My girlfriend has always been trying to get me to go walking with her, up mountains, over hills, along beaches – pretty much anywhere. As somewhat of an ambivalent ambulator, I um-ed and ah-ed my way out of most of them. So with a certain trepidation I agreed to walk to Rocking the Daisies music festival in Darling. Two-days notice for a two-day walk and I couldn’t really back out. On the morning we were to leave I did my usual two-minute festival pack. It wasn’t enough.
We arrived at the meeting point for the Fruit and Veg City Walking the Daisies 2011 in Bloubergstrand at the uncomfortable hour of 7 am. Around 100 other people were milling about. You could very easily see who were the energetic morning people and who weren’t, generally the latter were, like me, looking at the sunrise confusedly. Chatting to the guide assigned to my group of 20, I realised I had made some rookie errors. My shoes were most definitely not my most worn in, comfortable walking shoes (they weren’t even mine as my own shoes had been stolen a few weeks before), my day pack had one strap secured by a knot and only by the loosest definition considered appropriate for hiking, and, finally, I hadn’t brought enough water. So, a good start.
Having put down First Aid as one my skills that would add value to the walk, I was further burdened with the First Aid kit itself as well as the knowledge that I might actually have to use it. My mood was lightened by fellow walker from Getaway, Tyson Jopson, who arrived in what looked like sneakers, courudroy trousers and no pack at all except for a camera bag. He swiftly spied out my tattered rucksack and for the next two days proceeded to utilize me as his camel.
After some stretches, a short mention of why we were doing it (350.org) and the half-hearted ‘Gees vir die fees‘ chant supposedly made up on the spot, we set off. Barefoot. We did this out of support for the school children who would be receiving the shoes our R150 walker fee bought through the Bob’s for Good Foundation. I hope wherever they are that they appreciate it, but I doubt it. High spirits and squeals from cold Atlantic water splashing our feet echoed down the beach as the search for hard, flat sand and the scorching heat tempted us to the water’s edge. Picking up trash and talking was the theme as we had all brought garbage bags to do a bit of a beach clean up on our way to our first rest stop in Melkbosstrand. We measured the diligence of those ahead of us (as the group had almost immediately elongated into the traditional walking snake) by how much rubbish we at the back had to pick up. It was a lot, but we later realised it was due to the amount lying on the sand rather than how much was picked up by the head of the snake.
After dumping bags full of bottles, papers, rubber, shoes, TVs and computer screens (just the plastic) we finished our last beach stretch to arrive at the ferry point. We had to be shuttled around Koeberg Power Station as years before Green Peace had managed to climb the towers and hang protest banners off. So the authorities weren’t too happy about 100 hemp-clad, pseudo-hippies wondering around their nuclear reactor. I can’t say I minded the short bus ride much, although the wait was made slightly more onerous by the forced entertainment of singing along to the ubiquitous guitar ,which I didn’t mind, rather it was the choice of Jason Mraz that wrinkled my brain (one of Tyson’s quirky quotes). There’s always one.
The last of the day’s walk took us along Koeberg’s boundary fence and past some epic viewpoints of hazy, salt-misted beaches, their deserted sands beckoning us to return at some point. Just one more thing I now have to do. Dammit. Finally reaching Silwerstroom was a beautiful feeling, slightly marred by the utter state of disrepair the entrance was in. The tiny reception area by the gates was decorated in an interesting shade of dust and furnished minimally with a chair tastefully placed on its side. ‘Friday the 13th’ deja vu hit me as I ran for the bathrooms after a swim in the castratingly cold sea and saw the rows of showers and toilets in the echoing hall. Fortunately I was one of the lucky few to get a hot shower, one of the only guys in fact, as I had accidentally used the women’s bathroom. It was worth it.
I got up at 6 am, still awkwardly full from too much potjiekos the night before. Not woke up, just got up – I hadn’t got much sleep due to what I am sure were sub-zero temperatures in the night and another packing mistake of not bringing an arctic sleeping bag. With no place to fit breakfast or the beach yoga (I had thought they were joking when they mentioned it the night before), I made do with some juice and then we were off. This is where I learned a horrible word. Foreshortening. If you are walking up a hill and optimistically believe you are near the top, this word kicks you back to the bottom. When ascending a hill the crest you see ahead appears much closer than it actually is, and also nastily hides more hill behind it. After 10 or 12 km my struggle to conceptualize this term was completely resolved. I understood what it meant, and I hated it. The fact that the sole of my right shoe has also come off may have been a contributing factor to my growing irritation with an english language that could produce such a soul destroying word as ‘foreshortening’.
Collapsing at Mamre, I had my customary nap during lunch and somehow, what felt like two-minutes later, once more into the breach we went on the last leg to the festival. We were fed something during lunch, a concoction of protein bars and rather disgusting-tasting, electrolyte-containing juice, that did wonders. Feeling fresh and (almost) perky, we headed off through Mamre community lands. Motivated by the proximity of Rocking the Daisies, the nuclear powered food, vocal festivalgoers driving by and a few white lies from the guides about how far it actually was, we walked hard.
We passed smelly cows, skittish donkeys, beds of flowers and a walker who decided to run around in tight blue hot pants before we reached the mountain top. Last obstacle overcome, there below us in all its tiny Lego glory was the festival. A never-ending stream of silvered flashes marked the arrival of the thousands of lazy rockers who hadn’t walked. Feeling superior, until we realised all the best campsites had probably been taken, we descended the mountain. It was steep – goats would have balked at heading straight down it.
ARRIVAL! We were hustled back stage like celebrities and diligently listened to one more talk, our mouths aching for the promised beer soon to be touching our lips. Before that however we paraded around the stage, officially opening the festival before the band The Arrows played. A slightly embarrassed rendition of the song we had written for the occasion (just start rhyming with ‘Walking the Daisies’ and you probably have it) quickly petered out and we all finally got off the stage and went to celebrate together with a beer. And another. And another …
