Exit, Pursued by a Serpent: Hiking the Wild Coast

April 5, 2025 / stidyatkusane / 10 Comments

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.

*Hermit crab in Turbo cidaris shell* (*common name: Crowned Turban*). Identity provided by Ken Borland.

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.

Striking a pose…pic courtesy of Mandy Tyrer

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…

MORE PICTURES:

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

Going with the Ebb and Flow: Hiking the Wild Coast (Part Two)

June 4, 2022June 7, 2022 / stidyatkusane / 12 Comments

Ignoring warnings that a massive cold front was headed in the same direction I packed my backpack and, full of optimism for the journey ahead, headed south to join a group of equally intrepid hikers who were planning to hike the Mtentu section of South Africa’s iconic Wild Coast. Organised by local adventurers, Ian and Mandy Tyrer, it was a journey I had done the previous year (see Stidy’s Eye) but this time around we had decided to reverse the order – instead of walking from the Wild Coast Sun to Mtentu we would hire a local taxi to Mtentu and walk back from there.

We opted to use the small coastal resort of Trafalgar as our staging post because of its close proximity to our starting point. The next morning we all gathered in the Wild Coast Sun’s underground car park. It was an interesting mix of faces and personalities that milled around, most of them – like me – well past the first flush of youth. They seemed a mellow bunch – not given to postures, prepared to accept what lay ahead. Over the next few days I would get to know them better, the quiet and the talkative, the funny and the serious.

There were two bakkies into which we all squashed, like peas in a pod. Promptly, at seven, we were off, initially on tar and then down a rude dirt track. The road was in an awful state, made even worse by the recent April floods but at least the drivers were considerate edging their vehicles cautiously through the washed-out sections and all the ruts and bumps. It didn’t help. About halfway through the journey, the front vehicle ground to a stuttering halt, plumes of white smoke belching out of its cab. A fan belt had broken. The drivers remained completely unperturbed by this turn of events. Within fifteen minutes they had miraculously conjured up a replacement vehicle, seemingly out of nowhere, and leaving the broken truck parked in someone’s backyard we were off again to our destination, still several hours off.

Our accommodation for the next two nights at Mtentu was a prefab – the Fishin’ Shack – run by the friendly, effervescent Kelly Hein and set amidst a scattering of huts and brick and cement buildings, huddled together as if for mutual protection from the elements, their interiors smoky from cooking fire. On the other side of the sagging fence that marked off our bit of turf, a large hairy black pig snuffled around looking for edible items. An assortment of chickens, dogs, goats, cattle and even a solitary horse also milled about, using the walls and roof overhangs for shelter from the rigours of the climate. The resident old woman shuffled past off to perform her daily chores while a gaggle of kids giggled and chatted and played games with one another. On the top of the hill, alongside, stood the local shebeen from which the occasional burst of drunken hilarity emanated.

I was delighted to be back.

That afternoon, with the sky blackening and curdling around me, my hiking companion and I took a stroll down to the nearby Pebble Beach. Halfway down the hill, a grey cat decided to join us and then, a bit later, changed its mind and wandered back. A dog came bursting out of a yard, yapping its head off. Women with large bundles of wood on their heads strode through fields along slender paths. We carried on down the path to where a brown, brackish sea lapped against a beach littered with storm debris and driftwood and piles of multi-coloured stones scattered across the beach like an assortment of Smarties tossed aside by some rich giant’s spoilt, thoughtless kid.

I had promised my sister I would collect a few of these beautifully smooth pebbles to place on the grave of her much-loved dog who had recently died. I was certainly spoiled for choice. but made a selection, just glad that this time I wouldn’t have to carry them all back (we had arranged with the taxi owners to carry our gear for us).

With the sun – or what we could make out of it – about to go down we hurried back. Huge clouds were beginning to stack themselves in the south.

That night, the predicted rain duly arrived, sheeting down something awful on the corrugated roof under which I lay. There had been no bed available for me inside the shack and so I had made a little home for myself in the corner of the stoep. Sleep was out of the question as I stretched out in my sleeping bag on its cold hard floor with the wind periodically gusting fine sprays of rain onto my face.

Towards dawn, the storm gradually faded away but I could hear the steady pounding of the waves against the rocks on the seashore down below us. In my drowsy state, they sounded like a medieval army on the march. As my consciousness flickered between sleeping and waking, some lines from Matthew Arnold’s On Dover Beach slunk into my head.

Listen! You hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence, slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

In this famous poem, the sea symbolises religious faith with the poet acknowledging the diminished standing of Christianity, unable to withstand the rising tide of scientific discovery. The cycle of belief and unbelief. More than that, the poem is about the battle against darkness, something which seemed to me as relevant now as it was back then.

As I watched the rain dripping off the roof, I reworked the poem’s lines through my imagination, adjusting the sentiments to our present time. With war raging in Ukraine, there was little doubt about the nature of these modern demons. Like the poet himself, I was overcome by a sense of sadness at the pointlessness and mass stupidity of it all:

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

But there was no time to brood. It was time to get up. There were lots to explore. Our team leader decided he wanted to check the size of the river we would be crossing the next day so I volunteered to join him.

The sky was full of biliousness, the clouds unable to decide what shape they wanted to be. Out over the sea, wisps of mist were chasing one another. Every now and again the odd squall of rain would hit us but with nothing like the intensity of the night before.

We walked on. The land rolled and sloped away down to the sea with the occasional hunched tree sticking its head above the sun-burnished grass. Scattered over the hillsides were the odd settlements and small groves of Pondo palms. A flock of goats came striding purposefully by, off in search of the day’s grazing, studiously ignoring us as they went. Two black bulls nudged one another in mock combat, trampling the grass underfoot.

The sun was cutting through the cloud and sending golden bars dancing on the sea surface as we made our way down a grass embankment, that was oozing water from all the rain to the fat, curling river. Several cows were grazing along its banks.

With its treacherous currents, hidden reefs and unpredictable weather the Wild Coast has, over the centuries, provided a graveyard for countless ships – and, sure enough, lying on the beach, on the side of the estuary, were the skeletal remains of one such vessel. Some aspiring graffiti artist had painted a skull on its boiler. It seemed an oddly apt metaphor. Good artwork too.

Having satisfied ourselves that the river was fordable, we set off back.

In the afternoon I elected to walk to the viewpoint that provides a panoramic view over the Mtentu Gorge. With cliffs that tower above the river, it is a compelling sight. Just to the left of where we stood a beautifully clear side river tumbled over a series of steps and then fell down into the main river. At the base of the cliff and along the gorge slopes grew a dense mass of vegetation, the trees and bushes crowding together, pressing out over the water to gather the direct and reflected sunlight. In front of them, Mangrove trees stood in the saline shallows. I spotted a pair of Egyptian Geese having a domestic quarrel on a spit of sand way below and then several Trumpeter Hornbill came flapping heavily over the forest canopy, shattering the peace with their extraordinary calling. As if on cue, an Eastern Olive Sunbird piped in with its far more tuneful little melody.

Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking along the river and then out to the choppy sea gave me an extraordinary uplifting feeling, one that immediately banished from my mind the sense of impending doom I had felt earlier on. For me, God is the Great Outdoors and the view certainly made me feel like I had ascended to a loftier plane of being. Here, surely, was the real meaning of holiness?

Back at the Fishin’ Shack, I discovered we had been befriended by a dog. Because of her gentle, trusting, respectful nature, she was immediately dubbed Lady. The owner of the Fishin’Shack asked us if we would mind taking her back to her rightful home – our next stop along the way? Having all developed a deep fondness for the animal, we could hardly refuse.

*Lady the Dog who became our constant travelling companion*.

Lady seemed excited at the prospect of joining us, slotting in happily behind us as we set off the next day. Hiking along a beach like this, you soon settle into a steady rhythm. Behind me, I could hear a steady stream of chatter but I was content to be alone with my own lonely, mystical thoughts. We walked, hour upon hour, along the shoreline with all its shifting moods and then up over roller-coaster hills which led us, eventually, through the strangest of apparitions – a Mars-like, small red desert. For a moment it made me wonder if our host had slipped something into my meal which was now causing me to hallucinate? A desert? Here?

*The shoreline – in all its shifting moods*.

The stark beauty of these dunes could prove their undoing. The reason the sand is so red is that it contains titanium. Loads of the stuff. And several rapacious, international, mining companies are keen to get their hands on it even if it means destroying this undeveloped slice of paradise in the process.

The Pondo, who have lived here for generations and see themselves as stewards of the land, have opposed any attempt to let them do so. Instead of siding with them, which would seem the morally right thing to do, the Government has, in the past, tended to back the mining corporations (just as it recently did with Shell’s plans to carry out seismic surveys off the Wild Coast). When it comes to the exploitation of natural resources and the possibility of making a massive profit, the noble principles on which the ruling party were founded and which were so well articulated by Nelson Mandela seem to have been quickly forgotten.

Once again my thoughts returned to On Dover Beach and the cold evil flooding every corner of the world. Greed.

We trudged on, Lady still trotting uncomplainingly behind us. Eventually, a raggle-taggle of brightly-coloured huts set up on a ridge dotted with strange rock formations and small ravines came into view. This was our final night’s accommodation. Just beyond it, lay the Mnyameni River gorge (with its stunning waterfall) where we would go for sundowners that evening.

We were a little disconcerted to discover, however, that there had been a misunderstanding. This was not Lady’s home. Nor was the owner in a position to adopt her. So a member of the group nobly offered to do just that. Lady, the rural Transkei hound, was now Hilton bound and about to discover a whole new level in healthcare and lifestyle.

My luck was running in the opposite direction. I had begun, by now, to realise I was seriously unwell. Somewhere along the way, I had picked up a chest infection. Feeling poorly, I retired to bed early that night. Unable to sleep, I lay in my tent and looked out into the star-smattered sky, as a bright, luminous moon rose out of the sea, looking like a large tangerine (Where the ebb meets the moon-blanch’d sand – Arnold again). The air smelt slightly wet and tainted with the faintest taste of wood smoke.

The next morning was warm and welcoming with not a cloud in sight as we set out on the final leg of the hike, taking Lady with us. She seemed pleased at the prospect. So did I. Energy levels can rise and flag on a strenuous journey like this but right now – wonky chest notwithstanding – I felt good. In the early morning glow, the countryside looked radiant, and the sea was as wild and dramatic as any romantic painter of scenes such as this could have hoped for. The waves were collapsing and wheezing along the shingle. I was excited to spot a Black Oystercatcher, ferreting around in the rock pools as the sea thundered behind it. Up until then, I had been a little disappointed by how few birds I had seen.

The whole scene was wonderfully free of the crass commercialisation that typifies so much of the South African coastline although there was plenty of that just to the north. I was happy to cling to the illusion there wasn’t.

With the sun growing increasingly hotter in a brilliant blue sky, some of my earlier enthusiasm began, as the waves alongside me, to flow away as we toiled on along the beach. By now my face was as pink as a prawn from my laboured breathing and the physical exertion. There was to be no easy let off. Because of all the rain, we were unable to ford the Mzamba river at its mouth as was the normal custom and were forced to make a long detour inland to another crossing point upstream.

The hike to the top was steep, hot and seemingly endless but eventually, we staggered to the edge of the gorge. Then we plunged down a track that looked like it had been designed by a committee of goats to the river below which we crossed via a suspension bridge. The last few kilometres back to the Wild Coast Sun were sheer hell. My feet ached and thanks to my infected chest, my breath came out in slow, asthmatic gasps. My throat felt like I had accidentally swallowed a roll of sandpaper and it had got stuck there. As I hobbled into the parking area I felt like some ancient pilgrim who had just been forced to pay penance for his sins.

The final stretch…

Judging by my fatigued state, I must have sinned a lot too. As I flopped down, exhausted, I reckoned I had purged the whole lot from my soul.

Inside the parking lot, it was a tender moment watching Lady driving off to her new home where we knew she would be well-loved and taken care of. Then it was our turn to drive out of the gate and I found myself shaken to be plunged back into a tumult of traffic headed north to Durban. After our three day hike, during which we had not encountered another soul on the beach, I found it quite unnerving. What could be more depressingly different than driving down a motorway? I drew comfort, though, that somewhere, far away from the shrieking commotion, lay the healing magic of waves crashing on a deserted shore…

GALLERY:

Seascapes