London Letter: Fisherman bonding symbolises the real SA

LAST week I was in South Africa, and it is true what they say that some things never change.

We can thank our lucky stars that that is so, because it is the constants, more than the variety, that make life such a rich tapestry.

The trip came out of the blue as management’s mom was having an operation and management wanted to be there.

Believe me, the biggest drawback to immigrating is leaving loved ones behind.

I had a few days holiday owed and when management pointed out that we would be staying on the beach, it was spring in South Africa and I could cast a spoon in the surf, my seat was booked in a blink.

Management’s relatives are among the most fun-loving people I know, which is a distinct advantage as the cliché that you can only choose your friends is a truism. I’m not sure they think the same, but they’re stuck with me.

Anyway, a table was booked at an Umhlanga restaurant and the game was on.

It was as though we had never left. There were a few ‘how is so-and-so’ inanities – but the talk was all about the present.

In fact, a good friend also arrived and even he, a Scotsman, barely mentioned the UK apart from bemoaning the fact that his ex-countrymen didn’t opt for independence in the recent referendum.

Conversation was fast and furious and I battled to keep track of the wickedly funny banter being hurled across the table.

But my ears pricked up when my nephew-in-law mentioned tiger fishing in Cahora Bassa. I couldn’t believe it – that was something I had wanted to do for decades as it’s one of the last wild fishing places around.

Frontier fishing

When I lived in Mozambique our next-door-neighbour used to hunt and fish in the area during the height of the Frelimo bush war as he wasn’t going to let a few flying AK-bullets deter him. Those same hardy adventurers carried on fishing in the lake – Africa’s fourth largest – throughout the vicious Frelimo-Renamo war as well. So it’s one area that has ‘frontier-fishing’ stamped all over it.

After a few more beers, the dream trip was virtually booked in my head – although it’ll probably remain a dream after the nightmare of working out expenses and logistics of getting from London to Tete.

That’s what makes South Africa so special – the sense of all-pervasive fun that you don’t find in England.

The next morning, feeling a whiter shade of pale (I can’t keep up with Zululanders anymore), I was walking down the beach with a fishing rod and almost every second Indian I passed greeted me.

It took me back to the days of apartheid where fishing talk between whites and Indians was arguably one of the first racial barriers to fall. I’m not saying they socialised, but there was the bond of the sea and when fishing was discussed, there was no colour bar.

When I passed the southern tip of the village one Indian came up and said I was mad to go further down the beach as the water was ‘filthy dirty’. He showed me a gully where there was clean water.

It was quite rocky and as I was using a spoon, I stood no chance of hooking a resident blacktail or karanteen. He then suggested I go to an outcrop of rocks on the northern end where there were ‘no fishing’ signs, but the authorities didn’t mind.

Now where else do you get such quality advice from a complete stranger? That’s what makes South Africa special.

That night I stupidly broke a granite holiday rule and watched the TV news. The main item was outrage over a couple of Pretoria students who had gone to a fancy dress party dressed as maids. A picture of them had ‘gone viral’, the newsreader said in what appeared to be the most blatantly manufactured hype I’d ever seen.

It depressed me for a moment.

Then I thought of the lunch with friends and the chats with Indian fishermen. To me, that’s the real South Africa.