Dear old Ken died too soon. His tours were hugely educational – and such fun. You had to listen carefully or you’d miss his wicked Sergeant-Major little asides and throw-away comments. We should have recorded them all. Well, here’s one, anyway.
We walked the Fugitive’s Trail from Isandlwana to Fugitive’s Drift. Ken arranged for a local man to take us to the start and fetch us at the end in his taxi – a shiny new Toyota Quantum like this:
On the way we stopped to look at something and Ken ordered us to hop out of the taxi. Then he paused, gave a slight grin and said “You could call that a ‘quantum leap'”.
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Our traipse along the trail was not uneventful. Once again a bunch of pale people were out of their depth, just like in 1879. Also, our average age was way above that of the pommy soldiers, and we had no horses. Even though we weren’t being pursued by victorious Zulus, panting was heard and hearts fluttered. Some had to lie down a while.
We walked from the mountain to the river:
We were a bit slower than the fleeing poms at the uMzinyathi (Buffalo) River: Didn’t want to get our shoes wet:
After one tour I thanked Ken for a wonderful weekend and awarded him the Victoria Cross for his brave endeavours:
The one on the left. I had earned it by running a 21km half-marathon from Isandlwana to Rorke’s Drift.