Mad Matty

Hello, this is an excerpt from my first book, "Through Travel and Error: Confessions of an Asylum-Seeking Canadian" (available everywhere online). Let me know what you think...






A TRANSKEI BUY



SEPTEMBER


I was awoken by the sound of roosters, which served as the Transkei’s alarm clock.
There wasn’t a snooze button for these persistent buzzers, so I got up and stumbled into the kitchen to put on the kettle. As I waited for the water to boil, I grabbed a few healthy buds from the bowl of weed on the table and rolled a joint. With a coffee and spliff in hand, I strolled to the top of the hill, which dropped steeply onto the rugged shoreline of the Wild Coast.
I sat down, took a sip of coffee, lit my spliff and waited.
I didn’t wait long.
A pod of about 20 dolphins came into sight a couple of kilometres away. The section of the coastline that I sat upon was on the edge of a tectonic plate, and as a result, it had extremely deep water close to land. Therefore, the marine life often swam close to shore. This was the case with this quickly approaching pod. In addition, sitting on the edge of a cliff provided me with a vantage point to stare down upon the dolphins. These creatures were currently displaying their skills by surfing the last breaking wave before the shore.[1]
Since my close encounter with dolphins, I felt a bond with them. It was not the trendy kind of connection where I rush out and have a dolphin tattooed on my body. Rather, it was an inspirational relationship, which motivated me to seek their presence and energy whenever possible. As far as I was concerned, where I was currently sitting was the best place in all South Africa to dolphin watch.
This was how most of my days in the village of Mpande began: sitting atop a cliff, drinking coffee, smoking a spliff and watching pods of dolphins surf the massive waves. The overwhelming energies absorbed from this type of start ensured that a blissful afternoon and evening would ensue. Today, however, I was replenishing my reserves of caffeine, THC and Mother Nature so I would be in shape to embark upon my mission.
Maybe “mission” isn't the right word. A mission implies hard work. Although I had a long walk ahead of me, my task would be beautiful, educational and inspirational. In truth, I was excited about the undertaking and couldn’t wait to get started.
One of the most pleasant surprises about South Africa had been discovered on my third day in the country. There seemed to be a lot of weed floating around The Traveller in Cape Town. Everybody seemed to have a stash and was more than generous in sharing the social plant. However, I preferred to be in control of my ganja. I wasn’t a fan of patiently waiting for someone else to skin up then swooping in to mooch a toke or two. So I asked the barman at the backpackers’ pub if he could score me some weed.
“Ya, bru. How much do you want?”
I had no idea how much weed cost in South Africa. Being a tad wary of spending too much and not wanting to sound completely naïve, I confidently asked for 50 rands worth, which was equivalent to 10 Canadian bucks. I couldn't imagine South African weed costing more than Canadian gear, which was 10 bucks a gram. One gram would barely last me the night, but I figured, to be on the safe side, I’d start low. If the weed was quality, I’d buy more the next day.
The barman came back about 15 minutes later with a clear, plastic bag full of ganja. It held about 20 grams worth. It was the most weed I’d seen in a very long time. I gave the guy a curious look. I asked if all that was for me. He nodded that it was. There had obviously been a miscommunication. He had brought me way too much. I apologized and clarified that I wanted 50 rands worth.
“Hey, bru, that bankie is lank packed. That is a lekker deal for 50 rand,” he said defensively.
I got the impression he believed I was challenging the amount and that I thought he was ripping me off. In actuality, it was the complete opposite. I thought I was ripping him off by only paying 50 rand for such an obscene amount of ganja. I expected a bag of weed that size to cost at least 10 times the price. It certainly would have back home or anywhere else that I'd travelled so far.
I took the big bag of weed.
I was dumbstruck.
When I first arrived in South Africa, I never contemplated that marijuana might be cheap. In fact, with the prospect of cold showers and muggings dominating my thoughts before my arrival, the possibility of getting stoned in South Africa was never even a vague consideration.
Once again, my lack of expectations had led to another pleasant surprise. Not only did South Africa have an abundance of quality weed, but this potent bud was dirt cheap.
I can, at times, smoke enough weed to subdue a small elephant, so the revelation that marijuana was inexpensive was yet another factor that made South Africa that much more alluring.[2]
I encountered the next size available when we arrived in the Transkei. “Arms” are tubes of compressed weed that are then wrapped and sealed with newspaper. The length and width of the ganja cylinder is about the same as a forearm, hence the name. The quarter pound package of marijuana would set you back a meagre 150 rand. When Vince and I first visited Port St. Johns in the Transkei, the part of the country famous for its ganja, we toured several marijuana plantations.
We walked away with an arm each.
We had so much weed that it was humanly impossible to smoke it all, although we tried throughout the rest of South Africa. The morning we drove from St. Lucia, our last South African destination, into Swaziland, we rolled continuously, and we smoked throughout the two-hour journey to the Swazi border. As hard as we tried, we couldn't get through it all. Five kilometres from the border, we still had about four ounces left. There wasn’t a chance in hell that we were going to try and smuggle the plant across the border, especially when we knew that the legendary and equally cheap “Swazi Gold” was waiting on the other side.
I did the only thing I could.
I threw the remaining weed out the window.
If I was at home and lost even a half gram of ganja, I received a slap upside the head from my mates and rightly so. In Canada, weed is hideously expensive. To lose half a gram would be depressing. Yet, here in South Africa, due to the cost and availability, throwing ganja out of the car window as we approached the Swazi border was not only the correct and safe decision, but it was also incredibly fun.
It was a novelty.
In every single guest house that I visited in South Africa, there were smokers. There was always somebody to help score the weed, and many of the hostels even had designated ganja-smoking areas. I’m not suggesting that every traveller visiting South Africa was a smoker. However, there was a common level of tolerance and acceptance that created a relaxed setting.
Smuggler’s Cove wasn’t much different. Although smoking dope wasn’t officially condoned, a blind eye was turned to the countless backpackers and staff, namely me, who enjoyed a toke by the pool, on the beach or as the evening’s festivities got going in the pub.
I had access to plenty of Arms in Chintsa, yet I rarely bought the local product. I am a bit of a ganja snob, and the Chintsa weed, although cheap, wasn’t the best quality. There was the added motivation of buying weed elsewhere because I lived right near the section of South Africa renowned by ganja smokers worldwide … the Transkei.
Most white South Africans that I had met had never been to the Transkei. In fact, many warned me to avoid the Transkei at all costs. They even said to drive around the massive province in order to avoid the dangerous land. There seemed to be a lot of fear and apprehension when it came to the Transkei.
During apartheid, the government relocated millions of the black population to designated “homelands” across the country. Although they were supposed to be self-sufficient and self-governing, homelands were simply apartheid’s way of keeping the blacks away from the whites. They were on their own with no access to white South African resources, which resulted in massive poverty and all subsequent maladies. The Transkei was one of those homelands. In the eyes of the world, the Transkei was a part of South Africa, but as far as apartheid South Africa was concerned, the Transkei was a different country. South Africans had to show their passports to enter or leave the Transkei, and to this day, the empty immigration office is still present on the edge of the Kei River, which is the border of the Transkei.
Today, the Transkei is a part of South Africa, but many white South Africans continue to believe that the area is a dangerous, barbaric and backward land.
How wrong they are.
What most of the white South Africans failed to realize was that they had “dumped” the black population into some of the most stunning landscape that I'd seen anywhere in the world. However, it was more than just the unbelievable scenery that captivated one’s mind when arriving deep into the heart of the Transkei. There was a sort of strength. Despite the overwhelming poverty, the beauty and raw energy of the environment was obvious, formidable and almost indescribable.
Part of me understands why the white South Africans fear the Transkei. The local people, the Amapondo, are an extremely proud and strong tribe with a rich history. I don't doubt that if someone entered their land today with the attitudes, prejudice and fears from yesteryear, that individual would be quickly identified and harshly dealt with. However, it was my experience that if you visited the Transkei with an open mind and heart, then the friendliness and hospitality was some of the best the planet has to offer.
This section of the country is truly special and extremely addictive. One could spend a lifetime exploring the Kei and its magical coastline, and many do. There is a condition in the Transkei known as “Pondo Fever.” Pondo Fever isn’t a disease but a state of mind. Pondo Fever is the condition that simultaneously drains and replenishes one’s energy. Pondo Fever is the force that brings people back to the Kei or never allows them to leave. This wonderful affliction was much like the African pull Sabrina mentioned and I knew existed. But in the case of Pondo Fever, it strictly referred to those stuck in the Transkei.
I caught a serious dose of Pondo Fever when travelling through the Transkei with Vince, and I knew I would return to this stretch of land to further explore what it had to offer. Nevertheless, despite the Kei’s endless beauty, I discovered one spot in particular that found its way into my heart and soul and kept bringing me back for more.
I initially discovered The Kraal when a Dutch friend, Robert, and I made a get-away from Smuggler’s Cove. He had recently ended a six-year relationship with his girlfriend, and because his ex was currently employed at Smuggler’s Cove, he felt he should leave Chintsa. Robert needed to clear his head and decided that he was going to take off for a few months and hike around the Drakensburg Mountains and then possibly travel to Zimbabwe. Worried about my friend, I decided to travel with him for the first leg of his journey. We decided to check out this eco-friendly, rustic and unique hostel situated in the Kei, which was a place that countless travellers had recommended.
It was a long, slow journey down the bumpy back roads to The Kraal. In fact, the last 20 kilometres took well over an hour. However, despite the difficulties of riding in the back of an overcrowded bakkie, both Robert and I suspected that we were being transported to somewhere very different and very special.[3]
The one thing that caught my eye was that people chose random spots on the roadside to sit and apparently do nothing. It was difficult to determine where they had come from or where they might be going. It was a very long walk from somewhere just to sit underneath a particular tree. However, this was exactly what many did all day long.
This sight made me smile.
It displayed an understanding of what it meant to stop and smell the roses. Whether it was to sit back and think, ponder, observe, reminisce, pontificate, debate or relax was irrelevant. Whether it was because they were old, unemployed or had nothing better to do was equally irrelevant. To me, that they took the time to stop wasn't irrelevant. One of my biggest concerns at home was that we really didn't stop to appreciate how good our lives were. We didn’t take the time to let our minds disengage from the hectic pace of the velvet rut and enjoy a simple vista.
However, what I loved most about the drive through the hills and valleys was that, regardless of whom I passed, if I waved, they would wave back. In fact, this was one of my favourite observations throughout South Africa. It didn't matter if people were driving a car, walking down the road or sitting beneath a tree, my greeting was returned with a genuine wave and a genuine smile.
If I waved at strangers in the Western world, the reaction would be very different. More often than not, the response would be a hesitant “who was that” wave or possibly a much ruder gesture. Either way, I would wager that it wouldn't be friendly. For some reason, at home we have a hard time accepting that people can be naturally friendly without sinister, ulterior motives. For some misguided reason, we are suspicious of random acts of kindness.[4]
This wasn’t the case in South Africa. A wave and smile are returned with a wave and smile, especially in the Transkei.
There was no question that Robert and I were being transported somewhere very different and very special.
After having our view obstructed by the thick forest that canopied the road, we finally arrived in the coastal village of Mpande, and the expansive Transkei shoreline left us awestruck. With kids chasing after us, waving and asking for sweets, we drove through the village and eventually up and over a steep hill. We looked down upon the much-anticipated hostel. With a secluded beach, subtropical jungle and a winding river as the backdrop, we gazed in amazement at the tiny backpackers, which itself was nestled into a natural amphitheatre that directly faced the ocean.
As far as location, on a scale from 1 to 10, The Kraal scored about 37.
It was 280 kilometres from Chintsa to Mpande, but this trip couldn’t be measured in distance. It took four and a half hours to drive from place to place, but again, this voyage couldn’t be measured by the time spent in a vehicle. The best way to describe the journey to The Kraal was saying it was like travelling back in time 100 years or more. I could stand in one spot in the village, turn 360 degrees and be hard pressed to find a single indicator of the year 1999. It could have been 1899 or 1799 as far as I could tell. There wasn't any electricity. There weren't any telephone lines. There were thatched huts made with mud. There was livestock grazing freely. There were women walking with buckets of water on their heads. There were countless kids laughing and playing with nothing but each other.
The village population, structure and lifestyle seemed to be locked in a simple, beautiful and traditional time.
The Kraal, to its credit, blended into the village perfectly. Built in the same traditional way as the rest of the Mpande, The Kraal didn't have modern amenities such as electricity or telephones. Other than being non-existent in Mpande, they weren’t necessary. Dillon, the rather eccentric owner of The Kraal, took the simplicity one step further. If you were wearing a watch when you arrived, he made you take it off and locked it in the safe until you departed.
Time was irrelevant at The Kraal.
You ate when you were hungry, slept when you were tired and woke when you were awake.
It was that simple.
Despite his idiosyncrasies, Dillon had done an amazing job ensuring that his hostel didn’t offend the locals in any way and that it remained consistent with the style and traditions of the village, environment and culture. After first receiving permission from the local chief, Dillon began building his backpackers in 1997. He learned the local language, Xhosa, which, by the time I met him, he spoke fluently. He employed local labour. He built a primary school for the community. When constructing The Kraal, if he had to transport wood from Village A to Village B to Village C, he would hire workers from all three communities.
As a result of his patience, hard work, respect and determination to follow a dream, Dillon had created in The Kraal something very rare and very special.
On my first day at The Kraal, I went exploring for the Jack Astor shipwreck. Over the years, hundreds of ships had succumbed to the awesome and unforgiving power of the Indian Ocean, and many of their steel skeletons remained visible. The hike took me along the rocky coast that suddenly turned into secluded beaches. The thick, lush jungle served as a continuous backdrop and further added to the sense of isolation. My walk was occasionally interrupted by dolphin watching or snacking on smoked mussels. The local kids would pull the mussels from the rock pools and cook them right on the beach. It doesn't get any fresher than that.
For me, the hike was extraordinary, but for the locals, it was just another typical Transkei day. At the end of the hike, I found myself sitting atop a cliff, staring down upon the dramatic shipwreck while pods of dolphins swam by. Southern right whales breached off in the distance. Two 10-year-old boys, who had joined my journey and guided me to the shipwreck, began to sing in Xhosa under the warm African sun.
I sat back and deeply inhaled my joint. I asked myself if life could be any better than this.
I couldn’t know the answer for sure, but I felt as though I was on the right track to finding out. At that exact moment, many things came into perspective. The simplicity and happiness that I had witnessed during the past 24 hours in this peaceful and poor village made me question if we, in the Western world, really understood what was important in life.
Yeah, we may have electricity and running water in every home, but had we lost our sense of community?
Life was an exquisite gift, and I'd be damned if I was going to let it slip by while sitting in an office, watching the decades disappear and not knowing or caring who my neighbours were. Fuck that.
The fascination of the Transkei had imprinted itself on my soul.
To give you an idea of the Kei’s power, let me tell you about what happened to my Dutch mate. When I had to go back to Smuggler’s Cove after a couple of days, Robert decided to stay at The Kraal and ended up getting a job working with Dillon.
When I left him in Mpande, Robert, a Dutch computer programmer, looked ready to go on safari. He owned and wore khaki shorts, khaki shirts, khaki socks, khaki boots, and he even had the matching khaki hat. He looked like the poster boy for African safari adventures. When I found Robert again, a mere three weeks later, he had changed.
He had lost all of his “Crocodile Hunter” attire.
He had grown a beard, wore a sarong and was barefoot.
He had Pondo Fever, and it was a remarkable sight.
For me, The Kraal became the idyllic weekend destination. Mpande’s proximity to Chintsa made the journey, by African standards, quick and painless. In addition to having my friend there, and over time, Dillon too became a great mate, it was the perfect escape from Chintsa. Not that life was stressful at Smuggler’s Cove, but it was a high-energy job. Therefore, from time to time, a break from the hectic pace of the nightlife was required. In these times, I would disappear for a few days to the seclusion and serenity of The Kraal.
Furthermore, Mpande was, from what I had seen, the best place to experience black, rural South Africa without feeling as if I was imposing. I was just there. People continued with their daily functions and traditions not because I was paying to see it but because that was the way it was done. I was a fly on the wall observing Transkei village life. Although my presence was known, it didn’t change anything or anyone.
As a Canadian, it was astonishing to discover places of such natural beauty, which were completely unspoiled by commercialism. To have an electricity- and plumbing-free mud-hut village splattered with million dollar ocean views was way beyond unique. If situated anywhere in North America, this location would be overrun by five-star hotels and golf courses. The untarnished culture was a rarity that I valued and most certainly appreciated.
And if this weren’t enough reason to come to Mpande, this specific section of the country was famous for its weed.
In the end, my visits to The Kraal were for relaxing, appreciating and restocking.
This particular visit to The Kraal was unfolding as expected. I’d had my peaceful sleep. I’d absorbed the morning energies of Mother Nature. Now, it was time to restock.
With a final sip of my coffee and a last drag of my spliff, I grabbed my empty day pack and began my search for the best ganja the Kei had to offer.
I strolled barefoot across the beach and made my way through the village and over the hill to the next beach and village. Once there, I found the mud hut that I'd been to many times in the past. I poked my head in the door and found four smiling faces.
The two young boys smiled at me and sprinted off into the fields. The mother invited me inside and offered me a cup of tea, while the daughter continued to play. Within minutes, the breathless father ran into the hut with his two boys in tow.
We shook hands and said hello.
The father, seeing that his wife had provided me with tea and a seat, wasted no time and pulled a potato sack from underneath the bed. The bag was overflowing with freshly picked marijuana. He handed me a large bud and some papers. He indicated that I skin up and sample his crop, which was a request that I enthusiastically obliged.
They were plump, sticky heads of ganja, and I only required a few tokes to know that this weed was potent. There was no need to search further. I asked the man how much it would cost to fill my day pack.
He looked at my bag. After some consideration, he held up six fingers.
I smiled and shook my head. Bargaining was part of the process in the lalies when it came to many items, including marijuana, so I countered with five fingers.
He thought about it for a moment, smiled and nodded yes.
He took my bag and began stuffing it with weed. I sat back with my cup of tea and spliff and took in the scene. In front of me was a family man who happened to have a plot of land on which he grew cash crops. He grew tomatoes. He grew spinach. And he grew marijuana. All three plants brought him money. The man was not a drug dealer. He was a farmer. This father knows nothing of the drug industry and its nefarious culture. He was not living a flashy, drug dealer lifestyle. He didn’t have a BMW parked in the driveway; there wasn't even a driveway, let alone roads. He hadn't spent the money on home entertainment units because there wasn't electricity.
He was simply trying to feed and clothe his family.
One of the problems with buying marijuana at home was from whom I bought it.
Your typical Canadian drug dealer is often some little gangster wannabe who struts around with too much attitude and possibly a weapon. Usually the buy is made in the dealer’s home, and it’s a home littered with the spoils of his drug money. It’s displayed in the form of large-screen TVs, stereos, video games and other such trivial luxuries. For me, it was a get-in and get-out situation. I didn’t want to spend one second longer with the little punk than I had to. As far as I knew, the police had the drug den under surveillance and were going through their final preparations before the raid.
I was certainly not going to sit down and have a cup of tea.
But here in the Transkei, buying weed was conducted in a safe and peaceful atmosphere. I never felt the slightest bit uncomfortable. The possibility of a police raid was laughable because we were in the middle of nowhere. The chance that the farmer would rip me off or hurt me was ridiculous because his entire family was there with us. The wife was cooking dinner, and I was playing peekaboo with the boys. It was the most harmless setting one could imagine.
The real magic came when I handed him the money. The smiles on his face and those of his family were phenomenal. Five hundred rand would be food for two weeks for the family, if not more.[5]
I was smiling too.
Initially, these prices seemed fantastically insane. However, when I gave the cost further consideration, I thought why the hell shouldn't marijuana be this cheap? After all, it was just a plant or even a weed. No plant should cost 10 dollars a gram. Christ, asparagus doesn't cost as much. What am I talking about? Gold doesn't cost as much!
Nonetheless, I didn’t give it too much thought. I’m a firm believer in living for the moment. And at that moment, I was far away from Canadian drug dealers and their exorbitant costs. At that moment, I was strolling back across the beach and returning to The Kraal as the proud and astonished owner of roughly 2000 grams of Transkei bud.
My only stress of the whole mission, and it was a sizable one, was transporting the weed the 280 kilometres back to Smuggler’s Cove. There were numerous road blocks between Mpande and Chintsa, and despite the cops searching primarily for illegal weapons, getting caught with two kilograms of weed would get my ass thrown in jail for a big chunk of time.
There was never a point in my life where I thought that prison would be the lifestyle for me, but after the past year, I valued my freedom more than ever. Even if it were the Hilton of prisons, I didn't want to spend one minute incarcerated. I had a deep suspicion that the Transkei jails were a far cry from the cleanest and safest prisons the world had to offer.
Not wanting to find out first-hand, I thoroughly researched, pondered, debated and contemplated my means of transportation. When I decided on a course of action, I felt confident that the journey would be as safe as possible, for I had a few elements working in my favour.
Other than not being that interested in finding drugs, the police had, thankfully, even less interest in tourists. Because foreign tourism was new and such a vital component to the country’s rebuilding, the police seemed either hesitant or unwilling to search foreigners. It was believable that the South African government didn’t want the groundbreaking tourists to return to their home countries with tales of police harassment fresh in their minds. The smiling police often waved tourists, who were in their distinctive rental cars, through the roadblocks.
Nevertheless, the sure way to avoid all obstacles was travelling by bus. However, this wasn’t your everyday, ordinary bus. It was a heavily labelled and immediately recognizable mini bus designed to carry only backpackers from hostel to hostel. While other cars were being searched, our bus would barely slow down. It would pass through the roadblock and safely to the other side with its passengers (potential positive advertising for South African tourism) and, more importantly, my massive bag of weed.
The way I analyzed the danger, the police would have to first stop the bus (not likely), then decide to search the travellers and trailer (even less likely), then find the hidden weed (I became excellent at stashing my gear) then establish to which of the 20 travellers the bag belonged. Of course everyone would deny ownership (with me declaring my innocence as loudly as the rest). To further muddle the unlikely investigation, I travelled with two bags. One held my clothes and passport, so I could obviously claim it as my own. The other just had the ganja. It was the one I would avoid like the plague. I have affectionately named them my “decoy bag” and the “Mother Load.”
However, in spite of my scheming and plotting, I knew that my plan wasn’t foolproof by any stretch of the smuggler’s imagination.
Understandably, there was always a tremendous sense of relief when the bus turned off the N2 and onto the back road to Chintsa. I could let out a sigh of relief, for I knew that there wouldn’t be any more roadblocks the rest of the way. This was pretty much a guarantee. The beautiful drive down the coast back home to Smuggler’s Cove was one filled with a sense of accomplishment.
At Smuggler’s Cove, I'd always get a nice welcome back from my friends. Sadly, their thrill in seeing me back safely to Chintsa had nothing to do with them missing my wit, humour or personality. I had only been away two nights. Alas, their excitement was strictly self-indulgent. They were happy to see me home safely because they knew that, coming from the Kei, I would have a big, big bag of weed with me.
This time was no different. Like vultures, they swept in to get their fix, which I gladly accommodated. They were friends after all. And besides, I too had self-indulgent motives for dishing out handfuls of the Transkei’s finest.
The sooner the weed was gone, the sooner I could do it all over again.

[1] They say that dolphins are reincarnated surfers. One has to make some religious assumptions in order to believe this divination, but after watching dolphins surf with grace, expertise and enthusiasm, conversion is a possibility.

[2] As I continued my travels across South Africa, I learned that weed wasn't sold by weight as it was at home. Grams, eights, quarters and even ounces don't exist in South Africa. Instead, you asked for what the weed comes packaged in. For example, in Cape Town I bought a “bankie.” Being the smallest and most common quantity, the three-quarter ounce bank coin bag was the most popular and convenient for travellers. For most, that amount of dope was enormous and more than sufficient to satisfy one’s habits. I was going through bankies as if they were going out of style.

[3] A “bakkie” is what South Africans call a pick-up truck.


[4] Don’t believe me? Go ahead and try it for yourself. Wave to strangers and count how many genuine, friendly waves you receive in return.

[5] 500 rand, or 125 Canadian dollars, had bought me something in the neighbourhood of two kilograms of some of the best marijuana that I’d ever smoked. That's 2000 grams! In Canada, one gram is 10 bucks. Let me say that again to emphasize my point. In Canada, 10 bucks gets you one measly gram of dope. Here in the Transkei, 125 bucks gets you 2000 grams!

Mod. Note. Commercial links are not allowed. Please read Posting Guidelines. Links removed and warned.