Photo: Elmo Hernandez
The rain had kept a constant chatter on corrugated iron roof. We were thankful for the rain because it had filled up the tanks from their somewhat dry levels. Still, it had woken me up early, with the constant ratatatat of hard rain falling. The rest of the house was still sleeping, no doubt a few notches deeper in sleep than usual after all the red wine and chat the night before. I walked to the end of the musty bedroom, pulled the curtain aside to peer out at the drenched landscape and my heart quickened. There was a man standing mere meters away, under the low branches of a tree. He was dressed in a yellow rain coat, and was staring at the house intently. I watched him for a minute. He was unaware that I had seen him. Suddenly I saw another person in a tree a little bit further away. Then another! And another! There were people in raincoats everywhere, spying on the house! It was still early, but I was panicky. There were quite a few of us staying together, and I quickly realised that if we joined forces we would have formidable strength in unity to fight the enemy, should we have to. I looked again, and still they stood there in dawn’s wet early light. It was my first ever morning on an extremely remote part of the Transkei coastline and our house was surrounded.
I decided on impulse that attack was the best from of defense in this situation, and stormed out the front door, thinking that if there was a commotion the rest of the house would soon wake up and come to my defense. I stood on the soaking wooden balcony in my bare feet, and shouted aggressively at the nearest guy. “What? What do you want?”
He slowly walked forward towards me, and pulled a shopping bag from under his raincoat. I recoiled, not knowing what he had in the bag. He put his hand into the bag and pulled out the biggest, plumpest crayfish I had ever laid eyes on. He placed it flapping on the wooden balcony by my feet. Then he took another, slowly pulled it out of the bag, and placed it next to the first. The rest of the guys all walked out from under the trees with their bags and placed them in separate little piles in front of me. I burst out laughing, mainly at my stupidity, and also at the appreciation of this precious moment. Big toothy grins opened up in front of me, and we all had a communal chuckle. Welcome to the Transkei. Don’t lose your sense of humour.
***
We were staying at Presley’s Bay. We had heard about a legendary wave around the next headland and our mission after breakfast was to go and find it. So it was day bags, water bottles, wetsuits, towels, boards and hiking boots as we set off for the nearest hill. We climbed straight up for a little while, until we were all basically breathless, before we summitted the hillock. Before us stretched a beach vista that took the rest of our breath away. A few rondavals in the foreground covered the corner of the picture. The rest was taken up by a huge bay of white sand, and clean blue waves. In the distance we could see a headland, with our secret destination apparently just beyond it. We started down the hillock, walking alongside a sloshy little river bed. It opened up onto the wide, white beach, littered with seaweed, but untainted by human influence. Not even a footprint to be seen anywhere. The tide was low so we slogged away on the relatively hard sand for about five kilometers, until we reached the base of the headland. A path ran around it on the seaward side, and it looked like we would be able to get all the way around due to the low tide. We walked past clear rock pools and wind-blasted caves, climbed over some rocks, and came around the corner. Our moment of anticipation, of clarity. In the distance, as far as the eye could see, was a rocky coastline with waves smashing against it, and no sign of an indentation. This stretch of the coastline was not made for surfing, that was obvious. Skunked. Some bastard sold us a dummy. Aaah well. Good waves don’t come easy these days. We turned around and started back, remembering seeing some fun waves on the main beach.
That afternoon, back at the house and exhausted from the walk and the fun surf in the small waves, we realized that we needed some supplies. A few beers, some sugar, some soft drinks and garlic for the evening feast we were planning. The nearest real shop was at Coffee Bay, but that was ludicrously far away and not part of our mission. We headed for the trading store on the way to Umdumbi. The lone building that stands on the top of the hill. We were also tempted to go to The Anchorage Hotel for a couple of quick drinks, but decided that we didn’t really need the ambiance of a pub in the middle of the Transkei. The trading store was owned and operated by an old white guy who had married into a local family many, many years ago, and who had transformed very effectively into a local. He clucked around in the store, fussing like a lady, telling his assistants what we needed, where it was in the massive store, and telling them how much to charge us. We tried chatting to him, but he seemed uninterested. It was a market day and the produce was arriving from the farms. He was needed in the outside barn to set things up. We loaded up, bid him and his friendly assistants goodbye and headed back.
Local girls had gathered around our house, and instead of more crayfish, they had placed their own wares on the wooden deck. Handmade jewellery fought for shelf space alongside an array of beautiful, finely-polished shells. Six or seven girls all jostled alongside each other, giggling and smiling, as they showed us what they had. Old clothes sat loosely on them in the warm afternoon sun, and although they were all smiles you could see that they were desperate for sales. In out of the way places like this there is virtually no chance for the local people to make money, and they relish the opportunity to do genuine business. No crime around here, no hunger or desperation, just the need for honest business opportunities. Some of us bought a few shells, some of us bought little pieces of jewellery for loved ones. The girls left smiling.
The sun was setting slowly as we sat comfortably around a large, half-barrel braai. We had all gone on a wood mission, with the mother-lode being a pile of driftwood kept dry by a small rock shelf. We soon had a fire at optimum braai temperature. A whopper of a fish took dominance on the grid, surrounded by too many crayfish tails to count. Most of us were holding crayfish licenses anyway, so we were pretty much on quota. Maybe one or two over, but nothing serious. We had also refused to buy any of the smaller crays, with one of our party, the hard-core fisherman amongst us, explaining to the locals that they needed to put the little ones back into the sea. Whether they did or not was irrelevant. We had done our bit to explain, in hand signs and expression, one of the basics of conservation. It made our meal that bit sweeter. Washed down with a few cold beers, my crayfish melted in my mouth. Nothing beats seafood done on the open fire, with a dash of hot sauces, and some grainy spices. No dainty hors de oeuvres here. No crepes or canapés or sausages on a stick. We were in the heart of the ‘Kei, and it looked like it might rain again.
