiles.
In the end, the crocs stood us up, but they are certainly to be found in the inky tannin-stained waters of the fourth lake: named Amanzimnyama or, literally, “black water”.
Canoe trips on the lake are a highlight of a stay at Kosi Forest Lodge, just one of the activities included in the nightly rate. You can either paddle yourself or let one of the local guides do the work, so we choose to sit back and enjoy the silence while our guide Jerome keeps us on the straight and narrow.
In the forest alongside, a flash of red betrays the passing of a Purple-crested Turaco through the branches of a massive Swamp Fig, its fingers trailing in the waters that feed the estuary. Next to it, the flowers of the Waterberry tree are puffed up like white cheerleaders’ pom-poms.
Towering above both are the forests of Raffia Palm that the area is famous for. In its 30-year lifespan it’ll flower only once, producing up to 10 000 seeds on a single enormous flower stalk. Importantly, it’s these massive palms – whose leaves are the largest in the plant kingdom – that provide a home for the rare Palm-nut Vultures.
The sun is dipping behind the palms now though, so we stash the canoes above the high water mark and wander back through the forests. A short drive delivers us to the lodge and the promise of sundowners.
After a shower (outdoors, and by lamplight, of course), a trail of flickering lanterns lights the way to dinner in a forest clearing. A bonfire casts shadows into the corners and rustles the boughs above. Our three-course dinner is superb, again, and I’m wondering whether I should have taken the opportunity burn off some energy by paddling.
Too late, I think, but there’s always tomorrow. Or is there? Is this our first night at Kosi Forest Lodge, or our third, I wonder? In the flicker of the campfire it’s hard to tell one day from the next. They simply blend into a merry-go-round of lakes and beaches, forests and birding and salt-prickled skin warmed by the sunshine.
Out there in the darkness the waters of Kosi inevitably rush through the channels and the Tsonga fish traps, but in this under-explored corner of South Africa, there’s a very real sense of time simply standing still.
Kosi Forest Lodge
www.isibindiafrica.co.za/kfl
035 474 1473
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
First published in Indwe magazine; February 2011. |
If you don’t like elephants, perhaps you should stop reading right about now. Towering matriarchal elephants, tiny trunk-out-of-control elephants, mud-caked elephants, and just-washed elephants. More parading pachyderms than you can shake a stick at. In Botswana’s Chobe National Park, the elephants are like the proverbial elephant in the room. Unavoidable.
“We say if they can walk under their mother’s belly they’re younger than three months,” says our guide Jakes as our Land Cruiser rumbles to a halt on the flat plains that fringe the Chobe River. The Chobe flows slowly towards the Zambezi, up in the corner where Namibia, Botswana, Zambia and Zimbabwe bump into each other. Angola is just over the horizon too, but that’s a story for another day.
It’s early summer, and it’s been a long time since these elephant have heard the sound of rain falling on dry earth. Months since the sweet smell of moisture evaporating on warm soil has wafted up their trunks. Behind us the bushveld of Chobe is tinder dry; all baked sand and desiccated trees. But down near the river there’s water and grazing aplenty and herds of animals feast on their good fortune. Lion and leopard keep a low profile in the shadows, but sooner or later they’ll make their presence felt. There are no fences here, no stock control, and no wildlife management. This is pure, distilled wilderness.
They say Africa is not for sissies, and Chobe in October is not for the faint-hearted. The mercury clocks in at around 40° each day, and our small group of travellers is doing this a little less Hermes and a touch more Hemingway.
&Beyond is known throughout southern Africa for their outstanding lodges that offer luxury without the bling. There’s an authenticity, a gentle touch in style and service that seems to set them apart from most other safari companies.
But can they do camping? That’s what I was asking myself as we rolled into our tented home for the next few nights.
&Beyond’s mobile ‘Under Canvas’ camps operate in three of Botswana’s national parks, depending on the season, offering a unique experience for travellers happy to rough it just a little.
You may be sleeping under canvas, but there’s no comfort spared here and the tents are heavy on ‘Out of Africa’ safari romance. Each of the camp’s five tents is en-suite, complete with flush toilet and a warm bucket shower. The linen on the double bed is crisp, a coir rug massages my bare feet and the flicker of paraffin lamps turns the tent into a romantic haven under the stars. Pity I’m on my own this time.
Dinner is served under a central tent, Mopani wood crackling in the fire and hurricane lamps swinging gently in the breeze. The dinners run over three courses, with soup and dessert book-ending hearty mains that won’t win any Michelin stars but do well to fill the tank for another day on safari. The bread is baked fresh each day and the wine is served with chunks of ice – glorious ice – in cut glasses on hot African nights. These mobile camps migrate every few days, and for a campsite in the middle of the African bush – not a tap or power point in sight – this is about as luxurious as it gets.
Our tented haven is just a means to an end though. We’re here to discover what Chobe has to offer, and in just a few game drives we’ve ticked off a remarkable number of sightings. A young male leopard feasting on his impala kill in a Mahogany tree, a 1000-strong herd of buffalo chewing the cud on the riverbanks, a lioness makes short work of a roan antelope, hippo graze during the day, Nile crocodiles cruise stealthily through the shallows and herd after herd of elephant wander ponderously across the plains.
It’s extraordinary, unexpected and we take care to warn our token American traveller that safaris aren’t always like this. You can go years without seeing a leopard, then see two in one drive in Chobe. Boat safaris on the Chobe River are a popular way to explore the park, and make a pleasant escape from the dusty heat of the park’s sandy roads. Crocodile and hippo break the surface in the wake of our boat, and we chug to within metres of elephant cooling off in the river and enjoying the lush grasses on the bank.
We see it all from above the next morning as our Cessna 206 flies us low over the Chobe River on our way to Moremi Game Reserve. The herds and grassland fan out below us until the pilot climbs into the thermals and sets course to the west.
I’m only too happy to feel the skid of wheels on the bumpy runway at Moremi an hour or so later. Small planes, bumpy hot air and I are not friends.
It’s worth every stomach-rolling lurch though. Moremi Game Reserve encapsulates the final tendrils of the Okavango Delta as it slowly loses itself in the deserts to the south. The channels aren’t deep – or permanent – enough here to allow speedboat safaris or mokoro trips, but twice-daily game drives take you right to the water’s edge to offer a real feel for the Delta. Forests of Mopani trees dominate here, hiding shy leopard and imperious owls. But the channels are where the real action is.
Hippo grumble away to themselves in the deeper pools, while the semi-aquatic Red Lechwe – specially adapted for life in the Delta with their splayed hooves – and Sitatunga graze warily in the shallows. The birding is breathtaking too, with everything from steely-eyed Bateleurs to ‘Alice in Wonderland’ Saddle-Billed Storks on parade.
There’s cheetah here too, and more than a few African Wild Dog, and lion, and elephant, giraffe and buffalo. Again, we remind our American friend that safaris aren’t meant to be like this. They’re meant to be hard work, long hours with only a handful of sightings to offer jolts of excitement in an afternoon blur of passing landscape. But not in Botswana.
The end of our trip reduces us to ticking off clichés. The red orb of sunset as distant smoke sets the horizon on fire. The Fish Eagle’s call sounding both too predictable and indescribably perfect. We’re chasing antelope off the runway, and downing G&Ts at sunset.
That night – our last night under canvas – we tick off another. A male lion roars somewhere nearby; a low, keening cough as he calls his females. He could be kilometres away, but he sounds too close for comfort. We’re in no danger, but your mind does strange things at night in the African bush, especially when there’s little more than a zipper and canvas between you and toothy cats.
And perhaps that’s the real joy of a safari under canvas. Sure, there are a few home comforts and friendly &Beyond staff on hand to make it more holiday and less work, but more than anything this is a way to get back to the basics of being in the bush; to feel the hot sand sink beneath your feet, and be woken by birdsong and bright sunlight. To crack an eyelid in the night and smile at the fire protectively burning away; or to rise in the morning and discover that it’s failed, and hyena have walked right past your tent in the night.
These are thrills you rarely feel in the safe confines of a safari lodge, but under canvas, with the wilds of Botswana pressing in on all sides of your canvas abode and the rumble of a lion not far off you think… yes, they were right. Perhaps Africa isn’t for sissies.
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Published in Indwe magazine; January 2011 |
It’s hard to ignore the Table Mountain National Park. It towers above the Mother City; a maternal presence offering a weather forecast for yachties and guiding light to lost motorists. But pretty as it may be from afar, the only way to really get a feel for this corner of the Cape Floristic Region World Heritage Site is to strap on your walking shoes. And it’s easier than you think with these four simple, but scenic wanders…
If you’re short on time, but want to stretch your legs, the Pipe Track (3hrs/9kms) is the perfect walk. It’s not too strenuous, just a few minutes from the City Bowl and offers stunning views of both mountain and sea. This is one of Cape Town’s iconic walks, and a gentle stroll along a track laid in 1887 for the pipes that carried water from the mountaintop reservoirs.
Leave your car in the parking area at Kloof Nek, where you wander up the steps that lead away from the City Bowl. At the top the Pipe Track proper begins its southerly ramble along the famous row of buttresses known as the Twelve Apostles. Occasional benches make a perfect spot to gaze down over the millionaire mansions of Camps Bay and Clifton... perhaps a spot for a post-walk swim?
Although you’ll work up a little sweat climbing out of Diep Sloot, the path is almost entirely level as it wanders past Porcupine Ravine, Kasteelspoort and Woody Ravine. However, don’t be tempted to explore the paths up these valleys unless you have a map, or one of your party knows the route – some of these paths turn into precarious scrambles that could leave you hanging!
Paths warning of a “Dangerous Ascent” – this time up Slangolie Ravine – mark the point to turn-around and head back too. Although, of course, as this is a there-and-back walk you could turn around at any point… the trick with the Pipe Track is to simply take it slowly and enjoy the view.
Another wonderfully flat walk is, perhaps unsurprisingly, on the very top of Table Mountain and there are two easy ways to reach the highest point on Hoerikwaggo; the ‘mountain in the sea’ as the San people called Table Mountain.
If you’re feeling energetic the steep path from Tafelberg Road up Platteklip Gorge will get your blood pumping, but it’s hardly the most scenic route in the National Park. With a name translated literally as ‘flat stone gorge’ it’s a tedious, occasionally strenuous, slog up a gash in the massif above the city.
Save yourself the sweat and savour the views by whisking your way to the top on the famous Table Mountain Aerial Cableway (R160/adult return). Once you’ve taken your photos of the City Bowl below, follow the signs to the south indicating the path to Maclear’s Beacon (2hrs/5kms).
Happily, within a few minutes the crowds of summit-trippers thin out and you start to feel the beauty of the ‘Back Table’ as the fairly flat path meanders eastwards towards the highest point on the Mountain.
At 1086 metres above sea level, the large stone beacon that marks the highest point was built in 1844 by Astronomer Thomas Maclear and is a fitting crown to the Mother City’s famous icon.
It’s hard to get lost on the path to Maclear’s, but do keep on eye on the yellow footprints painted on the rock to mark your way. Remember too that the weather up top can change in minutes, so always wear good walking shoes, pack a weatherproof jacket and carry sufficient water. See our safety tips side-box for more good advice.
While tourists make the most of the dramatic city views from the cableway, if Capetonians want to enjoy the best of the Back Table chances are you’ll find them making their way up the steep steps of Skeleton Gorge (4hrs/6kms).
Park your car at the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens (good for a well-earned tea on your way down!) and pay your entry fee for the shortcut up to the contour path. The route to Skeleton Gorge is well sign-posted, and once you hit the contour path it’s hard to miss the Gorge rising up above you.
A deep slash rises through indigenous forest of Yellowwoods, Milkwoods and Wild Peach, with mossy boulders lining your route higher up. Thick vine creepers loop through the boughs, and on hot summer days the deep shade here is welcome… a far cry from the sun-baked Platteklip Gorge!
The path is steep and steady, but anyone who’s reasonably fit should have no trouble. However, a few wooden ladders cover steeper sections towards the top of the gorge, so take it slowly if you’re unsteady on your feet. From the top of the ladders there’s a short scramble up the riverbed to a stone gabion, where the path contours off to the right through a delightful glade of ferns. Keep an eye out on the moss-covered rock face; the eagle-eyed might be lucky to spot the Red Disa in flower during January and February.
At the summit, the path meanders to the left of a large rock. This is your path across to Nursery Ravine, but you could happily wander a little further onto the Back Table for a look at the surprising sight of two large reservoirs, which once supplied the city of Cape Town.
Retrace your steps to the large rock and follow the path to the left and down Nursery Ravine. It’s a steep knee-jarring walk, but you’ll be rewarded with wonderful stands of Protea and lovely mountain views. At the contour path, hang a left and you’ll soon find yourself at the Kirstenbosch tearoom for a well-deserved lunch!
While the main bulk of Table Mountain certainly gets plenty of attention, the National Park actually runs all the way to Cape Point and hides some delightful walks along its spine.
One you certainly shouldn’t miss is the gentle climb to Noordhoek Peak (3hrs/6.5kms), with its picture-postcard views over Hout Bay and the southern peninsula. From Ou Kaapse Weg, turn into the northern (Cape Town side) entrance, pay your nominal entry fee, and follow the road to the parking area near the dam. Here you’ll also find a wheelchair friendly boardwalk skirting the inky waters of the reservoir… but don’t worry; the water’s not polluted, just stained by the fynbos tannins.
From the dam wall a gravel road leads off to the left and climbs steadily towards the old fire lookout. Take a break here for fabulous views over Kommetjie and False Bay, before continuing to climb. Once you reach the highest point of the road, a stone cairn and clear sandy path leads off to the left. A few minutes’ wandering through the fynbos brings you to the beacon at Noordhoek Peak and one of the best views in town. Spot whales in the bay below, Black Eagles soaring on the cliffs and fishing boats returning to harbour.
With your legs rested, return to the gravel road and turn left for the gentle circular meander back to the dam and your car. There are wonderful picnic and braai sites alongside the dam, so pack a lunch and make a day of it!
Travel tips
- Find out more on the Table Mountain National Park at www.sanparks.org.
- For a longer walk in the Park, why not consider the five-day Hoerikwaggo Trail. Visit www.hoerikwaggotrail.org.
- For more trails and detailed route descriptions, pick up a copy of Mike Lundy’s excellent walking guide ‘Best Walks in the Cape Peninsula’ from any good bookstore.
- If you’d prefer to walk on the mountain with a guide, consider joining one of the walks offered by professional mountain guides such as Margaret Curran (www.tablemountainwalks.co.za) or Binny Ridgway (www.ridgwayramblers.co.za)
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Or just a sign of commercialism heading south? Refuse to shop at Melissa's nowadays: overpriced and average