By Dan Cheetham.

I'd never been on a really long climbing trip, so the idea of three months in Africa with nothing but sun and endless crags was definitely worth giving up my most recent shag for. Knowing little about South Africa apart from what I'd learnt from the 1970's Michael Caine classic (Zulu) I hastily posted off my deposit to an unknown source. Working for her majesty for the past, few months had its benefits, but my fortnightly autograph wasn't going to cover this trip. Like most graduates, I took the next shit job that came along, but the future was clear and the experience of my life, so far, was coming.
Six months later I went to check out the truck we'd be travelling in, after several hours burning oil in my mother's car, I arrived at a barn in the middle of nowhere. I found a couple of lads sleeping in a broken down caravan, living of hobnobs, value lager and Benny hedgehogs. Christ, what had I got into? These boys lived at one with nature, and seemed to have befriended the cows next door. Drifting in and out of a lager haze, they had managed to transform an old articulated truck into an awesome people wagon of biblical proportions. Oh yes, we'd be travelling in style.
Another couple of months down the line, it was time to leave. Wishing my girlfriend (at the time) a happy life, I packed my stuff and hailed my Mothers car to the airport. Twenty-five others were performing similar chores. I sat in the passenger seat chasing the raindrops down the glass and visualising perfect crimps and more action than Rorkes drift.

The Restaurant at the end of the Universe.

The mood was up, the truck bumbled out of the Johannesburg shanty and beer was being swilled. Quick introductions at the airport were being consolidated as the numbers attempted to fit into a complicated jigsaw of personalities. Camps were set up, distinguishable in several forms, climbers and punters, straight or substance abuser, sane or irretrievably insane, there was a friend for everybody on this trip.
Tents are pitched over the head of the valley. The view was of an amazingly fertile land. Rolling hills and craggy outcrops covered in trees and bush split down the middle by a spectacular river.
Out of my tent door, I could see many crags littering the far side of the valley. How could we get there? Had they been climbed on? surely those aren't in the guide. Ignoring the pool and restaurant my immediate instinct was to gather gear, a willing partner and head for the crags.
Four of us scrambled down an unlikely looking bank for half a mile or more, surely the path led across the river to opposing crags. Reaching the valley bed a curse went up as no path was discovered, my first cragging experience in Africa. I was pissed off and thirsty, plus my feet and legs had been cut to shreds by that friendly native scrub. Turning back up the bank, further exclamations, the crags were behind us. Routes ranged from dingy bolt ladders, to stunning riverside walls. My only real gripe was the locals had bolted everything. The majority of climbing consisted of steep walls and technical faces. Features to be looked out for and avoided when possible, lizard crimps, wasp nest jugs and most importantly snaking cracks!
A week here was long enough. People got to know each other, friendships were formed, and a growing doubt about the sanity of some people was slowly confirmed.