In March 2025, I made my fifth journey, in as many years, to Mtentu. Purpose of journey: to attend a 21st birthday party, organised by that intrepid pair of African travellers, Ian and Mandy Tyrer. My memory of that milestone in my life is so vague, I needed to be reminded why it is important. This time, instead of walking in, we had decided to spare ourselves some tired legs and catch a local taxi. Given the state of the Transkei roads, I am not convinced it was any wiser a decision.

Still, the scenery was magnificent. The road led us over a roller-coaster of hills, topped by ridges of weathered rock and cut by deep ravines, over grassy balds, from which you could catch occasional glimpses of the Indian Ocean, glimmering in the east, a sliver of silver beyond the verdant green. Patches of indigenous forest clung to some of the river valleys, but most of the trees had long ago been felled, leaving vast stretches of open grassland. In places, small parcels of land had been cleared to grow a few straggly-looking mielies and other food crops, the cultivation of which was left mostly to the women.

As we drove, goats raised their heads and stared querulously at us from the roadside. Cattle grazed on the hillsides. Here, as elsewhere in South Africa, they have always been at the core of traditional culture, a symbol of both status and wealth. And, of course, a source of food.

The further we travelled towards our destination, the worse the road got. Our driver was obviously accustomed to the challenges and navigated each obstacle with practised skill. At about fifteen kilometres before our destination, we swapped our mode of transport, abandoning the relative comfort of the minibus taxi to get crammed, sardine-like, into the back of a covered bakkie. This exchange of vehicles seemed to coincide with a further deterioration in the road, over which the new driver now proceeded with painstaking deliberateness.

Bumping along, we eventually crested a ridge, which afforded us a long view over the coastline.

What struck me most about it, as on my previous trips, was the almost complete absence of habitation directly on the shoreline. Perhaps this reluctance to build there stems, partly, from an awe for the almost supernatural power of the sea, with its wild, angry winds and ferocious storms. There is another reason, however. Because of its history as a supposedly “independent” Bantustan under the old National Party government, the Transkei mostly escaped the unbridled development and continuous ugly urban sprawl which is now the predominant feature of so much of the South African coastline.

The road continued its winding descent. Taking a small side track off the main Mtentu Beach road, we eventually drew to a halt outside a scattering of brick, cement, wood and mud buildings. In the forefront stood our destination – the Hiking Shack – where Kelly Hein, the ever-cheerful and hospitable organiser of the Mtentu Ramble, was waiting, with a pile of fresh fruit and cold drinks, to greet us. Despite the discomforts of the journey, I could feel the place beginning to work its familiar magic over me.

That evening, I opened a quart of beer and sat outside, under a star-smattered sky. The grass was already wet with dew, the air salty with the faintest taste of wood smoke. Down below, where the land meets the sea, I could hear the relentless crashing of waves on rocky shores.

We were up just as the first hint of daylight appeared on the horizon, ready to greet the sun as it rose over the sea. We were by no means the first to do so. Others were already going about their chores.

There is a daily rhythm among all the creatures that inhabit these beautiful green hills. At around three in the morning, the village roosters do their trial run. Close to four thirty, they strike up again in unison and force their triumphant clarion calls to the rising sun, echoing across the landscape, getting picked up and echoed by every other strutting, chauvinistic, vain, peanut-brained rooster in the area. They were not alone. Outside my window, pigs grunted, dogs barked, a horse whinnied, children yelled excitedly as they got ready for school, and a bakkie spluttered into life. This was followed by the bawling of cows and the whooping and whistles of the herdsmen as they ushered their herds out into the fields.

As we sat outside, our chairs placed in a neat row, drinking coffee, dozens of Barn Swallows began congregating along the power line directly in front of us, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. It was now late March, and they were presumably psyching themselves for the long flight back to Europe. I am always sad to see them go.

Next, a legion of goats, led by an impressive old billy, sporting a fine beard and schimitar-like horns, came trooping past. From one of the three thatched rondavels on the other side of the road, a lady in a colourful dress emerged, holding a broom. Washing danced on a nearby line as if manipulated by unseen hands.

On the surface, the Pondo people, amongst whom we were now staying, appear to live simple, carefree lives, in harmony with nature. Dig a little deeper, however, and a more intricate, complex society emerges, one strictly regulated by tribal structures and bound together by custom and ritual.

After breakfast, eager to be off, we set forth, once again, into the familiar vastness of rolling grassland. We were headed southwards, on a 20-kilometre circular hike which ended up at the Mkambati Falls, a beautiful, half-amphitheatre-shaped, natural feature, which falls, in a series of steps, directly into the sea.

I love hiking. On foot, you feel the soul of Africa seeping up through your shoes. You have time to stop, stand and soak up the beauty, romance and mystery of this ancient landscape – something you can’t really do in a speeding car, train or aeroplane.

Apart from a bank of grey cloud hanging low over the ocean but the rest of it was a cloudless blue. The grassland was still a burnished gold, still blowing. Despite the early hour, the regulars were already gathering at the local shebeen, perched strategically on top of a hill, just above our shack.

Descending the winding track, we came in sight of the imposing Mtentu River Gorge, with its massive cliffs of soaring rock, stained with lichen and fringed with mangroves and indigenous forest. Where the gorge narrows and its brackish waters darken, the thick trees have the feel of jungle.

Here, we were obliged to hire a canoe to ferry us across the wide estuary. Once on the other side, we rounded a grassy point, where a sign marked the northern boundary of the Mkambati Nature Reserve. Amongst a vein of tumbled rocks, littered with debris and deadwood, that cut down into the sea, we came across the bleached bones of a large whale, which the waves had effortlessly tossed onto the land. Beyond the dead leviathan, a beautiful beach stretched ahead. The sand was firm and easy to walk on. It was bordered by dunes covered in wild bananas and gnarled trees, hunched down against the howling sea gales, their branches interlocked and twisted together like piles of mangled, long-legged spiders. Ahead, the rest of the group strung out along the sand. It made me think of pilgrims, on a quest for the purpose and meaning of holiness.

I was beginning to think maybe I had found it…

I walked on in soulful mood. Above me, palm fronds rustled in the sea breeze. Hermit crabs scuttled along in their mobile shell homes, retreating inside them when I bent over to investigate.

Leaving the beach, we climbed steadily up a hillside, covered in flowers. There had been plenty of rain here, and the ground was wet and squelchy underfoot. A group of round-haunched zebras, tails swishing, stood on the round edge of a hill. As soon as they saw us, they broke into an easy run and vanished over the horizon. Apart from them, we didn’t see a soul.

The sun was now as hot as toast, but it didn’t bother me. I found a lovely lyrical quality in warm sunshine, the riotous whooshing of the waves below, the tufted green grass, and that endless blue sky. My spirits were high. I was on another journey of discovery.

The indistinct track we were following eventually linked up with an old road which led directly down to the falls. Having posed for the obligatory photos on a promontory overlooking them, I headed upstream for a swim.

Choosing a suitable spot, I eased my way into the cold water and felt the cool go through me. After the long walk, I felt alive, tingly, happy to be in the water. The pool where I swam was fed by a large waterfall, which crashed through a cleft in the rock shelf, churning the water into a creamy lather of eddies and wavelets. I stroked out towards where I could feel the edge of the current and then, deciding that was enough for me, swam back.

As I was hoisting myself out, I happened to glance over my shoulder and, from the corner of my eye, caught a glimpse of a long, dark, serpent-like thing speeding, torpedo-like, directly upwards towards my foot. It was a deeply unnerving experience. My first reaction was one of fright. I launched myself onto dry land.

“There is something after me!”I exclaimed, excitedly, pointing back to the water from whence I had so hastily extracted myself, “I think it is a big barbel!”

We all gathered around the point where my pursuer had now surfaced. It wasn’t a barbel, as I had thought. It was an enormous eel! Its size was a tremendous surprise.

As a child, swimming in the streams and rivers that flowed directly out of the Nyanga mountains, I had often had this faint worry – no doubt part of some deeply ingrained, built-in, primordial, survival mechanism – about what might be dwelling in the murky depths below me. Now, I realised there was some basis for my fear.

One of the younger members of our party – a professional bird guide – had the presence of mind to do a quick Google check on his cell phone. He identified it as a Giant Mottled (also known as Marbled) Eel (Anguilla marmorata), a little understood and secretive creature which is primarily an Indo-Pacific species but can also be found in some freshwater habitats in South Africa..

Their life story is an unusual and, in many ways, unique one. Like other eels, they are spawned at sea but spend most of their lives in freshwater, often undertaking perilous journeys to find a suitable home. Incredibly, the young ones are even capable of scaling such natural barriers as Howick Falls. Later in life, they will return whence they came, spawn and die. The female Giant Mottled Eel can grow up to two metres in length, the male up to 1,5 metres (ours, whatever its sex, was about this long) and weigh up to 25 kilograms. They are long-lived, with some individuals reaching forty years.

A spirited discussion followed on what our eel’s true intentions were – good or bad? Was it just driven by curiosity in following me? Or was it some form of aggressive, territorial display? Or was there something more to it?

I found it a little eerie. Looking in its pale, bottomless, blue eyes, I felt, for a moment, like I had been transported through a portal into some enchanted, fantastical realm.

Perhaps not surprisingly, these huge eels have found their place in traditional Zulu and Xhosa folklore. They gave rise to the Inkanyamba legend, the fearsome monster that lives at the bottom of the Howick Falls, not far from where I live. Giant eels are similarly linked to the story of Nyami Nyami, the Zambezi River God or Snake Spirit, who – the belief goes – stalled the construction of the Kariba Dam wall, because it controlled the weather and was capable of summoning up both floods and drought.

There is a widespread consensus amongst most African groups that the ancestors can come to visit the living in animal form, both in dreams and while the person is awake. Snakes are a particularly common form of such ancestral manifestation, and eels have a strong physical resemblance to them..

Interestingly, these snake spirits, particularly those that manifests themselves in the form of a python (which sometimes has a glowing light attached to its head) tend to inhabit deep pools in rivers, often below waterfalls, where the water is fast moving and “living” (which, in turn, is often associated with its ability to generate foam – foam appearing to have a symbolic purpose). Furthermore, the pools are often associated with steep banks and are surrounded by dense indigenous forest. The natural sites where these beings are believed to reside are typically located in remote and relatively untouched places.

The one I had just innocently jumped into completely fitted the bill…

The fact that this one seemed so unafraid of humans and kept circling through the reeds and out into the pool, like a shade moving through dim corridors, and then swimming back to eyeball us again and again, made me wonder whether it could be one of these mystically charged beings. It was almost as if it were anxious to communicate something. But what?! The sceptical, rational side of my brain began a wrestling match with its more psychic, superstitious sub-strata where all the symbols, archetypes and images of our collective unconscious lurk.

In the end, I decided it was a good sign. Far from civilization, on this elemental stretch of African coastline, it seemed an appropriate spot for some sort of divine revelation. It also made me realise that such beliefs, while outside traditional Western perspectives, are often rooted in carefully observed natural phenomena and reflect something of the spirit of the landscape.

Anxious to transfix so great a mystery, I grabbed my camera and started snapping away…

After a snack lunch, we left the eel to continue patrolling its remote, watery domain and headed back down to the beach, where lay – flipped high on the rocks by a violent storm – one of the many rusting wrecks of old ships that stand as mute testimony to this notoriously treacherous stretch of coastline. There was not much left. Its old smoke stack could be seen sticking out of the rocks, with the rest of the hulk – at least what remained – lying clear out of water, its iron panels eaten away and only a bare skeleton left.

Our relationship with the sea – especially waters as moody and temperamental as that of the Wild Coast – is a complex and ambiguous one. Despite its fearsome reputation amongst mariners, the warm Agulhas Current that washes these shores is also viewed, by those that dwell alongside it, as a source of benevolence – as well as violence and destruction.

For the Nguni-speaking people of Southern Africa’s eastern seaboard (which includes the local Pondo and Xhosa), water, be it from rivers, pools, lakes, springs or the sea, is integrally connected to the living at a spiritual level. The sea, however, is seen as the ultimate resting place for the ancestors; it is the great place of the departed souls, especially those who lived long ago, beyond living memory, who can still provide guidance to help the living. Many deeply revered customary practices and rituals are linked to it. For such rituals, signs of ancestral presence and approval are sought through the appearance of creatures associated with the site, such as whales, dolphins, sea birds, turtles, etc.

When Shell sought permission to conduct seismic blasting along the Wild Coast, followed by oil drilling, the possible desecration of these sites and its impact on local livelihoods and the environment were among the arguments against it.

Having just experienced my near-mystical encounter with a messenger from the deep, I knew whose side in this ongoing battle between ‘progress’ and conservation, traditional and non-traditional, I was on…

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REFERENCES

There and Back: The Elusive and Secretive Lifestyle of the Freshwater Eels of South Africa by Celine Manzen

Messages from the Deep. Water Divinities, Dreams and Diviners in Southern Africa. Doctoral Thesis by P.S. Bernard