South African Coast

Brian and I have been tearing across South Africa on a road trip that would make Jack Kerouac proud. Every stop along the way has offered new adventures, new people to meet and more good times to be had. In the spirit of Kerouac, we even picked ourselves up a hitchhiker. Well, he’s not really a hitchhiker; he’s actually a Norwegian guy named Niels, pronounced, “Neals,” whom I prefer to call, “Nails.” He needed a ride to the next city, and ended up staying with us all the way to Cape Town. Nails knows American movies and TV inside out. He liberally drops references to “Seinfeld,” “Dumb and Dumber,” and any movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger, for which his impersonations are uncanny. One night he even made a reference to “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” I almost lost it.

When I left off last, we had just pulled into Durban. After Mozambique, Kruger Park, and Swaziland, we were now in a modern city and were looking to switch gears for a bit. Durban managed to suck us in for about seven days as we enjoyed the beach and the famed nightlife and dining of Florida Road. (No one could seem to give me an answer as to how it got its name.)

I took my first surfing lesson on a board that was approximately the size of Long Island. Believe it or not, I actually caught the very first wave I went for, although the instructor did push me into it and yelled when to stand. I’m still taking credit for it, however. Surfing is a lot of fun, but it is hard work. It is a little like snowboarding, but the whole mountain is moving, and you have to paddle your arms a lot…and you could drown.

After our week in Durban, we headed for Port St. Johns, which is located on the Wild Coast. This section of the country is named for its jagged coastal cliffs, history of shipwrecks, its remoteness and for the behavior of Americans that travel through there. Durban had given us gorgeous weather, plenty of social options and a beautiful beach. When we arrived in Port St. Johns, it was pouring, and cold, and it was quiet, and we were tired and there were wet dogs everywhere. Every activity at this place is done outside - from hiking, to local village tours, to horseback riding - and due to the weather, there was nothing to do. We figured we could get wet suits and go surfing even if it was raining, but even that proved fruitless for the ocean was way too rough. There was basically no other option, but to hang out at the hostel and play pool. To make matters worse, out of the whole place there was only one girl to be found, and she had a shaved head and a pet rat she carried around on her shoulder. (I can’t even make this up.) As we played pool on a table that should have been retired fifty years ago, a guy who was probably about thirty, but looked forty-five, approached us. He voluntarily offered a history lesson claiming, “Since 1890, Port St. Johns is the place the lunatic fringe of society have come to congregate.” After speaking with him for a few minutes, he proved to be a walking illustration for his fun fact. Then, due to the energy shortage, the lights went out. For the first time on this trip, I felt frustrated and a little dejected. But the weary traveler must persevere. We started a poker game by candlelight using toothpicks for poker chips.

Another fine-looking gentlemen named Louie then approached us and presented us with the option of a tour of a local Xhosa village. The Wild Coast is made up primarily of traditional African villages of the Xhosa people. Louie told us he had ingratiated himself into this village and was building a traditional house. He was given permission by the village chief because he helped introduce new crops to their diet. He went on and on and I started to get the feeling he was completely delusional. With no other options however, we booked a tour with him for the next morning, mostly because I wanted to discover just how full of crap he was.

We agreed to meet at 7AM. By 8:15, he had finally awoken claiming he had slept for three hours. This tour was off to a great start. The village was thirty kilometers off the nearest paved road and took some time to reach. As we traveled along this road, people of all ages would wave and energetically yell, “Hello!” We reached a school with a couple hundred kids playing outside. Louie seemed to be very welcome here. He had learned some of the Xhosa language and genuinely seemed to care about the village and the people. As the day progressed, much to my pleasant surprise, Louie proved to be completely legitimate. We toured the village, the children sang songs for us, we viewed the house he was building, and then had a lunch of potatoes and cornmeal in a Xhosa home. It turned out to be a wonderful time.

Our next stop was a place called Coffee Bay, which earned its name when a ship carrying coffee beans wrecked on the shore. One day we scheduled a hike and cliff-jumping expedition along with a number of Dutch girls. Our Xhosa guide, named Lyndahnee, took us down cliffs, through caves, along the shore and showed us where to jump into the ocean. We had another marvelous day. Near the conclusion of our hike, we were all relaxing under a grove of trees when six big trucks rolled in and started setting up camp. There were about forty white guys who ranged in age from 16 to 25, all drinking and smoking, and who all looked like thugs. An elder man, who had the aura of a used car salesmen, approached us and said his name was Sparks. Interrupting what had been a perfect day, he went on to inform us he was the leader of a camp that took troubled youths from South Africa and gave them, “direction.”

He looked at the girls and said, “Ladies, would you like to join us for dinner? We have plenty of boys, tall and short, fit and fat, smart and stupid, and they are all delicious.” Rose, one of our new Dutch friends, almost vomited before saying, “Let’s get out of here.” Lyndahnee told us this Sparks character was there illegally and had no right setting up camp on tribal land. We shrugged off the intrusion and headed back to town and all went out to a delicious dinner. Returning to the hostel, we all partied and enjoyed ourselves.

At 2AM, a guy stumbled into the courtyard with a ten inch gash in his head, and one on his leg to match. He was bleeding everywhere and losing consciousness. He was accompanied by one friend, who was reluctant to give any information on what had happened, except for his name, which was Julian, and his injured friend’s name, which was Barry. I broke out the first aid kit that I had stored in the trunk of our car. The Dutch girls were all social workers and had some medical training. They bandaged Barry up and struggled to keep him lucid.

Coffee Bay is a tiny town in the middle of the Wild Coast and two hours from any hospital. There would be no ambulance. The police came and it was revealed that the two of them, along with a third, snuck out of Spark’s camp looking for a good time, or more specifically, trouble. They went to the hostel across the street and the third had started a fight with the bartender. A scuffle ensued. Barry had been pushed and hit his head on a rock. The third friend was arrested. Not knowing what to do, Julian brought Barry to our hostel. We pleaded with the police to take Barry to the hospital. Their response was, “Our work is done here.” This is Africa.

Thirty people stood around the hostel not knowing what to do as Barry bled and mumbled. The only person around of any authority was the Austrian bartender Klaus, who was allegedly a former kickboxing champion. He just wanted him out of the hostel. It was becoming increasingly clear that no one wanted to deal with this emergency. This is Africa.

We had small cars, but on these roads and at night, what was needed was a truck with four-wheel drive that could safely and swiftly make the trip to the hospital - a truck like the kind Sparks had. Brian and I got a hold of Lyndahnee and told him he had to lead us back to Sparks’ camp. Lyndahnee was reluctant. A black man in South Africa heading out in the middle of the night to tell a white man what to do wasn’t exactly at the top of his wish list. “We’ll do the talking,” I assured him. Along with Julian, and Lyndahnee, we took our little Honda Jazz out into the night in search of Sparks. Julian was incredibly nervous. “You don’t know this Sparks guy. He is crazy. One minute he will be your friend, and then he will be your worst enemy.” Julian seemed terrified. “This could be bad,” Brian whispered to me.

We didn’t have any other options. The Dutch girls were keeping Barry alive, but something had to be done. We drove as far as we could and then had to walk the final 2KM on foot. In our haste, we forgot to bring a flashlight, but the moonlight was very strong. We walked through the South African night, next to a cliff with the Indian Ocean’s waves breaking on the shore, guided by the light from the moon and millions of stars shining on us. Even with the uncertainty of what would happen when we reached the camp of 40 criminals and their psychopathic leader, I couldn’t help but look around and think, “My God, this is beautiful.” Even Lyndahnee, who had spent his entire life in the area, remarked, “I have never been here at night. This is wonderful.”

We rolled into the camp where a number of these youths receiving “direction” from Sparks were around a campfire. There had been a roll call earlier in the night and it was discovered the three were missing. We told them what happened and they went to wake up Sparks. After ten minutes Sparks finally emerged. We informed him of the situation and told him he needed to follow us back, recover Barry, and take him to a hospital.

“Let him die. I don’t care,” Sparks told us, before adding, “And I don’t like getting woken up at 2 o’clock at night.” We stared at him in disbelief. This is Africa.

Brian and I proceeded to unleash a torrent of pleads, orders, and insults on him. “He’s under your custody,” I argued. “No he’s not. He’s 25 and free to do what he wants. He is a drug addict and a thief and I can do no more for him,” Sparks coolly replied.

“What kind of lesson are you teaching all these kids,” we asked of Sparks in front of the whole camp. “Is this the direction you are giving them?” Sparks got in my face and told me, “This is Africa mate. You don’t know how things work here.”

“Forget this asshole!” Brian announced and pleaded with those around the campfire. “He is your friend, and he needs your help. Forget Sparks, this man is doing nothing for you.” They looked at each other, not knowing what to do. We then concentrated our efforts on them.

At some point, I don’t know why, but Sparks was done posturing in front of the camp and capitulated. “I’ll take a look at him,” he said. He grabbed his four most loyal goons, gave us a ride to our car, and then followed us back to our hostel where he inspected Barry, who, luckily due to the efforts of the Dutch, was starting to stabilize. “Ok, he’s alive,” Sparks said and turned to leave. The thirty backpackers who were still up just got their introduction to this man we had the pleasure of negotiating with for the past hour. More insults, questions, and orders rained down on Sparks. He took his four minions and left, but the police were still hanging around out front. Following some conversation with them, Sparks again was done with his posturing. “Ok, we’ll take him,” he said.

He then redressed Barry’s wounds and had his followers lift Barry to his feet. After he had abandoned Barry for dead, rejected our pleads for help, then dismissed the calls for decency by thirty objective observers, he turned to his four followers and said, referring to us all, “And they think we are the dragons.”

(Barry, if you are still alive, more than likely, you are probably sitting in a jail cell right now, but just know that you are alive today due in part to the joint efforts of four Dutch girls, two Americans, and one Xhosa guide. Earn it Barry. Earn it!)


Well, after the excitement of Coffee Bay, we traversed the rest of the country getting a daily fix of adrenaline from activities such as bungee jumping, to zip lining, to surfing, to cliff jumping. There is so much to do in South Africa, you could easily spend ten years down here trying to hit everything.
I have a couple days in Cape Town and then my current African adventure will come to a close. I soon head to the Middle East to meet my family on an atypical family vacation to Syria. It’s been one incredible road trip. When we rented the car all the way back in Nelspruit, Jacques, the rental agency clerk remarked:

Jacques: You guys are taking this car all the way to Cape Town?
(approximately 1700KM across the whole country)
Ed: Yes. Yes, we are.
Jacques: You guys are crazy.

No Jacques, we are not crazy. In fact, I’ve never felt more sane my whole entire life.



------------------------------------------------------------------------------

General Thoughts and Notes:
-I never drink soda at home, I don’t even really like sugar, but I find myself craving Cokes here all the time. Also, candy bars. I’m going to get soft.
-South Africans drink. A lot. Whenever we go out, I’m surprised at how banged up some of these people get.
-The rules for 8-ball in South Africa are ludicrous. I won’t even waste any binary code explaining them.
-I haven’t paid more than the equivalent of $1.50 for a beer in a month. And I’ve had a few.
-I gave a Swedish girl a lesson on the proper usage of the word, “dude.” When you break it down, its range really is quite extensive.
-The speed limits in South Africa are absurd. But, not as absurd as the degree to which many exceed them.
-I’ve lost track how many times I’ve had a conversation like this:

Person: You have an accent. Where are you from?
Ed: The United States, New York.
Person: Oh. You talk funny. Like the people on Friends.

-Just like in the UK, the word “Cheers” can be used for “Hello,” or “Thank you,” or “See you later,” or “You’re Welcome,” or “Nice to meet you,” or basically anything you want. I hear this word hundreds of times a day, but I can’t seem to use it, except for toasting, without feeling awkward. A couple times my brain has registered that I will say it, but by the time it gets to my mouth, my jaw rejects it.
-Warthog ribs are absolutely delicious. Ostrich steak is also very good. Crocodile ribs are tasteless.
-The first aid kit that I had brought with me was actually the survival kit issued by my office after 9/11. Some of the items in there were going to expire and it was going to be replaced, so I was given tacit approval to just take it with me when I resigned. Never in a million years did I think the 9/11 kit that used to sit in my office drawer would be used to bandage up the head of a delinquent on the Wild Coast of South Africa.
-From the slums of Joburg to the surfers of Jeffrey’s Bay, a New York Yankees cap is fashionable. (Rosemary, how is the team looking anyway?)
-There is a drug called Paracetamol that the whole world seems to use as aspirin. Do we have this in the US? Did I somehow just never come across this?
-Brian Aronson is an incredibly solid traveling companion. Spending virtually every waking moment with someone for five weeks can be daunting. Big Ups Bri.
-I seriously never have a clue what day of the week it is.
-Last year, my brother Charles produced a wonderful video titled The Edward Hadad Story for my 30th birthday. Since I was away for his recent birthday, I made a little tribute on the road for him. If you’d like, you can see it here and see some of the people I’ve met along this trip:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXLPvOv6er0
CharlesBdayVideo

---

---