Rapture on a Lonely Shore: Hiking the Wild Coast

July 10, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 13 Comments

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is rapture in the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more

George Gordon Byron

A fine salt mist hovered above the shoreline, putting the distant dunes and hills slightly out of focus and robbing the landscape of contrast. The huge sky above was empty except for a thin stream of puffy clouds hanging above the Agulhas Current.

There wasn’t a house or hut in sight. Surveying the emptiness and the rugged scenery, I began to get some understanding of why this remote area came to be called the Wild Coast.

Stretching from the Mtamvuma river in the north to the Kei River in the south, the Wild Coast is a part of South Africa I had woefully neglected. The northern part of the Transkei I had never explored at all. Keen to make amends for this gross oversight, I had jumped at the opportunity to go on a hike along its coast when my good friends, Ian and Mandy Tyrer (veteran travellers both) first suggested it – especially as it was to celebrate Ian’s 60^th birthday.

The area has a long and rich history. For countless generations, the Pondo people have grazed their cattle on the lush green hills of the interior. Further south is Xhosa country, with the Great Fish River once providing the dividing line between them and the European settlers moving north.

Isolated from the rest of the world for centuries, the local inhabitants must have had little inkling that they would, one day, be visited by people from other realms.

Portuguese ships first rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, heading up the eastern shores of Africa before nudging their carracks into the vast unknown of the uncharted Indian Ocean. They reached India just ten years later. Pushing farther and farther east, they eventually entered the coastal waters of China – a land of fabled riches – where they began a covert trade in silks and porcelain with the Ming dynasty. They also explored the numerous islands of the East Indies. In 1544 a blustery monsoon even caught the sails of one Portuguese vessel and swept it as far as Japan.

*Where Portugese carracks once sailed modern container ships follow.*

Where the Portugese blazed a trail, others followed, lured on by the fabulous tales these early explorers had returned with.

Many of the men on board the vessels that undertook these hazardous voyages might have had second thoughts if they had any notion of the distances and the dangers involved. The ocean could be wild and tempestuous and ships were frequently blown off course. Scurvy was common, discipline often broke down because of the horrendous conditions (troublesome crewmen were sometimes deliberately marooned). Many journeys ended in complete disaster.

The southeast coastline of Africa – and, in particular, this stretch of broken shoreline – was especially noted for its treachery. Fast-moving storms would suddenly sweep in, in the dark, it was easy to sail into reefs and rocks, rogue waves swallowed countless ships. There were few natural harbours they could sail into for shelter.

Over the years, its waters became a burial ground for numerous ships. Among the more famous are the Sao Bento (1554), and the two East Indiamen Dodington (1755) and Grosvenor (1782). One of the most compelling mysteries remains the fate of the luxury ocean liner Waratah and her complement of 211 souls, which simply disappeared in July 1909, while under-way from Durban to Cape Town.

Even in recent years, the notorious coastline has continued to exact its toll. On the 4^th August 1991, the Greek cruise liner, Oceanos sunk off the coast near the Hole in the Wall. The captain and crew promptly abandoned ship leaving the remaining passengers to fend for themselves – shamefully ignoring the famous ‘women and children first ‘ order, given when, on the 26^th February 1852, the HMS Birkenhead struck a rock and sunk, near Danger Point, further down the Cape coastline, with the loss of 450 lives (an ancestor of mine, Elizabeth Nesbitt, and her third son, Richard Atholl were among the few survivors).

Although many lives have been lost along the Wild Coast, some survived the ordeal. Once on land, a few of the castaways managed to make it to the nearest European outposts (the Portuguese-held Delagoa Bay to the north, the Dutch Cape to the south), many others died, while a small number were assimilated into the local tribes.

Turning this all over in my head, while I sat on a dune stained red by titanium (which a greedy Australian mining company now wants to exploit), munching a handful of raisins and peanuts I had brought along to give me energy, I found myself pondering what the Pondo must have thought when they first glimpsed those ghostly white sails bobbing along the horizon. I could imagine the feeling of fear, fascination, and incomprehension when they first encountered these strangely dressed interlopers.

My journey had begun much closer to home, at that symbol of mass-produced, uniform international tourist culture, the Wild Coast Sun. I had no real desire to linger there but, if nothing else, it had served as a good reference point, reminding me of what I wanted to leave behind and what I hoped to discover on the trek ahead.

There were seventeen of us in the group. Looking like a meandering crocodile as we stretched out along the shore, our ages ranged from eighteen to seventy-plus. Over the next few days, I would learn just how convivial a bunch of beach pilgrims we were.

Within a few hundred metres of leaving the Wild Coast Sun complex, it was like we had entered a parallel universe, crossed through a portal, travelled back in time. The whole mood of the countryside changed, the landscape became grassy and uncultivated, the settlements few and far between. There was a quiet after the hullaballoo of the busy freeway and endless miles of asphalt, power lines, malls, and gated housing estates. It came like a fresh draught of air, beckoning us into a world that had little changed over time (other than the tinny music bellowing out of a few of the huts we would later pass by).

For the first stage of our hike, we walked mostly along the beach which was all but deserted apart from the odd fishermen casting from the rocks and the occasional seagull flying overhead.

Although we had timed it to cross at low tide the first big river we came to was still flowing strongly. The water pushed irregularly at our wastes and knees, sometimes embracing us like we were just another piece of flotsam to be swept out into the Indian Ocean. The clear shallows were speckled with little batches of fish, darting shoals of silver and green. Sunbeams danced along its surface.

*Fording a river. Pic courtesy of Penny Meakin*.

A little later we came to another river that needed fording. Once again it had a solid muscularity to it but we managed to push our way through the fast-flowing current and up the bank on the other side.

As we walked the sun climbed steadily up the back of the bluest sky. The sea became more boisterous, endless rollers crashed onto the rocky shore. Up ahead the chatter continued as each person got the measure of the other. I could sense we were beginning to cohere as a group.

Out at sea, something large and grey suddenly shot out the water and fell back with a slap. A whale. Then another tail appeared – a great glistening V that hovered motionless for an instant before slipping slowly, vertically downwards. Over the next few days we were to see a lot more of them, their presence was invariably given away by a sudden spout of chalk-white spray.

Mid-morning we stopped for a break. Prone on the shaded river-beach, desperately trying to coax some life into my aching back, I found my thoughts returning to the crew and passengers who had survived the various shipwrecks along this coast. I was beginning to feel a certain kinship with them. Nor was this just idle fantasy. Cast adrift on this lonely shore, each of us had – like them – came with our prejudices, personality quirks and back story, shards of which began to appear as the long march continued. As with them, survival and reaching our destination had become all.

Time rolled on, my pack grew heavier, my watch ran slower. After walking along the beach for most of the morning we finally turned inland and headed up into the grass-covered hills. My tiring legs began to complain. The scenery was, however, breathtakingly beautiful in its rustic tranquillity. Stands of Pondo palms sheltered little settlements of thatched huts whose walls were sometimes painted white, sometimes with yellows and ochres and browns. Cattle and goats grazed in the long grass.

All but tumbling and tripping we finally staggered into the local village where we were to spend the night. There was, of course, no electricity, running water nor other modern conveniences here, but we were to find ourselves the subject of the most gracious hospitality and kindness.

Our gracious host with Ian and Mandy Tyrer

Later that afternoon those of us who still felt up to it, after the long hike, hopped on the back of a local bakkie and headed off up a rutted road to Mnayemi Falls. To truly appreciate the full majesty of this spectacle, you have to climb down a parallel waterfall, situated slightly to its south. The descent was steep and slippery, one misstep could have left you in a heap of trouble. I was thankful I had decided to bring a mountain hiking stick to help keep my balance…

It was well worth the risk and effort. The place had an otherworldly enchantment about it. Surrounded by a great edifice of a high rock cliff, the falls exuded a powerful, dreaming holiness. The sun burnished the top, the rest of the falling water lay in deep shadow. I could imagine sacred rituals being performed here in the light of a glowing moon.

Wanting to experience its healing, restorative power, I eased myself into the water and felt the cool go through me. I felt alive, tingly, happy to be in the water. I swam out into the pool and back again. Hoisting myself out I felt incredibly vigorous and content.

Relaxing at the village later, I sat on a plastic chair and watched the rolling hillsides behind us turn to gold, then fade to dusty violet. There was a chill in the air. In front of me, a translucent blue-green sea shimmered like a mirage on the horizon.

More magic lay in store. That morning we had watched a gleaming sunrise above the ocean, now it was the moon’s turn to impress and impress it did. There was something eerily spectral about the scene, as the bright orange orb rose steadily into the star-smattered sky, its reflection glimmering across the ever-moving waves below.

The following morning we got up early and resumed our journey south, heading down towards the Red Desert, an area of undulating dunes that look uncannily like the surface of Mars. As I marched along, the sun slanted away behind me sending long thin shadows stretching over its red sands.

Back on the beach, we plodded on. At the end of one final long stretch, partly embedded in the sand, rested the rusted remains of a large ship boiler (I later discovered it belonged to the steel steamship The Guerdon which was abandoned due to engine trouble on the 9th July 1929). Just beyond this, we crossed another river and followed a wriggly path that led up a steep hillside.

Once again it was tough going but finally, we reached a long line of boxy houses, in the middle of which stood our destination – the Fishin’ Shack. For me, it was love at first sight.

There was a colour and exuberance about the place I had not expected. Beautifully patterned blankets hung over fences, multi-coloured chickens sauntered past doorways, stumpy black pigs milled around, goats made goat-noises, dogs barked, shouting schoolboys ran along grassy tracks to school, women with cans of water on their heads strode through the fields along slender paths.

In urgent need of an ice-cold beer, I quickly ascertained where the local shebeen was and headed up there as fast as my aching legs could carry me.

One of the patrons eyed me incredulously like I was some strange apparition who had just emerged from the frothy waves below. “What are you doing here mkhulu [elderly man]?” he asked. In the circumstances, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question.

On our first night, we feasted on crayfish prepared by our wonderfully warm and welcoming host, Kelly Hein. Afterwards, I had a Whisky nightcap before climbing into bed. Exhausted from the strain and long hours of walking I was soon asleep.

The next day we set out early for the Mkambati waterfalls. The track took us down to the Mtentu river which was once the subject of a TV documentary by David Attenborough, because of the, usually deep-sea dwelling, Kingfish who choose to swim up its fresh waters for no discernible reason. At its mouth, the river was too wide and deep for us to wade across so we hired a canoe and got to the other side that way.

*Crossing the Mtentu river. Pic courtesy of the Tyrers*.

After traversing a section of the Mkambati Nature Reserve, we reached the falls just before lunch. They are separated into two parts: an upper section where the river gushes into a large, deep, steep-sided pool and – a hundred metres or so below this – another section that drops, via a series of steps, directly into the sea. Because a group of cyclists had already claimed this beautiful spot as their own, we made for the upper pool. Thirsty from the long walk, I cupped my hands and lifted its water to my mouth. It tasted cool and vaguely root-flavoured. Every handful I took came out clear and sparkling.

Then I decided to go for another swim.

Once again, the icy water pounded my shoulders and thumped down on my head. By the time I scrambled out on the other side my body had lost all feeling so I danced a little jig to get the blood flowing again. There was something spiritual and very healing about doing it.

On the way back from the falls we came across another rusting skeleton of a ship that had been thrown high up onto the rocks. Surveying the twisted wreckage, I found myself wondering what angry, malevolent, and vengeful demon of the deep had managed to hurl the vessel so far ashore?

Chastened by such thoughts, I stumbled on, haunted by snatches of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach (“Sophocles long ago, Heard it on the Aegean… the turbid ebb and flow, Of human misery…”)

The next day, while the rest of our group were off paddling the Mtentu, my hiking companion, myself, and two others decided to head off on our own in search of a place called Paradise Pools, following minor and diminishing paths until they eventually disappeared altogether. It did not matter. Released into space, sky, grasslands, and patches of shade, I allowed my eyes to roam. To our left the high cliffs and gullied, forested slopes of the Mtentu river gorge moved towards us the further we clambered down the slope. Our destination, when we finally got there, more than lived up to its name.

*Looking for Paradise Pools. Mtentu river gorge in background*.

Wanting to make the most of my remaining time, I elected, that afternoon, to go down to the nearby Pebble Beach. One of the local dogs decided to escort me, there and back, presumably to make sure I didn’t get lost. Or maybe it was just in need of a friend and I looked like a possible candidate.

The scene that greeted me, when I got there, was so manifestly untamed I felt like jumping into it. Ahead of me the coastline swept confidently away through a series of bays, bluffs, inlets, and knolls. Out on the ocean, light and water bubbled and swam together. The pebbles on the beach below shone bright and glittery in the late afternoon light. I was transfixed by the beauty of it all.

Dusk was falling by the time I returned. The sun was casting a furry, yellow light across the land and sea which was echoed in the gently waving golden grass and on the walls of the huts we passed by, their interiors smoky from cooking fires. For a while, I stood in silence and watched the sun sink in the west. The wind continued to blow in gusts down the slopes rattling the branches of some nearby trees. In between, I caught whiffs of meals being cooked and heard the low murmur of the voices of the folk gathered inside their cozy rural homes. The world of lockdown and Covid and urban paranoia seemed very far away. I felt completely at peace with the world.

The next morning we were up at another unseemly hour because it was time to depart. As we lugged our gear towards the waiting vehicles, a line of curious dogs gathered, like they had come to see the weird white-folk, with their incomprehensible customs, on their way. Wanting to preserve the moment, I circled about taking pictures of them. I was sad. I felt reluctant to leave, reluctant to say farewell to this homely old fisherman’s shack and my newfound friends and this beautiful, wild, storm-tossed scenery.

Somehow we managed to cram ourselves into the two waiting bakkies and then we were off. During the long, bone-rattling journey back to the Wild Coast Sun I had plenty of time to reflect on the two Great Truths I had learned during my four days as a makeshift beach bum. Live simply. Carry a lighter backpack…

GALLERY

Some more pics from my Wild Coast adventure…

THE TEAM:

And finally, when the going gets tough, the tough keep going…

*Hiking through the dunes. Pic courtesy of the Tyrers*.

Counting my Blessings on Longclaw Lane

June 19, 2021June 19, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 6 Comments

“How sweet I roam’d from field to field,

And tasted all the summer’s pride,

‘Til I the prince of love beheld,

Who in the sunny beams did glide.”

William Blake

To say we have had little to cheer about over the last few years would be an understatement. As a political cartoonist, whose jobs involves trawling through the daily news headlines looking for somebody or something to lampoon, I can safely vouch for this. Faced with the endless litany of woes – climate change, Covid-19, lockdown, a collapsing economy, state capture, rampant crime, decaying municipalities, crumbling infrastructure and corrupt, venal, and singularly inept politicians – it is often very difficult to see the funny side of it all.

In my doubting mind, it sometimes feels like I will never escape the dark shadows closing in on me on all sides.

But there is hope even if it is fleeting and ephemeral. A country mouse at heart, I continue to search for and find solace in nature and simple delights. Don’t get me wrong! I am well aware that my love affair with the wilderness may not be reciprocated and that it includes a degree of anthropomorphism, the great bogey of science.

That doesn’t stop it from having meaning for me. I see no need to expunge these feelings from my interaction with nature.

I don’t have to go far to look for this alternative world. Since I moved up to Kusane Farm and started planting lots of indigenous trees and bushes and flowering shrubs – my contribution to saving the planet– I have gathered a flourishing population of birds and other wildlife in my garden.

Every morning the Village Weavers gather in noisy, scraggly groups at the bird feeder. They are, in turn, joined by several varieties of sparrow, pigeons and doves. Plus, in summer, the very tiresome, testosterone-loaded male Pin-tailed Whydah who makes a nuisance of himself by trying to drive all the other birds away from the food table – just so he can claim it for his wife (in winter he loses his beautiful plumage and his stroppy attitude and becomes a submissive little nobody you barely notice).

As part of my daily routine, I also put out a little grated cheese on a rock that brings in the Red-winged Starlings, the Cape Robin, the Cape Wagtail, the Southern Boubous, the Black-capped Bulbul, the Olive Thrush and the Speckled Mousebirds. In winter, I sometimes add a little Jungle Oats porridge to go along with it, just to warm them up.

The news about the easy pickings has swiftly spread and other birds have started pulling into my roadhouse. A much-welcomed newcomer has been the Sombre Greenbul. Its name is something of a mystery to me for its call (described by SASOL Birds of Southern Africa as “a piercing ‘weeeewee’, followed by a liquid chortle…”) is one of the most cheerful you will hear. Colour-wise it is perhaps a little on the drab side but no more so than a host of other dull-coloured birds. Preferring to call from deep within the canopy of a tree, it is a bird you hear more often than see.

It has been joined in recent months by a Dusky Flycatcher, a tiny bird with the typical flycatcher behaviour of making short dashes up into a cloud of gnats or other flying insects before returning to its favourite perch. Endearingly happy little characters they can, over time, become quite tame.

The large corrugated-iron barn I live in has also provided the right sort of habitat for a host of other birds to call home. In the cold weather, the Rock Pigeons like to sit and warm themselves on the pipes that lead to the solar panel and geyser on the roof (they also nest in the rafters). Wagtails strut past them, tails endlessly bobbing. The sparrows make a home in all the nooks and crannies. In summer our resident pair of Greater-striped Swallows like to sit on the railings and twitter away, especially just before they are about to undertake their perilous journey North.

For the last three seasons, I have also had an Amethyst Sunbird nesting on the Air Plant which hangs on my balcony. I feel a distinct sense of triumph that it has elected to live and raise its family with me. I like to think of it as a blessing from the gods, a portent of happiness (that’s me getting all anthropomorphic again!)

The beautiful Malachite Sunbird is the other common sunbird in my garden, especially in winter when the aloes I planted are in bloom. This dashing, shiny bird often chooses to sit on some prominent point from where it twitters happily away while keeping a sharp eye out for any rival male which it will quickly chase off.

My birding is not, of course, confined to the garden. I have several particular patches of ground I like to visit regularly throughout the year.

Today, I elect to head down the familiar route that takes me through our front gate and past the house with the gumtrees and horde of barking dogs. At the next gate, I come to, just past the cattle crush and sorting pens, I take an abrupt left turn down Nicholson Highway. Despite the name we have bestowed on it, is not a highway, just a nondescript, muddy, farm road that leads through a large, cow-inhabited, rectangular field to a slightly better maintained road on the other side.

*Going for a stroll down Nicholson Highway.*

The big field slopes upward, South to North, from the old stone wall built by the Italian POWs during WW2 for purposes unknown – other than giving them something to do, I suppose. At the top of it, one has a breathtaking view over the entire Karkloof Valley with its regularised grid of big fields, forests and dams. The very distinctive, leonine-shaped Loskop and the purple-tinged Karkloof hills provide a suitably dramatic backdrop to this ever pleasing vista.

The Field, looking South with mist drifting in.

There are subtle changes here, every day and every season. Close your eyes in summer and you could almost imagine you are in Ireland because of all the vibrant greens, low scudding clouds and mysterious mists. In winter, when the fields are covered in stubble and the colours are more subdued, there is a stark, minimalist beauty to the landscape.

As I enter the field, via Nicholson Highway, I scan the grass with my binoculars. A bird flies up calling, a plaintive, drawn-out ‘wheeee…’ It is the appropriately named Wailing Cisticola. A little further on I see another Cisticola. A smaller one with a slightly fanned-out tail. It is known as the Zitting (formerly Fantailed) Cisticola because – you guessed it – of the ‘zit’ it makes at the crest of each undulation during its display flight…

It is open country here and – I suspect because the cattle who sometimes graze here provide good manure – the grass is longer and more luxuriant than our wiry, unpalatable, stuff next door. Because of this, it has become a haven for grass-loving species. They like it because it has ground cover and it has food.

My alternate name for Nicholson Highway is Longclaw Lane because this is very much their kind of country (the Yellow-throated is our common Longclaw). The bird’s plaintive, fugitive call, as it lifts into the sky, always sets my veins a-tingle. Likewise, several varieties of the Pipit have staked their claim along the road. I have seen both African and Plain-backed on many occasions.

Widely but locally dispersed across South Africa, the Secretary Bird makes the odd stop-over in the field. Taking its name from the long, quill-like, feathers protruding from its head, the Secretary bird is, in fact, an eagle with very long legs. It puts these legs to good use. My battered old copy of Roberts Birds of South Africa describes this succinctly: “After landing runs for some distance with wings outstretched. Snakes are attacked with violent blows from the feet while the wings are held outspread as a shield. Great care is taken to make certain the snake is dead before it is swallowed, whole if it is small...”

In the past, the field has yielded some other surprises. Bustards are very shy and wary, so it is a privilege to encounter them anywhere in the wild. You can imagine my excitement, then, when I came across not one but THREE Denham’s Bustard, feeding in the upper end of the field. The Denham’s is the second-largest bustard in South Africa (prime honours go to the Kori Bustard, the largest flying bird in the world) and is listed as NEAR THREATENED.

Cranes are equally rare across the world so I also consider myself lucky to have seen all three of the South African species (the Wattled, the Grey-crowned and the Blue), at various times, here. They are special. Stately, regal and a little otherworldly, their elegant courtship rituals are one of the great wildlife spectacles.

Having made a mental count of all the birds I have seen so far, I continue down the winding road until it comes to a T Junction. On the opposite side, in a paddock, a couple of horses are being put through their paces at the local riding academy. Another noisy dog lives here too. A big black one. We didn’t hit it off when we first met so I prefer to avoid it.

I accordingly turn and follow the fence line down to a farm dam (and away from the big, black dog). The grease-gleen of the early morning sunlight glitters romantically on its water, as three dabchicks create patterned artworks as they swim away from me towards the far shore. A large White-breasted Cormorant lifts itself out of the water and flaps noisily off. The Blacksmith Plovers, I saw earlier, are now patrolling the edge of the water. As soon as they see me they give their characteristic loud, ringing, metallic ‘tink, tink, tink’ alarm call, from which they derive their name.

They don’t seem to want me around either. They are not alone in their antipathy.

On the far side, partly concealed in the long grass, a pair of male reedbuck follow my movements with worried eyes. An uninvited intruder in their private domain, not wanting to scare them, I high tail it along the dam wall, hoping they won’t take fright. They retreat a little further up the inlet but don’t runoff.

There is another panoramic view from the wall, one that shows more dams and more fields full of hay bales and groups of contented cows grazing on the sloping hillside you look across to. In winter frost often clenches the ground below the wall, the relentless summer rain can turn it into a muddy quagmire in which animals get stuck.

Once over the wall, I follow the now faded path that leads back to our side of the field. The path used to lead to a farm shebeen on the next door property but that was closed down for security reasons.

Although now cropped low, the grass is still plentiful at this end of the field. At certain times of the year, there are eruptions of flowers amongst it which draw the insects in. Bees and flower-visiting wasps buzz about. Butterflies too. For three days, two-years ago, this area was alive with flickering wings as the annual midsummer migration of the thousands upon thousands of Brown-veined White Butterfly (also known as Pioneer Caper White) took place.

The distance these tiny creatures cover on this epic trek (depending on climatic conditions their numbers vary each year. This year it didn’t seem to happen or, if it did, I missed it) are mind-boggling. Starting on the cold shores of the South-west Cape, they fly as far as sub-tropical Mozambique.

Walking along the fire break that leads back home I keep my eyes peeled. I have seen Serval here twice before, returning home from a night out hunting. I don’t see one today but it doesn’t bother me. The fact they are so seldom spotted only adds to their mystery and allure.

For the rest, I am happy to just be wandering along this path, enjoying this small moment of fleeting time. Out here I can get a kind of feeling of belonging and recognition, a level of engagement, a sense of purpose, an appreciation of beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with the latest news stories or the world beyond these hills.

And for that, I feel blessed…

Book Reviews

May 29, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 2 Comments

published by Head Zeus

At the start of World War Two, the British lagged way behind the Germans in the aerial arms race. The primitive Whitleys, Hapdens and Wellingtons, that formed the backbone of Bomber Command, were inadequately equipped and prone to technical failure. For the most part, they proved no match for their German counterparts. This all changed with the advent of the most famous and iconic four- engined bomber of the conflict – the legendary Avro Lancaster.

When British Prime Minister Winston Churchill could see no other road open to victory, it was to this form of strategic air-power that he turned, the Commander in Chief of Bomber Command, Air Marshall Arthur Harris, having all but convinced him that the Third Reich could be bombed into submission. The cost of the campaign would prove high with Bomber Command’s casualties amounting to almost one-seventh of all British deaths in action by land air, and sea from 1939-1945. While 55 573 aircrew, almost all officers and NCOs, were killed, the German losses were far higher. It is estimated that somewhere between 300 000 and 600 000 people, many of them civilians, were killed by the bombs of the RAF and USAAF.

As effective as the strategy was, it was not without its critics. While many questioned its morality, especially where it involved significant civilian casualties, what is unquestionable is the patient courage of the bomber crews. Packed into their cramped flying metal tubes, they faced the strain of constant operations night after night, forging out into the empty darkness, knowing that the German gunners, probing searchlights and fighter planes would most likely be waiting for them and that their chances of returning were not good. Of the aircrew who served in Bomber Command, a staggering 44.4 per cent lost their lives.

This book is very much a monument to the gallantry, fortitude and endurance of these men. It is based on a series of interviews the author had with Ken Clark, the only surviving member of his crew and one of the very last witnesses of the Allied bombing campaign. Like many young men of his generation, he had been swept up by the whole romance of flying (my father, who also served in Bomber Command, was another), enrolling in flying school as soon as he was able to. He failed to make it as a pilot but was offered and accepted the role of bomb aimer, for which he was eventually awarded the DFC.

Thereafter he took part in countless missions over Germany and the rest of Europe and was also heavily involved in the Normandy D Day invasion. A mixed bag of personalities, the men he flew with were drawn from all over the Commonwealth. His pilot, Flying Officer Jim Comans, for instance, was Australian, another crew member was a Canadian.

Written with remarkable factual authenticity, The Crew captures the terror and exhilaration, the comradeship and self-sacrifice that, for the duration of the war, was at the heart of these men’s experiences. Author Price handles the big political set pieces, that formed the background to the bombing campaign, superbly but his narrative is also consistently enlivened by his ability to telescope in on the small and telling details that reveal what the life of an ordinary Lancaster crewman was like.

published by Jonathan Ball Publishers.

Although located far from the main theatres of conflict, South Africa’s strategic global position, because of the Cape sea route, was considered of vital importance to both the Allied and Axis powers throughout the Second World War.

Determined to disrupt Allied shipping, the Germans quickly dispatched packs of U Boats into South African waters. Initially, at least, they enjoyed some success with a considerable tonnage of shipping being sunk. Hoping to encourage sedition within the country itself, as well as gather valuable military and naval intelligence, the Germans also set up an espionage network – commonly referred to as the Trompke network – operating out of Lourenco Marques in Portuguese-held Mozambique.

They found willing accomplices on South African soil. The decision by the Smuts government to declare war on Germany had not been a universally popular one with a substantial segment of the Afrikaner community still harbouring deeply anti-British feelings as a result of the Boer War. Their opposition to South Africa’s participation in the war crystallised around support for the Ossewabrandwag, a cultural organisation founded in September 1939 and led by the defiantly anti-Imperial Hans Van Rensburg. At first, the contact between Germany and this group of disgruntled South Africans was fairly haphazard but as the war progressed more secure lines of communication were established, particularly through the enigmatic Felix Network.

Alerted to the threat, the British and South African authorities retaliated in kind by establishing their counter-intelligence units although their effort to track down the enemy was often bedevilled by inter-service rivalry and the fact that some local government officials were not entirely committed to the Allied cause. Although a wealth of evidence would be gathered after the war pointing to the fact that Van Rensburg and his cohorts had committed wartime acts of high treason the election of the National Party in 1948 and a changing political climate would ensure they were never prosecuted and got off scot-free.

In writing about this period of our turbulent history, Kleynhans – a senior lecturer in the Department of Military History at the Faculty of Military Science at Stellenbosch University – gained much material from the Ossewabrandwag Archive, an under-appreciated, and largely unknown, archival collection containing key source material detailing the nature and operation of the German intelligence networks in Southern Africa. As well as uncovering a great deal of factual information, his excellent study includes vivid stories about would be German spies crossing crocodile-infested rivers to gain access to South Africa, daring escapes from internment camps and the setting up of transmitter stations, which could communicate directly with Berlin, in remote parts of the Highveld.

As Kleynhans readily acknowledges much of the intelligence gathered for transmission by these isolated cells seems to have been of questionable value. In his view, however, they did serve “a definite propaganda purpose among antiwar segments of South African society”.

What they also did was show up the deep divisions within South Africa society. Undoubtedly the most thorough, even-handed and detailed account of this now mostly forgotten chapter of our history written so far, Hitler’s War admirably captures this schizophrenic state, as well as filling in some crucial gaps in the historiography of the war.

Alone on the Mountain that Swallows People

May 15, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

*The foothills of Mt Nyangani. Nicky Rosselli and Sally Scott*.

The weather was warm and welcoming as we bounced along the track that led up to Robin’s Nest cottage, nestling in the southern foothills of Mt Nyangani, at 2 592 metres (8 504 feet) Zimbabwe’s highest peak. There were three of us in the old bakkie – my two artist sisters, Sally Scott and Nicky Rosselli, and I – and we were finally making a journey we had often fantasized about. Below us the land rolled and sloped in an emphatic way, criss-crossed by streams and patches of plantation and jumbles of granite hills which reflected silver in the bright sunshine. It was good to be back. There was a healing magic in the air and I could have all but shouted out with joy, I was so excited to be in the landscape of my youth.

***The Road to Robin’s Nest***. ,Nyazengu Gorge in mid-distance. Honde Valley behind.

It was here I had made my first real discovery of that intangible sense of mystery some mountains have in abundance.

Sparse, rustic and startling basic, our windswept accommodation, could hardly have seemed more remote. Tucked away in a small grove of trees, it consisted of two wooden sheds linked by a roof of corrugated iron. It was like a hermits cell or the sort of place monks might have used when they wanted to get close to God. The two bedrooms with their rickety bunks were both extremely small. The kitchen area-cum- lounge, in the other section, contained a couple of battered, much-used, old chairs and a tiny wood stove which, I would soon learn, had a mind of its own.

As I dumped my gear on the bed, I knew I was going to fall in love with the place. I have always been a bit of an ascetic with a taste for the Spartan. Robin’s Nest fitted my needs perfectly.

And if the building was on the ramshackle side, this, in no way, detracted from the magnificence of its setting. Directly behind us, the mist-shrouded mountain rose into steep pillars of rock, in front of us the land sloped away, gently at first, before suddenly plunging into a steep-sided, gaping abyss. The Nyazengu Gorge is not as well known as the Pungwe Gorge, into which it opens out, but, although of a smaller scale, it is equally beautiful. Protected from the worst of the winds but benefiting from the moisture-laden clouds they bring, it supports a profusion of plant life.

The morning sun was breaking through the cloud as we set out, early the next day, following a meandering path that led us over the downs. Everything about the morning was lovely. The call of the birds, the great blue sky, the sound of the river gurgling through the green hills. We hadn’t got too far when we came across some overgrown old stone-walled fortifications, remnants of what is now known as the Nyanga Uplands Culture. It seemed a bleak and lonely spot to have lived.

*Old Ruins with Mt Nyangani in background*.

Still glorying in the voluptuous sunlight we pressed on along the path. Now and again we would find ourselves entering patches of dark remnant forest. Scattered through the undergrowth were numerous large, mossy boulders that looked like sleeping animals while, in other places, the trail was almost overgrown with ferns and low foliage.

Wherever we went there was that rich, yeasty smell of damp and decomposing matter. Adding to the slightly Middle Earth atmosphere was the wispy- white streams of Old Man’s Beard hanging down from some of the trees. Faraway from the shrieking commotion of city life, I felt like I had entered a very secret and enchanted place.

There were all sorts of birds here although, because of the gloom of the forest, they were not always easy to see. I did manage to get one “lifer”- the White-tailed Crested Flycatcher, a beautiful little bird with a penchant for fanning its handsome tail. Something of a rarity, its distribution in Southern Africa is restricted to the montane forests of Zimbabwe’s the Eastern Highlands and adjacent Mozambique. The even rarer Blue Swallow is also supposed to occur in the surrounding grasslands but I did not see any.

We emerged out of the cool shadows of the forest to find ourselves on the very lip of the gorge, at a point where a high waterfall plunged down its side and into the gloom below. Taking off my hiking boots, I dipped my big toe into the water and took it out very quickly indeed. It was every bit as cold as I feared it would be but at least it gave me the excuse to boil some tea to warm ourselves up.

Where the waterfall plunges into Nyazengu Gorge.

Later we squelched down a valley that was half bog, half rock until we came to another waterfall that tumbled down a massive sheet of exposed rock. It was hard to imagine anywhere more unvisited, wild and sublime. There was something about the way the sunlight sparkled on the beautiful, clear water, the way the light and water bubbled and swam together, the pure energy of the current flowing over the smooth grey rock that made us want to stop and tarry there. It was as if the water spoke best of the passion of the place.

This was, of course, the other reason we had wanted to come back. All three of us are artists and we were looking for inspiration. There was no shortage of it here.

With its endless vistas and ever-changing moods and atmosphere, Nyanga has been a favourite venue for many painters including, most notably, Robert Paul. A friend of the British artist John Piper, Paul (1906-1980) – who has been described by Brian Bradshaw, the former director of the National Gallery in Salisbury (now Harare), as “a ‘genuine’ whose artistic dimensions exist not only in Rhodesia but would be recognised anywhere the values and evidence of art are understood” – returned to paint in Nyanga many times.

Deceptively slapdash in his brushwork, Paul had an uncanny ability to strip a scene down to its basics and select from nature only those elements which seemed to capture its essential spirit and feel. There is a perennial freshness about his work; in it. you immediately see a man who is comfortably at home in this scenery. It is why, whenever I am feeling homesick and want to reconnect with the landscape that exerted such a force on me in my childhood, I haul out a book* I have of his paintings.

By the time we eventually tore ourselves away from this hallowed spot and headed home to Robin’s Nest, the cloud had begun to build up again along the mountain. We had barely made it back to the cabin when the whole area was engulfed in a thick tablecloth of mist. As night fell it grew intensely cold. Alone in our chilly hut, on the edge of that imposing mountain, it felt we had the universe all to ourselves.

Poking the wood stove to get more warmth, listening to the murmurings of the mountain and the soft conversation between the wind and the trees, I could not have been happier. I felt I had found a place set apart, one with that quality of isolated purity that helped restore the soul.

Although I had grown up in the area, I had never actually climbed Mt Nyangani. So I decided I was going to stir my old bones and make my way up to its summit. My sister Sally elected to join me.

*Mt Nyangani from far side of Nyazengu Gorge*.

Although it is Zimbabwe’s highest mountain, the hike to the top only takes a few hours. The first section is the steepest to climb. Thereafter it opens up into a lush, gorse-covered, sprawling moors and undulating plateau.

*When the going gets tough. My sister Sally Scott pausing for a breather*.

We were the only ones on the mountain that day which only added to the seremity of it all, the feeling of pure solitude.

It was well worth the initial slog, too, because the view from the top is one of the most beautiful I have ever beheld. Sitting on the apex of grey-green rock, with the sun shining through the clouds and anointing our heads, I really did feel like I was amongst the gods.

Geologically, Mt Nyangani is composed of an upper sill of dolerite and sandstone with the harder dolerite forming the cliffs on top of which, having reached the highest point, we now sat celebrating our achievement with a hot cup of tea (it’s my British ancestry). This, in turn, intrudes out of a sub-strata of ancient granite – the extensive Basement Complex that makes up much of the country’s geology and which has been gradually weathered away and exposed over the aeons.

On the eastern side of this high exposed ridge, lies the hot, humid Honde Valley, into which the countries highest waterfall, the 762 metre Mutarazi Waterfall, drops. It was also the scene of much fierce fighting during the Rhodesian Bush War. Extending from the border of Zimbabwe into Mozambique, its unusual position and topography cause it to have the highest rainfall in the country.

This is because moisture-laden clouds coming in from Mozambique are blown smack into the mountain wall and as they rise they cool and the rain comes. The constant watering has created a mini eco-system and the cliffs and crags here are covered in dense forest – making it quite distinct from the western side slopes which are mostly grassland, with only the odd tree hunched down again the bitter winter winds.

As one turns one’s eyes around further, the vast V-shaped Pungwe Gorge, with its tumbling, two-channel, waterfall, sweeps into view, followed by the entire Nyanga National Park and its environs. Beyond, that, shrouded in mystery lie, the ruin-strewed hills of Ziwa, and Nyahokwe and then, silhouetted, against the skyline, the massive granite dome of Mt Dombo. Crane your head still further and you will find yourself looking down the broad spine of the Nyanga escarpment to where both Mt Mouzi and the twin peaks of Nyangui mountain – whose beacon marked the edge of our old farm – jut out in the far distance.

View down to Nyazengu Gorge and Honde Valley.

Three main rivers have their source on Mt Nyangani – the Nyamaziwa, the Gaerezi and the Pungwe. The first two are tributaries of the Mazowe which eventually flows north into the Zambezi. The Pungwe, which grows steadily wider as it follows its eastwards course, has its mouth in the Indian Ocean, at the port city of Beira in Mozambique.

Despite the relative ease of the climb Mt Nyangani has an ominous reputation. One local newspaper even went so far as to label it, in bold type, as “A MOUNTAIN WHICH SWALLOWS PEOPLE”. Others have, in equally dramatic terms, compared it to the Bermuda Triangle and Japan’s Devil’s Triangle. To some extent, its reputation as some sort of dark, hungry, malfeasant, force is well deserved for numerous hikers have indeed disappeared on the mountain never to be seen again.

Back in colonial times the word “Nyanga” was usually interpreted as meaning “place of the witchdoctor” which added further to the reputation of the mountain for being a bit of a scary, forbidden, place although the correct translation of the word is ‘herbalist ‘which has far less sinister connotations.

Like other sacred mountains in Southern Africa, Mt Nyangani has its prohibitions and taboos, including the fairly common stricture against pointing at it. No laughter is permitted either. The mountain is, also, subject to sharp weather changes particularly mist-build-up which make it easy to get disorientated and lost in. Hence, presumably, all those missing hikers who got ‘swallowed’ by the mountain.

We got first- hand experience of how quickly this can happen. I was posing for the obligatory Hail-the-All-Conquering-Mountaineer photo when I noticed a slight drop in temperature and a sudden jab of wind against the back of my neck. Pivoting around, I saw, to our immediate north, a low bank of cloud, glistening white in the sunshine. I think something about this sort of weather breeds an anxious hyper-alertness of the senses for I realised instantly it was time to get off the mountain.

As we hastened back down the track, more thin wisps of cloud began chasing one another along the mountain top towards us. I felt tiny splashes of rain. By the time we had got back to the parking area, the whole mountain, which had previously seemed so benign, had taken on a more sinister aspect.

We retreated down the road to the Nyangwe fort, just above Mare Dam, and sat on the rock walls watching the drama unfold. In the blink of an eyelid, Mt Nyangani was engulfed under a massive cumulonimbus cloud which, just kept growing and growing in size.

*The angry mountain, seen from Nyangwe Fort*.

I was very glad we had got down in time to avoid being caught up in that vast, vortex of rising air. Awed by the spectacle, I found myself succumbing to all sorts of nagging, corrosive doubts. Maybe we had angered the mountain? Had I made a big mistake being so cheerful and upbeat as I posed for my vanity photographs? Was it some ill-humoured, demonic spirit that had sent that towering storm cloud?

I was not the only one with concerns about the mountain’s temperamental nature and sudden mood swings. Since we got to the summit, the park’s management has decided that you can now only climb it in the company of a guide.

And with a reputation like that who would not want to climb it?

*Pungwe Gorge and river, leading up to Mt Nyangani*.

*Robert Paul by Colette Wild, Brian Bradshaw, Francois Roux, Patricia Broderick and Martin Van der Spuy. Printed by Grillford Limited.

GALLERY:

Some artwork inspired by our trip:

Mt Nyangani from Nyangwe Fort. Artwork by Anthony Stidolph. Oil.

One Year On: Cartoons for March and April, 2021

May 1, 2021 / stidyatkusane / Leave a comment

A lack of financial controls and consequence management had resulted in the KwaZulu-Natal conservation entity, Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife, incurring more than R48 million in irregular expenditure, it was revealed during a virtual KZN Scopa meeting. Ezemvelo – currently struggling to find R100million to fix its porous fences, which have seen wild animals escaping from its facilities – is battling to comply with Treasury supply guidelines due to the entity’s weak financial unit.

Despite the ANC leaders describing their meeting with former president Jacob Zuma as “positive and constructive”, political analysts described the gathering as a waste of time. In the meeting, the ANC top brass led by President Cyril Ramaphosa could not convince Zuma to change his mind on his decision to defy the Constitutional Court order that he should appear before the Zondo Commission.

Msunduzi Municipality’s financial reserves continued to be a huge source of concern, with the City’s December accounts showing it owed a whopping R500 million to its suppliers. Further evidence of the general malaise gripping the municipality was then provided when large parts of the city were again plunged into darkness, for up to twenty-four hours, as two Eskom breakers tripped. This was in addition to the normal Stage Two load-shedding being implemented by Eskom.

On a happier note, the 70^th MyLife Dusi Canoe Marathon got underway in Pietermaritzburg although, because of the Covid restrictions, there weren’t the usual large crowd of fans to cheer the canoeists on…

As South Africa acknowledged the first anniversary of the start of the Covid-19 pandemic, the maladministration in the Msunduzi municipality once more came into focus. In a two-part package devoted to the failing city, the Witness provided a range of stories showing how ordinary residents (and city workers) felt they had been abandoned by the uncaring administration. The newspaper’s report also captured the frustration of the business, real estate, tourism and other sectors of the local economy who had suffered as a result of bad management, bad choices and lack of consequences.

Following a heated ANC meeting over the weekend, former president Jacob Zuma’s supporters, who had come out second best in the battle to control the party, were now at risk of being expelled from the party should they continue with their campaign against President Cyril Ramaphosa and the judiciary. Meanwhile, the election of mostly white males to key leadership positions, at the DA’s KZN provincial congress, seemed to suggest the party had ditched its “inclusive” policy, according to some political analysts.

At a time when he needed to be busying himself with the urgent business of running the country and fighting the Covid-19 pandemic, President Cyril Ramaphosa found himself having to ward off more attacks from former president Jacob Zuma and his supporters within the ANC. In 23 pages of speaking notes, Zuma complained that his comrades had left him high and dry and attacked Ramaphosa for stopping the state from paying his legal fees. Zuma also launched a broadside at the independence of the judiciary, questioning the legitimacy and credibility of South Africa’s constitutional democracy.

Plessislaer is now one of South Africa’s murder capitals. This was revealed by the country’s Minister of Police, Bheki Cele, who urged police to get tougher on criminals following a spate of murders in and around Pietermaritzburg. Cele said KwaZulu-Natal had become a problem area along with the Western Cape and more police would be deployed to the area to try and curb the violence that has been spiraling out of control.

While fires raged on in Cape Town and emergency services battled blazes around the clock, it was revealed that KwaZulu-Natal’s fire-fighting capacity had heavy shortfalls. Not only did it lack over 550 fire-fighters but it did not have enough Urban Search and Rescue (USAR) equipment or personnel. The problem was not confined to KZN alone with a Daily Maverick report revealing similar shortcomings throughout the country.

Gods, Graves and the Lure of the Matopos

April 17, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 9 Comments

*The granite of the ancient north. A return visit to the Matopos hills with my English cousin, Rebecca*.

When I was seven-years-old I was despatched, by train, to a boarding school on the other side of the then Southern Rhodesia and my world changed. From a life of being surrounded by family and a familiar, comforting, routine, I found myself thrust into a society whose mores, customs and rules were all terra incognita to me. Caught in a fusion of fear and fascination I didn’t know quite what to expect from this new arrangement. Whether I was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead of me only time would tell.

My departure, by train, on that balmy summer’s evening, would set the pattern for the next six years of my life. Three times a year my parents would drop me off at Salisbury station and three times a year they would be waiting at the same station to collect me.

The all-boy boarding school I found myself clanking towards in that old, coal-fired, steam train was named Rhodes Estate Preparatory School (REPS), after the man whose devious machinations laid the groundwork for the seizure of a country: Cecil John Rhodes. Overlooking the glorious Matopos Hills, the school specialised, as its name implied, in preparing impressionable young white boys for the rigours of life in the colony, and fostering a simple pride in the country. It also served as the main feeder school for Plumtree High, one of the oldest and most prestigious schools in Southern Rhodesia, situated alongside the main railway line to South Africa, near where it crossed the border into Botswana.

The headmaster of REPS, when I got there, was a Scotsman, Mr McClaren, a strict disciplinarian who was nevertheless loved by the boys for his dry, depreciating, wit. In my mind, I can still hear him thundering at me in his thick Scottish brogue when I had messed up an answer: “You are up the pole boy – COME DOWN!!!”

I was always a fairly shy child and, initially at least, I found the forced gregariousness, regimentation and lack of privacy difficult to deal with. I suppose I was lucky in that my one brother, Pete, a couple of years my senior, was already at R.E.P.S. Unlike me, however, he had faced his separation from home in a manner entirely consistent with his straightforward, practical approach to life. He had taken it all in his stride. Determined that I, too, should learn to stand on my own two feet he made a point of leaving me to my own devices for the first couple of weeks.

Fortunately, I think my easy-going nature and innate cheerfulness helped here, for I soon managed to acquire a circle of friends, was never really picked on or bullied and ended up enjoying my days at R.E.P.S. It that sort of setting it would have been hard not to.

Made up of labyrinthine chaos of granite rocks, kopjes, domes, whale-backs and other formations*, pushed out of the earth aeons ago, the Matopos Hills are an area of breath-taking beauty. Both the Shona and, later, the Ndebele believed them to be the residence of their high God – Mwari for the Shona, Mlimo for the Ndebele – and regarded them as sacred. Mzilikazi, the first king of the Ndebele, was buried there. Eager to stamp his authority on the land, Cecil John Rhodes also chose World’s View (or Marindidzuma – the haunt of the ancestral spirits) as the site of his grave, so impressed was he by “The peacefulness of it…the chaotic grandeur of it all”.

In his funeral poem, “The Burial”, Rudyard Kipling, who had been Rhodes house guest in Cape Town, refers to the hills in his oft-quoted line “The Granite of the ancient North, Great spaces washed with sun.” Whether Rhodes was worthy of all the praise Kipling lavished on him in the poem (“The immense and brooding spirit…Living he was the land, and dead, His soul shall be her soul”.) is, of course, a matter open to debate…

During the Matabele Rebellion, Rhodes had, indeed, shown considerable bravery by riding unarmed in to the Matopos, with a small group of companions, to negotiate a peace deal with the Matabele leaders. Also interred at World’s View are the remains of his sidekick, Doctor Leander Starr Jameson, whose impetuous and ill-considered Jameson Raid into the Transvaal, had precipitated the Boer War. Encouraged by its failure and the absence of so many white troops outside the country, the Matabele (or Ndebele) – a northern offshoot of the warlike Zulu – launched the first sustained campaign against colonial authority in Africa. Many of Matabele impi would subsequently operate from and seek refuge amongst the hills where even the likes of Colonel Robert Baden – Powell, despite all his scouting experience, would be hard-pressed to flush them out.

On the same smooth granite batholith on which the two lies buried there is another, larger monument, erected, on Rhodes’ instructions, in memory of the ill-fated Shangani Patrol.

On the afternoon of December 3^rd, 1893, Major Allan Wilson had led a patrol of 16 volunteers across the rising Shangani River in pursuit of Lobengula, king of the Matabele. Cut off from the main force under Major Forbes by the swollen waters, Wilson found himself surrounded, the next day, by an estimated 3 000 Matabele warriors. Fighting to the last round he and his men were all eventually killed.

Before they met their death, the final six reputedly took off their hats and sang “God Save the Queen”. Because of his brave actions – although some historians consider his pursuit of the much larger Matabele force to have been a reckless gamble, on par with General Custer’s last stand at Little Bighorn – Wilson would be elevated to the level of national hero and have a school named in his honour. For his part, Lobengula, protected by the remnants of his loyal impi, continued northwards. He died, by taking poison, when he heard his army had surrendered and was buried, sitting up, in a cave. Disciplined as it was by pre-colonial standards, his forces were no match for the lethal British Maxim gun, which was used for the first time here.

It was a sad ending for a man who, by all accounts, had been an impressive figure and a shrewd opponent.

In the school dining room there was, in my time (I imagine it has long since been removed), a reproduction of the 1896 painting by Allan Stewart depicting this famous episode (the painting would go on to inspire two films: the 1899 short silent war film, Major Wilson’s Last Stand and The Shangani Patrol (1970)). Also hanging from the dining room walls was a large portrait of Rhodes, himself. It used to spook us at mealtimes because his penetrating, pale-looking eyes appeared to follow you around no matter where you sat…

It was at R.E.P.S. that I was to commit one of those life-defining, acts of stupidity that I seem to have a peculiar talent for.

It happened like this. At the centre of the school, there was a swimming pool, below which was a small room that was always locked. Returning from classes one day, I noticed there was a pipe protruding from under its door out of which a strange yellow-green cloud of gas was rising. Intrigued, I wandered over to it, lifted it up and took a good whiff. Words cannot describe the searing pain that engulfed my whole chest. I felt like my lungs had caught fire. I broke out in an immediate fit of non-stop coughing.

The gas I had inhaled was chlorine, one of the weapons of choice in the trenches of the First World War until its usage was banned by international treaty. It is also used, in diluted quantities, to keep swimming pools clean and sparkling but I was too young to know about either of this. Another boy, I don’t remember who, saw me staggering around like a crazy person and realising I was in serious trouble led me, choking and gagging, off to see the sickbay matron. In between further fits of coughing I spluttered out the story of what had happened. I was rushed to Bulawayo Central Hospital, injected and fed all sorts of medicine, and placed in an oxygen tent.

When I got back to school, a week or so later, the pipe was gone. In my absence, I had also become something of a local legend – Chlorine Stidolph was but one of the many names I would be remembered by – attracting a lot of sympathy and solicitude and some good-natured ribbing as well. Later in life, the consequences of my inhalation of poisonous gas would come back to haunt me, my scarred lungs making me susceptible to a variety of respiratory problems.

This moment of madness notwithstanding, I don’t think my parents could have chosen a more right school for me than R.E.P.S.

Based on the British models, it was a school that believed firmly in the importance of open-air life. The headmaster and staff placed great emphasis on physical exercise and besides playing lots of sport, which I was never much good at, we were encouraged to go for long hikes – or “exeats” as they were called – into the country over the weekends. I, for one, needed little prompting. Walking is a pleasure I have always enjoyed for its own sake and I exulted in the freedom of escaping the school’s bounds and getting out into the natural world.

*Reliving old memories. A return trip to the Matopos hills. Pic courtesy of Nicky Rosselli*.

All three of my brothers, who had been at REPS before me, had been keen egg collectors, a hobby I also took up (the older me is strongly disapproving). We were always very careful to only take one egg from the nest, leaving the others for the birds to hatch and rear.

With over 50 species of raptor being recorded in the nearby Rhodes Matopos National Park , it was certainly a birder’s paradise. The park was especially famous for its number of Black (Verreaux’s) Eagles. It still contains the most concentrated population of an eagle species anywhere in the world. The Ndebele believe these magnificent birds are the spirits of the departed dead. Watching them soaring in the thermals it is not difficult to understand why.

Wildlife was also plentiful in the park. There were leopards lurking in the hills while herds of round-haunched zebras, sable, giraffe and fidgety wildebeest grazed in the plains below. White Rhinos were still relatively common. This was classic klipspringer country as well and on our hikes, we would often see them standing outlined on a rock’s crest, like some sort of spirit guardians, as we tramped below.

*Balancing rocks. We used to call this formation Rhodes’s Chair*.

In such idyllic surroundings, there was certainly enough to satisfy both my curiosity and spirit of adventure. It was in the Matopos that I really began to develop an eye for the detail of country life and nature’s endless variety and mystery. Like many a schoolboy before me, I had that peculiarly – although not exclusively – British desire to explore the unknown and amongst the Matopos kopjes there was more than enough to keep me occupied.

Each term was thirteen weeks broken by a half-term holiday (more when there were public holidays such as Easter and Rhodes and Founders Day). Because my parents lived so far away I never got to go home during these breaks but had to stay at school with a few other, similarly unlucky, boys. To soften the blow, the master who had been left on weekend duty would usually organise a whole day outing for us, often taking us, by vehicle deep, into the hills. Once we reached our destination, we would be left free to climb the kopjes and summit such imposing domes as Mount Efifi. On their top we would stand, awed by the view, with endless roves of monumental granites, of all shapes and sizes, radiating out in every direction, seemingly forever. Sculpted by a millennia of erosion, it was certainly a vista fit for any re-incarnate god.

After rain, the rocks and domes glimmered silver, which added a slightly supernatural quality to the landscape and contributing to my sense of privilege at being able to observe these ancient forms.

There were also numerous dams – the Matopos, Maleme, Mtshelele, Toghwana among others – bordered by rocks and dense thickets where we would often go to picnic and explore. There was plenty of fish in them while fast swimming duck jinked along the surface and weavers and widow birds chattered in the reed beds. As beautiful and as inviting as the water looked, especially on a hot day, it also concealed a hidden menace – bilharzia, a parasitic worms that penetrates human skin and enters the bloodstream and migrates to the liver, intestines and other organs.

The cure for this back then (I speak from first-hand experience having been treated several times while I was at REPS) was almost worse than the infection – a large pill that turned your skin a weird yellowish colour, made you feel nauseous and sick and often induced vomiting.

Even in paradise, it seems, there is evil…

In the past, other people had inhabited this wilderness. The first had been the San Bushmen, peaceful hunter-gatherers who had used the outcrops of elephant-coloured boulders as a canvas on which to record both the physical and spiritual aspects of their lives. Often, after hours of clambering and squeezing your way through huge boulders and vines, you would stumble across their beautiful paintings on the under-surfaces of the rock, exquisitely executed in red, cream and ochre-coloured silhouettes. Indeed, the Matopos contain the highest concentration of rock paintings in southern Africa with many dating back to the Late Stone Age.

*Rock Art, Inanke Cave, Matopos. Pics courtesy of Nicky Rosselli*.

In other cases, we used to find clay pots, iron smelters and grain bins, often very well preserved, although these were probably of more recent origin.

Sitting up there, amongst the encircling piles of boulders, in the heat and silence, alone with my lazy thoughts, it was easy to see why the Bushmen had chosen the Matopos as a site for their enigmatic outdoor art galleries and why both the Shona and Ndebele continued to revere these mysterious hills.

They certainly cast their unique grip upon me.

Stables erected on instructions of C.J.Rhodes.

NOTE: In my day, the area I write about was still known as the Rhodes Matopos National Park so, for this story, I have retained the old spelling. Since then it has been renamed the Matobo National Park and become a UNESCO World Heritage Cultural Site. For similar reasons, I have used the old word Matabele rather that Ndebele.

*The word matobo means “bald heads” in Ndebele.

The Tracks of Time

April 3, 2021April 3, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 8 Comments

I grew up in an era in which there was still a certain romance attached to train travel although, at my first encounter, its charms were not immediately apparent to me.

I was seven-years-old at the time and at the end of that railway track there existed a dark, foreboding place called ‘boarding school’ which, my parents had solemnly informed me, was where my destiny lay. Making that trip was not something I was particularly looking forward to. Sitting on my large black metal trunk with my name and that of my prospective school house freshly painted in white on its surface, I remember feeling more like a convicted felon than a young innocent setting off on an exciting, new, life-changing, adventure.

While train travel and boarding school will always be inextricably linked together in my mind with time my view of it did, indeed, begin to change.

I came to love the old fashioned compartments with their iron luggage racks, green bunks, polished woodwork and framed pictures featuring the best known local sights. I recall, as a young boy, also being intrigued by the signs that appeared in each compartment urging us not to “expectorate”. It took me some time to figure out that this was posh railway-speak for “spit”.

Being hit in the face by great gobs of phlegm was not the only thing you had to worry about when you put your head out the window. Since the locomotives were still mostly powered by steam you also ran the risk of being knocked unconscious by large lumps of coal.

Then there was the whole complicated ritual of departure and arrival. First, you would have to scan the notice boards to find what section of the train you were in, then the frantic rush to get all your luggage aboard. Trying to lay claim to our seats, people would already be crammed in the corridor which made this an exceedingly difficult manoeuvre.

Finally, the time would come for the train to leave. Somewhere down the end of the line, a whistle would blow, a flag would wave and the carriage would croak and grown beneath you as the train began to pull slowly out of the station. Because of some strange optical illusion it always seemed to me that it was the station and the surrounding buildings that were moving – taking with them my waving parents and other family members until they were just small dots on the horizon – while the train itself remained perfectly still.

As we began to gather momentum I would sit looking out the window as the lights of the suburbs and industrial plants gradually gave way to fields of crops and grazing lands and then the bush. Rattling along, I would catch the occasional glimpse of lights away in the darkness and settlements suggesting that some of the countryside we were passing through was inhabited. Sitting there I would find myself imagining their owners sitting at their dinner tables or asleep in their comfortable beds and envy them.

This reverie would invariably be interrupted by the arrival of the conductor in our compartment asking for tickets while behind him a porter would move to and fro under his burden of sheets, blankets and pillows making our beds.

At some point of our journey down the tracks, I would fall asleep, lulled by the methodical, rolling motion of the train. There was something about the rhythm of of the train wheels over those iron tracks and the clean smell of the bushveld sweeping away under stars towards the shadowy outlines of the Great Dyke that I found immensely comforting.

Now and again the train would ground to a halt with a massive groaning of brakes and a screeching of wheels. I had done the journey often enough to be used to this strange habit it had of stopping for interminable periods for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere. Then, without warning, it would hiss and clang and start slowly pulling away again.

For the most part, the journey began and ended in darkness. Later on, when I went to university in Natal, we used to do most of the Botswana leg in daylight. The one feature of this stretch of the journey, I remember, besides the miles and miles of red Kalahari sand and interminable thorn and mopane scrub, was that in places where the train stopped to take in water dozens of enterprising salesmen and women would run along the side of the platform trying to persuade us to buy their goods.

Looking back on it all, I realise now how incredibly lucky I was. In an age in which regular jet flights have shrunk time and distance, and sucked most of the pleasure out of the experience, this was travel at its leisurely and meditative best.

Book Reviews

March 20, 2021 / stidyatkusane / Leave a comment

published by Struik Nature

As anybody who has tried it can tell you, birdwatching is something that can start as an innocent pleasure, then become a habit and finally morph in to something akin to an obsession.

Rupert Watson, who describes himself as “a lawyer, mediator, naturalist and writer”, is a person so afflicted. In the course of a 40-year career, the Kenya-based author has travelled the length and breadth of Africa seeking out its numerous and varied birdlife.

His latest book, Peacocks and Picathartes: Reflections on Africa’s Birdlife, is very much a distillation of these experiences. Drawing extensively on literature, history, science, avian miscellany and his observations, it is intended as a celebration of the diversity of African birds, especially those peculiar to the continent.

Chapter Two of the book, for example, is devoted to birds that occur only in Africa, Chapter Three to those that occur MAINLY in Africa and Chapter Four contains a list of his personal favourites.

Watson writes in a chatty, conversational style and most of the book’s pages are enlivened with little vignettes. In the course of its pages, he shows how certain birds – the Hamerkop and the Ground Hornbill are obvious examples – have acquired a special, even mythic status in local folklore and belief systems. Elsewhere he explains how some of the scientific names for birds have changed in the light of the most recent hypotheses about generic relationships. More controversially, common names have suffered a similar fate for the sake of international consistency, a factor which has led to some consumer resistance and resentment.

Other birds find themselves being shunted from one grouping to another, a factor that only serves to highlight the difficulty in resolving classification conundrums even with the advent of DNA analysis. The four African hyliotas, for example, now compromise their own family after being claimed by both the Old World warblers in Sylviidae and the batises and wattle-eyes in Platysteiridae.

There are many more insights and happy phrasings. We all thrill to an unusual sighting and you can feel Watson’s palpable excitement when he describes how he tracked down a rare White-necked Picathartes in the Bonkro region of Ghana. Even common birds can arouse his interest. There is an amusing description of the almost feral Egyptian Goose, a bird that has developed a singular attraction to swanky golfing estates where its habit of moulting and defecating on fairways has made it extremely unpopular with golfers.

The result of all of these reflections is a classic birder’s bedside book full of insight, anecdotes, information and an imaginative sympathy with the natural world. Hopefully, it will give non-birders some idea of what they are missing..

published by UKZN Press

The spectacular rise of bird-watching over the last fifty to a hundred years has led to a growing interest in not only avian territorial behavior but in other aspects of ornithology, including the question of how birds come by their names. While most of South Africa’s best-known bird books and field guides provide some explanation as to their vernacular names what has been needed is a book examining the subject in depth.

As the author of Zulu Names (2002) and Zulu Plant Names (2015), Adrian Koopman, who is also an emeritus professor at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, has the intellectual armoury to fill this gap, at least insofar as far as the Zulu names go. In a book that combines scholarship with readability, his knowledge and learning is apparent on every page of this book and he deserves full credit for the remarkable amount of information he has amassed.

Utilising up-to-the-minute research (including information gleaned from a series of local workshops conducted between 2013 and 2017), his hugely detailed survey explores the link between birds, names and people. While intended primarily as a reference work the book is more than just that; it also includes all sorts of interesting critical, cultural, personal and historical observations

What rapidly emerges is just how complex a subject it is. In an early chapter, the author looks at the underlying meaning of African birds and shows how these are linked to identity and function. Thus there can be lexical meanings, connotative meanings, associative and symbolic meanings. These, in turn, can be broken down into other categories such as names based on appearance, song, habits, habitat, behaviour, motion, season and weather, superstition etc.

What also constantly astonishes is the radiant aliveness and poetic sensibility behind so many of the Zulu bird names. Koopman revels in explaining fascinating things that some readers may know little about. For example, the name impofana for the Eurasian Golden Oriole while meaning ‘slightly dun-coloured’, is also one of the nicknames of the Kaiser Chiefs Football Club, whose uniform is a striking half-yellow/half-black, just like the plumage of this bird. As apt as it is lyrical is the coined name umambathilanga for the Yellow Bishop which translates out as “the one that wears the sun as a blanket”.

The book is littered with other similarly colourful examples.

In addition to explaining how the birds got their wide range of Zulu names, Koopman also examines the extremely important role birds play in Zulu praise songs, proverbs, riddles, beliefs and traditional lore. Certain birds are seen as omens, portents of things to come (the arrival of the Red-chested Cuckoo, for example, heralds the start of the ploughing season), others are regarded as charms, such as love charms and protective charms. Linked to this are the taboos against killing, eating or even imitating certain birds.

Leaving nothing to chance, the author concludes his investigation by underlining the critical role such knowledge can play in encouraging both conservation and avitourism.

Prodigiously researched and sparklingly expressed, this is likely to remain the most comprehensive and authoritative book on the subject for some time. Koopman’s cabinet of curiosities is not only handsomely produced, with a neat bibliography and index, but is further enhanced by numerous colour photographs and his own fine watercolour bird paintings.

Off to a Sluggish Start

March 6, 2021 / stidyatkusane / Leave a comment

Hours after hundreds of President Donald Trump’s supporters stormed the US Capitol in a harrowing assault on American democracy, a shaken Congress finally certified Democrat Joe Biden’s election victory. Immediately afterwards the White House released a statement from Trump promising an “orderly transition” when Biden is sworn in to office on 20^th January although he repeated his false claims that he won the November election.

It was a dark start to the year as residents living in large parts of Pietermaritzburg, Hilton and Howick West found themselves without electricity for up to seven-days. Besides causing widespread anger and frustration, the severe electricity disruptions plaguing the city also posed a threat to the local economy as industries considered pulling out and potential investors were scared away. To overhaul the entire ageing infrastructure will cost the bankrupt municipality at least R4 billion.

The alcohol sales ban was extended along with other restrictions as part of adjusted lockdown Level 3, President Cyril Ramaphosa announced in an address to the nation. On the much-anticipated vaccine roll-out in the country, Ramaphosa, without giving a time frame, said “South Africa’s vaccine strategy is well underway,

Joe Biden was sworn in as the president of the United States, pledging to unite a deeply divided nation reeling from the Covid-19 pandemic. Faced with a country whose fissures have been widened by a brutal wedge over the past four years, he acknowledged the social wasteland he had inherited, but emphasised unity, conciliation and called for an end to the “uncivil war” that had ravaged the country. In an extremely rare move his predecessor, Donald Trump, chose not to attend the ceremony.

Heavy rain, with flooding in places, hit the northern parts of South Africa as Cyclone Eloise moved down the Mozambique Channel – with more large downpours falling in KZN later in the week. At the same time, the murky world of spies, black ops and the unauthorised spending of millions of rand took centre stage at the Zondo Enquiry as evidence concerning the activities of the secretive State Security Agency (SSA) was heard. In a related ruling, Concourt ordered former president Jacob Zuma to obey all summons issued against him by the State Capture Enquiry and appear before it – saying he does not have the right to remain silent in proceedings.

ANC secretary-general Ace Magashule reacted defensively in an effort to deflect questions about Jacob Zuma’s defiance of state capture saying the former president should not be suspended from the party he believes in. “Leave president Zuma alone,” he said. Magashule, himself, was granted bail of R200 000 after he was arrested on 21 charges of fraud and corruption, alternatively theft and money laundering, stemming from the Free State asbestos scandal.

Glossing over government’s plans to vaccinate the nation to beat Covid-19, President Cyril Ramaphosa focused on South Africa’s economic recovery from the pandemic in his State of the Nation Address, in a thinly populated National Assembly Chamber. Adding to the many problems the under pressure Ramaphosa faces was the news that EFF leader, Julius Malema, had travelled to Nkandla to have tea with his long time adversary, former president Jacob Zuma, as part of a plan to form a broad alliance to undermine both the president and the Zondo Commission.

The first group of KwaZulu-Natal healthcare workers got their Covid-19 jab amid an outcry from doctors over the slow pace at which government is procuring vaccine. The South African Medical Association (Sama), which initially supported government’s vaccine procurement plan, said its members were becoming disillusioned with the manner in which the entire vaccination programme was unfolding. “We are worried that the target to vaccinate 40 million people by the end of the year will not be achieved,” Sama KwaZulu-Natal provincial chairperson Dr Zanele Bikitshe said.

Taxpayers were able to breathe a sigh of some relief as Finance Minister Tito Mboweni tabled a 2021 Budget free from substantial tax hikes aimed at bank-rolling South Africa’s Covid-19 vaccination programme. The sting in the tail – for smokers and drinkers anyway – was that excise duties on tobacco and alcohol would increase on average by eight per cent – double the rate of inflation.

NOTE: In addition to my normal weekly cartoons for the Weekend Witness, I did two extra ones for the paper in February:

(1). A cartoon celebrating the 175th anniversary of The Witness, the oldest continuously published newspaper in South Africa:

(2) A farewell cartoon for editor Yves Vanderhaeghen who retired from the Witness at the end of February, 2021:

A Sad State of Affairs

February 20, 2021 / stidyatkusane / 4 Comments

NOTE: I wrote this piece shortly after I officially retired from the Witness newspaper but for some reason did not post it at the time. Since many of the concerns I raised remain as relevant now as they did back then and with the Covid-19 pandemic wreaking further havoc on parts of the print media, I decided it was still worth airing...

When I first joined the now-defunct SCOPE Magazine back in 1984 the print media was still in a state of rude good health, with full coffers and an ability to attract the brightest and the best, as well as providing a ready home for mavericks, misfits and nonconformists like myself. There seemed to be a lot more space for individual opportunism too.

Even when I got appointed to The Witness in February 1990, as their first-ever full-time political cartoonist, the industry was enjoying something of late Indian summer. With the final breaching of the apartheid wall and political change in the air, it was an exciting time to be a journalist and – again by association – a political cartoonist.

For a small, independent, provincial newspaper, the Witness, to my mind, boxed way above its weight and did an excellent job telling its readers what was happening on their patch. In fact, the newsroom was so stuffed full with reporters and specialist writers that, initially, there was no place to put a desk for me and I had to be content with a cardboard box on the floor – to which some wag glued another, much smaller, box and wrote on it:“Stidy’s Branch Office”. I decided to use this to my advantage and persuaded the editor to let me work from home.

Since then there has been a major tectonic shift. Faced with competition from the new technologies and declining circulation, newspaper budgets have been cut back to the bone, staff numbers slashed, the content has shrunk and newsrooms are now but a pale shadow of their former bustling selves. A lot of the old spirit has vanished with it; the atmosphere has become more muted and factory-like while the exodus of experienced journalists means that far less shoe leather is now expended on proper investigations.

As a result of all this, the law of unintended consequences has come into play – the cost-cutting measures have led to smaller newspapers and a more superficial content which, in turn, has caused the number of readers and advertisers to drop still further.

Looking back on it all I am just thankful that my career in cartooning happened before the rot set in too deeply and that I was offered this unique vantage point from which to view some of the major events of our recent past – the collapse of the old Soviet Union, the demise of Apartheid and the birth of the New South Africa, the recall of Thabo Mbeki and his replacement by Jacob Zuma (with all the attendant scandals) and, most sad of all, the passing of Nelson Mandela. Hopefully, my cartoons provided some sort of pictorial and historical guide to the period.

I now realise how lucky I was to have had the privilege to serve under editors of the calibre of Richard Steyn and John Conyngham, neither of whom tried to place any sort of restriction or requirement on what I drew. I am not sure how much longer that sort of artistic and editorial freedom is likely to continue.

Indeed, with continued declining circulation and more and more cutbacks, I suspect I am going to be the only full-time political cartoonist the Witness ever employed. As someone who believes in the continuing importance of visual satire, I find that sad. What worries me still further is that, in their weakened state, newspapers will no longer be able to properly fulfil their important watchdog role, giving the Government and, by extension, the municipalities yet more licence to do as they like.

I am still naïve enough to believe that a flourishing, diverse, credible, media is essential to a functioning democracy. Unfortunately, newspapers, in their current form, seem to be in a death spiral – and there doesn’t appear to be any any magic wand to save them.

FOOTNOTE:

In my almost thirty-years at The Witness, I have drawn literally thousands and thousands of cartoons. Here is a very arbitrary selection, showing some of the high but mostly the low points in our recent history…