Bumpy road to adventure

Of all the wonderful trips my boys and I have done, one of the best was when we went to Kouga Wilderness, and went kloofing with the dogs.

Kouga Wilderness is on Kleinrivier, the remote sixth generation farm in the Kouga Mountains north of Joubertina, which at the time was still owned by Nico and Melodie Ferreira.

One of the brilliant things was you could take your dogs, so Mbashe and Lily came with us from PE, squashed in the back seat of my Vivo between my two younger boys, Nic and Jude.

The day of our adventure we togged up in old wetsuits, booties and Crocs, examined a map and then cycled down to Boskamp where we would access the river.

We knew Mbashe could swim well but were unsure of Lily, so for the first pool I propped her on my chest and breast-stroked across on my back.

It was exhausting and turned out to be unnecessary because thereafter she crossed the pools herself at speed, slapping her tail from side to side like a little outboard motor.

Now and then she would grab a floating log and cling on tenaciously, looking like a forlorn tree frog, but after a word of encouragement her spirit returned and she pressed on.

Scout hound Mbashe splashed and crashed ahead, and for the next three hours we swam and wormed our way through a watery maze between washboard-smooth boulders and Gollum-dark recesses fringed by roots, surely leguaan lairs, half-submerged beneath the bank.

The sun was setting by the time we clambered out and hiked over the koppie. Thank goodness my sense of direction was on point because we came down above our cabin.

We would fetch our bikes the next day.

Weary but exultant that night, with the dogs replete and collapsed on the veranda, we ate tuna pasta because it was too late to braai, and drank condensed milk tea.

Another trip was to SANParks’ Ebb and Flow camp in the Garden Route National Park.

The boys were still small but one afternoon we paddled in two double canoes down the Touw River all the way to the edge of Wilderness where we stowed our boats, and then went in search of a pizza.

We were barefoot and bedraggled, but a kind waitress at an inviting restaurant found us a spot outside and brought the boys hot drinks and blankets to start, and me a glass of wine, and it was one of the best pizzas ever.

We paddled back to Ebb and Flow in the moonlight and Ben, my oldest boy, made up a Viking-esque chant which gave us strength, and which we all know to this day.

Woven into our family lore and DNA are the five gates you have to open and close on the approach to another Kleinrivier, the mountain sanctuary on the edge of Groendal. 

There is also the particular iciness of those early morning game drives at Samara near Graaff-Reinet, looking for scorpions with an ultraviolet light at Sanbona near Montagu, the magic of the early morning breakfast fire at Shamwari, the hot chocolate served through the hatch in our room at Kwandwe and the scary beautiful mist enshrouding us as we scrambled up the last bit to the top of Cockscomb, highest peak in the western region of the Eastern Cape.

One time, the back tyre of Jude’s bicycle exploded in the heat at Blouleliesbos.

We were in a fix but his big brothers shepherded him down the precipitous road to the old Storms River Bridge while I ran back to the car and then raced around to meet them. 

On the Alexandria trail, Ben devised a thesis to justly govern the sharing out of food (person who divides cake takes last), there were challenging moments when we couldn’t find the dune rope ladder, and the tide was coming in, and Nic set a little-known record walking 8km across the dunes without lifting his nose from his book The Wheel of Time.

At Kuzuku we saw our first and only bush pig.

He was tucking into a carcass, his face a gorgeous, gory mess as he swung around into our spotlight, as wild a creature as I’ve ever seen.

One time we camped at Hogsback and each morning a carpet of dew-covered trapdoor spider webs sparkled in the sunlight, and samango monkeys were tightrope walking along the telephone wires.

At the end of that trip, we put on my Juluka cassette and swept down through the plantations to Keiskammahoek where we found rector Rev William Fobosi.

I took a photo of him and his son Siyabonga with a photo hanging on the wall of Rev Charles Taberer, who was one of the first rectors of the mission and, on my mum’s side, the great-great-grandfather of my boys.

Those trips and many more reminded me of the wonders of the Eastern Cape and the surrounding interior, and how lucky I was to be able to experience them with my children, who are grown up now, and write about it all for Weekend Post.

They were also a rite of passage for me and my boys, whose mum and dad were parting ways. 

They were able to listen in and learn with me as the park manager or a guide explained about a particular species, spoor, ecosystem or project, ingesting wisdom which I hope will stay with them forever.

In the car we became experts at audio books and listened to Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox many times over. 

Recently, Mbashe was diagnosed with a bad gut tumour, and last week I had to put him to sleep.

I miss our beloved dog, and I will miss Weekend Post.

But I know Bashee will be in the happy hunting grounds by now, and I hope Weekender will pick up where the mother ship left off, shining a light on adventure, nature and the joy of family.

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