HOPE ON THE SLOPES
One landmark study uncovers a place of rare mysticism and significance.
Table Mountain is not as flat as you might think, writes Sean Christie
In 2001, my friend Siyabonga Ndlebe had a bad experience while we were walking in Newlands Forest on the eastern slopes of Table Mountain. After a frustrating journey from his home in Philippi, which had required him to board one train and two minibus taxis, Siya, who had never before set foot in Table Mountain National Park, was delighted to find himself surrounded by indigenous trees and clear streams.
His mood was shortly dashed, however, by a doberman that came at him as we approached it on the trail. The owner, mortified, screamed at her dog, and since no physical harm resulted, Siya remained charitably polite (his own dog, Snowy, had been similarly galvanized by my pale skin in the past).
But 500m on the same thing happened — two baying golden retrievers, bypassing me, went for him. This time, from the branches of a nearby tree, he grumbled that the TMNP strapline — “A park for all, forever” — was clearly still an aspiration, not yet a reality.
On a subsequent walk (on a less popular trail) we fantasised about being in charge. How would we intervene to ensure a greater number of South Africans felt at ease on Table Mountain’s slopes? Siya proposed the creation of a new kind of trail, one which, instead of taking in the area’s colonial past (Lady Anne Barnard’s cottage, Rhodes Memorial) would move between points never before described in any Table Mountain brochure.
Crime hot spots, the dens of bush doctors, dagga cultivation areas, ZCC prayer circles and gun ranges would all be considered.
Siya’s idea stayed with me and on my walks I fell into the habit of buttonholing anybody who did not look as if they were out merely for the sake of their vitality. In this way I learnt about the “other” Table Mountain:
Day 1, departure point Lookout Hill, Khayelitsha
Lookout Hill is the only piece of elevated ground between the Macassar dunes and the Tygerberg hills, and on a clear day the view of Table Mountain is so logo-like that the local organisers of World Design Capital 2014 saw fit to erect a massive yellow picture frame on its wooden staircase, that locals might “be reminded of the beauty of the mountain”.
Andile Lili met me here. Known to many as the activist who masterminded the dumping of faeces on the steps of the Western Cape Provincial Legislature in 2013, as a way of protesting the city’s provision of “undignified”
portable toilets to poor communities, Lili was once a Table Mountain guide. Lookout Hill is his pick. “From here you can experience how far away the mountain is for most people living in Cape Town. To get there takes hours, and it costs a lot — at least R60, so to most people it is just this shape in the distance,” he said.
The tourists he used to stand with at the top of the mountain had been similarly disconnected.
“If it was a clear day I would point out this place and I would tell some of the history of Khayelitsha. But I knew while I was talking that they would never really know what it would be like to actually be there.”
Two days after our meeting, Lili was shot four times outside his home in Khayelitsha. He survived, and while recovering in hospital said that, to find peace in his pain, he recalled the silence of the mountain top at night — “a silence most of our youth have never experienced”.
Day 2, departure point Grand Parade, City Centre
Wearing clothes fashioned from jute sacks, and selling an assortment of Table Mountain herbs and clumpy tubers, the Rastafarian bush doctors of the Grand Parade stand out among the mainly francophone traders and their displays of counterfeit handbags, belts and caps.
Wild-harvesting in the TMNP is illegal, but the Sak Rastas, who call Table Mountain by its Khoe name Hoerikwaggo (the mountain in the sea) claim they are descended from the Goringhaicona people who lived here in pre-colonial times, and that the gathering of natural medicines is a birthright.
My guide was Sakman Aisha, a gentle 21-year-old whose green eyes, gold-capped teeth and hiplength dreadlocks complemented his cilice, which had been made out of an old coffee sack, the words Finco Retiro upside down across his chest. As we marched uphill from the Grand Parade he talked in a crypto-mythical way about the mountain, insisting it rested on a vast bedrock of gold.
We followed the course of the Platteklip River beyond the building line, and came to a small waterfall. Crayon-drawn portraits of Haile Selassie on the nearby boulders identified the place as a Sak Rasta hideout, and Aisha stripped off and had a wash.
He confided his opinion that we are “living in the end of days”. “When the time comes, I will be standing here, on this mountain. I will have no fear, because I know the waters of Camissa will continue to flow, and in time the old plants will grow again.”
I was not surprised to learn that Aisha is a child of the slums, having grown up in gangruled Lavender Hill on the Cape Flats. His mother still lives there, and when he visits, which is not often, he dresses in normal clothes, stays indoors and goes by his birth name, Brandon.
Day 3, departure point Platteklip Wash Houses
Any day of the week, and especially on Saturdays before noon, you are likely to encounter followers of the Zion Christian Church walking in Deer Park, beside the Platteklip River. All will carry water away with them in plastic bottles.
The centrality of water in ZCC healing practices is quite well known, but few people understand just how complex are the rules. My guide was a 48-year-old Swazi called Bongani Mhayise, who has been tapping the waters of the Platteklip for two years.
“Not everybody comes here for the same water,” he said. “Some will want the normal river water, which we call
metsi a noka e elelan. It cleanses the body and also the home, especially if it is blessed by a preacher. More powerful than this is water from a waterfall, which we call metsi a leshata. It means ‘noisy water’, but for this to work it must also be prayed over. The most powerful water is metsi a matlhakanelo
a dinok. This is water that comes from a place where two rivers meet . . . If you fear evil spirits, this water can protect you.”
Mhayise headed for the nearby confluence of the Platteklip and Silver streams. When we reached it he walked over to a large tree. Water was bubbling up between the exposed roots, and in order to dip his empty 2l Coke bottle into the little pool Bongani carefully went down on his knees. “This is my place,” he said. “Water from a spring is called metsi a
motswedi. It has great power to heal, especially us sufferers of arthritis.”
Day 4, departure point Woodstock Railway Reserve
The Tanzania-born stowaways who live in the Foreshore railway reserve are so ocean-fixated they hardly appear to register the mountain at their backs. If they mention it at all, it is in relation to shipping movements. If a ship chugs out to sea and turns left and disappears in a southerly direction, for example, they will say it has gone nyuma mlima, Kiswahili for “behind the mountain” — in stowaway parlance: “back to East Africa”.
I was surprised, therefore, when an experienced stowaway called Sudi Brando said he wanted to meet “the prophet in the cave above Woodstock”, and he hoped I would help him.
“People know him as far away as the Congo,” he said. He wanted the prophet’s blessing to help him stow away on a good ship before the end of winter.
At 9am on a weekday morning I met Sudi at his mchondolo (tent) beside FW de Klerk Boulevard. We crossed the railway tracks into Woodstock and walked directly upslope on Mountain Road, passing under Nelson Mandela Boulevard and then crossing to the slopes of Devil’s Peak over busy De Waal Drive. Zig-zagging up on fire services roads we reached the highest point of the ridge, where a contour path leads below sheer cliffs. Turning up the narrow river course we soon came to a spill of boulders below a thick-lipped cave.
The cave floor had been worn glassy by feet, and parts were carpeted with mountain grasses. In one corner mattresses protruded from a grid of low stone walls. On one of the walls a small, fold-away clock rested on a book.
“The prophet’s not in,” said Sudi, pulling a packed bin liner from a cranny. He rifled through it and removed a beanie made of green wool.
“Some stowaway will enjoy this,” he said. I suggested stealing from the prophet might bring bad luck. “It’s just clothes.” He pulled one of the mattresses onto the ledge and we sat on it and worked the cityscape with our fingers. “You still going to make a d’ua [prayer]?” Sudi shook his head and stood up. “I can make a d’ua anywhere.” We exited the cave on a well-trodden path. I left first, and looking back I saw Sudi pull the prophet’s green beanie out of his pants, and toss it back towards the low stone walls.
Christie’s book, ’Under Nelson Mandela Boulevard — life among the stowaways’, published by Jonathan Ball (R230), is out now