I ponder on
how I once again find myself in this predicament. Why do I annually,
voluntarily make this treacherous climb up Table Mountain to celebrate another
passing year of University studies? Why can’t my group of friends just hit the
clubs in Long Street? Those flat, safe night clubs in town, which do not have any
mountainous cliffs or steep drops. Memories of heat stroke, encounters with
snakes, and almost being blown off the mountain rush back to me like the South
Westerly, which almost blew me off the mountain the previous year. And yet,
despite warnings from history, I'm actually excited about the idea of battling
the mystifying Taboa do Cabo, once again.
My varsity friends gathered in formation. Only the mighty
have assembled early in the morning on this lazy Saturday- those principled
enough not to have had a late Friday night out on the town and those with
enough valour to face the task, with a great headache and dehydration, after a
late Friday night out the town. My girlfriend was beside me, and we were ready
to enjoy this hike together. I take a sip of water and some painkillers to try
and alleviate my headache and I face my troops. ‘We have gathered today to
enjoy the natural beauty of South Africa and to push ourselves physically’, I
said. ‘We could have been at the Stellenbosch Wine Harvest Festival, but we’re
here’. A member of our group departed, because he had forgotten it was the
weekend of the Stellenbosch Wine Harvest Festival.
This year we chose the Skeleton Gorge route, which we were
told, could turn walking into a bloodsport. We dove head on into the first
task, the never-ending uphill steps. The African sun blazed down on us and we
found ourselves continuously reaching for our bottles of waters Eventually we found
ourselves reaching for each other’s bottle, as well. The steps twisted upwards,
spiralling towards the unknown. The group quietened, in a concentrated daze,
almost hypnotized by the combination of the repetitive plateau and movements.
Just as some
in the group started pondering on whether we can still make the Kirstenbosch
teashops morning special, if we had to turn around at this moment. We came
across a waterfall. We all stood at the bottom of the waterfall and gazed up at
it in astonishment. The unforgiving summer weather had caused it to dry up
somewhat, but it still flowed downward in stubborn glory, with the effortless
pull of the Earth. The waterfall appeared to be a living organism, which mirrored
nature’s character, whilst bringing vitality to its touch. The waterfall, was not on the right of the
path. It was not on the left of it as well. The waterfall was the path. I found
myself in a timeless moment, climbing up towards the top of the waterfall. I
became entirely aware of my surroundings, but totally impartial towards it. For
a few moments, I had distanced myself from my Earthly being and almost
transcended it. It had been an incredible experience for myself.
After another
three and a half hours, we found ourselves at the top of the World, looking
downwards and inwards. I held my girlfriend around the waist and we sat in
sober, silence for an eternal length of time, until someone pointed out that we
should get back to at least make the Kirstenbosch teashop’s late lunch special.
Two girls had decided to prank my friend Duren, by loading one of their
backpacks with rocks and asking him to carry it down for them. Duren, being a
gentleman had obliged, and the rest of the group’s men, not being gentlemen
ourselves had decided not to let him in on the joke.
The walk
downhill, felt more like a roll. We whizzed past all our previous stops and
managed to reach the bottom of the mountain in just over an hour, back in time
to enjoy a good Kirstenbosch teashop’s late lunch special. It had been an
incredible journey, almost as if we had transcended our collective
consciousness for a few hours. I had bonded with the members of our group; our
common experience drew us closer to unity and we extended our personal confines
by conquering a demanding task. For those moments, we were all suspended
together in spiritual commonality. As we left the restaurant, the girls
released the rocks from the bag and asked Duren to take it back to the car for
them. He did and immediately felt the immense difference in mass of the bag.
From this day on, we now refer to Duren as ‘Rocks’. I, then, remembered why I
come back to the foothills of Table Mountain every year after the University
year end. For this feeling; to remind myself that it wasn’t a dream. I will be
again trudging those slopes this year, asking myself the very same questions.
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