Can she hack it? Holly Huntventures to a place where no hairdryers, make-up or weighty novels are allowed
IT’S 4.30AM. I’m walking to the light of a full African moon and the sound of a thundering ocean. We must reach the Bloukrans River crossing before low tide. To miss it could spell disaster.
The Southern Cross is plunging towards the horizon behind us; the sea is a mass of swirling light and dark. My walking boots crush the woody vegetation of moonlit shadows, each step releasing the heady smell of aromatic fynbos. The scents lift and mix with the spray and salty air.
As the sun steals the spectacle of the morning from the moon we stop for breakfast. I light my little gas stove to heat water for coffee and watch the colours rise from their faded sleep. The moon, now a pale pink disc, falls behind the hills. A multitude of coloured flowers appears on the bushes around us.
Close to the lightening horizon I catch sight of a white spout of water: whales. I watch the distant silhouette of a southern right whale as it lifts itself from the water and comes crashing down in rolling waves of white water.
For those of you who have done it, you’ll know where I am. For those of you who haven’t, you had better tie up those hiking boots and get training, because South Africa’s most celebrated walking trail is not for the faint-hearted.
The Otter Trail is a five-day hike along the remote rugged shoreline of Eastern Cape, flanked by the Indian Ocean on one side and vast tracts of forest on the other. You sleep in simple wooden huts set in spectacular locations, wash in the bracing ocean breakers and cook under the stars.
As it is one of the most spectacular hiking trails in the world, it is normally fully booked more than a year in advance. So when I happened to overhear someone complaining that a hiker had dropped out of their Otter Trail party I jumped at the chance to take their place.
Three days later I ended up sitting in an airport bar with a group of businesspeople from Johannesburg. “It’s going to be five days of physical hardship and roughing it in the wild,” a guy in a dark suit warned me. “We’ve been training every weekend for months,” he added, eyebrows raised. I had the distinct feeling he was thinking: this little girl will not hack it.
As the horror stories of vertical ascents and people swept away in torrential river crossings continued, I was inclined to agree with him.
All that is provided at the huts is firewood and cold water, so everything else you carry on your back. It is a great lesson in living simply: no hairdryers, make-up or weighty novels. Even the weight of a pair of jeans seems excessive.
So I meticulously packed the lightest kit possible. But as we boarded our flight, and people began listing what they’d brought – vacuum-packed steaks, boerevors sausages, ready-made curries, bottles of sherry, flasks of whiskey and stacks of chocolate – I realised I may have been a bit harsh. My crackers, soya mince and two-minute noodles suddenly didn’t seem quite so appetising.
We spent our first night in self-catering cottages at Storms River Mouth, at the eastern end of the Garden Route, lulled to sleep by the hypnotic pounding of the waves.
We woke to grey clouds and a sea flecked with foam. White-breasted cormorants perched high on the rocks, airing their wings in the wind. A park ranger gave us a lift in his van up the steep hill to the trail reception. “City-slicker hikers,” said my hiking partner, Greg, with a smile. “Just like taking the elevator to the gym.”
We filled our water bottles and headed off into the forest. Around the first corner a nervous bushbuck antelope leaped out of our way, and I caught sight of a vervet monkey eyeing us suspiciously from high in the canopy.
Tsitsikamma National Park, which was established in 1964, as Africa’s first marine national park, encompasses 80km of deep gorges and dense coastal forest, devoid of people. The Otter route was the first set trail in South Africa, laid out in 1968 by Dr Robbie Robinson along old fishermen’s paths. It climbs up and down over sea cliffs. Hiking here, you feel like the last person alive, watched only by leopards, snakes and baboons hidden between tightly knotted ancient trees.
Luminous orange and yellow lichens decorated the rocks and trees like dabs of paint on an artist’s palette. We passed Guano cave, where it is thought Khoisan Bushmen once dwelt. Their rich culture is only now being appreciated by the outside world; now, when it is too late. These gentle people lived at one with the world around them – the trees, flowers, elephants, sun and moon – more than 4,000 years ago. They would have continued to do so if it weren’t for the arrival of the Europeans.
The Dutch and the English saw their nomadic hunting ways as no more than thievery – and one of the planet’s most ancient tribes as vermin. With the help of other tribes they drove the Khoisan from their homelands and into practical extinction.
The only sign that they existed in this area is their intricate cave paintings. These paintings, found all over South Africa, are possibly the oldest of any human art. Nobody has lived in this part of the Tsitsikamma since.
Tsitsikamma, in Khoisan, means glittering water or place of many streams, and along the walk you have to cross 11 rivers. Some of the crossings are no more than a hop, a skip and a jump; others are slightly more challenging. The Bloukrans crossing, on the fourth day, has taken lives, though if you catch it at low tide, as we did, you can cross it with only a few wet knickers.
We arrived at the huts, dumped our bags and took a breathless swim in the clear water – just because it’s called the Indian Ocean doesn’t mean it’s any warmer than our Atlantic.
The first day is not particularly death-defying, but it certainly leaves your legs a little wobbly. As darkness fell we huddled around a candle on the floor of our hut and played cards.
The next morning we woke to a damp drizzle and hundreds of deliriously happy frogs singing a high-pitched chorus all around us.
All day we struggled up and down the hills under a dripping canopy, like hunchbacked pilgrims in our plastic ponchos, leaning on our walking sticks. Every now and again we would catch glimpses of the misty blue ocean and its whipped-up waves through the trees.
At one stage through the green I saw a brilliant flash of red: a Knysna lourie. These spectacular birds are endemic to this area, but their shyness makes you extremely fortunate to spot one. With wings down they are an emerald green; as soon as they stretch them out they take on the brilliance of a ruby-red phoenix. There are more than 210 species of bird in Tsitsikamma National Park. So if you have a tendency to twitching, and your back muscles can take the extra weight, bring your binoculars and bird books.
In the early afternoon we came to a crossroads in the path. The yellow prints of the clawless otter, our waymarkers, continued up the slope, but an arrow pointed down to Blue Bay. The enthusiasm to go down, then have to slog all the way back up, was minimal, to say the least, but curiosity won. The path led to a castaway’s paradise of luminous white sand edged by dark-green trees and vivid blue water. If I had to hide from the world, as an escaped convict or suchlike, that is where I would go.
After soaking it all in, we headed back up the hill, and up, and up, and up a seemingly never-ending staircase that went on and on. I was told this was the toughest climb of the trail, and it definitely lived up to its reputation. But with that perfect balance of pain and pleasure that comes with tasks such as giving birth and climbing mountains, you crest the hill and are presented with a breathtaking view: open blue ocean and jagged green coast, edged in white waves, stretch in each direction.
Conversation that evening left out the chitchat and went straight to the important topics of aches, muscle pains, blisters, snoring and bowel movements.
As we cooked up our various rehydrated meals the rain hammered down on the roof above us. But by morning it had cleared, and the clouds gave way to blue warm African skies.
The trail is more open on the third day, hugging the rocky shoreline. All day I spotted the white spouts of whales on their way past the tip of Africa. Hermanus, farther along the coast, is a breeding ground for these gigantic mammals.
The Otter Trail should be enjoyed at leisure. The hills are tough, but the distances are short enough to be completed in a morning. There is so much beauty to immerse yourself in at every step that it seems sacrilegious to tear along, head down, worrying about your blisters. I found it infuriating when my fellow hikers rushed along at breakneck speed.
At one point someone thought they saw the fin of a dolphin in the waves, but they couldn’t be sure, so carried on. I waited. More than 50 dolphins came leaping along the coast, so close to me that I could see the sun reflecting off their gleaming grey skin. It was one of the most spectacular sights I’ve ever witnessed. Sometimes it pays to be the slowcoach.
Mainly due to the efforts of South African National Parks, little visible has changed along the Tsitsikamma coast from the time the Khoisan watched the first European galley sail past. Only 12 walkers are allowed to start the trail each day, and they must carry out with them everything they bring in. This allows the park the treatment it deserves – and the hiker the beauty of an unspoilt wilderness.
By early afternoon I was looking down on two huts built on a rocky promontory at the mouth of the Lottering river. They looked so close, but we still had to cross the river. I scrambled down the hill, in a mini landslide of dust and pebbles, to join the others.
The river wasn’t that deep, but it was flowing fast and strong. I put my backpack and precious camera into a waterproof bag and twisted the end closed. We strung a rope across the river, and two of the guys tied the ends around their waists like anchormen. Holding the rope in one hand and my bag in the other, I inched my way across, eyes glued to my floating bag. Several times I almost lost my footing between slippery rocks as the flow of the river rushed against my waist.
I emerged on the other side, dripping wet, to find that my bag wasn’t all that waterproof; luckily, my beloved camera was only slightly damp.
We clambered back to the huts and dried our soaking clothes in the evening sun. Sitting on the rocks watching the waves, putting the world to rights, I saw everyone properly unwind and slow down for the first time. Eventually the way of the otter plays its magic on even the most wound-up city slickers.
When we reached the white sand beach of Nature’s Valley on the last day, even though we had spent hours dreaming of cold beers, we were all reluctant to step back into civilization. All my clothes reeked of sweat, dirt and campfire smoke, my socks were so delightfully pungent I could smell them through my shoes, and I hadn’t had a cold drink for a week, but I would have been quite happy to stay in that state for another few days.
If you really want to get your hands dirty and experience a true African wilderness, in your own time, then the Otter Trail is for you.
And there is always the option of recovering with a glass of fine South African wine in one of the Garden Route’s many luxury hotels when you’re done. Trust me: you’ll appreciate it.
* For more about the Otter Trail, contact South African National Parks on 00-27-12- 4265111, www.sanparks.org
Go there
British Airways (www.ba. com), British Midland (www.flybmi.com) with its partner South African Airways (www.flysaa.com), Air France (www.airfrance.ie) and KLM (www.klm.com) fly from Dublin via their hubs to Cape Town or Johannesburg, where you can connect to George, near the Otter Trail, with SAA or Kulula (www.kulula.com).