Part 2: By the ocean
To my absolute delight, in the Drakensberg I ran into a girl I knew from class who was heading to my next stop at more or less the same time with three friends in a car–although I do enjoy the up-close-and-personal nature of minibus travel, having your own wheels is liberating (and probably a wee bit more safe). Katie, Posie, Hallie, and Jenny saved me from my own excessive ambition, and provided excellent travel companions for the eight-hour trip to Port St. Johns. We were even headed to the same place, Amapondo, which I learned later had a reputation on the backpacker circuit for being a big stoner hostel. Mostly it just contributed to a very laid back vibe–even the big dogs wandering around slept for most of the day–which is appropriate for a place where it rains most of the time. I didn’t do much worth noting here.
For my third night on the Wild Coast, I hitched rides and caught minibuses to the tiny town of Coffee Bay, an idyllic hamlet with two hippie backpacker hostels lounging at the mouth of the Bomvu river. I looked around for the big 1,000-person hotels you find closer to Durban and Cape Town, but so far it seems like the inhabitants have fought them off, allowing the place to retain the character that draws people there in the first place. You won’t see big game here, unless by game you mean cows, sheep, and goats, which amble freely across the rumpled landscape. You will find Xhosa people living in a very similar way to how they lived hundreds of years ago, in the green-painted thatched rondavels (huts) dotting the hills.
When I arrived, I took a walk out along the green cliffs and back along the road, where I ran into barefoot children for whom white people mean one thing: money. Actually, they probably also mean the dirt bikes and big SUVs that come roaring through, but on foot–something of a novelty–I was friendly and approachable. “How you go?” they asked, offering to guide me back when I replied, in what became a sing-songy ritual, “I’m going to Coffee Bay.” Some would run at me, demanding “sweet!” or “small change?” Others made little crafts or sang songs, for which I offered praise and a few rand. But even when I brushed them off, they followed me quietly for as much as a kilometer, making me feel like a mother goose. Their real mothers, tough women with head wraps and long skirts, barely acknowledged my presence. I’ve never felt more like an outsider.
The next day, I hopped a bus to Port Elizabeth, just one last stopover to break up the trip home. When I arrived in the late evening, the middle aged British hostel owner who picked me up from the station asked if I wanted to come out a nearby bar for a few drinks with him and a friend (most hostels have their own bars, but this one catered to a quieter crowd). Relieved to have any sort of activity, I accepted, and we entered the divey place to much ribbing from the locals–”Hey, is she your daughter?” People look at you differently when you’re white, like you have a third arm growing out of your forehead or something, although it subsides when they realize you’re just there for a beer like everyone else.
Sunday dawned bright and sunny, but this churchgoing, British-feeling town was utterly quiet. As I walked through the broad streets, I heard services emanating from various houses of worship, at least a couple of which sounded like exorcisms. Despite the religiosity, I decided I liked Port Elizabeth, with its still-vibrant industrial core and waterfront free of Cape Town’s fakery. Not the star of SA’s coastline, but a place where someone could actually live.
And then, that evening, the long trip back. Low-cost bus lines have smaller seats and, I’m pretty sure, larger people to squish in them. I have never been so glad to see the Cape Town bus terminal.
