This Is Africa...or is it?!?

When I first started rock climbing, I met all kinds of self-proclaimed 'travelling climbers'.

People who journeyed around the world finding new spots to climb, new pathways to the skies, seeking out views unseen by most of the world.

These people piqued my curiosity.

Travelling to climb.

I love to travel.

I love to climb.

Maybe I should try that.

Thus began the journey to Africa, to a place called Rocklands on the edge of the Western Cape in South Africa. A place where sandstone boulders spread as far as the eye can see, their red and black-streaked beauty interrupted only at the horizon, where the Cederburg mountains climb to the sun-kissed blue skies above.

It is beautiful here.

And yes, the climbing is incredible (and HARD!).

And yes, I'm having the time of my life.

But here's the thing.

I'm not really travelling.

At least not yet.

In my head, Africa was a place where barefooted women wrapped in bright coloured cloth walked along dusty roads, their licorice skin glistening in the sunshine, a pile of belongings balanced on their heads.

In my head, Africa was a land where people moved to a different beat, where the rhythm of the drums spoke to your heart and the mid-day heat left you gasping for air.

Instead, the Africa that I am living in consists of campsites filled with climbers from around the world. We eat pasta and rice. We speak English, Spanish and French. We go rock climbing.

We do all kinds of fun things, and none of them have anything to do with Africa.

Don't get me wrong, I'm loving every second of this experience. Friendships made, muscles tested, personal boundaries pushed.

But travelling?

I don't think so.

Stay tuned.

I'll let you know when the real journey starts.