Hello Laurel. I just want to let you know that I shared your "prompts" message with all the people in our Facebook group. I host a group that is just for people named Laurel. There are over 150 of us and I like to share connections with other "Laurels" I come across. We would love for you to join our group. https://www.facebook.com/groups/TheLaurelGroup when you get back from your vacation. Meanwhile, perhaps some new writers have been inspired by your prompts -- thanks for the encouragement! Laurel Paulson-Pierce
Forgive the "long" comment. (I will go back and relive this in a heartbeat.)
Creative Nonfiction – 7 March 2024
Wandering the Wild Coast and Walking on Water
The nearby roar and roll of the ocean saturated the air with a salty mist, wrapping its sticky fingers around our shoulders as we trekked across the sand. The ivory beach wider than the eye could see, the African sun a hand-width above the dune forest, bathing red milkwood and wild silver oak in gentle golds. Overhead, seagulls dipped and screeched at a cormorant perched on an upturned tree trunk, the slender bird ignoring the white-feathered ruffians.
The day in its infancy as our ten-person hiking group reached the first of many terraces of table smooth rock, deceivingly slippery, as we chain-linked hands to get across.
I would never tire breathing the coastal air, pregnant with sun, sky, salt, sand, sea, rotting seaweed, wild banana, goat foot and gonnabas.
Five days of glorious hiking along the Transkei Wild Coast in South Africa, an untamed coastal wilderness, which has, despite man’s best efforts, remained mostly untouched and unspoiled.
Tucked between the bass sounding Umtamvuna River (Oem-tam-voe-na) in the north and the Great Kei River in the south, nestles the Transkei, tribal homeland of the Xhosa people. Westward, the province backs against the snow-capped mountains of Lesotho while in the east its rolling hills turn into dune forests before dropping into the tepid Indian Ocean.
Right in the middle of this formidable four-hundred-kilometer shoreline, lies Port St. Johns and Coffee Bay, seventy kilometers apart by foot when sticking to the coastal footpaths.
Hiking this distance from Port St. Johns to Coffee Bay over five days sounds like a simple enough affair. But some perspective is needed. We carried everything in our backpacks, and I mean everything: from tent to sleeping bag to food, water, water-purification tablets, and clothing. Our journey along the coast took us across several river mouths, some of which were half a kilometer wide. Knowing the oceanic tide timetables were vital. It was safest to cross at low tide, lest you be pulled into the ocean and end up in Australian waters if the white sharks didn’t get to you first. Therefore, timing, was everything.
We became masters at chain-linking hands across difficult terrain and did the same when crossing the river mouths when the push of the river and pull of the ocean became too intimidating, low tide in spite. Our scant research prior to the hike had failed to recommend carrying climber’s rope for crossing the estuaries. Then again, our backpacks already weighed a ton. Depending on the pull of the water, we’d aim at a spot at least a hundred or two meters higher up the opposite shore than we wanted to end up at, only to be forced by the power of the water to the desired spot, affording ourselves a pat on the back.
Clearly, traversing the fourteen kilometers per day while sticking to the coastline, was a job for grown-ups without too many hang-ups. A strong sense of daring remained a requisite. To add to that challenge, the Transkei covers only four percent of South Africa’s landmass but receives twenty-five percent of its annual rainfall. Umbrellas would take far too much space in our cramped backpacks. By the second day, we stopped bothering with donning a rain jacket or poncho. It was easier to walk in swimming trunks and boots, even bare foot at times. The only thing that helped during a downpour was a broad-rim hat to keep the rain out of one’s eyes and glasses. Soon, we simply surrendered to the heavens that opened every day and poured its bounty on our humble heads. It was far easier to laugh and sing and keep walking than to scoff and scorn at the dark skies. We quickly learned, an hour later the sun would break through the oppressive clouds and send our misery packing.
Can there be a sweeter or more scrupulous way to savor the essence of a place and its people, including places without people than doing so by foot? Immersed in nature, the outdoors, the pace is slower, affording the traveler time to notice the small but important detail, from man to beast, butterfly to bird, bush to brushwood, everything at eye-level, in wide open spaces, with room to dream, discourse, and dare, all while a healthy dose of exercise is thrown in at no extra cost.
To that purpose, investing in a pair of sturdy hiking boots was not only a sound investment, but a must. And if your boots boasted red shoelaces, even the furtive bushbuck or lonesome long-horn cow that had escaped its kraal, would take note.
Our biggest challenge presented itself on day three. It was our second river crossing of the day and we only shrugged our shoulders, when Peter, our group leader, warned us that this one would be a tougher nut to crack.
“Hah,” we scoffed as one. “Bring it on!”
Little could ruffle our feathers by now. Had we not proven our mettle during the preceding days, bracing against the elements, conquering rivers, rocks, and ravines, brave and bold as Columbus, thinking ourselves to have discovered a new world?
Peter was in the know. Had he not let it slip last night around the campfire that we’d be crossing a mangrove swamp today? I vaguely recalled him talking about air roots and marshy, muddy waters.
I was too relaxed and exhausted to care and drifted off into dreamless sleep.
Our group, which had become unstitched by early afternoon the following day, caught up with each other when it became clear that this estuary boasted much more vegetation than all its predecessors combined.
Peter spread his arms like Moses did at the Red Sea. “Okay, people, I give you the mangrove swamp. You know the drill: hiking boots and socks off, everything, backpack included, into your large black bag. Make sure that you tie a decent water-tight knot.”
This sturdy black bag with everything inside became our floatation device as we crossed each river mouth. Barefoot, with only swimming trunks, we’d wade into the waters.
Mary, a fiery but ever inquisitive young lady, eyed the downward slope to the mangrove trees and the strange as-if-upturned roots dotting the immediate shore. “What was it again you said about the crunchy feeling when one steps on air roots, Peter?”
Peter, who had already tied his bag, grinned. “It feels like walking on endless eggshells.”
“That’s not funny,” Mary said.
“But it is,” Peter laughed, carrying his tied bag towards the water’s edge. “Come on people. Never mind the air roots, don’t forget about the tide. What am I going to tell your family when you end up in Perth?”
“Ha-ha, you funny fool,” Mary growled. “I’m taking the pedestrian bridge that you told us about last night,” and she made to put her socks back on.
“Mary, please. Don’t! The hanging bridge is five kilometers inland. That will add far too much time to our journey. And we shouldn’t break up the group, except for a dire emergency.”
“This is an emergency,” Mary said.
His smile now gone; Peter touched Mary’s elbow. “Let me help you with your bag. The air roots only feel funny underfoot. It won’t cut our feet. A little crunchy and a little muddy. That’s all there is to it. Trust me.”
Still grumbling, Mary allowed him to assist her.
Like one, we inched into the mangrove, not trusting the peace, our black bags tight against our cores, like medieval knights, brandishing armored shields. The damp decay of the swamp overpowered the brininess of the ocean.
The going painfully slow, the group spread out as we accustomed ourselves to the slippery, sucking mud and the strange crunch of air roots underfoot. The look of disgust and concentration on most faces unmistakable. Barely ten meters in we were already mid-calve in the mud, eyes fixed on the opposite shore, looking for an identifiable landmark a little higher on the opposite shore. We had learned to compensate for the potential pull of the water.
A blood-churning cry from the front of our group broke my reverie.
“Peter, we’re stepping on baby crabs!” Mary, never one to shy away from a challenge had gained distance on us. The rest of us had remained so focused on the opposite shore and not losing our balance in the sucking mud while carrying our bulky bags, that we paid no attention to what was between our feet and toes.
Cringe-worthiness reached a new high. Even those with hairy chests suppressed cries of aversion. Between our feet and toes were not only endless air roots but thousands of miniature crabs, scurrying for their lives as these giant humans came stomping through their undisturbed paradise.
“Peter, you lied!” Mary belted out as she splashed forward. “ ‘A little crunchy and a little muddy, that is all,’ my foot!”
The realization that the crunchiness under our feet was not only due to air roots gave wings to our feet. The poor crustaceans. There was no going back. Not when tides, timetables, white sharks, and Australian waters threatened and beaconed. We turned into a stampede of wildebeest on the Serengeti plains. An unstoppable force.
Forward. Onward.
I am certain some of us walked on water for bits as we clung to our puffy floatation devices and with the other hand grabbed hold of a buddy, all the while crossing the mangrove swamp and remaining stretch of water in world record times, leaving no one behind.
Mary made landfall ahead of us and dragged her bag to higher grounds before turning back. “I’m looking for volunteers to help build a raft from driftwood and then put Peter out to sea!”
(PS. Two days later, all ten of us safely reached Coffee Bay, Peter having succeeded in staving off a mutiny.)
Dear Danie, thank you so much for sharing this! I felt like I was able to go on a trip and see/smell/touch an incredible place by proxy. I’m so grateful. I loved a lot about this but especially “Peter spread his arms like Moses did at the Red Sea. “Okay, people, I give you the mangrove swamp.””
Hello Laurel. I just want to let you know that I shared your "prompts" message with all the people in our Facebook group. I host a group that is just for people named Laurel. There are over 150 of us and I like to share connections with other "Laurels" I come across. We would love for you to join our group. https://www.facebook.com/groups/TheLaurelGroup when you get back from your vacation. Meanwhile, perhaps some new writers have been inspired by your prompts -- thanks for the encouragement! Laurel Paulson-Pierce
Omg this is hilarious and delightful. I’d love to be one of your Laurels!! ❤️❤️❤️
Forgive the "long" comment. (I will go back and relive this in a heartbeat.)
Creative Nonfiction – 7 March 2024
Wandering the Wild Coast and Walking on Water
The nearby roar and roll of the ocean saturated the air with a salty mist, wrapping its sticky fingers around our shoulders as we trekked across the sand. The ivory beach wider than the eye could see, the African sun a hand-width above the dune forest, bathing red milkwood and wild silver oak in gentle golds. Overhead, seagulls dipped and screeched at a cormorant perched on an upturned tree trunk, the slender bird ignoring the white-feathered ruffians.
The day in its infancy as our ten-person hiking group reached the first of many terraces of table smooth rock, deceivingly slippery, as we chain-linked hands to get across.
I would never tire breathing the coastal air, pregnant with sun, sky, salt, sand, sea, rotting seaweed, wild banana, goat foot and gonnabas.
Five days of glorious hiking along the Transkei Wild Coast in South Africa, an untamed coastal wilderness, which has, despite man’s best efforts, remained mostly untouched and unspoiled.
Tucked between the bass sounding Umtamvuna River (Oem-tam-voe-na) in the north and the Great Kei River in the south, nestles the Transkei, tribal homeland of the Xhosa people. Westward, the province backs against the snow-capped mountains of Lesotho while in the east its rolling hills turn into dune forests before dropping into the tepid Indian Ocean.
Right in the middle of this formidable four-hundred-kilometer shoreline, lies Port St. Johns and Coffee Bay, seventy kilometers apart by foot when sticking to the coastal footpaths.
Hiking this distance from Port St. Johns to Coffee Bay over five days sounds like a simple enough affair. But some perspective is needed. We carried everything in our backpacks, and I mean everything: from tent to sleeping bag to food, water, water-purification tablets, and clothing. Our journey along the coast took us across several river mouths, some of which were half a kilometer wide. Knowing the oceanic tide timetables were vital. It was safest to cross at low tide, lest you be pulled into the ocean and end up in Australian waters if the white sharks didn’t get to you first. Therefore, timing, was everything.
We became masters at chain-linking hands across difficult terrain and did the same when crossing the river mouths when the push of the river and pull of the ocean became too intimidating, low tide in spite. Our scant research prior to the hike had failed to recommend carrying climber’s rope for crossing the estuaries. Then again, our backpacks already weighed a ton. Depending on the pull of the water, we’d aim at a spot at least a hundred or two meters higher up the opposite shore than we wanted to end up at, only to be forced by the power of the water to the desired spot, affording ourselves a pat on the back.
Clearly, traversing the fourteen kilometers per day while sticking to the coastline, was a job for grown-ups without too many hang-ups. A strong sense of daring remained a requisite. To add to that challenge, the Transkei covers only four percent of South Africa’s landmass but receives twenty-five percent of its annual rainfall. Umbrellas would take far too much space in our cramped backpacks. By the second day, we stopped bothering with donning a rain jacket or poncho. It was easier to walk in swimming trunks and boots, even bare foot at times. The only thing that helped during a downpour was a broad-rim hat to keep the rain out of one’s eyes and glasses. Soon, we simply surrendered to the heavens that opened every day and poured its bounty on our humble heads. It was far easier to laugh and sing and keep walking than to scoff and scorn at the dark skies. We quickly learned, an hour later the sun would break through the oppressive clouds and send our misery packing.
Can there be a sweeter or more scrupulous way to savor the essence of a place and its people, including places without people than doing so by foot? Immersed in nature, the outdoors, the pace is slower, affording the traveler time to notice the small but important detail, from man to beast, butterfly to bird, bush to brushwood, everything at eye-level, in wide open spaces, with room to dream, discourse, and dare, all while a healthy dose of exercise is thrown in at no extra cost.
To that purpose, investing in a pair of sturdy hiking boots was not only a sound investment, but a must. And if your boots boasted red shoelaces, even the furtive bushbuck or lonesome long-horn cow that had escaped its kraal, would take note.
Our biggest challenge presented itself on day three. It was our second river crossing of the day and we only shrugged our shoulders, when Peter, our group leader, warned us that this one would be a tougher nut to crack.
“Hah,” we scoffed as one. “Bring it on!”
Little could ruffle our feathers by now. Had we not proven our mettle during the preceding days, bracing against the elements, conquering rivers, rocks, and ravines, brave and bold as Columbus, thinking ourselves to have discovered a new world?
Peter was in the know. Had he not let it slip last night around the campfire that we’d be crossing a mangrove swamp today? I vaguely recalled him talking about air roots and marshy, muddy waters.
I was too relaxed and exhausted to care and drifted off into dreamless sleep.
Our group, which had become unstitched by early afternoon the following day, caught up with each other when it became clear that this estuary boasted much more vegetation than all its predecessors combined.
Peter spread his arms like Moses did at the Red Sea. “Okay, people, I give you the mangrove swamp. You know the drill: hiking boots and socks off, everything, backpack included, into your large black bag. Make sure that you tie a decent water-tight knot.”
This sturdy black bag with everything inside became our floatation device as we crossed each river mouth. Barefoot, with only swimming trunks, we’d wade into the waters.
Mary, a fiery but ever inquisitive young lady, eyed the downward slope to the mangrove trees and the strange as-if-upturned roots dotting the immediate shore. “What was it again you said about the crunchy feeling when one steps on air roots, Peter?”
Peter, who had already tied his bag, grinned. “It feels like walking on endless eggshells.”
“That’s not funny,” Mary said.
“But it is,” Peter laughed, carrying his tied bag towards the water’s edge. “Come on people. Never mind the air roots, don’t forget about the tide. What am I going to tell your family when you end up in Perth?”
“Ha-ha, you funny fool,” Mary growled. “I’m taking the pedestrian bridge that you told us about last night,” and she made to put her socks back on.
“Mary, please. Don’t! The hanging bridge is five kilometers inland. That will add far too much time to our journey. And we shouldn’t break up the group, except for a dire emergency.”
“This is an emergency,” Mary said.
His smile now gone; Peter touched Mary’s elbow. “Let me help you with your bag. The air roots only feel funny underfoot. It won’t cut our feet. A little crunchy and a little muddy. That’s all there is to it. Trust me.”
Still grumbling, Mary allowed him to assist her.
Like one, we inched into the mangrove, not trusting the peace, our black bags tight against our cores, like medieval knights, brandishing armored shields. The damp decay of the swamp overpowered the brininess of the ocean.
The going painfully slow, the group spread out as we accustomed ourselves to the slippery, sucking mud and the strange crunch of air roots underfoot. The look of disgust and concentration on most faces unmistakable. Barely ten meters in we were already mid-calve in the mud, eyes fixed on the opposite shore, looking for an identifiable landmark a little higher on the opposite shore. We had learned to compensate for the potential pull of the water.
A blood-churning cry from the front of our group broke my reverie.
“Peter, we’re stepping on baby crabs!” Mary, never one to shy away from a challenge had gained distance on us. The rest of us had remained so focused on the opposite shore and not losing our balance in the sucking mud while carrying our bulky bags, that we paid no attention to what was between our feet and toes.
Cringe-worthiness reached a new high. Even those with hairy chests suppressed cries of aversion. Between our feet and toes were not only endless air roots but thousands of miniature crabs, scurrying for their lives as these giant humans came stomping through their undisturbed paradise.
“Peter, you lied!” Mary belted out as she splashed forward. “ ‘A little crunchy and a little muddy, that is all,’ my foot!”
The realization that the crunchiness under our feet was not only due to air roots gave wings to our feet. The poor crustaceans. There was no going back. Not when tides, timetables, white sharks, and Australian waters threatened and beaconed. We turned into a stampede of wildebeest on the Serengeti plains. An unstoppable force.
Forward. Onward.
I am certain some of us walked on water for bits as we clung to our puffy floatation devices and with the other hand grabbed hold of a buddy, all the while crossing the mangrove swamp and remaining stretch of water in world record times, leaving no one behind.
Mary made landfall ahead of us and dragged her bag to higher grounds before turning back. “I’m looking for volunteers to help build a raft from driftwood and then put Peter out to sea!”
(PS. Two days later, all ten of us safely reached Coffee Bay, Peter having succeeded in staving off a mutiny.)
© Danie Botha. 7 March 2024.
Dear Danie, thank you so much for sharing this! I felt like I was able to go on a trip and see/smell/touch an incredible place by proxy. I’m so grateful. I loved a lot about this but especially “Peter spread his arms like Moses did at the Red Sea. “Okay, people, I give you the mangrove swamp.””
Keep writing.
Much obliged, Laurel!
Isn't it fascinating how certain experiences remain crisp in our emotional memory banks, as it lived through mere days ago ...