Twenty years on, we’re here again. Me and Jess. Thanks to her, we have actually booked ahead and are staying in a comfortable chalet at Kosi Bay Lodge. She loves it, there’s DSTV and good phone signal. Also a restaurant that makes great food. Really tasty grub. Oh, and some nature outside. You go, Dad.
It’s too windy for boat trips on the lakes, so I walk the grounds and drive around the area – Ezemvelo’s Kosi Bay camp. Utshwayelo Kosi Mouth Lodge – while Jess just chills. Good birding, including one I seldom see, an Eastern Nicator. My pictures were just shadowy blobs, so here’s one from a good camera:
Note: All the camps are quite far from the beaches, and as the only one that is actually on the lakeshore, Ezemvelo’s Kosi Bay Camp is, for my money, by far the best option.
~~oo0oo~~
Last we were here we camped at the Ezemvelo Camp, and Jess was young enough to enjoy the swing I rigged up using an umbrella pole and tie-down straps.
Out on the lakes in 2003 – Greg Bennett loaned us his rubber dinghy and Yamaha.
Re-post from 1992 when Mike & Yvonne Lello kindly lent us their Isuzu Trooper 4X4 for a breakaway (OK, another breakaway) where I knew we’d be on soft sand and needing 4X4.
Aitch was impressed with out first stop: Luxury with Wilderness Safaris at Ndumo, grub and game drives laid on. Ice in our drinks. Boy! For an oke who usually sought compliments if the ground she had to spread her sleeping bag on was softish, I was really going big! In our luxury permanent tent on a raised wooden deck with kingsize four-poster bed, she had fun with the giraffe’s dong, saying what a decent length it was – implying something? I dunno. ‘It’s his tail,’ I said, spoil-sportingly. ‘Or her tail.’
– Ha!! said the lady – check her expression –
Magic walks among Sycamore Figs and drives among Fever Trees.
– my pic from a later visit –
So where are we going next? she asks. ‘You’ll see,’ I said airily. Hmm, she said, knowingly, raising one eyebrow but saying no more . . .
This Isuzu Trooper was magic – just the right vehicle for our Maputaland Meander. Leaving Ndumo, we drifted east to Kosi Bay and inspected the campsites (fully booked), then drove on to Kosi Bay Lodge, getting there after dark. ‘I’ll just run inside and arrange things,’ I said, optimistically.
So I walked into the lodge and came out and said, ‘We’ll just camp outside the gate, I brought a tent!’ Ha! You hadn’t booked! I knew it! Aitch announced triumphantly. She’d known all along. She actually loved it. She didn’t really mind the roughing it and the uncertainty, and she LOVED catching me out and teasing me about my disorganisation.
Afterwards, Aitch would tell people there had been a bit of muttering and a few mild imprecations erecting the unfamiliar tent, which I’d also borrowed from the Lellos. It had poles that seemed unrelated to other poles and it was dark. OK, she actually told of some cursing. Loud cursing. The air turned blue, she would exaggerate.
The next night we camped in a proper Kosi Bay campsite. They are very special sites, we love them.
We drove along the sandy track to Kosi mouth:
– fish traps in the estuary –
Then onward, southward. Where are we staying tonight?, she asked sweetly. ‘You’ll see,” I said airily. Hmm, she muttered knowingly, raising one eyebrow. Well, let me just say ONE thing: We are not staying at Mabibi. The newspapers have been full of stories about bad guys at Mabibi. ‘Izzat so?’ Yes. We can stay anywhere but Mabibi, she announced firmly, my wife.
Through bustling KwaNgwanase town . .
– Choice: Fresh chicken? or Stale, all the way from Kentucky USA? –
Now we were on my favourite road in all of South Africa: The sand roads through our vanishing coastal grasslands. Some kids shouted Lift! Lift! and hey! ubuntu! and anyway, it’s Lello’s car . . .
Well, Rocktail Bay Lodge was also full and we drove on as evening approached. Again. The fire watchtower man had knocked off and was walking home. We stopped to ask directions, then gave him a lift so he could show us the way. He settled down into the bucket seat, pushing Aitch onto the gear lever, taking us left then right then left – straight to his village. As he got out he pointed vaguely in the direction of Mabibi. ‘You can’t miss it,’ I think he implied.
You are going to Mabibi, aren’t you? I knew it! said the all-knowing one. ‘Well, there’s nowhere else,’ I mumbled. When we got there she surprised me by saying, Let’s just sleep under the stars, I’m too tired to pitch the tent. So we did. My brave Aitch! Here she is next morning, still snoring.
Soon after we arrived a night watchman came to see us. His torch beam dropped straight out of the end of his torch onto his toes, so I gave him new batteries. He was so chuffed! A torch that worked! Those bad guys better look sharp tonight!
The next day we drove the best part of this perfect road, past Lake Sibaya.
– the Indian Ocean behind those dunes and crystal Lake Sibaya at our feet –– those pants provided croc protection –
One more night, in relative luxury, if the little wooden cabins at Sibaya camp can be honoured with such a flattering description! I think they can, but I was over-ruled.
Then we hit the ugly tarmac highway home. A very special place, is Maputaland.
Kosi Bay is a special place and the campsites are superb. Good birding and great habitat. It’s an estuary system comprising of four lakes – Amanzimnyama (dark waters), Nhlange (reeds), Mpungwini (?) and Makhawulani (boundary? haste?) – the system is connected by meandering channels and fringed wetlands before it runs into the Indian Ocean via a shallow channel and estuary. A boat excursion from Lake Nhlange to Lake Makhawulani is a scenic meander on open water and through reed channels. At the mouth you can snorkel among rocks and along the mangrove banks. The rocks are exposed or covered depending on the amount of sand present at the time.
You can get to the mouth by 4X4, but if you want the full Kosi experience you really need a boat. Fortunately for us, on two of our three trips there in 2002 / 2003 good friend Greg Bennett lent us his rubber dinghy and Yamaha. The freedom this gave us, plus the knowledge of the area provided by a local guide made all the difference.
– Jessie in awe of Dad’s skill –– to get to the mouth takes a boat ride and a walk . . . – some walked, some caught a ride . . – Jess was in her gymnastics phase, so I rigged up an umbrella pole trapeze for her –– that delightful age when simple little things can be a big adventure! –
JonDinDin joined us. His RAV4 4WD was feeling intimidated by my mighty Kombi 2WD, so we kindly let it do a little work . .
– the lakes can be choppy, they can be glassy –– freedom! We could picnic on the lake shore, or the beach at the mouth, or at Bangha Nek – bath time for ole pint-size in the ablution block –
~~~oo0oo~~~
Our first trip was ca,1990, newly married and blissfully chidfree.
Shh – Don’t tell a soul, but when we took the kids in 2002 and 2003 I smuggled our heavy AEG microwave along and plugged it into the plugpoint in the campsite. Made warming up Tom’s bottles so much simpler!
My bad. We arrived at the Mocambique border with Tommy’s passport, birth certificate, Aitch’s death certificate, a copy of my application for Tom’s unabridged birth certificate plus the receipt for same. No go. They wanted his unabridged birth certificate itself, or a letter saying we’d applied for it. “But here’s the application itself, and the receipt,” I protested. In vain. They could not change their instructions from higher up – fair enough. As usual, the higher-ups are not ‘on the ground.’ They’re higher up.
So it’s Christmas day and we’re looking for a place to stay. It feels kinda biblical. Reminds me of a story I heard in my youth. Everywhere we went was full. If there had been an inn, it would have to have been full too. We drove on to Bhanga Nek, sandwiched between the big Kosi Bay lake and the beach. I’m in my element in a brand-new Avis rented Ford Ranger 4X4 with six forward gears and push-button 4X4 transfer case on my favourite roads – the Maputaland Coastal Reserve’s sand roads. The kids would probably rather be in a different element, truth be told.
We get to the Bhanga Nek Beach (see above) and the Beach Camp. Full. We drive to the Community Camp. Full, thank goodness: What an uproar! Seems everyone has spent their entire xmas bonus on grog and they’ve already imbibed half of it. All are noisy, some are already staggery at noon.
Thulani sees me and lurches over, ice clinking in his glass. “I have a place where you can stay,” he says. I ask the whereabouts and recognise it as a village we passed a couple of kms back. He hops in and guides me there. Doesn’t spill a drop of his drink on the bumpy – no, undulating – sandy road. He’s done this before.
It’s a lovely rustic chalet in Bhanga Nek Village. Not palatial, but not mangery neither. Real beds or bunks, not cribs. We eat and sleep. Not a single mozzie! It has been booked for the next night, so we’re back on those wonderful sand roads in the morning, vehicle in 4WD High Ratio second gear and easing along like a dream. Did I mention I’m in my element, happy as a melodious lark?
“Wow! I say, “Look at that!” pointing at stuff. Huh? What? “That view!” Oh, Yes Dad. Whatever. Those in the back seat pat me on my bald spot.
– Bhanga Nek beach and cottage –
The drive back was along my favourite roads in South Africa, through coastal grasslands dotted with umdoni trees. Paradise. Easing along effortlessly in 4WD high ratio second gear, barely touching the accelerator, barely touching the steering wheel, the tyres guided in the twin tracks in the sand. Again I said to the kids, “Isn’t this amazing!?”
Huh? they said, looking up and looking around. What? OK Dad.
Pearls before swine.
I told them Aitch and I would park on the road where Mdoni trees cast their shadows and have something to eat or drink till we heard a car coming, which was seldom. They were interested in that. Oh, Mom has been here? That makes things slightly better. They love any stories about their Mom.
– thanks, strayalongtheway.com for the beaut image –
Then we got to the very best part of that sandy road, where it cuts between the high dunes lining the Indian Ocean beaches and the shore of Lake Sibaya. Too beautiful driving under high shady trees with clear turquoise fresh water of the lake and white sandy beaches right next to the road.
We then cut through Mkhuze game reserve on the way home, enetering by the less-used NE gate. Three of the youngest little warthoglets we’ve ever seen ‘on the hoof’ ran behind they Ma. Tiny little piglets running with tails erect. Look! They’ve got signal, the kids say enviously, giggling.
– Kosi Bay to Mkhuze map with warthoglets –
A week or two later, back home, I overhear Tom gently mocking my organisational skills, and telling his mate where he knew I could overhear, “My Dad took us to Bangladesh for Christmas.“ I had to grin.
*sigh* At least they do love their home, that’s no maybe!
Aitch never held my culinary skills in high regard. Her favourite meal to mock was my chicken-onion-n-potato-in-a-pot special which she described as pale and tasteless. It wasn’t. It just looked bland. With a touch of salt and black pepper and enough red wine taken internally it was fine. Admittedly, I hadn’t yet discovered stock cubes.
She was right about my braaiing skills, though. Luckily Tom’s genes skipped back about seven generations to when burning dead animals on a naked flame was considered an advance in civilisation, not like I believe it to be: a pointless exercise now that Eskom has been invented. So he is now my braaiing stunt double.
To show that I’m an early adopter and no Luddite, I’ll have everyone know that when Aitch met me back in ’85 there was already an AEG microwave ensconced in my bachelor flat, faithfully re-heating coffee, poaching eggs and heating up the half hamburgers I would find on my chest after a good night out.
Which
same microwave gave up the ghost this week. That’s correct. My AEG
microwave, bought on 26 March 1984 fizzled on me on the 26th of March
2014. How’s that for hi-fidelity?
And just to show I really will avoid playing the primitive pyromaniac if I can help it, here’s a picture of me pulling my shirt to hide that same microwave behind me at Kosi Bay, Zululand ca 2002. I snuck it into the kombi knowing their campsites had Eskom power and knowing that heating up Tommy’s bottles was a fiddle without it. So I took gas and I took firewood and I took Lion matches, but I used AEG electric microwave technology powered-by-Eskom’s coal burning to feed TomTom.
– see the electric light burning by day to prove Eskom was a 24hr service back then –
Update: Now I’m pissed off it packed up after only 30 years:
NEWS STORY: 93-yr-old woman is pissed off her oven packed up after only 53 years!
In 1963 John F Kennedy was president of the US, the Beatles had released their first album, and Winifred Hughes of Crewe, then a mere 39yrs old, paid £79 for an ultra-modern Belling Classic electric oven. It turned out to be an amazing bargain. Winifred, now 92, has used it almost every day since, and she says, “it never let me down”. Sadly, just last week, the thermostat finally gave up, and Winifred says she is “heartbroken” her beloved Belling is no more.
~~oo0oo~~
Peter
Brauer wrote:
“…which she described as pale and tasteless. It wasn’t. It just looked bland. With enough red wine taken internally it was fine.”
Wasn’t she talking about you??
~~oo0oo~~
Terry Brauer wrote:
You truly are the nuttiest oke I know. For a greenie this is like true confessions. Nuking your food. Go Tommy! You inherited your mother’s skills . .
