High as the Transkei

It was a 9 hour trip to Mthatha, where most of our bus was to meet thier pickups. Everyone spilled out an climbed into a brand new air conditioned minibus, driven by some handsome young surfy type.
"Do i just go with them?" I asked the driver.
"Ummmm" he looked around "There he is!" he cried. I sat in the bus for a few minutes becuase I wanted him to be joking.

"Corney! Corney!" I heard the old man calling as he came up behind the bus. Most Xhosa people cant pronouce my name, theres far to much happening in the first syllabol. "Court, with a 't' " I explain, but they look at my like that's a little extravagent. And to be fair, I cant even pronouce the word Xhosa. You say the "Xho" by clicking your tounge to the top of your mouth, but finishing the sound by saying "-ho".

Rufus was driving a beat up land rover which today was not only going to hold me and my bag, but some large trees as well. I climbed amongst them and sat in the frount.

We set off and drove for some time before we stopped in a town which i couldn't pronuce either. It was amazing, exactly like i imagined a real African town to be. People everywhere. Different colours and patterns everywhere, and that was only the clothing. Rufus went to the store while a group of young kids accumulated in frount of the car, jumping around, waving, and laughing at me.

Rufus and i chatted, he corrected my pronuciation of Australia, saying he'd never heard of Aus-tral-ia, its Austria, but we bith seemed to be talking about the big island in the Pacific, so i didn't bother.

Further down the road, Rufus picked up a woman and her baby. "You are to long for the back" Rufus yelled to me through the tree, and i was, but i was going to fit better than the two of them. We had been driving for 2 hours now, so i figured it couldn't be much further.

About an hour later we drove up the driveway. I streached my legs, I was glad, it had started to get dark. Since the woman had joined us they had spoken only Xhosa, and hours of a windy bumpy road had left me disorientated, and i had a headache.

Rufus looked over at me about to get out my bag. "Oh, this isn't the lodge" he said. "Its just down the road a little more". I tried to console myself by saying that the run down shed we were standing outside of didn't look like the most welcoming bed, but at that point in time i would have slept anywhere.

Then another woman tried to get into the car. "We need her too" said Rufus. He moved the box of bread from next to me and balanced it on the gear stick, and the other woman climbed in. "How much further?" I asked Rufus.
"About one kilometre" he said.

The road got worse. My uncles took me four wheel driving on boxing day two years ago and they would have been impressed at the old man cafefully making his way down what seemed like a dried up creek bed, cascades included. There was an electrical storm brewing in the distance. After each bump, the bread would spill everywhere. The box came so close to hitting the baby everytime, i lay bent over trying to hold it in place from the back seat. Then the real panic started.

Where the hell am i, i thought. I am driving through the middle of nowhere with these crazy people talking so loudly. I am possibly 12 hours from civalisation, since that was the last time i saw it. I though, if anyone in Australia could simply get a two second flash of what i was doing now, pitch black sky with falshes of lighting, in a land rover with three Africans, a baby, a box of bread spilt into everyones lap and a large tree taking up all the space, what on earth would they think!!!

My headache was pounding. I was really losing my nerve. The driving just went on forever. We were getting bogged in the rain. Down hills, up hills, over hills. On and on.

Dave, the hostel owner who thankfully spoke English, could see my frustration. "I always ask people if they perfer to arrive by day or by night and everyone says by night becuase when they wake up they can see where they are" says Dave trying to console me. Where? In the middle of nowhere? i thought.

After a strong coffee and a beer I calmed down and chatted to the few other guests at Bunalunga. In the morning I would have to admit that Dave was right.

Bunalunga is a backpacker hostel 40% owned by the local Xhosa village, whos grass roofed houses are finely sprinkled on the surrounding hills. The lodge is fashioned in the same manner using mud bricks from the area, and is situated where the mouth of the Bunalunga river meets a streach of the Indian Ocean known as the Wild Coast. The greater area, from a few hours outside of Port Elizabeth to Port St Johns, was formally a homeland of the Xhosa poeple, known as the Transkei, set aside by the South African government for adminstration by the local people. During aparthied the area was entered via a border post. Today, as it always was, the area is rural and poor, and most poeple who live here surive on local agirculture.



The lodge is solar powered, and "rocket showered" an amazinf devise invented by a local guy in Cape Town, which promises "to put the fun back in showering". Its like a long flumem your pour a little parrifin in the bottom and light it. Then you turn on the taps. In a few minutes you have a boiling hot shower, complete with an exciting soundtrack as the fire whistles up the tube, which would lead you to believe you really where about to take off.

That afternoon one of the local boys took me on a walk through the village. The first things i noticed was the women, they are amazingly beautiful. They all stand perfectly straight, having balanced amazing weights on thier heads since children. I saw one woman carrying a sack of 5 pumkins on her head without even lifting her arms to balance them. They were coloured clay of there faces to protect them from the sun.

We went first to the house of a local healer, known as a Sangoma. She was a small woman who smiled softly at me. White beads around her head and ankles indicate her role. Her grandkids ran around, the eldest gave me a bowl of pumkin and mazie to eat.

As i understand it, in Xhosa communities people are either Christen or they believe in thier ancestors. The healer is a traadition from the ancestor religion. During the day, the anscestors live in the kwell, which is the enclouse use to keep the cows in at night. But during the night, they cane come into the home and communicate with the living througth dreams. Someone will have a dream about who should be a healer. In the village there was about 5 traditional healers. They use local herbs to heal.

Throughout the village there were many women preparing the ground to make sandbricks. The whole village is envolved making a few sandbricks each for a new house for a family. The bricks are dug out from the ground and left to dry. They build the house, adn then cover it again with mud to smooth it out.



The kids in the village love digital cameras. They all ask for there photo to be taken so they can see it in the back. They pull weird poses. When i took a photo of all the kids playing soccer they all rushed at me and forght to see themselves on the back of the camera. For 5 mintues i was completly surrounded by squelling yellings kids until the boys showing me aroudn the village came and beat them off with a stick. Then they all fell on the ground in frout of me rolling around laughing.

We visted the local Sheebee, ie the pub. Its simply a local hut set aside for the purpose of drinking. When i visted it was mostly older women. They asked if i had a husband. No, I said. "Ahhh!" They smiled, "A boyfriend!". No, I said. Oh, how old are you? they asked. 22. That was very strange for them so most of them didn't ask anymore questions. Except for the woman sitting next to me. She thought i was good. She was really happy i came to the village. Actually if i wanted, she said she would be my Mum, we'd better have a photo...



Dave had obviously been fairly ambitious to start start Bunalunga. Its not the sort of hostel you see so often across South Africa. The hostel, being enviromentally friendly, employing and contributing to the lcoal community, and finally helping the locals to begin small businesses like taking fishing trips, horse ridding and the little tour i had, seemed to have achieved all its goals. Two years since it had opened, it seemed remarkably successful. It seemed complete. I wondered what an ambitious person does once they are finished? I asked Dave what came next. He joked for a while about 5 storey grass huts and a small airfield, but eventally managed to answer.

I hadn't really considered how poor the village was. The people are happy. They smile and wave at your from the nearby hill laughing. The children are gourgeous, the little children will come and hold your hand. The young girls will look at your face and tell you with more sincerity than youve heard from anyone that your are beautiful. But the village has no medical clinic. With no proper road in and out they are cut off from the medicine and education the rest of South Africa recieves.

Dave has as many ideas for the village as he must have had for the lodge. Having worked with the community for years even before the lodge, he has a better understanding of what the community needs than any aid orgamisation that entered a community and tried to develop it in the next 5 mins every had. You couldn't fault any of his iniatives.

Night time at Bunalunga were wonderful. Fantastic home cooked meals, everyone sitting around on cushions chatting amongst the candlelight. Villagers hanging around from the day. One night a few children came down and Dave's wife Rojan helped them with there homework. The children were sitting out of the light. All you could see were thier smiles in the dark.