SLAVE TO THE rhythm
Nick Yell feels his age — but also the beat — in Coffee Bay
‘AND this is our bar and pool room,” our host pointed out at the end of our brief tour around the Coffee Shack backpackers facility in Coffee Bay. “Once you’ve signed the register, we can offer you a drink on the house.”
My ears pricked up at that, my throat being parched after 11 hours in the saddle.
Even though the tour had been informative as to this backpacker resort’s many amenities and activities, it was only the bevvies of bohemian blondes that had kept me awake — the tour was superfluous for someone like me, just looking for an overnight stopover and planning on being gone by the early morning.
Thankfully, our quarters were on the other side of a small river, some distance from the main building and bar, where rowdy drinking games seemed de rigueur, the kind of place I’d expect to see my 18year-old son or daughter, if I had one.
Yet, the en-suite rondavel to which our host led us was far less rustic than we expected and was comfortably appointed. We also had an expansive view over the hills of the Transkei to the south and the hints of frothy blue seen through the milkwoods reminded us of the bay — named for a cargo of coffee that landed on the beach here in 1863 — a few hundred metres to the east. We were content — and convinced that any late-night party noise reaching us from across the river would be negated by our tired bodies’ need to sleep.
After a shower, we joined our new motorcycling mates from Mthatha — our guides for this leg of the trip — and headed up the hill to the local pizza joint. Again we rubbed shoulders with groups of tousle-headed surfers and dreamy-eyed nubiles, and again we felt way older than our 50-something years.
But there’s an accepting vibe in this live-and-let-live holiday destination and I desperately tried to emulate this carefree attitude, waiting what seemed like a millennium for my food; placating my hunger with the sedative effects of mediocre box wine.
The pizzas eventually arrived and were excellent. Of course, not having had a substantial meal since breakfast 13-hours earlier, I may well have eaten cardboard with melted cheese on top and pronounced it good.
With full stomachs and palates past caring about the quality of the wine — the mouth-coating effects of cheese-laden pizzas is helpful in this regard — we freewheeled down the hill and followed our guides into one of Coffee Bay’s many djembe drumming night spots.
We stayed a while and took in the clusters of euphoric-looking students following the African beat, but our guide soon pronounced the venue “boring” and led us to another just down the road. And I knew he was right as soon as we arrived. A long-haired old guru, who nevertheless looked rather fit — not unlike a sadhu on steroids — guided a group of young folk towards their individual versions of percussive nirvana. The stage lights flashed to the leader’s beat, illuminating more youthful and glazed-eyed patrons flailing about on the dance floor. They seemed to have a visceral understanding of the discordant rhythms being banged out.
After my first night-cap, my feet, which had until that point been content to rest on the foot ring of the bar-stool, suddenly took on a rhythm all of their own.
On our way out of the drumming club some time later, we overheard some twittering from other patrons about how a number of the young girls had apparently fallen in love with the ageing percussionist.
And so I realised where I would be moving if my life partner ever decides to give me the boot — and I’m even prepared to drink mediocre box wine. — ©