The Bulungula Lodge

The late afternoon light had lingered. I kept turning around and announcing the progress of the sun. “We still have plenty of light left, sweetie, so don’t worry.” But suddenly dusk appeared, and the light that had seemed so glaring earlier was soft and shadowy. When Natty prodded me to check the map key, we discovered that 30 of the 48 kilometers we had to cover on the back roads were actually unpaved. So instead of making it to Morgan Bay, we pulled a u-turn in the middle of the N2 and headed down to Cintsa. Despite the guidebook and my husband telling me it was a wealthy resort town, I was shaking at the dark, the people lingering on the roads. Here in South Africa, I have yet to learn the balance between precaution and paranoia.

Still, by 7:00 we found ourselves in a cozy B&B and were on our way to the Country Bumpkin restaurant, where we helped ourselves to the surprisingly good buffet. The $8 bottle of wine and a long soak in the bath soothed me, and it wasn’t long before the morning dawned warm and clear, the Indian Ocean beckoning in the hazy distance.

By daylight, Cintsa was harmless, and we were easily on our way back northeastward on the N2. Our national highway narrowed down quickly to a winding two-lane road with vertiginous drops on either side. My strategy was to grip my seatbelt, squeeze my eyes shut, and pray. Luckily, Natty’s strategy was to stay calm, drive straight, and keep out of the way of the large trucks barreling down the other side. After a few hours, we pulled off at Quno to take a wander around the Nelson Mandela Museum there. The wind across the hills was impressive, whipping my hair around my face as the guide pointed out to us the house where Mandiba was born and the church where he was christened.

The N2 wove us through some large towns, and with people teeming through the streets, I guessed it was market day. Before long, the exit to Coffee Bay had appeared and the adventurous part of the drive began. Crowded by the highway entrances were discount liquor stores, a SuperSpar, and various clothing and household goods stores. The commercial areas didn’t stretch farther than a kilometer or two and soon, the tin shacks and square cement houses that lined the highway gave way to more traditional rondavels dotting the parched hills. The smooth pavement became potholed, and we laughed, thinking that this was the worst of it.

When we came upon our dirt road, after the Nokolej Store, we did a double-take. But indeed, this was our road, and for twenty kilometers we painstakingly made our way through the countryside. Sounds bucolic? Hah. Think rocks jutting up everywhere, ditches in the middle of the road from erosion, and more competent South African drivers barreling at you on the one lane road. For awhile, we followed a minibus and an old Isuzu truck, hoping the would be able to help us navigate the treacherous roads. Mostly, though, they seemed to keep the road clear of livestock. Sheep, goats, and cows have free reign, and we gave the larger horned ones plenty of leeway. We passed a HIV/AIDS center, a large blue secondary school with sheep grazing on the front lawn, a Home Affairs office, and several dilapidated clinics that looked like they didn’t have running water, much less sterile rooms to treat patients. Mostly though, we just passed steep hills and scrawny animals, chewing on whatever they could in the arid landscape.

After awhile, the land grew greener and the people grew more fascinated with us, two white Americans in a white VW Polo bouncing along a dirt road in rural South Africa. Kids came scurrying up to the edge of the road, waving and smiling. Women paused in their labor – carrying firewood on their heads or tending to their homes and children – to stare. Older kids leaned back and tried to strike a balance between intimidating and disinterested. We waved or stared back, taking in the new, the foreign - the African – landscape. Between gazing out at the hills, waving at the kids, and waiting for the bulls to saunter across the road, we prayed that our tires wouldn’t burst.

They didn’t. Nearly two and a half hours after we left the N2, we reached the end of the road. A large stand of trees rose up ahead, and consulting our map, it appeared we had arrived at our parking lot. After a few tries, we found someone who spoke English and who ran the lot for the lodge. Happy to be out, we waved goodbye to the Polo (our bags were delivered later on) and walked down the hill to the lodge. Walked might be an exaggeration, as every few feet I stopped to take pictures, wanting so badly to be able to capture the late afternoon light on the village. The river, the pink huts of the lodge, and the Indian Ocean all lay at our feet.

More about Bulungula and many more pictures soon....for now, we have a 10 hour drive to Kruger tomorrow...