There is a lot more to Africa than the waves. Photos: O’Shea
Uganda isn’t known for surf. East Africa in general isn’t much of a surfing area, but Uganda is particularly devoid of waves. I’m still not sure if my conniving girlfriend, Monique, tricked me into making the journey. Perpetually good-willed towards the less-fortunate of the world, she convinced me to plan the surf trip of a lifetime that just happened to start in Uganda – the most landlocked country I have ever seen.
That tight-chested feeling that comes with being separated from the sea gripped me at the airport when we landed, and stayed with me for the ride through downtown Kampala. We stayed in an orphanage tenanted by disabled children and other kids with nowhere else to go. They were among the most stoked people I have ever met. Their smiles helped ease my separation anxiety, even though they couldn’t comprehend my pain; they’d never known the sea. I’d never understand their pain either, and they win on that count: no parents, no money and just enough food to get by on. We helped out where we could and bought a few school books. They were frothing on the donation; so keen to learn and so thankful for our generosity. I hope they never find out how much I spent on the wetsuit I had hidden in my bag. It could buy them a library.
Five weeks later, as I skipped up the point at Elands Bay, I didn’t even give the Ugandans a thought. In my selfish surfers’ mind, I could only see the reeling left-handers. I guess that’s the way us surfers are geared. I feel kind of guilty about it, but in my defence, this was my first glimpse of quality surf since leaving home; Elands Bay has been accurately described as J Bay in reverse. And it was pumping. It’s not often I want to be a crook-footer, but Elands got me thinking that maybe the right foot should go at the front.
Evening sessions are for the dedicated on South Africa’s west coast. The South Atlantic is as wild and cold as anything I’ve experienced. As the sun dips below the sea everyone retreats indoors or back to their hometowns, and Elands Bay starts to feel like a ghost town. Huddled in our campervan, we sipped hot chocolate and watched the raging, foaming Atlantic reflect shades of orange and pink from the burning sky.
Surfers understand, better than most, I think, the immense force that large bodies of water can host. I’ve felt out of my depth in the sea before. I’ve been powerless against the will of the ocean. But the energy of Victoria Falls is something else altogether. It makes you ashamed of that time you freaked going over with the lip on a six-footer. More than five hundred million cubic meters of water per minute, an incomprehensible volume, plummet over 100 meters into the gorge. Standing a mere stone’s throw from the falls, the thunder shakes your bones and spray falls from the sky like torrential rain. Only the hugest ocean waves could hold a candle to the enormity of Victoria Falls.
If you find yourself wandering South Africa’s garden route, you might hear a few Okes reminiscing about a river-mouth sand-bank so long and perfectly shaped that the waves that broke upon it were claimed to be the best in the country. Those who made the claim were well aware of their close proximity to one of the best right-handers in the world, but not even flawless Supertubes could alter their proclamation. Formed by a freak storm a few years ago, the South African Superbank was home to some absurdly long and perfect right-hand barrels.
The first time I laid eyes upon the Superbank, four-foot drainers were coiling along the river-mouth with reckless abandon and not another surfer was in sight. This is a situation I never want to find myself in again; pumping, empty waves on one of the sharkiest stretches of coastline in the world. Despite pulling on my wetsuit in slow motion, hoping for a companion with whom I could share the odds of an attack, I was obliged to paddle solo across the river-mouth and commence getting all kinds of barrelled.
Four days of grinding pits and prickly paranoia followed without so much as a glimpsed fin. Then, on the fifth day, an outrageous storm smashed the coast, washing away the beautiful formation of sand and relieving the locals of their perfect setup. We huddled in the shelter of a hostel while the storm raged, listening to locals tell stories of the brief life of their Superbank, including numerous tales involving those nasty apex predators.
Jeffreys Bay is everything you want it to be, and it’s not as cold as you expect. Great waves, great people and cheap living; it’s like Indo with wetsuits. The town is pretty surf-focussed, but not in a pretentious way. It reminds me a lot of Torquay, but with fewer tools in the water. We rolled into town just as the contest circus was wrapping up and a few of the old legends stuck around for a while. There’s nothing quite like being burned by Tom Curren and watching him draw a classic Supertubes line as you head for the barnacles.
