Sunday, February 28, 2010

A Walk on the Wild Coast

A typical skyline on the Transkei, each home with its own small crop of maize.

Whoever draws the borders in South Africa has an easy job. I assume the process is longer and more involved than simply swatting at a map with a felt pen, but all the boundaries through which we've passed, both interprovincial and international (as this entry comes to you from the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho) have been lessons in contrast. The first border we crossed (and it's the first that's most memorable, don't you find?) was from the Western Cape – home to metropolitan Cape Town, the moneyed Winelands, and the aforementioned Garden Route – to the Eastern Cape, South Africa's poorest province, and for good reason.

During apartheid years, much of the province was cordoned off as an independent nation, the Transkei: a 'homeland' where millions of black South Africans – those unable to contribute economically – were relocated, essentially making them foreigners in their own country. It was reincorporated in 1994, though the area is still over-populated, with little industry and infrastructure, and its inhabitants, mainly of the Xhosa tribe, live in traditional round thatched-roof huts. As we passed into the Eastern Cape the difference was almost immediate: the dense mountains, forests and numerous gas stations gave way to shallow hills of grassy farmland, dotted with livestock, small villages, and women with various cargo balanced on their heads. Moving into the Transkei (the old border post sits across the Kei River, literally 'trans Kei') meant another shift – less money, more huts, and even more livestock, often on the road. (A favourite joke here is the Transkei Big Five: goats, sheep, cattle, horses and donkeys.) Both Nelson Mandela and his successor Thabo Mbeki grew up in the Transkei, and the house-arrest compound where Mandela spent the final years of his sentence sits not far from the highway – we passed it on the 20th anniversary of his release.

In the Transkei we spent our time on the Wild Coast, a section of coastline between East London and Port Edward that, with an unfortunate thank-you to its disenfranchised past, is so pristine and undeveloped one forgets they're in the 21st century. The Africa we felt we'd been missing was finally at our toes: an endless exchange of rocky cliffs and empty beaches in both directions, with barely a four-sided building or stretch of pavement in sight. The Indian Ocean is warm, the beer is cheap, and an ATM is hard to come by.


Looking both directions on Cinsta Beach


Private 'safari tent,' Buccaneer's Backpackers, Cintsa


The cows come down to the beach in the afternoons to cool off and deter ticks, who don't like the salt in the sand. There are dogs everywhere, and if you're a well-fed Transkei dog you may be the happiest dog alive. The dogs here have owners, but no master. We often went for a walk and unwittingly brought a stranger's dog along with us. That said, there are innumerable strays, many in rough shape.


Lonely beach cow in Port St. John's


A village dog near Bulungula.


On a hike to The Gap, a rock formation not far from Second Beach, Port St. John's. On this trail we encountered people headed the opposite direction, as there is a village on top of the hill and this trail is part of their everyday commute. Beats the Massey Tunnel.


After crossing The Gap.


All our accommodation was in or near small villages, but moving between them often required a two-hour drive inland to Mthatha, the former Transkei capital, and back out again, as only hiking trails or four-by-four roads connect each stop. The towns in the area serve mainly as supply outposts for the villiages, often no more than a general store, a bottle (liquor) store and a row of grubby vendors' booths. The poverty on the Wild Coast is apparent, but the people are cheerful and welcoming, and the little tourism the area gets looks to be mostly (but not completely) beneficial.


A cloudy day at the cliffs in Coffee Bay. Goats and Donkeys graze dangerously close to the edge.


On a hike to Hole In The Wall from Coffee Bay. Our guide was Joseph, who grew up in the village and now works at the hostel, leading daily excursions to points of interest.


Hole In The Wall


Joseph bought a few fresh crayfish from some local men and cooked them over the fire. Technically they're out of season and it's illegal to catch them. Alanna and I, not wanting to be complicit in the depletion of the ocean's natural resources, only tasted a little bit.


One hostel employee in Port St. John's (you may remember him as our braai friend from the last entry) says he's been searching for a decade and he's found his paradise, there in the Transkei, next to the beach. It's easy to see why: there's a special atmosphere to the Wild Coast, a rhythm that moves through the virgin scenery and into its people and makes it a hard place to see in your rear-view. Its remoteness and its unhappy history are both a blessing and a curse, and as a tourist, despite the industry's efforts and assurances, one can't help but feel only a little intrusive. But it is a healthy feeling, I think, and merely a symptom of being somewhere so precious.


View over the hills on the drive back from Hole In The Wall.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Coals Notes

Aside from Cricket and calling each other “broo,” the national pastime of South Africa has got to be the braai. All over the country we've sensed much buzz over this near-sacred ritual, and it seems to be a significant pillar in SA's national identity, an activity for all South Africans from all backgrounds to enjoy. Naturally I wanted to learn more, and of course partake in a braai myself.

Though once I got the gist of all that a braai is, I thought, guys, what the heck, that is just a barbeque, people do that all over the world, your national pastime might as well be 'doing the dishes.' And that is mainly true– for those who are unfamiliar with the term braai, a local can say 'it's a barbeque,' and things are settled. But Alanna and I have since participated in a couple braais ourselves and, while there is meat and flame and beer involved, I've picked up on a few distinctions.

Firstly, South Africans are rigourous meat-eaters, and they appreciate their meat unadorned. Both times we braaied there was nary a salad in sight, and in Knysna when a fellow traveller suggested tossing a few veggies on the grill, he was quietly ridiculed behind his back (though he did win in the end, much to Alanna and mine's quiet delight). A good braai is either solo meat or meat wrapped in a plain white roll, garnish and condiment-free. At the Knysna braai this is the only picture I managed to snap:

While hamburgers are widely consumed at restaurants, a beef patty is not for the braai. The protein of choice here is the boerwors, pronounced boor-vors, in the best Dutch accent you can muster (and not to be confused with the Boer War, fought between British colonialists and Dutch farmers between 1815 and 1914, slightly bloodier). It is a long, spiral sausage, well-seasoned, and made of pork, though I'm no expert.

Also, South Africans are passionate advocates of charcoal grilling, and wood is best. In every town we saw signs for 'braaiwood,' and the two in which we participated were over wood fires. Gas seems to be the preferred choice for indoor stoves, but a South African with any dignity wouldn't be caught dead using it for their precious meat.

The site of our second braai, In Port St. John's


Clint, our Braai-bassador at Amopondo Backpackers, gets things started.


Braai number two. We couldn't find any rolls at the supermarket so we used whole wheat loaf-bread instead. Tasted fine!

Finally, a noticeable difference between our bbq and the South African Braai – and the one I most appreciate – is the acknowledgement that such a social ritual exists within the braai at all. While Canadians and Americans gather for a barbeque to chew, chat and have a cold one, not giving it a second thought, South Africans take pride in recognizing the active cultural role such a ritual plays: the socialization and sharing that takes place, and a surrender to the feasting instinct that has manifested itself since the first human stepped out of the Great Rift Valley and speared an antelope. While a barbeque is an outdoor meal with fire, the braai is a candid prayer to the joy of food and community – and something worth ditching the relish for.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Not So Secret Garden

East of Cape Town, the stretch of coastline between Mossel Bay and Port Elizabeth is seen by some as a backpacker's paradise. A combination of hikeable parks, surfer-happy beaches and an efficient network of quality hostels make South Africa's 200k Garden Route a hotspot for beach bums, adrenaline junkies and nature lovers alike. This is where the bungee jumping, whitewater tubing and wave-riding top the to-do lists – though you certainly won't get funny looks for opting to spend the day on the patio, beer in hand. The cherry on top may well be the popular BazBus service – a daily hop-on/hop-off shuttle (with an unlimited time-frame as long as you're moving in one direction) that makes transportation a bit of a non-issue. Naturally, we moved west to east and hit some popular spots as well as some a little off the beaten path.

Our first destination was Knysna (NIZE-nuh), which is situated at the far-end of a sprawling lagoon, flanked at its entrance by two stone outcroppings known as 'the Heads'. Believing they were only accessible by car or pricey paddlewheeler, we didn't arrange to see them, but a wander to the touristy waterfront area turned into a lengthy trek and we did manage to reach this dramatic rocky gateway on foot.


The lagoon itself is pretty, though overdevelopment tarnishes the landscape some. The summer homes that crowd the shore (and the likely-mistitled Leisure Island) are also a threat to the Knysna seahorse, who makes its home in the lagoon's sea grassy shallows. There were two live specimens on display at a deli in the waterfront area, much to Alanna's delight. They are bizarre and fascinating creatures.

On the stroll home we detoured into the town's industrial district to pay a visit to Mitchell's Brewery, South Africa's largest (and possibly sole) independent brewer, hoping for a tour. It proved a little pricey – especially since we'd splurged for a scenic lunch at The Heads an hour earlier – so Scott bought a few bottles instead and settled for a poolside tasting. A couple of the beers held shades of homebrew, but it was a refreshing change from the status quo.


From Knysna, we headed to Nature's Valley, which, judging by the view from our room, is an accurate (though bland) name for the area.


While this isn't where the granola bars come from, Wild Spirit Lodge certainly did cater to the granola-eating, djembe-tapping crowd. Fresh off the hostel party circuit, the serenity and old-world hospitality were a welcome change, as were the comprehensive recycling and composting facilities.


The main draw of the area is its well-maintained network of trails through the indigenous forests of Tsitsikamma National Park. Our longest hike led us along a river and across a beach to a(nother) lagoon -- sandy, crystal-clear and full of splashing local children.


After a quick swim, we resumed our hike, forging onwards along a dried-up riverbed in a steep jungle valley. Alanna put on a brave face clearing spiderwebs, while Scott sang the Indiana Jones theme. The trail out of the valley was a grueling stepped climb under the hot mid-afternoon sun, with spectacular views we were too winded to fully appreciate.

While many hostels offer a nightly home-cooked meal for guests (at varying costs) we usually prefer to self-cater. At Wild Spirit, however, we opted to join in for their wholesome and generously portioned vegetarian curry dinner, which did not disappoint. It also gave us the opportunity to chat with some of the other guests – both locals and foreigners – discussions which, wherever we go, inevitably turn to crime, safety, and the realities of South African life. We would assume that most locals would have grown weary of such topics by now, however, the few we've spoken to have been more than willing to provide an insider's perspective on the issue. At Wild Spirit, we talked to a Capetonian currently working as a civilian pilot in Afghanistan, who had a unique perspective on the dangers of working in the Middle East (one stray bullet through his fuselage in 10 months) versus those of living in his home country (where his family, friends and co-workers fell victim to numerous break-ins and assaults over the same period).


After three great nights at Wild Spirit we hopped back on the BazBus (but not before receiving hugs from staff!) and rode to Storm's River, a mere twenty minutes along the highway. Most people we met on the Garden Route had given themselves six or seven days from end to end, whereas we had two weeks and could afford such dilly-dallying. On the way our driver slowed as we passed over the Bloukrans River bridge, site of the bungee jump, so we could have a look at the drop – all 216 meters of it - advertised as the highest in the world. There was much nervous giddying among those who'd signed up for the jump.


Storm's River Village, a single fresh-paved road with a few scattered stores at the end, seems to exist mainly for the sake of tourists and the many 'extreme' outdoor activities they're willing to pay money for. Bungees, bikes, quads, innertubes, abseiling (rapelling), and zip-lines through treetops and across waterfalls were the attractions advertised on the walls and flyer-stands at our hostel. These were all well outside our daily budget, so we again did what we're best at – we hiked to a body of water via a forest. Still within the bounds of Tsitsikamma NP, we touched down at the mouth of Storm's River, where waves against raw rock sent juts of froth hundreds of feet into the air.

Our second day we hiked into Plaatbos Nature Reserve and swam in the river. We'd seen posters advertising blackwater tubing, and now we knew the reason – because of tannins in the earth, the river was tinted a deep red-brown, and when swimming you couldn't see your feet.


While we enjoyed the natural beauty and the ease of travel along the Garden Route, at times the jewel of South Africa seemed a little too shiny, pre-packaged and tourist-geared. While a few areas we visited appeared unspoilt by tourism, many locations seemed to have been tarnished by overdevelopment and commercialization. The upside to this influx in tourists is that many locals are able to earn their livelihood on our dollar – hawking local crafts, acting as guides and providing other valuable services. However if it's fantastic scenery and culture you're after, leave the Garden Route to the surfers and skydivers and find your own piece of paradise further east along the Wild Coast – which is where we headed next.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Whites and Wines

Most of what I saw in Cape Town fell into two categories: that which seemed genuinely 'African' and that which did not. Riding the southern suburbs train while a woman preached gospel and blind children begged for spare change? African. Being served souped-up veggie burgers on Long Street by a troupe of trendy white waitresses? Not. In the end, I found more things fell into the 'not' category than the African one. Waterfront mansions, French cuisine, Lady Gaga blaring from everyone's speakers – I left Cape Town wondering if I was even in Africa at all.

And then we arrived in Stellenbosch, and everything we found un-African about Cape Town suddenly seemed to epitomize Africa in comparison.

To sum up Stellenbosch in three words: everyone is white. To sum it up differently, this was where apartheid (pronounced apart-hate, not apart-hide) was conceived and it shows.

The second of the European settlements in South Africa (following Cape Town), Stellenbosch's streetscape is lined with three-century old oak trees and white-washed Cape Dutch architecture, giving the town a distinctly European feel. Add to that the fact that nearly everyone is jabbering in a hybrid of German, Dutch, French and English (Afrikaans is the only European language to ever evolve outside of Europe) and you're left feeling like April 1994 never even happened. As a fellow-hosteler commented, "It's the white man's dream of Africa.” In fact, the only blacks we saw during our stay were in coveralls, digging a ditch on the outskirts of town.

A rather boring picture of U-Stell

This was perhaps exaggerated by the fact that our hostel sat on the University of Stellenbosch campus -- allegedly Afrikanerdom's most prestigious educational institution -- and that our visit coincided with something along the lines of Frosh week. From our assessment, no one in the town is over the age of twenty-four. All the girls are thin and tan and wear exposed neon bras. All the boys are jocks who wear trucker hats and seemingly have an aversion to footwear. And they all drive shiny Volkswagens and drink copious amounts of Castle beer – often simultaneously. It's a pretty town overrun with fresh-from-the-nest youth, where you can hardly hear yourself think over the beat of the electronica emanating from 'Academia', U-Stell's student housing complex.

Despite the Orange County/Euro-rave vibe, it was easy to have a quiet, relaxed and thoroughly enjoyable stay in Stellenbosch. After all, it is the heart of the Winelands, making it easy to escape to the serenity of one of the two hundred plus wine estates for a relaxed outdoor tasting of some of the region's excellent wines in the shade of vine-covered pergolas.

Lacking private transport of our own, we opted to do a tour of the Winelands (including Stellenbosch, Paarl and Franschoek) and for R300 (about $45) we were shuttled around to five wineries and were given the opportunity to taste more than twenty different wines (by the afternoon, we were feeling the effects of the high South African alcohol content, so we had to pass on a few of them). We first went on a tour of the vineyard and learned all about the wine-making process, and were then briefed on how to properly taste the wines (nose, taste, finish – that's about all I can remember). After that, it was time to start drinking.

At the Boschendal Estate

The first wine we tried was a sparkling wine made using the traditional Champagne method. When the French found out that South Africans were producing 'Champagne' and calling it so, they objected and demanded that it be re-named to reflect its origins. The wine-makers came up with an alternative name, and in South Africa, this prestigious category became known as Kaapse Vonkel (Cape Sparkle). Having tasted Simonsig's Kaapse Vonkel, I can say that it's better than most authentic Champagnes I have tried – bearing in mind that I know absolutely nothing about wine and have never purchased a bottle costing more than $20.

Our Kaapse Vonkel being opened in true Napoleonic fashion, sword-style

Another notable wine we tasted (besides my beloved Gewurtztraminer, which tasted like lychee juice) was South Africa's signature Pinotage variety. Pinotage was bred in 1925 by a professor at Stellebosch University who wanted to combine Hermitage and Pinot Noir grapes to create a grape that both produced good wine and was easy to cultivate in South Africa's warm climate. I wasn't totally sold on it, but since our guide assured us that so much of wine-tasting is subjective, I'm not about to dissuade others from giving it a try. Besides, supposedly it tastes like dark chocolate and blackberries, which sounds just lovely.

Where the magic happens

Feeling rather Okanagan

Also a highlight was the Fairview Estate in Paarl, which not only gave us six wines instead of five, but also threw in a cheese tasting! And really, Scott and I are nothing if not connoisseurs of fine artisinal cheeses. We sampled Gouda and Feta and Brie and Blue and half a dozen others and they were almost all delicious. The three Frenchmen on the tour were inclined to disagree with our glowing reviews, but as I recall they turned up their noses at the Gewurtztraminer as well, so obviously they had no taste.

And that is how we spent our time in Stellenbosch: drinking wine, eating cheese, and marvelling at young white South Africans' horrid taste in music. As for the authentically African stuff? I have a feeling it's coming, and when it does, we'll be glad we've had this time to eat, drink and revel in the comforts of what seems a lot like home -- albeit tempered by a hint of lingering colonialism.

The end

Here be Baboon Feces

Simon's Town

Near the end of our Cape Town stay we popped down to Simon's Town, an hour south of the city by train, for two nights. The single-street harbour town has three claims to fame, most noticeably being home to South Africa's navy– fit, uniformed people often outnumbered pedestrians on the sidewalk. While epaulettes are pretty and all, we visited mainly for the other two: it is the town farthest south along the Cape Peninsula (and therefore closest to the Cape of Good Hope), and habitat to SA's largest and only protected colony of African Penguins.

Boulders Beach, where the penguins be, is an easy walk from town. As with most tourist pulls in the country, the parking lot was fringed with vendors behind overstocked tables of curios and souvenirs, in this case mostly penguin-related. Also present was a talented group of traditional African singers busking to an empty patch of lawn. For R35 ($5) we were permitted access via boardwalk to a raised platform overlooking the small cove the penguins call home.

We'd already seen penguins on Robben Island but these ones were more accustomed to a human presence and we could get much closer. The birds are certainly entertaining in their nonchalant, waddly way – their walk is akin to a man running with his pants down. 'African penguin' is a relatively new name for the species, having replaced 'jackass penguin,' for the mule-like braying sound they make. I'm not sure they've forgiven us yet for that one (though the sour expression they carry makes me think not). Upon arrival the viewing platform was empty, but when we left it was stuffed with tourists, and on our walk home I was happy to see the singers had an audience. We also passed through a graveyard and I found a terrifying bug.

terrifying!

The following morning we'd planned to rent bikes and ride to Cape Point. The two hostel loaners were taken so we had to procure ours from a grizzled Afrikaaner running a small bike-rental outfit from his café. His only patron was his friend, another grizzled Afrikaaner, who introduced himself as an artist, and offered to draw our portraits. A tattoo artist from next door (more leathery rather than grizzled) dropped by to point out Alanna's sunburn and warn us about the intense Cape Town sun. The artist gave me a bikini-woman drawing as a parting gift.

Our bikes were 'CaliforniaBike' brand and lacking front deraillers. The route was beautiful, every bit the raging coastline one would expect at the edge of a continent. There were a significant number of signs warning not to feed the baboons, but for all our looking we did not see a single one on the ride down. A generous amount of droppings though, mostly deposited on the tops of rocks and highway markers like dung-trophies. The ride was 20 kilometers of gradual uphill with occasional steeper sections, and at times very windy. We stopped for lunch at an info center 5 kilometers from the Cape but I think we both knew at that point we wouldn't be riding any farther. Our asses hurt.

The Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, which we entered (for a fee) a little over halfway through our ride, is apparently home to more plant species than the entire British Isles. If so, most of these species are in bush format, and away from the coastline the landscape is scenic in a subdued, homogenous way. We ate lunch (samosas from the 7-eleven in town) and after admitting to each other we weren't eager on biking to the end, we resolved to instead walk through some dunes to a beach visible in the distance. That was too far as well, unfortunately. We turned around, refilled our waterbottles and began pedaling home. It was a day of unreached destinations.

Cape Point is visible here in the distance.

After a false alarm (a grey dog), we finally got our primate on the ride home. We stopped at a man-made swimming lagoon and Alanna was accosted by a solo baboon coming down the trail. We watched for awhile as he sat and munched a plant, alone in the wind.

a man-made swimming area, as coastal currents make open-ocean swimming dangerous.

our monkey

Upon dropping off our bikes the tattoo artist came by again and suggested a tattoo as a souvenir. He and the café-owner came off as a little bored, but pleasant people, and eager patrons of the Simon's Town spirit.