Incult: coarse, uncultured (Merriam-Webster)

Whit and I decided, after much deliberation and head scratching, ideas offered and retracted in the same breath, on an investigative hike on Table Mountain as the center piece of our weekend, along with, of course, our customary celebration at the Armchair upon safe arrival in town. Nothing compliments an exhausting day in the African sun like a pint of Windhoek, a habit re-enforced after taking a particularly nasty fall bull-dogging down Lion’s Head on one of our countless outings. Taking my lead from Whit, who employed the dirtiest of tricks, questioning my manhood, poking fun at the chinks in my armor where fear and concern seeped through, prodded me into a speedy decent that quickly turned chaotic and uncontrollable. It wasn’t long after our arrival at the pub that I was able to laugh at the tumble with Whit, who had been taking the piss out of me since I came limping down the trail, bleeding and swearing loudly at the absurdity of the idea. What I really needed at the time, to nurse my bruised ego, and body, back to health, was the soft, feminine touch of the fairer sex, what I got in its stead was an ice-cold glass of fix it all.

We had heard rumors during our nightly outings to the Armchair, a pub on Lower High Street in Observatory, substantiated by a few outdoorsy regulars, that large reservoirs are hidden on the mountain to ensure Cape Town’s water security, on obscure, but easily visible trails. Whit, being the consument adventurer, took the bait and was quick to offer this as an alternative when we had run through our list of normal excursions, promising a unique experience in discovering a sought after locale, as opposed to our recent trend of blind exploration. This, of course, wouldn’t be our first time on the mountain, or even our fifth; in fact, we spent a considerable amount of time in the urban South African countryside. Whit had me beat though, he had been interning at a winery, where the owner was caught in the past – an old Afrikaner who hadn’t moved away from the harmful racist  terms and treatment of his employees of another era, leading Whit to excuse himself from the owner’s presence almost indefinitely. It was such a shame as Whit loves wine. This, though, provided him with the needed excuse to explore, unmolested by the presence of those who might prove contradictory to his daily ambitions.

Read the rest here: Getting the Bends

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