I Can't Keep It In

There’s no other way but to spit it out. They say “a secret’s only a secret once you’ve told someone," so I’m going to tell you all about a big secret-one of South Africa's hidden gems on the West Coast. It’s not your usual let’s-gossip-about-the-neighbour secret; it’s all about a holiday destination. One everyone should explore. For now, please guess where it is. I will reveal all.

I must digress. We’re not keen on holidays in busy seaside towns, mostly opting for lesser-travelled destinations over the Christmas and New Year holidays. The reasons are abundantly clear. Crowds, for one. No parking, congested roads, crowded beaches, umpteen dinner parties, and so on. Just thinking about it all makes my head spin.

It was in winter, while I was cold, that we decided to head off in our Honey Badger for a slow meander up the Garden Route; we’d have Christmas at a good restaurant near Plettenberg Bay as a treat, then head up to the Eastern Cape to explore the Hogsback, and finally make a U-turn in the Transkei. Sounds divine. As you know, things didn’t pan out as we’d hoped, and our plans had to change at the very last minute.

Like Joseph and Mary, we had no chance of getting a room at the Inn, but my very determined sister-in-law doesn’t take no for an answer, so she set out to find us a campsite somewhere. They would join us. My receiver was hardly back in the cradle when she let me know she had secured a reservation for four nights. Best she could do.

Clues to our destination are:

1. It’s flat, not a hill in sight
2. It’s on the coast, dry, sandy and desolate. The fauna and flora are scrappy, but in spring it’s exceptional.
3. The wind blows like the clappers; the weather is extreme, unpredictable, and the water is freezing.
4. Fishing is big
5. A major river flows into the sea there
6. Perfect for a canoe, sailboat or windsurfer.
7. The people are friendly, kind, hospitable and generous of spirit.
8. Unique accent, a guttural rolling of the Rs. Could be a culture shock to some. Don't mince words; spit it out.
9. Bokkoms, crayfish, oysters and fish.
10. You’ll love it. Or hate it if you’re ignorant.

That’s right! We were on our way to Veldrif, camping at Laaiplek—the campsite—Stywelyne. Butch and I were up early, packed and ready to head off; this was our holiday, after all. Our check-in time was only 12h00, so we took a slow drive and turned off onto Bokkomlaan (Bokkom Ave). Someone with a lot of insight had come up with the idea of turning this dusty lane, meandering along the Berg River’s edge, into a “destination”. Small outhouses, fish-curing sheds, boat sheds and long barns have been turned into quaint pubs, eateries, a gallery, a trading store and a coffee shop. A thick mist rose off the water, barely camouflaging the distinctly pungent saline odour of salt-cured fish drying. We had arrived. To ward off the sudden cold, we needed a coffee and a pancake while keeping a keen eye on the regatta, small skiffs sailing up and down the estuaries.

Bushels of Bokkoms are strung up along the way, drying before being shipped off or sold in every shop in town. The distinct acrid smell lingers; here it’s endearing, and even I almost succumbed to a morsel. The West Coast's rich fishing traditions and unique delicacies like Bokkoms make it a truly special place. It is best enjoyed with chilled white wine, homemade whole-wheat bread, butter, apricot jam, moskonfyt (a thick, fragrant must syrup), hanepoot jam (grape jam), and black coffee. Still, you can also use it in soups, spaghetti, tapenades, ragout, or just as a bite on its own. Bokkoms taste much like anchovies. Any fish works, but traditionally sardines, hake, or Jan Bruintjie are used.

Mark at the Pelican Trading Post showed us how to peel and prepare the bokkom; I doubt I’ll be able to do it so easily. 

Mark and Petra run this tiny eatery from their “shed”. Here, one can savour anything from a delicious hamburger to sushi and tapas. She told me they love cooking, and judging by the delicious hamburger and deep-fried fish roe we ordered on our tapas crawl, I must concur they do a marvellous job, considering their very basic kitchen. Mark is an expert at outdoor cooking, and I imagine much gets braaied on coals.

Let’s not mince words here: I was speechless when I saw our tiny campsite crowded on all sides by a conglomeration of tents, caravans, gazebos, the ablution across the road, and a bustling laundry 5 metres in front of me. Fortune smiled on us; the parking bays were open. We could unpack with relative ease.

Children on bicycles, skateboards, and foot-powered scooters ran amok all around us. It was mayhem. It took a while to register the music; it came from all sides, loud Boere musiek, Golden Oldies, and pop blared from the ghetto blasters installed in the boots and doors of cars, which were flung open to let it all out!

After a moment of paralysis, I put my head down and started unpacking. Sue was quick off the mark too and, without a moment’s hesitation, started giving us orders and taking things in hand. Soon we had ourselves set up with our fences up, giving us a measure of privacy. It was while Percy was trying, in vain, to knock his tent pegs into the compacted earth that our neighbour came over with a hammer suitable for the task. Our first taste of West Coast hospitality and camaraderie.

At the New Year’s party, Sue was dubbed the “Kamp Kommandant” (Camp Commandant), a name everyone found hilarious. It has stuck. I say, “If the shoe fits, wear it!”

There was no shortage of entertainment. The annual Miss Stywelyne beauty pageant was in full swing. We were privy to the crowning of a variety of contestants across categories such as Grandmother of the Year, Potbelly of the Year (Male), Mr Legs, Miss Laaiplek jnr and snr, and Miss Stywelyne jnr and snr, with a bevy of runners-up. While doing my ablutions before bed, I had the pleasure of watching the excited contestants give their crowns a good spit and polish, giggling and discussing their obvious choices!

Butch and Percy scraped together some Dutch courage and asked us to dance, a rare treat indeed. We did two slow circuits before retiring gracefully, realising the consequences would be dire. We had three days to go, and sore knees would not be tolerated.

Unfortunately, the weather did not play along. Inclement weather makes one more adventurous, so we went pub-crawling and, on another occasion, did a slow tapas crawl. Our short drive took us up the coast; we marvelled at day-trippers picnicking on the beach, forsaking their creature comforts to brave the icy winds, catch a fish or two, braai, and visit with friends and family.

By day 2, we had settled in nicely, relaxed, read, slept, walked, talked and giggled. We’d walked along the quayside, admiring the festively painted fishing trawlers. We were loving it, for the very reasons we’d been shocked at first. We were welcomed with open arms. Invited to the Annual New Year’s Eve pizza bash, all we had to bring was a chair and our drinks.

Like old friends catching up, there was no need to stand on ceremony; introductions were made on first-name terms straight away. Regular campers made the pizzas, baking thin bases loaded with tasty flavours on open fires in a large paella pan, with a stainless-steel lid on top of which they piled red-hot coals. It took only 4 minutes to cook the pizzas to perfection. It had to be quick; at least 70 huge pizzas had to be prepared, cooked, sliced and served to anyone willing to wait. We sauntered home when the rain came. A welcome downpour to herald in the New Year and, hopefully, signal a break in the drought in 2018.

The West Coast brings out the best in everyone. Whether you’re from Steenberg, Sandton or Sannieshof, the West Coast knows no class, colour or creed. It is cosmopolitan and without pretence. Strangers talk to each other, laugh together, eat together and delight in freely sharing their talents. A simple luncheon can turn into a musical extravaganza, and a drink in a pub can become karaoke. Years slipped from our furrowed brows as we chatted and enjoyed West Coast hospitality.

At our caravan park, children could be free again; without restraints, they could visit wherever their feet or bikes took them. Even the little boy who dared to toss a handful of gravel at a passing bakkie was kindly chided; he, on the other hand, blatantly picked up another handful before his grandmother clipped his ear while reading him the riot act. The camp manager does an amazing job of keeping visitors safe and ensuring they abide by the rules so that fellow campers can enjoy themselves. Security was excellent too. Stywelyne is highly recommended for a chilled holiday if you're a relaxed camper on an adventure.

I fell in love with a painting too. A beautiful spring landscape, typical of Titties Bay, a reminder of a Hugo Naudé my Granny had years ago. Sadly, it had been sold by the time I decided to take another look. I think my obvious disappointment allowed me to photograph the artist Marina Clunie in her studio. Who knows, maybe next time something else will catch my eye. I do love her landscapes; she has a good eye for blue skies.

You often hear English, and German too. It is a holiday destination, and I can see why. Here, you can breathe, redefine yourself, and return to your roots without all the pretentious baggage we drag around with us; so much effort goes into keeping up with the Joneses, etc. The locals are fishermen, salt-of-the-earth people who tell it like it is. We were offered first option on our stand for next year. The last family camped there for 24 years until a nasty divorce last year. I’m hoping we can take that road trip up the East Coast in our Honey Badger, but if not, who knows, we might be back.

Warning: judge a book by its cover at your peril; you’ll be pleasantly surprised, then brought down a peg or two. That weather-beaten sailor might have sailed in the America’s Cup for all you know; people like Bertie Reed, Bruce Dalling and Mannetjies Viljoen are his mates. If the West Coast flows in your arteries, you’ll need an annual transfusion. I can see why.

Pancakes and coffee at the Nursery served as our farewell breakfast. I left with a punnet of plants, a fridge magnet, and Sue’s gift to me, a revolving calendar.

Now the secret is out. Do try to visit any of the numerous quaint fishing villages along the West Coast; it’s so worth it. There are art walks, food walks, and culture walks, after which one can pub crawl.

PS: We ritz'd it up in Port Owen on our last night. The yachts were a-glow, and I enjoyed the laughter and sing-song voices drifting over the water as people moored there enjoyed the balmy, calm evening. The staccato ping-ping (or is it cling-cling?) of taught lines on masts has a magical ring (ping) as water laps against the moored catamarans when it's quiet, there's a supermoon, and one can sip a Pinkers!