In South Africa, a monumental sardine migration draws throngs of divers—but leaves locals in the cold

Far from the bustling metropolises of Johannesburg and Cape Town is a stretch of untamed hinterland tucked along South Africa’s eastern spine.

Arterial tributaries from the heartland flow past amber hills, spilling into bays inhabited by beach-meandering cows. Formerly known as the Transkei, a “Bantustan” (‘homeland’) where Blacks were forcibly relocated during the Apartheid era, it’s a part of the country (now incorporated into the Eastern Cape) with a layered history, reachable only by pot-holed dirt roads.

Welcome to South Africa’s Wild Coast.

Set against this backdrop of colonialism and displacement is a natural phenomenon known as the ‘Sardine Run.’ Every South African winter, billions of fish migrate north, following the cold waters of the Benguela current along the Eastern Cape coastline towards the South African province of KwaZulu-Natal and Mozambique, with shoals sometimes stretching for kilometers.

With it come the predators—sharks, whales, dolphins, birds, and more—as they chase tightly packed bait balls in frenzied feeding. It’s Blue Planet-type action, and, by biomass, an event larger than the wildebeest migration of the Serengeti.

In 2018, I went on my first “run”, spending the week on a rigid inflatable boat, bouncing across turbulent whitecaps and blasted by frigid saltwater spray. When our guides finally spotted a swarm of diving gannets signaling elusive bait, we frantically pulled on our gear before plunging into the unknown.

At the mercy of the currents, the scene unfolded: Dolphins herding sardines into a tight bait ball as gannets rained down from the sky, shooting through the water like underwater missiles. Dusky sharks plowed through, an explosion of glittering scales spilling out from their gills. It was beautiful, breathtaking chaos, and one of the most profound moments I’ve ever had the privilege of experiencing under the sea.

“The Sardine Run would be more inclusive. There’s just one thing needed: Investment.”

- Sinegugu Zukulu, guide

And that is the crux of the issue. The privilege of such encounters.

Sardine run dive expeditions range anywhere from USD$3,000-$7,000—and that’s exclusive of flights. In a country where the median annual household income barely hits $12,000 and unemployment is the world’s third highest (some reports cite up to 44 percent but recent reports suggest around 38 percent), diving the run is, brutally, inaccessible to most South Africans.

“It has always been my dream to dive the sardine run,” says Mogamat Shamier Magmoet, a South African diver and underwater filmmaker. “Here is an annual event that the world flocks to… that locals can’t access, simply because we can’t afford to. It’s heartbreaking.” [Since this article was published, Shamier has been named a NatGeo Explorer and was able to go on his first run with Pisces Divers].

Like many things in South Africa, the best goods are exported. Netted sardines are rarely consumed locally; of course, some are, but the amount netted by individuals on beaches pales in comparison to the commercial trawlers that pull out far more, with the bycatch that comes with that. Those catches are mostly packaged and sold to foreign markets abroad.

While there is no concrete data, speaking anecdotally and from personal experience, I’d wager that most sardine hopefuls skew male from the physical demands, older due to the costs, and from countries that benefit from a favorable exchange rate to the weakening South African rand.

The Sardine Run is a bucket-list diving destination, and tourists pay top dollar for off-shore expeditions. I would know—I was one of them. The irony doesn’t escape me that I’m a foreigner writing about the run.

Since 2018, I’ve returned to lead expeditions, bringing people from around the world to experience the same magic. But the more time I’ve spent here, the more difficult it is to ignore the inequalities.

“I would never have been able to afford the run… having multiple doors shut in my face until Divers Alert Network SA contributed,” says Zandile Ndhlovu, founder of the Black Mermaid Foundation, an organization seeking to create diverse representation in the ocean arena. [Since this article was published,  Zandi is wrapping up her sardine run season this year with Offshore Africa].

In a country where people of color are often excluded from ocean narratives, Ndhlovu made waves when she was certified as South Africa’s first Black freediving instructor. “What had always been hard was seeing the world arrive to explore this incredible world that belonged to South Africa… and yet was inaccessible to her people, even less, Black people.”

Simply decreasing the price point to make the run more affordable is difficult. The steep costs are necessary to fund the frenzied operation: Boats, crew, equipment, fuel, aerial support and more.

“Funding is key in terms of improving tourism development,” explains Sinegugu Zukulu, an environmentalist, guide, and a member of the Indigenous Amadiba people. “The government is not investing in eco-tourism development within our coastline… the little that we are able to do are things people are able to start on their own, like homestays or village-based accommodations.”

Zukulu is also a part of Sustaining the Wild Coast, a local nonprofit that focuses on community development. “The Sardine Run would be more inclusive. There’s just one thing needed: Investment.”

Some companies have taken the challenge into their own hands, beginning with skills development in disadvantaged communities to dismantle the barriers to entry.

Nonetheless, some argue that funding may not be enough, nor effective. While in nearby countries such as Uganda, government-incentivized schemes have led to successful conservation stories with mountain gorillas, proper laws to ensure that money flows back into local communities and conservation are difficult to administer on the Wild Coast.

“It’s too remote to police,” a South African who has guided close to a decade on the run tells me, on conditions of anonymity.

“It’s the Wild West,” says another. “Regulations can’t really be enforced… it [is] up to the operators.”

Some companies have taken the challenge into their own hands, beginning with skills development in disadvantaged communities to dismantle the barriers to entry. In Port St. John’s, Blacktip Swim School is the first locally owned and managed swim school founded by Nqobile Jojo, Philani Msungubali and Siyamcela Goniwe and partnered with Offshore Africa, a leading operator in the area. “Very few people of this region are able to swim and have never had the opportunity to learn about water safety, let alone seen a swimming pool,” reads their website.

“Our area is a high drowning incident area,” adds Debbie Smith, co-owner of Offshore Africa. “We are currently in discussions to raise further funds for them to get their own swimming pool [as] they are currently using a private pool. Sadly, our municipality has not been forthcoming in assisting them.”

One thing is for certain: The Wild Coast needs a more permanent solution. “Perhaps, a younger generation to take the lead,” the same anonymous guide muses. “Young people know they need those animals for the next 30 years to make a living.”

As I gear up for the upcoming season, I wonder: What does it mean to have the privilege and accessibility to such spaces? In the world of marine encounters—or any wildlife space, for that matter—what responsibility do we have towards the destinations we are visiting?

These places are more than mere backdrops to Eat, Pray, Love on journeys of self-discovery. Especially in a country with such a complex past, it feels disrespectful to relegate this devastatingly beautiful coastline to anything less.

In 2021, the Wild Coast made headlines again in a highly contested battlefield for Shell to search for oil. When news broke, the country’s youth went up in arms. The public outcry put pressure on the government, and in a historic victory, Shell’s right was revoked.

For a multitude of reasons, the Wild Coast remains a sacred place for many South Africans, and the sardine run is a symbolic confluence of these elements—mankind and nature, exploitation and conservation, Black and white, displacement and home.

“I would love to work towards something that enables local people to witness the run… that allows them to tap into an inheritance that is theirs to begin with,” Ndhlovu says hopefully. “It would be incredibly powerful.”

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Editor’s note: This article has been amended to make clear that while it is possible to view the sardine run from the beach, that that differs from the experience of diving the run, which this focuses on.

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