WITSAND & INFANTA
Witsand and Infanta are on opposite sides of the Breede River estuary. Each has a unique appeal – and both are worth a visit.
“The adjoining market is like a large, indoor bazaar where you can buy anything from knitting patterns, jewellery and glassware to clothing and swimming costumes, toys and old-fashioned sweets like Charms sour balls.”
Where is everyone? The thought nags at me as I sit on a bench overlooking Witsand’s main beach. Behind me, the parking lot is deserted except for the Renault Duster that photographer Shelley Christians and I came here in. At the far end of the parking lot is The Anchorage Beach Restaurant, a block-like structure made less imposing by its cheerful blue-and-white paint job. It’s early September and a trail of smoke rises from the chimney, merging with the fog blowing in off the ocean.
I scan the horizon in vain for southern right whales. If only the weather would lift! Hermanus might offer more famous land-based whale watching, but this is South Africa’s true whale nursery. In 2013, the Mammal Research Institute of South Africa counted 82 calves with their mothers in this bay alone – a record number.
Fog still hovers over the water and I’m reminded of an expression I learnt while I was travelling in notoriously dark and damp Ireland: “They say the clouds are lower in Ireland. I say Ireland is closer to heaven.”
Perhaps a similar theory applies to Witsand.
Shelley is five months pregnant and needs a nail file immediately, or else. Having survived my older sister’s pregnancies, I know it’s best not to ask questions and execute the request as soon as possible. That’s how I find myself browsing the aisles of The Sands for fruit pastilles, while Shelley hunts for toiletries.
A woman with a clipboard and a British accent comes over to ask if I need any help. She’s Judy Haigh-Smith, co-owner of the general dealer, one of two in town. There’s no Spar or Checkers in Witsand.
“It’s a town of swallows, darling,” she says. “During December it fills up with tourists and the like, but now we’re extremely quiet. I even have to send some of my staff home because there simply isn’t enough to do.”
I ask Judy what it’s like living in a predominantly Afrikaans-speaking town and she laughs. “When I moved here, my son said to me: ‘Mum, the people of Witsand are going to have to learn to speak English to communicate with you.’ It’s true: I’ve tried to speak Afrikaans, but it’s a hopeless situation.”
Keeping up with the Barrys
Witsand might be Afrikaans-speaking now, but its origins are decidedly English. Driving along the town’s main road, you’ll come across a sign tacked to a residential fence that reads,
“Port Beaufort Boundary Line”.
That’s because before Witsand referred to the entire town, it actually referred to the white dunes on a farm called Westfield. Officially, Port Beaufort and Witsand are two separate villages, although they function together as a single town. Many people know about Witsand, but few have heard of Port Beaufort.
Port Beaufort was founded in 1817 by
Lord Charles Somerset and was intended as a harbour, which makes sense considering its sheltered position at the river mouth. It gained traction with the arrival of a trader called Joseph Barry, who arrived in 1819 in the midst of a drought, aboard a cutter ship called the Duke of Gloucester, with the idea to transport produce from the Overberg to Cape Town by sea, instead of laboriously by ox wagon.
The firm Barry and Nephews (officially established in 1834) expanded and did brisk business throughout the region, until it was liquidated in 1866. As the company waned, so did the port, and the village eventually became detached and remote once more, much as it is today.
Still, the Barrys’ influence on the town is obvious: You’ll find Barry streets, businesses, stores and buildings. The restored Barry Memorial Church is also a landmark. I wander among the sombre slabs in the adjacent graveyard, but the place doesn’t feel morbid
at all. Rather, I’m reminded that history isn’t as far away as we think it is, and that the span of a life can witness much change in a small town.
Next to the old Barry church is the old Barry woolshed on, you guessed it, Joseph Barry Drive. The property is owned by Wihan and Jana Wegewarth, who use the space to run a coffee shop and a market, and to host craft workshops. Shelley and I walk into the shed and we’re greeted by a host of toddlers, running about the lawn at top speed. One of them greets us rather formally as we enter the shop – “Goeiemôre tannies” – before running after his playmates. “How sweet,” I say to Shelley, although I’m not sure how I feel about being called a tannie at the age of 24.
Inside, we meet Jana who is bending over a box of pansy shells. She collects the shells – actually skeletons of sea urchins – and uses them for her crafts, along with other treasures and driftwood that wash up on the beach.
“Each shell is born like that,” she tells us as we pore over the pansies’ detailed patterns. “God’s creation is beautiful and humbling to witness. These shells have changed my life and the way I see the world.”
The adjoining market is like a large, indoor bazaar where you can buy anything from knitting patterns, jewellery, glassware, clothing and swimming costumes to toys and old-fashioned sweets like Charms sour balls. “Every Christmas and Easter we have a special market,” says Jana. “Craftsmen from all over the country bring goods to sell, from Port Elizabeth to Johannesburg. This year we even have a few vendors from Namibia.”
Before we leave, Jana makes us promise to come back for roosterkoek at her coffee shop, Koffie ’n Kletz. Hardly a difficult promise to make.
Over the pont and far away
Witsand is on an elbow of land where the Breede River flows into the ocean. Across the water, she has a sister – Infanta. Where Witsand’s estuarine shelter creates flat water, ideal for kitesurfing, Infanta’s exposed beach attracts surfers – the sneaker-wearing, long-haired kind. It’s isolated and pristine, with an unpredictable break driven by the southern swell.
I remember listening to a Cape Town surf report on 5FM a few weeks back – the highlight of my morning commute. “Ditch the graft and board your craft, Infanta is cooking,” the host said, encouraging people to “abandon the smoke and embrace the stoke”.
It’s in this spirit that Shelley and I drive up the Breede to the pont at Malgas, to see what’s happening on the other side of the river. Shelley
expertly steers the Duster onto the vessel and we both have to admit, there’s something intrinsically cool about sitting in your car on a boat.
To get to Infanta from Witsand you have three options: swim (not recommended, due to the large bull sharks that have been known to patrol the river mouth), hire a boat or drive 33 km to the Malgas pont, cross the river and drive back along the river for the same distance to Infanta.
It’s the last hand-drawn pont in South Africa, and we spend some time marvelling at the stickers that overlanders have pasted to every inch of the pont’s surface – from the Ngorongoro Crater to Sani Pass.
(A few weeks after I returned to Cape Town, I learnt that the pont might be replaced with a motorised version from as soon as December 2019. Modernisation is a wily beast, encroaching on lonely locations slowly, and then all at once.)
The AfrikaBurn of Infanta
“I left to travel the world when I was 21 years old and I only came back recently, in my late 40s,” says Mark Smith, photographer and owner of the Bent Head. He’s standing behind his bar, wearing a faded red T-shirt that proudly states “Infanta”, framed by all the usual pub paraphernalia: bottles of spirits, national flags and various caps. Every spare inch of the bar is covered in more stickers (“Caution: Single barman”) and lost driving licences tacked up with Prestik.
As luck would have it, South Africa is playing Japan in a friendly international rugby match before the start of the World Cup, and the place is packed to the rafters. Mark invites us to try his speciality: Jägermeister frozen inside a block of ice.
“It’s what put me on the map,” he jokes. The entire property is an ode to AfrikaBurn – that counter-culture festival held annually in the Tankwa Karoo. The sprawling yard is filled with antique collectables, Bedouin tents, couches, scrap-metal sculptures, wicker chairs, farm gates, brassware, signposts and hammocks. There are multiple braai pits and lawn games, like horse-shoe throwing. An inflatable pool propped up with waterskis stands in the corner. “Don’t pee in my bath”, a sign reads.
Having been to Burn earlier in the year, I ask Mark about the similarities between his place and the famous Tankwa festival.
“What gave it away?” he asks with a smile. I point towards the small convenience store he runs on the side called Munchies. That, or the fact that the toilet is also an art gallery. Everything is for sale, but there are no card facilities. Instead, Mark’s banking details are nailed to the wall on an old piece of wood.
“It’s just a place for people to chill and come together,” he says. “Everything I need is here. I have my caravan and people bring me their old stuff to set up.”
Along the dirt road that leads to Infanta, there are various bars and river clubs: The Boat House, The Bush Pub (which has been dubbed “Klein Loftus”) and Riverine. During summer, the river is a hive of activity; bakkies churn up dust as they zoom from one spot to another. Heading to Klein Loftus, barefoot, with a cozzie under your clothes, is not only acceptable but actively encouraged.
Now however, the roads are quiet. I get the sensation that I’m inside a waterpark in midwinter. The time between summers belongs to those who call this remote stretch of land home.
Pizzas and partygoers
The pont stops running at sunset. We make it back over to the Witsand side with daylight to spare, and we head to the most popular restaurant in Witsand, Pili Pili, which means “spicy” in Swahili. It overlooks the small harbour in front of the Breede River Lodge, where buoyed walkways float like crossword blocks.
Lionel Domingo greets us with a big smile at the door. He’s a natural host and chats easily to his customers. The place has a cosy and relaxed atmosphere. Close to the fire, a group of twenty-somethings are celebrating a birthday. Their night seems to be getting rowdy and I gain a glimpse of what summers must be like here. Outside is a beach bar with sand on the floor and Flying Fish umbrellas awaiting December’s partygoers.
“The pizza oven works around the clock during season,” Lionel tells us. “And we make the tastiest pizza in town.”
Later, I walk out on the deck of our Airbnb cottage called Kaiha. It’s on the river, but we’re close enough to the mouth to also see the ocean. I sit with my feet dangling over the edge, listening to the water lap against the riverbank. Across the inky, liquid expanse, the lights of Infanta twinkle in the darkness.
Before we leave town, Shelley and I go back to the empty beach where I lamented the fog a few days ago. We order toasted sandwiches at The Anchorage Beach Restaurant and eat them with slap chips drenched in vinegar.
We climb back into the Duster and do a slow cruise of the beach in farewell. It really is vast, windswept and wild.
Suddenly Shelley hits the brakes and there on the horizon, just beyond the backline, a whale breaches. Next to her, a tiny fluke salutes the sky. She and her calf are going home, and so must we.