The Wild Coast

Lying snugly in the Durban marina, we were able to sample more of this country’s generosity toward cruising sailors, and were able to meet up with more of our fellow cruisers, most of them diverted to this southern continental tip by the piracy up north.  As warm as the people are, though, and to paraphrase Mark Twain, the week of summer in Durban was the coldest we’ve been in two years.  It rained nearly every day, and the temperature hovered in the low 70s, taking its cue from the cool sea water, which drifts up from Antarctica as a counter-current to the mighty southward-flowing Agulhas current.

Days like those make us glad for our little catamaran with its near-360 degree windows, our covered “patio”, and our spacious interior.  We kept warm and dry, listening to East Coast Radio’s talk shows highlighting the political infighting between the African National Congress (ANC) and its Youth League, and the equally-consequential dispute over pending legislation defining the rights of the press and whistleblowers in the face of escalating accusations of corruption.  It’s a young democracy here, characterized by, effectively, a single political party, so the real debates and elections occur within the ANC party.  Local media coverage reflects this; the newspapers and radio focus heavily on the internal comings and goings within the ANC political party elite. 

Corruption is a common topic of conversation among the media and with locals; people are tired of it, and as we saw in Fiji and Indonesia, campaign posters in various government offices speak to an official policy of seeking to stamp it out.  To the campaign’s credit, we haven’t seen any of the petty forms of corruption so common in these other countries – forms often driven, as Jennifer points out, by a persistent discrepancy in the government wage base and the cost of living.  Unemployment runs 25% or so in South Africa, but it seems if you have a job, it pays well enough. Of course, we heard from one taxi driver that getting a private sector job can require some under-the-table payments, but in our dealings with officialdom, we’ve not experienced any demands for a little extra here or there.

No, the corruption here tends to be on grander, more personal scale – the abuse of newly-acquired authority to one’s own and one’s extended family’s benefit, at the expense of the fragile tax base.  This takes a more pervasive toll on a country’s psyche, especially if there is a single ruling party whose senior members seem consistently to benefit at the country’s expense.  Add to that the unique history of South Africa’s government (the ANC was an anti-apartheid armed rebel movement not so long ago, and is led nearly exclusively by Zulu and Xhosa officials), politicians’ mutterings about nationalization of key industries, and the effective political exclusion of the nation’s large and economically-prosperous populations of South Asians and Afrikaners, and you have a potent mix.

The weekly paper of record for South Africa

It also creates the occasional sad irony.  One afternoon, I was buying some groceries at the small, South Asian-run shop across from the marina, and at the last minute, added a copy of the weekly Mail and Guardian, South Africa’s “paper of record.”  Its cover featured another article on the newest corruption saga, and as I paid the South Asian man behind the counter, he asked if I was here with the COP-17 crowd – the regular global conference on global warming, which is being hosted here in Durban.  When I said I was on a sailboat, he launched into one of those racist rants that seem often to emerge from those of limited economic circumstances facing the drip-drip news of powerful people seemingly feeding off the public trough.  “We’re wasting millions on that damn conference! Those damn blacks are raping this country, stealing us blind!” he said.  Struck speechless at this outburst, I muttered something about how the government seemed to be cracking down on corruption, looking to extract myself from what should have been a simple commercial transaction.  

Leaving a bit embarrassed at the fellow’s sweeping and ignorant comments, but nonetheless sympathetic to his anger at a growing culture of corruption, I glanced at the paper and saw that the individual being pilloried in the press was a senior government official of South Asian descent.  The same paper also uncovered massive fraud and corruption in the white apartheid regime, including outright theft of some of the country’s gold reserves, so it seems as if my friend Patty’s small wooden placard, which we keep on the boat, is right: “Abuse of Power Comes As No Surprise.”  Race has nothing to do with it, my racist convenience store friend. 

That afternoon, on my way back to the marina, the possibility of a weather window seemed to be emerging, and the many cruising boats were abuzz with issues of timing and distance.  “When do you think you’ll leave?”  “How far do you think you’re going to go?”  News of politics and talk about the rainy weather gave way quickly to these seemingly more-pressing concerns, concerns driven by the particular geography of this southeastern coast of Africa. 

This part of the South Africa coast, between Durban and East London, is known locally as the Transkei – once the apartheid-era name of the Xhosan homeland.  It’s also now referred to as the Wild Coast, a reminder of its geographic remoteness and weather extremes.  From Durban to East London, a distance of 265 miles, there are no harbors and no places of refuge, even as the coastal waters are regular victim to sudden gales from the south, which, in addition to the challenges posed by any strong storm, create monstrous waves in the south-flowing Agulhas current.  As sailors and fishermen living in eastern Florida can attest, winds that run counter to a strong current – in that case, the Gulf Stream – create magnificent swells and waves that can swamp any vessel.

The next day, with a favorable weather window forecast, and in the company of several other boats, we let loose our dock lines, and headed out of the harbor, southbound once again.  It took us a while to “find” the Agulhas current; typically, it runs alongside the edge of the continental shelf, where the deep water shoals up, and water depths climb from the many thousands of feet to just a few hundred.  That day, a Friday, the current sat a good bit further out to sea, and we ended up turning south about 9 miles seaward of the shelf.  The water temperature climbed sharply, from about 70 degrees to about 77 degrees, and our boat speed over ground accelerated by about two knots. 

The Agulhas current, like all the major ocean currents, is, in effect, wind-driven.  Huge volumes of water, pushed westward across the top layers of the Indian Ocean by the prevailing southeast trade winds, collide with the African continent and, owing both to the geography of the coast and the submerged northward circulatory pattern of cold, dense Antarctic water, these tropical Indian Ocean waters turn south.  By the time they get just south of Durban, it’s a raging sea river – at times, we were being pushed along by 4 to 5 knots of current – making for extremely fast southbound sailing.  

Sunrise off the Wild Coast, South Africa

The next day, now well south of East London, and beginning our westward turn around the southern tip of Africa, the promised weather window began to close earlier than expected.  The winds, forecast to swing to the northeast, and thus parallel the Agulhas, were lingering, blowing from the southeast and building up the seas.   The following morning broke cold, wet, and windy, as the weather began to turn against us.  The only blue sky came at dawn, a wedge-shaped sliver on the eastern horizon, a red sun trying to burn its way into another day.  We pressed on, pushed by the current and the gathering winds, and our 24-hour average, noon-to-noon, was nearly 10 knots over the ground, a remarkable feat made possible only by the mighty Agulhas current.

By mid-afternoon, our small convoy of sailing vessels was talking among ourselves on the VHF radio about our options, and eventually, separately, we each decided to turn into Port Elizabeth, about 130 miles south of East London.  By late evening, the seas had built to 4 meters or so, and the steep sloppy seas, dimpled by a light rain and illuminated by not-so-distant lightning, made for a bumpy, cold and miserable night.

Cape Gannets, in formation

We might have made it to Mossel Bay or Knysna – another 200 miles or so west – but at best, it would have been a slog, testing the boat and its crew.  We’ve learned that the sea exacts its toll; it gives us a current, but challenges us with the wind direction.  The wise sailor takes what he can; lives to sail another day; and remains flexible as to destination.  At dawn, Port Elizabeth lay just 15 miles due west of us, the skies were beginning to clear, and small flocks of 6-8 white-winged, blue-beaked Cape gannets were skimming the waves around us. The northern landscape of this large bay is lined with huge sand dunes, topped by green vegetation.  It was a cool 67 degrees outside, and the water temperature had plummeted to 66 degrees, down significantly from the 77 degrees in the Agulhas, and though you wouldn’t know it by our thermals and foul weather gear, it was coming on summer here as well. 

We had transited the Wild Coast, and south of us, if we could just see over the clearing horizon, lay Antarctica, just 2000 miles away.  Port Elizabeth is the center of a commercial complex known as the Nelson Mandela Bay Metro Center, home to one of the World Cup soccer stadiums, and the major city in the Eastern Cape region, native home of the Xhosa culture.  We thought we’d spend a few days here, at least, before continuing our now-westbound journey around South Africa.  Instead, one of our fellow cruisers, having entered the small enclosed harbor, let us know of a sizeable surge inside, making docking untenable.  Too rough at sea last night, and too rough in the harbor this morning.  

Jackass penguins, off Mandela Bay, South Africa

 We make another adjustment, as happily, the weather seems to have begun to conform to the earlier predictions. So it was back out to the Indian Ocean and to what was left of the Ahulhas current, under a brighter sky and easing winds, and head east to Knysna.  On the way out of Mandela Bay, we spot a humpback whale too shy to be photographed, and small groups of jackass penguins, bobbing and diving for food. 

Now westbound, having turned the corner of the African continent, we’ll tune into East Coast Radio, check up on the ANC infighting and hope against hope for more current in our favor. Unfortunately for westbound sailors, the Agulhas meanders southward from here, dissipating in the cooler southern waters where the South Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet.  We’ll be lucky to avoid one of its north-flowing countercurrents as we head to Knysna.  Flexibility, and yes, we’re sailing another day.  We take it as it comes.

Arrived in Knysna

Ile de Grace sailed into Knysna harbor this morning and tied up to the local Yacht Club dock around 10 am local time.  What a beautiful entry, but a bit tricky and nerve wracking to pass through.  We actually surfed our way in through the cut, hugged the port side rocky shore to avoid shoals and crept across the shallow bay to the lovely town of Knysna.  Jon's notes on our passage to follow soon.
All is well on board.

Thanksgiving

South Africa has proven to be a very welcoming and friendly country to us sailing cruisers whohave slowly invaded its coast over the last few weeks.  Many more of us are visiting its shoresas we have re-routed around Africa in order to avoid the Somali pirates in the north Indian Ocean.  The SouthAfricans we encounter are warm with their welcome and generous with their willingness to share their country with us.

In Richards Bay,we were warmly invited to partake in the local charity canal race, theAfrikaners sharing with us their joy for food and fun.  Ann and her husband shared withus a book on the history of Zululand and gave us a nice sampling of a variety of South African music.  Fiona, our main contact at the Zululand Yacht Club, cheerfully assisted us and pointed usin the right directions even as she was increasingly swamped with incoming boats looking for limited spaces.  The local sailors, especially Wayne and Michelle of New Horizons, and Brett and Gideon of Panache, all shared with us their advice and expertise on navigating their treacherous southeastern coast, must-see harbors and good places for getting boat work done.

The Zulus we met in the game reserves generously shared with us their culture and patiently repeated words for us so that we could try to incorporate them into our vocabulary.  Our best word is,“ngiyabonga,” (pronounced 'sayabonga') which means thank you. While in Ithala Park, we met a couple from Durban who were celebrating their wedding anniversary.  Steve and Catherine generously invited us to visit their chalet, to share some food and wine, and to learn more about their country.  They loved being in the African bush and greatly expanded our knowledge of South African birds. Of course they said, “call us if you come through Durban.”

Transiting the southeastern coast of Africa is tricky business.  The strong Agulas current runs to the southwest, which is good in that it gives you a nice 2-4 knot boost when trying to get down to Cape Town.  On the other hand, the frequent weather systems that arise from Antarctica cause high winds coming from the southwest,which results in not only unfavorable wind direction, but also waves countering the current.  These waves can become quite high and dangerous. They are often called rogue waves and are a sailor’s worst fear.  So we wait for favorable weather windows and run as fast as we can, sailing just within the current to benefit from the free ride, but still close enough to shore to be able to quickly escape the worst waves in the event of a southwestly.

Durban is the largest port in the southern hemisphere.

When we left Richards Bay, Durban was our safety harbor, but we were hoping for a longer run down the coast.  It was not to be, since a southwesterly sprung up, so into Durban we came.  We have been here since November 16, thought we would be leaving yesterday or today, but with winds blowing 35 knots from the southwest, we are still waiting.  Upon arrival, Bob, from the Point Yacht Club here at the marina, welcomed us with an offer of two weeks' free membership and bought us a beer. The adjoining Royal Natal Yacht Club also offered two weeks free membership, and gave usa free bottle of bubbly.  The Durban Marina provides us a safe place for our boat, but the yacht clubs offer showers, Internet and food.  So two weeks complimentary, which is also what we received at Zululand Yacht Club in Richards Bay, is generous to say the least.  In addition, within a block of the marina there are a number of chandleries (boat supply stores) and the Durban guru of South Africacruising, Tony Herrick, whose shop offers charts, used equipment for swap or sale, and lots and lots of good advice.

Naturally we also called up our new friends Steve and Catherine.  They, along with their daughter Shaleen (please forgive me if I’ve misspelled your name), joined us for dinner on ile de Grace lastSaturday evening and brought many gifts to welcome us to their country.  A lovely copy of Robert’s Birds of South Africa is greatly appreciated.  Jon and I are amateur bird watchers. That means we appreciate birds, try to notice them and enjoy their songs and antics, but what we do not know about them us a lot.  A local bird guide is invaluable.  South African wine also made the evening’s dinner more enjoyable.

Marula is a South African liqueur made from the fruit of the Marula tree, a favorite food of elephants as well as humans.  Itis really tasty and, if you like Bailey’s, you will like Marula.  Another South African couple told us itwas often called sugar and cream, because they add it to coffee.  Jock of the Bushveld is a classic South African novel about the adventures of a hunting dog.  Our friend Keith’swife, Catherine, had told us earlier that this was the South African version ofour Lassie.  Jock was a real dog, however, and his and his owner's adventures took place at the turn of the previous century, and there is a statue of Jock in the Kruger National Park.  So it was with great delight that we accepted this wonderful book.  I would have loved reading it to our children when they were younger.  Now that they are 27 and 24 years old, I will just have to pass it along as they are unlikely to cuddle up for a nightly reading of a “chapter book.”

Marionhill Cathedral, originally a Trappist monastery

The following day, Catherine and Shaleen picked us up at 7:30 in the morning so we could attend a Mass in the Zulu language at the cathedral in the suburb of Marionhill.  What a treat.  Throughout our journey, Jon and I have sought out church services known for their indigenous music, and though we do not understand Zulu, we enjoyed witnessing the music and motions in this beautiful church that overflowed with worshippers.  It was clear, that if any part of the service could be sung rather than spoken, then sung it was.  Also, the Women’s League, comprised mainly of grandmothers in our estimation, had some clout, as they entered the church in the procession, singing and swaying, behind the priest and altar boys.

Hare Krishna Temple of Understanding

We then went to the largest Hare Krishna temple in the southern hemisphere, called the Temple of Understanding.  It is built in the shape of a lotus flower and is ornately decorated with paintings of stories and lessons from Krishna’s life. As in other forms of Hinduism and Buddhism, food is left for the gods.  Apparently it is a big attraction to be around to witness a hand coming out and taking the food that is left at the altar, but we were too early for that event.  The feet of the gods are also bathed daily in milk and then that milk is available for worshipers to sip after theirvisit to the Temple.  Not any stranger than eating the body and blood of Christ in communion.  A local interpreter was more than happy to enlighten us on the life of Krishna, emphasizing that tolerance, respect and common ground were more important than focusing on religious differences.

This was an interesting visit for us.  SouthAfrica has the largest number of ethnic Indians other than India, and Durban’s population is the largest in South Africa.  This is a result of the large numbers of Indians brought here as indentured servants (slaves for all intents and purposes) to work in the sugar cane fields of centuries past. Mahatma Gandhi came to Durban in 1893 to work as a lawyer and witnessed the intolerable discrimination suffered by his fellow countrymen and his experiences here shaped his philosophy of non-violent resistance, and helped change the world.

Jon enjoying a Bunny Chow and Coke Zero

Today, many South Africans of Indian descent are prosperous and their cultural legacy is abundant.  In addition to Bollywoodmovies and music, curry dishes are favorites everywhere we go.  In Durban, there is a particular favorite called the Bunny Chow; a hollowed out loaf of bread with eithermutton, beef, chicken or vegetable curry in the center.  Traditionally, it is served on newspaper or butcher paper and eaten with one’s fingers….Jon and I loved it, but opted for a fork.

Catherine and Steve on their veranda

Steve and Catherine hosted us at their lovely home for lunch.  They have a view overlooking the Umgeni River gorge and enjoy many bird visitors as the seasons come and go.  They showered us with yet another gift, a bag of biltong,which is South Africa's version of beef jerky. YUM!  It is cut thinner than American jerky and is not as stiff, and boy is it really, really good.  While ideally designed for surviving in the bush, it may also prove good for surviving at sea.  That is, if we don’t eat it all up first.

This Cape vulture was poisoned.

We finished the afternoon with a visit to the Umgeni Bird Sanctuary, where our avian education was further refined.  The sanctuary included birds from South America and East Asia as well as those indigenous to Africa, and we appreciated seeing these wonderful creatures up close.  Shaleen got particularly close as she fed the lorikeets with nectar.  She had one perched comfortably on her head and several on her arms, as they were quite used to humans, or at least willing to put up with us in exchange for nectar.  Some birds had been rescued from injury or poisoning and could no longer live in the wild, so they became part of the sanctuary’s education program, teaching the ultimate predators, us humans, their value, role and beauty in nature.  The diversity of birds, in size, shape, colors and special ornamentation, just as the diversity in sea life, leaves me almost breathless.  The following sign is posted at the ticket gate, which we did not notice as we entered, but we are glad we saw as we were leaving. Good advice.

So ten days in Durban have flown by fast.  There is much we have not seen or done, such as attend a local soccer game at the new stadium built for the 2010 World Cup (no home game during this time), go kitesurfing or board surfing at one of the famous Durban beaches (we do not have the experience to try that), play golf at one of the many courses here, or any number of other things.  We have ventured into town to solve an Internet problem, attended the Immigration office twice (to clear in and to check out) and made obligatory visits to Customs and Port Control, so we are improving our abilities to navigate this country’s very bureaucratic systems. We have managed to stay safe (muggings and crime are high in this city with its high unemployment) and yet get a feel, another bit of a sampler plate if you will, of South Africa’s third-largest city.

Durban Marina

There is much to be thankful for as Jon and I celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday.  There was an effort to organize a dinner among the few Americans here, but it fizzled out in the heavy rains, which have been going on for the better part of the last week.  Jon and I had our dinner alone of leftover yellow fin tuna (who can complain?), yams and potatoes.  To be truthful, I was feeling pretty homesick, until we shared dessert with a South African and Belgian couple. Gerry and Diane, on a catamaran named Whiskers, recently completed their second circumnavigation and are back in their homeport of Durban a few boats down from us on B Dock.  We first met them in Fatu Hiva in the Marquesas (it is indeed a small world).  I made an apple pie with dried cranberries and Diane made a pumpkin pie for the occasion, being familiar with our holiday.  Willem and Haike from A Small Nest, whom we first met in Bali and again in Mauritius, joined us as well and shared their bottle of port. 

Hopefully, our weather window will return tomorrow and we will continue our journey south.  In the meantime, we are glad we had to divert into Durban and we are very thankful for the kindness and generosity we have experienced thus far in South Africa.

Vacuum - In Memoriam

I lost a friend and mentor as we sailed across the Indian Ocean.  Living, he was larger-than-life, and even now,  two months after his passing, his presence fills my thoughts, especially on Thanksgiving Eve.  This one's for Don -- God bless you my friend.

Vacuum

When the wind dies,

it doesn’t just stop,

like you did, far away,

on the day we departed

unknowing into the easterlies,

underneath a tropical sun, 

sails reefed, ready for the unexpected

but never imagining, unable to

prepare ourselves for, the absence

of wind, these trades now

silent after a deepening low

swept across this ocean,

gathered us in its gradient, and

stilled the wind in fits and starts:

a gust, a lull, a puff, then a reluctant quiet,

the ocean unruffling, the air speechless.

                                     

No, it takes time for the wind to die,

time for the vacuum you left behind

to make its way here, to this ocean,

our boat adrift, alone, becalmed.

Oh – for the wind to return,

to have never left us!

Another Day at the Races

After Geert left ile de Grace early Friday morning to continue his African adventure, Jon and I set about tending to boat chores that we had gladly ignored in favor of looking at wild animals in game parks.  We made a list that would occupy Saturday and Sunday and allow us to begin thinking about the next leg south.  Loud noises and music coming from the Zululand Yacht Club’s picnic area, however, slowly drew us away from our tasks and toward another group of wild animals, the homo sapiens kind, specifically Afrikaners.

Coal miners raft with fire hose.

Turns out, the ZYC was hosting its second annual charity event on behalf of a local school for children with Autism Spectrum Disorders.  The Canal Raft Challenge encourages local businesses and anyone else who wants to form a team to build “sea worthy” rafts for a race one mile up the canal from the yacht club, underneath a one lane bridge and back again.  Raft building began Friday afternoon and Jon and I decided to check it out.  There were some 25 serious rafts being built by local coal miners, steel workers, women accountants and others.  Boerewors (Afrikaner sausages that are very meaty and somewhat spicy) were on the grill and many beers were being drunk.  Karaoke music was in the background.

Keeping the beer afloat.

What a fun distraction for us transient boat people! We have been warmly welcomed by South Africans as we slowly invade their shores in search of respite from the Indian Ocean, because so many of us have diverted our routes away from Somali pirates in favor of the Cape of Good Hope.  Richards Bay, and the Zululand Yacht Club in particular, have been especially welcoming.  So much so, that six of us allowed ourselves to be gently dragooned into joining the Canal Raft Challenge.  Jon and I entered as Team Gracelanders and named our raft, Graceland.  With our inflatable dinghy dissembled and packed away for this leg of our journey, Jon and I scurried back to our boat trying to figure out how we could make a raft out of our kayak.

Jon's engineering skills pay off.

Actually, we like trying to solve problems and come up with solutions with only the items we have on hand…it’s good practice for ocean voyagers.  Using two boat poles as outriggers, fishing poles as masts, and lots of spectra line, we managed to make a rig that would fly our American yacht ensign and the five semaphore flags that spell G-R-A-C-E.  In about an hour Jon and I had her ready to launch the next morning.

Team Gracelanders

Egg Ammo

The race had some peculiar rules.  The second to last raft to complete the race wins first prize.  Acts of piracy were encouraged and received extra points.  Several inflatable beach balls were pushed out on the water, and points were awarded to the team that returned with said balls in hand. Hostage taking was encouraged, and points awarded for stealing other boats’ emblems.  Pelting opponents with rotten tomatoes, eggs, and water balloons was also encouraged.  Drinking beer during – and before -- the race was considered essential.  We had no rotten veggies on board, I would not part with my eggs, and beer was not an option for Jon and I, so we thought we’d stay on the fringes of hostilities.  Good thinking, as on Saturday morning the pelting began well before the rafts were even launched.  The combative spirit overwhelmed me, however, and I found myself gathering unexploded ordinance from the water around us and sneaking it onto Graceland (mostly tomatoes and water balloons) for subsequent re-launching.  All for a good cause, right?

Pirates from Panache & Canadian Contenders

I inquired the night before during registration about rumors that crocodiles and sharks were in these waters, and was told, “absolutely they are here and they like to eat humans.”  Hmmm.  Our strategy was to keep out of the water and the kayak upright at all costs.   After seeing generator-powered water cannons, potato guns, buckets of tomatoes next to mounted sling shots, and hundreds of eggs loaded up on rafts, I decided not to think about crocs or sharks….wild humans were going to be our biggest threat.

Chaos and mayhem

At 10 AM Saturday, the race was underway, but it was not a clean, clear start.  Once the gun went off, it probably took about 30 minutes for 30 or so rafts to get in the water and paddle the 50 meters into the canal.  There were too many eggs and tomatoes to be thrown first.  Plus, no hurry because the second to last finisher won.  It was quite a spectacle, and we cruisers managed to make a good show for ourselves, as we slowly moved toward the bridge and our turn around point.  We managed to retrieve tomatoes and water balloons fairly easily and hurl them back.  The chaos of the race was enhanced by paddle surfers who swarmed in and out of the rafts, wrecking havoc wherever they could.

The War Zone

Young War Zone recruits

Ahhh, the kind Afrikaners who had gently dragooned us into this race, and had even warned us about the pelting with eggs, tomatoes and water balloons, had said not a word about the soon-to-be experienced “War Zone,” which was located at the one-lane bridge where we were to turn around.  Spectators could purchase (all for a good cause) bags of water balloons and tomatoes and stand along the one lane bridge and pelt us sorry rafters as we went under the bridge to turn around at a buoy and then pelt us again as we headed back for the last half of the “race.”  

Defense from the gauntlet.

It was a gauntlet that had to be run – run twice, in fact! -- and run it we did, all for a good cause. Some were better prepared than we were and launched counter attacks into the War Zone.  Jon and I just tried to get through as quickly as possible, but were both pelted pretty good by some very accurate and frighteningly focused children.

Getting pelted.

As Jon and I ran the gauntlet a second time and were heading back to finish, the wind picked up.  Coupled with a strong counter current as the tide shifted, we had to paddle hard just to keep from being blown backward.  A strategic decision was made to paddle to our boat and not finish the race.  We were not alone.  The sea rescue boat and the marine police had to tow a number of rafts back.  In all, the two-mile race took about 4 hours.  The rafts that did make it back were worse for the wear, but a winner was declared, and fortunately no one drowned.  Our fellow cruisers on Peli-Rose completed the race, winning the “Biggest Sucker” consolation prize, rewarding them for the folly of joining the race!

Peri-Rose, an Aussie-Kiwi Combination

Dutch oven cooking.

Three winners were declared in the Karaoke contest:  an Afrikaner accented version of Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Sidewalk,” a take on Kenny Rogers’ “Coward of the County,” and a young lady doing a pop song.   Dutch oven cooking contests enabled us to sample some traditional Afrikaner food.  We did not stick around for the wet T-shirt contest or beauty contest, but they were having a hard time rounding up contestants anyway.  The beer-drinking contest was also done for a good cause.

All in all, it was another fun day at the races.  Sunday became a day of much needed rest and recovery and the boat tasks got put off until Monday.  But it was all for a good cause.

G-R-A-C-E in signal flags, and the flag flying!

Durban Bound

Keith Stevenson, Jon, Jennifer, and Geert van der Kolk

After a few days of cleaning the boat top to bottom, inside and out, and sideways, and a few repairs to our sail cover and raw water intake pump, we're taking advantage of a brief weather window to move the boat 80 miles south to Durban.

We've loved it here at the Zululand Yacht Club, and will be posting a more complete summary of our fun and games here when we get to Durban.

Our thanks to Keith and Geert for helping us bring the boat here from Mauritius, and our best wishes as they continue their travels, adventures, and lives. We look forward to seeing them again when we return to the States next summer.

We should arrive in Durban sometime Wednesday.

Babies

Male nyala, in the bush

South Africa prides itself on its public game parks – available at moderate cost to all, and offering all of the amenities provided by the many private game reserves that dot the savannah landscapes of northern South Africa.  They are “people’s parks,” and we were able to secure a reservation with just a day’s notice because the school holidays have not yet begun.  We prevailed upon Geert to stay a few days and watch over ile de Grace, and rented a car for a week.

On our drive from the Zululand Yacht Club to the game reserve, we passed dozens of youngsters, each in a blue uniform – jumpers for the girls, shirt and loosely-worn ties for the boys – walking home along the highway, skirting the grazing cows and passing cars, returning to their homes after the morning exams.  It’s almost summer in South Africa, and school is nearly out – we were just beating the local’s holiday rush to the parks.

Our destination, the Hluhluewe-iMfolozoi Game Reserve, about 200 km northwest of our boat’s marina, offers evening and morning drives through the park, led by a guide, so we signed up for that evening’s drive, and then drove to our rondeval to offload our gear and get some afternoon rest. 

That evening, as Jupiter rose in the east, alongside a waxing moon, and as Mercury and Venus sit unusually high in the western sky, we climb into the modified 4x4 truck, arrange ourselves on the blanket we would use to warm our legs after the sun set, and hold on as we roll down the dirt track into the scrub and grass of a 96,000 hectare game reserve.

Mother white rhino to left; baby to right

After a series of sightings of feeding giraffes, grazing impala, rooting warthogs, motionless nyala, and other mammals of the reserve, and as dusk folded into evening, we hear a slight and distinct whinnying sound from the bush to our left:  a massive white female rhino, trailed by an impossibly tiny rhino baby, the baby nuzzling its head against the mother’s rear legs and underbelly.  It was hungry.  After a few steps, the mother pauses, and as we watch from about 20 meters away, the baby drops its head, with its tiny, as-yet-developed horn, and leans in to suckle at the mother’s teat.  Paying no attention to the humans in the truck, the rhino mother attends to the important business of feeding its young, and the young rhino focuses only on the milk.  In a world where zoos trumpet the arrival of any birth to a large mammal, we feel blessed to witness this tiny miracle in the wild, this passing of life from rhino mother to rhino baby.

Mother and baby zebra

Babies.  Over the next few days, during a series of early morning and evening guided and self-guided drives through the park, we see a lot of babies in the bush, and witness first hand the various mating rituals and procreation strategies used by the animals of the open African ranges.   We see baby zebras, hovering close to their mothers, knowing in their DNA that in a few months, they will be on their own, foraging for food while always alert for danger, often grazing near giraffes whose height provides them and any adjacent feeders an early alert to the presence of predators. 

We see baby impala and nyala, loitering near the packs of females, each herd containing a single male.  We see baby giraffes, nibbling on the shorter acacia trees while their mothers ate nearby, each giraffe in a group staying within visual distance of the others. 

Dung beetles, rolling along

We watch the struggling flight of a male Red-Collared Widow bird, its tail grown impossibly long during the mating season, grown long to attract females, the male willing to sacrifice its ability to fly and evade predatory hawks in order to attract potential mates.

As we drive, we swerve around male dung beetles, each the size of a quarter, each pushing a ball of rhino dung the size of a lemon, the female dung beetle scampering to stay atop the rolling ball in order to inject her eggs into the ball, someday to hatch and the larva to survive by eating its way out of the ball.

We find ourselves alongside a small herd of elephants, led by the aging females, seemingly awash in babies, each hovering close to their mothers and aunties, some growing tusks, others as yet too young for tusks.   They had just emerged from their daily watering and bathing, and are eating their way northward, soon to cross the road we are parked on.

Mother and baby elephant, feeding along the river

 We stop to examine a chunk of foam wrapped around a branch, the branch hanging above a large puddle of water, and learn that the foam tree frog rubs its hind legs together to produce a foam, which adheres to and hardens around the branch, allowing the female to inject her eggs into the foam, where after a few days, the tadpoles fall down into the puddle.  Thus, the frog avoids the vulnerability of eggs lying unprotected in waters frequented by birds and ground mammals, each scavenging for food in their own right.

We pass a pair of ostriches, the mother leading, the father trailing behind the three chicks hoping to escape predators like the leopard and the eagle.  

Male ostrich, with baby, bottom right

Babies everywhere in the bush – life exploding in the relative protection of a game reserve, but even so, vulnerable to predators – the hyenas whose jaws are capable of grinding bone into food, and whose scat is chalk-white as a result; the leopards and lions and other carnivores, and the elephants who refuse to defer to other animals at the watering holes that are sprinkled across the park. 

Hyena -- a solo scavenger and carnivore

And as we witnessed these affirmations of the genetically-driven urge to procreate, I was reminded that the earth’s population passed the 7 billion person mark a few weeks ago, an event that came as no surprise to the two of us, who continue to be amazed at the number of children we saw in islands as far flung as the Galapagos, Tahiti, and Sumbawa, Indonesia.  Here in Africa, the numbers are staggering:  between now and the end of the century, this continent will add over 2.5 billion people to the human race, according to the UN, an increase almost four times the total combined population growth of the rest of the world. Europe will lose people, and even Southeast Asia, with China, will add only 432 million people by century’s end.  Put another way, Africa will be responsible for 80% of the world’s population growth over the next 90 years.

There are 11 countries where the average woman will bear at least 6 children, and 9 of those countries are in Africa.  South Africa’s birth rate has been falling of late – more women in the workforce, and a rising standard of living – but for most of Africa, high birth rates create immense pressure on the ability of sub-Saharan African countries to sustain even bare minimum living standards for their ever-increasing populations.

It’s a big continent, Africa, just about the same size as the combined landmasses of the United States, China, Australia, and India, so the issue isn’t whether there’s enough room for the population.  Instead, it’s a question of how the arid land, faltering economies, and volatile governments will support the basic needs – housing, food, health, clean water, jobs – of their growing populations. 

Female giraffe at watering hole

In a game reserve, such as Mhluhluwe-Imfolozoi, the eco-system balances itself out over the decades – nature can absorb imbalances, eventually equilibrating. In contrast, humankind and our genetically- and economically-driven procreative urges seem able to generate unsustainable intra- and inter-generational pressures on water, land, air, and economic resources, to override or ignore nature’s normal, but brutal, corrective forces, at least during the lifetimes of today’s children and their children.. 

So we return home, reflecting on babies, human and otherwise, after a day spent watching a nursing baby rhino, a herd of impala protecting their young, and a mother giraffe and her offspring walking into the bush, impossibly graceful, their necks swaying against a bright blue African sky. 

Ringed by fences and protected by conservation laws, the animals in game parks might thrive amid the human population pressures of the unfolding century, but what is to be said of the families and children of Africa, living in its increasingly crowded countries, cities, townships, and villages?

The Yachting Lifestyle

The following is a guest post from our long-time friend and frequent sailing companion, Geert van der Kolk:  

While Jon and Jennifer are chasing big game in the upcountry, I am keeping an eye on the boat. It’s not a very strenuous job. Ile de Grace is safely moored at the Zululand Yacht Club, and pretty much takes care of herself. I’m supposed to keep the batteries charged, but the windmill and the solar panels can do this without any assistance from me. Only on a windless and overcast day do I have to run the engine for an hour, a task that involves pushing two buttons.

A chance to do some real boatwork presents itself every time the wind is from the south. Richards Bay is a big industrial port. With a southerly, black coal dust and a fine brown muck that may be pulverized bauxite ore, is blown in our direction, and comes to rest on the decks and the cabin roof. Then it’s time to get out the hose.

Otherwise, the living is easy in Zululand. I wake up at six to the sound of birds whose calls I do not know – a sure sign that one is in a new place. First I go for a run. You have to do this early, to beat the heat. When we arrived a week ago, it was raining hard, and the South African coast appeared grim and forbidding under the low clouds. In fact, just north of the Yacht Club is a beautiful sandy beach flanked by high dunes. It’s a perfect place to run when the tide is out.

Ile de Grace is stuffed to the gills with food, and if you’re lazy you can eat at the Pelican Grill behind the marina office. For the truly thirsty sailors there is also a bar that opens at eleven in the morning. Entertainment is provided by the club’s resident monkeys. They are grey, the size of small dogs, and have a very long tail. They are cute and energetic, but absolutely not allowed on the boat. They pee all over the place, and tear everything apart looking for food.

The Yacht Club has an excellent internet connection, and on board Ile de Grace there are no fewer than four laptops. I am borrowing Jon’s iBook to do the final editing of my new novel, If all goes well, the book will come out in Amsterdam in March. Getting the book ready in Internet Cafes and through long overseas phone calls would have been much more difficult. Life is good in Zululand.

Jon and Jennifer are returning from their safari on Thursday. I will leave the boat soon after, to start an overland trek to East Africa. For the blog, I would like to record a few highlights of my time on Ile de Grace.

I had sailed on the boat before, almost two years ago, on a coastwise jaunt from North Carolina to Florida. We had brisk westerly winds, nasty beam seas, and almost everybody on board was seasick. Crossing from Mauritius, the wind was all over the place, at times veering or backing a full 360 degrees in 24 hours. At other times the wind died altogether, only to pick up again to a lively 25-30 knots when we approached the South African coast.

This made for interesting sailing. As the winds changed, we had to trim or let out sail, gybe or come about, reef, and soon after shake out the reef again, set the gennaker in light air, and quickly take it in again as the wind picked up. One day we didn’t do this quite quickly enough, and shredded the sail.

I learned a lot about sailing a big catamaran. The boat does not point very high, so you can’t go upwind without using the engine. The engine is also used while keeping the boat into the wind to reef the main, or when coming about.

The thing I mostly had to get used to was the concept of “reefing by the book.” On a monohull, like my 30-foot Arpege, the boat’s angle of heel and the pressure on the rudder will tell you when you’re overpowered. A catamaran does not give you this feedback. The boat stays level, and will, with increasing wind, simply speed up until the mast goes over the side.

In ile de Grace’s cabin, Jon and Jennifer keep a white binder labeled “Basic Boat Info.” I read the contents cover to cover. The very first page is a table with apparent wind speeds at different points of sail, and the corresponding number of reefs in main and jib. Since ile de Grace does not have a backstay, the boat can carry more sail going upwind than downwind. On a monohull, the opposite is true.

As soon as Keith and I were familiar with the basic systems of the boat, and could stand watch alone, we went to a very clever schedule that was new to me. From 6 AM to midnight, we all stood three hour watches. After midnight, when getting up or staying up is most disruptive to sleep and rest, watch was only two hours. As there were nine watches for four people, there was a gentle shift of on-time every 24 hours. We were at sea only two weeks, but everybody got plenty of rest. I believe that with this watch schedule, one could go on for months.

And finally, a true highlight was the company I kept. One great thing about offshore sailing is that you get time to talk to each other. This is especially true when it gets dark, and you can’t clean or repair things anymore. Give me a starry night at sea anytime, and I will happily listen to your stories.

Geert van der Kolk