The road up to the cemetery is a bumpy jeep track, the deep red earth running like a fresh wound up the mountain. Critically endangered grassland on the one side and pine plantations on the other – the dichotomy, the polarity of life is once again apparent. Views up here are apparently breath-taking, but in this moment I was deep in the clouds.
The mist swirls, reducing my world to a magical little secret garden. Under towering trees covered in old man’s beard, heavy water drops land on my head. The psychedelic magenta of an azalea bush appears, bold and bright against the subdued greys and greens, only to recede again as you move on. One could be forgiven for feeling that you are sleepwalking in a surreal dream, with visions appearing and fading…. always surrounded by the swirling mists.
As I wander, ancient, weathered headstones covered in lichen and moss come into focus. But the names are lost to eternity. Even in this final resting place of the dead, individuality is ceded. The blossoms of a crab apple tree slowly drift to the ground, creating a snow of petals – lily white with the palest blush of pink. A world lost in the mists of time. Not eerie – just peaceful. The scent of jasmine hangs heavy in the air, combining with the aroma of rain on the African soil. Feeling the reverence, I take my time…
When I eventually leave, the plantations loom large behind the cemetery. Their needle-covered floor absorbs even more sound. The distinctive scent of pine, sweet, sharp and refreshing, wafts on the gentle breeze. On the fringes, the fresh lime-coloured fern leaves are unfurling… emphasizing the fact that new life is everywhere. From somewhere deep in a valley of ancient indigenous forest, the call of a purple crested lourie resonates.
The mist, the proximity of the dead and the presence of new life. A garden of the circle of life. We arrive in this world, usually to great fanfare, completely ignorant of the Smörgåsbord of life that awaits us. Some, rather unfortunately, die still blithely unaware. So little time, so much to experience. We depart this earth with equal ceremony. The real question is what did you do with the time between?
As I gaze across the final resting place of so many, I can feel my heartbeat. As a gentle breeze plays with my hair, I am aware of the blood pumping though my veins. As the cold mist touches my warm cheek, I feel vitally alive.
A thought flits through my mind, that the dead are urging us to celebrate the fullness of life, their long-forgotten heartbeats like a gentle drumbeat – urging one to dance to the rhythm of this wonderful life we have been blessed with.
Dance, little lady, dance! The time is but fleeting…
ENDS