206 - Great “Whites” & Cow Shit Campsite (Gansbaai to Hermanus, South Africa)
GANSBAAI IS FAMOUS AND/OR NOTORIOUS FOR ONE REASON: GREAT WHITE SHARKS. Yes. Cage diving, anyone? Just tell me where to sign. This was our sole reason for going to Gansbaai. And there we were. Found a shop. Signed a release. Hit the open sea. Yes.
Neither Leslie nor I snapped a single photo while onboard, an oversight equal parts laziness, concern for camera damage (salt water), and a general desire to sit back and enjoy. I’d hoped the company would provide a photographer for egregiously overpriced photos. Nope. They did make a DVD, but the price tag (over $50 US) dissuaded us. Also, it wasn’t exactly gripping cinema. Still, hindsight being what it is, perhaps we should’ve splurged. Fiddlesticks.
The experience wasn’t quite what I’d pictured, but I’d be lying if I said I was disappointed. My fantasy of a cage suspended underwater encircled by monsters an uncomfortable distance from the boat was just that—a fantasy. Instead, the cage was attached to the starboard side, obviating the need for diving equipment beyond wetsuit and snorkel. It takes anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours for the sharks to appear after the initial chumming. (There’s a small chance of not at all). We were in luck. A mere ten minutes passed before Jaws Junior showed up.
Besides chumming, the sharks are lured to the cage by a tuna head tied to a rope. Then, it’s time to hold your breath and submerge. The sea was frigid (13 Centigrade/55 Fahrenheit), but it can be much colder. Our tour wasn’t full, so we had the good fortune to spend over two hours in the water. Most of the time is spent waiting and shivering, but when open jaws come within inches of your face, all discomfort is forgotten. You know you’re enjoying yourself when the near-total numbness of extremities is insufficient to get your happy ass out of the water. Yes.
The industry is controversial. Sharks associating humans with food might be a bad thing. (Ya, think?) Surfers are particularly averse to the practice. For what it’s worth, the sharks are not actually fed. The chum is a mixture of blood and other god-awful smelling fish juices, and the only “food” present is the tuna head they don’t swallow. They do manage to catch it in their jaws on occasion, but no feeding takes place. Is this splitting hairs on a gnat’s ass? Possibly.
Whether chumming constitutes less natural interference than feeding is up for debate. I will hypothesize that allowing the public to experience these magnificent creatures close up does foster a deeper appreciation for landlubbers who might otherwise discount these “insidious beasts” as dangerous man-eaters. (Thank you, Steven Spielberg). In truth, they are nothing of the sort. Most experts believe human attacks are likely the result of confusion. From below, we could very well resemble seals. I’d like to believe the benefits of public awareness far exceed the dangers. I’d like to believe that. To bolster my bias, I need only point to the numbers.
“While many people are familiar with this species because of the movie Jaws, which was inspired by a great white shark in New Jersey, the legendary fish is far less fearsome in reality. In fact, just five people were killed by sharks of any species in 2022—despite more people in the water than ever before.” National Geographic.
Awareness is key. Populations are dwindling at an alarming rate. An employee said large great whites are rarely if ever, seen. Nowadays, more often than not, it’s the juvenile males that turn up, as was the case with us. Others are never given the chance to reach maturity because of overfishing and illegal hunting. Large jawbones are especially prized and usually taken from large females, the ones most likely to reproduce. Some estimate female sharks can’t begin breeding until thirty years of age. (They can live as long as seventy years.) Not good. Not good at all.
After Gansbaai, we drove north to Hermanus, a city by the sea and premiere whale-watching hub. Tourists invade the town every year to get their fix. Luckily, ’twas not the season, so all was quiet. We spent an evening at Zoete Inval Travellers Lodge run by a quirky fella, if by “quirky” I mean unapologetically racist. He’d have to be to open up with strangers about the decay of Hermanus after being overrun by “them.” According to Mr. Purebred, “They think they own the place.” Wowie.
Why patronize such an establishment and not stomp off in protest? Well, let me tell you. It was all part of the experience, and in many ways, reflected South Africa’s enormous cultural challenges. And, frankly, I was intrigued. When I meet people like this, it’s difficult to quell my morbid fascination with folks who come across as caricatures or cartoons. Is this fucking guy for real? Yes. Yes, he was. At one point, he was wearing a t-shirt that read, “Don’t kill me. I’m a tourist, not a Boer.” And what of his bluntness? Did he think that I’d slap him on the back and reply, “I hear ya, brother. Stop by the USA. Same shit different country. Who the hell do they think they are, anyway?” Good lord.
We spent the afternoon wandering around town and the surrounding area. We got a little artsy fartsy on a beach composed of seashell fragments. It’s almost like some surrealistic landscaper ran the lot through a seashell chipper and used the beach as a canvas. An almost eerie fog helped bolster an aura of mysticism. Yes.
Afterward, we headed for the hills overlooking the city with an excellent view. And what a view it was. Although on the ocean, you couldn’t tell. A dense fog obscured any trace of water and appeared to slowly permeate the city limits. (Ever watch “The Fog”?) The miasma never seemed to make progress, as if some invisible force was repelling its treacherous advance. Moonlight and ominous music were the only missing elements.
Courtesy of MAKU Visuals
The next day was another drive-a-thon and would take us into the Northern Cape Province via Route N7. Our goal was Springbok and then Namibia, but that was a bit too ambitious. We often intended to stop much earlier but were forced onward because of distasteful accommodations. That day was no exception.
In the evening, we happened upon a lovely gem of a campsite found only by following a dilapidated sign with a picture of a camper on it. Upon arrival, it felt like halfway between Timbuktu and West Bumfuck. It was a combination farm/campground. Prime real estate was on the river, which happened to be the fenced area where the cattle dwell. As the entire patch was booby-trapped with landmines (i.e. cow poo-poo), we deemed it “Cow Shit Campsite.” Yes.
After rearranging shit piles, we set up camp and sipped wine by the water in the dying light. It’s the random moments, the unforeseen endings, the “Cow Shit Campsites” that color the canvas of our memories. I had no idea I’d be savoring wine while lounging betwixt piles of shit and simultaneously amused as I watched a family of cows reunite after stray members, responding to concerned calls from afar (or so it seemed), forded the river to attend the reunion. But there I was, elated it was so.
We weren’t the only tenants. There were permanent cabins on the other side of the fence. A Dutch couple in their eighties occupied one. They’d been dropping by for three months every year for twenty-five years. I saw something most inspiring. The older gentleman led his wife to the riverside by hand while tip-toeing barefoot amidst the crapola in a manner that bordered on poetic. They emanated a vivacity and contentment rarely seen in any couple, let alone one their age. I hate to use the word “magical,” but it just felt so goddamned apropos. Way to go, you crazy kids.
“After a lovely morning atop Table Mountain, we made our way to the tiny coastal town of Gansbaai. The region is well known for two things: great whites and whales. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any face time with Shamu, due to it being the off season; but we did manage to get up close and personal with the ocean’s predator.
I suppose you could say cage diving is something I’ve always wanted to do. Movies like Jaws and the Discovery Channel’s Shark Week helped to land it a spot on my ‘to do’ list, before I kick the can. I’m pleased to say it was a rewarding experience and far surpassed my expectations. If you get the chance, I highly recommend it. It’s a great way to admire these magical creatures, while learning about them in the process.
There are several operators in the area, but we decided to go with White Shark Project. From start to finish the entire process took about four hours and we were lucky enough to spend half of that in the water, shaking and shivering. The chumming process varies, depending on the day. Sometimes you wait minutes; other times, hours. Then, there is also the chance that nothing will show. Luck is something we rarely have, so I was cautiously optimistic, keeping my hopes in check.
Within fifteen minutes of tossing the chum, a nearby great white picked up the scent and came to say hello. Eventually his friends got word of this and wanted in on the action. We saw a total of three different great whites that day, although all were similar in size, making it hard to tell them apart.
We watched from atop the boat, as the first group went in. Having noticed that the sharks tend to go for the left of the cage, I made sure to snag that spot when our turn was up. The murky water makes visibility limited to around six meters in front. Fortunately, they come right up to the cage when passing, so at any given moment, their pearly whites and beady black eyes might be within inches – so close you could reach out and touch them. I thought about it… more than once, but decided I value my fingers and toes.
I’m sad to say neither of us took a single photo that day. We brought our cameras, but stowed them under our seats to keep them dry. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Sad. The volunteers aboard the boat created a DVD, but we thought the price was excessive, so we passed out of principle. Sometimes we’re cheap. Sometimes we’re stupid. Often we’re both.”
Leslie Peralta, “Grrrrreat Whites (Our Cage ‘Diving’ Experience)” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels
“It’s not always easy to find a nice place to camp. It seems that more often than not, it’s either a lovely setting with mediocre grounds or lovely grounds with a mediocre setting. On occasion, you do get both, though. Looking back, I can appreciate a number of the places we stayed; even those that were a little out of the ordinary.
Making it from Hermanus to Sprinkbok proved a little too ambitious for us. With the sun descending, we pulled off the main road and drove until we saw what looked like a small campground along the river. We stopped, got out, and immediately noticed something was, shall we say, odd. The area was fenced off and housed a group of cattle, lazily grazing about. Consequently, the entire area was covered in cow shit. We noticed another couple had pitched a tent, so we figured what the hell, and plopped down too.
We were told to stay wherever we’d like, as there were no designated ‘spots’. So, with no restrictions, we pulled right up to the river, rearranged the poo, and settled in for the night. Most people would be disgusted by this, but honestly, the area was so lovely, that even a heap of crap couldn’t deter us. We made dinner, watched the sun fade, then the stars shine, while enjoying a bottle of wine.
The next morning we watched as several cattle made their way down the mountainside, crossed the river, and came to join us. I had secretly wondered how just a handful of cattle could produce so much waste. Now I see that it’s a family affair.
While sipping our coffee, we also witnessed something rather special, if I may say so. An older Dutch couple, hand in hand, going for swim in the river. It turns out that they have been visiting that same spot for the past twenty-five years. Watching them, it was obvious just how much they care for one another, through simple and sweet gestures. I couldn’t help but wonder what that must feel like; to love someone completely for the rest of your days.
My mind shifted to my parents and a camping trip we took when I was a teenager. It was a lovely day in early August in the mountains above Estacada, not far from Mt. Hood. My parents, hand in hand, jumped off a cliff into a swimming hole, as I watched from below. I have a picture of them doing so – it’s my favorite photo. After they got a divorce, I carried it around in my wallet, pulling it out often. To me, that photo was a window back in time, to when life made sense and I felt safe.
I grew up believing that my parents were happy and whole. It took me twenty-five years to discover that wasn’t the case. That couple, probably in their mid-eighties, fit the image I had created for my parents at that age. On the one hand, it was comforting to see that it’s still possible for two people to have that connection, because I had started to believe it wasn’t so. On the other, it was sad to know that my vision was exactly that – a vision, a dream… and far from reality.
I’m often asked if I believe my parents’ relationship will forever affect my own, should I ever find myself in one, moving forward. I guess the answer is yes, how could it not? After all, I’m a product of my environment and all that transpires within it – we all are. I’m a firm believer that positive things can emerge from negative situations, should you choose to see it. Naturally, it’s not always easy… but then again, change never is.”
Leslie Peralta, “Diamond In The Rough” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels