Kamberg

Kamberg, located in the foothills of the Drakensburg Mountains, has some of the best-preserved San (Bushman) rock art in South Africa, and it’s only a 1.5-hour drive from my house. On the first day of the holiday break, Gugu and I made the short trip out there.

I was expecting a small crowd of tourists, but when we arrived there was no such crowd; in fact, there was no one at all – just two guides lounging in the visitor center. We handed over 30 rand for entrance to Game Pass Shelter and an extra 15 to watch a short film about the San people (about $5 in total).

After the movie we set out for the shelter with our guide. Along the way he pointed out two mountains – well, actually he didn’t point; he gestured with a closed fist – Cock’s Comb and Giant’s Castle. Both are considered to be sacred, and as a sign of respect, you don’t point. Further along the way, we walked behind a waterfall (also sacred) where locally famous sangoma, Elliot Ndlovu goes to purify himself and his diving “bones”.

Valley floor

Behind the waterfall

Beyond the waterfall, the rest of the journey was uphill, beginning with a steep stone staircase. It took about 1.5 hours to reach Game Pass Shelter. I enjoyed the hike, and it felt an appropriate (and necessary) effort for the privilege to see 2000-year-old paintings.

When we finally reached the top, and the welcome shade of the rock shelter, the paintings were immediately apparent. The first panel of artwork (and the biggest) is right inside the entrance. Oddly, the first thing that struck me was not the paintings, but the absence of any kind of protective boundary or covering over the artwork. With the exception of a small locked gate near the top of the trail, there was nothing between us and the rock. And the guide encouraged us to get up close for a good look.

For a moment, I hesitated. In museums and galleries you can rarely get within 3 feet of a painting or historical artifact, sometimes with a plexiglass barrier in between – we have been culturally programmed NOT to get too close, especially when it comes to really old (and in this case) sacred stuff. But I got over that pretty quickly.

The guide described the figures depicted in each panel. Most prevalent were eland (the largest antelope in Southern Africa and sacred to the San), hunters and shaman (diviners, like Zulu sangomas). Some scenes depicted a hunt, which seems to be the standard as far as rock art goes, but other imagery eluded to San spiritual beliefs, showing shamans engaged in trace dances and holding the tail of a dying eland to absorb the animals escaping spirit. Wild.

First panel: eland, hunters in pursuit, shaman

Second panel: dying eland, spiritual transferal

Third panel: shaman and eland

I was impressed by the clarity of much of the artwork, given its age and minimal conservation efforts, so I asked the guide what was used for paint. Blood and bird shit. Oh, okay. And where was the blood from? San women (punched in the nose). Why am I not surprised?

We spent some quality time with the paintings and shared snacks with our guide, then headed back down toward the valley. Our guide stayed behind to wait for other visitors on their way toward the shelter. Gugu and I were on our own.

Game Pass Shelter

Valley below

Heading back down.

Near the end of our trip back, walking merrily down the valley path, Gugu stopped short. Snake. A very big, very scary looking snake, ominously winding its way across our path. We stood still as stone, frozen in stunned silence. (I contemplated taking a photograph.) I don't remember who spoke first. Did you see that? Yes. Did you see where it went? What should we do? Generally, I am not frightened by snakes, but generally I am not hiking in Africa. And it doesn't take a herpetologist, to deduce that a big, black, hooded snake is not one you want to mess with.

Gugu and I took a deep breath and started off again, making sure to swing wide around the area our scaly friend slithered off towards.

Not five minutes later, I spotted another. Same kind of snake. That time, we did not stop. We picked up our pace and kept our eyes on the ground. I vaguely remember trying to be funny and making something up about how snakes don't stalk people. Needless to say, it was a huge relief to arrive back at the visitor center in one, un-bitten piece.

We described the snake to the remaining guide. He knew it, but only by its Zulu name. When I got home, I asked my landlord, the good Dr. Wilson, who knows everything about Southern African animals, bugs and plant life. He knew our snake. It was a rinkhal, also known as a ring-necked spitting cobra.

Zulus, specifically Zulu sangomas, often see snakes as a sign of the ancestors, if not a direct physical manifestation of such. So, I have chosen to think of this incident as an encounter with the ancestors (perhaps my own), rather than a narrow escape from death. The former option pairs better with sacred rock art anyway.