Cover

Title

The

Wilderness

Between Us

PENNY HAW

For Jan-Lucas, who never says, “We’re not going to talk about your book again, are we?”

Author’s Note

Author’s Note

Have we forgotten

that wilderness is not a place,

but a pattern of soul

where every tree, every bird and beast

is a soul maker?

“Wilderness” by Ian McCallum

None of the friends who hiked through the Tsitsikamma with me, not even she who awoke with a migraine, will recognise themselves in this story. They’re not here. While the seed was planted as we walked, the tree grew up and out and into something unrecognisable. The trail exists, of course, and I urge you, if you have the chance, to tread its paths, raise your eyes and be elated. With its mountains, rivers, forests, flowers, birds and animals, the Tsitsikamma will soothe your soul—even if you had not yet registered its call to be calmed. You might note though, that the route and places I describe have been rearranged for the purpose of the story. This is not a guide book. Neither does it profess to offer medical counsel. The exploration of anorexia is loosely based on my own experience and, while I hope it throws some light on the pain and crushing shame that can accompany the condition, I am not a professional in the subject and make no claims as such. So indeed, this book is not a manual of any sort. It’s a story about people and the wilderness, which “is not a place, but a pattern of soul.”

—Penny Haw

Glossary

Glossary

Aardvark—medium-sized, burrowing and nocturnal mammal native to Africa, the only living species of the prehistoric Tubulidentata order and its name is Afrikaans for “earth pig.”

Bakkie—a light truck or pickup truck.

Bloukrans—blue cliff.

Boomslang—Afrikaans for “tree snake,” a highly venomous, tree-living snake.

Braai—barbeque.

Buchu—a South African shrub with aromatic leaves.

CPR—cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Caracal—medium-sized wild cat, native to Africa, with long,tufted ears.

Dagga—word used in parts of southern Africa to describe cannabis.

Donga—a gully formed by eroding action of water.

Duiker—small, brown antelope, native to sub-Saharan Africa.

Ericas—woody fynbos plants with small, narrow leaves and various flowers.

Fundi—expert, aficionado.

Fynbos—natural shrubs and vegetation occurring in Western and Eastern Cape in South Africa.

Genet—small, catlike African carnivore.

Goggas—South African term for any kind of small creature that crawls.

Grootkloof—big valley.

Heuningbos—honey bush.

Hadeda—Ibis bird native to sub-Saharan Africa and named for the loud calls it makes in flight.

Knysna loerie—a largeturaco bird found in the forests of southern and eastern South Africa.

Lapa—communal cooking and entertainment area, typical of southern African camping and safari sites.

Lekker—South African word for good or pleasant.

Meneer—Afrikaans for “mister.”

Naartjies—South African name for small, loose-skinned mandarin oranges.

Pelargonium—shrubby plant with fragrant leaves.

Poffertjes—small, fluffy pancakes popular in the Netherlands.

Protea—South African flowering plant.

Provita—savoury South African biscuit or cracker.

Quiver tree—a tall, branching species of succulent plant, indigenous to southern Africa, and also known as the Kokerboom.

Ratel—honey badger, a mammal native to Africa and Asia,which lent its name to a South African infantry fighting vehicle because of their alleged shared tenacity.

Res—another way of saying residence, typically when referring to a university residence.

Restios—reed-like plant, which is considered part of South African fynbos.

Skink—a type of lizard.

Staffie—short for Staffordshire Bull Terrier, which is a short-haired terrier of medium size.

Tog bag—sports bag.

Tsitsikamma—comes from southern African Khoekhoe language: tse-tsesa,means“clear,” and gami,means“water.” This compound word refers to the clear water of theTsitsikammaRiver, which runs through the Tsitsikamma National Park, a protected area on the Garden Route of South Africa.

Uni—short for university.

Varsity—another South African way of saying university.

Veld—open, uncultivated country or grassland in southern Africa.

Vygie—means “small fig” in Afrikaans and refers to a species of succulent flowering plants from southern Africa.

Wild Dagga—indigenous species of mint plant found in southern Africa, which typically has a bright orange flower and is known for its medicinal properties that are mildly psychoactive.

One

One

It was an unusually warm evening for that time of the year in the mountains, which might’ve been an omen if anyone had thought about it. For years, the friends had discussed the ideal season to do the hike. They’d finally settled on any six days that suited everyone’s diary. Even then, they hadn’t all been able to make it, which was how Clare came to be there.

With supper over, she sat on the stairs of the three-walled, thatch-roofed lapa, which, typical of southern African campsites, was the hub of the overnight stop. Stacked on a counter behind her, eight stainless steel plates glistened in time to the coals flickering weakly in the firepit. Clare’s aim was to stay out of the way of her father and his friends as they went about whatever it was older people did before bed.

The stone was cool against her legs and the air lightly scented with smoke, resin and damp forest floor. Pine needles hung motionless against the barely lit sky, which was flanked by two peaks rising east and west like tall, craggy sentinels. Bar the thrumming of the nearby stream, the distant huoo-hoo-hoo of a wood owl and the occasional crinkle of the cooling embers, the night was quiet.

The party of eight had left the rangers’ offices for Heuningbos Hut shortly after ten that morning, trudging up a gravel track onto the mountainside for a few kilometres before following the path into a forest with towering trees and a disorderly understory. From there, the trail cut across large sections of mountain fynbos with plants Clare’s father, Geoffrey, had taught her to identify years ago: ericas, restios, protea, daisies, legumes and vygies. The group had trekked through a marshy valley, crossed two rivers and finally climbed a steep hill to Heuningbos Hut. It was, said the information provided, the least strenuous day of the six-day hike and they’d arrived at their accommodation for the night just before the sun slid behind the trees.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?”

Clare turned to see Faye looking up at her from the bottom of the stairs. Her dark hair, which had been flecked with grey and cropped in the same short style for as long as Clare remembered, was wet. She’d combed the fringe back, accentuating her heavy eyebrows and lashes, and the deep blue of her eyes.

Geoffrey liked to say that he and Clare’s mother, Michelle, had been friends with Faye Mackenzie and her husband, Derek, and the other two couples in the group “since pa fell off the ox-wagon.” Michelle, Diane and Derek were at school together and met Geoffrey, Bruce and Helen at university. Bev was the most recent recruit and she’d been with Helen since Clare was a baby. The couples and their children had holidayed and partied together like family. Even so, it felt strange to Clare to be alone with one of the older generation.

“It is,” she said, looking over the trees.

“Everything all right?”

Clare felt a prick of annoyance. “Yes. Thanks. And you?”

“Well, I’m looking forward to a good sleep.” Faye laughed quietly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”

“I believe so,” said Clare.

“Lucky you could come at such short notice.”

“Yes.”

“Your mom must’ve been so disappointed.”

“She was.”

“She and Diane have been trying to organise this trip for years.”

Clare got to her feet. “Yes. Well, I’m going to get ready for bed, too. See you in the morning. Sleep well,” she said, passing the older woman and making her way to the cabin.

Was her mother, a high court judge, upset about having to miss the hike when one of her cases was prolonged at the last minute? It seemed to Clare that work would always come first for Michelle. If anyone was disappointed it was her father, Geoffrey.

“Surely you can get a delay? I mean, really? We’ve been planning to do this together for years, decades even. All the organisation that’s gone into it…” he’d said when Michelle delivered the news.

He and Clare had been in the kitchen, preparing supper. Clare wished her mother had waited to tell him when her parents were alone. Michelle walked out without replying.

“There’s no chance of a delay,” she said when she reappeared, heels exchanged for flip-flops, minutes later. She spoke as if she’d never left the room. “Clare can go in my place.”

Her daughter and husband stared at her.

Michelle took a bottle of wine from the fridge and smiled at Clare. “Why not? Your interviews only begin the following week. It’ll be good . . . fun.”

Clare knew her mother had almost said, “good for you.” She looked away.

Geoffrey handed Michelle a glass. “So you’re certain?”

She bobbed her head. He blinked and turned to Clare. “Come with your old dad and his friends. We’ll remind you how lucky you are to be young.”

There was no one in the cabin when Clare slipped in to take a mattress from one of the bunk beds stacked against the walls. She dragged it onto the lawn, stopping mid-yard to look around.

The space that had been cleared for the lapa, hut and bathroom, all of which were fashioned from river stones, wasn’t entirely level. To her left, Clare saw an area buttressed by a short wall. The earth had been flattened as if someone planned to turn it into a flower bed but was beaten to it by the relentless tentacles of buffalo grass. The spot would do. Not only was it flat enough to sleep on without rolling or sliding off the bed, but it was also out of earshot of her father’s snoring. Neither was it too close, she hoped, to the low bush on the edge of the forest to pique the curiosity of any creatures that might mosey by during the night. She hauled the mattress into position.

“What do you mean?” Geoffrey had asked when, during the long drive from Cape Town to the mountains, she told him that it was one thing to hike through the Tsitsikamma National Park with her parents’ friends, but she wouldn’t share the dormitory-style sleeping quarters with them. “That’s how it is on these hikes. We’ll be sleeping in the same room; not together. You know, like that.”

Although Clare pretended not to notice, he was blushing. It began at his neck and swept over his balding crown where two clumps of grey-blonde hair perched like the ear tufts of an owl. Despite being flattened against his head by the Basson’s Garden Services cap he wore whenever he was outdoors, the clumps sprung upwards like grass shoots after the first rains. Clare had often tugged them when she was younger. To her, the tufts symbolised who her father was: constant, unpretentious, decent, determined. And, although conversation between them nowadays wasn’t as easy as it had been when she was younger, she understood his reticence. They were alike in that sense. Not everything benefitted from discussion. Sometimes it was better to be quiet and work things out on your own.

“I know,” she said, thinking about how simultaneously exposed and restricted she’d feel in a shared hut, particularly (but not exclusively) with people twice her age. “I’d just rather be alone. Don’t forget, you and Gran were the ones who taught me to enjoy sleeping outside.”

“But what if the weather changes suddenly? It does that in the mountains.”

“I’ll go into the lapa.”

Geoffrey grimaced. “I hope the others aren’t offended.”

She’d looked out of the car window, pulled a tress of hair from behind her ear and curled it around her finger. How could she have forgotten? Her father was concerned about what “the others” might think. She wondered whether her parents had updated their friends about her condition. Whether they, in turn, had speculated about how it would be to have her with them. Had Michelle warned them against watching her at mealtimes?

“They’ll get over it,” she said, trying to quash her discomfort. “You can tell them that I’m claustrophobic or something. I don’t care.”

“Or that you hate my snoring. At least that’s the truth.”

She sniggered.

He glanced at her. It reminded Clare how much her father liked to make her laugh. “The only problem is that then they’ll all want to sleep elsewhere.”

“Ja. True. It’s probably best to say nothing.”

As she stood at the outdoor tap brushing her teeth, Clare looked up and wished she’d paid more attention to what had, when she was a kid, seemed like never-ending discussions between her father and grandmother about the night sky. On camping trips, the conversations could have been lullabies, easing Clare and her younger siblings, Angus and Linda, to sleep. Almost everything she knew about the natural world, Clare had learned from her father and grandmother. They knew a lot. Especially Gran. If she’d been a more patient kid, Clare could’ve learned more.

During one of the final outings when the old woman accompanied the family, she described the differences between wilderness and city skies and how they affected the world. Then seven or eight years old, Clare had peevishly scuffed the sand with her bare toes as Gran rattled on about “human light pollution” and how sea turtles and dung beetles relied on “pristine night skies for navigation.” Images of lumbering turtles and beetles were one thing, but when Gran started up about how the combination of the darkness and silence was a good time to “contemplate how immense the universe was,” Clare had groaned out loud. She was certain that Angus and Linda would’ve guzzled all the marshmallows by the time she got back to the campfire. The moment Gran gazed upwards, still rambling on, Clare scampered away.

Now, at the tap, Clare tipped back her head as she rinsed her mouth. Was that the Southern Cross? She’d ask her father what had happened to his mother’s astronomy books.

“Are you sure you want to sleep out here alone?”

Wearing running shorts and a t-shirt featuring a faded, eighties-style surfing logo, Derek wore no shoes, and his thin legs were pale.

“Yes,” said Clare.

“You’re not afraid?”

“Why would I be?”

He put his hands on his hips and leaned his long, narrow torso towards her. “Baboons,” he whispered. She smelt toothpaste on his breath. “Didn’t you hear them barking when we arrived?”

“I did, but they’re unlikely to move around at night.”

“Ah, because of the leopards,” he said, continuing his cartoonish performance. Clare felt embarrassed on his behalf.

“That’s a myth,” she said. “Leopards rarely prey on baboons. They, the monkeys, move about in large groups and fight back viciously. Anyway, the baboons in this area are not habituated. They’re unlikely to approach while we’re here.”

“Ha! Geoff taught you well.”

She gave a half shrug and turned to go, not bothering to say that it was her grandmother, not her father, who had explained the habits of leopards and baboons to her. Derek walked with her.

“It’s nice to have you along,” he said. “We don’t see much of you anymore now that you’re all grown up.”

Clare didn’t respond as she closed her backpack.

He looked around. “You’re right. It’s lovely out here. Perhaps I’ll bring my mattress outside, too.”

“Derek?” It was Faye from the doorway of the hut. “Are you coming?”

He hesitated and opened his mouth as if to say something to his wife, but sighed instead.

“Sleep well,” he said, walking away.

Clare slid into her sleeping bag and lay on her back, thinking about the day. The pace at which the group walked had surprised her. They were fitter than she’d imagined they’d be. When they stopped, which happened frequently, it wasn’t to rest—not obviously, anyway—but rather to drink, snack or remove their boots and soak their feet in the rivers. Mostly though, her father and his friends paused to admire and discuss plants, trees, spoor and the views.

“Glad you came?” he’d asked that afternoon as he’d followed her across a plateau of restios that swayed lazily in the breeze.

“I am,” she’d replied, without having to think about it. “I think I can manage six days of this.”

Now, though, as she sat up and rolled her sweatshirt into a makeshift pillow, Clare was uncertain. She wasn’t afraid of sleeping outside but, ever since he had turned up on campus and insisted on taking her out to lunch, Derek unsettled her. She told herself he meant well and cared about her the way her parents cared about his and Faye’s son, Zach. They’d all been friends for so long, they were practically family. There was nothing more to it. Even so, she was annoyed by Derek’s attention, his comment about the baboons, and at herself for responding to his ridiculousness.

She got up, shone her torch into the cavernous opening of the lapa and followed the light around the raised fire-pit and the large stone and hardwood table, benches and counters. The fire iron stood against the wall alongside a row of tree stumps, which had been sawed and smoothed into simple seats. Ignoring how sooty the heavy rod made her hand, Clare took it, laid it alongside her mattress, climbed back into the bag and stared at the sky again.

She wanted to sleep and felt weary enough to do so, but her mind was restless. Her anxiety, she told herself, was unwarranted. Too bad. It had taken hold. Clare willed herself to think about her grandmother again and recall something interesting, soothing, distracting that she had taught her. When that didn’t work, she closed her eyes and tried to picture, section by section, the route the group had followed to reach the hut. But, as if harnessed to a powerful pulley somewhere else in her brain, her thoughts dragged up visions of the food she’d consumed that day instead.

A banana and yoghurt (low fat) for breakfast, half a cheese sandwich (buttered!) with black coffee at eleven (she couldn’t bring herself to refuse her father with everyone else watching), roast chicken salad (no dressing) for lunch, and a sausage and baked potato for supper. Clare tallied the calories. After years of referencing calorie counters, it was easy. She totalled the hours walked and calculated the energy she’d expended. But even though the figures more or less balanced, she felt her heart speed up and her throat tighten. She slipped her hand into the sleeping bag and under her t-shirt, smoothing it over her stomach.

“There’s nothing there, Clare. Nothing,” she whispered.

But the pulley was more powerful and her fingers found a pinch of flesh.

“Fat,” said her brain. “You’re going to get fat. Get out of your sleeping bag and do some situps. It’s okay. No one will see you.”

“No. Stop it.” She clenched her jaw. “You don’t rule me.”

“Just ten. Just to be sure.”

Would the voice never go away? Would she ever really be in control again? Sometimes, more often recently, she thought she was. But then the balance shifted and she felt powerless again. Clare bent her knees and drew them upwards, as if to shield her stomach, and turned onto her side. That’s when she heard a soft rustle.

The lower section of a bush on the edge of the lawn darkened as several of its leaves trembled. She could just make out the distinct thickset, low-slung form of a female honey badger. Then the animal stepped into full view on the lawn, where she paused, raised her head and looked around, nose twitching. Clare wondered if the badger could smell her and, if she did, what was going through the animal’s mind. She looked so solid and, with her front legs slightly bowed, self-assured.

The badger’s attitude made Clare think about how confident she had been when she was younger. She’d believed she could take on the world. She was regularly top of her class, often the centre of attention, a first-rate tennis player and captain of the hockey team, and there were few things she wasn’t capable of. She had many friends, two of whom she’d known since she was a toddler. Clare was clever, funny, capable and loved. She hadn’t imagined she’d ever be anything else. Had she been arrogant? Was that why things had changed? Had she needed a lesson in how to be humble?

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