Coast to Coast

14 October –

Friday:

We take a slow drive towards Durban, stopping in a few places along the way.  We pull briefly into Blythedale Beach – a childhood holiday destination.  Surprisingly after about 15 years I don’t recognise much.  We have lunch in Umhlanga Rocks then head through Durban.  South of Durban we drive through some smaller towns again – there are beautiful beaches all down this coast. 

We find a backpackers in Umtentweni and, after spotting that it backs right onto the beach, we decide to stay for the night.  We ask for a private room and are given a cute log cabin in the garden with a view of the sea. 

It is still raining on and off and there are dark clouds over the sea when we go to wet our feet.  We settle ourselves on our little deck with a drink (beer for Nick, warm pinotage rose out of a metal mug for me).  Lulled by the sound of waves crashing we decide to have an early night, hoping for better weather in the morning.  I have grand intentions of getting up to watch the sunrise.

Janet adds: Nick is in love again, and it’s nothing to do with me.

Nick adds: Ida who?

Saturday:

I wake up just before sunrise but decide (conveniently) that there is too much cloud on the horizon to see anything and that the best thing would be to stay in my cosy bed a little while longer.  At about 6.30 I drag myself up to blazing sunlight!  I get settled with a cup of tea in a sunspot outside and it would be pure bliss if not for the little flies around.  After an early morning swim we have breakfast in the garden watching the dolphins waiting to catch a wave.

We set off at about 9 heading for Port St Johns.  We head down the coast through a few more well-to-do beach towns then head inland through the Transkei.   Within about 5km we could be in another country.   It is so undeveloped here compared to the coast we’ve been on and the poverty is apparent.  The terrain turns hilly and as we climb, the rain moves in again.  It’s a scenic drive with (fairly) traditional dwellings scattered across the hillside.   Sheep, cows and football games line the road.  Unfortunately not all the scenes are pretty – there’s plenty of roadkill and we also pass a car that’s come off the road.

In the early afternoon we arrive in Port St Johns.  I’m not too sure what we were expecting, but our first impressions are not great.  It’s pretty enough, but not the secluded, beautiful haven we were expecting.  There seems to be a mass baptism going on at the small swimming beach and half the countryside have turned up in mini-bus taxis blasting music and braaing at the side of the road.  We get a room with a really weird bed in a backpackers on the hill. 

We had planned to stay 2 nights, but now think it might just be one.  After a quick explore of the beach and a lie in a hammock, our impression improves somewhat.  We’re not feeling brave enough to venture out, so we spend the evening in the bar at the backpackers.  It’s pumping out trance music, which is always a good sign and a few hours later the drum circle is in full swing.  Nick is in heaven. 

Janet adds: White people have no rhythm.  I can’t help feeling cynical, but I’ll spare you the rant

Nick adds: Banging a drum doesn’t get you closer to your roots, it makes you a tool.

Sunday:

We’re up early again to bright sunshine (and Leona Lewis blasting from a resort across the way).  We head to the beach for a quick swim and then settle into the sunshine while our things dry.