Kosi Bay Fishing Expedition
A few months ago I’d been asked by one of my action cricket pals if I fancied going with a crowd of fishermen to Kosi Bay, up on the KwaZulu Natal border with Mozambique, for a week’s fishing and drinking (actually, he was talking about a trip he was organising for a few of his mates, so I invited myself). Hello, five nights of relaxing, boozing and talking shite…and fishing too? Let me think about that for a se…ok, I’m there.
All inclusive of accommodation (rustic as it was, in reed huts, a single bed and mosquito net each, a communal kitchen and dining area, who needed more?), inclusive of food and bait, the trip cost was R800. At just over 200 bucks a day, a bargain. The only other expenses were fishing tackle, diesel and booze…what turned out to be the expensive bits.
Kosi Bay trip: R800
Diesel: +- R1,000
Fishing tackle: +- R1,000 (new spool, line, dropshot rod and reel, sinkers, hooks, etc)
Booze: R988 (exactly to the cent)
The Experience: Priceless. For everything else, there’s Mastercard. (Which is why I don’t have one in the first place.)
All in all, not as cheap as it sounded at the beginning, though it’s certainly something I’d consider doing again, though I think there should be a change of venue. Why the change of venue? Well, Kosi Bay is a malaria area (try say “malaria area” fast) and the little bitches were everywhere (“bitches” ‘cos only the female mosquito drinks blood to feed her young, while male mozzies, believe it or not, are vegetarian). Anopheles Heaven, I would call it. So long as you sprayed Peaceful Sleep or Tabard (repellants) over your body, wore a cotton long-sleeved shirt and thin track pants and covered your feet properly, you were okay. However, miss one area and the little bitches found the spot, every time. I missed spraying the soles of my feet one night and while having dinner got bitten on the underside of my left foot…and it itched like hell, like hell, I tell ya.
ACTUAL SIZE
Not all the mozzies at Kosi Bay are Anopheles though. Many are “normal” mozzies that just like to bite and annoy the hell out of you, without the danger of a life-threatening disease. And I’m sure they do it for fun too, just to worry the life out of people.
Anyway, back to the trip…
Monday 19th February, 04h15 and the guys arrive at my gate. Introductions aside, we hit the highway for Kosi at around 04h30. There’s Werner (organizer of the expedition), his brother Dewald (a keen freshwater fisherman), Phil (unemployed, smoker of note) and Gerhard (a big guy, accountant for a steel company). Gerhard travels with me as I have aircon and there’s more space in my truck for his hulk. He’s worried that we’re going to have to speak in English the whole trip as he thinks his language skills aren’t the greatest. I tell you though, I’ve heard a damn site worse. We end up speaking a mixture of English and Afrikaans the whole way down to the coast, just to even things out a bit.
En route, Werner almost has a head-on prang with a pantechnicon coming in the opposite direction on what was a bit of a blind corner. He’s dragging a trailer loaded with stuff and his speed is not what it should have been. We, driving a short distance behind him, see the truck coming and know that he can’t see it. At the last moment, he manages to squeeze between the two trucks back into his own lane, but not before causing the trucks to take slightly to the sand shoulder, resulting in them throwing up tons of dust and causing me to be temporarily blinded. At 100km/h, I feel like I’m in the middle of a sandstorm in a desert, brown clouds all around, hoping that everyone kept their heads and steering wheels straight. Luckily, the air in front of me clears and we all come out unscathed. I try to get Werner on the cell phone to enquire about the shitty smell emanating from his car. He doesn’t answer, so at least he’s being sensible in that way. The rest of the drive to Pongola is eventless and we meet up with Werner’s “skoonpa” (father in law, “clean father” in direct translation) Juan, and his other daughter, Nathali (a vet, who has fished with dad for 16yrs, we are told later), and Rudolph (BMW salesman, and lamb organiser, from Trichardt, who drove an extra 400km to pick up the other two). Again, introductions aside, we get back in the three vehicles and head for the coast, still two hours away.
Just before we hit the coastal sand roads, we get out the vehicles, grab a cold beer and let the tyre pressure down for the drive on the sand. Without letting the air out and engaging four wheel drive, we would have got stuck for sure. It’s great to drive the sandy roads, testing my limited skills and also the vehicle’s handling which I never really doubted.
We get to the camp at around 4pm, decide between the eight of us who’s sleeping in which of the two “chalets” and split off to unload our stuff, and have another beer.
Before I continue, let me explain the booze load as I remember it…for me, 3 cases of Windhoek Draft 450ml cans (72 x 450ml = 32.4 litres), 2 bottles of Captain Morgan dark rum, a bottle of Scottish Leader whisky (cheap stuff to quaff) and a bottle of Ardbeg 10yr old single malt (for special occasions, whisky snob as I am). All this for 5 nights only. I know Werner has taken along 5 cases of beer and at least two bottles of brandy, Dewald has 3 cases of beer, two bottles of brandy and a bottle of vodka, Gerhard has two cases of Amstel quart bottles, Nathali has two bottles of Glendower scotch (I think she finished one on the first night), Phil (being unemployed at the time) bums some beers off Werner, Rudolph has a couple of cases of beer and a couple of bottles of Richelieu brandy, and Juan has a couple of cases of Castle beer and a bottle of Scottish Leader scotch.
Enough to last five nights? Well, the bottles of spirits, no. The beer, yes. I ended up bringing back about a case and a half of Windhoek’s (and the rest of the group also brought back a few beers) and the bottle of Scottish Leader. Most of the Ardbeg I drank myself, but also allowed the rest of the group a short measure of the peaty, salty, liquid gold. It did, however, last until the last evening upon which we “chased the ghost” out of the bottle. Ok, an explanation…”Chasing the Ghost” is an old drinkers tradition here. Warm the empty spirit bottle, usually by rubbing it furiously with your hands or on your pants or shirt, just enough to take the cool edge off the glass. Take the lid off the bottle and tilt said bottle at a slight angle toward the floor. Now take a lighter and light the first small drop that falls out. The result is that the alcohol catches flame, shoots back inside the bottle and, with a ghostly “whoop” noise, shoots the flame (the “ghost”) back out the neck of the bottle. The louder the “whoop”, the more spirited the ghost was. Ok, it’s fun at the time when you’ve just emptied the bottle…try it sometime.
The weather was stiflingly humid, with the temperature around the 40oc mark during the day and the humidity well over 100%. I have never before been in such sticky weather conditions and it was not pleasant. I even measured the temperature one night, at 23h00, at 28oc in our chalet and again, at 02h00 the following morning, at 25oc. Only on the last night did we have some respite from the heat as it rained a little, though this dried up almost instantly and returned the humidity levels to “normal”.
Sleeping arrangements changed after the second night due to a number of snorers (not myself, I might add). I was in the chalet with Phil, Gerhard and Juan and between the three of them it was like a chainsaw gladiatorial contest. Never before have I heard that much snoring from only three people. Needless to say, they didn’t affect each other either and slept like babes. I wasn’t worried after the first night’s lack of sleep though, as I knew that after a few beers and lack of sleep from the previous night, I would sleep soundly the second night. After the second night though, it turned out that Dewald also snored loudly and the rest of his chalet wanted him out. So for the last three nights all the snorers slept in the same chalet and, at times, I could hear them from my new digs about 20m away. So much for the rest of them not snoring though…on the fourth night, Rudolph and Nathali kept me awake with their snoring. Only Werner and I didn’t snore that I know of.
The quote of the week came from Rudolph on Wednesday morning as everyone was surfacing. Rudolph was already in the dining area swallowing a cup of coffee when Phil comes out of the chalet, smokers-coughing his way up the path quite violently, trying to hawk something up. Without even batting an eyelid Rudolph, in Afrikaans, shouts “Phil, as dit hare het, sluk hom terug – dis jou hol!” (“Phil, if it’s got hair on it, swallow it – it’s your arse”) to which the entire camp pisses themselves laughing for at least ten minutes solid.
From left to right: Dewald, Juan, Nathali, Werner, Phil, Gerhard, Rudolph
Fishing was not great, in fact it was pretty shitty and we caught nothing. Conditions were plagued by side currents (north one day, south the next), winds from both northeast and southwest on successive days, lots of seaweed getting stuck to our lines and dragging them around, bluebottles (small stinging jellyfish) getting stuck on our lines and stinging our fingers, and just the heat and humidity making things very uncomfortable.
Over the days we fished, we didn’t have to walk too far on the beach, as I had expected to originally, but the walking we did do was made easier by the “donkeys” that Werner and Juan had built in competition with each other. Although neither was extremely successful in negotiating the soft sand, Werner’s was by some measure the better constructed of the two.
The only real excitement we had on the fishing front was when one evening just before dark, first Phil’s, then Werner’s lines got pickups (“what’s a hot fish like you doing in a place like this, sweetheart?”). In turn, with about fifteen minutes in between, both their lines screamed out to sea, reels whining, only to be dropped like there was nothing there, though both were solid pickups. To make it worse, their baits looked like they hadn’t even been touched, no tooth marks or fraying of the lines, nothing.
Not having used the Penn Jigmaster reel in a while, I gave my left thumb a “toastie”. It happens when you cast and have your finger too tight on the line. While the line is spinning out, you try to counter the spinning reel and push your thumb down, sometimes too hard, on the spool to prevent an overwind causing the line to burn your thumb. If you do it really bad, like I have, you can smell the singeing flesh as the nylon “toasts” your thumb. Burns like hell for a few hours, I can tell you. Ah well…all part of the fun of fishing.
Aside from that, a couple of us had small bites, but nothing to write home about. Dedication to the fishing was questioned by myself and Phil, probably the two most inexperienced anglers of everyone, save Gerhard who had never thrown a line in anger before the trip and ended up doing a lot of reading while we were on the beach. We’d expected to be on the beach around daybreak and leave again after sunset, but found that we were only up early on two occasions, and only came off the beach after dark twice too. The rest of the time was spent either playing board and card games in the dining area, drinking, or having a midday snooze.
From left to right: Werner, Yours Truly, Juan, Nathali, Rudolph (camera on self-timer)
Nevertheless, the week went by too quickly and before we knew it, it was Saturday and we were up just after 5am, packing the vehicles for the long trek back to “civilisation”. The drive back along the sand roads was made easier by the light rain we’d had the night before which compacted the roads a little, but it still took us 2hrs to get into Kosi Bay town, pump the tyres to normal pressures, grab a quick bite to eat and get back on the main road. The trip back to Joburg was uneventful, thankfully, and I drove in the gate at a little after 4pm, weary, but a whole lot more relaxed and rested than I had been the week before going on leave. If that was a taste of things to come, by the end of my four weeks leave I would be so relaxed I would be horizontal.
Would I go again if asked? You bet, but as I say, a change of venue should maybe be considered.
All inclusive of accommodation (rustic as it was, in reed huts, a single bed and mosquito net each, a communal kitchen and dining area, who needed more?), inclusive of food and bait, the trip cost was R800. At just over 200 bucks a day, a bargain. The only other expenses were fishing tackle, diesel and booze…what turned out to be the expensive bits.
Kosi Bay trip: R800
Diesel: +- R1,000
Fishing tackle: +- R1,000 (new spool, line, dropshot rod and reel, sinkers, hooks, etc)
Booze: R988 (exactly to the cent)
The Experience: Priceless. For everything else, there’s Mastercard. (Which is why I don’t have one in the first place.)
All in all, not as cheap as it sounded at the beginning, though it’s certainly something I’d consider doing again, though I think there should be a change of venue. Why the change of venue? Well, Kosi Bay is a malaria area (try say “malaria area” fast) and the little bitches were everywhere (“bitches” ‘cos only the female mosquito drinks blood to feed her young, while male mozzies, believe it or not, are vegetarian). Anopheles Heaven, I would call it. So long as you sprayed Peaceful Sleep or Tabard (repellants) over your body, wore a cotton long-sleeved shirt and thin track pants and covered your feet properly, you were okay. However, miss one area and the little bitches found the spot, every time. I missed spraying the soles of my feet one night and while having dinner got bitten on the underside of my left foot…and it itched like hell, like hell, I tell ya.
ACTUAL SIZE
Sleeping arrangements changed after the second night due to a number of snorers (not myself, I might add). I was in the chalet with Phil, Gerhard and Juan and between the three of them it was like a chainsaw gladiatorial contest. Never before have I heard that much snoring from only three people. Needless to say, they didn’t affect each other either and slept like babes. I wasn’t worried after the first night’s lack of sleep though, as I knew that after a few beers and lack of sleep from the previous night, I would sleep soundly the second night. After the second night though, it turned out that Dewald also snored loudly and the rest of his chalet wanted him out. So for the last three nights all the snorers slept in the same chalet and, at times, I could hear them from my new digs about 20m away. So much for the rest of them not snoring though…on the fourth night, Rudolph and Nathali kept me awake with their snoring. Only Werner and I didn’t snore that I know of.
The quote of the week came from Rudolph on Wednesday morning as everyone was surfacing. Rudolph was already in the dining area swallowing a cup of coffee when Phil comes out of the chalet, smokers-coughing his way up the path quite violently, trying to hawk something up. Without even batting an eyelid Rudolph, in Afrikaans, shouts “Phil, as dit hare het, sluk hom terug – dis jou hol!” (“Phil, if it’s got hair on it, swallow it – it’s your arse”) to which the entire camp pisses themselves laughing for at least ten minutes solid.
From left to right: Dewald, Juan, Nathali, Werner, Phil, Gerhard, Rudolph
Over the days we fished, we didn’t have to walk too far on the beach, as I had expected to originally, but the walking we did do was made easier by the “donkeys” that Werner and Juan had built in competition with each other. Although neither was extremely successful in negotiating the soft sand, Werner’s was by some measure the better constructed of the two.
The only real excitement we had on the fishing front was when one evening just before dark, first Phil’s, then Werner’s lines got pickups (“what’s a hot fish like you doing in a place like this, sweetheart?”). In turn, with about fifteen minutes in between, both their lines screamed out to sea, reels whining, only to be dropped like there was nothing there, though both were solid pickups. To make it worse, their baits looked like they hadn’t even been touched, no tooth marks or fraying of the lines, nothing.
Not having used the Penn Jigmaster reel in a while, I gave my left thumb a “toastie”. It happens when you cast and have your finger too tight on the line. While the line is spinning out, you try to counter the spinning reel and push your thumb down, sometimes too hard, on the spool to prevent an overwind causing the line to burn your thumb. If you do it really bad, like I have, you can smell the singeing flesh as the nylon “toasts” your thumb. Burns like hell for a few hours, I can tell you. Ah well…all part of the fun of fishing.
Aside from that, a couple of us had small bites, but nothing to write home about. Dedication to the fishing was questioned by myself and Phil, probably the two most inexperienced anglers of everyone, save Gerhard who had never thrown a line in anger before the trip and ended up doing a lot of reading while we were on the beach. We’d expected to be on the beach around daybreak and leave again after sunset, but found that we were only up early on two occasions, and only came off the beach after dark twice too. The rest of the time was spent either playing board and card games in the dining area, drinking, or having a midday snooze.
From left to right: Werner, Yours Truly, Juan, Nathali, Rudolph (camera on self-timer)
3 comments:
Oh well, thats just bloody brilliant. Nothing for weeks on end, and then in one foul swoop a whole f'ing book. Do you think we have nothing better to dao than look, look, look at nothing, anfd then spend the next 12 hours catching up?
Welcome back
Salagtle!
...and that's just from the first week away...
Some people are never fuckin' happy... :-)
Hello Scotsman
I have to make a few amendments to this novel length post of yours.
Point one: The reason that for not answering the phone after my great attempt at playing chicken with 26 wheelers sorry 27 wheelers(I could see the one trucks steering wheel quite clearly) Is that the phone mysteriously disappeared after the great chicane maneuver that will even make Shumi proud to get in between those two trucks.
For the dust storm you encountered, Stevie rain has been scarce! Luckily my old Toyota could not travel any faster and that might have saved me from the oncoming truck. He is 21 years old this year (It is a he, because a “she” gives one kak) and still takes us places.
As for the drinking! “Teach a man to fish and he can feed himself everyday” now whoever coined that have not fished with us…”Teach a man to fish and he will drink a case of beer a day! Werner Nel
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