The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘It’s like riding a conveyor belt!’
First-time surfer Sherelle Jacobs makes waves along the glorious shores of South Africa and Mozambique ‘The board rocked. I bellyflopped into the water’
‘Legs bent. Keep down!” I strained to hear the voice from the beach against the sonic, baritone sound of waves behind. “Now, keep looking forward. Yes, don’t lose your head!” The person shouting was my surf instructor, Matt – a manic-eyed man with stained-blond dreadlocks and a preference for carrying out daily existence without the added complication of T-shirts or shoes.
I kept my balance for a few seconds. I looked back at land. The near-deserted beach was massaged by dunes and tangled with creeping succulents. Beyond were salt-marsh meadows fringed with banana trees.
The board rocked. I flap-jerked my arms and squealed, like a schoolboy doing a meticulous impersonation of a pterodactyl. Then I belly-flopped into the water, a warm, clear soup laced with voluptuous foam. Though a little over-salted for my taste.
“Not bad. Take a breather. Then we go again.” Umzumbe Beach is a little-known spot on the KwaZulu-Natal coast in South Africa. That day, it was almost empty. A man was crayfishing beyond a heap of black rocks that glistened with trapped oysters. Two Zulu boys were shredding waves with the easeful, mocking irony that is only scientifically possible in children who surf every day.
Umzumbe – pronounced Oomzoom-bee – rumbles mystically off the tongue. It’s onomatopoeia that Lewis Carroll would have loved; the hamlet, 60 miles south of Durban, is located at the mouth of the Mzumbe River, which pummels fanatically between dense clots of quinine trees. It hosts one of South Africa’s most beautiful beaches – and one of the country’s great lost seaside communities.
“We used to have one bar. It’s closed. We used to have a post office. That’s shut, too. There was a sweet shop down the road, where I went for lollipops when I was a boy. It’s gone.” The owner of the Umzumbe Surf House, Richard, recited his soliloquy with the kind of clarion sadness that can only be summoned long after the stage of passionate grief. We were sitting in the garden after dinner, sipping Hansa beer under a sky of stars that seemed as close and bright as ceiling spotlights.
Umzumbe’s gentle, charming aroma of terminal decline makes the barefoot-luxury Surf House all the more unlikely and spectacular. Richard has built two beachfront bungalows for families. The bedrooms in the main house are decorated with vintage surfboards. There’s a braai (barbecue), a cosy library area, and an honesty bar. Hammocks swing between baobab trees in the garden.
Some might call me reckless. I am not a surfer. Before South Africa, my experience was confined to a couple of group lessons on the Kentish coast. I was mediocre, queasy from fish and chips and depressed by a sky that looked like damp tissues. I’ve dreamed of a surfing break for years, though, as waves fascinate me. I poured over surfing holiday brochures in Hawaii and Australia at my kitchen table. In the end though I was ensnared by the internet. With beaches increasingly crowded, intrepid fanatics now swap notes on forums about the next surfing frontiers. Their tales of lonely, truculent African waters with their silent beaches captured me.
Few people realise that South Africa is one of the best places in the world to learn to surf. Waves are reliable and charismatic. Its eastern shores that fringe the Indian Ocean are empty and warm. One-on-one surf lessons are more affordable than group sessions in Cornwall.
It is true that South Africa has the third-highest shark attack rate in the world, which certainly puts many off. But the number of incidents per year seldom reaches double figures; more surfers are killed or injured by shark encounters annually in the United States and Australia. Moreover, dozens of beaches (including Umzumbe) along the KwaZulu-Natal coast are now protected by nets and drum lines.
Another day, Richard drove me to Southbroom for a surfing lesson. It’s a quiet, prosperous residential-and- retirement beach town little over an hour’s drive from Umzumbe. It has lagoons for swimming and a short headland producing strong surfing waves. We were the only surfers on the cartoonishly perfect, sun-doused stretch. I spent the first half-hour banana-skidding off my board.
Richard coached me on technique until I nailed it. I found my balance on a perfectly formed wave. Time slowed down. The sunshine embraced me. It was like riding an oceanic conveyor belt – a sensation I was to experience several times.
KwaZulu-Natal has equally rich offerings for divers. On another day, I travelled to Umkomaas, 35 minutes’ drive north of Umzumbe and renowned for its diverse fish and coral reef, Aliwal Shoal. Giant turtles stirred up clouds of sand as they skimmed along the bed with slow, cumbrous grace. Leopard whiprays lay on the bottom, like animal-skin rugs on an oligarch’s floor. Shoals of sardines would bolt past in silver flashes of liquid lightning. A reef shark glided above us with regal uninterest.
I ventured northwards in my hired 4x4, chasing deeper wilderness. My destination was iSimangaliso Wetland Park, South Africa’s third largest protected area. The diversity of this much-overlooked corner of South Africa is startling. Lengthy, untamed beaches run parallel to forests lit up with flaming lilies. Wetlands inhabited by hippos echo with the hoarse trumpeting of flamingos and pelicans. My endpoint was Sodwana Bay National Park, a narrow strip of vegetated sand dunes inside the park. It attracts 35,000 scuba divers each year due to its 30-mile reef with whale sharks and manta rays. The surfing is a better-kept secret. I will never forget the sand: the same resplendent shade of gold as that used in Renaissance religious paintings.
I booked a lesson with Archie, who runs the local beach camp, Natural Moments. It was a frustrating session, spiced up by brief interludes of panic and punctuated with bellows of encouragement from Archie in his rusty Afrikaner voice. The wind was uncharacteristically erratic. The waves protruded and crashed at strange inclines. When I got on to my board, the feeling was jubilation mixed with horror – like riding a malfunctioning magic carpet at top speed.
My luxurious hotel nearby for the night offered consolation. All-inclusive Thonga Beach Lodge occupies a strip of private beach flanked by broccolishaped milkwood trees. It is upscale rustic chic, all woven egg chairs and chandeliers made from shark teeth. Free activities include scorpion forest walks and snorkelling. I opted for kayaking in nearby hippo-infested Lake Sibaya, a surprisingly meditative exercise. Meal times augured delights, such as spring rolls with Peppadew jam and mussels in red coconut curry sauce.
It’s possible to cross from South Africa into Mozambique via the Kosi Bay border with just 15 minutes of queuing. Things are instantly different on the other side. Locals zipped along on quad bikes; hens clucked in front yards; corrugated-iron houses flashed greasily in the sun.
My base was White Pearl Resorts,