by Ning Cai
“Okay, so two vacationing city girls are in the woods jogging with their iPods, when one sees a set of tracks on the ground. ‘Oooh, isn’t that cute! Bunny tracks!’ They continue on and later, the other girl spots another set of tracks on the ground. ‘Cool, check out those deer tracks!’
As they reached a clearing, both noticed a set of tracks coming out from a big, dark cave right in front of them. ‘Duh! Raccoon tracks, no doubt about it!’ but the other shakes her head. ‘No way! Like, hello, these are definitely bear tracks!’ So they stand there, arguing about it for an hour and then...”
Pam looked at me, expectantly, waiting for it.
“... they both get run over by the train.”
The BFF sighed and rolled her eyes at me, but laughed in spite of herself.
Just then, our cave guide appeared, with three German tourists in tow. Smartly dressed in his neat khaki uniform, Ngundila smiled warmly and welcomed us in his deliciously thick South African accent. After Ngundila laid out the rules – that we had to stick close together and never damage or remove anything from the caves – we gleefully began our adventure, stepping out of the harsh noon daylight and into the cool mysterious depths of the dark Cango Caves.
“The amazing interior chambers of the Cango Caves were discovered in 1780, by a man named Jacobus Van Zyl,” Ngundila explained as he confidently led the way. “He was in charge of looking after his master’s flock but one sheep went missing. Suspecting that it ventured into the Cango and was now lost, Jacobus decided to venture into the cave to look for it. He never found the small animal, but Jacobus found this instead...”
Ngundila gestured to the amazing sight before us, an incredible formation of limestone rock that had taken millions of years to develop. “Welcome to the Van Zyl Hall, named after the very man who discovered the Cango Caves.”
Massive stalactites and stalagmites stood impressively in the grand chamber that extended to a network of chambers, narrow passages and dark tunnels. A fascinating formation of dripstone and flowstone greeted us. The entire place looked stunning. The BFF and I just looked stunned.
“Van Zyl’s Hall measures about 90 metres long, 50 metres wide and about 18 metres high,” Ngundila pointed. “Look! That is Cleopatra’s Needle, it is still active and growing, even though it is at least 150,000 years old.”
The tall, slender stalagmite rose up ten metres towards the grey-blue ceiling.
“Oh my,” Pam gasped, pointing to another impressive limestone formation that looked like magnificently sculptured angel wings. “Nature is such an artist.”
“Yes, in fact, can you also spot Moses?” Ngundila gestured with a smile. “If you use a bit of imagination, you can see the prophet’s brown robes and his arms outstretched in prayer to God.”
I squinted hard but all I could see was a camel. The excited Germans seemed to have spotted the biblical dude who so famously divided the Red Sea, so I kept quiet about my camel.
Ngundila led us through Botha’s Hall and we felt immensely dwarfed inside the magnificent Throne Room. I suddenly felt like a young Bilbo Baggins in JRR Tolkien’s book The Hobbit, when he found himself all alone inside a massive cave with extensive networks that seemed to go on forever.
Next we moved through four interior chambers, stopping suddenly in a tight, dimly-lit area. I couldn’t see Ngundila very well in the dark but I definitely caught the flash of his big smile.
“Now my friends, we finally begin the real adventure.” Our caving guide shone his torch to a spot beside him and then slowly up towards the ceiling, highlighting the two hundred plus steps we had to climb. “Up Jacob’s Ladder we go.”
Pam and I scrambled to follow behind a fast-moving Ngundila, with the Germans behind us. My heart pounded with excitement, thrilled at our very own little caving experience. Sure, it was nowhere close to Jules Verne’s epic Journey to the Centre of the Earth, but it would do. For now.
When everyone had finally ambled up the tall narrow steps, Ngundila waved us over and we followed him through The Grand Hall. Amazing limestone structures were pointed out to us in Lot’s Chamber, named after the biblical event where God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt. There was also a hollowed-out stalagmite called King Arthur’s Throne, and it once again reminded me of a cave scene in The Hobbit.
“Please mind your heads,” Ngundila bellowed before disappearing into Lumbago Alley, a 90-metre long tunnel that had a roof only about a metre high. Moving behind our cave guide, the pint-sized BFF was deft in navigating the small confines and spaces. The tall German guy behind me swore loudly when he bumped his head against solid rock.
The uneven ground was slippery, but my trusty Timberland hiking shoes did their job well. Pressing my palms against the sharp rock walls around me, I crouched low and did my best to follow quickly after Pam.
Emerging from the cramp tunnel, I gasped at the sight before me. I had never seen anything like this before.
We were in some sort of hanging crystal garden – the interior of the limestone cave was beautifully adorned with ice-like crystals and artistically-contorted helictites. A light to the left revealed a translucent crystal wall.
I felt like we had entered some unreal Middle Earth fantasy, where hobbits, goblins, elves, dragons and other magical folk could actually co-exist with us.
“Now we head into King Solomon’s Mines,” Ngundila grinned, leading the way down the cellar-like steps into the cavern. “Things get more exciting from there.”
After the last of us jumped off the remaining steps of the slippery old iron ladder, our cave guide pointed to a narrow slit in the rock. “We call this the Tunnel of Love for good reason. It’s 74cm high and it narrows down to 30cm. Let’s go!”
Ngundila crawled into the tight crevice and disappeared. The BFF headed in after him. I followed after and couldn’t help but smile at the fun challenge, and the very suggestive name.
It wasn’t a straightforward tunnel. You had to navigate your body around limestone rocks and press parts of yourself against the walls while you go slip-sliding along. The space enclosing us got tighter and the space smaller so it was extremely easy for someone with claustrophobia to freak out, and a stocky person to get stuck and panic.
“Scheiße!” The tall German behind me swore yet again as he struck his head against the low ceiling of the tunnel we were squeezing through. I stifled a giggle as I hauled myself up and out.
“You’re fast!” I huffed as I high-fived Pam.
“Being small has its advantages,” the BFF beamed brightly. Standing at the height of my ear, the thin Ngundila also laughed good-naturedly.
It took a while for the German boy behind me to finally emerge from the passageway, and then another few moments before his two friends followed suit. I suddenly recalled history books detailing how Vietnamese underground passageways were small and just fitting for the local Asian soliders, so American troops could not use their complicated underground networks the same way they could.
“Now that everyone is out of the Tunnel of Love, I should tell you this,” our caving guide paused dramatically. “A few years ago, a chubby American tourist got stuck inside that very passageway you just came out of. The terrified woman tried to force her way through the tunnel, but that just made her body swell up even more.”
We fidgeted uncomfortably in silence but our caving guide went on. Ngundila looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much. I scowled.
“So because this cave is a one-way system using the same entrance and exit, those who had gone in before her were also stuck inside the Cango. They had no food, no bathroom, no water. For over ten hours no one could get out, until her swelling went down and we managed to finally get the woman out.”
I looked around, glad the lot of us were all skinny. Ngundila caught my eye and laughed. “Now, shall we proceed?”
We passed the Ice Chamber, where a shallow pool was all that was left from a time long, long ago. Climbing up a steep bump that felt strangely wet a
nd slippery, we moved cautiously on the uneven floor of the massive cave until we reached what seemed like a dead end.
Scooting down, Ngundila turned and gleefully pointed at a tiny hole, less than half a metre wide. “This is the Devil’s Chimney. See you on the other side!”
“What the...” My eyes went wide when the nimble South African vanished into the dark hole, leaving the rest of us alone. The Germans started murmuring to each other.
Going down on our knees, Pam and I tried to figure out where Ngundila went. Adjusting our eyes to the dark confines of the hole, we realised that it was a really small and cramped space and as I stretched out my hand, I could feel the other side of the solid rock wall.
As we craned our necks to peer up, we realised how the Devil’s Chimney got its name. It was a steep shaft that appeared to go on forever. A small pinprick of light filtered down from the very top.
“Okay, here goes,” Pam huffed as she started her vertical climb up the narrow shaft. I crawled backwards out of the hole to give the BFF space to manoeuvre. Pam’s moans and groans were amplified as she scrambled up the tight chimney. She suddenly gave a startled yell. “Shit! I almost fell!”
“Be careful, Pam!” I yelled into the big black space. There was no response from the BFF but after a moment, I heard her feet shuffle and move again, and knew she was all right.
Half a minute had passed and I decided it was safe for me to start climbing up the Devil’s Chimney. It was dark in there and the cool stones felt slippery. Using both my hands and feet, I quickly realised that I had to use my sense of touch more than that of sight. What I was doing seemed quite like rock climbing and the voice of Yu Seung, my Via Ferrata instructor, suddenly came to me.
Use your whole body to move yourself up Ning, especially your legs. Don’t just rely on arm power. Take your time, move slowly and surely. Don’t rush it.
I managed to climb up nearly three metres when I felt my right foot suddenly shoot off the smooth slippery rock I was trying to push myself up on. Both my hands had been pressed against the jagged sides of the narrow chimney and I felt the sharp rocks scrape deeply into my palms as I pushed outwards to stop my rapid slide down the vertical shaft.
Tears instantly sprung to my eyes and the flesh of my palms buzzed, hot and angry pain signals shooting up to my brain. The hairs on my neck were standing on end and my heart raced to my throat. I blinked back tears to clear my vision, willing myself to calm down and breathe. “Ow.”
Thankfully, my left foot still had a steady footing on a lower slab of rock. Gritting my teeth, I reached up again and continued making my way up the dark shaft. I could hear the loud grunts of the German guy behind me as he moved in the darkness somewhere further down.
The chimney seemed to stretch on forever. When I finally emerged, feeling like Indiana Jones, the BFF lent me a hand and pulled me out of the hole. My palms still had the deep indentions where uneven rocks had marked me when I jabbed my palms to stop my unexpected vertical slide, but luckily there were no cuts.
I looked around and found us standing inside a large chamber with only a small slit of an opening near a high ledge, like the prison window of a cell without a door. My eyes grew wide in realisation that I was looking at our only point of exit. Ngundila nodded slowly with his hands on his hips. “That’s the Post Box.”
“But how?” Pam demanded. The opening was about 20cm high and it seemed impossible to squeeze through.
“You wiggle through it on your back, or your front. Whatever works for you,” Ngundila laughed gleefully. “It’s like a rebirth experience. But once again, mind your head!”
We watched as Ngundila got on his back and scooted down the tight confines like it was a familiar friend. His legs went into the hole first, then his torso, and finally his shoulders and head.
Behind us, the German guy gasped. He had popped his head out of the hole just in time to witness Ngundila disappear into the incredibly tiny slot in the wall of the cave. “Scheiße!”
“Shiza it is all right,” I murmured as I watched the BFF, who was now trying to get in position. Instead of lying on her back like our caving guide, Pam chose to crawl on her front so she could see better.
I watched the BFF tentatively shuffle her butt down and slowly, her hands disappeared into the hole, followed by her head, shoulders, body and, finally, her legs. They were sticking out straight and it felt strange watching Pam’s little legs disappear swiftly, as if she was being sucked in by a ravenously hungry best friend-eating alien life force, which had secretly been living in these caves for the last billion years.
With a gulp, I decided to get on my front instead of my back. As I crawled, I was surprised to find the limestone surface relatively smooth. Keeping my head low, I manoeuvred my body and headed towards the tiny slot I’d watched my best friend disappear into. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity. As an escape artist and magician, I spend a lot of time in small confines and illusion boxes.
Moving like a soldier on all fours, inching towards the Devil’s Post Box, I grunted as I squeezed myself into the insanely tight space. My arms flailed when I realised that there was suddenly no solid ground under me. I started sliding down on my stomach, my legs swiftly joining the rest of my body past the wall of the tiny crevice I’d slipped through. “Whoa!”
“Smile!” the BFF laughed as she snapped a totally unglamorous shot of me as I landed, limbs sprawled at an awkward angle.
“The Cango Caves are massive, but I’m afraid this is as far as we go, my friends,” Ngundila announced when everyone finally tumbled out of the crevice in the wall. “Explorers and researchers have gone further, but that requires special caving equipment and water pumps to drain pools. No one really knows how far the network of caves go, but it’s been estimated to run very long and deep.”
As Ngundila led us back the same way we came in, I felt a pang of regret that we could not continue our journey, but the day had already yielded quite an adventure and I was thankful to be able to experience crawling through the deep underbelly of the Cango Caves. When we stumbled out into the bright afternoon sun, we checked the time and realised that only less than two hours had gone by.
“This feels so surreal,” Pam blinked at the bright sun. I completely understood what the BFF meant. The front of my clothes were damp with wet clay from the floor of the caves, and my palms still hurt from the scrapes during my fall, but I felt strangely Zen and centred... zen-tred.
Our caving guide left us after we tipped him generously, and we slowly made our way back to our Hertz rental car. I grinned at the BFF, who was fishing for the keys. “Hey, do you know the one about the bat in the cave?”
“No, let’s hear it.”
“So two bats were hanging out in their cave, chatting about their day as usual, when they suddenly noticed their friend abnormally standing up on the floor of the cave. Confused and curious, they asked her what she was doing and the bat replied...”
Pam looked at me suspiciously from the corner of her eye. “What?”
“Yoga!”
“NING!!!!”
Ning on all fours in Cango Caves.
Pam leading the way into the Tunnel of Love.
19
accidental crossings
South Africa · September 2011
PAM
I turned to look over my shoulder at the sound of heavy boots walking into the cozy warmly-lit lobby. A buxom middle-aged woman in a blue jacket with a Sheriff’s badge greeted Bev, the owner of At the Woods Guesthouse where Ning and I were staying. Behind her stood a tall man dressed in a pair of technician’s work pants. He looked dishevelled and visibly shaken. After a quick exchange with Bev, the policewoman left, leaving the man standing there in the lobby looking a little lost.
Ning and I had just arrived at Storm River Village in Tsitsikamma, the furthermost point of our self-drive in South Africa’s breathtaking Garden Route. It was a chilly evening. Ning had wandered upstairs to browse through the guesthouse’
s collection of books and wind down after a long day’s drive. I remained in the lobby to check out some brochures and to chat with Bev about what we could possibly do the next day.
As I was flipping through a brochure on Tsitsikamma National Park, I overheard the man relating to Bev that he had been in an unfortunate accident in which a little boy was killed... by him. My breath caught as I found my gaze darting up to check him out.
He was a tall, athletic Caucasian man in his 40s, with a rugged face and kind eyes. He did not carry any luggage with him, which was odd. I later found out that he was a service technician based in Cape Town. He travelled cross-country extensively in his job and he was returning to Cape Town after one of his assignments when the accident happened.
“He was only about five, and he suddenly dashed across the road in front of me,” he explained to Bev as he filled up his registration form at the counter. “He didn’t even turn to look at me, he just ran straight ahead.”
I could hear the weariness in his voice, and I felt my heart go out to him. He seemed to need to talk to someone about what he had just gone through and I felt almost guilty about eavesdropping on his conversation with Bev, so I quietly slipped out of the lobby and scampered upstairs to look for the BFF.
When we were in the privacy of the Internet room, uploading photos on our “Adventures of 2 Girls” Facebook page, I related the incident to Ning. I just had to get it out of my system because the man’s words hung in the air, like a speech bubble that refused to pop.
“He must be traumatised,” Ning said, shaking her head slowly. “I can’t imagine...”
“Yah, it will be so hard for him to sleep tonight. He sounded so sad,” I added softly, imagining how I’d feel if I had killed a child moments ago.