Where does the Wild Coast really begin? Eastern Cape tourism says it begins just after East London at Gonubie, while others believe that one can never uncross the Great Kei River and that it is the pont at Kei Mouth that truly marks the passage between worlds, the shift from the relatively tamed to the more unruly and uninhibited.
But these are mostly political positions. For me, the wild coast is a sound. And it begins where the gentle wash of waves on sand is replaced by the bone-crunching slap of breakers on stone, or by the ever-present roar of a beast that will not be silenced, even in one’s dreams.
If pressed, I’d probably start my wild coast at Chintsa, pronounced “Sin-tsah” and it would be the sound ripped from me after coming up from a big wave and turning to watch it crack in a fury of foam on the wild expanse of beach just below Crawfords.
WILD AT HEART
Lyn Crawford is strangely both in the margins and at the very centre of the history of the lodge. She was there for its first iteration in the early ‘70s when it was just a simple farmhouse and a couple of rooms doubling as chicken hoks. She then witnessed its one-step-back, two-steps-forward type of transformation that saw self-catering cabins evolve into cottages, the building of restaurants and bars, the burning down of the same, subdivisions, buybacks, seafood buffets, fights with strippers, collapsing decks, reinvestment and new rooms and, to cut a tumultuous story short, the establishment in the early 2000s of what is now known as Crawfords Beach Lodge.
One gets the impression that the resort has evolved by uniquely adapting to the vicissitudes of a place that is as rough as its elements. The little roads between cottages don’t so much hug the hills as caress them, don’t impose on them so much as go with their flow. All the additions, the library, the little lounges and secret quiet places seem harmoniously embedded into the “crumbling banks” of earth from which Chintsa gets its name. The objective seems to have been to supplement not with a view to dominate but to embrace, and this is everywhere implicit in structures designed to bring the elements in while also keeping them at bay, in the wide windows that open onto perilous balconies, in little signs that say not “Mind your head” but “Mind the tree”.
There is also an old-world charm to this family-run resort that is embodied by Lyn Crawford. She has a face that looks to have faced down life’s many vagaries with fortitude and something like grace. While walking the lodge’s many stairs and hidden paths with her two dogs, she quietly oversees day-to-day details that make staying here such a pleasure. She cares about people and the little things that matter in a way that makes her the quietly generous curator of this hard-won paradise.
We emerge from the sea each morning, humbled but hungry. We wolf down eggs and beer — because it’s the wild coast — and then head off to explore Chintsa West, past newly fenced-off cluster homes and dilapidated fishing cottages to a Jolly Roger pub we think better of. And then it’s further afield, on one day all the way to the Amathole Museum in Qonce, where the exhibits show just how much of what was once British Kaffraria is steeped in the blood of interminable battles between the colonists and the Xhosa.
And then it’s back home to the comfort of Crawfords, for roast meats and big juicy reds before bed to wrestle with the roaring ocean beast.
On our last morning we take a long walk on the beach through the mist. We don’t spot any of the rare porcelain shards that are said to still be found washed up from the wreckage of the Portuguese Atalaia in 1647. But occasionally people loom out of the mist.
There’s a hippy girl with a whippet, Rasta braids, faded tattoos and a barefooted insouciance that makes one think how a life lived here might seem curiously fulfilling. We also meet a group of diviners who have gathered at the water's edge to pray before their umbuyiso, when they plan to recall the spirits of two ancestors. They like my friend Gary. As a student of African art and culture, he knows from their beads why they are here and chats to them in Xhosa and they invite us to their ceremony the following day.
SO NICE YOU SAY IT TWICE
The road to Haga Haga is full of mud and potholes... which would be fine if you knew where you were really going. Some say the town’s name derives from a battle between two feisty chiefs, in which the one greeted the other by saying “Sagagana (so now we have met)", which white ears heard as “Haga Haga”. Another version has it that the descent into town was so precipitous that the driver of a team of oxen would shout, “Haak aan, Haak aan (hook on, hook on) to enlist the help of another span of oxen. A third says that the name comes from the locals, who say “Haga Haga” on hearing about a great fish, hooked and lost. Perhaps all three are right.
We stop at the charming Little Museum, with quaint displays about Xhosa culture, the beauty of beads, things thrown up from the sea and lots of pictures of people now long dead. We drive past little fishing cottages with names like “Stumble In” and “Stumble Out” (apparently owned by two brothers) then head to the town’s only hotel for a beer.
Not many hotels can boast that all their rooms are sea-facing, but it seems in character for this strange little place. At the bar, local Lillian Sam gives us an astounding demonstration of all the different Xhosa clicks in her repertoire, and then we sit out on the deck and look out across the rocks at a lonely fisherman and his dog. There is something more compelling about this unspoilt place, though we don’t stay long enough to find out exactly what it is. As we leave, a sign on the door says, “This place is called Haga Haga. So nice you have to say it twice.”
We arrive at Morgan Bay (now Gxarha) on the edge of the Kei to an ocean roiled and angry. Here the signs read differently. Many warn of rip currents and one on the beach says, “If no lifeguards, only knee deep.” Another: “Kick off your shoes, but carry them with you or leave them in your car.” There seems a weird double messaging of holiday and precaution, an undertow of danger averted that finds its best articulation in the Morgan Bay Hotel itself.
Another family-owned business, here a generational shift has made all the difference. Richard Warren Smith has lived most of his life in this part of the world and knows its shifting tides well. He tells me that the hotel he inherited was a little “chaotic”, with no clearly defined eating and drinking spaces, people picnicking and frolicking in areas now clearly fenced off. He has transformed it into a modern family hotel, but in buttressing it against an inherited or perceived chaos, you can’t but think a bit of old family charm has been forfeited.
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Be that as it may, the food here is exceptional — from lavish mid-morning pastry spreads to elegant hors d’oeuvres before dinner, which on our nights involved a splendid array of seafood and a five-course meal with lamb to remember. In the morning, as tradition would have it, breakfast is served with a personalised newsletter about current and returning guests and suggested daily activities... of which there are many. I’d like to walk the Morgan Bay cliffs, which are said to be the highest sea-facing cliffs in the country. But we have been invited to a slaughter.
CROSSING THE KEI
Recalling ancestors is a bloody and deeply spiritual affair. After our opportune meeting with Sithembele Thomas on the beach at Chinsta, we now find ourselves his guests in nearby Mooiplaats in the hope that our presence will help trigger the requisite bleats and bellows that summon the ancestors.
The first ancestor is happily complicit, the second obstinately reluctant. The mood darkens with every thrust of the spear. Ominous looks seem to dart our way. There are more prayers and fraught negotiations across the divide before finally, with much relief, the second ancestor relinquishes his grip on the afterlife in a bellow of anguish. It’s a disturbing and privileged glimpse into a slippage between worlds.
We cross the swirling Kei on SA’s busiest ferry. Our fellow pontoon passengers are brightly and beautifully dressed. They are on their way to a funeral and share their beers with us. After the umbuyiso, this feels more than just uncanny. Gary tells me not to worry. “The spirits are with us,” he says.
The road to Trennerys is beset with potholes and cow shit and trying to tell the difference. A giant ficus in the process of strangling another tree fronts reception. Reggae plays from the bar and we drink beer beneath flamboyant trees and watch young girls taking selfies by the pool. It’s difficult to tell whether this is a hotel past its heyday or whether it’s still to come.
We’re asked what we want for dinner and when. The steak is generous and tasty, cooked with love if not skill. It arrives at 6.30pm as jokingly requested. The only other people in the immaculately laid dining room are with the girls we saw earlier, who later try to skip out on their bill.
We stay in traditional rondavels which they hesitated to give us because they leak in heavy rain. They’re comfortable and quiet with little sundowner decks. In a quaint, generous gesture, a housekeeper arrives to ask me if there is anything I need. There isn't. The rain comes down at night. There are no leaks, but my dreams are troubled by wounds that bleat.
In the morning, we go through a tunnel cut into the vegetation like a wormhole onto the beach. An errant dog barks at us from a distant dune. We chat to a lone fisherman who has a cottage here, and we watch some kids at the water’s edge with their hallowed cattle looming in the mists behind them.
It’s a Transkei postcard, and it doesn’t go to the heart of where the Wild Coast begins or ends, or how far into the hinterland it extends, but one thing I now know is that you don’t get the whip of the waves without the teasing of the spears.
GETAWAY AT A GLANCE
CRAWFORD’S BEACH LODGE
WHERE IT IS: Approximately 40km northeast of East London, in Chintsa.
WHAT IT HAS: Thatched suites and family units with sea views, kitchenettes and private decks. Amenities include a pool, restaurant and direct beach access.
RATES: Priced from R2,890 per night for two adults sharing.
CONTACT: See crawfordsbeachlodge.co.za.
MORGAN BAY HOTEL
WHERE IT IS: Approximately 85km northeast of East London, in Morgan Bay.
WHAT IT HAS: Deluxe, sea-view, partial sea-view, and non-sea view rooms, all en-suite with DStv, kettles and fridges. Amenities include a pool, jungle gym, restaurant, beach boutique, spa, games room and direct beach access.
RATES: From R1,150 per person sharing.
CONTACT: See morganbayhotel.co.za.
TRENNERYS BEACHFRONT HOTEL
WHERE IT IS: Approximately 100km northeast of East London, at Qolora Mouth.
WHAT IT HAS: Double rooms and two-bedroom family units, all en-suite. Facilities include a pool, restaurant, bar, tennis court, trampoline, playroom for children and teens, campsite and private beach area.
RATES: From R995 per person sharing on a dinner, bed & breakfast basis.
CONTACT: See trennerys.co.za.
