Our journalist's near death experience while crossing the raging Mzinyathi River

Durban - If there had there been many people there, it would have been the most humiliating day of my life - it was certainly the most dangerous thus far.

But in the seconds that I found my life under serious threat, the humiliation never received a thought as I focused on just staying alive.

That was when I nearly drowned in the Mzinyathi River.

After surviving the near drowning, further humiliation was heaped on me as I had to do an interview at the home of the local induna in my boxer shorts because my pants had been washed away by the river.

How did I get there? Well, let’s go back to the beginning.

Last week, Doctor Ngcobo and I were dispatched from Durban to Elandskraal outside Dundee to locate a teenage boy, Sgora Mbhele.

In 2011, The Mercury wrote a story about how Sgora crossed the Mzinyathi River daily on his way to and from school.

He lived with his family in Malanga, in KwaHlakazi, which is located near the river. There is no other way for residents to get across the river except to wade through it.

In summer, the river can flood, while in winter its temperature plummets.

A picture of a shivering Sgora, taken just after he crossed the river, emerged on social media recently, prompting curiosity to check how he and his fellow pupils were coping.

After driving for almost five hours we finally reach his then primary school, Mbizimbelwe.

We learn that Sgora had changed schools, and three pupils from the nearby Pathizwe High School give us directions to his home.

The pupils, who are Sgora’s neighbours, said he now travels via pupil transport to a different school in Nquthu.

After a 10-minute drive, the conditions of the gravel road worsen and we have to park the car.

We wait for pupils who are walking and join them on the journey on foot.

We travel for more than an hour on a path that is rough, rocky and deep inside a forest.

We encounter a snake, a puff adder. It is not aggressive and we do not interfere with it.

It is a long trip of steep inclines and declines.

One of the youngsters, Mfakazeleni Mathonsi, 18, said: “We travel like this every day; we have to get up at 5am to make it to school on time.”

We finally reach the banks of the Mzinyathi River and the water is raging.

I have not been anywhere near a river in years, and I am concerned. But at this moment, I am more concerned about having to strip down to my boxers and wade through the river to get to our destination.

To cross, the pupils tell us you have to strip down, put your clothes in a plastic bucket so they do not get wet and slowly and carefully wade through the water, which is above waist level.

The youngsters, more familiar with the crossing, offer to help us across. Ngcobo is proud and rebuffs the offer, saying we can make it on our own.

But a few steps into the river, it becomes clear to both of us how dangerous this crossing is as the water quickly reaches above our waists and the strong current pushes us downstream.

We quickly turn back and discuss our options.

We know we have to cross the river, going back without what we came for is not an option.

This time, we accept the help of the youngsters.

They guide us into the river, holding our hands.

Ngcobo has his camera bag on his back. I am carrying my pants and shoes in my right hand, which I barely keep above the water.

As we get closer to the far end, I slip.

In seconds I find myself floating and on my side, a dangerous position to be in.

As I struggle in the water, in serious danger of slipping under, my teenage guide, weighing 50kg less than me, holds on to my hand and never lets go.

He pulls me, trying to drag me out of the water.

It becomes clear that to regain my balance before the teenager gets into difficulty himself, I have to free my hands.

I dump my clothes and partially regain my footing and the teenager helps me across.

As I sit on the bank to recover my breath, Ngcobo, ever the source of support and comfort in a crisis, bursts into laughter.

He has forgotten that he, too ,was clinging on to a 14-year-old for dear life.

As we head to Sgora’s house, my colleague continues to have fun at my expense, introducing me as a man with no pants to the homeowner, Sgora’s relative and the local induna, Patrick Mbhele.

Mbhele is more compassionate about my ordeal.

“People have drowned there, at least you know first-hand what this river is like. When you write you will be doing so from experience,” he says.

As we cross the river again to get back to the car, this time I have an adult guide to help me.

He keeps me steady and we get across without incident.

Standing across, I look back at the river and think of what could have happened.

The journey back to the car is even longer, and night falls while we are still deep in the forest.

We rely on a cellphone’s torch light to find our way and, more importantly, to avoid stepping on a snake.

We came to the area to document the danger, dread and the humiliation of the community who have to cross the river.

I experienced all of it in one day of crossing the Mzinyathi River.

The Mercury