African Adventure Installment FOUR

African Adventure #4

Disclaimer - thus far, posts about our trip to Southern Africa (Lesotho and South Africa) have been entitled "African Adventure" and this was done for a reason. While many of our posts chronicle the very funny and light-hearted moments of our adventure, there were also moments where we confronted some stark realities. Realities which seem surreal compared to our daily lives in America.

ad·ven·ture
(d-vnchr)
n.

1. 1. An undertaking or enterprise of a hazardous nature.
   2. An undertaking of a questionable nature, especially one involving intervention in another state's affairs.
2. An unusual or exciting experience: an adventure in dining.
3. Participation in hazardous or exciting experiences: the love of adventure.
4. A financial speculation or business venture.

Our trip to Southern Africa meets all 4 defining points of the word "adventure" - and this is the first post in which we describe the more stark side of our trip. We just thought you should be in the right mindset for the remainder of the "African Adventure".

*****

The plan for Thursday through Monday was to accompany our friends and hosts Paul and JoAnna on a road trip from Maseru to a town called Durban on the East Coast of Africa, and then head North to St. Lucia Estuary, and back to Maseru.

After a morning spent doing some laundry and repacking all of our stuff (and, of course, a little more laying by the pool at the Lesotho Sun Hotel) we readied ourselves to drive to Clarens, a small town in South Africa, to spend the night on our way to the coast. Leaving that afternoon, we made our way towards Clarens, which Paul had described as a "nice mountain town, not like Aspen, but maybe the nicest little town you could find in South Dakota."

The general rule of thumb in South Africa is to avoid driving at night. At times, while driving, one can see signs that read "Caution: Objects in Road," which is a calm way of warning that people may have put objects in the road in order to cause you to wreck and to rob you. This happens with enough frequency at night that the roads are much more empty than they are in the United States, and it's an unsettling feeling to think that some of the beautiful scenery that accompanies night driving in South Africa could be hiding bandits.

Having left somewhat later in the afternoon, we were unable to avoid 90 minutes or so of night driving on our way into Clarens, and on our way into town we were able to get a sense for the causes behind the banditry problem. I am no South African historian, and only acquainted myself with the history of racial problems in this country in a few short weeks leading up to the trip, so these are simply my observations as a tourist.

The post-apartheid landscape of South Africa has left what appears to be three tiers of living situations. There are towns and cities - similar to suburbs one would find in the States - in which white people live in homes and places of their choosing. With most of these towns or cities there is an accompanying township, which is a government-constructed plot of housing for black Africans. The townships were created to segment the black African population from the whites, and still exist 12 years post-apartheid in probably much of the form of the previous regime. There's no easy equivalent in the United States for a township, but you might try imaging government row housing, mostly cinder-block construction with dirt roads, and very little electricity. Those who live in the townships live in a state of severe poverty where crime has become an ever-present reality.

Though the conditions in the townships are quite desperate, there exists the even lower tier of the shanty town. Often clustered along hillsides or in fields near the highways that link the towns and cities are jumbled plots of dwellings constructed of scraps of zinc, wood, and other materials that stand in stark contrast to the wealthier towns and the austere, regimented government-constructed townships. Those who live in the shanties are squatters - they own neither the "home" they've constructed from scraps, nor the land on which they are living.

(shanty towns along freeways through Durban suburbs)

(click photos to enlarge - sorry the image is so small and hard to see)

I had my first introduction to the township system as we pulled off the highway into Clarens. We had yet to see any townships on the drive in as we passed through the mostly rural landscape of the province known as the Orange Free State, but we pulled off the highway and quickly found ourselves in the middle of the Clarens township. It was an utterly alien and eerie feeling to drive slowly through the township. The buildings of the township don't seem to have electricity, yet the South African Government has installed massive streetlights that tower over the streets at more than twice the height and shine with twice the intensity of streetlights that we are used to at home. These, I imagine, are designed to reduce crime, but they cast an unnatural daylight over the darkened houses and streets that added to my unsettled feeling.

As we entered the township, there were a few dozen people in the streets, and I immediately thought we were about to get carjacked. The crowd slowly parted and we drove through unscathed, and soon crossed from Clarens township into Clarens. I thought Clarens was much more like Aspen than South Dakota, with tidy small homes set at the base of mountains and a strip of art galleries and bistros in the downtown area. There is nothing that separates the township from the town - just black and white. Centuries of discrimination, oppression, and violence have created a social-psychological barrier more effective than if a brick wall had been built between the white and black areas.

We found the backpacker's hostel in which Paul and JoAnna had stayed on their previous trip to Clarens, nestled next to a river and up against a sizeable rock cliff. It was a fanciful sort of place, with scultptures sprouting from the grounds, antique signs posted all over the fences, but with a sort of Spanish feel (not that I've ever been to Spain). We could find no one on the premises to show us to a room, and so Paul wandered into what he thought was the reception area. It turned out to be the owner's home, and Paul returned with a large hippy-like fellow who told us he could put us all in the bunk house. The man asked if we were English (oddly, most people thought we were English for some reason) but when we told him we were Americans, he off-handedly said, "Oh, I lived in Hollywood for awhile." Somehow, this was not surprising.

The bunkhouse was designed to hold about a dozen people for the price of about $10 (USD) a night, but since we were (almost) the only people there, he said we could take it over for ourselves. It turned out that we were to share the bunkhouse with one other woman - a white Zimbabwean named Lola who "gave a nod to the 80's" with her bleach-blonde Madonna-like hairstyle and dark brown eyebrows. She worked for a backpacker advocacy group, and she was rather passionate about the work, keeping us up fairly late with a monologue about the contribution of the backpacking traveller to local economies.

Before our chat with Lola, however, we went back into the center of Clarens to have dinner at a restaurant called Clementine's. It was situated in an old refurbished barn, and being rather late on a weeknight, we had it almost to ourselves. One advantage of travelling in Africa is the exchange rate. The dollar stands at a 6 to 1 advantage to the South African Rand, and so we found most things seemed rather cheap to us. In the case of this restaurant, I was thrilled. I had an amazing meal of beef tenderloin, two glasses of wine, and lemon cheesecake all for less than $20. As we enjoyed our meal, we had a chance to talk to the owner. He was originally from Germany, and told us of his move to South Africa and about his restaurant.

Stuffed and thankful that we had not had to self-cater, we headed back to the bunkhouse and went to sleep.

The next day after an incredible breakfast

we headed toward the east coast of Africa, to a city called Durban, in particular. Durban is home to a significant Indian population, and has the distinction of being home to Gandhi for 20 years where he labored against racial injustice. Our intention was to see a bit of the city, go the world-famous Indian market, and then head up the coast to find a good beach for surfing on Saturday.

(Pictures of Spices - and a spice seller - in the market)

Durban was a the most bustling city to which I've ever been, and the streets were alive with the comings and goings of Indians and Africans. We walked the streets taking in both the storefronts and the stalls set up along the sidewalks which sold everything from produce, to cheap shoes, to a wide assortment of animal parts that I'm sure were to be used for some sort of witchcraft.

(Scene in Durban from a rather typical street corner)


(More life on the streets of Durban)


(Another shot of the frenetic Durban streets. Spilled bread - either from a delivery accident or it was being thrown away).

We were ready to leave to Durban after only a few short hours. We had been warned of pick pockets, and we were uncertain as to whether we should even bring the camera along. Most of the pictures Liz took were on-the-go, and she tried to be subtle with the camera. We all felt unsettled by being in the city, some of the feeling due to the bustle, but also from being so completely out of place. It wasn't until much later in the night that we were able to relax.

From Durban we went north, up the coast to a small town called Ballito. Our guide books had spoken of it as a good place to find beaches and to surf, so we had called ahead to a backpacker's hostel called Beach Bums to reserve a space. Beach bums turned out to be a bit hard to find, but we finally located at at the end of a long and rather deserted road. After the unique and enjoyable night in Clarens, I was prepared for a similar night in Ballito, but as we pulled up to the hostel, it was obviously in disrepair. The only other car in the parking lot was a Mercedes, so I took some heart in that, but my first perceptions were confirmed when we entered the dingy "reception" area. We couldn't find anyone to speak with, but eventually located a woman who was working over a chicken in the kitchen who came out to greet us in a filthy shirt and proceeded to show us our room (which, again, we had booked in advance) that consisted of mattresses on the floor and the obviously slept-in sheets of the previous night's guests. It was unsaid among the four of us that we did not want to spend the night at Beach Bum's, but we weren't sure of our options. Adding to this conviction - at least for me, because I didn't mention it to anyone else - was the presence of a shanty town just a stone's throw across the parking lot, tucked into the hillside.

There happened to be a couple eating french fries on the deck of the hostel, so Liz went to ask how their stay was, and it turned out that they were not guests of the hostel, but rather locals who lived just a few minutes up the road. It was their Mercedes outside, and they mentioned that there was a nice Bed and Breakfast in their neighborhood. Telling the woman who had shown us our room that we were going to go find some food, we made a break for it and went off to find the B and B.

Not much farther up the coast we came to one of the affluent suburban developments of South Africa and began to look for the inn. Not readily finding it, we asked an older white woman who was walking a large german shepherd where we might find the Sea Moya Bed and Breakfast. She amiably told us that it was right behind us, and bid us farewell with the words "It's so nice to see white faces." This was probably a comment prompted more by the number of Indians living in her neighborhood, but reminded us that apartheid's legacy is still quite strong and that Gandhi's struggle for human rights - which began in Durban - is not yet over.

Sea Moya turned out to be a thorough blessing in comparison to Beach Bums. It was not a Bed and Breakfast as much as two flats on the upper story of a home that the owners rented. One of the flats had been occupied for a few months, but the other was open to us in all of its clean-floored and fresh-sheeted glory. We gladly paid the surprisingly low rate, and took up residence for the night. Other than a sign warning us not to leave the back windows open due to "visits from monkeys" and a gecko here and there, we had a very enjoyable night sitting on the veranda drinking some South African wine while listening to the waves crash subtley on the nearby beach.

The next day was reserved to lay low on the beach, and try to find a place to take surfing lessons. We had a number for a surf school, but they turned out to be closed, and one surf shop had no boards to rent, and the other surf shop warned that the water was fairly rough and not great for beginners. We took their advice, but headed to the beach any way just to be able to lie in the sun and swim in the Indian Ocean. We paid a few rand to rent boogie boards and a beach umbrella and set up camp for a few hours. Paul, Liz, and I tried or hand at boogie boarding, but it was much more difficult than I had thought. It was hard to get out past the breaks into the better waves, but we had a nice time on the beach.

(Me and Liz with our rented boards)

(Paul and JoAnna)


(JoAnna faithfully guarding our things)


(Growing up at the Beach)

With JoAnna being the only one who actually knew how to body surf of boogie board, and also the only one who never went into the water, we found that the quality of boards and surf were a bit much to take. After being beaten down by the rough surfy, swept off our feets by the current we decided to pack our things and head off. We did indulge in the king of surf-energy foods though - Magnum Ice Cream Bars. Think of a Haagen Das bar on a hot day at the beach. So refreshing.

After paying a few local children for "watching" our car for us, we hopped in the Volkswagen for the drive out of Ballito and on toward the small town of St. Lucia.