by Alison Westwood

History ceased to interest me when I was about thirteen, at around the time of the Great Trek. I cannot blame my history teacher, who was a startling and theatrical woman, much given to throwing her books at her desk and following them onto it in a leonine sprawl, or stalking down the classroom aisles to pounce upon doodling girls and demand of them if they had taken leave of their senses.

Yes, if there was anybody who could have instilled a sense of the drama of the past into the mind of a schoolgirl, it was Mrs. Plovnik. But I think the problem with history in books and classrooms is that it cannot live in books and classrooms. It suffocates, mumbles and dies in their stuffy confines.

I believe that the past lives in the places and hearts of the people who were part of it, and in the people who somehow become part of it.

Becoming a part of history

So when I visited the battlefields in March this year, the long dormant part of my mind that appreciates history - its imaginative muscle atrophied by decades of disuse - was awoken at last.

It was after a long and monumentally scenic drive that we arrived at Isandlwana, just as the sun was setting. I knew nothing about the place, except that a very important battle had been fought there once, and that perhaps it had been between the British and the Zulus, and I suspected that the Zulus might have won.

Despite my ignorance, the strange sphinx-like head of Isandlwana Hill caused me to drop my bags and reach for the camera, my standard reaction to anything that troubles, amazes or arrests me. The battlefield of Isandlwana did all three.

Over the silent and empty plain illuminated with the golden light of evening, and rimmed with steep-sided hills, loomed and lowered the craggy outcrop of Isandlwana. An odd conical knoll standing diffidently off to one side was its awkward companion.

A boy's call in the village below floated up to us, traveling across several kilometers as clearly as a bell. I was covered in goose bumps, but it wasn't cold.

Waiting for the battle to start

I was eager to discover more about what had happened here, hoping to learn what gave the place its compelling gravity, but I had to wait until the morning.

Until then, I had to content myself with gazing at the scene as the sky turned violent shades of vermillion. Later a group of local Zulu dancers and singers performed with equal measures of ardour and skill, giving me some idea of the power of their voices and movement.

I was up early for our battlefields tour as Robert Gerrard, the resident raconteur and historian of Isandlwana Lodge, had informed us that we would start at nine sharp. I was wearing hiking boots and a backpack with only the essentials, as rumour had it we were in for a four hour hike in the hot sun.

Into the maelstrom

I was somewhat taken aback then, when instead of giving us our marching orders, Rob gestured to some comfortable chairs set out on the deck and invited us to take our seats. But we only sat on their edges. For the story Rob told was delivered in a blazing and bloodcurdling tone, in a manner half-way between a horse-racing commentator and a man on the verge of madness. And the story was good.

Watching from the same position as the commander of the Zulu army, we saw Chelmsford and his troops gallop heedlessly away, we heard the useless booming of the guns and watched desperately as a vast swarm of Zulu warriors descended in two horns towards the pathetic picket line of the British camp.

It was perhaps an hour later that Rob stopped. We had lost track of time in the blinding rush of frantic horsemen below us on the plains and the buzzing and ululating of the Zulu war cries resonating on the hill behind us.

Fighting on the losing side

But it wasn't over yet. We were now going to the battlefield itself, to see the fight from the British point of view. (We didn't have to march there though - a Land Rover ride was all we had to endure.) On the saddle of valley, under the frowning brow of Isandlwana hill, we set our chairs in a ring around Rob and hung on his words.

As he spoke, scarlet-coated figures were jumping up from the white cairns under which their bones lay. Once more they stood and then fell together against the mighty wave of the Zulu warriors.

The men fighting on the left flank were masked from us by the black cloud of powder smoke from the guns. The glinting of the British bayonets and the flash of the Zulu spears were all we could make out. Durnford's call to his loyal last men "Come stand round me, men! Come stand round me!” rang in our ears, but was soon silenced.

Past us fled a few British survivors, scared out of their wits. We knew they didn't stand a chance. Around us, cattle and horses were being slaughtered by the Zulus, who had over-run the camp. The screaming of the animals and the stench of death were almost more than I could bear.

I know I wasn't there. But such is the power of a great story well told, and of that remarkable place, that I see it still.

Meeting the people of the sky

It was with a brand new military vocabulary and an unexpected passion for the stories of South Africa's battlefields that I left Isandlwana for different kind of tour: a cultural tour of a Zulu homestead, just across the border from Natal on the Zululand side of the Buffalo River.

The Zululand area of KwaZulu-Natal is much more remote and isolated than you would believe possible in a country as well-developed as South Africa. The people there largely live as they have for centuries, with perhaps a few changes here and there, like access to washing powder and pop-music.

There are plenty of opportunities to experience cultural visits to Zulu villages that are run as tourist attractions. Chief amongst these is probably Shakaland, and there is no denying that it offers a very educational and interesting experience.

But the opportunity to be welcomed into a real Zulu homestead as guests rather than tourists, was something that spoke to the heart of the traveler in me.

Unlike our battlefields tour, this was no walk in the park, however. From Isibindi Zulu Lodge, we set out for an hour-and-a-half long game drive along some very bumpy roads and through some truly lovely scenery.

Across the Buffalo River

When at last we reached the Buffalo River, our hosts set about inflating the river raft we had brought along with us, and then ferried us one by one across the river and into Zululand, where a herd of bored Nguni cows was ignoring us.

We walked towards the village through ragged fields of sorghum and prickly fields of spear-grass. We had not been invited. We had not warned them of our coming. The village has no means of communication with the outside world, and is an hour's walk away from the nearest public road.

Our guide went first, calling loudly to announce our presence, for this is good manners in Zulu culture. We followed cautiously behind, worried in our western way about intruding. We passed discarded shoes, the sad skeleton of an ancient bicycle, and a small rubbish dump topped with withered dagga plants.

The village was fenced off from the fields with a combination of dry stone walling and wonky wire. We entered it by walking under a wire strung with a mysterious collection of bottles and bones. What their purpose was we never discovered, for the village Sangoma was out, and only she knows exactly what her charms accomplish.

We were welcomed by two men of the village and were immediately invited to sit in the shade on a row of schoolroom chairs that must have been set out for the express purpose of receiving guests. A gaggle of children giggled at us and posed shyly under a tree. Enormous cockerels strutted proudly under our chairs.

One of the men brought over a bucket and gourd, sat down in front of us and started drinking a strange liquid that looked a bit like glue with great enthusiasm. Then he filled the gourd again and offered it to us. This was the beer drinking ceremony, our guide explained.

Understanding without words

None of the villagers spoke English and none of us spoke Zulu, so our guide had to translate for all of us. Most of our communicating was done with smiles, gestures and nods and somehow we understood one another very well this way.

The villagers' generosity and goodheartedness dispelled any awkwardness, even when I drank my beer with the wrong hand. Lefties take note: if you are ever offered traditional beer, you should use your right hand to lift the gourd to your mouth. You should not refuse the beer (that would be very rude) and besides, it tastes much better than it looks.

When we entered the sangoma's hut, they were delighted when we sat in the proper manner of Zulu maidens, on grass mats to the left of the door, with our legs folded together to the right. Goodness knows how the Zulu maidens manage. It's extremely uncomfortable. The men sat on the other side of the hut on chairs, or on a raised seat covered in cowhides.

It was dark and cool inside the hut. Strange objects dangled from the roof, which was black from the smoke of many fires. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out an enormous python skin about four or five metres long, stretching over the entire domed ceiling. The villagers told us they had caught this python down by the river we had crossed.

Strong medicine and strange charms

Hanging above me I also noticed a big tin kettle, plastic jars of 'Gentle Magic' face cream, blankets, feathers, skins and bones, cans, bottles, cow horns, porcupine quills, a stirrup, a peacock skull and even a scooter helmet.

One of the skins had belonged to a clawless otter, a species now all but extinct. The villagers explained that if you take a small piece of otter skin and wear it under your clothes, you will become bullet-proof.

A man lifted his shirt to show us a beaded lanyard he wore with an otter skin amulet. Secretly, we lamented the otter, but even more secretly I acknowledged I might do the same if I shared this belief.

There was magic and medicine all around us, if we could only believe it. There was medicine to bring rain, and medicine to chase the rain away. There were toxic roots to bring you luck or love.

One medicine could fix anything that was wrong with your body, another would simply make you sneeze. Porcupine quills are used for acupuncture and ground-up ground hornbill bones are used as tranquilisers and a charm against lightning.

All around the village perimeter were charms to keep away the lightning and the tokoloshes. Inside the huts were offerings of curdled milk and beer to the ancestors.

All that we've left behind

The villagers gently showed us around and shared something of their lives with us. They expected nothing in return. They were preparing for a wedding that was to be held that afternoon, but had shown no trace of hurry or annoyance at our unexpected visit.

We walked back through the fields of bored cows, paddled back across the Buffalo River, drove back along the bumpy track, back into the present. Dragon flies, butterflies and the spirits of the ancestors fluttered behind us.

Now I'm in the city again, where there is no magic. Where the past is ignored and the dead and their deeds stay buried and forgotten. Where we don't have the time to welcome strangers. We think we have so much. But if you go to Zululand and the Battlefields and travel back in time there, you'll know how much we've left behind.

Experience this for yourself

For your own encounter with the Zulus and the British at Isandlwana, you can stay at either Isandlwana Lodge (overlooking Isandlwana) or at Fugitive's Drift Lodge (near Rorke's Drift). You'll need to stay at least two nights, because the Isandlwana tour is usually done in the morning, and the Rorke's Drift tour in the afternoon (mirroring the times of the battles themselves).

For another gripping and emotional tale of battle, valour and vanity, you absolutely must stay at Three Trees at Spioenkop, where you can experience a tour of the Spioenkop battlefield as well as good old-fashioned hospitality and some superb food.

For a cultural experience, you can't do better than Isibindi Zulu Lodge, where the lodge managers are quite gaga over Zulu culture and have forged friendships and partnerships with the local Zulu community. Once again, you'll need to stay at least two nights if you want to go on the visit to the Zulu Homestead, as it takes a full day.

It might also interest you to know that you can combine your battlefields and cultural experiences with a Big Five safari, and the Nambiti Reserve is a good option for that. When we were there we only had time for one game drive, but we did see rhino up close, as well as plains game like eland, zebra and wildebeest. There are several lodge options in this private reserve, but the one we liked most was Umzolozolo, because it was the most intimate and is superbly located.

Our short tour of the battlefields area was no more than a brief introduction to this rich and varied destination. If you have the time and the inclination, there is much more to see and explore, and our travel experts can help you find it.

Enquire with one of our travel experts now

Article © Copyright 2007 Go2Africa.

Print this page |  Send to a friend

Related content