Youngs Around the World

Coffee Bay is a small hippie surfer town on the Wild Coast and another one of South Africa’s premier surf spots. About two hours off the tourist trail, it is a remote stretch of beach inhabited by Xhosa tribespeople. This would be the venue for Aaron’s thirtieth birthday celebration and I was determined to find a way to make it special.

The drive to Coffee Bay was long, hot, and most memorable for the last two-hour stretch, which was riddled with potholes so deep and treacherous as to give Kenyan roads a run for their money. For added fun, the winding, part gravel, part paved road is the main artery running through the rural tribal hills so both stray farm animals and Xhosa pedestrians present additional obstacles for the already-swerving vehicles. Aaron and I equated driving on that road to real life Pole Position – the old Atari driving video game. Our compact VW Polo bumped along like The Little Engine That Could and somehow reached our hostel without blowing a tire or flattening any Xhosas.

There are only two hostels in Coffee Bay. Coffee Shack is the party place, catering to the younger travelers who stereotypically divide their time equally between the bar and the beach while Bomvu Paradise is a more tame, Bohemian-style setup, which draws the late twenties, early thirties crowd who notoriously come for a few days and end up staying for months. Needless to say, we checked into Bomvu around five p.m. after a full day of driving, dropped our packs and went straight to the bar.

We ordered a couple of post-road trip beers just as the wild child surfer girl at the bar invited us to join a group for sundowners (Translation: watching the sunset from the top of a hill while drinking free wine from a box). Without any more pressing engagements, we signed on and followed the crowd up a very steep, grassy hill just outside the hostel door. It was extremely windy at the top but the ten of us sat around in a circle and passed around the box of wine. Some Xhosa women had followed us up the hill to peddle their bead crafts. Since it became clear upon our arrival at Coffee Bay that I would have no chance of securing any of the traditional birthday supplies, I picked my Birthday Bear a $3 beaded necklace in the colors of Africa. It wasn’t much but it was something. Four local boys had also followed us and sat shyly away from us, giggling until they managed to get up the nerve to ask if they could sing and dance for us. The group of us pooled our change, which the boys gleefully divided after they had exhausted their repertoire of ethnic ditties and dances.

There are no restaurants in Coffee Bay so both hostels have resident Xhosa chefs and we walked down the hill just in time for dinner. Afterwards, Aaron participated in a tribal drum workshop while I opted for a shower and a book.
The guest rooms at Bomvu were spread out around the property and ours was located in a dark, private corner just far enough away from the bar. There were shared toilets inside the bar and on the opposite side of the property and there was an outdoor shower near our room on the back side of the bar.

In a normal world, the sheer inconvenience of this setup would cause the left side of my snobby upper lip to curl up in a snarl of displeasure. I am a germophobe in a hostel world. I haven’t always been that way but, in my late twenties and early thirties, I have become increasingly concerned with treating my body like the shrine that God created. Sometime therein, I began obsessing about the cleanliness of my teeth, flossing religiously, performing periodic inspections with my prized dental pick and mirror, and proactively calling my dentist’s office to inform them that it had been almost six months since my last visit! I developed a heightened awareness of potential germ ingestion and developed such preventative habits as washing my hands more frequently, avoiding barehanded contact with public restrooms and door handles whenever possible and never touching my face with unclean hands. I probably don’t even need to add that my germophobic derriere had not touched the seat of a public toilet in ages because, like many women of my generation, I’ve perfected “the hover”.

I do recognize that some of the behaviors to which I’ve just confessed could be characterized as teetering on the border of Obsessive Compulsive. That said, I must also mention that there has been a noticeable decrease in the number of times that I’ve suffered from routine sicknesses, such as the common cold, since I bought my ticket for the Crazy Train. You might be wondering how a germophobe like myself could willingly expose her pristine buns to a world (often a Third World) of public pots. The answer is simple: I stubbornly refuse to let my petty ailments (and trust me when I say that I have a running list) prevent me from doing the things that I want to do. Nevertheless, life on the road has been challenging at times.

The hostel world is certainly an adventurous one, with accommodations in a wide range of cleanliness, convenience and comfort. Aaron estimated that we’ve stayed in about thirty different hostels thus far and we feel like connoisseurs by now. Most places offer private double rooms (sometimes with private bath, sometimes not), dorm-style rooms and, depending on the locale, campsites. We ALWAYS opt to pay a premium for a private room with a private bath if it’s available. We do this for two reasons: One, because we can. Two, because the shared baths are almost invariably shared with twenty-year-old, grungy male backpackers and we all know how those boys leave the bathroom – seats up or sprinkled and usually unflushed. Few things in this world make the bile rise faster in my throat. Also, shared baths usually adhere to the B.Y.O.S. policy (Translation: “Bring your own soap.”) Come on! Even an unabashed germophobe like me doesn’t walk around with a bar of soap (good idea but totally impractical) on her person. I must admit that, even after three months on the road, I still feel an Obsessive Compulsive twinge of panic when I exit the stall to find only water to wash with.

There is also the convenience factor that comes into play when I wake up a minimum of two times during the night to stumble, groggy and bed-faced, to the bathroom. I’ll never forget the night that we spent in Lusaka, Zambia at a place called Chachacha Backpackers. We had been traveling all day and just wanted to relax and go to bed early. We had just come from Zanzibar where we had splurged on one of our most luxurious rooms and I felt my spirits deflate as we were shown to our room at Chachacha – four thin walls with a lumpy bed, located in the courtyard of the property less than twenty yards from the hostel bar. The only toilets were in the main building of the hostel so, twice that night, I had to walk half-asleep in my pajamas through a bar full of rowdy, intoxicated patrons who kept their party going until three a.m. In these scenarios, I keep reminding myself that it could be worse. At least the toilets had seats!

Since we’ve been on the road, I’ve begun to notice gradually increasing levels of tolerance in myself regarding cleanliness. I noticed the first remarkable change at our hostel in Cape Town. We did have a private bath but it had no shower nozzle, just a grimy-looking tub with separate spouts for hot and cold water, making it impossible to combine the two into a single warm stream. There were two options: the communal showers downstairs or a bath! Surely you can guess my opinion on bathing in a hostel bathtub, especially one that gets cleaned (?) by African maids who sometimes have different ideas about what constitutes clean.

The weather in Cape Town was cold, rainy and windy on the first days after our arrival. In my former life of relative luxury, I always felt that the best way to warm up when you’re chilled to the bone is to sink into a hot bath. That particular night, we had just returned, cold and soaked, from our Cape Point adventure and I couldn’t stop shivering. There is no temperature control inside the rooms, aside of the window, so I hesitantly gave the tub an initial inspection. It appeared as though it had not been washed recently, at least not since it was last used and, in reality, probably longer. The germophobe in my head, who usually controls my decision-making process in these matters, was suddenly negotiating with a new contender: Granola Girl. The conversation in my head played out something like this:

Germophobe: There is no way in Hell that I am taking a bath in that filth! Who knows what kind of micro-organisms are crawling around in there, waiting to invade my shrine!

Granola Girl: Oh shut up! You’re OCD! You’re chilled to the bone and a steaming hot bath will feel so nice.

Germophobe: Maybe if I just turn on the hot water for a few minutes, it will rinse off the top-level germs. That would be better right?

Granola Girl: You’re not going to get sick from taking a Goddamn bath!

Germophobe: Fine. I’ll try it but if I get even the slightest touch of a cold or a rash, I’ll have no trouble attributing it directly to this flagrant disregard for germ evasion!

I drew the bath and soaked until I was sufficiently washed and thoroughly warm…and then I did the same thing for the next three nights. By the end of our stay, the tub was obviously filthy and I wondered if that was precisely how the next guest would find it.

Cape Town was a breakthrough and I lived to tell the tale. With that experience under my belt, I was already inspired, by the time we reached Coffee Bay, to take further steps toward becoming less high-maintenance and more granola. When we arrived at Bomvu and noted the toilet and shower situation, I made a command decision. This germophobe is going granola! Bring on the squat toilets! Bring on the camping! I’m just going to roll with it from now on. That is not to say that I’m going to stop shaving and start buying patchouli. It is simply another veil of snobbery lifted and tossed aside. I am not the girl I used to be.

As a right of passage, Aaron and I rebelled against the bathroom setup by brushing our teeth and attending to certain other unmentionable bath activities outside the door of our room in the privacy of our dark corner. The outdoor shower actually turned out to be lovely. The water stream was powerful and hot and the cool night air steamed off my skin as I washed while eavesdropping on bar conversations through the thin wall.

The next morning was December 3rd – Aaron’s 30th birthday. He mentioned taking a surf lesson that day but as we sat at breakfast, looking over the list of available activities – horse rides, cultural tours, abseiling and a couple of different guided hikes – Aaron decided on a hike to Hole in the Wall, a three-hour, nine-kilometer coastal hike to a large rock island wall with a hole in the center. We signed up and waited around for the hike to begin but were eventually informed that the only shuttle bus had a flat tire so they weren’t doing the Hole in the Wall hike that day. There was another, less appealing hike available but my forlorn Birthday Bear frowned because he wanted Hole in the Wall. Next, we took our laptop into the hostel office to try to plug into the internet but it turned out to be an antiquated dial-up connection (shockingly, the first one we’ve encountered on the road) so we couldn’t plug in. Strike two for birthday wishes! Things were looking grim and it wasn’t even nine a.m. but I told him to keep his chin up – things would improve – though I was beginning to have my own doubts.

We sat down for another cup of coffee and were soon joined by two groups of Europeans whom we’d met the previous night. They expressed interest in Hole in the Wall as well and, with enough interest buzzing around the table and visions of Rand (South African $$$) signs dancing around in the manager’s head, Hole in the Wall was suddenly back on the table with the understanding that we would have to find our own way back to Bomvu. Everyone was game and the prospect of doing the hike that he wanted with a fun group of people turned a little Birthday Bear’s frown upside down faster than you can say Lenasaurus Rexasaurus!

The hike took place on a succession of steep, grassy hills that bordered the majestic Wild Coast. The sharp, quad-wrenching ascents were divided by equally sharp knee-wrenching descents with occasional stretches of flat, rocky beach. Up and down, up and down we went for three grueling hours, feeling every year of our age and every beer we’d consumed in the past month. Even in my best shape (and I’m far from that after three months in Africa where you don’t walk anywhere), that hike would have been a challenge. The only one in our group who wasn’t heaving during the ascents was our barefoot Xhosa guide, Tando, who easily climbed each hill with the stealth of a mountain goat.

The scenery from the hilltops was breathtaking with enormous, tubular waves crashing down upon jagged, raw beaches. Cows and goats grazed on the grassy hills dotted with the round clay, thatch-roofed Xhosa houses, distinctive with their bright turquoise paint. The day was slightly overcast which kept us cool and a fierce wind whipped through the hills, nearly blowing me off the trail a few times. As we neared our destination, a group of Xhosa children walked alongside us with their bead and shell crafts for sale. I marveled at the ease with which their nimble young legs carried them effortlessly over the most laborious passes.

The Hole in the Wall was an anti-climactic conclusion to our very intense hike. We sat on a pebble beach, watching the whitewater rush through the hole with each incoming wave. On a nicer day, we might have gone swimming. Instead, Tando led us to the nearby Hole in the Wall Hotel where we could get snacks and cold drinks. With no prospects for finding a ride back to Bomvu, the group decided to have lunch in the bar before starting the painful walk back to town. I made one feeble attempt to negotiate a ride from the lodge owners and, when that didn’t materialize, we started up the long road on foot. Just as I was quietly stewing about how three more hours of those grueling ascents might literally be the death of me, a miracle happened! A white mini-bus, only about half-full, came motoring up the road. Desperately, I hailed the bus. I could sense the driver’s hesitation but, thankfully, he decided to stop. The driver and Tando had a brief conversation in Xhosa, wherein the driver asked Tando if we had money and Tando negotiated a fare of ten Rand apiece. We hopped in, filling every available seat. As we silently rode over the winding, gravel road, I know that each of my peers was quietly sharing my relief that God sent that mini-bus to save our tired bodies from the near-death experience that would surely have resulted from the walk back to Bomvu.

We ended the evening with dinner at Coffee Shack, which was reputed to have better food than Bomvu. The place was packed with forty to fifty young men and women, indulging in the merriment of pre-dinner cocktails. The dinner was excellent but the seating was scarce and we ended up sitting on a stone ledge, nursing our beers and feeling like we were at a high school kegger. We left shortly after dinner and retired to the quiet serenity of Bomvu. With our last Cuban alight, a cappuccino for me and a glass of port for Aaron, we ended the night in a quiet booth with a deck of Uno cards. We are easily amused.

Ten years ago, Coffee Bay may have had a chance of drawing us in. These days, it takes a little more than bars full of young twenties surf bums discussing their alcoholic experiences at the dinner table to keep these yuppies-turned-vagabonds engaged. No sooner had we recovered from the potholed, Pole Position drive than we were right back on it, leaving Coffee Bay and its resident hippies in their perpetual state of Bohemian bliss.

2 Comments »