This is the story of how we begin to remember...

Two days ago, I was huffing and puffing my way up a mountain.

Lungs screaming, legs like lead, myself and roughly 24 other AIFS students struggled our way up the side of a mountain in the Cederburg mountain range, aiming for the Wolfberg Cracks--two narrow ravines that would lead us to the top of the range. My group's guide (who I'm fairly certain must be part mountain goat, part Spiderman) half ran the twisted trail in front of us, stepping lightly from rock to rock and pausing to scale boulders and squeeze through tight cracks when we less-in-shape hikers insisted on stopping for a breath of the winter air.

When we left campus Friday afternoon, we had no idea we'd be undertaking such a task. We were going "camping"-staying in small, very comfortable (except for usual lack of heat) cabins in the wilderness of Cederburg--about 4 hours from campus to the North. We'd been warned it was colder than Stellenbosch and tried to pack accordingly. We'd been informed we would have the option of hiking, but had no idea "hiking" meant climbing a mountain.

The trail started at the foothills, a short drive from our camp, and immediately began curving and twisting as it wound its way upwards over rocks and through sand. As a whole we hiked about 9 miles (round trip)--something like 16km. The trail was steep and our guide a little merciless insofar as resting was concerned. The view, long before we reached the top, was worth every ache.

There are very few words to describe the actual experience of standing on top, once we reached it. It probably meant something different for all 70 of us that did; we each had our own moment of surfacing from the cracks and our own first deeply drawn breath in the afternoon sunshine. It was like emerging on the surface of a different planet--Mars, maybe--perhaps the moon. For one thing, it was a plateau, but uneven and so, so rocky. We moved from the freezing winter shadows of the crack to the full-blown African sun and gentle wind. A few bushes (uncomfortable, prickly things, with very little beauty) grew in smaller cracks between boulders. It was littered with clumps of rock in every size and shape and in many different colors. Dips and valleys lay in every direction. In the distance--back down near the entrance to the cracks--hills stretched out across the horizon, hazy and softly hidden in the clouds. Behind us--my first view as I stepped out of the cracks--mountains similar in size and shape to the one I stood on had multiplied and spread out along the skyline. The plateau of the top seemed to extend forever, and I felt if I walked far enough in one direction I could just hop from one mountain to another, and to another and another. I was Jack at the top of his beanstalk, before the giants and golden harps and all the trouble.

I think the closest emotion to what I felt was awe. Maybe it's cheesy (it kinda feels that way) but there really is no other word for it. There was a sense of accomplishment, yes, an exhaustion at the physical exertion to even get there, a kind of triumph. There was the vast emptiness of the top--the magnificence of the structure and the view before me. But the emptiness of the top was full of...something. Peace, maybe? Even the wind was silent. When my compatriots were actually quiet (which is very little, as a whole, since they are *quite* American) the silence was incredibly piercing, but still gentle, in a way. I felt like Moses. No wonder God spoke to him on a mountain.

I guess there's a reason people categorize "mountain-top experiences" completely by themselves.

Coming down was easy, almost joyful. I ran ahead in the front, leaping from rock to rock and trying to keep up with our spirited guide Jac. At one point I slipped and landed a little hard on my hip, but the bruise was worth the adrenaline of half-flying down that steep path.

The rest of the weekend pales a little in comparison with the hike, though it too was intense and beautiful and worth the dirt and cold. Friday night I lay under the most bountifully starry sky I've ever seen in my life--so many constellations and all so very close together. I saw four very clear shooting stars in the space of an hour. I sang Paul Simon's "Under African Skies" with a friend as I froze under that sky, and the cold I have now was completely worth it. Until this point in my life Minnesota's night sky has held the record for most beautiful, but sorry, Grandma, South Africa's got one up on you guys there. :-)My pitiful little camera couldn't even begin to capture the beauty of it, though one of my flat-mates' did. Before we left Sunday we went wine tasting and stopped by some caves nearby where supposedly Apartheid leaders held highly secretive meetings throughout the 20th century (and carved their names in the rock to prove it). We also stopped by the site of some 1,500-year-old Bushman rock art--red elephants, painted on a wall, being chased by the figures of men. Pretty sweet stuff. A little hard to conceptualize in its age.

Despite the amazing quality of the trip, it was nice to be home in Stellenbosch in my own (warm) bed last night. Today we began our second full week of classes, which are settled and going fairly well, so far. I (mostly) figured out my English dilemma and am signed up for three of their classes (on myth, S. African Women writers and women's narratives from Apartheid Prison-houses), as well as classes in Theology, Xhosa and (later in the semester) The History of the Wine Industry in the Western Cape. On top of this I'll be volunteering in the local township Kayamandi once or twice a week, acting either as a pre-primary teacher's assistant or a 7th grade after-school tutor. We find out our placements at a meeting tomorrow night. Either way, I'm WAY excited to be getting involved outside the Stellenbosch bubble with the local cultures, especially with kids. I couldn't stay away from them for long. :-)

I miss playing my horn and get a little lonely when I come home to only one roommate and a quiet building full of (mostly) strangers. Andrea's wonderful, but I miss both my bustling homes in Washington and the families (blood and otherwise) that fill them. Friendships take time, though, and I'm sure more will come.

Until next time,
Ndiyavuya ukukwazi (I am glad to know you)
Sala kakuhle! (Stay well!)