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HUCK TRAVELS 2000 MILES ALONG THE SOUTH AFRICAN COAST TO DISCOVER A GENERATION OF YOUNG BLACK SURFERS TRYING TO ESCAPE A LIFE OF CRIME AND GANGS BY MAKING THE MOST OUT OF THEIR TIME IN THE WATER. IN A COUNTRY STILL GRAPPLING WITH DEEP INEQUALITY AND A RACIST LEGACY, SURFING, SAYS MILES MASTERSON, CAN BE THE LEVELLING FORCE THAT SETS THEM ON A WHOLE NEW PATH.

SURFING OUT THE PAST

text MILES MASTERSONphotography RICHARD JOHNSON

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South Africa’s vast townships are one of the most lasting and tangible legacies of the apartheid government. Through the racist ‘Group Areas Act’, people of different creeds were deemed unfit to live beside the white folk of the old republic and moved into what became known as ‘locations’. As a result, South Africa’s towns and cities are today besieged by these sprawling ghettos. While some residents have benefited from the new government through new housing, most still live in overcrowded, crumbling brick tenements or tightly packed shacks made from corrugated iron, bin liners or whatever else they can find.

In the vast open back country, the land struggles to support a burgeoning population, many of whom still exist as their ancestors did: subsistence farming or herding cattle, living without basics such as electricity or tap water. Scarred by their volatile history, these urban and farmland townships are often lawless cesspools of violent crime, disease and the inevitable social dysfunction that goes with them.

Thanks to its now global ubiquity, it was inevitable surfing would eventually be found by some of these South Africans, or at least by those lucky enough to live in coastal townships. From Cape Town to the coast north of Durban, these surfers have finally discovered the fun and potential that lie beyond the beach.

In May this year, photographer Richard Johnson and I undertook a road trip along most of the South African coast, driving over 2000 miles to document the extent the sport of Hawaiian kings has affected the lives of black surfers caught up in the fallout of apartheid.

DURBAN AND THE URBAN KINGDOM OF USHAKA

The sweltering subtropical city of Durban is a crazy mix of cultures, where Africa and Europe collide. On the outskirts of the city, chickens cluck under the feet of hordes of urban commuters at surging taxi ranks, while just a few miles away the affluent kick back in five-star beachfront skyscraping hotels and palatial mansions.

Most of the coastline around the holiday city has long been snapped up as prime real estate. There are few poor townships close to the sea, but the business district is a magnet for Zulus, an ethnic group originating from the KwaZulu-

Natal area, who come here to escape the grind of poverty they face in surrounding small, destitute towns. Many fail and end up homeless, and so over the years a number of projects have been instigated in the city, including surf schools, aimed at uplifting the lives of the street kids among them. Thanks to an urban renewal plan, the once seedy area of Point Road, adjacent to the harbour area of Durban, has undergone massive restoration, culminating with the construction of a new beachfront pier and a marine theme park named after the most famous Zulu warrior of all time, uShaka.

Here, beneath the faux tribal décor, we meet two Zulu surfers: Moosa Zwane, seventeen, and Bongani Mathe, twenty-three. Both are employed by Surf Adventures, which is run by the amiable Alan Wallace, a long-time white surfer who grew up alongside the likes of Martin Potter.

“They came from hell compared to what they are doing now,” Alan says as they greet us with an elaborate African handshake. “It’s a passion for them, a good lifestyle.” Moosa and Bongani are now qualified lifeguards, as well as kayak and surf instructors. They work at Alan’s beachfront concession, giving surf lessons and hosting functions, and using the boards available to sneak in the odd surf.

Both hail from inland: Moosa is from nearby Ladysmith, and Bongani from the townships of Johannesburg a few hundred miles to the north. They painfully and reluctantly relate their own tragic personal histories, woeful tales of growing up with both crime and family deaths caused by illness. Their misfortunes eventually led them to leave their homes – and seek survival alone on the streets of Durban.

Moosa, who always wanted to live near the sea, recalls how he would watch the surfers at New Pier, the epicentre of South African surfing, but how instead of doing it, he got caught up with a gang of thieves who spent their days stealing mobile phones and taking drugs. Moosa met Bongani in the derelict warehouse where they slept at night. They became friends and eventually met Alan. Through their subsequent salaries, they were able to rent their own flats and get off the streets.

“When I started surfing, I never thought I could because I thought it was a white

sport,” explains the tall, lean and stern-looking Bongani, who is also now a seasoned competitive ocean kayaker. He soon realised white guys also struggled to learn, so he persevered and became addicted. “Surfing is the best, I like it so much,” his face then cracks into a broad smile.

Although he still hopes he might get sponsored, Bongani is already too old to seriously consider a professional surfing career, something he admits with a frown. He then goes on to explain how it is still a struggle for them to just even stay in the water. “If you ding your board it comes out of your pay,” he says. “And we can’t afford new equipment after food and rent.”

But stocky teenage Moosa, who describes animatedly how he likes to cross-train at the local park on a skateboard (albeit barefoot and only when he can borrow one), feels he still has a chance and has entered a few local competitions. He attributes his lack of success so far to not having assistance and coaching, or even someone to take more of an interest in them. “We need sponsors, we need boards,” he utters a refrain I was to hear many more times on the trip.

Although Moosa and Bongani appreciate what surfing and the beach have brought them, it seems that getting on the first rung of life is easier than moving on to the next.

“I can only do so much to assist,” says Alan as we prepare to leave uShaka. He explains how he would like to help more, but that he has a business to run and also recently adopted a twelve-year-old orphan, Anile Zulu. Anile surfs every day with Alan’s son Kyle, lives with the Wallace family, and is a little livewire who keeps Alan’s hands full. “Once Anile moved in he dropped his clothes in front of our black maid,” Alan recounts. “He thought he didn’t have to pick them up because he was now white. But we soon sorted that out and told him that just because he lived with us now, it didn’t make him better than anyone else.”

Just then, Anile appears and, unlike Bongani and Moose, declares without a trace of a Zulu accent: “I want to be the next Kelly Slater,” before breaking into good-natured ribbing with new sibling Kyle about who is best at surfing. As fast as they appeared, the boys run off for an impromptu surf to decide once and for all. ▼

not far from the surf school where he now works, moosa

zwane, seventeen, clutches his board and jokes around, happy

he¹s no longer aimlessly roaming some of the seedier durban

streets he used to call home.

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As the brothers dart to the beach carrying their boards, I notice Bongani staring longingly at the three-foot peeling waves. He then snaps from his reverie and gently helps a white toddler at a birthday party into a rash vest. “Maybe I can surf later,” he says.

THE HIDDEN TALENT OF UMZUMBE

Down from Durban, the area known as the South Coast consists mostly of pockets of the former KwaZulu ‘homelands’ and farmland Natal. The main industries here are tourism and sugar, but neither creates nearly enough employment, and the area boasts a crime rate to rival the cities. But it is also incredibly beautiful. Lime-tinted, undulating cane fields roll off into the hazy hinterland, and large-fronded banana plants, filled with chattering monkeys, line the hibiscus-dotted green belts along the coast.

Our destination is the quiet hamlet of Umzumbe, which is sprinkled with guesthouses and holiday homes that stand empty most of the year. Many white surfing champions have emerged from this part of the coast, which has been home to a group of township surfers since the early 1990s. Here, with the aim of keeping the kids off drugs and developing their talent, members of the now defunct white surf club, Localism, took it upon themselves to help many of them to surf. A few of these club graduates were eventually selected for the regional ‘development’ team, which meets similar teams from around the country once a year at the Reef Wetsuits Grommet Games.

In the past, Umzumbe protégés such as Meshack Mqadi and Shadrack Cele have done well in regular junior and pro events, and Meshack’s twin brother, Cyril, is now a sought-after ASP judge, who has travelled as far as Japan. Cyril in turn translated the ASP rulebook into Zulu for the benefit of his kin, which he felt was necessary, as they didn’t know anything about the rules of competition. “I explained that dropping in was like an off-side in soccer, and now they understand,” he says.It’s never been easy to be a Zulu surfer. I am told that some of the earliest guys were taunted on the formerly ‘whites-only’ beaches by racist Afrikaners from up country, and

Cyril recounts how tribal superstitions were also hauled out to scare them from going into the sea. Although they do not fear it as much as their Xhosa brethren to the south, the Zulus still believe the ocean holds much power. They use beach sand and seawater in the construction of their huts to protect them from lightning, and as ingredients in traditional concoctions. The brothers also faced extra resistance because they are twins, something revered in Zulu culture. But when the family realised how talented the kids actually were, they finally relented (although Cyril tells us how his dad once caned his feet because he surfed behind the shark nets).

Shadrack is another talent from that generation. After a spotted career surfing in contests, he ended up working as a security guard in Johannesburg for two years but recently returned to Umzumbe as he missed the sea and surfing too much. Some say he developed a reputation for partying and being temperamental at surf contests, which alienated those who tried to help him. Whatever the case, Shadrack, Meshack and twenty-eight-year-old Dennis Hadebe seem to be the only Zulus here dedicated to looking after the current crop of teenage Umzumbe surfers. Dennis got into surfing recently when he became a caretaker at a white man’s beachfront house, and the kids now use his garden flat to store their dishevelled, yellowing quiver (consisting mainly of poorly repaired snapped boards that they use communally, taking turns).

It is Dennis’ responsibility to escort kids to competitions all around the country. As he directs us through the back roads behind the coast, with twelve kids crammed in the back of my small van, he describes how surfing is a fantastic opportunity for them. But he also adds that some of the older guys in the crew find it frustrating that they can’t take their careers much further.

We bounce down a deeply rutted dirt track and roll to a stop to take some photos. As we walk through the tall grass towards the kids’ humble homes, crickets and frogs loudly protest our arrival. Away from the plush holiday houses on the coast, it strikes me how different this environment is from the neat and orderly suburban beach town not far away, and how removed it is from my own similarly ▼

“when i started surfing, i never thought i could because i thought it was a white sport.”

local ripper prince myende cracks the lip on the writer¹s borrowed board,

backdropped by the umzumbe hills, where his humble rural township is located.

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cushioned life at home in Cape Town. Rainbows of washing hang on makeshift lines, traditional music emanates from transistor radios, and pots cooking the staple ‘pap’ porridge bubble on wooden stoves outside the small mud-floored buildings. “I am very happy about surfing. I want him to be the first black champion,” says Mrs Makhanya, the mother of one surfer. Her son, Vumani, won the under-12 division of the most recent Grommet Games. Further along in the Umzumbe township, we meet matriarch Ruth Ntuli. She beams as we take photos of her grandson Blessing, thirteen, who also placed in his division at the Games: “I am so happy when they bring home trophy and they get nice stuff.”

Surfing and shooting with these guys over the next few days, I notice how athletic and naturally talented some of them are. Ten-year-old Simo Mkhize (who won surfer of the contest at the ‘07 Grommet Games), is already hoisting taildrop floaters over the Umzumbe shoredump. Shadrack’s skills are also amazing, but twenty-year-old Prince Myende, riding my board (which he will somewhat reluctantly return to me later), is the clear standout. Despite the odd eighties head flick (something easily ironed out with some coaching), Prince’s style is silky smooth, and his trick bag includes floaters, snaps and one mental 360 under the lip.

Yet despite having made regional teams, and even being chosen to compete in a special national team for an event in Durban against New Zealand where he finished third, Prince doesn’t have any support. “Surfing is keeping us from bad things,” he says, medals around his neck, as he stands barefoot outside his hut chewing on a stick of raw sugar cane (which,

he says, gives him energy to surf). “We want to be professionals, but the problem is surfboards. We have no sponsors. Some other black surfers in Durban have sponsors, but we are better than them.”

In the past, some of the black kids in Umzumbe have become so frustrated with lack of sponsorship and support they once threw stones at a visiting Australian photographer. They felt the lensman was only making money off them, and they were not benefiting from the exposure, but were soon talked out of this line of thinking.

While cultural difference, social issues and the apartheid legacy are obvious obstacles, some white locals argue that a few of the kids have been spoiled by handouts and must start saving up for their own boards instead of waiting for someone to give them stuff. Cyril admits this ‘gimme, gimme’ sense of entitlement is a problem, and whilst he’s keen to put back into the scene that gave him his chance, when he returns to Umzumbe he gets annoyed by the apathy of some of the kids. “I’m always telling them how to look after equipment, they were leaving their boards on the beach,” he says. “The younger generation are spoiled, we have to educate them.”

“You can only help them so much,” echoes white surfboard shaper Gary Maisch one afternoon in his factory, which lies among the sugar cane in the hills behind the town. The Wedge factory, the second oldest in South Africa, gave boards to the guys early on. But they too became vexed, as they saw how their freebies caused as many problems as they

solved. “They ended up fighting over them,” says Gary. “Plus, once they’ve finished school, you can’t give them too much, they need to learn to earn it themselves.”

Cyril’s twin Meshack agrees, blaming the lack of discipline of some on absent fathers. “The kids need to learn respect,” he says. “If you want a bright future you have to respect everyone – not just black or white or green. Only then will you be all right. Some learn, others don’t.” Meshack also tells us that of the eight friends who started surfing with him, he is the only one left, as most quit due to drinking and drugs. “They say they will come surf but they don’t,” he adds somewhat forlornly.

Issues aside, the Maisches continue to support local kids and also employ a number of Zulus in their factory, some of whom have been there for decades. One such case is forty-five-year- old Alex Madala, who has never surfed, but cuts, sands and waterpapers the precision surfboard fins this little backwater factory has become world famous for. Alex is pleased to see the kids in the water: “Surfing is a nice sport, if you do surfing then you are independent.” Another is laminator Noel Cele, twenty-nine, who used to work in a surfboard factory in Durban, and who surfs occasionally.

Both are happy they can find meaningful employment near their families in the area, and Noel hopes to be the first Zulu from here to shape surf and kiteboards. “Then,” he says from behind his protective mask, “I would like to teach some of the kids to make their own boards.” ▼

“we want to be professionals, but the problem is surfboards. we have no sponsors. some other black surfers in durban have sponsors, but we are better than them.”

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although there is still only one non-white surfboard shaper in south africa, paul jeggels in jeffreys bay, the surf industry provides employment for a number of apartheid¹s disadvantaged people across the country, including this fin sander at the wedge factory in umzumbe.

some of the umzumbe groms frothing over the piles of stickers we gave them.

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THE POTENTIAL OF PORT ST JOHNS

“I feel sorry for these guys,” mutters Quinton Shabalala, a sponsored Zulu surfer who joined us in Umzumbe shortly before we left. “They’ve got such shit boards.” We met Quinton, twenty-three, on a photo shoot in his South Coast hometown of Scottburgh, and he decided to stick with us for this part of the trip.

We arrive in Port St Johns shortly before noon. The township lies between Durban and Cape Town, on the aptly named ‘Wild Coast’ – another old apartheid Xhosa ‘homeland’. Nestled between the majestic valleys of a still unruly and untamed area, where traditional huts pepper the hills, this small town is the local seat of government and a popular tourist destination for locals as well as international backpackers.

First we meet Mike Gatke, Port St Johns’ resident white surfer, who has taken it upon himself to look after the kids. He introduces us to the posse, who stand quietly among us, their boards littering Mike’s riverside lawn. Before long, we realise that most of the surfable boards don’t even have complete sets of fins, so I scratch amongst my own stash and give them about five. Then they realise they don’t have a fin key, so I lend them mine. Although one kid tightens a back fin on the side of his board, and Quinton has to step in to help, eventually we get fins onto about eight ramshackle boards, and head off to the beach.

Forty-year-old Mike, one of only four resident white surfers here, tells us the story of how this little scene came to be. A local entrepreneur who mainly conducts tours to local villages, he decided a few years ago to rent out boards to travellers and open a surf school, and before long was inundated with interest from some of the local kids, who had seen the odd visiting white surfer riding the beachbreak. Mike recounts how one of the kids, suffering from HIV, was cut on a dinged board: “I had no gloves or anything, I didn’t know what to do.”

Second Beach, a short trek through the jungle and across the river from Mike’s HQ, is basically a rivermouth, lined with boulders from shore to shore, so it’s easy to see why their quiver is in the state it is. Some of the kids, especially the beginners, simply ride straight up the rocks, dinging their boards and losing fins in the process. “It does get frustrating sometimes,” says Tim Whittaker, owner of

nearby Amapondo backpackers, who is also involved. “But we are looking at getting them to somehow own their own boards, and are also getting a surfboard shaper up from Port Elizabeth to show them how to fix dings.”

Though the waves are a stormy eight feet, the kids, some wearing only boxer shorts, are all out in the water braving the heavy surf. Quinton (as well as relatively competent surfers Rich and I), paddle out to do a bit of a humble demo for them. We snag a few out back in the hope they will reform on the inside, whilst the ridiculously fit Quinton charges the huge sets like a man possessed, ripping them to pieces. Huffing and puffing, I retire to the beach where some of the kids sit, watching him and waiting their turn on a board. They seem strangely subdued, and I almost feel like we have done something to insult them. “Quinton surfs good hey?” I ask one of them, and all he does is nod slightly before turning his head away towards the sea.

Later on, Mike tells us that three Port St Johns surfers, who are only allowed to use boards if they go to school, have been selected for the regional development team, and have done well in the Grommet Games, some making the semis of their divisions. But from watching them surf, although there is some style and potential, they are obviously very raw and still need a lot of coaching. The best surfer, known only as Pitso, is a wayward kid who picked up a bodyboard about four years ago, and learned how to stand on it by himself.

Entering competitions is perhaps the best way for them to take their surfing further. Mike recounts a recent event he helped organise: “It was very successful. Twenty-three guys from here and other towns nearby entered, and the businesses donated whatever they could. We used bamboo poles with red and green T-shirts for the flags. One kid from the children’s home, thirteen-year-old Buntu Jubane, won the comp with a switch-foot move. I don’t know who teaches them this stuff.”

Besides getting a few donated magazines, the kids also won some cash, the first inkling of what surfing could mean for their community. “It was quite a thing, first prize was R60 (£5), which is a lot of money for these kids,” explains Mike.

Most importantly, the local community is highly supportive of the kids. “I like surfing, it gives them skills,“ says Ntombudono Ndamase, mother to two of the surfers, twelve-year-old

Avuyile, and Zama, who’s eleven. As we stand outside her spartan home, just down the road from Mike’s, Mrs. Ndamase tells us how she is not on good terms with the boys’ father, and only gets R200 (£15) in child support from the government, and that the brothers have to walk three miles each way to school every day.

“They’ve been walking from grade one,” she says, thankful that her boys can’t wait to surf when they get home and that the sport keeps them away from the ‘tsotsi’ gangsters who roam the hills. “They are good boys, staying home so they can study,” she adds. “They want computer so now they can go to website, Zigzag, Billabong…” We also find out from her that thieves steal their wetsuits and sometimes school clothes from the washing line, so she has to sit for hours and watch them dry.

As the sun slips behind the hills, we drive with Mike through the town and visit some of the other kids’ houses. These huts are just like the ones in Umzumbe, but even poorer and more rural. Fowl peck in the damp mud among the huts, their walls cracked and peeling from neglect. At first, the kids seem reluctant to show us their humble dwellings. But as the afternoon progresses, what I perceived to be a mistrustful nature (but in hindsight realise is actually only shyness), begins to bubble over, and explodes into vocal exuberance as they pose for a sunset group photo in a carpark overlooking the beach and town. Whatever reticence there was has now disappeared, and when we all finally visit the Eluxolweni Children’s Home, sanctuary to three of the kids, Luyande Nqandisa, fifteen, Zithobele Msesiwe, thirteen, and Buntu, they can

barely contain themselves as they run around shouting, stirring up even more excitement among their fellows.

Tabisu Malu, general assistant, describes to us how some of them are the products of broken homes, or the usual litany of disease and abandonment we have by now gotten used to. Some of the children, including one emaciated HIV/AIDS sufferer, play checkers with bottle tops and iron their school shirts, as the surfers revel in the attention, posing like stars. Beside their beds, the walls are decorated with pages from surf magazines, including a page with a write-up on Quinton.

Later we learn from Ivy Madolo, the orphanage’s supervisor, that the kids couldn’t get to sleep and babbled about our visit all night. They are probably still talking about it. ▼

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avuyile ndamase and his younger brother zama, port st johns. avuyile and zama walk three miles

and back to school every day and live to surf.

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Township taxis are a uniquely South

African mode of transport. Unlike your

typical city cab, these minibuses could

well have earth-shaking subwoofers, wry

slogans slapped on the back window, an

airbrushed 2Pac or Biggie on the side

– and a driver who is more than likely

to be armed.

They are also the only form of

transport available to the majority

of South African people, even though

thousands die in these rolling metal

coffins every year. As we approach

longboard surfer Kwezi Qika’s Cape home

area, Ocean View, he motions to a taxi

crammed with passengers weaving through

the traffic ahead. It cuts on the

inside illegally and gaps a red traffic

light, barely missing a truck rumbling

through the intersection. “I have to

catch those to the beach,” he says.

“Those drivers are crazy, it’s like a

crazy extreme sport.”

When he won the junior division

of the 2005 South African Longboard

Championships, Kwezi became the only black

person to do so in the country’s surfing

history. With the victory came local

media coverage and international attention

from the likes of CNN and ESPN Magazine.

Suddenly, even gangs wanted to recruit

him in some twisted form of marketing

exercise, and his long-since absconded

father appeared miraculously. “He only

wanted to know me now I’m famous,” says

Kwezi with a dismissive wave of his arm.

“But I’m not interested.” Kwezi, a smiling, energetic and

slightly goofy eighteen-year-old,

attributes his success to the hard work

of his mother, Gladys. He says his mum

is ‘his rock’, and despite some early

misgivings about the safety of the sport,

she has now come to fully appreciate

what he does. Over the years, Mama Qika

has managed to stretch her meagre wage

as a domestic cleaner to send him to

a decent school in the surf town of

Muizenberg. Adjacent to the warm waters

of False Bay, a short (but still hairy)

taxi ride from his home, Kwezi got to

hang on the beach in the afternoons,

where he was first exposed to surfing

– and immediately longed to try it.

Every day he would go to the beach

before school and pester local surf camp

owner Gary Kleynhans for a board and

lessons. His persistence paid off, and

under Gary’s patronage and sponsorship

Kwezi, who now works for the school part

time and stashes his own board in the

shop, fast became competent at surfing.

Encouraged by Gary to enter

competitions, Kwezi, whose name means

‘morning star’, dominated most local

events. Before long his bedroom became

a trophy cabinet and, as he began to

collect more accolades and medals, he

also picked up sponsorship from surf

brand Reef Wetsuits, as well as

international brand PUMA, who now pay

for many of his surfing expenses. PUMA

also help his mother by rewarding

her support with food vouchers over

Christmas. These, says Kwezi, go a

long way to helping his whole family.

Standing in the potholed streets

of Ocean View, where gangsta graffiti

declares ‘Fuck those who hate me!’,

Kwezi is thankful to Gary and all

those who have supported him so far.

Downplaying his status as a black surfing

pioneer, he humbly recounts how one of

the guys who started surfing with him is

already behind bars. “When I won my title

he saw me on the prison TV,” he muses.

For now Kwezi, who has already

been to the US and Europe to surf in

contests, just wants to finish high

school, compete, travel, surf and then

study further. “Once I’m done surfing,”

he says, “I want to open up a business

and make a name for myself in the surf

industry.”

Perhaps then, he will finally be

able to buy a car, which means he’ll no

longer have to brave the adrenalin sport

that is the South African township taxi

ride. Miles Masterson

QUINTON AND THE ROAD BACK

“You whites have it so lucky.” As if we weren’t feeling that way already, in his easygoing way, Quinton makes sure we do now. As we all relax at Amapondo that evening, he regales his own story to us. Quinton got into surfing through lifesaving in ‘Scotties’ six years ago. He went on to place in a few local events, and now gets all his equipment for free (as well as some cash for travel and contest entries). He is much liked in South African surfing circles, where talented black surfers like him are still all too rare.

Quinton raves to us about the Port St Johns surf scene and explains how surfing has enriched his life similarly. He also tells us that in the township he comes from, school kids will shoot each other for a small wrap of drugs. “My friend died from a bar fight that led to a nine-bullet execution at the local school,” he says. “That’s why I spend all my time at the beach.”

Braving the gauntlet of wandering livestock and mutts (and the bloody corpses of those who didn’t make it through the night) on the road out of Port St Johns, I recall all the drunken bodies, gyrating to thumping beats at a party in the beach carpark the day before. I hope that many of these kids can use surfing to stay clear of the ugly aspects of this wild place, and that all the negative cycles prevalent in township life will not be repeated here.

Despite the poverty and misfortune I’ve seen on this trip, my emotions lift as I recall all the joy that surfing has brought to these kids and their families. I’m then further buoyed as I remember the words of one of the boys from the children’s home, Zithobele, which resonate in my head as we speed home: “I love everything about surfing, getting the right wave, it is a beautiful feeling.” .

“my friend died from a bar fight that led to a nine-bullet execution at the local school. that’s why i spend all my time at the beach.”

Thanks to the following backpackers for providing us with accommodation:

Ubuntu Backpackers, Wavecrest, Jeffreys Baywww.jaybay.co.za

Anstey’s Backpackers, Bluff, Durbanwww.ansteysbeach.co.za

Sugar Shack, Eastern Beach, East Londonwww.sugarshack.co.za

Amapondo, Second Beach, Port St Johnswww.amapondo.co.za

Mantis and Moon, Umzumbe, South Coastwww.mantisandmoon.net

For more on Ubuntu and the other backpackers, please go to www.huckmagazine.com.

Other thanks:Mike Gatke/Back2Back Adventures, Port St Johns; Pax Nydoo; Alan Wallace; Dennis Hadebe; Roosta, Sean and the Lange family; Gary and Justin Maisch; Grant Stringer, Reef Wetsuits; Ronald Rink and Brett Bellinger, PUMA; Chris Bertish, O’Neill.

SURVIVAL 101: THE KWEZI QIKA STORY

the port st johns surf posse chill post-session in a kraal of huts in the hills above second beach.