Are We There Yet? (23 page)

I had planned to laze on the beach for most of the next day before heading to the same restaurant for a second round of indulgence, but I awoke to murky skies that didn't so much threaten rain but imply it. It was the kind of day that screamed theme park, so I made a beeline for Monkey Land. These types of establishments are notoriously soft targets and I was – rather shamefully in hindsight – taking no small measure of glee from the prospect of dispensing copious amounts of withering scorn on the place. I imagined the Primate Palace where one could buy sugary concoctions identified by torturous puns such as Orangeutang and Limeur, while for the grown-ups there would be a creamy cocktail named International Vervet. Instead, I found the world's only free-range sanctuary for primates rescued from caged existences as pets, circus animals and laboratory experiment subjects.

Monkey Land is set over twelve hectares of indigenous forest that has been fenced only at the borders and nestles under a net canopy strung high above the trees. It is home to 15 species and over 200 individuals.

I joined a tour group led by a Steve Irwin type dressed in khaki and radiating infectious enthusiasm. The first creatures we encountered were a pair of Madagascan lemurs. Black and white in the panda fashion, they were exquisitely long-limbed and wore a perpetual expression of faint concern. They are the only animals in the world with two tongues, which of course makes it rather difficult to understand what they are saying.

A rustle in the canopy above us saw a pair of gibbons descending like dive-bombers to a raised platform the size of a breakfast tray which was piled with fruit. Although the park is a contrived ecosystem, the rangers do what they can to minimise human contact. Hand-feeding is verboten and the speedy orange tamarinds who loitered around the cafe to scavenge biscuits from unwary visitors were frequently sent shrieking into the bush as a staff member with a spray gun aimed a jet of water in their direction.

Gibbons are the undisputed aerial masters of the primate world. Not only can they swing between trees at around thirty kilometres an hour, they can also clear gaps of thirty metres with ease. And unlike humans, they have one lifelong partnership.

As we followed a trail through the forest and across the longest single-span rope bridge in the southern hemisphere, I got the distinct feeling that we were being cased by hidden eyes. A piercing shriek from the rear of our group followed as a woman's sunglasses were snatched off the top of her head by a capuchin monkey apparently overcome by the need to accessorise. They are so named because the cowl-shaped colouring around their heads resembles the hoods worn by the Capuchin friars.

According to our guide, these sneaky bastards are the Mensa members of the animal kingdom. Adopting the tone of one of those insufferable parents who feel compelled to tell you of their child's every academic, sporting or questionably adorable achievement, he rolled out a list of attributes that I'm embarrassed to say I did not believe until I confirmed them through various websites.

For a start, the capuchins are those little buggers frequently seen beside organ-grinders. Why? Because they can be trained to dance, clap and solicit donations quicker than practically any other species on the planet. With the exception, perhaps, of backpackers.

Capuchins apparently make a fine fist of assisting the disabled and can be trained to turn on lights and memorise up to ten phone numbers. They can also be taught to administer injections and have mastered the art of basic communication with humans through a card system. On one occasion when a paraplegic visitor came to Monkey Land, a capuchin handed him a card that read, “Don't worry, Superman, your secret's safe with me”. Actually, he gave him a red piece of cardboard signifying a recognition of illness.

In the wild, capuchins are equally canny. For example, they rub the bark of the hard pear tree on their skin as it contains cyanide – a mosquito repellent. They also have a thing for scorpion sashimi and instead of being stung in the pursuit of lunch use weapons such as sticks or stones to break their bones.

I enjoyed my Monkey Land experience more than I thought I would and made a point of dropping a note into the suggestion box urging them to rethink the name – I believe the words “it intimates a third-rate carnival” were used.

Turned out, however, Monkey Land was merely a bracing appetiser to the day's main course. Heading west towards the town of Knysna, I drove through forests once home to multitudes of elephants. As incongruous as the combination of rainforest and pachyderm may seem, by retreating deep into the thick clusters of yellow-woods and stinkwoods the area's elephants prolonged their survival far more effectively than their plains-dwelling counterparts.

Even up until the 1980s rumours persisted that a few ageing cows still wandered the fern-covered floor. But as their habitats diminished along with the prospect of procreation, these proud stragglers died lonely deaths. In the lobby of the Knysna Elephant Park is a grainy photograph of the last wild elephant in the local forest. She looks proud yet mournful. Today a quartet saved from a cull in a northern game park have been introduced into the habi tat and the rainforest once again shakes to the occasional rumble of a behemoth hitting its stride.

As commendable as such initiatives are, it's like treating cancer with a band aid. The manner in which South Africa has treated these animals is a disgrace and the elephant park's museum made for a sickening enlightenment. In 1913, when authorities may have been excused on the grounds of naivety for seeing elephants as an inextinguishable resource in South Africa, the United States imported 200 tonnes of ivory just for piano keys. That's 5000 dead elephants. According to a display at the museum, the slaughter continued unabated until at least 1998. In July of that year, American conservationist Craig Van Note wrote of South Africa that “ as a CITES [an organisation that binds nations to wildlife conservation by treaty] member which projects the image of a conservation-minded model for Africa, it is in reality one of the biggest wildlife outlaws in the world”.

His vitriol comes from evidence suggesting the nation's military encouraged Jonas Savimbi, the leader of Angola's rebel UNITA army, to fund his civil war effort by slaughtering 100,000 elephants. The ivory was then allegedly carried back into South Africa on the military planes and trucks which had transported weapons into Angola. Vast stockpiles of Angolan ivory are still rumoured to be held in South African military storage depots.

Van Note's assertion is supported by an eyewitness account from a South African colonel who recounted, “Elephants were mown down by the tearing rattle of AK47 rifles and machine guns. They shot everything: bulls, cows and calves.”

The park's star attractions are four teenage orphans who roam the hundred hectares of open space that features grasslands and a forested section. They sleep under cover in individual pens and visitors can choose to interact with them in one of two ways. You can either spend half an hour or so feeding them vegetables before the next group of half-a-dozen arrives to take their turn. Or, as I did, go on an elephant safari, which entails a walk with them through the forests at sunrise or sunset.

The slogan emblazoned across the park's pamphlet is “Be Touched By An Elephant” and I had a phalanx of single entendres to trot out when it came to describing my visit. The unexpected truth of the matter is that the pitch encapsulated the essence of my experience.

Granted, these were mere three-metre juveniles who only tipped the scales at a couple of tonnes, but up close they radiated a humbling gentleness. Their skin felt like old luggage and was covered in coarse hair; the tips of their trunks worked like opposable digits to almost tenderly grasp food from my palm, and their benign eyes were framed by lashes as long as my hand. They evoked a sense of awe-filled wonder I hadn't felt since childhood and didn't believe I was still capable of.

So as not to defile the experience with any further hyperbole, I'll turn to the words of Henry Beston who in 1928's
The Outermost House
described elephants thus: “They move finished and complete, gifted with extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear”.

Twenty-two kilometres west is the town of Knysna where I had planned to stay for a single night but was seduced into remaining for two. It was payday and jovial lines trailed from ATMs while nearby groups of kids busked, using plastic washing tubs as drums. Between the de rigueur curio shops selling zebra-print everything were galleries displaying abstract seascapes by local artists, oak-panelled bookstores and a fine public library made from hand-carved sandstone. Pubs and cafes spilled onto the pavement with cane tables shaded by umbrellas and, in one ingenious case, deckchairs with milk crates as tables.

Also in evidence were the day-to-day shops that facilitate small-town life: a discount mattress outlet, a video store, a post office and so on. It was this final element that gave the place not so much a resort feel but one of real life, albeit a charmed one.

By 6pm the pubs were filled with locals enjoying the first of many, weekenders from Cape Town and backpackers living high on the Euro's back. Pushbikes, which seemed to be the transport of choice for many residents, were littered outside. Lured by the golden light pouring out of its windows and the sounds of a precociously talented acid jazz ensemble, I squeezed into a crowded bar which emptied into a courtyard where clusters of bobbing groovers warmed their hands on fires in tin drums.

Although the crowd had its fair share of hemp accoutrements in the textile and toke varieties, it was distinctly designer hippie. In South Africa these often well-to-do new-age types are marvellously known as Trustafarians. Yet along with their distressed cargos and ironic soft-drink T-shirts, they also wore welcoming smiles. Many were curious about Australia in terms of lifestyle, culture and how the general public felt about the Howard government's refusal to formally apologise to the stolen generation. Some levelled allegations of racism at my homeland whose attitude to Aborigines they said was on a par with apartheid, and my inclination to agree saw the conversations meander from sport to politics to recommendations for the rest of my journey.

Politely declining an invitation to the next bar, I struck out in search of food and ended up in a dimly lit cafe strewn with tea lights where a chanteuse was running through a Joni Mitchell/Tracy Chapman repertoire. Knysna is home to a large gay population who absconded from the larger South African cities in search of a quiet life and now run many of the town's most attractive establishments, outside which the pride flag snaps, crackles and pops.

This one was presided over a by a square-jawed maitre d' of indeterminate vintage named Jacques, whose aplomb at working the room was interrupted only by the odd visit to the microphone to out-Ronan Ronan Keating. My waitron – as they are known in this gender-phobic nation – was from Cairns and when she alerted Jacques to the fact that another Australian was in the house, he promptly told her to take the next half-hour off and sent a bottle of wine over to the table. Charmaine had come to Knysna for a two-week stay. Three years on, she wasn't going anywhere. “I adore this area,” she said. “It draws writers, potters, artists and loonies. The region is home to hundreds of forest fairies – people who disappear into the bush and don't come out for years. Plus, the South African equivalent to [Sydney's Gay and Lesbian] Mardi Gras is held here. It's called the Pink Lourie.”

“What do the local make of it?” I asked.

“We are the locals,” she replied. “Unless you mean the Poppies.” This, I was told, was a term used to describe a certain type of Afrikaans woman in her twenties or thirties who lived in the area. Her defining features were, according to Charmaine: “Auburn hair that should have her colourist banned from going near a human head again, red lipstick worn with orange lipliner, eighteen-carat-gold nails and fondness for brandy and soda with a specified number of ice-cubes – fail to provide that exact figure and the drink is sent back to the bar.”

Unbeknownst to us, Jacques had been hovering and swooped in on Charmaine's shtick with, “My dear, you cannot believe the hair colour. There's just no way those drapes match the rug.”

After many Dom Pedros – a local concoction made from vanilla ice cream, whiskey, Drambuie or both — I made it back to the hotel somewhere in the am and set my alarm for what felt like the ungodly hour of seven as I had a train to catch.

Belching smoke at the station by the lagoon around which Knysna sits was the Outeniqua Choo Tjoe. Its name is derived from two sources. The Outeniqua element – Khoisan for “they who bear honey” – relates to the mountain range which forms the backdrop to the sixty-seven-kilometre journey to the town of George. The Choo Tjoe refers to the sound made by the hulking black 1924 steam locomotive which hauls a dozen suburban side-door carriages along what must surely be one of the most spectacular stretches of track in the world.

Groaning and creaking out of the station, the Choe Tjoe trudged along the perimeter of the olive wind-whipped lagoon at the centre of which floated dozens of oyster beds. As it picked up speed and the carriage became scented by coal smoke and brine, the track leaned hard into a conifered embankment that ran at an angle of seventy degrees to an achingly gorgeous settlement of white wooden houses topped by green tin roofs.

Surrounded by the pale fragrant shrubbery known as fynbos and sporadic fern outbursts, the track crested the incline and dropped into a basil-coloured mosaic of paddocks separated by ageing timber pole fences, wooded hillocks and slow shallow streams. It then crossed a succession of rippled saltwater lakes before running parallel to a beach for a few kilometres. Next, it climbed to cling against cliff faces so close to the ocean that mists of spray drifted through the carriage windows from waves crashing into the boulders below. Through Sedgefield, Wilderness and the riverside camping grounds of Fairy Knowe we chuffed, across arched bridges, tidal beds and fields where chestnut mares grazed. It couldn't have been more romantic had Lauren Bacall stepped silhouetted out of the smoke at George Station wearing nothing more than unconscionable amounts of chinchilla and a welcome-home smile.