It was a neighbour’s invitation to a “post-lockdown pop-up exhibition” that triggered this train of thought. “Post-lockdown?” Really? In fairness, it’s an easy slip to make, and that in itself is scary.

Like many South Africans, we have close family on the other side of the world. In our case, this means a daughter, son-in-law and two fun-filled young grandchildren in New Zealand. We were able to get over there in December 2019, and, with retirement, to extend our stay beyond the start of the SA school year. 

It had always been a dream to take a campervan and tour the South Island, and when our son-in-law returned to work after the Christmas/New Year break, we took the ferry from Wellington and loaded our daughter and the children into a mobile home to try a short trip along the north coast of South Island.

As a visitor to the country, you never really get used to the tsunami and earthquake warning signs on display. In Wellington, there’s an added edge: painted tsunami warning markers on the streets. If the sirens sound, you need to be further inland than these strangely, matter-of-fact reminders of a potentially devastating event. 

In the magnificent Te Papa museum, interactive displays such as the earthquake house, the tsunami model and a video simulation of how a tsunami would wash over the Wellington CBD, are clever, novel to participate in, and unsettling. 

There’s a lot of “when, not if” talk about earthquakes and possible resultant tsunamis. To add to our heightened awareness of this ever-present threat, the volcano on White island (Whakaari) in the Bay of Plenty had erupted, claiming the lives of 21 people just as we had arrived in the country.

One of the sites we visited on our campervan trip was an idyllic spot right on the endless golden sands near Tukurua. It is astonishingly beautiful. Two balmy days were spent roaming the beach with the grandchildren, building log bridges over the rippling stream that flows out on to the sands, and countless Pooh-stick races. It was life at its simple best.

But for me, deep in the small hours of the night, when the van shuddered ever so slightly as to be imaginary – or possibly just someone turning over in one of the beds – my mind started to race. 

I was intensely aware that we were no more than a few metres from the sea. That it was dark. That we were in the confined sleeping space above the driving compartment. That we’d have only a few minutes to react. That getting out of the bunk bed entailed a stiff and ungainly process that could not be rushed. That there was one narrow dirt road out of the campsite. That there were dozens of other campers who would jam that exit if the worst happened. That we were not in a nippy getaway vehicle.

The remainder of the night was spent imagining distant groans from the earth and closer trembles from the depths of the van. 

In 2004, when the Boxing Day tsunami smashed into 14 countries and claimed thousands of lives, the world watched in horror as amateur videos made the unimaginable real. 

Articles subsequently spoke of islanders, birds and animals having headed inland, away from the shoreline. They’d recognised the signs: deep, prolonged quaking, and, most unsettling of all, that vast sucking drawback of the sea, exposing acres of seabed to the open air, as the monster gathered its strength for the carnage to follow. 

Naïve tourists, lacking the locals’ insight, were drawn far on to the sands to examine stranded creatures. I guess a combination of natural curiosity and a misguided sense that normality had been restored was what led to their tragic demise as 30m waves darkened the horizon and roiled in with such speed and devastating impact. The locals had had some sense of what was still to come. The strangers did not have the benefit of past learning.

Thankfully, earthquakes that cause tsunamis are rare. As are pandemics. Therein, though, lies the rub. 

We don’t recognise the signs that they’re coming, and we don’t really know how to cope when they’re upon us. We cling to the normal we had, and when the uncontrollable – the unthinkable – destroys that normal, we believe it’s only a matter of time before the fracture will heal and everything will settle back into a familiar and comfortable pattern, as if we run this place.

Now is the most dangerous time. Guys, we are just about as remote as you can get in the Western Cape mountains. This is where people get themselves into trouble, because they think the danger is behind them. It isn’t. Do not get careless. We are by no means safe until we reach the top of the ridge.

Which brings me to the second metaphor. 

Most of us who’ve been in education for a long time will have bumped into a past pupil who asks, “Do you remember when you said…?” or “Do you remember when you did…?” They follow that with something along the lines of “You have no idea of the impact that had on me!” Sometimes, “That changed my life!”

Of course, they’re right. You actually have no idea of the impact your statement or action had. In fact, very often, you don’t remember the interaction at all. But it was important to them and that, to me as a teacher, is the main thing.

When I was in my early twenties, a group of us were invited by Colin Inglis, pioneering climber of the 1960s, on a week-long kloofing trip down the Witels River close to Ceres. There were five of us and the route would take us up Jan du Toitskloof, over a watershed ridge from where we would drop down into the Witels gorge, pretty near the source of the river. We’d then spend four days lazily hiking, fishing, swimming and camping in this utterly breathtaking valley.

The Jan du Toitskloof access, though, involves a couple of edgy sections, first on a fixed rope up a slab of stone at the side of a waterfall, and then a short but exposed rock scramble right at the top of the kloof. 

The waterfall clamber came and went without incident, and soon we found ourselves circling higher through scrubby trees clinging to rocky outcrops until we arrived at a ledge which must be about the size of a generous three-seater sofa. It was from this ledge that we would tackle the final pitch out of the gorge. 

As this was the only bit of risky climbing, Colin had brought along about thirty metres of light parachute cord, rather than lug a heavy climbing rope for the four remaining easy days of the hike. Colin would lead, belay himself, and throw down the cord. We were to follow one at a time. I was to climb last, as my role was to check that each of the other three guys was properly tied on, see them off up the pitch, catch the cord from above and tie on a rucksack, which would then be pulled up. This meant that I spent about two hours busy on that ledge.

Some of the time was spent reaching up to catch the light cord being tossed about by the wind or snagging on brush or rocks above the ledge. By rock-climbing standards, this is a big ledge – some might say a very comfortable ledge. The pitch itself can’t involve much more than a straightforward climb of about six metres. It all felt fairly safe, despite the airy chasm below.

But when a stuff bag detached itself from one of the last rucksacks being hauled up, and tumbled past my head into the void, crashing now… and then… and again… with diminishing loudness… until one final, very faint thump and silence, I became suddenly very aware of just how exposed we all were. 

The quiet from the gorge below matched our silence and certainly heightened our senses. Even 45 years later, I recall sitting alone, waiting for my turn to climb and offering up a prayer: “Oh Lord, please just let me see Saturday!”

I remember the tunnel vision that adrenaline induces as I set off up the pitch and I remember the flood of relief on joining the others on the relative safety of the steep grass slope above the climb.

As we chattered away like kids on a Christmas morning, Colin snapped at us: “Look at me now! Shut up! Look at me!” His uncharacteristic tone seized our full attention. 

“Now is the most dangerous time. Guys, we are just about as remote as you can get in the Western Cape mountains. This is where people get themselves into trouble, because they think the danger is behind them. It isn’t. Do not get careless. We are by no means safe until we reach the top of the ridge.” 

We listened to Colin Inglis not just because of his decades of tough mountaineering experience, or his age. It was more than that. His leadership was relational. His admonition had our best interests at heart, and, like those unintentional influential moments that are recalled by our pupils, Colin’s caveat has stayed with me to this day. 

The darkest hour may be the one before dawn, during which our senses are on high alert. The complacency that can accompany the sunrise is when we are often most at risk. More climbers die descending from Everest than they do on the way up.

And so, here we are. South Africa’s second Covid-19 surge is abating. Our children return to school in a few days. The curfew is extended. Alcohol is back on sale. Restaurants – some anyway – are filling and functioning. 

Some clergy are demanding that greater numbers be allowed to pack their places of worship. Seaside pools are crowded, and we’re back on the beach in our droves thanks – or probably no thanks, actually – to misguided maskless idiots eager for their moment in the limelight. And now, “post-lockdown pop-ups”.  

Around the world, Covid-19 infection rates continue to rise and new mutations are baffling scientists. Borders are closed. Countries have elected to re-impose stringent measures to curb social interaction. Our own winter is not far off, and our vaccine roll-out is on pause. We have a long way to go. We have a great deal to learn – if we care to do so. 

Right now, though, I fear that too many of us are like those tourists out there on that vast, eerily silent expanse of exposed seabed, or chattering misguidedly like excited kids on the slopes above a 100-metre chasm.

Someone needs to remind us that we’re by no means out of danger yet. 

Hopefully, one day, the phrase “post-lockdown” will actually mean “post-lockdown”, but that will depend on a common sense that is, unfortunately, far from common. DM

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