Well, that’s all well and good. But my vacation was a little bit different.
We set out on Sunday, April 5th at 7am. We is myself, Kayse, who is another Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar from the Seattle area, and Ivy, an American who is in Durban doing her Masters in Development Studies. The two girls really needed a break after a pretty horrendous quarter of schoolwork, and I just wanted to get out and see another part of South Africa. So we planned a trip South, down the Wild Coast, to a couple of beach spots that my roommate Sarah had suggested, and on the way back we planned on heading up into the Drakensberg Mountains for a music festival, Splashy Fen, often billed as the Woodstock of South Africa. A whirlwind trip, to be sure, but a good one.
Off we went, early early Sunday morning, blasting the radio and chatting it up. We took my car, a 1998 Renault Megane, which I have started to call Manuel, not-so-wittily since he is a manual, or stick shift. Manuel was in fine working condition; I had him checked out before the trip, and all was in order. Granted, the speedometer decided to stop working on Friday; I took him to the mechanic who was baffled by the problem but assured me that this would not impede the running of the car. Of course, I would never know how fast I was going. So if I was pulled over by a cop, I would not be able to say how fast I was going. I began to hope that my cute American accent and new purple sunglasses might somehow get me out of any such ugly situations.
And so we drove, never quite knowing how fast we were going, aside from my guesses at what various RPMs meant in various gears. We sang to that song from Titanic and talked about how nothing could ruin this vacation except bad health and bad weather. Little did we know what was in store for us.
Our first stop was Bulungula, a little backpackers in a rural village on the Wild Coast. The drive was supposed to take 8 hours, and we were flying. By half noon we were already stopping for lunch in Mthatha, the last big city before our destination. Full of greasy sandwiches, we hit the road again. The road: ha. Once we hit the turn off, the road to Coffee Bay, potholes abounded. And I’m not talking little potholes. But rather lakes, lakes large enough to house the Loch Ness Monster. Craters from asteroids pummeling from the sky at hundreds of miles per hour. Dinosaur footprints in soft sand. So, my driving was more like swerving, zigzagging across the road to try to avoid the worst of the giant swimming pools. I was doing quite well, I thought. We had the occasional THUD that sent everyone cringing, but on the whole, we were making our way, keeping our eyes out for the elusive turn onto the dirt road.
Well, it turns out we missed the turn, by about 500 meters, and instead we found a particularly terrible pothole. We hit it, full on. The windows were rolled down a bit, and even with the radio on, we could hear the fateful pop, and the gasping hiss of the tire as all the air seeped out.
Okay. Stay calm. I stopped the car, and we all piled out. The back driver’s side tire was flat, on the ground, no air. Do you have a spare tire? I have no idea. I guess let’s check. We opened the trunk and pulled all of our stuff out: bags of clothing, gumboots, food, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, tents, chairs, boxes of wine and bottles of vodka, pillows, and coolers piling it on the side of the road. Success! A spare tire. Do you have a jack? I have no idea. Isn’t this your car? Yeah, but I just bought it. Success! A jack. We rolled the spare over to the flat tire and Kayse was about to get working on changing it when… Uh-oh Kayse, I said, the front tire! It was flat. Beyond flat. A hole, the size of a playing card, was punched out of the tire rendering our one spare tire useless.
By this time people driving by were stopping and asking if we were okay and if we needed anything. We realized that we did need help; the car clearly was not going anywhere and we did not know exactly where we were.A man named Willford stopped, and he and his three employees climbed out of the giant truck he was driving. Willford spoke good English and lived in a village just up the way, where, he said, he had a compressor (a tire pump) that could refill my back tire. The back tire, it seemed, may not be punctured, and might be fixed by some good air. While we were talking about this, another man stopped who happened to have a compressor in his car; we tried it out with no success. The tire needed to be patched. Living in the area, Willford knew of a “Tire Man” who fixed tires and suggested we go to him. It was Sunday and it seemed like the best idea since all businesses were closed and getting the car towed just then would be difficult.
So I climbed into the truck with Willford, tire in tow, and Kayse and Ivy were to stay with the car. As we were about to drive off, Willford calls over to his employees who he has left to guard the girls and the car, and hands them a rusted, but sharp, machete. And so it was that I left my friends with a man with a machete while I went with a man I had never met in his car to get my tire patched.
We drove the 10k to Willford’s house where we exchanged his giant work truck for a smaller yellow bakkie (pick-up truck). We loaded my tire into the bakkie and drove another 8k to town, Kokozayo where Siyabonga the tire man might be able to patch my tire. Siya spoke good English as well, but his employees did not, so I rarely knew what was going on with my tire. They tried putting a tube in it, but it kept hissing. They tried to convince me that the hissing was just the compression between the new tube and old tire, but that was clearly not the case because the tire went flat again. Then they tried patching the tire, which still did not work. Siya gave me one of his own tires to see if that one might work on my car, and we took Siya’s tire and my old one back to my car.
On the way back to my car, Willford realized that he needed to stop for gas since his tank was on empty. I gave him 100 rand, in thanks, and also to help out since he had been driving me around and helping me. Then we also stopped by another shop so that Willford could refill his compressor with air. While Willford was inside, the group of men sitting outside with their 750ml beers became fascinated with me. Willford’s brother took my hand and marveling at it, said “white and black, black and white” then started kissing my hand over and over. I delicately removed my hand from that situation, and laughed awkwardly until Willford came out of the shop. As we climbed back into the car, he told me that his brothers and friends had been asking him, “Where did you get the white lady? Is this your new wife?” All I could do, again, was laugh awkwardly.
We drove back to my car, to find, 3 hours later, the girls and the car intact, albeit a bit lighter for all of the food the girls gave out to the passers-by. Unfortunately Siyabonga’s tire did not fit, and there we were, stuck again with two flat tires. The sun was threatening to set at this point, so we decided to drive the car, as best we could, to Willford’s house were we could keep it safe for the night. We also called the backpackers, told them our story, and they said they would send a driver to pick us up. Things sounded good. The car would be safe overnight, we would get to the backpackers, and I would deal with insurance in the morning. Except, Manuel did not want to go another 10k; the wheel that had been pumped up a bit splattered out again only a kilometer away, and there was not a chance we would make it to Willford’s. Willford spoke to the man whose house we stopped in front of, and he agreed to let us keep the car in his backyard for the night. I cringed while Willford drove my car into the yard, all the while driving on the rim of my busted tires.
At this time the backpacker’s driver arrived to fetch us, and we bid farewell and thank you to Willford and the old man at the house, giving them packs of beer. I exchanged phone numbers, just in case anything might happen with the car, with both Willford and the old man. Willford said that he would call me in the morning to discuss how “I was going to thank him.” I laughed it off and climbed hastily into the back of the van. Needless to say, Willford did call the next day. And every single day thereafter. Twice a day. I’ve been ignoring his calls, and justifiably so. When I have told people what Willford said, their eyes go wide, shocked open, and they tell me that under no circumstances am I to answer his calls or let him know where I am.
Kayse, Ivy and I spent a lovely night at Bulungula. It was dark as we were driving in, and we bounced over the roughest dirt roads I have ever experienced, hitting our heads on the top of the van as we drove. But the dinner we ate was perfect; veggie curry and rice with roti. And we crashed into our beds before 8pm.
And by 8am the next morning I was on the phone with my insurance company, telling them what had happened. They agreed to send a tow truck to tow me to Mthatha, where my tires could be fixed. However, insurance would not cover the tires, only the towing. Okay, fine, whatever, let’s just get my car fixed. It took over an hour on the phone to get everything sorted, and to give the towing company the best directions I could to where my car was located. But I knew I must go and be there with the car when the tow truck arrived, so I hopped on the morning shuttle and arrived back at my car around 11:30am.
The old man was there, delightful as ever; he really was a doll. An old woman who I assumed was his wife came out and told me that I should probably sit on the road so that the tow company would know where to stop. Since my car was in the backyard, there was no way to find it without a clear signposting… like a white girl on the side of the road. The old man brought me a bright blue plastic chair and a big black and grey umbrella and I hunkered down and sat. And sat. And sat.
A good while into my sit, the tow company called to inform me that the tow truck they sent had broken down, and they would have to send me another truck. I told them that was fine, just send it now now. So I sat some more.
People would walk by from time to time. Many said hello, in Xhosa or English, and I responded in the little Xhosa I had learned the previous night and with my IsiZulu. Usually people laughed a bit at me, but that was okay. I was quite the sight. A white girl sitting on the side of the road, burning, with a bright blue chair and a big umbrella. I had a man stop and ask me if I had a job; when I told him I was a student, he walked away. Lots of guys hooted and whistled at me out of the windows of passing koombis. The white people who drove by would usually do a double take but keep on driving, avoiding potholes.
An old man walked up. I saw him coming, he had a limp in his left leg and a jagged smile. He came right up to me and shook my hand in the habitual Xhosa style. Then, with his other hand, he went straight for my breast. I jumped up, grabbing the chair as I went. The man kept advancing, so I pulled the chair up and used it as a lion tamer might. Of course, the towing company chooses this very moment to call and I am, quite comically, fending off an old man as I tell the lady on the phone that, “No the tow truck has not arrived yet… Sir, leave me alone! I am on the road to Coffee Bay… Go away! The only road to Coffee Bay… Leave me alone!... The road with the potholes! Just tell him to drive until he sees the white girl in the blue chair! I’ll be the ONLY white girl on the side of the road.” Finally the old man stumbled off, and I was left to reposition my blue chair and reassume my seat in the sun.
Around 1:30pm, two little kids, say 4 years old came running out to play with me. We jumped and danced and made animal sounds until the tow truck came, an hour later, at 2:30pm.
He drove into the backyard and started hitching up my car. The little girl asks me, “Uyaphi?” Where are you going? I say, “Ngiyahamba ngiye eMthatha manje manje,” I am going to Mthatha now now. I give her and her brother a bottle of Coke and some biscuits (cookies), and they run happily into the house to store their treats. I thank the old man and woman profusely, “Enkos, enkos, ngiyabonga,” and give them 50 rand, “I know it is not much, but thank you.” Finally, I am off to Mthatha to get my car sorted out.
We arrive at S&K Panelbeaters in Mthatha, which I have already decided is the dirtiest city ever, around 4pm. The car yard is a veritable graveyard. Cars lie strewn all over the lot, missing doors, missing engines, smashed into smithereens. I panic, and rightly so. What will happen to my Manuel?
I am asked to go and sit in the office. I do. As I walk in, a large man stops me, “What’s wrong?” I start sobbing, “I just need two tires, I have two flat tires.” “It’s okay, we will get you sorted and on the road tonight.” The man’s name is Kenny, and he is the owner of S&K. He asked me to sit in his office and I do, trying to contain my sobs. It’s not like flat tires is such a big deal, but it was a pretty stressful day and the car graveyard was scary!
He comes back in and tells me that he has found two good used tires for my car and that his guys are fitting them on as we speak. That’s great, I say, but how much will it cost? He tells me it will not be expensive, which is some relief, but he would not tell me how much it would actually cost. I only had about 400 rand on me and my debit card, which only allows transactions up to 2000 rand, so I was quite nervous.
Around 4:50pm, Kenny and I hop into my car and take it on a test drive. The new wheels are balanced with the old ones and the alignment is good. We take Manuel back to the shop right at 5pm; the whistle is blaring and all the men are walking out of the shop and down the hill to go home. Kenny and I go into the office, and Kenny starts talking in Afrikaans to the man behind the counter. He then turns to me and says, “The machines have shut off, go home.” I argued a bit, saying that I should pay somehow, but when the mechanic tells you to leave, you kind of have to obey. And so it was that I received two free tires from Kenny.
I climbed into Manuel, filled him up with petrol at the local petrol station and started my drive back to Bulungula. The sun was already threatening to set, but I knew I wanted to get back to the girls and to have a good night’s sleep. Of course the pothole road is more treacherous in the dark. I wish I could say how fast I was driving, but with no speedometer it is hard to tell. But I crept along the road, being passed by everyone. This time, though, I did not miss the turn off onto the dirt road. But all those landmarks that I had memorized earlier in the day become irrelevant when its dark and you are driving the other direction. To make matters worse, my cell phone dies. So now I am left with a Microsoft Word map with directions like, “turn left at the school with the blue roof” and this is supposed to get me back to the lodge.
Every time I see people, I stop and ask, “Ngiyahamba ngiye eBulungula. Nini Bulungula?” Even with my rough IsiZulu, people were able to direct me, or at least tell me that I am going down the correct road. (And despite the fact, that I later remembered, that “nini” means when and not where.) By some miracle, after three hours, I make it to the Bulungula Shop, which is still another 3k away from the lodge, but the road past this point is only for 4*4s. I use the cell phone of the man who works at the shop to call the lodge, and they tell me that someone will be passing by to fetch me in the next 30 minutes. So, I chat it up with the man at the shop, who has clearly been smoking a joint, and wait. Soon my bakkie-ride shows up and I am whisked away to the lodge by its founder, Dave, who tells me about the surrounding community, from struggles with clean water to the fact that only 5 kids have graduated from high school, ever.
Tuesday was a spectacular day. The three of us girls go on a tour of the nearby Xhosa village where we spend the day with a local woman who teaches us how to carry jugs of water and bundles of sticks on our heads, how to make all-natural sunscreen, and how to crush samp on the stone. She spends the day explaining her culture and lifestyle to us, and we listen with hungry ears. Children surround the kitchen as we work, and giggle when we wave to them. Kayse, Ivy and I spent the rest of the day laying on the beach, reading and being jumped on by the many dogs that roam the village and surrounding beaches. At night, we stay up playing a raucous game of Clue with some new friends and pack up our bags for the next leg of our vacation, which begins the next day.On Wednesday morning we wake up and have to say goodbye to Bulungula, a piece of paradise that really should not be left. We take a picture in front of the sunrise, smiling, and ready for the next part of our hassle-free adventure.
Once the shuttle dropped us off at Manuel, we had a decision to make: There are two ways to get to Coffee Bay from Bulungula. The first takes the dirt roads back to the pothole road, and the second is by back roads, dirt roads all the way there. We unanimously decided that anything would be better than that terrible pothole road, and we set out, not knowing how wrong we were.
We happily drove for over an hour, waving out the windows to everyone that we passed. Children ran alongside the car and old men followed us with their eyes as we zoomed past, in second gear. We shouted “Molo” and “Molweni” and often got those greetings in return. We joked that if Manuel kept us safe for the rest of our trip we would have to start calling him Immanuel. When we reached forks in the road, I would ask, “Ngiyahamba ngiye eCoffee Bay. Nini Coffee Bay?” Directions were given, and we continued on. Finally we saw signs for Hole in the Wall, which is just a few kilometers south of Coffee Bay, and we knew we were on the right track. Our spirits lifted, we were almost there, and safely at that!
We came upon one last fork in the road. The right hand fork traveled eastwards, towards the water, and the left fork seemed to continue north. Knowing we wanted to go east, we took what the map seemed to know was the proper road, the right fork. We passed some Gogos, grandmothers, and asked them, “Nini Coffee Bay?” They said that we were on the correct road, so we kept on going, in first gear now, since the nice dirt road was becoming rocky.
Before we realized it, the road was rough. Boulders jumped out of the dirt and the earth opened up, leaving huge crevices that my little car struggled to overtake. Many a time, Kayse and Ivy had to hop out of the car to guide me over particularly precarious stretches of earth, or to push as my wheels spun without traction, spewing dirt everywhere.
In all honesty, we should have known this was a bad idea. We should have known this was not the proper road. But we kept asking people, and they kept saying that not only was this the road to Coffee Bay, it was the only road, and everyone took it. We had been putting our trust and faith in the local people for so long, why not do it a bit more.
And so, Manuel traversed the treacherous terrain, every so often on the side of some giant cliff. Person-high piles of gravel were stationed every few meters or so now, and then we knew, this was not good. There was clearly being work done on this road; it was not finished yet. But do we keep going forward or turn back? We knew we must be getting close, the air had changed to that salty sea air and we could see the horizon and the waves in the distance, getting so much closer. We decided to keep going; it couldn’t get worse, and we had come so far already.
Manuel slid down yet another epic hill to face a small river. Well, creek. Well, actively flowing body of water with stones piled up to make a sort of bridge. The rocks sort of made two tracks for tires, so yet again Kayse and Ivy jumped out and helped me guide Manuel, clinking and clonking over the rocks. Somehow, we made it. Cheering, we piled back in and turned forward towards the steepest hill we had yet come across.
It was a hill that would have your quads screaming if you had to walk up it. It was a hill that had rocks tumbling down it just from the weight of gravity. It was a hill that, had it been a slide, would have rocketed you over the river. It was steep. It was dirt. And it had rocks protruding all over it.
I revved up Manuel, and we started climbing, and climbing, and climbing, and slipping, and falling, backwards and backwards, towards the river. Panicked, I slammed the brakes and luckily they worked. I yanked the emergency brake up and tried to breathe. The girls reassured me, “it’s okay, just try again, you’ve got this.” I’ve only been driving stick shift for a few weeks now, and the thing that terrifies me most of all is starting up on a hill. Rolling backwards is scary for me, terrifying actually. So the prospect of starting up again, on this hill from hell, was quite a daunting one.
But I gathered my courage and tried again. Gently working the clutch, I engaged the engine and tried to get us going forwards, but gravity was just too much. The wheels spun, kicking up dirt, and Manuel slipped down the hill. I stopped again, devastatingly unsure of my abilities as a driver, but determined to give it one more shot.
By this time, our commotion had invited a group of young boys and girls to watch the white ladies struggle with the car. Apparently they do not get many tourists or car in this area, I do not wonder why.
The third time, which should have been the charm, was the moment where I knew something was wrong. In first gear, I pressed the gas and lifted my foot slowly off the clutch. But nothing happened. The RPMs flew and engine never caught. I then realized that I could shift gears without holding down the clutch, and that clearly the clutch had slipped.
What to do now? There was no cell-phone reception in the ditch, as I started to call it, and no one around. We knew that there was nothing behind us, so the only option was to move forwards in an attempt to find help. Kayse stayed with the car, and Ivy and I set out to see if there was not something just beyond the next hill. We walked and walked. We met three boys playing soccer in the road; one spoke a bit of English, but not enough to answer our questions of where we might find help. We passed a turquoise hut with an old man sitting outside. I asked, in my IsiZulu, “Nini Coffee Bay?” and he gesticulated wildly and spoke fervently. I had not idea what he said, but we thanked him and kept walking.
We must have walked for at least 20 to 30 minutes, mostly up hill, when we met a bakkie coming towards us. I waved to the car to stop. The first thing that the man said was, “I like your shirt,” I was wearing my Obama shirt that day. I responded, “Thank you, I like your English!” Upon explaining our situation, the three men told us to hop into the bakkie and they would try to tow the car out of the ditch. When we asked what they were doing driving on the road, they explained that they were actually the surveyors of the road, seeing if it was good enough to drive on. I think my car was a fairly clear exhibition that the road was not fit yet.
We reached my car, where Kayse had gathered around 20 children to her side, all of whom stared as Ivy and I clambered out of the bakkie. The guys checked my car over, and also came to the conclusion that my clutch was absolutely shot, and that we would have to tow the car out. One of the local kids ran and found us a rope and we tied my car to the back of the bakkie. We all jumped in the back of the bakkie to weigh it down, and we tried to pull the sad, dust-covered Manuel out of the ditch.
It didn’t work. The bakkie was not powerful enough.
So, we threw everything, all of our belongings, into the back of the bakkie and the guys drove us to Coffee Bay, which was still a good 2k away on the crap road, and another 3 or so on the paved pothole road after that. He dropped us at a local hotel where he knew we could get help, and the guys left, giving us their number and saying to call them if we cannot get the car towed and need overnight security on the vehicle.
I called insurance again, and they of course immediately remembered me, and the girls called Mdumbi, the backpackers where we were supposed to be staying the night. A ride was arranged for the girls, and the tow truck was to come fetch Manuel and me in 90 minutes. Everything seemed to be working out okay. The girls went on their way, and I sat on the beach until the time the tow truck was scheduled to arrive.
Around 5pm, the tow truck driver called to say that he had broken down just outside of Mthatha and that he did not know when he would be able to make it to come fetch me. By this time, the sun was threatening, as it so often does, to go down, so I told the driver that it would not be safe on this road in the dark, and that it would be better if he came in the morning. We arranged for him to meet me at 8am, and I, with tears in my eyes, bumbled up to the hotel to see if there was a room for me for the night.
As I greeted the receptionist, I warned her that I would probably start to cry, which I promptly did as I tried to tell her my story and ask if there were rooms available for the night. There were, for 890 Rand. This sent me into further fits of tears since it was so expensive and I did not know of anywhere else to stay.
At this moment, a tall man who looked something like a cross between Col. Sanders and my dad walked in. He saw my sobs and asked what was wrong. “My car is stuck in a ditch,” was my reply. “We will get it sorted.” “No, you don’t understand. It’s in a ditch on a road that isn’t a road.” “We will get it sorted.”
So, after the man, whose name I later learned was Jasper, booked his fancy dinner for 5 people at the hotel, we climbed into his red Land Rover on steroids and drove out to his friend’s bed and breakfast. His friend, Devault, I think, joined us on our adventure, since he lived in and knew the area quite well. Which meant, of course, that he knew my road, and had, himself, gotten stuck on it. It also meant that he felt like he could belittle me for being so silly as to attempt this road.
We re-found the road and re-found my car, sitting all alone, covered in red dust. Jasper pulls out some hardcore towing equipment from his roof storage and hooks up my car with big metal clips and sturdy hemp rope. Devault climbs into my car to steer it and Jasper and I clamber back into the red giant. I cross my fingers. Jasper puts his monster into first gear. We move. Manuel moves! And he keeps coming. It is working.
Jasper and I make small talk as we drive over the easier sections of the road. He has been to America, and actually spent time in Alice Millar Chapel, the big chapel on Northwestern’s campus. He has traveled extensively, much more than I have, so I ask his line of work:
“I’m a pastor.”
Of course! Of course! A pastor in a 4 by 4. A pastor in a giant red 4 by 4 is my savior on Easter weekend. It’s perfect. It’s meant to be. It’s fate. It’s divine intervention. I SMS (text message) Sarah later, since she is also a pastor, and thank her for her help in sending me such divine roadside assistance.
Jasper safely pulls Manuel all the way to Devault’s bed and breakfast, where he can stay for the night, safe and sound. I thank Jasper and Devault profusely, and then, to top it all off, Jasper drives me to the local Backpackers, Bomvu, where I book a room for the night.
So, despite all the insanity, the car is safe and out of the ditch, and I have a bed for the night at the cost of 90 rand, instead of 900.
Bomvu was delightful. The staff was overwhelmingly helpful and they got me set up in a room to myself where I would be able to sleep comfortably. I ate a delicious vegetable pasta dinner and told my sob story to anyone who would listen, namely the bartender and his girlfriend, also a staff member at Bomvu. We laughed and drank a bit. Later, some girls from the community came to dance and sing. They were incredible. A local tour guide, who will feature in my story later, Silias, incited all the guests of Bomvu to dance. I did, why not? I guess I needed to release some energy. So, I danced the way I dance, which is absurd and fun and rhythmic and, as of recent, specifically inspired by traditional Zulu dancing. Silias commented on my Zulu-ness and that was the beginning of quite the acquaintance.
I went to bed early, after a surprise phone call from home, in which I told the story of everything that had happened. Mom listened and responded, while Dad fiddled with things and made himself busy.
The next morning, I took a walk on the beach. The morning is so crisp and clean in Coffee Bay. The waves lap softly and little critters scurry back and forth into their salty sanctuary. On my way back to Bomvu, I ran into Silias, who insisted that I come back that night for the Full Moon Party. I told him that everything was dependent on my car and that I could not guarantee anything. He touched my face, which was a shocker. I excused myself, and hurried on up to my room to pack up my overnight bag.Peter, the tow truck driver picked me up at 7:45am, and we made that drive to Mthatha. By this point, I could name the stores, the bends in the road, the schools, and the landmarks of this horrendous road. Peter said that his instructions were to take me to the nearest Renault dealership. On the phone with his company, we learned that the nearest dealerships were in East London and Margate. East London is another 3 hours south of Mthatha, a total of between 8 and 10 hours from Durban. Margate is 4 hours north of Mthatha, and less than 2 hours from Durban. And of course, they want the car to go to East London, since it is closest to Mthatha. Horrified, I call S&K, the mechanic who fixed my tires, to see if anything could be done locally. Peter is somehow connected to Kenny and his family, and so he agrees that S&K is the place to go.
We arrive back at S&K and all of the staff stares at me, asking shockingly why I am there again. When I say it is because of my clutch, they roll their eyes and sympathize. Kenny looks under the hood and realizes that there is nothing that he can do for me without the, very expensive, parts. So I am on the phone again, trying to get re-towed to East London or Margate where I can actually get my car fixed. But, to make matters worse, it is the day before Good Friday and all businesses are closing early, at 1pm. So, even if Manuel could have been taken to East London, he would not be able to be looked at until Tuesday, after the holiday.
Insurance is difficult and terrible, not calling me back and not being responsive. So, I turn to Rotary. I called Cecil, my host Rotarian in Durban, just to tell him what was going on. He immediately phones Richard Fisher, a former District Governor and member of our Westville club, who was able to get in touch with Rotarians in Mthatha. Less than 30 minutes later, a vision walks into the mechanic’s office. She is Sharron, president of Mthatha Rotary. And all she has to say is, “Are you with Rotary?” before I have leaped into her arms, crying. She says that there is nothing we can do about the car now, which was true, and where would I like to go; she was able to arrange rides for me to Coffee Bay, to Mdumbi (where the girls were staying), or to Splashy Fen. Eventually, I choose Coffee Bay; Kayse and Ivy were absolutely miserable at Mdumbi and just wanted to join me somewhere nice where we could spend a good vacation together.
So it was that an hour later I was with Sharron and Graham, two of the most wonderful and generous people I have met, driving back down that loathsome road to Coffee Bay. I met the girls back at Bomvu, where we had agreed to stay. When I walked in, the staff exclaimed, “What? You’re back?!” But it was good to be back. I found the girls and we spent a good afternoon sitting around and munching on Xhosa bread. Not long before sunset, enter Silias, who invites us to climb the nearby hill to watch the sunset.
The four of us climb to the top, drinks in hand, where we meet a large group of people who have opted to drive up. We sat on the side of this cliff with our ciders and watched the sun set over the huts perched on rolling hills. Well, the three of us might have been the only ones who noticed the sun was setting, and most everyone else was building human pyramids or doing handstands.
That night was the Full Moon Party, which meant a raucous night of drinking, drumming, and dancing. Or at least that is what it meant for everyone else. The three of us, well we had a cider or two, and danced a bit, but we were exhausted. So we decided to turn in early. Back at the tent, Kayse went off to brush her teeth, while Ivy and I gathered some things together. But, once again, our plans were thwarted, this time by Silias who dragged Ivy and me up to the Bomvu bar for just one more drink.
Well, in Coffee Bay, one more drink turns into many more drinks as more and more people join the conversation. The majority of the party was happening at Coffee Shack, the backpackers across the road, so the Bomvu group remained small. Ivy and I met a really incredible couple from Durban, who offered the girls a ride back on Monday morning, and we stayed up late into the night chatting and dancing. I relived those crazy times in Apartment 3W when Daft Punk came on by jumping on a bench and attempting to recreate the daft hands music video. It was a crazy night; Ivy and I kept being offered shot after shot, which we would slyly pass off to other people. The goal of the night was to have fun, not to get slammed.
But other people got slammed. And some comments were made; comments that were rude and racist and unnecessary. Silias pulled me aside and said he would very much like to talk with me. We sat on some stairs and he spilled his guts about how hard it is to be a black man in Coffee Bay, what it is like to work with “these” people, and the struggles he faces every day. When Ivy came to check in on me, just as any girl does for her friend, Silias snapped, saying it was because he is black that she did not trust him. Ivy struggled to help him understand that she would have come to check on me, no matter who I was speaking with, but Silias wouldn’t hear it, not after what had been said earlier, and he stormed off.
Soon after, Ivy and I climbed down the earthen steps to our tent by the river, where we crawled in, snuggled close with Kayse who was already asleep, and attempted rest. But it was a difficult night. With three people in a two-man tent, my face was pressed against the tent wall and there was no room to roll over.
The next morning, Ivy and Kayse were done. Finished. Ready to go. Leaving today. Leaving now now. Non-negotiable. They got on the phone with various rental car and bus companies, trying to see what was available on this Good Friday. I phoned Sharron and Graham to let them know that the girls were keen on leaving, and Sharron worked her magic to see if she could not organize a rental car for them, despite everything being closed. She also offered me the opportunity to stay with her and Graham instead of paying hundreds of rand to stay at the backpackers.
So, it was later that morning when the girls climbed onto a shuttle bus, leaving me alone, yet again, on our group vacation.
Yet again, Rotary to the rescue, Sharron and Graham picked me up and I stayed the weekend with them in Coffee Bay, in Graham’s beautiful weekend house, up on a hill, overlooking the ocean. Also staying there, and in the cottage on the property, were Graham’s two adult children, and his son’s wife and twin daughters, and well as the wife’s sister. It was quite the group. And I was welcomed into it, for which I am forever grateful.
I spent a lot of my time just sitting out on the veranda, watching the waves and the people. But often, I went for walks. Saturday morning, I went on one of such walks. I was planning just on going down to the water, but I ended up at the backpackers, where I was met by Silias. When I said I had no plans for the day, he invited me to go up into his village, to his family’s home where his sister (or rather his uncle’s daughter, who in Xhosa culture is referred to as sister instead of cousin) was having a coming-of-age ceremony. Unable to pass up an opportunity like this, I said yes of course, and he and I started out, up over the hills, on footpaths in the worn out grass.
It astonishes me how fit people must be to live in these hills. To go anywhere, it is either up or down, or up then down and then up again. Nothing is level; nowhere can you walk a flat line. Huffing and puffing, I made it up all the hills, Silias plowing on ahead, undaunted by the inclines. He did, however, take off his leather jacket on the journey, which made me feel slightly better about my own sweat.
On the way, he briefed me a bit about what would be happening that day. This was the big preparation day for his sister’s coming out party. Today there would be stick fighting, cow racing, the slaughtering of goats, and other such revelry. The sister herself has been hidden from the light for two months. She is not allowed to see the light of day, at all. For two months. When she emerges from her, more or less, cocoon, she is then able to fall pregnant or get married. Yes, Silias said it in that order: fall pregnant or get married.
We passed a woman carrying water on her head. Silias stopped, turned to me, and said, “You will have to learn to do that before I pay the lobola for you.” Now, for those of you who don’t know, lobola is bride price, it is the gift that the family of the groom gives to the family of the bride. It is meant not only to bring the two families together but also is a sort of replacement for the lost work value of the daughter. Usually this gift takes the form of cows, but often in urban areas money is the preferable mode of transaction.
And so I was offered lobola. I might have mumbled something about how I already know how to carry the water, or I may have just laughed awkwardly, as was my trend on this trip. But what I regret is not asking how many cows I am worth. I mean, I know I am worth a lot of cows. And then there are the logistics of sending cows overseas, and is that such a good idea really?
I don’t know how serious Silias was with his lobola remark, but what I can say is that he tried to kiss me that night. And when his friends and family members called me his wife, which they did frequently at the ceremony, he did not dispute it but rather furthered it.
We met some of Silias’ relatives on the way, and walked with them as we crossed a river, well, creek, well, flowing body of water with stones that looked oddly familiar. Climbing up the last hill to the cluster of huts where the party was, Silias donned his leather jacket. It was too hot for such a clothing choice, but I think it was more representative of Silias’ status and success. He may have been the only person in his family to go to college, which he did in East London for tourism studies, and this may be his way of showing that success. I did not question him, I couldn’t, but I am sure that he would have been open to answering my inquiries.
When we arrived, Silias was greeted warmly and I was introduced in Xhosa. Then I was sent into the hut with the women. It was a large rondavel, well, it was larger on the inside than it looked on the outside. The walls were painted an orange-salmon color and the floors were covered in three thick stripes of multi-patterned linoleum. Across from the door was a sort of kitchen corner, where a cupboard of plates and mugs stood with pots, pans, tubs of samp and melee, and the jugs of water that had been carried up from the river. There were four beds in the room, two twin beds that we were allowed to sit on, and two double beds with rich maroon duvets. Only the babies lay on these beds, with towels underneath them.
And so I sat with these women, most of whom spoke no English. My bits of IsiZulu allowed me to understand a little bit and to speak even less, so I was mostly silent, observing. Women went in and out, doing various chores. Men stopped in upon occasion to get something to eat or drink. Children peered in the open doorway.
I was offered some melee juice, which I drank out of a huge mug. It was thick and white and sweet. While the others could drink it quickly, I drank slowly since it was such a different and delicious taste and texture.
Two little girls decided to befriend me, and we made faces at each other across the room. Soon we were playing with three half-naked G.I. Joe dolls, and the girls were fascinated with taking off the pants of the dolls and then putting them back on. It was quite a strange game, so I made it stranger by trying to fit the doll’s pants on my own legs. I don’t know if the girls quite understood my joke, but it didn’t really matter.
Soon it was teatime and the women brewed a large kettle of tea over a gas burner. Huge slabs of soft white bread were cut and accompanied each cup of tea. After tea, I offered to help wash the dishes. At first the other girl thought I was just bringing her more plates to wash herself, but I was finally able to make it known that I, too, wanted to wash.
I had still not been outside the hut, and I had not seen these elusive stick fights or cow races, nor had I met the girl who was coming of age. Finally, I was allowed to go outside. I walked with some of the women to another hut where the girl was staying.
It was another hut, slightly smaller than the one I had been in. Many women and children were laid out on the floor. Directly across the room from the door was where the girl was staying. A long rope had been tied from one end of the wall to the other and blankets, bamboo mats and rugs had been draped over the rope so that no sunlight could enter this private space. I did not peer behind this divide, but judging by the spacing, she could stand on the plaster wall and touch the rug wall. Some of the younger girls popped behind the sheeting to talk to the girl, but most everyone ignored her. Or maybe they were just silent because I was there. The girl became part of the architecture.
I spoke to Silias afterwards more about the ceremony. She is to stay in there for two full months during which time she cannot come out, except at night when no one is watching. She must use the toilet in a bucket behind her enclosure. She does everything in that space. It is not about solitude and confinement, but about seeing the sunlight. I guess it is like emerging from a cocoon as a fully formed female butterfly.
Soon, I was summoned to help dish out the beans and samp. I held plates as a woman scooped the steaming piles of mush. Once the plates were full and spoons set on them, we walked to the men, who were lounging in the grass by the kraal, where the two goats has been slaughtered. I handed my plates to Silias and his friend, who chuckled as Silias said thank you. Later I learned that I had sparked a whole conversation about how “Silias’ white wife does not know that she cannot stand that close to the kraal.”
While the men were eating, I developed a huge game of jump rope with the young girls. Double Dutch proved too difficult for many, including myself, so we switched it over to a game of Limbo. Well, a modified game, where you just have to duck under or jump over the rope, depending on its height. This was wonderful because everyone was able to play, and I was able to give quick and easy instructions, “Ima/Stop” and “Hamba/Go.” Soon, even the boys had joined in, and everyone was playing together on the same level. Of course I do not know anything but what I have observed of Xhosa gender dynamics, but chances are that the boys and girls do not often play together, so I was pretty excited that for 5 minutes everyone was equal.
After all the men had been served, the women could eat. We took the dirty plates from the men when they were done, rinsed them in water, and scooped more mush onto them and delivered them to the women. We went back into the first hut to eat. The mush was good, but too much to handle. It was heavy and bland to my American taste buds. I ate as much as I could, and when I could not finish a small girl took my plate and she and her mother finished it off.
As soon as the mush was done, a plate of goat meat came through. The women had developed a pattern of always offering me the food first, so when I was passed the meat, I had to try to say that I was vegetarian. I got as close as, “Cha ngiyadlu ukudla” or “No I eat food.” We had not learned how to make negatives yet! I felt so silly, but finally someone understood and I was forgiven. When I recounted this moment in my next IsiZulu class, I was told that no one, no one is a vegetarian in Zulu culture, so my sentences were even stranger.
It was past mid-afternoon when Silias said that he was ready to go whenever I was. I thanked the women profusely and said farewell. Silias and I began our long walk back to Coffee Bay, mostly in silence but with a bit of conversation about the day. He told me that we had arrived too late in the day for the cow races and stick fighting and he answered my questions about the various things that had happened.
The rest of the afternoon was spent back at Bomvu with my new friends there and up on the hill again watching the sunset. For dinner, I joined up with a group going up the hill for pizza. We had a blast, talking about our experiences as foreigners in South Africa and about what we are learning from being here. Silias walked me home that night; it was dark and he said that he would. Graham’s house is just up the hill from the local shabeen (bar), so it is always bustling on the road with people stumbling about. Silias walked me to the gate, which is where he tried to kiss me. I quickly said goodnight, and he asked what I was doing the next day, I told him that I did not know.
But the next day I did run into Silias, as I was taking my mid-afternoon walk along the beach. I ended up spending a lot of time talking to Silias’ cousin, Chris, who was in town from Jo’berg. It was from Chris that I learned the extent of the “Silias’ wife” remarks, and when I saw Silias again later that day, I asked him about it. Again, he denied nothing, but said that he encouraged the remarks. I laughed awkwardly.
That night, I stayed up late with my Rotarian hosts playing games, Trivial Pursuit (the South African version, so I was horrendous at it), Spoons, 30 Seconds: our game of spoons was the most raucous that I have ever experienced. We were all screaming and jumping and cursing and laughing so hard that it hurt. It was a delightful evening, a night of really great fellowship, dry white wine, and laughter.
It was Monday afternoon that we left Coffee Bay. I took my final walk around lunchtime and stood in the ocean as I did everyday, letting the waves crash against my calves. I always forget how much I love water and it takes moments like these to reconnect me with an element that is so much a part of who I am. I passed through the backpackers one last time and thanked everyone who had been so helpful and generous to me when I was struggling. One last time, I ran into Silias, and he walked me back to Graham’s. We had a cordial goodbye and that was the end of Coffee Bay. Soon, Sharron and I were on the pothole road again, for the last time, driving back to Mthatha.
I stayed Monday and Tuesday night in Mthatha with Sharron. On Tuesday afternoon, I got word that my insurance still needed my car to be towed to the nearest dealership, so the towing company was going to fetch my car from S&K and take it to East London. Good. It turns out that there is a Rotarian in East London who works for Renault and could keep an eye out for my car.It was not until Wednesday around noon, however, that my car actually arrived at the dealership and was assessed. My first phone call informed me that not only had the clutch blown, but also the engine had seized, and the sump had been busted. The sump, I learned, is the basin under the car that pools the oil. Well, this was all a shock to me. Luckily, my second phone call with the dealership clarified that the engine did not seize, and that the towing company was going to pay for the repairs on the sump since they were the ones that broke it. All that was left for me to pay was for the new clutch and the labor. Even with so much being taken care of by the tow company, my total was still to come to a whopping 7000rand. But, the work has to be done, at this point, so I gave the go-ahead. Unfortunately, the parts were not in stock and would need to be ordered. It would take 3 business days for the parts to arrive, and another 3 business days to do the labor; it is a 3 day, 9 and a half hour process to replace my clutch since the entire engine must be removed and then put back. Horrendous. So I made the split second decision at 1:45pm on Wednesday afternoon to catch the 2pm bus to Durban.
Sharron hurried me to the bus station where I was able to find a bus that would get me home. I called Sarah and Cecil and told them I would be arriving back in Durban that night. Eight hours and a smelly bus ride later, I was home. At my house, with my roommates, in my city.
So, where does that leave everything now, nearly two weeks later? I am still car-less and I am unsure when I will be 10-hour trek down to fetch it. Only this past week did Willford stop phoning every day, and I have not heard at all from Silias.
Do I have negative feelings about my vacation? No, actually, not at all. I am irritated beyond belief at my car, but some things cannot be helped. I had a marvelous time when I actually was able to relax and not deal with those irritating adult things.
I was often placed in situations that many white South Africans fear, breaking down on the side of the road, having to turn to locals for help, getting lost in the middle of nowhere, going alone to Mthatha, but I had nothing but positive experiences. Everyone that I met was helpful and kind. We told the surveyor with the bakkie how kind every Xhosa person we met was, and he was filled with great pride about the generosity of his people. And yes, the Xhosa are incredible. South Africans are incredible. It was through Rotary and the locals that my holiday was saved, that my sanity was saved, that my life was not put into danger.
I would go back to Bulungula and Coffee Bay in a heartbeat, though in someone else’s car this time. My Manuel is going to need a good long rest before I feel safe taking him out on open road again.
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