Google Maps will tell you that it takes two and half hours to travel 97.8 kilometres from Ramsgate on the South Coast of Kwah-zoo-loo Nah-tahl to Mtentu Lodge at the mouth of the Mtentu River. Don’t you believe a word of it!
Northern Transkei is considered by some to have among the most beautiful coastlines in the world. On one of Team Smelly Fingers trips, we left Ramsgate just after seven one morning in three 4x4s, heading for a five-day excursion to the Mtentu Lodge and fishing camp. The road from the Mfolozi turn-off to the river-mouth is just under fifty kilometres long, but very rough. It demands that even with high clearance vehicles, you need to go slowly to avoid breaking the suspension. The lodge management warns to take meticulous care to follow their directions, failing which you will get lost in the vast reaches of the hinterland.
At one point, we encountered a service delivery protest and demonstration at a critical junction in the road about halfway to the lodge in the middle of nowhere and many kilometres from any town. Coming over a hill, we came across a line of about ten vehicles parked up the hill. At the junction below, the local folk had pulled a cable across the road to stop traffic from passing, and were toyi-toying (dancing) and singing as they awaited the arrival of the local provincial council member for the area. After a while the only police van within a hundred kilometres finally arrived with two officers on board. From our vantage point at the back of the queue, we watched as the policemen engaged the protesters in conversation. But it soon became apparent that the latter weren’t going to budge, even for the law.
As was our way in crises like these, we broke open Ann’s padkos (packed breakfast for the road) and a beer and sat down on the verge, patiently waiting for the demonstrators to run out of gas. After a while, one of our team, who like so many of us is an old and retired, battle weary, long-in-the-tooth policeman, decided to stroll down to the local crowd of about twenty men and women, who by now appeared to be losing some of their enthusiasm as they danced in a circle.
Courtney (who, by the way, has reigned as the team’s leading fisherman over many years by virtue of his ability to land one or two of the little buggers, more than any of us put together) proceeded to use his well-honed skills of persuasion in an attempt to get them to let us through.
The process took the best part of forty-five minutes, as negotiations in Africa are inclined to take, but he persevered and eventually won the hearts and minds of the self-appointed crowd leadership.
Unaware of how he had fared, we watched him as he strolled quietly and unassumingly back up the hill towards us. By the time he reached our vehicles the cable had been removed and the line of cars and trucks ahead of us were allowed to pass. We finally reached our destination at around lunchtime, and wow, what a destination!
Mtentu Lodge is a rustic cluster of buildings set into the top of the ravine overlooking the Mtentu River, which in turn borders the Mkambati Nature Reserve. The main building houses the kitchen, an open-plan lounge, as well as bar and dining facility from which patrons can look out over the full 180-degree expanse of river below while enjoying each other’s company over a beer or two.
Its cosy atmosphere is made warm and friendly by the very personal and unpretentious service of the team, who go to great lengths to make visitors welcome. The rooms are set in independent huts that are linked to the main building by a series of wooden walkways set on stilts, each with a small veranda overlooking the river.
The Mtentu River is a marine protected area, with fishing in the river prohibited. Fishing, which is reputedly outstanding, is allowed either side of the mouth and up and down the coast, but our attempts to catch anything proved to be as disappointing as the many attempts that have gone before.
One could speculate the reasons for this to be the fact that we regularly plan the trips in mid-winter, whereas most fishing guides suggest that summer is the best time for it. Or possibly, it could be said that we have been unlucky. Or alternatively, the reason could be that we don’t seem to take fishing particularly seriously (except for Courtney, and in the case of fly-fishing, our stalwart Sakkie aka ‘Beach bum’). Or maybe we are just bloody useless at fishing!
But be that as it may, after the second day of making a sterling effort to turn our fortunes around, Bryan, Frank and I decided to cross the river by making use of the local canoe service so we could walk to the Mkambati’s Horseshoe Falls.
The canoe was only able to take us one at a time, so Bryan and Frank took the first trips and I followed. As I crossed the river with the able assistance of a local Xhosa boatman, I couldn’t help but imagine how Livingstone must have felt as he ventured forth where no man had gone before. On arriving at the opposite side of the river I was faced with a bank of boulders that were strewn irregularly from the water level to about ten metres up the embankment. I clambered out of the wobbly canoe onto a rock ledge and proceeded to try and make my way across the uneven rocks towards the sandbank nearest to the shoreline. I didn’t make much progress before nature chose to prove that I was not as agile as I used to be. My feet slipped out from under me, and I fell backwards, breaking my fall by instinctively reaching out my left hand. My thumb then dislocated on impact.
Without a moment’s hesitation Bryan jumped to my aid, grabbed my arm and my hand, told me to lie still, and with a single crack, moved my thumb back into place. Apart from minor bruising I was good to drink another day!
We walked along deserted beaches for a few kilometres before following the hiking trail up through the bush and slowly climbed up the hills to the waterfalls. Here, the two youngsters stripped down and dived into the icy clear waters of the pools and swam out to the base of the falls.
On the way back we surveyed the endless seascapes that are indisputably unique to South Africa’s Wild Coast before finally making our way back to camp for a shower and a few cold beers.
Nights on a Team Smelly Fingers outing are definitely not for the faint-hearted because whatever the team lacks in fishing expertise, it makes up in drinking, singing, occasional dancing on the tables, and never-ending stories, the likes of which are more often completely forgotten by the next morning. In fact, to the best of my recollection, I have personally succeeded in raising a tumultuous laugh with the very same story on at least five occasions over the years.
One of the classics that will remain with me always occurred a few years before. On the first day we went out on a riverboat up the Umzimvubu River at Port Saint Johns on the Transkei coast. We had negotiated the use of a large fishing boat with a suitable canopy and a local pilot, to leave our camp just after sunrise.
We had assembled our various fishing tackle, complete with weeks of spares (just in case). We had sent a recce party into town the night before to secure a selection of bait, which we meticulously packed onto the boat. We had stocked up a couple of cooler boxes with ice and beer for the day, as well as a basket of boerie (sausage) rolls for late morning. We had made sure we had sun cream on board, and each had brought along a hat and jacket in case the weather turned inclement.
We slowly chugged our way up the vast river towards the sea, with everyone particularly quiet in expectation of a day filled with excitement of the big catch. The pilot manoeuvred the boat into a natural bay just short of the river-mouth and dropped the anchor. The boat silently swung into the run of the stream and settled.
The atmosphere on the boat remained unusually quiet as the occupants, recently awoken from a night’s sleep after a long night’s party, went about baiting up in silence.
Jon, who had flown up from the Cape to join the expedition, fumbled for his phone, dialled a number, and waited for an answer.
Hello? Clive? he asked, as if confirming he was indeed talking to the correct person. The sound of his voice carried across the stillness of the early morning and attracted everyone’s attention. We instinctively turned our heads to look at him.
Hello? Clive? Yes. Well, thank you, he continued. Look, you have some experience of these things. So, we’ve dropped the anchor and we are floating in the middle of the river; what do we do now?
But the true story of Mtentu is much deeper. The mystery of the giant kingfish that arrive in the Mtentu River out of nowhere in January of every year, then perform a mystical ritual and leave, has baffled scientists for time immemorial. Sir David Attenborough, the world’s most renowned natural historian, sets the scene perfectly in his The Blue Planet TV series.
A rare oceanic hunter moves here. The giant kingfish. As big as a man, and weight for weight, one of the most powerful fish in the sea. Normally kingfish are solitary but for just a few weeks of the year they gather [here] and prepare for an extraordinary journey. One that will take them far inland.
The fish head up the Mtentu River, or as Attenborough puts it,.the King of kingfish leads them upstream. Other seawater fish who head inland do so to breed, but there is no evidence that this is the reason for the journey of the kingfish.
Those who have followed the kingfish on their journey say that the hunter fish gradually appear to become calmer as they head inland. Then, after a few kilometres, as if prompted by something, they start swimming in circles, calmly and serenely. After a few weeks, the fish head back to the sea and return to their life as fierce hunters, leaving the mystery behind them. To this day, nobody knows why the kingfish do this.
Here’s to the spirit of the Africa!