17. The Wild Coast, 1991 - Ja, Kommandant
In which Eleanor is jolted awake.
A midnight whistle. Intruders in the dark. This is the Wild Coast. 
Eleanor
The sound of the whistle blasting jolts all of us wide awake in an instant. While the rest of us are still opening our eyes, Niels is out of his sleeping bag, standing to attention, saluting and belting out “Ja, Kommandant”—naked—faster than any of us can sit up.
“What the hell?” asks Alasdair.
“Is everyone okay?” calls Tig.
“Intruders!” Emily shouts from her lookout perch beyond the overhang we’re sleeping under. And then she blows the whistle again.
Niels, Alasdair and Tig move fast, throwing on shorts, boots and headlights in an instant. Niels grabs the large stick he put by his sleeping mat and heads to Emily’s position. Alasdair and Tig fan out to either side of her. The rest of us sit up, grabbing our headlights and turning them on, groggily scanning the bushes around us.
“Voetsek1” yells Niels suddenly, brandishing his stick.
“Get out of here!” shouts Alasdair, and he makes to pick up a stone.
We hear a crashing through the undergrowth.
And then all is silent. Just the sound of our breathing and our hearts pounding in our ears.
“Is everyone okay?” Tig calls out again.
“Alright over here,” one of the others calls back from the far side of the overhang. “What was it?”
“Cattle rustlers2, probably,” Niels says, as he comes back towards us. “They’re gone now. Scared them off good and proper.”
“I think it was your naked ass and ‘Ja, Kommandant’ that did that, Niels,” Alasdair ribs him. And then we all start doubling over, howling with laughter, as fear runs out of us and we start to breathe again. The Wild Coast, as we were warned, has lived up to its name—and it isn’t just about the ocean. We are hiking through some of the most beautiful and scenic, but also the most isolated and impoverished, parts of South Africa.
“I’ll make some tea,” Tig says, grabbing a billycan and the Primus stove from his pack. “Emily, come have some chocolate. You’ll need it after that scare.” Emily’s face is still wide eyed and white in our torch light. One of the others leads her back to our overhang, grabbing a sleeping mat for her to sit on. She sits down shakily.
“You did good, sis,” Niels says as he comes over to her. “Without your sharp ears and eyes, that might have been our backpacks gone tonight.” Emily just nods. Ten minutes later, revived with chocolate and warm, sweet tea, Emily is teasing Niels as well as the rest of us. An hour later and we bed back down again. It’s 2am. Niels takes the next guard shift, but we’re not expecting any more problems tonight.
“They’re not coming back,” hoots Alasdair softly next to me. “Niels’ white ass is enough to blind anyone. No-one needs a second look at that!”
I drift off to the sight of Niels silhouetted against the bright starlight of an African sky.
And wake to the sun streaming into the cave, already high enough above the horizon to clear the treetops. Some of the others are already up, but Emily, Niels and Alasdair are still dead to the world in their sleeping bags. Tig is sitting quietly on a rock, taking in the view over the ocean.
Which is spectacular. I bring a cup of tea over and sit down next to him, leaning my head on his shoulder, taking it all in. His arm wraps around me in a brotherly hug.
Our Wild Coast hike is living up to expectations…and it’s name. Last night was just one more to add to the already overflowing memories. Towering bluffs and waterfalls dropping into the Indian Ocean; rolling green grasslands, grazed to lawn smoothness by cattle and donkeys that wander right on to the beach; shipwrecks by the dozen; placid tiny hamlets of thatched rondavels milling with goats, chickens and children scampering after these strange white folk who carry everything on their backs and hike for pleasure; pods of dolphins just off the shore; buzzards floating the thermals, scattering rock rabbits: no two days are the same as we complete the 120 km hike from Port Edwards to Port St John’s. We do it in seven days, breaking camp early some days, late on others, depending on the tides and the river crossings we need to make that day. Some we can wade, others we float our packs and swim. Whenever we are close to a hamlet at night we set guard through the night. It’s not just the scenery that is wild, as we were reminded on our first night.
When one of the other Club members meets us at the end with the combi we are footsore, blistered, sunburnt, filthy.
And jubilant.
Bonus Materials
The Wild Coast: Shipwrecks, whales, dolphins, waterfalls into the ocean, cows on the beach…the Wild Coast is something to be experienced.
“Fuck off” is the most appropriate translation in this context.
Livestock thieves