There is pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is rapture in the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more

George Gordon Byron

A fine salt mist hovered above the shoreline, putting the distant dunes and hills slightly out of focus and robbing the landscape of contrast. The huge sky above was empty except for a thin stream of puffy clouds hanging above the Agulhas Current.

There wasn’t a house or hut in sight. Surveying the emptiness and the rugged scenery, I began to get some understanding of why this remote area came to be called the Wild Coast.

Stretching from the Mtamvuma river in the north to the Kei River in the south, the Wild Coast is a part of South Africa I had woefully neglected. The northern part of the Transkei I had never explored at all. Keen to make amends for this gross oversight, I had jumped at the opportunity to go on a hike along its coast when my good friends, Ian and Mandy Tyrer (veteran travellers both) first suggested it – especially as it was to celebrate Ian’s 60^th birthday.

The area has a long and rich history. For countless generations, the Pondo people have grazed their cattle on the lush green hills of the interior. Further south is Xhosa country, with the Great Fish River once providing the dividing line between them and the European settlers moving north.

Isolated from the rest of the world for centuries, the local inhabitants must have had little inkling that they would, one day, be visited by people from other realms.

Portuguese ships first rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, heading up the eastern shores of Africa before nudging their carracks into the vast unknown of the uncharted Indian Ocean. They reached India just ten years later. Pushing farther and farther east, they eventually entered the coastal waters of China – a land of fabled riches – where they began a covert trade in silks and porcelain with the Ming dynasty. They also explored the numerous islands of the East Indies. In 1544 a blustery monsoon even caught the sails of one Portuguese vessel and swept it as far as Japan.

Where the Portugese blazed a trail, others followed, lured on by the fabulous tales these early explorers had returned with.

Many of the men on board the vessels that undertook these hazardous voyages might have had second thoughts if they had any notion of the distances and the dangers involved. The ocean could be wild and tempestuous and ships were frequently blown off course. Scurvy was common, discipline often broke down because of the horrendous conditions (troublesome crewmen were sometimes deliberately marooned). Many journeys ended in complete disaster.

The southeast coastline of Africa – and, in particular, this stretch of broken shoreline – was especially noted for its treachery. Fast-moving storms would suddenly sweep in, in the dark, it was easy to sail into reefs and rocks, rogue waves swallowed countless ships. There were few natural harbours they could sail into for shelter.

Over the years, its waters became a burial ground for numerous ships. Among the more famous are the Sao Bento (1554), and the two East Indiamen Dodington (1755) and Grosvenor (1782). One of the most compelling mysteries remains the fate of the luxury ocean liner Waratah and her complement of 211 souls, which simply disappeared in July 1909, while under-way from Durban to Cape Town.

Even in recent years, the notorious coastline has continued to exact its toll. On the 4^th August 1991, the Greek cruise liner, Oceanos sunk off the coast near the Hole in the Wall. The captain and crew promptly abandoned ship leaving the remaining passengers to fend for themselves – shamefully ignoring the famous ‘women and children first ‘ order, given when, on the 26^th February 1852, the HMS Birkenhead struck a rock and sunk, near Danger Point, further down the Cape coastline, with the loss of 450 lives (an ancestor of mine, Elizabeth Nesbitt, and her third son, Richard Atholl were among the few survivors).

Although many lives have been lost along the Wild Coast, some survived the ordeal. Once on land, a few of the castaways managed to make it to the nearest European outposts (the Portuguese-held Delagoa Bay to the north, the Dutch Cape to the south), many others died, while a small number were assimilated into the local tribes.

Turning this all over in my head, while I sat on a dune stained red by titanium (which a greedy Australian mining company now wants to exploit), munching a handful of raisins and peanuts I had brought along to give me energy, I found myself pondering what the Pondo must have thought when they first glimpsed those ghostly white sails bobbing along the horizon. I could imagine the feeling of fear, fascination, and incomprehension when they first encountered these strangely dressed interlopers.

My journey had begun much closer to home, at that symbol of mass-produced, uniform international tourist culture, the Wild Coast Sun. I had no real desire to linger there but, if nothing else, it had served as a good reference point, reminding me of what I wanted to leave behind and what I hoped to discover on the trek ahead.

There were seventeen of us in the group. Looking like a meandering crocodile as we stretched out along the shore, our ages ranged from eighteen to seventy-plus. Over the next few days, I would learn just how convivial a bunch of beach pilgrims we were.

Within a few hundred metres of leaving the Wild Coast Sun complex, it was like we had entered a parallel universe, crossed through a portal, travelled back in time. The whole mood of the countryside changed, the landscape became grassy and uncultivated, the settlements few and far between. There was a quiet after the hullaballoo of the busy freeway and endless miles of asphalt, power lines, malls, and gated housing estates. It came like a fresh draught of air, beckoning us into a world that had little changed over time (other than the tinny music bellowing out of a few of the huts we would later pass by).

For the first stage of our hike, we walked mostly along the beach which was all but deserted apart from the odd fishermen casting from the rocks and the occasional seagull flying overhead.

Although we had timed it to cross at low tide the first big river we came to was still flowing strongly. The water pushed irregularly at our wastes and knees, sometimes embracing us like we were just another piece of flotsam to be swept out into the Indian Ocean. The clear shallows were speckled with little batches of fish, darting shoals of silver and green. Sunbeams danced along its surface.

A little later we came to another river that needed fording. Once again it had a solid muscularity to it but we managed to push our way through the fast-flowing current and up the bank on the other side.

As we walked the sun climbed steadily up the back of the bluest sky. The sea became more boisterous, endless rollers crashed onto the rocky shore. Up ahead the chatter continued as each person got the measure of the other. I could sense we were beginning to cohere as a group.

Out at sea, something large and grey suddenly shot out the water and fell back with a slap. A whale. Then another tail appeared – a great glistening V that hovered motionless for an instant before slipping slowly, vertically downwards. Over the next few days we were to see a lot more of them, their presence was invariably given away by a sudden spout of chalk-white spray.

Mid-morning we stopped for a break. Prone on the shaded river-beach, desperately trying to coax some life into my aching back, I found my thoughts returning to the crew and passengers who had survived the various shipwrecks along this coast. I was beginning to feel a certain kinship with them. Nor was this just idle fantasy. Cast adrift on this lonely shore, each of us had – like them – came with our prejudices, personality quirks and back story, shards of which began to appear as the long march continued. As with them, survival and reaching our destination had become all.

Time rolled on, my pack grew heavier, my watch ran slower. After walking along the beach for most of the morning we finally turned inland and headed up into the grass-covered hills. My tiring legs began to complain. The scenery was, however, breathtakingly beautiful in its rustic tranquillity. Stands of Pondo palms sheltered little settlements of thatched huts whose walls were sometimes painted white, sometimes with yellows and ochres and browns. Cattle and goats grazed in the long grass.

All but tumbling and tripping we finally staggered into the local village where we were to spend the night. There was, of course, no electricity, running water nor other modern conveniences here, but we were to find ourselves the subject of the most gracious hospitality and kindness.

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Later that afternoon those of us who still felt up to it, after the long hike, hopped on the back of a local bakkie and headed off up a rutted road to Mnayemi Falls. To truly appreciate the full majesty of this spectacle, you have to climb down a parallel waterfall, situated slightly to its south. The descent was steep and slippery, one misstep could have left you in a heap of trouble. I was thankful I had decided to bring a mountain hiking stick to help keep my balance…

It was well worth the risk and effort. The place had an otherworldly enchantment about it. Surrounded by a great edifice of a high rock cliff, the falls exuded a powerful, dreaming holiness. The sun burnished the top, the rest of the falling water lay in deep shadow. I could imagine sacred rituals being performed here in the light of a glowing moon.

Wanting to experience its healing, restorative power, I eased myself into the water and felt the cool go through me. I felt alive, tingly, happy to be in the water. I swam out into the pool and back again. Hoisting myself out I felt incredibly vigorous and content.

Relaxing at the village later, I sat on a plastic chair and watched the rolling hillsides behind us turn to gold, then fade to dusty violet. There was a chill in the air. In front of me, a translucent blue-green sea shimmered like a mirage on the horizon.

More magic lay in store. That morning we had watched a gleaming sunrise above the ocean, now it was the moon’s turn to impress and impress it did. There was something eerily spectral about the scene, as the bright orange orb rose steadily into the star-smattered sky, its reflection glimmering across the ever-moving waves below.

The following morning we got up early and resumed our journey south, heading down towards the Red Desert, an area of undulating dunes that look uncannily like the surface of Mars. As I marched along, the sun slanted away behind me sending long thin shadows stretching over its red sands.

Back on the beach, we plodded on. At the end of one final long stretch, partly embedded in the sand, rested the rusted remains of a large ship boiler (I later discovered it belonged to the steel steamship The Guerdon which was abandoned due to engine trouble on the 9th July 1929). Just beyond this, we crossed another river and followed a wriggly path that led up a steep hillside.

Once again it was tough going but finally, we reached a long line of boxy houses, in the middle of which stood our destination – the Fishin’ Shack. For me, it was love at first sight.

There was a colour and exuberance about the place I had not expected. Beautifully patterned blankets hung over fences, multi-coloured chickens sauntered past doorways, stumpy black pigs milled around, goats made goat-noises, dogs barked, shouting schoolboys ran along grassy tracks to school, women with cans of water on their heads strode through the fields along slender paths.

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In urgent need of an ice-cold beer, I quickly ascertained where the local shebeen was and headed up there as fast as my aching legs could carry me.

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One of the patrons eyed me incredulously like I was some strange apparition who had just emerged from the frothy waves below. “What are you doing here mkhulu [elderly man]?” he asked. In the circumstances, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question.

On our first night, we feasted on crayfish prepared by our wonderfully warm and welcoming host, Kelly Hein. Afterwards, I had a Whisky nightcap before climbing into bed. Exhausted from the strain and long hours of walking I was soon asleep.

The next day we set out early for the Mkambati waterfalls. The track took us down to the Mtentu river which was once the subject of a TV documentary by David Attenborough, because of the, usually deep-sea dwelling, Kingfish who choose to swim up its fresh waters for no discernible reason. At its mouth, the river was too wide and deep for us to wade across so we hired a canoe and got to the other side that way.

After traversing a section of the Mkambati Nature Reserve, we reached the falls just before lunch. They are separated into two parts: an upper section where the river gushes into a large, deep, steep-sided pool and – a hundred metres or so below this – another section that drops, via a series of steps, directly into the sea. Because a group of cyclists had already claimed this beautiful spot as their own, we made for the upper pool. Thirsty from the long walk, I cupped my hands and lifted its water to my mouth. It tasted cool and vaguely root-flavoured. Every handful I took came out clear and sparkling.

Then I decided to go for another swim.

Once again, the icy water pounded my shoulders and thumped down on my head. By the time I scrambled out on the other side my body had lost all feeling so I danced a little jig to get the blood flowing again. There was something spiritual and very healing about doing it.

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On the way back from the falls we came across another rusting skeleton of a ship that had been thrown high up onto the rocks. Surveying the twisted wreckage, I found myself wondering what angry, malevolent, and vengeful demon of the deep had managed to hurl the vessel so far ashore?

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Chastened by such thoughts, I stumbled on, haunted by snatches of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach (“Sophocles long ago, Heard it on the Aegean… the turbid ebb and flow, Of human misery…”)

The next day, while the rest of our group were off paddling the Mtentu, my hiking companion, myself, and two others decided to head off on our own in search of a place called Paradise Pools, following minor and diminishing paths until they eventually disappeared altogether. It did not matter. Released into space, sky, grasslands, and patches of shade, I allowed my eyes to roam. To our left the high cliffs and gullied, forested slopes of the Mtentu river gorge moved towards us the further we clambered down the slope. Our destination, when we finally got there, more than lived up to its name.

Wanting to make the most of my remaining time, I elected, that afternoon, to go down to the nearby Pebble Beach. One of the local dogs decided to escort me, there and back, presumably to make sure I didn’t get lost. Or maybe it was just in need of a friend and I looked like a possible candidate.

The scene that greeted me, when I got there, was so manifestly untamed I felt like jumping into it. Ahead of me the coastline swept confidently away through a series of bays, bluffs, inlets, and knolls. Out on the ocean, light and water bubbled and swam together. The pebbles on the beach below shone bright and glittery in the late afternoon light. I was transfixed by the beauty of it all.

Dusk was falling by the time I returned. The sun was casting a furry, yellow light across the land and sea which was echoed in the gently waving golden grass and on the walls of the huts we passed by, their interiors smoky from cooking fires. For a while, I stood in silence and watched the sun sink in the west. The wind continued to blow in gusts down the slopes rattling the branches of some nearby trees. In between, I caught whiffs of meals being cooked and heard the low murmur of the voices of the folk gathered inside their cozy rural homes. The world of lockdown and Covid and urban paranoia seemed very far away. I felt completely at peace with the world.

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The next morning we were up at another unseemly hour because it was time to depart. As we lugged our gear towards the waiting vehicles, a line of curious dogs gathered, like they had come to see the weird white-folk, with their incomprehensible customs, on their way. Wanting to preserve the moment, I circled about taking pictures of them. I was sad. I felt reluctant to leave, reluctant to say farewell to this homely old fisherman’s shack and my newfound friends and this beautiful, wild, storm-tossed scenery.

Somehow we managed to cram ourselves into the two waiting bakkies and then we were off. During the long, bone-rattling journey back to the Wild Coast Sun I had plenty of time to reflect on the two Great Truths I had learned during my four days as a makeshift beach bum. Live simply. Carry a lighter backpack…

GALLERY

Some more pics from my Wild Coast adventure…

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THE TEAM:

And finally, when the going gets tough, the tough keep going…