The Garden Route, South Africa
I sensibly sit back and relax as Tom makes a hash of riding an ostrich. Anyone for ostrich kebabs?
November 2002
Mossel Bay marks the start of the over-hyped ‘Garden Route’ that extends approximately 370km to Port Elizabeth. It is the tourist drag of South Africa, crowded with bed and breakfasts, backpackers, caravan parks, antique shops, farm shops, craft markets and wilderness nature reserves. The trouble is that after looking out over a pristine, white sand bay framed by azure blue sea, all the other bays merge into one. Either that or I have become a dreaded ‘jaded traveller’. The scenery not only becomes similar but a carbon copy list of activities are available at every hostel, including: Great White shark cage diving (the jury is still out on whether this is a cruel practice), whale watching cruises, quadbiking, mountain biking, the world’s highest bungy from a bridge, microlighting and skydiving.
We camped at Barnacles Backpackers, possibly the cleanest hostel in the whole of Africa. In their back garden we endured the worst night we have ever experienced in a tent. That was before we bailed out. A storm ripped up our tent pegs from the soft ground, causing a pool of water to soak our sleeping mats. We persevered at first in the worsening conditions – Tom braved torrential rain to hammer the pegs in. Within five minutes, the gale had pulled up our pegs again and we had to pack the tent away in record time to stop it from disappearing over the garden wall. By midnight, we were sleeping on the hostel floor by the pool table and I barely slept a wink.
In the morning, we made a solemn agreement not to camp in atrocious weather. Irritable from lack of sleep, we drove to Plettenberg Bay and sat in our car at Lookout Point, battered by the rain. All we needed to complete the sad scenario was a hot flask of tea. Desperate to fill in time while the storm raged on, we ventured into Knysna wearing four layers of clothing to protect us from the weather. Knysna was voted South Africa’s favourite town of the year which was lost on me as I concluded it was just another over-marketed resort on the ‘Garden Route’ filled with souvenir and craft shops all selling the same merchandise. I never want to see another ceramic guinea fowl in my lifetime.
Bored, we risked a trip to Monkeyland in Plettenberg. From all the tourist leaflets, we imagined that it was a place with walking trails through a forest inhabited with monkeys, where you could spend as little or as much time as you desired. We arrived at the entrance to find a locked gate. We pressed the buzzer and someone from reception came and collected us. I began to get the feeling that Monkeyland maybe somewhat restrictive.
The sanctuary offers an hour’s guided walk. At no point are visitors allowed to wander off on their own. It is commendable that the sanctuary protects the monkeys from human intervention, but the rules should be stated on the tourist literature.
All the monkeys that inhabit the forest have sad backgrounds. Many have been rehabilitated from animal testing laboratories, donated by pet owners that could no longer control them, shipped from zoos that were over-populated, rescued from working as pickpockets or saved from being served up as local delicacy. Our guide, although an expert on the sixteen species of monkey in the sanctuary, was intense and a little unhinged. Quietly spoken, he reminded me of Norman Bates. On the one hand, I could understand why he was so passionate about people feeding monkeys. I agreed with him that under no circumstances should people feed baboons. For example, if tourists feed the baboons in the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, they effectively sign that animal’s death warrant. The rangers have to destroy the baboon otherwise they rely on food from humans, becoming aggressive and a menace.
The guided walk is a great way to learn fascinating facts about monkeys. I had no idea that an ape is technically not a monkey, as an ape does not have a tail (e.g. gibbons and chimpanzees). Our guide pointed out a lemur, the anomaly in the monkey world. The lemur is a special case – half monkey crossed with a cat and a dog, it is the only monkey to mark its territory and the female is dominant. As we trudged through the wet forest, we were never more than a few metres away from squirrel monkeys, gibbons swinging through the trees, black and white lemurs, cappuccino monkeys, vervet monkeys and spectacled langurs. We also crossed the longest suspension bridge in Southern Africa through untouched Knysna forest.
Our guide was keen to reinforce the back-to-nature theme – the monkeys are encouraged to live as if they were back in their natural habitat. While I think that rescuing monkeys and rehabilitating them is a deserving cause, our guide was convinced that it was too little too late.
“We’re finished,” he sighed, shaking his head in resignation after Tom asked him a question about the baboon population explosion. Not quite the answer we had expected. “I watch Discovery, I know what’s going on. Every day a species becomes extinct in the world. I don’t know how it will be in fifty years but maybe we won’t exist. It’s crazy.” He was rather fond of telling us how crazy the world was. He obviously loved his job but the fact that he exhibited extremist tendencies and believed we were all doomed made me feel uneasy.
Oudtshoorn, a town that boomed when ostrich feathers were in great demand, still survives today by farming ostriches for leather, meat and eggs. Establishing itself as the tourist capital of the Little Karoo, we chose to stay at Oasis Shanti, a peaceful haven that isn’t on the Baz Bus route. We secured a cheap double for R110 and received a reduction for one of the ostrich show farms.
The Cango Ostrich Farm runs tours that cover everything you ever wanted to know about ostriches but were afraid to ask. The area has the ideal climate for farming ostriches – hot and dry, so it’s not surprising that the roads are lined for miles with paddocks inhabited by strutting ostriches. A word of warning – you might want to think twice before wearing your diamond tiara or glitzy, gold hoop earrings – shiny objects fascinate ostriches.
In the wild, a female will produce a batch of four to fifteen eggs over a period of a month. On a farm, the eggs are hatched artificially, in an incubator, so they are removed as soon as they are laid. This induces the female to keep producing eggs – up to forty over several months. The chicks hatch after being in the incubator for six weeks but only sixty percent of the hatchlings survive. I presumed that the major money spinner for a farm was meat, but two thirds of their income comes from ostrich leather; under those soft feathers lies an enormous plump carcass. The leather is in demand due to its durability (cross-weave fibre) and colour preservation. When dyed, the colour of the leather never fades. The dimpled surface of the leather is also unusual, caused by plucking the feathers out.
Ostriches are remarkable birds; prehistoric-like feet are capable of a formidable kick that can kill a human. Unable to fly, they can run up to 50kmph. A single egg is equivalent to 24 chicken eggs, making one hell of a breakfast.
Tom about to ride an ostrich
Tom, being a brave soul, fed an ostrich by putting a seed into his mouth. In a romantic gesture, the ostrich pecked it out of his lips. Riding an ostrich was to prove a much trickier proposition. Firstly, a bird has to be procured for riding. A shepherd’s crook is used to hook the bird’s neck and then the handler can pop a blindfold over its head. The bird is led to a v-shaped wooden pen so that it can be mounted. Tom managed one last smile for the camera before the blindfold was removed. The ostrich went berserk, charging through a group of ostriches milling around before ejecting Tom from its back. After toppling over the poor bird’s head, Tom landed with a thud on his backside.
To round off the day, the owner of Oasis Shanti served us barbecued ostrich kebab accompanied by roasted stuffed butternut. The meat has the added bonus of being low in cholesterol. Delicious!
