It’s late in the morning when we leave our camping spot and leave Port St. Johns. School kids seem to have their break. Kids in uniform are along side the road and watch the cars pass by. The speed bumps turn out to be camouflaged and have the same colour as the tarmac….Helga gives me an angry look when she is almost lifted out of her seat and thrown into the backseats because of me missing it. I give her an apologetic look and mumble “sorry” while I try my best to spot the next one.
An imposing man in a uniform steps in front of our car. By the way he moves you can see it is not the first time he does this. His belt is heavy from his gun and he almost seems to lean to that side when he walks from the weight. I brake while I look around me. I missed it completely at first, but it turns out there is a police car on the side of the road kind of hidden behind the bushes. Around the car are three policemen. One handles the speeding camera, while the others are leaning on their rifles. The imposing policeman’s hand is sliding over the bullbar and while he walks towards us his gloved hands are tapping rhythmically on the bonnet. His destination is the driver side window which I already opened. A large head comes into our car and asks us: “where are you going?”. I see his nostrils move like a nervous bull and he seems to take in the air of the car. If I would have some popcorn on my lap that would have been funny. Helga answers his question by telling him the next big city on our map. He gives her a serious look and he almost seems to want to smell if we are speaking the truth. “ How long are you staying in South Africa?” Helga answers: “four weeks sir”. He takes another big gulp of air and I think: I hope he leaves some for us too. “ Alright, continue” says the policeman while he gets his head out of the car. I look at Helga, who shrugs, and with both windows open we quickly drive on.
Via a long track through several small villages, cornfields, groups of schoolchildren going home for the day and a lot of lazy cows standing in the middle of the road without any inclination to go off it, we end up at the Kraal. We are invited by our Dutch friends, who work as doctors at the hospital in Isilimele, just a few kilometres away, to enjoy pizza night.
We are camping outside the fence that marks the boundary of the Kraal and we are woken by people walking around the car who are obviously packing up. We get dressed and walk towards the main building. This is what is happening: the government is busy constructing a new, tarred, road to make the hospital and this part of the Transkei more accessible. The local community believes that the government is not using enough local people to do this work and are therefor planning to create roadblocks to demonstrate against this.
Bags are being packed, doors closed, laundry folded and before we know it everyone has left to hopefully get through it before it’s really closed. There are stories that these roadblocks could last weeks before the police is able to end them. Helga and I are a little agitated by this, but decide to stay. We are not in a hurry to go anywhere and we are told that for our car there are enough (4×4) alternatives to leave the area. We use the rest of the day to write the blog, get coordinates for 4×4 tracks in the gps and finish our books.
February 25, 2016
We decide to go, we pack up and drive up the steep path leading to the road. Just before we left we heard that the demonstration had stopped and that the roadblocks are gone. We decide to take the road less traveled nonetheless. On the road to Isilimele, where the hospital is, we see an older woman slowly walking up the hill. We give here a ride and she tells us her name is Christina, that she’s 65 and is on her way to the hospital for TBC treatment. She speaks good English and tells us a little bit about her life while we tell her about our travels. We drop her off at the hospital and walk around quickly to get an impression about how things go here.
Helga and I leave the hospital and drive south over old roads with washed away bridges. We are heading towards Mdumbi.
A small track leads us towards the coast. Schools are just out and we drive through large groups of children all neatly dressed in similar uniforms. Almost all the groups we drive past turn towards us and cup their hands to beg for “ssssweeeets!”. We don’t respond to this request, but wave and give them a smile. I loose my patience when a group of boys, who we pass without giving attention, pick up some stones from the ground and throw them at the car. I can hear one of them hit their mark.It resonates through the car. I quickly brake and reverse, but by the time we reach the spot again they have all fled. With a huge adrenaline rush we drive down a road that will take us to the coast. When we get here we realise we took a wrong turn and ended up on the wrong side of the bay….we can almost see where we need to go, but we have to drive back through the small town we just came from, towards the main road and get the next exit.
Slowly we drive back, luckily the children are all spread out by now and they are no longer a bother.
Mdumbi: tourists and the local Xhosa community intertwined
A wall full of surfboards stares at us, Danish Rasmus and I both pick one and walk to the beach. The waves hit the rocks hard. We run behind each other down to the beach, jump over the sharp rocks and land flat on our stomachs on the surfboards. We paddle out while we get hit by the first brakes. A moment later we’re sitting on our boards, waiting for the perfect wave.
When the wind increases (level full power in no time) and the thunderstorm starts, Helga and I decide to pack up the tent temporarily and hide out with the dogs in the kitchen.
Getting excited by the drummer’s first beats at a concert, that’s how I feel. The hail falls loudly on the steel roof and the noise is overwhelming. The wind also lets us know it’s here with the branches slashing agains the building.
After the hail stops we move to the “living room” where everyone else is and a couple of hours later, slightly intoxicated, after hearing a lot of travel stories, we pitch up the tent again.
February 27, 2016
We wake up from the sun heating up the green canvas and the inside of the tent rapidly. The sky is clear blue and all that is left of yesterday’s storm are the branches and leaves on the ground. Bare feet we walk on the wet grass towards the kitchen. A large cup of coffee washes away the light headache.
Johann, the owner and instigator of Mdumbi Backpackers takes me on a walk around the property. He grew up here. His father used to have a holiday home in the area and Johann spent a large part of his childhood in this area. He uses the money the backpackers generate to improve life in the community. For example, he oversees a project building a hospital. He also brings the community closer to the tourists who visit Mdumbi by having the church and pre-school on the property.
Johann also feels close to us. Together with an old Honda African Twin he travelled around Africa. He integrates sports (surfing), local community, travellers and tourists. He does it in a way I have never seen before, it is like a good cocktail where you don’t taste the alcohol.
For the last time I paddle out to catch a few waves before they all disappear and the ocean becomes quiet again. Afterwards we drive on to the next place on the map: The Wild Lubanzi.
Mdumbi Community Projects
Mdumbi Backpackers is situated on URC premises at Mdumbi Beach and was founded on January 2002. Thirty% of this backpackers is owned by 5 local employees, 10% of its profits are given to the local community representing body and 9% to TransCape NPO. It is closely involved with the community and formed Transcape NPO to respond to the educational, economic and health needs in the area. There vision is to active communities that address and improve their own health, education and economic development. There mission is to provide access to the support, knowledge, and resources necessary for communities to initiate the process of change towards a better quality of life. See www.transcape.org
On the health side Transcape has started a HIV/Aids program which include the implementation and management of awareness days, support groups, an ARV clinic, training programs, wellness and home base care. Transcape is managing a malnutrition project at Canzibe hospital, does maintenance and upgrading of the hospital and surrounding clinics, support community members with transport for medical emergencies and maintain a project concerning multimedia communication between Canzibe Hospital and clinics.
On the education side Transcape has started an education project at Mdumbi Backpackers. This involves a library; extra English and life-skills classes for school goers; preparing matriculants for final exams; computer, business, secretarial, entrepreneurial and vocational training for young people ready to explore the labor market; a pre school and ABET. Transcape also sponsors a pre school at Canzibe Hospital.
For economical growth Transcape started an interest free micro-financing project through which multiple small businesses like shops, brick-making, gardening, chicken farming, ext. are formed. Transcape is also involved in tourism development and agricultural programs.
The Wild Labunzi is build on something that resembles the coastline of Wales: green sloping hills and steep, rocky walls rising up from the ground like a boundary between land and sea. After a rocky track we arrive. The only flat part within the property is very suitable for the car and the rooftoptent. The way to it on the other hand consists of many tight bends that are kind of impossible for a Troopcarrier. The headstrong me insists though and half an hour later, after having moved many stones, plants and fences, the car is there. I hope we can get out of here again….
A single track, consisting of a narrow sand coloured trail that snakes through the hills ahead. It’s a nice walk and we left before it got too hot. In good speed and without any baggage we walk through the small communities with houses made of clay. Most of them have fences around their property, some of them don’t and we see sheep hiding from the sun in the shadow of the rondavels. We’re startled by two dogs who obviously think we’re intruders. Luckily the owner comes out, yells at his dogs and calls them back.
A lonely rock, in the mouth of the river where the depth is decided by the incoming tide. The rock resists the water coming at it ferociously from the sea while river water flows on both sides into the sea. Its years as gatekeeper show the consequences: the giant rock is worn around the edges and in the middle a large hole is cut out. The Hole in the Wall.
Now we regret putting the car here…I wipe the sweat from my brow while I turn the steering wheel around again. The effort must show on my face.The front tyres grind under me while I force them yet again the other way. I don’t know if this is a known fitness exercise, but if so I will have mastered it after our journey.
The bull bar pushes the plants and fence out of the way while the spare wheel and back bumper thrust against the wall of cane. Some angry looks and frustrated comments later we finally manage to get out of this tight spot. I quickly run from the scene and inside for a well deserved cup of coffee which I drain like it’s a cold glass of milk.
Ten minutes later and we’re ready to go. It’s the four of us now. Adam and Megan from Canada are fascinated by our trip and like to accompany us for a few Miles Along The Sea.
The four of us have a look at the map. Together we decide to keep following the small gravel roads we can see on our detailed map. When the small gravel roads turn out to be narrow, muddy tracks with tight passages and low overhanging trees I start to worry.
I leave the car on a hill where turning around is still a possibility and follow the track on foot walking between huts and low hanging branches. The track ends on a steep uneven slope which ends in a river. Bare feet I walk through it while the strong current tries to unbalance me several times. The ground seems solid underneath and besides some deep holes I believe the car can do this watercrossing..
Slowly, like a funeral procession, I follow Helga down the hill in the car while she walks in front of me with the walkie talkie to guide me around the largest potholes. Megan is safely on the other side with the camera filming everything. Helga has a hard time getting across the river bare feet. The current is trying to unbalance her too while the sharp, slippery rocks don’t give much opportunity to plant your feet well. I watch her struggle and notice that walking is not going any better than driving. I decide to use my momentum. I pass by Helga and try to read the path through the river as good as I can by myself while I start on the steep part. I miss a giant pothole and the car makes a dangerous sweep to the left, followed by a loud yelp from Helga. I’m being tossed in my carseat while the car balances itself out and slowly start the steep climb up from the river crossing.
I park the car a little up the slope so everyone has time to deal with the earlier fright and the adrenaline rush settles down. This way I hope to avoid a lecture about my irresponsible behaviour…By the time everyone reaches the car there are already a few laughs and giggles about the whole situation.
We barely speak about it later and focus on navigating the route ahead. When we reach the top of the hill it almost looks like someone drew a line with chalk on a green pool table. In the valleys below we sometimes have to look for the roads that from the top were so easily to see.
The line of chalk get wider and wider, people live along side the road and the low rumble of the car makes the cows step away from the it. I think we are all secretly relieved when we reach the tarmac around noon and see the first signs leading us to Dwesa National Park.
A Canadian is not an American. Absolutely not. Not that I’m implying that Americans have no clue when it comes to camping, but when I lived in the States I only met a few people who really camped. They either stay somewhere about 5 hours from home or they are climbers who sleep in their car. But as soon as we park the car the Canadian Adam feels right at home; he browses through our camping equipment, finds the MSR stove and crowns himself as the cook of the camp kitchen. He helps setting up our camp like he does this every day and gathers wood which he expertly transforms into a beautiful campfire. Around the fire he tells us about his nightly hunting expeditions with his father, the solo hunts with bow and arrow, his adventures on a snow mobil in which he had to plow through powdery snow and the days he spent on the ice, fishing. He also tells us that the only way of hunting for moose is to spray yourself with a deoderant of moose urine and not wash yourself for days. And also that it can be a bit scary when you’re alone in a tree when it gets dark, with bow and arrow ,while the forest underneath you comes to life.
They teach us an easy card game and maybe it’s the alcohol that effects our play, but the sober Helga quickly turns out to be the best player with strategically placed, but often painful cards.
During a trip to the small community shop Helga, Adam and Megan run into a guide. The man seems eloquently and helpful and he has been working as a guide for DwesaNational Park for the last 6 years. They hire him for a walk through the mangroves where he will tell us about the flora and fauna and lead us through narrow hard to find tracks. We decide to start this later in the afternoon when the sun is past its highest point of the day. .
With our backpacks filled with water and sunscreen we wait for the guide’s arrival. Half an hour after the previously agreed time Vojany comes running into the campsite, shoes in his hands. He needs a moment to catch his breath. He introduces himself to me, but doesn’t look me in the eye. For a second I think I can smell alcohol on him, but the smell coming from his shoes takes over. We follow him and before we turn into a narrow path he starts a long speech about safety while we have a hard time understanding him. We get the impression that he was not wearing his shoes earlier, because he doesn’t really feel comfortable in them. He hops from one leg onto the other like he is standing on hot coals. He takes the first step into the forest and picks up a stick of about 60 cm. With this stick in front of him he starts to lead the way. Like a magician he waves the stick wildly around and his feet follow slowly behind. We follow his example without a wand and me as the last person. I have a hard time keeping my face straight. He stops at a plant that looks like a fern and starts his story: “ Before the dinosaurs in 1860, this was plant was everywhere”. This time he looks at us all.
We look back at him and he receives a bellow of laughter. He looks around the group dazed. I am now sure, the guide is drunk. I tell him I don’t want to walk around the mangroves with him if he’s drunk and that he should go back home and sleep. He nods at me, turns around and walks back to where we came from. Without his wand. We look at each other surprised, start to laugh again and decide to walk on without a guide. Pretty soon we find out that he actually taught us something useful: the wand is for cobwebs.
