It's Rasta-oyster time!

Yesterday, I visited one of Knysna's townships in a quest to find a local Rastafari settlement that was supposedly hiding amongst all of those tin roofs and worn paths. Accompanying me were a couple of foreigners I'd met earlier that day, and we were all armed with an enthusiasm for tourism that would make even the most camera-keen, flower-clothed, barefoot island traveller cringe with embarrassment.

Townships and people from outside South Africa are like oppositely-charged poles in a gigantic supermagnet array. They possess a certain attraction to several colloquial delights that I, as a local, simply cannot understand. I was keen for the Rasta vibe, to be certain, but the sight of a township itself is not something that I find terribly exotic.

Cow.

Mind you, not enough people – both locally and abroad – really know what a township is actually like. Visiting a location like this is very different to watching a documentary or news report. Highlights and once-off photographs do well to emphasis particular emotions and deliver an audience something that they expect or even want, but most reports rarely give the full picture unless it's full of drama and stereotypical imagery.

Deciding against the R300 tourism levy for a guide around the township, we grabbed a taxi ride from the Knysna taxi ranks for about eight bucks and a few minutes later found ourselves in the middle of Judah Square, the Rastafari neighbourhood within the Knysna township.

The community in the township is full of exceptionally friendly people, and we were invited to sit down with a few gentlemen outside their house, share some tea and chat for a while. Contrary to popular opinion, Rastafari isn't all about weed and Bob Marley music, and I was exposed to a fascinating belief system and way of thinking through my conversations with these folks. I was escorted to their worship site, where I was able to snap a few pics and pose with the man who'd volunteered as our guide.

My “tourist mode” is spine-shatteringly cringeworthy.

Also, they all have really cool hair.

Awwww yeah.

After visiting the township, I decided to break my noodles-'n'-peanuts regime for a night and joined some friends at a local oyster bar to try some of Knysna's famous oysters. This was a rather bold venture for me: not only have I never eaten an oyster before, but I also happen to have a deep and sincere hatred of almost all seafood.

Om nom ... nom?

Because it was ceremony (and because everybody else was being fancy) I also decided to accompany my oyster consumption with a glass of semi-sweet white wine. Never again. Not only do I find most – if not all – forms of alcohol absolutely and unforgivably vile, but my body also has the chemical tolerance of a particularly poorly fieldmouse.

The combination of oysters and wine left me feeling a bit less than perfect, but I treated myself to a hearty Spur dinner afterwards to get the taste of sea and fancy booze out of my mouth. A pretty good day overall.

Across the lagoon: some Knysna pics

Yesterday afternoon, I went on an expedition around Knysna's famous lagoon-lake thing. It primarily involved going to places where I technically wasn't allowed to travel, but it gave me a bunch of pretty pictures which I have an urge to share. So today's storytime is going to revolve around some pretty illustrations. Gather around, kids!

So yeah, Knysna is around a lagoon. Which means that it has a nice little Waterfront set up for the tourists. It's reasonably busy here, but the town itself is eerily quiet on a Sunday afternoon. Like, Silent Hill quiet.

For some reason, the locals have this thing about a bulldog named Bondi. He served with some ship or another for a few years, and died on a really hot day. Not the most heroic of historical figures, but they made a statue out of him anyway. I was always more of a cat person anyway.

As mentioned already, Knysna surrounds a lagoon that's hidden amongst some mountains near the ocean. Ferries and yacht tours are the main attraction for visitors here, but my aversion to guided tours and “standard” sightseeing (and the lightness of my wallet) urged me to investigate what appeared to be a very long bridge stretching right across the lake.

After walking around the lake a bit, I discovered that the “bridge” was a railroad that hopped over several islands in the middle of the water. The sign clearly indicated that I wasn't allowed to cross ...

... so I did anyway.

It turns out that my actions were vindicated by a multitude of local fishermen scattered across the lake's islands. The old railroad seems to be a popular gathering spot for these aquatic hunters – the presence of these individuals combined with the fact that I saw several cars parked across the railway lines near the waterfront urges me to believe that Knysna's railroad is now defunct.

The wind picked up rather fiercely as soon as I left the shore. Cro-magnon Nandrew wasn't very happy.

I only realised just how big Knysna's lagoon actually was when I tried traversing it. The lake crossing took me a full half hour, but I got some distance shots of the settlement in the process.

Approaching the other end of the lake, I was confronted with something akin to a shoreside desert: an oddly barren area of the bay occupied by sand and clusters of moss-like plant matter. It seemed that the lake had, at its apex, covered this whole area.

Further evidence of the water's rise and fall. A lonely puddle sat in the middle of this barren wasteland, and plays home to a whole menagerie of aquatic bugs. They all scuttled away and hid in the nearby sand when I tried getting closer, but it was pretty impressive to see this nucleus of activity for just a few moments.

Toto, I don't think we're in Knysna anymore. I was sure that I'd seen some sporadic housing from the other side of the bridge, but when I followed a path off the railway I was only confronted with wilderness. I started feeling truly adventurous, and sallied forth.

Oh, wait. Picture taken two minutes later. After discovering this strange land of “Brenton”, however, I realised that it was getting rather late and started backtracking to the railroad.

When I emerged by the lakeside again, I was astounded to see tidal flow in action: fed by the sea, the lake was slowly reclaiming the marsy desert near its shore. I was actually able to observe the water crawling steadily over the wasteland.

The above was just sand and moss a few minutes ago.

Considering my trip a great success, I took this final sunset picture just before my camera finally hacked, wheezed and breathed its last. With a pair of flat batteries and a full memory card, I put it away and headed back to my lodge.

Backpacking in Knysna. Also: food

Ah, Knysna! That peaceful, lagoon-side gem of the South African Garden Route! A place where even a walk through the dirtiest, most tin-roof-laden township can be slapped with a price tag and become a tourist attraction. This place is the very reason why I decided to go for a backpacking trip between PE and Cape Town, and while it may not be everybody's cup of tea, I'm quite intent on soaking up the shoreline ambience for a few days.

I'm currently staying at Knysna Backpackers, a converted Victorian household which is somewhat small and creaky, but nevertheless a good place to stay at if you're reasonably price-conscious like myself. The only buggery bit comes in when you realise that the dozen nubile young women that arrived with you in the bus are actually heading for the ever-so-trendy Island Vibe backpackers instead, making you wish that you'd forked out ten or twenty extra bucks instead of being condemned to hang out with old people for three days.

A charming Victorian house on the lakeside. I could pretty much sense the old people from here.

Not to say that it's entirely bad hanging out with a more mature and relaxed crowd: it's just that I set out on this trip mentally prepared for interaction with people closer to my age and ready for the wild parties that would inevitably result. Not so. Since my sojourn at Storms River, I've been pretty laid back: just been wandering solo and tapping away on my laptop for a few hours each day. I'll see about hitting the more popular youth hostels on my next few stops, but prediction is rather difficult and ultimately my wallet is going to be the boss.

My portable bank account is rather peeved already, and with good reason.

Anyway, on to the lodge itself. The facilities here are reasonable, though use of water is restricted because there's apparently a dangerous shortage of it around Knysna. I tried in vain to point out the gigantic body of water that the settlement had sprung up right next to, but nobody really paid any attention to me, so I've satisfied myself with going the enviro-friendly route anyway.

I've also – for the very first time ever ever EVER – learned how to use a gas cooker. Although the technology is inferior to that used in a modern stove, I'm nevertheless far more fascinated with how the contraption works, and was delighted to see how I could adjust the release of gas to create fire that seemed to be suspended in the middle of thin air.

Oogah! Magical flame machine!

The beds are also pretty reasonable, though I'm not looking forward to the prospect of spending a night under an occupied top bunk: the beds are horrendously creaky, and I'm not even sure how anybody would climb to the upper mattress without an incredible amount of juddering and step-on-another-person's-facery. So yeah, they're pretty bare bones, but they do the job. 7 out of 10. That'll be minus 4 points if I end up getting my face stepped on before leaving Knysna.

Victorian cottage on the outside, army barracks on the inside.

So yeah, my final note on this post is that I'm getting hungry. I don't mean in the normal “oooh i could hav a spot of dinner rite now hahaha” kind of way, either. I mean that my angry wallet is forbidding me from living on a cent more than R15 a day, and my diet of instant noodles, canned beans and peanuts really isn't working out for my system.

Is that a loaf of bread I see in the background? Sheer bloody luxury!

I don't really eat that much to start with, but this journey has proven to be the first time that my body has stood up, slapped me in the face (let's just forget for a moment that my face is, indeed, just another part of my body) and told me that I need more nutrition. I've been going for about a week on a less than sterling diet, and it's getting to the point where I occasionally think about food more than I think about women. Something has obviously gone horribly wrong here.

Although I've never strictly overeaten before, I've rarely been in a spot where money for meals has been a problem. Even as a student, I've always earned my own money and been able to pick and choose hunger-busters at my leisure. I now look back at all those times when I would willfully spend in excess of R40 for takeaway meals. My tummy laments, but the amount that I've spent on this trip forbids me from indulging that much. A great exercise in being more frugal for a change, but two cups of noodles and the occasional handful of peanuts is not a good daily plan in the long term. I'm trying to diversify a little to see what cheap options I come up with.

When I get to Cape Town, I'm definitely going to be hitting another Panarotti's all-you-can-eat night to console my poor system for the punishment it has recently been going through. And I'll drag my friends kicking and screaming with me, even if I have to pay for half of their food.