Northern Drakensberg, Royal Natal National Park, South Africa
“What National Park?” exclaimed the American traveller standing on the edge of the Northern Drakensberg, Royal Natal National Park. “Do you mean Kruger?”
October 2002
The Drakensberg
The Drakensberg (Dragon Mountains), an area truly created for Frodo and his hobbit friends to romp through, is a sheer, jagged escarpment bordering the eastern side of Lesotho. The main attraction of the Royal Natal National Park in the Northern Drakensberg is the dramatic Amphitheatre, 150 million-year-old basalt cliffs that dominate the skyline. (If you’re wondering where the ‘royal’ came from, Queen Elizabeth II visited in 1947 and I bet she didn’t spend the night in a tent!)
Our destination for the first night was the aptly named Amphitheatre Backpackers reported as being the highest hostel in the Berg, situated at Oliviershoek Pass (1730 metres) accompanied by gobsmacking views. However, I was sorely disappointed with the unspectacular vista that greeted me and the lack of a friendly, homely feel to the hostel. The guy behind the bar was definitely going for the jugular hard sell, more concerned with signing us up on a guided walk or day trip to Lesotho than showing us around.
In the common room, we were introduced to an American girl that had visited the hostel a year ago. In an attempt to be amiable, I asked her if she had visited the National Park (a perfectly natural question, I assumed).
“What National Park?” she exclaimed, a bewildered look in her eyes.
“The Royal Natal,” we ventured, but she completely ignored our answer. “You mean Kruger?”
Considering that we were standing in a common room where every inch of available wall space was covered in maps, photos and descriptions of hikes in the park, I had a hard time believing that she didn’t know that the backpackers was perched on the edge of the Northern Drakensberg. Why an earth would we be referring to Kruger National Park over 1000 kilometres away?
Sensing I was fast losing my grip on reality (telling her she was a silly old bint was on the tip of my tongue), I indicated that the maps on the walls displayed popular hikes in the Royal Natal National Park and explained that we were in the process of deciding which hike to do. I thought I would give it one more shot, “Have you been on any hikes?”
She stared at me as if I was a bad smell and said in a dismissive tone, “Oh I’m far too lazy to hike anywhere.” I wanted to shout at her, why are you here then, but bit my tongue instead.
As night descended, the weather deteriorated. A vivid lightning storm lit up the valley below and a gusty cold wind buffeted the tent. By 8:30pm, the tent was being battered into the ground by a savage wind aided by lashing rain. Fearing it would be blown down the hillside, we performed the precarious task of moving it against the wall of the hostel in the pitch black.
A dense mist was swirling around when I gingerly poked my head out of the tent the next morning. Unimpressed by the hostel, we decided to try the Mahai campsite within the National Park itself. This turned out to be serene and clean; the resident inquisitive guinea fowl made us feel more than welcome. Our afternoon walk took us to Tiger Falls looping back to the Cascades and Lookout Rock. Intermittent spots of rain threatened us throughout as we hiked through lush vegetation of common sugarbush and vibrant red spiky flowers of the natal bottlebrush (reminiscent of toilet brushes).
Cooking dinner became a perilous process in the torrential rain that poured down as darkness enveloped our tent. We ate in the eerie light of our gas lamp, abandoning our washing up to the storm that raged outside. Nature’s own fireworks display emblazoned the sky to the sound of the deafening rain.
It soon became apparent that our tent wasn’t waterproof. So much for the waterproof seams it boldly boasted in the flyer on the tent bag. Water was leaking into the tent from all four corners. In fact, we were floating on water, our tent transforming into a cheap and cheerful version of a waterbed. Tearing off volumes of toilet paper, always handy in an emergency, we plugged up the corners, pushing sodden paper out of the door at regular intervals. The next two hours were spent monitoring the leaks by torch light until the rain ceased, allowing us to sleep.
To add further drama to our eventful evening, Tom decided to inspect the floodwater, inadvertently bending over the camp light and setting fire to his convertible trousers. Luckily, he didn’t burn his flesh but the tent was filled with the smell of charred synthetics and his trousers were ruined.
Having survived the storm in one piece, we kitted ourselves our in waterproofs and fleece to hike the picturesque Gorge walk in the dragon’s breath mist. Following the trail, we ascended until we were parallel with the gorge, brushing against sodden vegetation. Now I understand why people invest in waterproof gaiters; our trousers were soaked within thirty minutes. Gaining altitude, it became distinctly cold, positively chilly if we stopped for a breather.
After three hours, we reached the last section that extended along the Tulega Gorge bed to a chain ladder. This point was meant to afford tantalising views of the Amphitheatre. Instead, the weather deteriorated further – the mist thickened into a grey soup and the river raged over the rocks below us.
I told Tom that I wasn’t prepared to push on up the gorge bed. Not the most courageous of people, I had visions of slipping on the rocks and being swept away down the river. Tom reluctantly agreed to turn back. The weather continued to worsen, as the trail became a mud bath, the mist descending lower. After 18km, I was more than ready for a boiling hot shower.
Disaster struck yet again when cooking dinner in the cold wind. The stove knob that turned on the gas snapped off halfway through heating our curry. Determined to finish our cordon bleu interpretation of a Delhi bryani, Tom sprinted to the nearest caravan and borrowed a pair of pliers. I am eternally grateful to our helpful neighbours, otherwise we would have gone hungry.
The next morning brought more mist to the cloud obscured Drakensberg. We knew when to quit, so we left the Amphitheatre shrouded in drizzle, hoping our fortunes and the weather would change in Lesotho.
