Durban 1: The Road to Durban

We took last Friday off to head down to Durban, the old British colony on the eastern coast and named for the British administrator in Cape Town who was lukewarm on the settlement (the name helped to lock-in D’Urban’s support).  Now, the city is known less for its history or its huge port and more for its sub-tropical temperatures and expansive beaches.  Our coworkers were quite jealous.

Our coworkers also insisted that we jump off the main highway somewhere in the middle of our 570km drive to see the “Midlands Meander” described as South Africa’s version of a Route 66 with a number of “cute shops” etc.  “It’s adorable, you’ll love it.  Just get off on R103.” 

We now know that R103 crosses the main highway no fewer than 12 times, nearly half of which have signs for the “Midlands Meander”.  Our first detour, at least, was a short trip that transitioned within a few quick kilometers from paved and maintained to neither and finally ended when the “dirt road” and “landscape” merged seamlessly.

The second detour was far more interesting.  You see, Durban is in KwaZulu-Natal province, which includes the former British colony (Natal) as well as the center of the old Zulu empire (KwaZulu literally means “home of the Zulus”).  And of course, we had wandered into the heart of the latter. [1]

It reminded us of an Indian reservation in the States: small towns scattered across a dramatic but rather barren landscape; the houses and even the shacks were painted in traditional patterns and well maintained but everything else had fallen apart long ago; poverty and pride were abundant. [2]  Most of the houses were clustered within a single perimeter fence in groups of four or five (presumably multi-generational families); three to four of these clusters comprised a typical town.  Every single cluster included the traditional round building with a low entrance and peaked thatch roof, even if the rest were shacks.  Eventually, we had to admit bordering on lost, and turned back to the highway.

The third detour wasn’t our fault at all: we were following the signs to the Midlands Meander (it turns out this was merely one of the first of many signs).  We wandered through rolling, lush green hills and stunningly out of place horse farms before dead-ending in a surprisingly rough slum.  There were no road signs, but young men with no shirts but plenty of tattoos seemed eager to help; we backtracked on our own. [3]

We finally ended up in Durban about 7:30p, three hours after the sun had set.  We were also about as lost as you can get.  Although Jess had printed up a set of directions, we had a few things going against us: (1) it was night in a city we’ve never been to and we didn’t have a map, only a list of street names on a sheet of paper; (2) most of the roads didn’t have signs and though some did it didn’t matter because (3) two years ago Durban had changed the names of ALL of its streets.  Renaming roads that honored apartheid leaders after the regime fell 20 years ago is one thing; renaming streets like “Beach” and “Point” or calling “Moore” (after St Thomas) “Che Guevara” is quite another. 

We stopped at a gas station for directions; they’d never heard of our hotel.  I asked them about Mooki's Noodles, a restaurant that we knew was nearby; they’d been there.  Loved it.  Had no idea where it was.  Turns out, they didn’t know where they were (“we used to be on Point Drive”).  I ran outside to check out the street signs, but they weren’t there.  Finally, the owner of the gas station called the owner of the restaurant and we ended up with the following, just in case you’re ever there: “Go a right, a right, and then a left; at the second traffic circle exit at the third robot [4]; drive so there are palm trees on your right and the harbor on your left, then go under the freeway (don’t stop there, it’s very dangerous) and up the hill; turn left at the BP station and it’s down a ways.”  Got that?

 Bizarrely, the directions worked perfectly, and the Mookie Noodle Bar was INCREDIBLE.  If you’re in Durban, this should hold a spoton the top of your list.  The food was fantastic and the owner spent a while chatting with us (“It’s about 20C today [mid 60s Fahrenheit] so everyone stays home and orders take away.”)  We got free dessert – a giant syringe full of chocolate mousse, sake, and chili pepper – and directions to our hotel (they hadn’t heard of it, but looked it up): a nice list of street names on a sheet of paper. [5]

So of course we got hopelessly lost again.  And we were clearly in the “don’t stop there, it’s very dangerous” part of town.  Stopped at a robot [6], Jess leaned out the window and hailed a police car to ask them about the local streets.  A few conversations later, they ended up escorting us to the right side of town.  Then we all got lost.  Seriously.  It took a GPS and multiple stops for directions, but after about 20mins, we finally ended up at the most chic set of bungalows you’ve ever seen.

The Concierge is the coolest hotel no one has ever heard of.  Hard to find (once every 10 years, full moon, etc), but it’s great.  We slept very well that night, had a brunch that alone would have made the previous night worth it, and just finished our coffee just as the van pulled up to take us on the rest of our trip. [7]

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1. We didn’t take pictures, sadly. Jess thought it wrong to objectify people while I was too busy trying to keep the car on the road, opposed in this mission by goats, people, and other cars all of which moved at random and with the worst possible timing.
2. No Indian casinos, sorry Phil.
3. We finally found “The Midlands Meander” on the way home; it was a few cute-isy and overpriced shops along some back-country roads. Our own “meanders” were far superior.
4. The South African name for traffic lights.
5. Sound familiar?
6. See? This is why you read the footnotes.
7. OK, more pictures from the hotel cafe: