Welcome to the land of milk and honey – Eastern Cape’s Wild Coast

In July last year we toured the Southern Wild Coast, from Kei River to Coffee Bay. This month Cameron Ewart-Smith discovers that, despite the jangling of gambling machines at the Wild Coast Sun, it isn’t necessarily gold that glitters along the northern Transkei coastline.

“You can’t take pictures here.” I looked up surprised. “But the machines have already swallowed my money, I’ve nothing better to do,” I pleaded.

“Sorry,” came the firm reply. “You’ll have to take it up with the security manager.”

I found him in his office, a big bloke who looked capable of breaking a few bones should he need to.

“It’s a problem with the gambling board you see,” he explained. I didn’t really, but nodded enthusiastically anyway.

“I’ll have to take it up with them and they are probably closed. Possibly tomorrow if you’re still here. Can I give you a call?”

I thanked him profusely and went to fetch my partner, Justine, from the depths of the Wild Coast Sun Casino. She was surrounded. Punters, having seen the camera, had sidled up to her and were asking which machine would be ‘the one’. For them it was logical – we must be there to record the millions about to pour out of one of the slot machines. Justine, always ready to cause a little mischief, surreptitiously nodded, winked and wafted her hand in a non-specific direction that indicated at least half the casino. We left the sorry souls believing a big hit was imminent.

Escaping the stale confines of the casino we headed to the beach, the smell of cheap perfume lingering on our clothing. It was refreshing to be back on the wind-lashed coastline. Not even the boards warning us that our safety was severely compromised outside the hotel grounds dissuaded us from this much-needed fresh air.
Our tour of the northern half of the Wild Coast had started on a rainy day in Coffee Bay well to the south. We’d driven for hours through a curtain of rain, but as the Sun slipped away it let up. Shafts of sunlight sneaked through the clouds, Midas’s fingers lighting the landscape as we headed for the Ocean View Hotel.

We found the hotel overlooking a secluded bay. A rocky headland guarded one end of the shore – a sickle of golden sand – while the Bomvu River Estuary guarded the other. As we entered the grounds, the resident dogs rushed out to meet us, their tails wagging enthusiastically. They escorted us to reception, where we were greeted as old friends rather than guests.

The dogs were equally companionable later that evening, wrapped around the base of our bar stools as we enjoyed local oysters washed down with a welcome beer. Unlike the farmed variety, the oysters were fresh and tasty. Left in their natural rocky shore environment to face the whims of nature, they’d trapped some of the coastline’s grandeur between their shells.

Having conscientiously cleared more than a few oysters from their shells and devoured a lobster from our dinner plates, we headed to bed, the rumbling waves lulling us to sleep.

The morning was relatively benign, as the previous day’s clouds had mooched off to dampen someone else’s door. The air was clean and crisp and the landscape glistened. However, the roads had turned into tricky, muddy strips and although 4×4 wasn’t necessary, it was comforting to know it was lurking a gear shift away.

We gingerly navigated to Coffee Shack Backpackers to meet Phil who arranges activities and excursions in the area. He’d organised an abseil down the sea cliffs overlooking Baby or Little Hole in the Wall, a wave-cut feature similar to its famous cousin further south, the Hole in the Wall.

Justine lashed herself into a harness with Phil’s help and, plonking a climbing helmet on, slowly lowered herself over the cliff gaining confidence with every metre. Phil held a safety line but, unlike some commercial operators who don’t allow clients to control their own destinies, Justine had full control of her descent.

One problem with abseiling, however, is that after the thrills comes the trek back up. To make matters worse the damp path – or more accurately goat track – which led up from the cobbled shore below, was slippery and more than once we had visions of repeating the descent in a less elegant fashion.

Having successfully scrambled up, we returned to town, as there were still some miles to travel before our next evening’s stop. The dogs eyed our packed bags mournfully, gazing after us as we pointed our nose out the gates.
“Sorry, there’s no petrol.” I glanced nervously at the fuel gauge. Humm, this could get a wee bit interesting. Justine stared across at me, in a manner not entirely dissimilar to that of a dragon that’s stumbled upon St George outside its lair. I smiled meekly, rapidly trying to work through the mileage we’d done and how far it was to the next fuel stop. And that’s the thing about the Wild Coast I was beginning to realise – it’s unadulterated.

In all but one case the glitzy lights have remained beyond the edges and the area has been left in limbo. There are few big towns and the rugged topography and coastline – not to mention the old-fashioned system of communal, tribal land-ownership – hamper road building and other infrastructure developments.

The situation is exacerbated by the perception of danger that persists in many people’s minds, largely due to the vociferous reporting of attacks on travellers a few years ago. Yet I have felt more at risk on the streets of Johannesburg than I felt here. That’s not to say you should be negligent. The area is extremely poor – in financial terms – and so tourists pose a juicy target.

But I digress – the unadulterated state means planning is essential. You can’t assume villages supposed to have fuel actually will.

I calculated we’d make our next stop, Hluleka Nature Reserve, and from there could get to Libode which reportedly had petrol. . . .

Our fuel worries were soon forgotten, however, when we discovered Hluleka’s wooden, double storey, self-catering cabins peeping over the dune forest that lines the sandy inlet of Hluleka Bay. Standing on the small balcony we could see pods of hundreds of common dolphins lackadaisically playing in the turquoise waves.

Hluleka’s forest reverberates with life: the chittering of sunbirds, bulbuls and canaries, the squawks of a disturbed roost of black-crowned night herons and in the background the elusively tantalising hoot, hroo-hroo, hroo-hroo of narina trogons.

Narina trogons are the spoilsports of the bird world. Notoriously difficult to spot, they are usually glimpsed only as a flash of brilliant scarlet and green across a forest path. More commonly they remain undetected but for their haunting call.

Justine and I scanned the trees, hoping. On the sunny margins of the forest, our vigilance was rewarded with excellent sightings of greater double-collared, grey, black and collared sunbirds. These flitted about noisily, competing for nectar from the red flowers of the coral trees, Erythrina lysistemon.

A troop of vervet monkeys bounded effortlessly into the tree, raining red petals onto the ground below as they stripped the flowers, also seeking the sugar-laden fluid.
Leaving the reserve we took a fuel-conserving crawl along nerve-rackingly unsignposted dirt roads, finally rolling into Libode on mere fumes. A smiling face cheerfully informed us that they certainly did have petrol, as long as we had cash – they didn’t take credit cards. Justine was just beginning to get that dragon look again when I produced a R200 note from my wallet. Phew.

Full up, we whipped back towards the coast on the excellent tar road linking Umtata with Port St Johns. Umngazi River Bungalows, our destination for the evening, is along a short stretch of gravel road leading off this main road, about 10 kilometres south of Port St Johns. As we neared the gates Justine shrieked, “Narina trogon.” We halted in a cloud of dust. Backing up, we could make out a bird-shaped form among the leaves. We held our breath, scrabbling around for the binoculars.

The bird, nonchalantly looking over its shoulder at us, slowly materialised as I focused the binoculars. It was a narina trogon. As we gawked it began to hop around in the branches, displaying its awesome red breast and metallic green body in the angled rays of the afternoon sun piercing the foliage.
Umngazi River Bungalows is possibly one of the best value-for-money hotels in South Africa. Situated on the mouth of the Mngazi River, it’s a blueprint for successful development of this coastline. Unobtrusive, luxurious bungalows nestle along the shore, commanding spectacular views over the estuary. It’s an unhurried environment where children play happily in the background, fishermen stare down at you from faded prints on the wall and the staff seem to materialise as required.

It is blessed with nearly perfect location and there are activities suitable for all but the most urbanite of visitors. After consulting reception, we decided to walk to the mangrove swamps lining the Mngazana River Estuary a few kilometres south. And so it was the next morning that we found ourselves confronted by a bull lying on the middle of the beach, its horns gleaming scimitars. It watched us approach in that bored, disinterested fashion typical to members of the bovine family. At the last minute it staggered to its feet and sauntered away up the dunes along a well-used path through the dune forest.

We continued on our way, enjoying the miles of sand, disturbed only by the footprints of a couple who had set out from the hotel ahead of us. Eventually our younger legs reeled them in, leaving the beach ahead untarnished.

We reached the mangroves as the Sun began to rain heat down upon us, and it was refreshing stepping from the baked sandy beach into the moist, sucking-mud surrounds of the forest. At our feet red-clawed mangrove crabs, Sesarma meinerti, scuttled for their holes, their large red pincers obvious against the dark muddy background. Less obvious marsh crabs, Sesarma catenata, similar in design but lacking the red pincers, were less spooked by our presence, relying on their superior camouflage to prevent attacks from predators. Why one species ended up with red pincers is probably one of those biological mysteries involving sex.

Heading back, we passed the older couple sitting on a fallen tree, enjoying the peaceful coolness of the surroundings and sharing their last jelly baby.”Port St Johns appears to be becoming the receptacle for the outer fringes of South African society (anonymous 1885) . . . Some things never change” proclaimed a sign above the counter in the Captain’s Cabin, Cremorne Estates’ bar. Cremorne Estates is an eclectic mix of holiday chalets, camping and caravanning, including some basic, river-front, fishing bungalows across the Mzimvubu River from Port St Johns.

Upon our arrival Steve Roberts, the owner, had hurriedly ushered us to the river to join the sundowner cruise. A group of guests lazed around on deck with bottles of all descriptions clamped in their fists, enjoying the dying daylight. An intense pair of birders, their expensive Leica binoculars dangling from their necks, stood at the blunt bow rattling off the names of every feathered creature we passed. As we chugged along, the Sun slipped away and the lights of Port St Johns slowly winked on.

We joined Steve later that night in the Captain’s Cabin, where we discussed the state of the Wild Coast and the proposed new toll road through the area. “I think there’s a chance it’ll go ahead,” Steve told us over a beer. “Valli Moosa and Dullah Omar were here last week looking at the developmental infrastructure that is required to inject life into the former Transkei. I don’t know if it’s the right thing but maybe . . . who knows.” He shrugged. “Port St Johns is a great place, in some ways it would be a pity to mess with that but certain developments are needed. But you’ll see for yourself when you explore the town tomorrow.”

The dusty streets of Port St Johns seethed with people as we poked around the potholed streets stocking up on supplies. Sales assistants standing outside their shops advertised their wares with the aid of megaphones, drowning us in waves of sound. Pondo women, their faces caked in cosmetic clay, offered up bags of avocados, nuts and oranges for our inspection as we passed.

Escaping the street, we entered a surprisingly clean Boxer Store. It too was packed with shoppers, who thronged up and down the passages like bees. Having acquired the few things we needed, we headed to Lily Lodge, which has a spectacularly positioned restaurant on the dunes above Second Beach, for lunch.

The place was a shambles. Construction everywhere. We opted for the shady deck outside furthest from the workers who were busy laying floor tiles in the entrance as if busy with a giant jigsaw.

Mbuyi O’Mahony – the ex-mayor of Port St Johns and owner of Lily Lodge, joined us. She, too, foresees a bright future for the area. We chatted over lunch overlooking the surf; incongruous life-saver’s flags fluttered in the gentle sea breeze while a group of kids kicked a soccer ball round an ersatz pitch. . . . It was easy to envisage her optimism.

The coast has everything: isolated sandy beaches, dramatic rocky cliffs, waterfalls that fall directly into the sea. But there are problems. “The people aren’t excellent hosts yet, and it will take some time for them to realise the benefits of hosting tourists,” Mbuyi told us. There are other problems too, we found later that evening.

Don Southby, who runs The Jetty guesthouse on the northern banks of the Mzimvubu River, explained.

“People drive in and leave with boot loads of fish, crayfish and oysters. And its not just ordinary lowlife criminals either, there are some reported cases of well-known local politicians who finance their operations that way.

“Port St Johns is a little Wild Westish – there’s a certain frontier mentality that pervades the place. But that’ll change, I suppose,” he sighed.

Don took us to do the ‘local thing’ across the river in Port St Johns at the Outspan Inn, which is owned and operated by John Costello, who is well known as a fly fisherman, author and conservationist.

It was a crazy evening. Talk revolved around fish . . . fishing, fishing lures, rods, bait, where to fish, who had fished, greatest fish, stupid fish and if I’m not mistaken, I&J fish. Justine and I joined in, happily encouraged by the amber liquid that was flowing freely across the bar counter while Christine Jacobsen, the manager, bartender, cook and conversationist, busied herself with supper, leaving the bar to run itself. At times it seemed there were more customers behind the bar than actually at it. But it was a locals kind of place, and there was subtle order to the chaos.

Unfortunately John was absent and it was only a few weeks later that I caught up with him on the phone. He’s disturbed by the alarming environmental degradation he sees occurring along the entire coastline. Estuaries are silting up: for instance in the 1800s the Mzimvubu Estuary was over 30 metres deep, now in places it runs to a few centimetres. Huge silt loads from erosion caused by poor farming practises are destroying one of South Africa’s finest estuaries.

Another problem are the high levels of nutrients entering the river systems. People use the rivers to wash themselves and their clothes, resulting in dramatically increased nutrient levels, which in turn results in algal blooms and degraded systems.

Away from rivers, illegal cottages are springing up along the coastline where wealthy holidaymakers have gained the favour of the local chief. The price often a mere bottle or two of Scotch.

These and other worrying trends threaten to destroy the untrammelled character of the Wild Coast. However, the problem remains, who should regulate it and how can it be policed? John is optimistic that the coast can be developed successfully and is currently trying to arrange a forum to discuss these issues, and to get major role players to commit to ‘sustainable development’.

These thoughts were on my mind as we passed a selection of illegal cottages on the road to Mbotyi Holiday Resort, one of the few locations on the Wild Coast that actually has a title deed in this still deeply tribal region.

“It’s fantastic . . . a privilege to own this,” says Peter Gillespie, one of three partners who recently bought the property and are bus
y restoring it. Already, those living around the hotel are feeling the benefits of tourism; suddenly there are jobs available. Peter is also trying to organise fishing permits so he can buy freshly caught fish, crayfish and other seafood to serve his guests. He’s encouraging vegetable farmers in the area and has agreed to buy as much of his produce as he can locally.

We left Mbotyi abuzz with renovations in preparation for the intended November opening. There are hurdles still to cross, however. To open they need electricity and when that will come down the hill from nearby Lusikisiki is anyone’s guess. Eskom had promised six weeks. . . .
North of Mbotyi the sparsely populated rolling hills amble down to knife-edge cliffs towering over the sea. Rivers slice through the countryside and tumble into the waves. Gothic cathedrals of rock stand towering off shore surrounded by surf.

Against this dramatic backdrop we encountered Nomnikelo Nltabathi and sisters Meisie and Sandile Bhobho harvesting seafood from the shore. Unlike more densely populated areas of the KwaZulu-Natal coast and southern Wild Coast, however, here the practise is still sustainable. One worry, for both this group of women and conservation officials alike, is that an influx of tourists and development will place more strain on the marine resources than they can bear. For the moment, at least, there is protection in isolation and the women are able to collect a bucket load of brown mussels, limpets and oysters with ease.

Situated a few miles north, Mkambati Reserve offers a more official form of protection. Here fishing is allowed with a permit and is controlled. It’s hoped protecting stretches of shore such as this will benefit surrounding areas via a re-seeding effect. Animals spawned in the reserve migrating into heavily fished areas outside. This has been particularly effective for fish species at De Hoop Marine Reserve in the Western Cape. How effective it is here is unclear, as research in the area has long been hampered by chaotic administration, political ineptitude and the lack of finances.

Tourism money is starting to trickle into the region, however. But whether it will be spent wisely remains to be seen. The lavishly pretentious Wild Coast Sun and Casino, barely within the borders of the Wild Coast, is an anomaly, better linked with the South Coast of Natal than the natural wild splendour of the Wild Coast. It generates huge revenues, which in turn generate jobs. For some this may be a golden egg. But developing complexes like this further south will certainly kill the beautiful goose that is the Wild Coast.

After finally achieving permission to photograph in the casino – which as far as casinos go is very pleasant – we left the Wild Coast Sun behind after one of the worst hotel stays of our lives. It hadn’t been helped by the fact that somehow a face cloth had managed to clamber into my bags, setting alarms ringing as I headed for reception. But the sour taste in my mouth was not one of embarrassment, rather it was the memory of the horrifically dry chicken the night before and the ridiculously over-priced breakfast.

Putting the memory of the night behind us we pointed our car south along the N2 and home, passing the tendrils of tar that meander towards the coast.

As we sped along I caught glimpses of the real countryside once again . . . a woman sweeping the doorstep of her round hut, a black pig snuffling by the roadside, children waving frantically, cows grazing nonchalantly in golden fields. It’s a tapestry that will hang in my memory. One that I fear will soon be outdated – tattered and old. The images that will replace it are currently only sketches in strategic development plans. And in the grass that’s slowly waving in the winds of change.