From Hoedspruit to Cape Town - by Ellen

We’ve had an interesting journey down from Hoedspruit, and possibly the main thing we’ve learned is not to underestimate African distances – and times! Inevitably, just when you think you’ve calculated the correct journey distance with an ETA of sundowners and dinnertime, you encounter road works, cows, or potholes. Or, if you’re really lucky, all of the above.

Lydenburg to Durban

We decided to have a couple of heavy days travelling, and were aiming to get to the Wild Coast where we could – finally – be near the sea. We set off early from Lydenburg, after yet another wonderful fried breakfast (this is the last one, honest!) and headed to Durban, via Rourke’s Drift of Zulu fame and Ladysmith of Ladysmith Black Mombazo fame. We were familiar with this particular set of potholes as we’d passed them once before – these were the ones where, once you’d passed the worst of them, a ‘! Warning: Potholes’ sign would helpfully be erected. And this stretch of road was relatively cow-free. So yes, predictably, we hit road works. Miles and miles of &!@@$* road works.

But, to Evan’s delight, there was plenty of birdlife by the side of the road, so we got the binoculars out and watched the Southern Red Bishops and the Herons and the Yellow Headed Bishops and the Steppe Buzzards we sang our way through the Lion King soundtrack. Hakunah matata.

In Durban we stayed in the shabby-chic old-world-grandeur of Durban Manor, right on the waterfront overlooking the harbour where the evening yacht race was just finishing up. Over the sound of the traffic we could just about hear the comforting clanging of halyards against the masts; I’d missed the sea more than I realised. We popped in to the Royal Natal Yacht Club, from where Evan had called me all those years ago when he’d been there doing his Coastal Skipper, and I’d just arrived back in the UK from Fiji. Funny how things turn out.

Durban to Cintsa

After (admittedly another fried) breakfast, this time served by waiters in black suits, it was back on the road; destination Cintsa on the Wild Coast. We drove through what was once known as the Transkei. The landscape is dotted with multicoloured houses, ranging from pastel pink to luminous green. Each is beautifully and proudly kept with neat gardens and fresh paint and some of the most breathtaking views; the houses are scattered over lush rolling hills which open out into deep, dramatic valleys. A far cry from the tired shanty-town settlements that are slumped around the cities.

Our route took us through Mthatha, which I can only describe as a jumble of shops and people that accidentally got caught up in a giant roadwork. As we squeezed through the town the road was literally being dug up around us. Right next to the car window men wildly swung their pickaxes at the tarmac, or sat, exhausted, in the holes that they’d dug. Eventually we were pushed through the other side of the town, and sped on down the hill.
As usual, we were overtaken on a blind corner by a bakkie doing some phenomenal, physics-defying speed. What was different this time was that their back left wheel decided it had had enough, and parted company with the car, bouncing off a rock and soaring a good 50 feet into the air. It descended terrifying close to a man who was quietly tending his goats on the verge; though he didn’t look in the least bit phased by the rubber meteorite. About 5km later we passed the bakkie, which had finally stopped. The driver looked genuinely impressed that he’d lost his wheel, grinning down at the place where it should have been. Perhaps, however, he was simply impressed by the fact that he’d managed to send his companion sprinting back up the road to retrieve the wayward tyre...
We carried on: past Cuba, past Collywobbles, finally arriving at Buccaneers Backpackers in Cintsa. As we booked in for the night, we were told, categorically, that we’d be staying for at least two nights. We could quite happily have stayed for two weeks.

The next morning, we lay in bed and watched the sun rise over the sea. But there was no time for lazing around - it was time to saddle up our horses. Galloping on a white sandy beach is something I’ve always wanted to do, and it didn’t disappoint. Sunshine, a sparkling sea, a fresh breeze and an ex-racehorse called Pint really do wonders for the soul.

Addo Elephant Park

We sadly left Buccaneers behind, but the Elephants of Addo Park were calling. Compared to Karongwe, the landscape here was harsh and arid. Dust swirled in mini-tornadoes and animals clustered and jostled around the scarce watering holes. Karongwe and been lush and dense and over supplied with water; as old farming land it had a disproportionate number of dams. In Addo the animals had to travel to drink, and the bleached bones by the pools were a reminder of how fragile life is. We were also incredibly lucky to see lions, though they seemed a little miffed by the queue of cars and cameras, so soon moved off away from the road. The black backed jackals were much more relaxed than the ones in Karongwe; so we had a good sighting of a group of them.

And, of course, there were the elephants. We must have seen at least 200 of them across the park. Groups of them had congregated by each watering hole, and were swimming, splashing and rolling in the muddy water. The older ones were enjoying playing just as much as the youngsters, giant bodies glistening with wet mud. The edges of the pools were steep and slippery, making getting out very tricky. For all their impressive strength they’re not designed for leaping up muddy banks. The more experienced adults used feet, tusks and knees to lever themselves into a stable position. They would then pause, assessing the purchase they had on the tricky terrain. Then with a push of the back legs they’d heave themselves upwards and forwards. The youngsters had a more...headstrong approach: patience was no fun compared to action. They’d launch themselves at the slope of the pool, trunks waving for balance, but soon find there was nothing to grip. One little one slipped right back down, landing on his head. After another couple of failed attempts, a second baby came over, reaching his trunk out to hold behind the struggler’s ear. On the next attempt the youngster made it up the slope. I’m not sure whether this action provided any actual assistance, but nonetheless it was an incredible moment of camaraderie and care.

Storm’s River Village

Once we’d bought Evan a new bird book (Covering over 950 species in Southern Africa, of which Evan has so far seen 71) we set off for Storm’s River Village and the Tube ‘n Axe Backpackers. Sadly the food here was far from the standard to which we had grown accustomed, but the company was great so we sat by the fire until the small hours.

Storm’s River Village to Swellendam – via Monkey Land & Birds of Eden

We really weren’t in Storm’s River for long enough to do it any justice, but we had a deadline on the car so it was time to drag the hangovers out of bed and get back on the road. We stopped off at Monkey Land & Birds of Eden near Plettenburg Bay. Both places took on unwanted pets or injured/non-indigenous monkeys and birds from the wild or zoos and gave them a new home. As we waited in the cafe for the tour to begin, the squirrel monkeys started creeping closer to the lunching tourists. Being sprayed with a bottle of water is a small price to pay for half a sandwich and a handful of chips; the monkeys bounded off, victorious and shrieking. The Spectacled Monkey observed us from behind big white ‘glasses’, the Ewok-like gibbon swung through the trees, and the King Louis and the other ring-tailed lemurs performed ‘I Like to Move It Move It’ from the film Madagascar (or perhaps that bit was in my head).

After Monkey Land came Birds of Eden, the world’s biggest aviary. Armed with our check-list, we set off to see louries, cranes, parrots and water birds. Over lunch Evan was befriended by a ring necked parakeet, which sat on his shoulder whilst he ate. After lunch I was accosted by a Cockatoo, which attached itself firmly to my shoulder for much of the walk. Once it had figured out that it couldn’t undo the string on my top, it tired of me and hopped onto Evan. It then swiftly and skilfully removed one of his shirt buttons, and crunched it happily.

Then it was time to head to our last stop on this leg of the trip; Swellendam. Whilst driving we decided that in future we’d be sticking to a 200 km/day journey, and always stay more than one night, except in special circumstances. I spent much of the drive lamenting the fact that the majority of their crisps contain zillions of E-numbers and preservative, and the rest of the drive deciding that I’d like to run a B&B – feel free to pre-book now.
Swellendam is a sleepy little picturesque Afrikaans town, nestled at the foot of the impressive Langeburg mountain range. It also has an exceptionally good steak restaurant serving shome very nishe wine....hic. Be sure to go there Very Hungry as the portions are ENORMOUS. But if, like me, you can’t finish it all, they’ll pack up the remaining kilo of pasta and it’ll feed you and a friend for the next 2 days. Back at Swellendam Adventure Backpackers we went to sleep in our very comfortable shed-with-a-bed (I’m not sure the term ‘log cabin’ should really have been applied to it!), reflecting on the huge journey we’d had so far.

Swellendam to Cape Town

As well as a great steak house, Swellendam is also home to a fantastic breakfast place. Fully fortified with a (not fried!) breakfast, we were on the home straight to Cape Town. Despite the best efforts of the traffic jams, we managed to get the car back to AVIS as the clock ticked round to 12.00. Nice.