The brown water of the Isibhicayi River escapes under the fence of the eastern boundary of Phinda, makes a dash under the bridge of the tarred Sodwana Bay road and then slowly winds its way down to join the waters flowing into the St Lucia wetlands. We also escape Phinda through the eastern boundary at 1-7 Gate, park the dusty, brown car on the tar road next to a tuck shop, head down past the bridge and start winding our own way down with the river. We are armed with binos, bird book and a delicious packed lunch.
“Have you caught anything yet?” we ask the two women fishing with handlines on the river bank, after exchanging greetings. The one under the shiny silver hat replies, “Cha, aziphumi”. They (the fish) are not coming out. Yet…
The birds are busy today. Weavers chatter, abuzz in the reeds instream while a poor, bedraggled malachite kingfisher looks like he could do with a bath.
The floodplain on which we walk has soaked up much the rains of last week. We tread carefully on grass that covers the dry hoofprints of cattle that passed here a few days back. Salty, moist soils are perfect for fever trees and they follow us down the banks of the river, a long line of yellow, also making their way towards the open pan ahead.
Wading through the river, through the reeds and then through the tall, green grass a line of young Zulu girls marches towards us, bundles of wood on their head. As we get closer they stop for a rest. It must be hard work: the distances are far and the load is not light. We exchange greetings as we pass them by.
A boy of about twelve digs for some clay in the river bank as we pass. He starts shaping what are unmistakably the horns of a majestic Nguni bull. Several live models for his sculpture move ahead of him. His father’s cows he answers us. The patchwork herd of black, white, and various shades of brown and grey graze the new grass between the fever and thorn trees. We look around and the floodplains are full of these beautiful creatures, creatures that look like they belong in this wild landscape.
Two younger boys pass with 4 dogs in tow. Catapults in hand they confirm that they are hunting for birds.
The land rises up from the floodplain to our left, and a number of Zulu homesteads perch high on the hillside. As we continue on, the land, and the homesteads, recedes and soon we are adrift in an ocean of grass and cracked clay. Flat and open for as far as our eyes can strain in the bright sunshine. Only the occasional tree and the ever-present cattle break up the expanse that lies before us. It is quite breathtaking.
We make our way towards one of these trees and in the shade, next to the river we enjoy our lunch. A line of cows approaches us, driven on by the shouts and whistles of two youngsters. They cross the stream right in front of us, and as the cows wander off in the direction of the distant hillside they pause. For one of them has hidden his shoes in the bushes next to our tree. He ferrets them out, puts them on and soon they are off after their charges.
On the way back we keep an eye out for the young herdboy-sculptor, curious to see how his artwork turned out. Splashing, fighting, shouting and laughing the two young hunters are in the river up ahead. The hunting dogs watch on. As we get closer the game ends and the clothes come on. I head over to ask after the sculptor. “He has gone home for now” I am told. “But we know how to make little cows too” they tell me.
We sit by and watch as they too gather clay from the bank. Both, also, start with the horns, clearly the most important part of the bull. Slowly we see two very impressive Nguni bulls emerge from the hands of these two youngsters. They are overjoyed at the R10 donation for their efforts and scamper off excitedly to go look for their cows. The river is salty and no good for drinking and they still have far to go to water their cattle in the dam over the hill. We are also thirsty and head back to the car, for an ice-cold Sprite from the tuck shop.
The two women fishing have also had a good day. “Ziyaphuma”. The fish are coming out now.
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