MANY RIVERS TO CROSS
Schoolmaster Paul Fleischack takes 120 teenage boys on a two-week trip into the wilderness
THE dawn breaks and the first pale light dulls a million stars. The rufouscheeked nightjar’s “Good Lord deliver us” call fades to give way to the melodious song of a Cape robin-chat. These opening bars cue the avian orchestral fanfare, heralding the first tentative appearance of the sun.
Sitting in my bedroll on the banks of the Tugela River, I watch a giant kingfisher make its way downstream. Rhythmic wing-flaps between short glides propel it effortlessly across the water in search of breakfast. Paradise flycatchers flit between the white stinkwood trees and a young kudu bull breaks from the bush on the opposite bank, its spiralled horns laid low on its withers as it winds between the thorn trees.
Today this is my office. In the dappled shade of the riverine trees, engulfed in birdsong, I will catch up on the paperwork of a two-week journey for 120 teenage boys. Bouts of work will be punctuated by catfish gasping air, black sparrowhawks chasing pigeons and little bee-eaters buzzing between low branches above the water. In a short while, the call of caffeine will summon me to fire up the camping espresso-maker for a fix that has been missing from my backpack for the past days.
Stretching for 1km on either side of my camp on the riverbank are 30 teenage souls, Group One members, each isolated from the others by dense bush.
For 40 hours, with limited food and only writing materials, they will remain silent, free of the encumbrances of e-mail, Facebook, iPods and cellphones. Each, in a shady glade with a short section of river, will reflect on his own life, relationships and aspirations.
Slowly and carefully, he will digest the messages of affirmation and affection written by his father, family members and, in some cases, friends. He will respond to these in his own hand. No cut and pastes.
He will probably also yearn for the common features of life at home, which we all take for granted: water, family and toilets.
This is the first time these boys have had to cope with only themselves for company. They have been anxious about this solitude and the past few days have been filled with questions and “what if” scenarios.
For the past 10 days, we have cycled from Balgowan in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands to Giant’s Castle in the Drakensberg. We have struggled up hills and freewheeled down bumpy farm tracks. The unwary and unpractised have gathered bruises and scrapes, which grow with each retelling of their war stories when it is all over.
On the climb from the contour path to the summit of the escarpment up Langalibalele Pass, they saw the grave of Potterill,
This is the first time these boys have had to cope with only themselves for company
Erskine and Bond, and heard the story of the demise of these young men at the hands of the Hlubi, 150 years ago during the British attempt to discipline Langalibalele.
They experienced the frightening intensity of a mountain thunderstorm and the insecurity brought by zero visibility in thick mist at high altitude.
We bought time and a meal in a traditional, impoverished Zulu homestead and shared a little of the culture and lives of this extended family. We walked up and down Spioenkop and marvelled at the coincidence of Gandhi, Churchill and Botha’s being a stone’s throw from each other on that fateful day. We watched, humbled, as a bush fire exploded into a conflagration, which devoured a hillside in a matter of minutes.
During this journey, we lived simply, responding to the earth’s rhythms. Watches and electronic items were left at home. We rose and slept with the sun. Sleeping bags were unrolled at dusk and we succumbed to sleep within a few minutes, tired and content with the satisfaction of overcoming the day’s challenges.
In good weather, we forewent tents for a canopy of trees backlit by the stars. One night, under a full moon, howling jackals startled the city boys hearing this for the first time.
Travelling only by muscle power taught us that life is long and sometimes tough. Weather, hills, fatigue and thirst cannot be reset at the click of a mouse. A strong headwind just has to be endured. A fall from a bike can only be remedied by getting back in the saddle and riding to the end. Nature is real and not sanitised by the windscreen of an air-conditioned 4x4 or pixelated by a computer screen.
Each boy had already learnt a lot about himself and faced many of his ghosts, be they heights, silence, the outdoors, exertion or deprivation from digital gadgets. We had been able to be part of the natural, unspoilt world from which we are increasingly isolated.
Each of us will be a different person when we return. We will all have crossed some of life’s rivers and have a better understanding of ourselves. Hopefully this time in the wilderness will equip each of these young men with a new resilience and tenacity and passion for Mother Earth.
The stream of dark, foamy espresso is pouring into that well-travelled, chipped enamel mug as the steam splutters from the curved brass spout. The aromas of woodsmoke and coffee mingle with the fresh air and tantalise my deprived palate.
Luckily, the nearest boy is too far away to smell this delight.
Pen and cards await me. The journey isn’t over till the thank-you letters are done. But first that jolt of caffeine. — ©