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THE GREYTON POST
JUL /AUGUST 2025
Watch the Galloping Gazelles Over Pondoland O n the 25-05-25, I found myself standing bleary-eyed outside Mays Lane at 3am, waiting for snack bag?” and “Do I need two buffs for tomorrow?” Minnie and I might have invented suitcase charades by day three. Nicia, our pace-setting queen, walked like she was late for a fire. She only slowed for Vaseline-ing our feet or Dee De Kock Or ...How Eleven Slightly Clueless but Highly Determined Humans From Greyton Took on the Wild Coast Roadside Remedies from his garage in main road.
That first evening we hiked a full kilometre (yes, after the 8-hour drive) to the local restaurant, dodging car washes, roadside feasts, and music that sounded like a wedding and a nightclub had a lovechild. From there, the walk began. Pondoland is a place of cinematic beauty — think Little House on the Prairie meets Indiana Jones . Sweeping grasslands, dramatic rocky cliffs, sunrises that could cure sadness, and selfie stick moments galore. I practically had mine surgically attached. Highlights included cattle standing serenely in the surf (a spa day for cows?), two waterfalls crashing directly into the sea (two of only 16 in the world), and Pondo — our honorary 12th member. This dog snuck into our hut each night, lovingly smuggled in by Michelle. We all fell in love... only to discover he’s not homeless. Nope. He’s been starring in guest reviews for years. Played us all. Total con-artist. Still a mensch. Ria, our designated sick-leave queen, was missed on the hills, but came back strong with surprise cold bubbles after a brutal day. The squeals of joy were heard all the way to the next village. Rod, our Shabeen Scout, accompanied by Estelle, our best trip organiser eva, located alcohol at every stop, and now has official Greyton support to open Rod’s
dragging Rod — who ignored all blister advice and paid the price (beer goggles don’t prevent chafing). Nights were a roar of laughter, Les’s snappy new designer underwear, Paula’s long-drop hacks, and Sita — our lone non-Greytonian — who fitted in so well we might just adopt her. Sakkie, our patient guide, was brilliant... until we arrived at his village. Suddenly, all rest breaks disappeared and we were virtually frog-marched up and over the hills. We now know why: he’s newly married. Say no more. In the end, we walked for miles, laughed till we cried, and forged friendships from once acquaintances through every muddy river and steep hill. If you’ve ever doubted whether you could do a trail — just remember, I went, and I don’t like exercise. I own Deezil the husky, a walking machine, and still prefer to admire fitness from a comfy chair. But Pondoland? It changed something. It filled my soul, toned my calves (a bit), and left me with a heart full of memories and a lot of new friends! To the brave, the blistered, and the beautifully mad — here’s to the next adventure!
my lift to the airport. Greyton clearly hadn’t gone to bed—if the thumping music from the Township was anything to go by, it was still very much the night before! Our ragtag group met at Bootleggers for an essential hit of early morning coffee. Minnie and I, being complete rookies to the whole “trail thing” , packed our suitcases with more “just in case” items than actual clothes. Our 26kg bags caused several eye-roll injuries to our fellow walkers, who clearly knew better. Fast forward to East London, and we were squashed into a taxi with a trailer that looked like it had swallowed a camping store. Minnie, now in full hiking mode, tucked into her entire snack ration for the day before we’d even left the airport parking lot. After three hours of bumpy travel, we stopped at the local TOPS (because, priorities) to stock up on some much- needed adult hydration for the five-day trek. And then — drama! The taxi had a flat tyre. The spare was useless without the right-sized spanner, which we didn’t have. Enter Claire: young, blonde, and armed with charm and clear instructions. She went off into the car park, batted her lashes, and came back victorious with a size 17 spanner and a team of helpers. Mensch move, Claire. Total mensch. Eight hours (and about eleven toilet stops) later, we finally arrived. We had been told it was a four-hour drive — someone clearly measures time in Transkei minutes . The real shock came when we realised there was no one to help us lug our over-packed suitcases across the rough terrain. No porters. No wheelbarrows. Just the sheer force of will and our gym sessions from earlier that month — thank heavens we did squats. Our nightly ritual became a hilarious unpack-repack dance, shouting across the hut things like, “Have you seen my
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