World Wittering

After knocking up a light lunch in the communal kitchen, we took a quick stroll down to the beach and back and then made our inevitable way to the bar for a late afternoon refresher. Immediately upon entering, we stumbled across a couple of guys laughing manically as they tried to make their way past us, in the corner someone mumbled “Don’t worry about them, I think they took too many mushrooms”. We decided we wouldn’t, perched ourselves on stools at the bar and ordered a pair of cold Hansas.

Soon after, we made the acquaintance of Matthias, ruddy faced and with hair and goatee like straw, seemingly capable only of offering a monotone “Izzit” to anything but the most simple of questions, and Eugene, dark curly haired and with the wide eyed innocent wonder at the world of a five year old, a pair of surfers from just up the coast. It somehow seemed to fit, we’d come to the right place.

A blackboard above the bar proclaimed news of an excursion up one of the enormous nearby hills for sundowners so we repaired to the tent for essential supplies, jumpers etc. On the way back I bumped into Tim, one of the owners, and told him of my secret desire to learn to surf in celebration of my impending birthday, he promised to sort something out. Back at the bar at the allotted hour and no sign of movement, we ordered another beer, plus a few for the sunset and waited for the transport to show up.

A couple of Hansa quarts later, and only slightly merry, we were squeezing ourselves, along with our new friends, into a pair of 4×4 backies and hurtling up the twisting dirt road at breakneck speed. Eventually we reached the abandoned airstrip and piled out to drink in the stunning coastal vista below. Bottles and other essential supplies were opened and we perched on rocks, high above Port St Johns, to watch the glorious sunset as some of the locals provided a soundtrack of pulsating tribal drums.

It soon became clear that the sunset would be obscured by an enormous bank of cloud and a cold wind started to blow. This didn’t affect anyone. People started to dance to the drums, nonsense was spouted and something akin to a party seemed to have begun.

A strange German guy sat down beside me and started making conversation, soon turning the subject around to my beer, cigarettes and so forth. I sat growing more and more amused as my complete insistence on not picking up on his hints led to more and more desperately unsubtle attempts until he just plain came out and asked if he could have a beer, cigarette and so forth. I indulged him, only for this to increase his brazenness and, amid a tale of sorrow and woe at how expensive everything was, he began to plead for some supplies. I calmly explained the paucity of my own situation in that department and escaped across some rocks to the sanctuary of Matthias.

Who then began to explain, in long rambling terms, his theory of the presence of angels and archangels in the world and, indeed, all around us at that particular point in time. I found myself agreeing entirely with his well reasoned argument as aromatic smoke billowed around us and the twilight drew closer in.

The time came to come back down the hill and I found myself squashed into a back seat next to a buxom molecular-biologist in a low cut top. We spent the journey discussing the morality of cloning.

We soon found ourselves back in the bar with fresh cold ones in our hands and making new friends left, right and centre, including Richard, an Australian working there for his third stretch, who couldn’t help keeping coming back. He explained there really was something special about Port St Johns and Amapondo in particular, the people, the surroundings, the atmosphere. There was certainly something in the air as Lee was insisting on photographing everyone’s feet. As the evening wore on we were forced to agree and mourned the fact we could only stay two days. Dave, who we’d bumped into earlier and was now seemingly mushroom free, echoed everyone else in proclaiming it wasn’t long enough and that we should succumb to the famous Pondo Fever and just stay.

We retired to the campfire and Lee suddenly decided she needed to beat something. Fortunately, there was a drum lying conveniently nearby. Unfortunately, Lee’s drumming technique was not altogether rhythmic, verging more towards the random. Help was at hand with an enormous surfer who relieved her of the instrument and began to tutor her in spirituality of the drum, showing her basic patterns and revealing its three distinct sounds. As I tried desperately, and not altogether successfully, to stifle my laughter, Lee tried to put the teachings into practice and failed entirely. Help was at hand, however, the drum was soon in the possession of someone more adept and an atmospheric rhythm pervaded the fireside.

I struck up a conversation with my neighbour on the log and he introduced himself as Manus, another surfer. I saw my chance and set about persuading him that he had to teach me how to surf. He agreed and we arranged to meet at seven the following morning.

Our eyes had grown weary by this point and our legs a little unsteady. It was shamefully early but we made our excuses and stumbled tiredly up to the tent and passed out. It was about 8.30.

By 5am the temperature inside the tent had reached the level of a sauna and we were jerked into consciousness. I lolled about sweating for a couple of hours and then made my way half heartedly down to meet Manus for my surf lesson. After half an hour he still hadn’t shown up, I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the tent to try and catch a bit more sleep.

We spent the morning lazing and then joined in the afternoon’s group activity, a trip to a mud cave. Yes, we weren’t quite sure why either, mainly because it was free. Our companions for the trip seemed to be mainly American teenagers going through that awkward phase where it’s important to have a strange asymmetrical haircut, ironic 1980’s sunglasses and speak incessantly and incredibly loudly about Facebook. We pulled into a small Xhosa village, where everyone appeared to be wearing a mud pack on their face, and then trooped a little way until we came to a dirty piece of cardboard about the size of a magazine lying on the ground. Our guide whipped the cardboard away theatrically to reveal a small rocky gully with a hole in it and then proceeded to explain that this was a vent from which sulphurous gas was expunged. This may or may not have been considered holy or healthy by the Xhosa, it was unclear. He got down on all fours, pushed his face into close proximity with the hole and took a long deep breath. We all stared quizzically at each other. Eyebrows were arched.

The guide invited everyone to try and, one by one, with studied nonchalance, our companions got down and had a big sniff at the hole with the result that they all thought is smelled “gross”, which was “not cool”. A debate ensued as to whether or not the fumes had got them high. Probably not, they concluded. I passed on the opportunity to try it myself; sniffing sulphur from a muddy hole just isn’t my bag.

Next, we all trudged up the hill and stripped down to swimming trunks or bikinis. We followed the guide into a cave and, very carefully, negotiated the treacherously slippery floor to reach the far end where we were able to take in the surroundings. The entire interior of the cave was caked in a light mud, very good for the skin apparently. We were each given a lump of the mud, dipped it into water to make it soft and told to select a partner to decorate. Slowly at first, but then with increasing enthusiasm, we smeared mud in pretty patterns over each others’ bodies. Perhaps the afternoon wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time after all.

Back outside in the sunshine we paused to admire our handiwork and then climbed up thick tree roots to the top of the hill. Here we passed a man ladling sulphurous water from an underground spring and unanimously agreed that we didn’t want to taste it. Then we found ourselves next to a muddy pool and the guide started digging handfuls of rich dark mud from the bottom and distributing it to each of us. This darker mud was not only even better for the skin, but also perfect for adding intricate detailing to our body artistry.

I gave Lee some nifty tribal spots and stripes and painted the word “Lost” on her back. For some reason she took offence to this and responded by giving me the hair and moustache of Adolph Hitler. A tad harsh I thought and half heartedly retaliated with a musketeer’s goatee.

Back down the hill we took photographs and then paraded back down to the backie where the villagers gave us the casual glance of people who see this kind of thing all too regularly.

Just then there was a deafening crack of thunder and it started to rain. Hard. We piled into the back of the pickup and the driver floored it. Alas, not only was the planned communal bathing at the beach now in jeopardy, but it was a good ten or fifteen minutes drive back to the backpackers. I was more fortunate than some, having quite unchivalrously ensured I’d got a place where the cab gave me some shelter from the lashing rain. The backie raced along the country roads and the freezing rain got heavier and heavier. The girls were screaming and we were all gripped by hysterical laughter, shivering in the intense cold and raving at the ludicrosity of our situation.

Just when it seemed that things couldn’t get any worse, it began to hail. Proper big hailstones as big as gobstoppers started pelting everyone, except those of us immediately behind the cab, causing large red welts to swell up on the mass of exposed skin. People in other vehicles and sheltering at the roadside pointed and laughed as we drove by. It was hilarious. Even funnier, just as we pulled into Amapondo, the rain suddenly stopped. The other residents raised eyebrows as we plodded to the showers to rid ourselves of the last of the mud and try to get some warmth back into our frozen limbs. Reclothed, we made our way to the bar, naturally.

It was at this point that I encountered Matthias and Eugene again, staring blankly into the distance, silently contemplating something or another. They were with a new friend, Chris, so I joined them and filled them in on the day’s uproarious events. “Izzit”, murmured Matthias. Chris, a Zimbabwean, had long light brown hair and was naked from the waist up, save for elbows and wrists decorated with strips of animal skin and numerous bangles and bracelets. He had an intricately embroidered sarong, a nifty headband and four vertical lines tattooed on his face. It transpired he was a sangoma, a traditional medicine man, called to the vocation by the spirits of his ancestors. In the 1980’s he’d managed a stud farm in Surrey and ridden with the hounds, now he was living a pastoral existence out in the wilds, healing the locals of everything from broken limbs to schizophrenia and having to chase the dik-diks away from his organically grown, super powerful marijuana crop. We sat and contemplated something or another for a while and then I headed into the bar to catch up with Lee.

We joined Richard and got the back story on Chris. Apparently I’d managed to completely overlook his rampaging campness, but I was solemnly warned of his penchant for straight men. Lee was of the opinion he was delusional and could be suffering from some sort of serious mental illness.

The evening drifted along in the normal fashion. Many quarts were imbibed and much nonsense was talked. At some point I explained the plot of my sometime-in-the-future-to-be-written novel to Paul and he didn’t laugh in my face, which was encouraging. Chris reappeared, in evening dress of fluorescent green skin tight t-shirt and classic crusty clown trousers (crusty dreadlock traveller, not Krusty the clown) and he and Lee compared notes on treatments for the mentally ill. Finally, Manus turned up and I was able to ask about my abortive surf lesson. Quite legitimately he simply hadn’t believed for a minute that I’d be up at seven in the morning and so had stayed in bed. After much silent contemplation around the campfire, it was time to retire.

The following morning I finally did get my surf lesson. Tim was as good as his word, lent me a board, and had one of the local kids show me the ropes. I managed to embarrass myself even before I got near the sea, slipping on rocks in front of some local kids, breaking a flip flop and giving the board a nasty bash. I had a good thirty or forty seconds of theory tuition on the beach and then it was time to take the plunge. Alas, the conditions weren’t ideal, the waves were large but messy and there was a strong current to battle. All my energies were consumed paddling out to the spot indicated by my young teacher so that, once there, I barely had the strength to paddle for the wave itself, let alone to heave myself up into a standing position. In twenty minutes I managed to make it to my knees once, all the while surrounded by small boys catching waves with consummate ease. My diminutive instructor mercifully called a halt to proceedings and I made my weary way to the beach were I once again bumped into Matthias and Eugene enjoying a spot of quiet contemplation after having been out on the waves themselves. They sympathised with my lack of success and confirmed the conditions had been far from ideal. We shared a final few peaceful moments of blank staring together and then I wandered back up to the hostel.

A quick shower ensued and then we broke camp and caught a bite to eat in the bar – shepherd’s pie, perfect for anyone who’s spent a morning being battered mercilessly by the sea. Chris made a brief appearance, this morning clad only in a tiny blue miniskirt and carrying a large whip, to bid us farewell and then we threw all our gear into the backie and, together with Josha and Jerome, a Dutch guy who’d been following her around with a glazed look in his eyes for a day or so, and drove to the Spaz Bus pickup point.

We stood at the side of the road for a while as an Old English Sheepdog played with its lipstick and then our ride turned up. Bags were thrown in the trailer and we grabbed seats in the crowded bus. It transpired that there weren’t enough places to go round and so the driver checked his manifest to see what was what. Each trip on the Spaz Bus has to be booked in advance over the phone and I’d booked our seats days earlier. The driver shouted out a few names and we quickly realised that Josha and Jerome weren’t on his list. Josha insisted she’d made a booking the previous day but the driver was implacable, it was classic you’re names not down, you’re not coming in. Jerome shuffled uneasily from foot to foot as Josha ran the gamut. Disbelief turned into anger, she threw in some hair tossing and foot stamping, toyed briefly with some abusive language before finding refuge in full scale crying and shouting “It’s not fair”. If there’d been an Oscar at stake, she’d have clinched it, it was classic, calculated and professionally executed, she could only have topped it if she‘d asked him if he knew who she was. I nearly got out of my seat to applaud. The driver wasn’t having any of it.

And so we went on our merry way. An hour or so down the road we pulled up and a couple of familiar looking figures traipsed towards us, Kirk and Michelle, last seen in Swaziland, we nodded our hellos.

Soon enough we reached Umtata and were deposited at a huge petrol station to pick up the shuttle to our next destination, Coffee Bay. Also waiting were Kirk and Michelle, a young Irish girl called Zoë and an English guy called Paul with a torso and arms that indicated he spent an unhealthy amount of time in the gym. Kirk was also showing signs of having dabbled in body building and they were soon comparing bench press records and stories of anabolic steroid abuse, I eavesdropped in wonderment. After a while Josha and Jerome turned up too having managed to scrounge a lift.

Eventually the shuttle minibus arrived and we were at Coffee Bay in an hour or so. Lee and I checked into Bomvu Paradise, supposedly the slightly more chilled out option, while the others were booked into the livelier Coffee Shack, just across the road.

That evening we wandered over to see everyone and found them gathered around a table in the Coffee Shack’s garden. A few beverages were consumed and then we all made our way back to Bomvu to enjoy their Hawaiian themed party. The DJ got us all into the party spirit with some boss tunage and the alcohol got us throwing some serious shapes on the dance floor, I was even able to get my patented “knee thing” dance into operation. Entertainment was on hand when one of the local guys showed how he could hold himself horizontally from one of the vertical wooden poles supporting the roof. Paul, the muscle mary, saw his opportunity to impress some of the ladies who had somehow managed to find his advances less than irresistible, but failed miserably with several attempts. Desperate to reclaim his iron man status he commenced performing one armed pull ups from the roof beams. We stood gawping in amazement at his gaucheness.

The evening ended with some quality campfire nothingness gazing and, with new friends made, we collapsed into the tent around 4am.

Fortunately, our schoolboy tent positioning error of Amapondo had not been repeated. The ample shade meant the temperature in the tent didn’t wake us at an ungodly hour and we were able to sleep through till midday. We got up, had some lunch and then had an argument about something inconsequential. Lee went back to bed and I made my way down to the beach to hook up with the others. The sun was out and there was a large group lazing on a patch of grass overlooking the beach. This was the Coffee Shack surf school but I was in no shape to be taking the class. I said my hellos and retreated behind the sanctuary of my book. Kirk was amongst those having a lesson and, with proper tuition and ideal conditions, he was soon catching the odd wave. Deep down I knew it was unlikely I’d be bothering to attempt it again.

As the afternoon turned into evening we wandered back to the backpackers, I found Lee and we decided to turn in early after the previous night‘s excesses.

The next day’s weather was cold and miserable. We spent the morning lounging around doing very little but wish we hadn’t sent quite so many of our warm clothes back home. Lee, Michelle and Zoë decided to go horse riding and so I spent a couple of hours hanging about with Kirk and Jerome at the Coffee Shack. As we sat gazing wordlessly into space, we were joined by one of the local staff with the filthily suggestive catchphrase “Geddinthere!…….again and again” which he insisted on repeating every few moments. This developed into a call and response between Kirk and I which kept us amused for days and weeks to come.

The girls returned to report that their horse ride had been singularly disappointing and so we decided the time was right for some cold tasty beverages. The evening wore on in this fashion until Lee decided she was in need of another early night. I stayed up for a while longer and was rewarded with a lovely speech from a quite tipsy Zoë to the effect that she regarded Lee and I as inspirational figures because we were so old but still behaving as if we were young like her. It brought a warm glow to my heart to think that we were having such a positive effect on the youth.

A lazy morning ensued, we said various au revoirs and then made our way to the local minibus stop. Presently the combi arrived with a driver who didn’t speak a word of English. Talking loudly and slowly and gesticulating didn’t have any effect and so we were forced to phone the next backpackers to get directions directly. Destination confirmed, we were off. And half an hour later, a full unnecessary contingency hour early, we were deposited at a remote junction to wait for our next lift. Lee took the opportunity to nip off and take some photos of the locals, doing her usual “I’ll only be a minute” then disappearing from view and not returning for half an hour routine, while I sat reading, handing out cigarettes to needy types and trying not to worry.

At the appointed time a strange 4×4 pickup all terrain minibus concoction turned up and we were duly introduced to our driver, Rufus, a slightly doddery old man with a wispy beard, wild eyes and a nice line in the incomprehensible. We climbed aboard and made the acquaintance of the only other passenger, a bearded Englishman with even wilder eyes than Rufus. We made a further brief stop at an obscure village store in the middle of nowhere, situated at the furthest point a two wheel drive could reach, to collect four more passengers. Their car was slowly emptied into our vehicle until we were buried under luggage but there was still more to come. Much chin scratching, beard twiddling and nonsensical muttering emanated from Rufus and, evidently, a trailer was decided upon.

Ten minutes later, the trailer fully loaded and everyone aboard, we were finally ready for departure and there was only the minor inconvenience of turning round to be overcome. This appeared to present quite an obstacle for Rufus and it took a further ten minutes of backwards and forwards tomfoolery before we were facing in the right direction. A loud cheer went up from the back and Bob Marley began to blast out of the speakers, we were off.

The road got progressively more treacherous, the rain had turned large parts of it into a quagmire, it was slow progress, we climbed steep hills and descended sharp drops, wheels churning mud in twin plumes behind and, ah, oh yes, all over the trailer. Finally, we crested a hill and Rufus stopped to point out our destination in the distance, Bulungula.

We’d heard so many positive things about Bulungula on our travels that we’d decided we absolutely had to come and visit. A remote eco-tourism project, one of the only backpackers where the local Xhosa community have a stake and are fully involved in the running, rather than just making up the staff, it’s a group of thatched rondavels perched overlooking a classic Transkei beach with pounding waves and golden sand.

We were met by Dave, the originator of the project, who took us on a guided tour of the place explaining their complete self sufficiency of power provided by wind turbines and solar panels, showing us the correct procedure for the composting toilets and, finally, giving us a demonstration of the rocket showers – lengths of metal drainpipe to which a small amount of paraffin was added at the bottom, set alight and which would provide seven minutes of hot water in a completely eco friendly way for a negligible cost, this was more than climate change lip service, this was the sharp end and we were made to feel we could do our bit without the need for any tree hugging, yogic chanting or organic muesli – although that was, obviously, on the breakfast menu.

Exhausted, for no apparent reason, we retired to our comfortable rondavel, made ourselves at home and collapsed, only dragging ourselves back to the main building in time to share in the delicious communal meal and enjoy a sociable beverage or two. Lounging next to the fire in a post-prandial haze, we got talking to Anna, one of Dave’s assistants on the community project, who explained how they were in the process of funding the building of a school for the village and trying to help improve access to services such as health care and education in this remote community, one that suffered particularly harshly under apartheid through being labelled a black “homeland” and consequently being totally neglected. As we retired to bed, a plan began to hatch as to how we could help.

The following morning was my birthday and I was awoken with breakfast in bed and a selection of cards and presents. The weather outside was grey, overcast and threatening rain so we decided to pamper ourselves with a massage from one of the lovely local ladies. Suitably limber, we then took a bracing stroll along the beach, the conditions doing all they could to remind us of home. As the rain pelted down harder, the wind sand blasted us into submission and we realised that actually indoors was where we should be.

Back at the rondavel we decided that red wine was the way forward, put on some soft music and retreated to the refuge of our books to get slowly sozzled. Once again, we wandered down to the main building for another delicious meal, made some small talk, discussed our idea with Anna and then, the grape having colluded against us with the grain, retired early to bed in a state of mild confusion.

Only to have to rise early to catch another ride with Rufus. Fully loaded once again, we enjoyed another memorable two hour journey back to Umtata, the road even more boggy after the consistent rain of the past two days. Some hills took several attempts and there was the odd hairy moment where it seemed inevitable we would tip over but Rufus proved we shouldn’t judge his book by its cover as he negotiated the hazards with great skill and got us back to civilisation safely.

I say civilisation, I actually mean Shell Ultra City, a service station on the motorway at Umtata where the Spaz Bus was to collect us. Nice, you might think, except that it was in the midst of extensive improvement works, a building sight, if you will. We made for the only shelter, a temporary marquee barely standing up to the battering it was being given by the wind. After a while we were even told this was no longer available and had to resort to huddling together under my Masai blanket in the doorway to the toilets. In dribs and drabs the Coffee Bay crew made their appearances, Kirk and Michelle, Paul the muscle bound inadequate, Matt and Huey the mushroom kings, Jerome, all the familiar faces. We stood shivering together, cursing the name of Spaz Bus and catching up on the bad behaviour we’d missed while at Bulungula.

After an interminable wait the bus finally appeared, but alas it was going in the opposite direction. More cursing ensued, the mood only lightening slightly as we were treated to the sight of a large group of scantily clad girls being deposited from the bus and immediately recoiling in horror at the freezing temperature and driving rain. And then, only three hours late, our bus did arrive, we piled aboard and hunkered down for the drive to Cintsa.

Just as the sun was setting, we arrived at Buccaneers, self proclaimed best backpackers in South Africa, one certainly with a party reputation. We checked in and I went with Kirk and Michelle to pitch our tents while Lee decided to spend the night in a dorm room, surprisingly not because we’d had a fight (we hadn’t) but because the weather was a bit on the chilly side. Suitably ensconced we met up in the dining room for a hearty dinner of fajitas spoiled only by the insistence of muscle-oaf Paul to not only join our table, but to spend the meal boasting in a most ungentlemanly manner about how he’d slept with Josha in Coffee Bay. I swear if he hadn’t had biceps to rival Schwarzenegger in his prime I’d have, perhaps, said something, or something.

The meal was also our first encounter with a member of the Buccaneers staff who was to pepper our stay with random strangeness. Six foot tall and about the same diameter, we quickly christened him the Least Funny Fat Gay Man You’ve Ever Met (LFFGMYEM TM), this was particularly ironic as he did actually have a side line in stand up with a comedy nun drag act, I kid you not, and neither did he. He interrupted the meal to make some cringingly unfunny remarks about the following day’s planned activities and then, thankfully, shut up and left us to eat. That was about enough for us, we had a quiet beer and broke out the essential supplies before retiring to our separate beds – the tent was lovely and roomy so it was.

Another day dawned and the weather didn’t let up, it was apparently the worst summer in Transkei living memory and there were continual reports of flooding and suchlike further up the coast in the direction we were heading. Lee managed to nag me into having another windswept walk on the beach until I pleaded, quite truthfully, that I really didn’t have adequate clothing, having sent all my thermal gear and mountaineering clothes home after Kilimanjaro, and was freezing my nuts off.

We repaired to the lounge and settled in next to Kirk and Michelle to watch a succession of bad TV movies, eat junk food and complain about the weather – and Buccaneers, for nothing in particular, just its general up itself-ness. Intermittently LFFGMYEM TM would invade the room to try and get us involved in some utterly pointless group activity in the manner of a deranged 30 stone red coat. All we could do was wonder at why on earth he insisted on tucking his jumper into his high waisted trousers, aren’t gay men supposed to be more sartorially aware?

Day turned inevitably into evening and we decamped to the bar. Some travelling musicians were playing and the atmosphere slowly shook off the dreariness of the day and began to get lively. Matt and Huey staggered about with crazy thousand yard stares and incessant manic giggling. We were introduced to another couple of Irish lads, Damien and Dave who lured us back to their tent and dished out generous helpings of essential supplies. Much alcohol of many descriptions was imbibed until we could barely stand. Huey wandered past concerned, had anyone seen Matt, returning later to relieve us with the news that he’d been found, sat in his room in pitch darkness, staring. Time for bed.

The following day was another weather shocker, the coldest yet. More incessant nagging made me acquiesce and participate in another brief sand blasting walk on the beach, then it was back to the sanctuary of the TV room to count the hours until departure. There were several more unfunny interruptions from LFFGMYEM TM, his voice somehow an even more annoying facsimile of Graham Norton’s, it was stunning to think that he could possibly earn money from people wanting to see him perform comedy material in a nun’s habit. We watched Manchester United come from behind to win, just to make the day even more depressing, and then the bus turned up just before kick off in the Liverpool game against Reading, Kirk and Michelle’s home team. The mood was black. What we really needed was to spend seven hours cramped onto the Spaz Bus.

Which is just what we got, with the added bonus of a text from Huey informing us, gleefully, that Reading had beaten Liverpool. Stopping intermittently in small nowhere towns, shorn of their rural charm by the lashing rain, we prayed for Port Elizabeth, finally rolling into town around midnight. We were dropped at the Backpackers Base Camp, a Victorian terraced house on a quiet residential street. The owner was a lovely little old lady who made everyone feel as if they were staying at their nan‘s. Bed time little ones.