Written by Al Mackinnon

Welcome to Tracks Back – a weekly deep dive into our endless store of archives. This week’s feature is from a strike mission to a remote part of Africa, which Kelly Slater and Jordy Smith also happened to be in town for. Check it out below.

A handful of us were converging from different parts of the world and though none of our trips would be straightforward, Alex Botelho and I knew we had the longest and most challenging. Particularly the latter part.

We’d explored all travel options. None involving the final routes the others would use were going to work, especially because to arrive via aircraft in our destination country required us to have a visa issued weeks in advance, impossible to source in the time frame. From what we could find online, which wasn’t a lot, it appeared temporary visas could be issued at border posts, so theoretically we could fly to a neighbouring country and cross the border on foot, but there was no guarantee.

Here we were – having taken three flights, passed the temperature and vaccination checks and a taxi ride through the night – at the border separating one of the most corrupt countries in the world from one moderately corrupt, the latter being our ultimate destination. Now as the final hurdle loomed, the normally jovial Alex had an earnest look in his eye.

Even though it was barely 5a.m. and for all intents and purposes, dark. We stuck out like sore thumbs: laden with stuffed board bags, other bags/cases with camera equipment and backpacks. As the taxi disappeared in a trail of dust, we surveyed the scene, wide-eyed. Corrugated buildings, concrete, a poorly kept road and more than a suggestion of the type of nefarious activity one encounters at borders.

Suspiciously brown water stagnated in gullies emitting a putrid smell, suggesting a lack of proper sewage treatment. The air was hot and heavy, Alex and I had the sense it was the sort of place one might contract malaria, dengue or some other nasty, mosquito-borne lurgy. We applied repellent, grimacing at that familiar chemical smell and slightly unsettling tingling one gets from the extra strength DEET. Who knows what that stuff does to human skin, either way, it was the lesser of two evils given the number of lives malaria tragically claims each year.

Up ahead border guards were milling around. We aimed for what appeared to be the immigration buildings, more like those temporary huts that you see on building sites. There were several of them, linked together with fenced off alleys and plenty of wire.

A few people were waiting in front of us, and it took sometime for the queue to lessen. I wanted to photograph the experience, but it probably wasn’t a very sensible place to pullout an expensive rig. Wary of riling-up the guards, I surreptitiously snapped a couple of pics on my iPhone until one of the immigration officers glared at me. I hurriedly put it away.

We made it out of the first country, then had our vaccination certificates checked again before going through another network of narrow, wirelined walkways, where Alex’s bulging board bag got stuck and created a farcical scene. Eventually we were funnelled into a slightly more substantial complex, the border offices of our destination country. We were just feet away, but first we had to get that visa…

All was going well, we were called up by a friendly looking soldier, photographed and were about to receive our visas and be on our way when the portly superior came in. His eyes lit up as he saw Alex and me. A few words were exchanged in local dialect between the bloke at the desk and his superior who was shaking his head, tutting to himself as he ushered us into his office.

Our passports in his hand, he looked intently at our gear and then told us to sit down whilst he closed the door. The honcho was now flicking through the pages of our passports, looking at us, glaring at our stuff and then returning to the pages all whilst shaking his head and clicking his tongue in a disconcerting manner. In the brief research I’d done prior to flying I’d read that despite travellers – and locals – officially only needing the relevant documents to get across, bribes were par for the course, rampant even.

“What are we to do, there is a problem?” He had a very grave look on his face.

When we asked what ‘the problem’ was, he couldn’t seem to furnish us with an explanation – but it was unquestionably a big one. The furrowed brow was a nice touch, this was quite an acting performance, but nothing less would be expected from a bloke lining himself up fora fat bonus.

More clicking of the tongue…

“This problem is an expensive one, I can’t issue a visa until we solve the problem. Are you going to help me solve this problem?

Alex and I looked at each other knowingly “Ahh, the shakedown.” Of course, we didn’t say it out loud, but we all knew there was only one way this was going to work.

We pulled our wallets out, we had $50 between us.

We handed him $10.

Honcho shakes his head whilst noting there was more in there.

We took the rest out and showed our empty wallets “This is all we have.”

More tongue clicking, sighing and teeth sucking. Then he reached out and snatched it all and put it in his pocket. Doubt-less it was the equivalent to a week or two’s wages. I noticed the buttons on his shirt were in danger of popping off at any moment, his belly straining. Business was good, and the honcho was obviously dining well on the border tax.

Smiling like a Cheshire cat, he ushered us out of his office“My friends, this way” and instructed his men to issue the visas.

We’d been going through the border formalities for a couple of hours now and I was concerned that the vehicle Greg Long had arranged to meet us might no longer be waiting. Fortunately, shortly after making it through, we were approached by a friendly bloke who, with a combination of gesticulation and broken English, indicated he’d been asked to pick us up.

We loaded up and there was a strange pause and fidgeting as he started the car. I looked forward at what was going on. There was no ignition / barrel in the steering column, he was doing some sort of hot wiring. The vehicle sputtered to life, and we were almost immediately swept up in a column of traders and cattle. It was slow going, but before long we’d broken out of the melee and our driver was expertly dodging potholes at high speed. The breeze coming in through the windows providing welcome respite from the cloying, equatorial humidity.

Point Life

We awoke early and met at Greg and Kyle’s communal area. Constructed of wood frames, filled with mosquito screens it was the perfect brekkie spot. Knowing we had a long day ahead we feasted on a plethora of local fruit, especially bananas, gotta keep those potassium levels up. A couple of lads arrived at the door, dressed in the sort of khaki fatigues inveterate tropical travellers wear, it turned out they were Argentinian. I was curious, it seemed odd to be seeing surfers from south America hereon this wave that was still so secret, mind you, one could say the same for us Europeans and Americans too! We introduced ourselves, it turned out they were two brothers, surfing filmmakers known as the Gauchos Del Mar (check them out on Instagram, you won’t regret it). They had been accessing all sorts of wild and wonderful coasts across the African continent int heir trusty Mercedes Unimog.

Spirits were high, even though the room was filled with people who are no strangers to high-quality, uncrowded surf – you could feel that electricity in the air. We were likely the only people awake, so were careful not to make too much noise or be too animated, but there was still a barely disguised buzzin our hushed tones.

Eventually the excitement got the better of us and we set off to the coast by head torch. The gentlest of offshore breezes was tickling the palm fronds, but as we approached the shore, we couldn’t hear much wave action.

The wave is a fickle one needing a swell direction so rare that it only breaks once a season, perhaps a couple of times on a good year. Forecasts for this part of the world are thin on the ground and far from accurate.

Perched on the sturdy dugout canoes of local fishermen, we strained our eyes to pick up some sign of the anticipated swell. It seemed awfully calm. More figures emerged from the darkness, Jordy Smith and a handful of other South Africans, Kelly Slater too.

The grey light made form and scale difficult to discern. As dawn approached, the eye followed the gentle curve off into the hazy distance. Possibly on account of the sandbar’s vastness and the waves’ form, the lines seemed minuscule.

The mood was somewhat deflated, and the earlier excitable conversation had dampened. A few wandered back for a little more sleep, a second breakfast, or the endless social media scroll.

The chart suggested it should be pumping by now. We’d all spent a lot of time, not to mention money getting to this strip of sand, only for what appeared to be a skunking. The expense and effort are real, but at times like that, surfing, or at least that all-encompassing, obsessive hunt for perfection can show surfing to be the often absurd and selfish pursuit deep down we all know it to be.

Even so, albeit almost imperceptibly, the swell was building. Alex and I hung around, we didn’t have anything better todo and besides, it was pretty remarkable watching the fisher-men’s skills launching those giant, hollowed out tree trunks into the water and timing it out through the increasingly fast and hollow runners on a coast that seldom sees waves.

A couple of hours later the sun was well up and had broken through the haze, regular lines were coiling for hundreds, perhaps thousands of metres, with various choice sections the best being the final 150 metres where the point angled in a little more steeply, helping the waves to slow a little and draw even cleaner as they swung in through a few more degrees.

It’ll come as no surprise when I say there was some pretty exceptional surfing taking place; it was world-class surfing in a uniquely non-competitive atmosphere. The lack of crowd pressure, incredibly playful conditions, and shared understanding that we were involved in something rare (and experienced by few before)leading to a sense of camaraderie not often found amongst the tour guys. Having Kelly Slater there was appropriate too as the point had an Endless Summer / Bruce’s Beauties meets KS wave pool feel.

All that glitters…Sadly, things had changed quite a bit– and not a lot – since Bruce Brown first documented surfing in the great continent. Locals were still defecating en masse on the beach, so one had to keep your wits about you whilst walking back up the point after a wave and especially whilst paddling out. I suppose you’d hope that this wouldn’t happen anymore, but there clearly wasn’t the infrastructure in place to give any other option. Ultimately, it’s all organic crab/fish food anyway…

The more worrying thing was the single-use plastic. It was EVERYWHERE tumbling down the streets, floating in the sea and making up a significant portion of the beach, at times it seemed there was more plastic than sand. Perhaps this was a window in, a microcosm, of the imminent futures aid to have more plastic mass than fish in the world’s oceans.

Seeing this volume of plastic, I wondered what could be done, it would be utterly pointless doing a ‘two-minute beach clean’, there was just so much that it had to be in the food chain too, if there’s that much visible, imagine the micro plastics one doesn’t see! As the fishermen brought in their hauls and the women gathered and gutted them, at one point I noticed a large dugout being capsised on the way in, its precious cargo – a day or perhaps week’s food for many – lost. The men scrambling with the nets and flotsam and jetsam, desperately trying to save what they could, whilst avoiding being knocked out by the giant canoe, which was now pivoting through the lineup. Luckily, the sandbar was shallow, meaning they could stand, as many didn’t look like strong swimmers. The realities of subsistence life, the very real prospect of going hungry, so far removed from what we were consumed with: flying around the world, burn-ing fossil fuels, consuming, consuming, creating more and more waste, our only concern? How barrelled can we get? It was a sobering scene and put things into perspective; how spoilt us surfers can be. The more that changes, the more it’s the same thing.

More than silver linings

The swell ran for just over two days, and though there were certainly all sorts of questions raised in my mind, crises of conscience if you will, there were some glorious waves ridden and good times had. I was also reminded what a freakish talent and fantastic ambassador for surfing Slater is. That said, the two abiding memories – and perhaps legacies – were watching a fledgling surf scene, local children grabbing planks for a bodysurf having been inspired by observing some of the best in surfing shred their local. The lads lent them shortboards too and it was classic seeing the local kids prone, ramming the fins and noses into the sandbar (whilst the pros grimaced at the fate of their beloved sticks ha ha), going over the handle-bars and getting washed down in the shallows before going back for more, they were stoked! Also, Greg, being the fine human that he most certainly is, was initiating a scheme involving funnelling significant money to fund a local program to clean up the beach. Who knows, perhaps, if/when we return, those local kids might be the custodians of the point, and the sands might be as pristine as they were during Bruce Brown’s salad days.