Aftermath: The Knysna fire

19 June, 2017
Knysna, South Africa

The first thing we noticed was empty space, bereft of vegetation, brown barren patches. Closer to the road, the burnt hulls of arboreal life were a stark contrast to the green leaves clinging tenaciously to their trunks. Patches of ash littered the scorched earth.

The road was undamaged. It dove down into the Knysna basin, skirting the estuary. Roofless buildings with half collapsed frames haunt the landscape. As we crossed the bridge, we got a full view of the Knysna heads, brown and barren. Slowly we drove through town, staring in quiet shock at the burnt landscape, blackened vines clinging to stone walls.

This is my third field season in Knysna. The jewel of the garden route, it boasts clear skies and calm lagoon, surrounded by a ring of mountains. Multi-million (USD) homes crowd the peaks and sides, affording a view of the beauty.

The location has been used by Homo sapiens for thousands of years, a fact that drew us; the scientists, students, curious: thirsty for knowledge. Knysna was our home, at least for six weeks of the year, and we feel a keen sense of interest in it.

We made it to the parking lot near our site without incident. As we headed toward the beach, walking across the lawn and down the flight of stairs, we suddenly realized that the stairs weren't there any more, just a series of descending platforms.

Wandering down the muddy embankment adjacent to the stairs, we crossed the cobbles and made our way through the brush. At first, the fire damage appeared minimal: a blackened bush here, skeletal trees on top of the cliff, the faint scent of smoke. Suddenly, the brush before us and alongside us were charred, patches of brown, unhealthy but alive, leaves mingled with the remains of their less lucky neighbors.

            The cave appeared intact, sandbags clinging to the slope where we had carefully placed them on the last day onsite. The slope to the cave, usually featuring a staircase and rope, was slippery and treacherous. As we slowly climbed, hand over hand, pausing briefly to survey the crashing waves or fynbos, we noticed the burnt vegetation. The sandbags, perfect from a distance, were pocketed with small holes, the edges of which had been seared. Fortunately, whether through a combination of concreted sand or the damp coast, none had truly burst into flame. However, it was sobering to realize how close the fire had come.

            A new layer of sediment had accumulated on top of our tracks, undisturbed except for the meandering footsteps of a bird. Nature moves quickly to reclaim its own.

            On the way out, we stopped to stare at the western head, before making our way through the brush to the car.

            Knysna is deceptively busy, the organized chaos masking the recent wounds. Some of these still gaped: the crumbling houses, burnt walls, ashy vegetation. We stopped by the lodges that are our regular accommodation. The hills surrounding it were usually picture perfect, wooden lodges overlooking the calm estuary. Now, they were mostly destroyed, one house remaining while its neighbor had vanished. Above us, men worked to repair the roof. Swathes of grass were equally flammable, blackened through the braai pits and around the pool. Naomi and I wandered around, noting the melted hunk of fiberglass, but not paying any particular notice until her daughter pointed out “Wasn’t that our kayak?”

            On weekends, and warm weather (or clear skies) pending, we would take turns paddling the boat around the arm of the estuary next to our flats. Dr. C. has put a notice in our circular dictating the conditions under which we may do this (a.k.a. sans alcohol), prompting some of our crew to ask for the story behind this edict. Fortunately, there isn’t one. The most exciting thing which has happened was an ill fated voyage which sank in the shallows (no one was harmed). Many of us have fond memories of the kayak, and felt its loss keenly, even as we learned more about the homes destroyed, and people displaced.  

            The proprietor came to speak to us, telling us of the terrible day, and how his family and holdings only just managed to survive. He pointed out the post which was burned through on the bottom, which was only smothered through Frikkie’s quick actions. He described how the fire came from the hill to his lodge in only four minutes, how all that was left of a house which had sold for 8 million only the year before were the cement posts towering over the trees. He also promised that it would all be repaired before we arrived to stay in two weeks.

            The restaurant we spend four nights a week at survived; the house next door was destroyed. A lot of things have changed. For those of us, who don’t have roots in Knysna, briefly putting down our feet for weeks or months, will probably never understand the depth of their loss. But we hope that our presence this season provides more encouragement than difficulties.