Leaving Mdumbi

It felt right to leave today. After what has been the most incredible stay at Mdumbi, the true finale of the hike to surf Lwandile yesterday has allowed me to leave in peace. My body is tired, but my mind is rested. I take a coffee down to the point to watch the last spectacle of perfect waves, dolphins, whales and Chris getting some great waves.

It takes me about two hours to say goodbye and pack. Saying goodbye to Eli, Chris, Wanye, Bryan and Doro was really sweet - we had all gotten so close and shared some beautiful moments. We exchanged details and I was offered a couple of free stays if I ever found myself in Switzerland. Maybe that will happen… river waves and mountains anyone?

I manage to finally get all my things together and the car is packed well. Siya asks for a lift as he’s going to visit family in Mthatha for a couple of days. We cruise out of Mdumbi together - waving at everyone as we drive off into the beautiful hills.

Or run along the coast in one day - I’ll save that for next month

I’ve been given a suggestion on which road to take and it’s definitely for the best. Ralph floats over the smooth gravel with ease, with the odd swerve for a pothole or animal here and there. Toyota Hilux single cabs rule the road here; being used as the preferred local taxi. The load box has two benches built in and a beer crate is used as a step for the Mamas to get in. As with the Quantums in Cape Town these Hilux’s have been kitted out: whitewall tyres, dropped suspension and bling decorate the dashboards.

The dropped suspension is cool and all, but as I overtake these bakkies on the smallest bump that they edge over I can’t help but wonder why they would forsake their clearance on these disastrous roads.

Further insights from the road yield the weird discovery that no matter what direction you drive a road, the right hand side always has less bumps - even if you drive the same road in both directions. Driving on the left is almost more dangerous as many a blind corner surprises you with a low riding Hilux careering at you head on. Even the cows walk on the right of the road, and they enforce their right of way.

I drop Siya off and say goodbye. I’m driving alone through arid farmland covering rolling hills. It’s hot outside and the sheep are covered in dust. I pass my 1pm lunch date with my stomach and begin to get hungry - only an hour to Port St Johns. I make it there despite breaking a deeply entrenched lunch and coffee routine.

The bustle of Port St Johns surrounds me. Hundreds of people fill the streets and three bulls walk through the centre of the road, conducting traffic. I pull into Amapondo Backpackers and am instantly thrown back into a South East Asia deja vu. Banana and tropical shrubs line the beach, bamboo is the preferred building material and the fertile soils yield even concrete a valid place to sprout.

I ask for a coffee and whatever is quickest to make - a spinach, feta and scrambled egg tramazini. I get asked what size coffee I want and foolishly ask for the biggest. Frik calls me and we solve the greatest problem of our Transkei run next month - how to get to the start. We discuss gear and he asks all the pertinent questions that I’ve been deliberating over the last few weeks. Namely; the 30L or 40L fastpack by Ultimate Direction - is the extra 10L really worth getting it in a green colour as opposed to blue? Aesthetics are functionality.

I type up today’s travel journal entry and gear up to go to Spar to restock - will the bulls let me past the bridge? Only time will tell. A 1L French Press of coffee arrives and I smile. Upon finishing I still smile, as well as vibrate a little.

It comes time to brave the cows and buy some food. I get in the car and drive into town, which has quietened down a little. I park in the street amongst all the chickens in cages, cows, small vendors and general bustle. In true Transkei fashion there is a massive Superspar amongst it all.

Cruising the isles I manage to pick up most of what I’m looking for. My basic Xhosa get’s me through being polite and I have a few conversations. The cashier tries to marry me and temporarily prevents me from paying unless I leave Jordan for her. I walk out with the ability to make a great curry tonight as well as have some fresh food for the next week.

I go down to the river mouth and am instantly transported back to the river mouth in Padang, on Sumatra, that I know so well. The Transkei often has glimpses of Indonesia when you scrunch your eyes in the right way and the smell of cigarettes are near.

Once back at the backpackers I have a catchup call with Jozi Jordan who has another wild party story to retell. We talk about maybe going to Switzerland - our friend James has also put out an offer for us and the possibility is more real.

A blur of strange encounters around a curry

I get into the kitchen and make a delicious curry. Some people walk in and I have a rather interesting encounter with each of them. The characters of this story are:

The owner of the backpackers - who frets about the way that I’m cutting onions and helps me out with finding a chopping board. She’s definitely a control freak and the dirty backpackers is suffering from it.

Louise - who is travelling with Dominique. Either she thinks very little of me, or her social skills are honed using a different compass. Conversation starts up and dies like a fire with wet wood. We bump into each other quite a few times but never manage to make it out of the pleasantries. When I leave she gives me a long hug and thanks me for my openness - maybe our magnetic norths were the same after all?

Dean and Frik (a new Frik) - this was by far the most interesting encounter. I had actually spotted Frik earlier, buried in paperwork at the bar and smoking a vape. He was wearing two tone khaki and had a moustache. He smiled but never greeted. Dean walks into the kitchen and I immediately can sense he’s a character. Stocky build, slops and billabong board shorts; he immediately starts talking and doesn’t stop.

His first banger is somehow slipping into conversation that if he won the lotto he would buy ten identical houses around the country and make them exactly the same, so that he could always feel like he’s in the same home. He tries to show me a photo on his phone and ends up going into the “inappropriate porn” folder. He makes some truly hilarious jokes and puns and there is a fair share of inappropriate humour too.

It turns out that he and Frik are travelling insurance men who go to schools and sell burial insurance to children by giving them KFC and bluetooth spears. I’m a little bewildered. Frik enters the kitchen and then things are truly wacky. These two seem to spend a lot of time together yet they are on entirely different pages, in different books, in different libraries, on different planets. Frik is straight conservative Afrikaans, born and bred in Jeffreys Bay. Dean is offering him joints - which he declines - and talking about nights out. They don’t clash in the slightest, and all their conversations go like this:

Dean starts passionately talking about something in as much detail and with as many jokes, puns and questionable comments as possible.

Frik interrupts him with a question to something completely unrelated.

Repeat.

I’m in awe of this whole situation, it’s so absurd. Dean is telling me about this little piece of land that he’s inherited and how he’s put a grow house on it. “Tilapia I tell you! They don’t require much oxygen, or nitrogen or anything actually. They are like the gravel donkeys of the water”. And he uses that justification as the reason that they were able to use less electricity for their aquaponics setup. “Then the best thing about it is that the workers on the farm want to eat the fish when they get too big. It’s called a circular ecosystem that produces weed”.

I hope that some of the school children see through their bullshit, but deep down I kind of know that Dean could sell just about anything to anyone.

A travelling traditional healer - her bus took almost two days from Kimberly she tells me. The lasagna that she just ate has made her nauseous. The conversation is ruled by her but she doesn’t have her hands on the wheel and it veers off dangerously and there is panic in her eyes. It’s spiritual but a bit off at the same time. Just then I wonder if she’s drunk, there are some physical signs such as wobbling around the eyes not focussing. I’m almost convinced when she downs four glasses of water, burps and goes to bed. She doesn’t appear again.

I take a moment to reflect on this funny day and drink a ginger, honey, cayenne pepper and rooibos tea. I’m putting together a little video from yesterday as well as the “Mdumbi Magic” post. It’s midnight before I know it - amazing what a litre of coffee will do to you.