The beautiful mass grave site

The first time I saw a mass gravesite; a fertile expanse marred by hundreds of the most beautiful startling white cairns against naturally manicured South African land, was the last time I listened to my fears.


There was something ominous about the crocodile head shaped mini-mountain miracle called Isandlwana Mountain. It could have been the many cairns that clawed out from the ground like sun bleached bones of the ancient warriors whose blood fed the earth below them. Like a welcoming cavalry, they lined both sides of our wheezing, churning contraption, welcoming us.

Stories of the Battle of Isandlwana crept proudly through bloodlines and down family trees and whilst heaving and clawing my way up the historic mountain, I was reminded by the victory of twenty two Zulu men over a contingent of a thousand plus British and Native troops. There was no mistaking it, this was a mass gravesite and everything about it stank of death.

The trees were parched creations that groaned and jerked gracelessly, while the animals that slithered, crawled and sprawled over the jagged rocks bled onto the dry terrain almost unseen.

The trek was merciless and the sun even more so, but after an hour of hiking, we finally reached the top of Isandlwana Mountain.

The groaning trees bled into the muddy earth like dust and all that was left for the eyes to feast on was the gold and green grass, adorned by proud peaks white of valour and the many shrubs and trees that still breathed green with life.

I was afraid, before this. I was terrified of the journey up the mountain, I was afraid of the hyenas and the sangoma (witchdoctor) that commanded them, I was afraid of falling off the edge of the mountain and I was most afraid of never seeing the top.

The sweet smell of accomplishment wore itself proudly on all our faces as we looked to the open planes and drank in the indigenous vista before us.

It was an African masterpiece.

The sky burned orange and red while the air twisted icily before we were told to prepare for our walk back down. I knew I had to seal this moment somehow; this having been before the invention of camera phones, I figured a souvenir wouldn’t hurt.

The metal coffin chugged, hissed and yawned in its usual broken rhythm and all I could think of, while we moved closer to Babanango, our final destination, was Shaka Zulu would have seen the top of the world in the spoils of his victory.