A Cradle of Rivers [antikvár]

Introduction How often in the course of our travels through the midlands of Natal have we not stopped to gazé at the beauty of a distant rangé of mountains? High above the rolling grasslands, a great mountain wall, the Natal Drakensberg, stands as a monument to one of the greatest cataclysms the Earth has experienced, and because this timeless, immovable mass withstood all the forces of erosion, it has survived to witness somé of the greatest events in the history of South Africa. Through the distant hazy blues and purples of a shadowed sky one can just see a dim outline of rugged peaks and valleys but, as you approach the great wall and your view of the massive rock formations sharpens, you begin to realise why it was that the early Zulus called it "Quathlamba", which means a "Barrier of Up-pointed Spears". Erosion has carved the walls of time into a delicate mass of sculptures in the form of buttresses, peaks, columns, spires and pinnacles. On these heights, which seem to touch the sky, many of South Africa's rivers are born, soon to crash down the mountain, falling, cascading, everrushing on their way to the oceans. Ask these streams as they gurgle from their cradles and you will hear the story of the mountains - a story of a geological period unknown to man - where one can go back to an era when prehistoric animals roamed the Earth, to a time when the Earth shook and trembled as molten lava poured out from its fiery interior and covered vast areas. No sooner had the red glow faded from the sky than dark storm clouds appeared on the distant horizon. Like the tongues of demons the flashes of lightning struck the surface followed by the wind and torrential rain, determined to destroy it. Millions of years passed as the elements tore into the volcanic cap, creating valleys and rivers until all that was left was the mighty rangé of mountains we know as Natal Drakensberg and the rolling grasslands of Natal. Peace came at last to the mountain. Soon wild animals found rich pastures in this paradise where they roamed until the day came when a stream reflected the face of a strange creature, a man, never seen before. Bushmen stepped out of the mists and settled in the deep river valleys, where they lived and hunted. On the walls of their primitive rock shelters they painted these animals, thus leaving a message for the archaeologists to interpret. Ask the crystal-clear streams as they rush through the gorges and you will hear tales about the arrival of the Black Man when these streams flowed red with blood in times of war, followed by pillage, and even cannibalism. More than a hundred thousand people died in this era. Then, as their bones lay scattered over the veid, bleached by the hot African sun, the creak-and-rattle of ox-wagons announced that men from Europe, men with pink skins and blue eyes, had arrived on the scene. Hear the drama of how a complete race was wiped off the face of the earth defending what they believed to be their own. Lie next to the mountain stream and listen to the song of the mountains - the song of the flowers, heavy with dew, dancing in the wind and nodding to the morning sun, or the song of the birds as they greet the verdure of Spring. Venture into the remote valleys or stand on a peak at sunrise or sunset, after snow has fallen, and you will hear a song that you will never forget - the Song of the High Mountains.