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November 26, 2010
South Africa’s Wild Coast
One of the most beautiful regions in the world deserves a visit.
MASADA SIEGEL
The sky was bursting with stars. The African continent was aglow with brilliant diamonds hanging down from the sky. A shooting star flew across the universe. It seemed to be a sign; the start of a great new adventure.
South Africa is filled with a magic, a pulsing sensibility hard to touch but easy to feel. While the Wild Coast of South Africa is one of the poorest regions in the country, it is one of the richest in beauty. The birthplace of former president Nelson Mandela, the Wild Coast is located between Durban and East London and stretches well over 150 miles along the eastern tip of the country, in the Eastern Cape province. This area was known as the Transkei Homeland during the apartheid period from the early 1950s until 1994.
Though there was a Jewish presence in southern Africa starting in the 17th century, Jews did not typically settle in the Eastern Cape, preferring instead the larger cities of Cape Town, in Western Cape alongside the Atlantic Ocean, and land-locked Johannesburg, South Africa’s largest urban centre.
The breathtaking, jagged Eastern Cape coastline is dotted with remote villages, rivers, waterfalls, shipwrecks, unspoiled beaches, expansive open space and pristine forests. The Xhosa and Mpondos people live in these areas, and many adhere to ancestral traditions, for example, keeping livestock and tending to subsistence vegetable gardens.
The Wild Coast evokes a feeling of freedom; a restlessness of sorts, which might be a result of its raw beauty. Bumping up and down on the unpaved rocky road, reddish brown dust flew around us. Round houses with blue roofs stood next to small green plots of farmland. On the other side of the road, miles of empty land was dotted with an occasional cow or sheep.
I watched women walk with daily necessities balanced perfectly on their heads, while carrying children on their backs held safe by wraps. Deserted shacks gleamed in the sunlight. Children in school uniforms walked in the middle of the dirt road, and scattered in all directions as the truck honked. I waved, and huge grins spread on their faces as they waved back.
In Africa, time seems to operate on a slower schedule, and the Wild Coast exemplified the concept, seeming to have stopped completely hundreds of years ago.
I opened the window and breathed in a mix of grass, dust and salty sea air. Over the horizon, the blue Indian Ocean appeared. We were headed toward Lambasi Bay, in Port Grosvenor, Eastern Cape.
We arrived at our inn, which is run by solar and wind power. Managed by the Drifters group community project, it’s on a land lease. The tour company is given the land cheaply in exchange for training the locals, who, once the lease runs out, will then run the property.
The little, white, round houses have tall ceilings and tan thatched roofs with a simple décor – crisp white beds, wooden nightstands and cabinets. A little bit of Africa was in the room as well and, for a short period, a stream of ants walked up the wall by the shower. Just as they seemed to appear out of nowhere, they vanished into the night.
A few steps past my room was an open area filled with tables and chairs, a bar and a kitchen covered by a huge thatched roof, mere steps away was a viewing spot overlooking the ocean. After a buffet dinner, I retired to my room and was lulled to sleep by the crashing waves.
Early the next morning, eager to explore my surrounding, I wandered to the beach down a tree-covered pathway, monkeys cackling on branches. My toes wiggled in the silky white sand and I noticed a small stream running toward the ocean. The blue-green ocean’s frothy white waves crashed onto the shiny sand and I could see my reflection in it, as if it were a mirror.
I thought I was alone until, moments later, a shoeless young boy, maybe eight years old, was collecting wood from around the stream. I walked over to him, tried to communicate, but had no luck, so I just smiled. He shyly smiled back and I watched him pull a reed from the side of the stream and cleverly turn it into a rope to tie his sticks together and walk back towards his village.
Soon after my group and a guide joined me, we hiked through a soggy, grassy field over to a seemingly ancient rusty shipwreck. Enormous pieces of twisted metal with jagged edges were strewn over the rocks. I peered into one of the huge and gnarled black pieces; angry bits of metal stared back at me with wires dangling below.
As old as it looked, the wreck actually occurred in 2004. The ship, the BBC China, had gotten stranded on the coast. While the crew attempted to refloat the ship, they had no luck. However, all 16 crewmembers were rescued by helicopter. Left in the water, the rough seas had ripped the ship apart and washed sections of it ashore.
I climbed up onto the picture-perfect, rusty-red metal. Bikini clad, I pretended to be a Sports Illustrated model and posed. The ocean seemed far away, considering I was standing on what once was a ship, now wedged between huge rocks.
We wandered back to the beach, finding pockets between the rocks filled with unbroken white seashells. Moments later, we hiked over rolling hills covered with long blades of glass blowing in the wind, intermixed with tall pink flowers and an occasional rock jutting out from the ground. The scenery was breathtaking and I was breathing hard, as we climbed away from the ocean.
Soon after, we hopscotched over a small waterfall, careful not to slip on the rocks. (It would have been a long and unpleasant bone-breaking way down.) Descending down a narrow brush-filled pathway, I could hear the pounding water. Pushing aside the greenery, I was greeted by a blue lagoon surrounded by lush green foliage and a shimmering waterfall.
I looked around, making sure I was not really on a Hollywood set. Everything was so perfect, it hardly seemed real. Immediately, everyone stripped down. We swam in the refreshingly cold water over to the waterfall itself. Streams of water pounded down on me and I let nature massage my back. Regretfully, time kept moving forward even though I desperately wanted to hold onto the day forever.
We returned for a typical African lunch of vetkoek, or dough fried in oil, translated from Afrikaans. It was delicious, fried dough fresh from a boiling pot of oil. Eating vetkoek is simple; just poke a hole in the dough and scoop in any of the fillings provided, such as savory mince, tuna, chicken, mayonnaise, grated cheese or jam. After stuffing ourselves full of fried sweetness, we headed back to the private and pristine sandy beach for a few more hours of frolicking in the Indian Ocean, and relaxing on the sand.
Evening fell and everyone hung out in the open dining area, having a beer or a Springbok, which is a South African drink made from peppermint schnapps and Amarula (a liqueur similar to Kahlua, but even better).
Huge claps of thunder shattered like a broken glass through the night sky. Torrents of rain poured down and I wished aloud for the dirt roads to get washed away so we could stay longer in this paradise.
Africa’s magical energy, untamed and effervescent, had enveloped, enchanted and, like a drug, made me want more. Alas, it was impossible. Hard as I tried to grasp onto the moment, it slipped through my fingers.
The electricity went out and in the darkness I became even more ecstatic. Though there were no shooting stars this go around, only sheet of rain, I realized that with every downpour, there is rebirth and, in Africa, that means more adventures are waiting in the wings.
For accommodations, link to Wild Coast Inn from drifters.co.za.
Masada Siegel can be contacted at [email protected].
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