I’ve got a new best friend. It’s a fly who’s decided my sweaty face is quite nice. Right here at the top of an unbelievable peak. That we have just climbed. And I’m trying to appreciate exactly where I am, but the fly needs attention, and my hiking mates look hot and bothered and frankly annoyed.
Below us lies the quirky town of Montagu where an hour earlier we were quaffing jumbo Americanos and scoffing down perfectly poached eggs with artery clogging sauces and chewy, buttery sour dough toast. We poured over the hiking maps of the area.
‘This one looks great! “Aasvoelkrans Trail - An easy 90 minute hike with beautiful views”.
At least they didn’t lie about the views. We had a juvenile giggle at the name (which sounded like ‘ass-full’ to our Canadian ears), found out it meant vulture’s peak, and decided to head off.
The hike led straight up a mini-mountain, over loose rocks. By the peak, we’d all slipped and slid and huffed and puffed, and finished our water. We might have been regretting the heavy breakfast. At the summit we could see the world, or most of it.
I sat on a jagged rock, ignoring the fly to the best of my ability, and appreciating the past whirlwind of a week.
It seems to all have begun with the train. Though we’d been on the trip for a few glorious days already, with much hiking and yet more eating and drinking, it’s the train that juts out like a sore, immobile locomotive thumb posing as a motel.
Despite the opportunity to bask in the luxurious digs of a beautiful old guesthouse with claw-foot tubs and California kings with high thread count sheets and complimentary sherry, we opted for the cheaper route. Told ourselves it would be an adventure.
We arrived after a three hour drive, down at the beach, which looked like a great location, and checked in. We were shown to our ‘car’ and cabins within. It quickly sank in, as we edged single file along the claustrophobic corridor, that the shower was a shared one, as well as the tiny toilets. Think airplane toilets. Or train toilets! Of course. No idea what I had thought it would be like. And then there were the cabins. Door opens inward, two army size cots on either side of the tiny floor space. Everything is metal. Windows. Thank goodness for the windows. That’s it. We stowed our bags above the cots and got out.
But inevitably we had to return at night. Two nights. Of no sleep. Each sliding of each door of each little cabin in this jiggling, thin walled train, awoke us. Slam, clang, bash. Someone smoking… why can I smell it through the walls?! Drunken backpackers arriving at 2am, using the corridor walls to bounce into their cubicle… bring it on. 6am maid service… do they need to discuss the day before at the top of their voices? Can I hold my bladder a few more hours so I don’t have to shimmy down the little hall half asleep as the security guys nod from outside the window…
I decided I needed a shower to counter the sleepless night, but discovered you had to go to the end of the train, to reception and pay a deposit for a towel. Of course.
We saved R400 a night (USD $23, CDN $33). But what we gained was bragging rights. We slept in a train! We did a ‘backpackers’ in our 50’s and 60’s. We can function without two nights of sleep on the road trip. Priceless.
And then we decided we should meet an elephant…
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