Hayestack

John and friend

Yes, I don’t know what it means either. There is a new law that says everyone has to pay to register their land that they have lived on for generations. It is not just the cost of administration but constitutes a substantial tax on the poor. A Community Volunteers Day was organised to advertise the benefits of Formalisation. I would not have touched it with a barge pole (if I had one) had not John, our gardener, been involved in the drama competition. Bruce, Linda’s partner, and I were at the market by nine in the morning, the appointed time for this entertainment. We expected a few minutes of street theatre where a few actors improvised while a crowd stood around cheering. Instead, we found the market set out like a huge theatre with a large stage and many chairs. They were expecting a very large audience. We were shown to the front and had VIP rosettes pinned to our shirts. We felt like prize exhibits in a cattle show. We sat and waited…and waited…and waited. Nothing was happening. I went off to do my shopping. They were singing the Namibian National Anthem when I returned. It was refreshing to see how seriously they took this. Even those on the periphery who could have got away with chatting amongst themselves stood solemnly. The government feels it important that the many tribes should be united as one Namibia. They have chosen English as their official language as English, one Namibian politician told us, “is the language of liberation, of freedom”. “The different tribal regions will be able to talk together and Namibia will be one nation.” We hope that his instincts are right. At the moment, most Namibians speak to each other in their own language, though all business, commerce, media and education is in English. Most schools are failing partly because the learners do not have a good command of English. Also, the education system is generally mismanaged by incompetents and the corrupt. Otherwise, they are doing fine.

After the anthem came the introduction of guests. The market hall was large and the public address system inadequate. They spoke in English with a Rukwangali translation. We heard the same speeches twice, but didn’t understand them once. It didn’t matter as, with a booming sound system, it all sounded like one big blur. We could make out about one word in ten. The honoured guests stood up and waved to the audience. I thought I heard the Master of Ceremonies say the letters “VSO”. He was staring at us. Bruce had casually mentioned to the lady who seated us that we were vaguely connected with VSO. Suddenly, we were their official representatives and honoured guests. We stood up and gave the audience a wave. The Mayor gave a speech, the chief Technical Adviser gave a speech, the Chief Liaison Officer gave a speech. Each time, somewhere along the line the letters “VSO” were mentioned and we smiled sweetly and appropriately.

frangipani (should have been in the last post).

We had been there since 9am and there was still no sign of the drama.

“I’m going at 11.30 if the drama hasn’t begun,” I said to Bruce, who particularly wanted to see the plays as he does some directing back home. I was bored out of my mind.

The time for the drama came and went. The lady speaker, who didn’t need a public address system, started giving out certificates, which shouldn’t have happened until after the drama. They had changed the order of the programme. We had sat around all morning for nothing. That was enough for me, and for Bruce. We exited stage right, pursued not by a bear but by gardener John who was a bit disappointed that we were not prepared to waste the rest of our lives waiting for a non-existent play. In fact, the 9am dramas did not start until 1pm. No-one was surprised except us. Delay is the African way. We should have known better. Unfortunately, John’s drama team, though highly comic, did not win, but it was a great day for Formalisation and I didn’t waste the rest of my life.

I have found a new pet, or more accurately, it has found me. Why it chose to land in my garden and wink at me with its great golden eye, I don’t know. It is a banded goshawk according to Nico (who loves birds) and who knows about these things as he has a book. It’s funny but the name goshawk sprang to mind as soon as I saw it. I was walking around the back of the garage to water my germinating melon plants and I almost trod on it. If it had been a black mamba I would be communicating this to you from celestial realms where everyone has state of the art laptops and free, superfast broadband connections.

Apart from its razor sharp beak and stiletto-like talons it did not look at all dangerous. I determined to keep my distance in case it mistook me for a frog or vole and tried to carry me off to its dining room. It made no attempt to fly away. It was friendship at first sight. I was so happy with my new pet I began to fantasize about how we would spend time together. Birds of prey like to hunt. We could roam the hillsides together looking for small animals to snatch and tear apart. Naturally, I wouldn’t eat small rodents myself but if I taught it the skills of an osprey, maybe it could catch fish for me. Oh, the wonderful times we would have together, my goshawk and I.

My new friend needs a photograph and a name.

“Don’t go anywhere. Just fetching my camera,” I said. He winked assent. We were already communicating.

As good as his word he hadn’t moved a muscle when I returned. In fact, he looked like a very handsome goshawk statue. Only his winking eye told me this goshawk was not stuffed. We had a little photo-shoot and I tried to capture his best side. I approached him from all angles and he knew instinctively not to fidget. His poise before the camera was natural and serene and would have made an excellent goshawk fashion model.

Now, the name. Spurning alliteration (Gordon the goshawk, Gary the goshawk just didn’t suit) I went for SK since initials are always cool and matey. They stand for “serial killer,” but I’m not going to tell SK that.

“Here, SK,” would be our cry over the vast Namibian hills.

Karen arrived and was introduced.

“Nico (who loves birds) would want to see this,” she said and gave him a ring. He came rushing over and confirmed him to be a banded goshawk. By this time I was getting concerned about my new little friend. Apart from his eye he hadn’t moved at all since we’d met. I had just read “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” about a man who could only communicate by moving his eyelid. Maybe this was the goshawk version. Or, perhaps he was exhausted, even ill. Nico (who loves birds) offered SK a mop handle to perch on. He ignored it. Nico gave him a poke. SK did the splits and toppled over. Sadly, it was SK’s final topple. My new, two hour, pet was gone taking with him my hopes and dreams.

John, our gardener has interred SK in an unmarked grave amongst the frangipani trees.

At last I have found a pet (or pets, to be more precise) that I can love and care for but which won’t dominate my life. A cat or dog needs constant attention. Ants don’t. A cat or a dog needs a kennel or cattery when you go on holiday. Ants don’t. A cat or dog needs feeding and watering every few hours. Ants don’t. They don’t need taking to the vet, nor are you distraught when one dies as there are always more. And I don’t mean keeping them in a glass tank such as you see in the zoo. Ants are free and fiercely independent creatures whose natural dignity would be curtailed were they kept trapped in some cruel enclosure. No, my ants feel the refreshing wind of freedom on their tiny little faces in the morning. They travel hither and thither or wheresoever they would go. They are constrained in no way by me.

They first entered my life as little black spots scurrying around outside my bedroom door. I am ashamed to say, my immediate response was to exterminate. Early conditioning is to blame. Then I thought why, in this continent where death is cheap, why fall into the easy trap of destroying what I don’t like? Why spuriously destroy something you cannot replace. Ants are small and intricately made. They are a miracle of creation. They are well organised and cooperative. They march in lines in their constant search for food. One line travels out of the garage, another meets it going in the opposite direction. There is a moment of confusion , then they go on their way. They carry neither food nor bottles of water.

At the moment, their favourite footpath is into our shower. They enter through a crack in the ceiling and parade in close formation over the white tiles to the hot tap and spend some seconds exploring this before retracing their steps to the crack in the ceiling. They are playful little things. Sometimes when the shower splashes them they bravely hurl themselves off the wall like cliff divers, and have a little splash around in the puddles on the floor. Their comic antics are a joy to watch.

The main problem is finding names for them all. I tried doing it systematically, starting with Aaron and ending with Zebedee but I soon ran out. Maybe I need to get hold of a “Naming Baby” book. Another alternative would be to call them all Anthony with a number. For example, we would have Anthony 1, Anthony 2 etc. You can see what I mean. But I thought the numbers would dehumanise them (or should that be “de-anticise”). You will appreciate that apart from “antics”, I have been very sparing with the “ant” puns. I didn’t want it to be silly.

Most people do not realise how affectionate these little creatures are. I often feel them playfully tickling my legs, as they make their way up to my knees. They like sky-diving but are nervously reluctant to make the initial leap. I help them out, and with a chuckle and a flick send them into what for them must be the stratosphere and earthward again. They are so intrepid they do this without a parachute.

They love my company. Only last night Peter, or was it Mabel (I still have trouble recognising them) came scurrying over my laptop keyboard wanting to play. Luckily, I needed a “q” rather than a “w” and a catastrophe was averted. I was cross but relieved. With a puff of breathe I sent it flying to bed with a flea in its antenna. They don’t realise how dangerous it is out there alone at night.

Oh, horror. I’ve found a pot of “Doom Powder, Kills Crawling Insects on Contact” on the window sill in the toilet. I fear it is already too late. I have discovered tell-tale signs of white powder in the cracks in the shower and it’s not talcum powder. My little friends are no more. Bath time will never be so much fun again. I shall have to shower alone.

                          Boarding the Intercape, Christmas Day

Early on Christmas morning we trudge through the Company Gardens for the last time. Now seasoned backpackers, we are comfortable carrying our rucksacks and other bags and no longer feel conspicuous as the ridiculous geriatrics we undoubtedly look. Hopefully we would inspire sympathy rather than violence from any mugger. David has dashed off at the last moment to buy his Christmas dinner and doesn’t return in time to say goodbye. We have cold chicken, olives, crisps, chocolate and other treats for lunch on the Intercape bus to Namibia. The station is already alive and a queue is forming. It must be about this time that two of our fellow travellers, a mother and son, are mugged here and lose all their possessions. We see and hear nothing and only find out about it once we are on the bus. Their lack of passports is a real problem at the border and delays our bus considerably. Our discomfort must be nothing to that felt by the victims who, so easily, could have been us.

We travel all day and night and arrive in Windhoek on Boxing Day. It is a public holiday and everything is shut. The lack of traffic makes it feels like a ghost town. The only people on the streets are young men who seem to be looking enviously at our possessions. We feel very vulnerable and a sense of panic rises within us. We’ll find a backpacker’s hostel and take refuge there. The empty streets fill us with concern. Every car seems dangerous. The backpackers is on the other side of town. We can’t find it. They have shut down. It no longer exists. The next one is a short walk away. They are open and will let us use their facilities, which includes a swimming pool, for just N$20 (£1.40) each. Our feeling of relief is palpable. But we have to cross the city again later that evening to catch the bus to Rundu. Windhoek is supposed to be a relatively safe, law-abiding city, and I was not expecting such a tangible feeling of menace when it is empty.

                                                           African sky

We arrive back in Rundu about midnight and, although relieved to be home, we are still suffering the after effects of our recent experiences. We decide to take a taxi even though we live only a short distance from the bus’ drop off point. The journey takes about 2 minutes, but since it is after midnight, the driver charges us at least double the usual rate (N$20). As the taxi drives away we realise we have left our tent and another bag in the back of the car. Forgetting paranoia, Georgina runs back through the dark streets to the taxi rank with me in hot pursuit. The driver hands over our luggage telling us what a good service he gives. He also tells us that the twenty dollars we gave him was not enough. We still owe him N$20. Unfortunately, we have left all cash at home. Besides, our ride had been short and we feel we have given him enough. He takes it in good part and, instead of running us down, offers us a free lift back home. Feeling brave, we decline his offer, preferring to walk the short distance home under the stars. Our Christmas in Africa 2008 draws to a very pleasant close.

                                          Table Mountain

If I had to live anywhere in South Africa, I’m pretty sure I would choose Cape Town. It is smart, cosmopolitan, friendly and small enough to be able to walk anywhere. We certainly feel more secure and comfortable here than in any other part of South Africa. The main centre lies between the newly developed harbour and the impressive and imposing Table Mountain.

Our first experience of Cape Town is not auspicious. A taxi man, touting for business picks, up our rucksack as soon as our minibus stops and leads us through the crowd, supposedly towards a taxi that will take us to our hostel. He is accosted by another taxi driver who wants our business. An argument ensues with the new, younger driver winning by throwing our rucksack into the back of his car. We ask the cost of the journey but he is reluctant to give a price. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good deal,” he says. That’s what we fear. We insist on a price and eventually he quotes £14 to take us half a mile up the road. With a polite “No thank you,” we grab our rucksack and walk speedily away. The original taxi man is still following us holding out his hand. We give him a couple of dollars for carrying our bag. He holds out for more. “No, that’s enough,” we say, but this guy is not easy to shake off. He eventually gets the message that we mean what we say and falls back into the crowd.

One of the good things about Cape Town is that everywhere is within walking distance. Our backpackers hostel is just under Table Mountain and is a good one. The “Ashanti” is one of the few backpackers in Cape Town that takes tents. We simply have to stay there as there is nowhere else. The man behind reception is flexible. “If you can fit your tent in you can stay.” At first sight there is no room. It is a small area anyway and a large, sprawling tent takes up half the space. The guy ropes of another tent stretches out unnecessarily wide. With a bit of imagination we could pitch at an angle, encroach upon the path and block the French window to the female dorm. An intruder would have to climb over us to gain entry. “Did you find enough space?” asks the receptionist. “Masses,” I reply. We had arrived.

Cape Town is an enclave of civilisation and glamour. The newly developed harbour has an attractive collection of shops, restaurants, entertainment areas.

Large, expensive yachts line the marina while people sit at waterside cafes sipping coffee and soaking in the atmosphere. And all the time Table Mountain stands proudly as an ever present backdrop, shielding you from the poverty and distress of the rest of Africa.

The Hillsong Church meets every Sunday in the new, international conference centre nearby. Following Simon’s (our son) recommendation we pay them a visit and watch a very entertaining nativity tableau produced with Hillsong’s usual style and opulence.

I am back in childhood when Santa, descending from the back of the hall, shakes my hand thrusting into it a candy lollipop. Equally memorable are the unusual, modern washbasins in the rest rooms, comprising a jet of water falling onto a flat, inclined slab of marble. Strange the things that impress us.

We struggle up the steep hill behind our hostel to the base station of the cable car that will take us to the top of Table Mountain.

We contemplate the steep angle of the cable and wonder how the car can make it vertically up the last few hundred feet. We buy a single ticket as we are going to risk taking the footpath down. We have put on an extra layer of clothes as it is much colder at the top. We are mad. One extra layer is totally inadequate. It is like the north pole at the summit and everyone is turning blue and shivering uncontrollably. A few people wearing fleeces smile smugly as we develop goose bumps bigger than geese.

There is a small shop on the summit selling fleeces and woolly jumpers. They are doing a brisk trade. The view is spectacular, especially when the clouds part. We can see Nelson Mandela’s Robben Island just off the coast. We ask at the Information desk about the footpath down. The girl claims she knows nothing about it. Are we sure there is one? She wants to sell us tickets down in the cable car. We want to walk. We will ask the guides. These are three pensioners who give guided tours of the plateau in their spare time. They are well wrapped up in anoraks, sturdy boots and carry walking sticks. They look incredulous when we mention the path. We have no warm clothes, no water, we are wearing sandals and have no stick. We are utterly crazy, they suggest politely. It is a steep and very dangerous path. We are about to commit suicide. The rest of the group smile sympathetically. We are innocents; we are foreigners and English to boot. I feel that the guides mistakenly think I have suggested climbing Everest in my shirt sleeves. They peer at us closely. Are we experienced walkers? I am indignant. We’ve walked everywhere, up mountains, down mountains, through mountains, over mountains. I list all the mountains I have ever heard of and several I haven’t. We’ve walked around the world twice and are planning to walk to the moon. We are obviously seasoned walkers. The guides relent. They will show us the start of the path but will take no responsibility for the tragedy that will inevitably befall us. “I will read about it in the newspapers tomorrow morning,” says one of the guides with an annoying smirk.

They show us the path as if it were the Holy Grail and wave us on our way. The path is steep and stony but in no way is it an exceptionally lunatic way of getting down the mountain. There is a steady stream of walkers going in both directions. It is a very enjoyable and sensible way to descend. Moreover, we have saved a small fortune on the price of a ticket.

Halfway down the path we hear a scream and see a young girl doing cartwheels through the undergrowth. She stops with a bump and lies still. Her two young friends sit on the path crying hysterically. They think she is dead. Three young, energetic young men come trotting down the path. One happens to be a doctor. They just happened to be passing. The girl is not dead. She is not really injured at all, apart from a sore ankle. She had slipped off the path and tumbled down the mountain. She was still unsteady on her feet so we agree to help her to the bottom. She is fifteen and in a school party. The teacher has gone on without them. As we reach the bottom of the mountain our leg muscles begin to seize up. It is agony. We barely make it back to the hostel and it takes three days for our legs to return to normal.

We walk through the sunlit Company Gardens to Cape Town Cathedral situated at the end. The gardens were laid out centuries before to supply the many ships sailing around the tip of Africa. Now they are just a beautiful place to stroll on your way to the centre. It is Christmas Eve and we are on our way to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at the cathedral. We are walking with David, a backpacker about our age from New Zealand who has tagged along. He had owned his own vineyard down under and has come to experience South African viticulture. He thinks the wines here are wonderful. Even the cheap ones are very drinkable and superior to the “plonk” you get back home. He has put a bottle of “fizz” in the fridge for us to celebrate Christmas after the service. The cathedral is quiet outside and we speculate whether we will be the only ones in the congregation. The cathedral is, in fact, full and many faces are black. This must be one of the high-lights of a Cape Town Christmas and it amuses me to think that, here in Africa, we have found people enjoying one of the most quintessential of English Christmas services. We notice that Archbishop Desmond Tutu is preaching at the Midnight Service, but this time he will have to do it without us. Even the hard ground of the tent seems attractive when you are exhausted.

Our ride to Stellenbosch is in the largest and most comfortable bus yet. The road takes away from the coast into the hills and vineyards of one of South Africa’s most renowned grape growing regions. We pass the Klingklop brandy distillery and the Robertson Winery, names we have become strangely familiar with after such a short stay.

Our driver is as good as his door to door word and having driven around lost for a while and with the help of our guide book, eventually drops us off at out backpackers hostel. This backpackers is friendly, relaxed and has a good sized garden for tents. It also has backpackers who like to talk loudly way beyond midnight and we hope our early morning noisy movements wake them up prematurely and leave them feeling tires and bleary eyed for the rest of the day.

It is just a few days before Christmas and the lights are being officially switched on. The manager gives us directions. “The quickest way is here,” he points to a map. “But if you feel unsafe come back this way as there is more traffic.” Stellenbosch is the second oldest European settlement and the colonial architecture is splendid. The town square, nestling between 2 churches, is large, bordered by trees and decidedly French in feel. The many strings of lights are hung ready between the trees, and a metal tree covered with lights stands at the centre of the park.

Crowds have begun to gather and sit on the grass listening to a loud band on a lorry stage at one end. As the sun slips down behind the trees, the band mercifully stops, giving way to the usual, interminable speeches from local bigwigs. After only a short while the amplified speeches are competing with a hum of background voices. I look around. Everyone is talking to his neighbour. No-one, apart from Georgina and myself is listening to the longwinded speeches. Nevertheless, they drone on incessantly. Complete darkness comes with a growing sense of anticipation. Soon the speeches must finish. Someone flicks a switch and the square is illuminated by thousands of coloured lights. The effect is amazing and for the first time we feel a little bit Christmassy. Sirens wail and the blue, flashing lights of several fire engines appear down the street. The power surge has set something alight already? A white bearded man in a red suit and hat is waving from the first vehicle. Surely, this is our cue to depart? We slip away as the procession circles the square and heads for the central tree. Maybe they are going to string up Santa Claus?

We are just a stone’s throw from Cape Town. Forget the minibus taxis. We could go by train from here. “Travel in daylight and make sure there are others in your compartment,” we are advised. From what we have heard, on-lookers merely provide an audience for an attack. You would be very lucky if anyone intervened to prevent one to even to staunch the flow of blood pumping from your wound. The station on the edge of town is old and dilapidated. A few people hang around following you with their eyes. There is no timetable and no indication when or if, trains ever run through here. I suppose the African way is to turn up and wait for the next train whenever that may be, hours, days or weeks. The people are predominantly elderly. They have probably been waiting years. No-one knows when the trains run. In the end someone hazards a guess that it might be at lunchtime the following day. We decide to take a minibus taxi.

Loaded with all our stuff we head out the next day. “The taxis are just up this road,” says a helpful, but less than convincing, passer-by. We trudge on. Two miles later, we ask someone else. “It’s just up there.” “Just,” in this case can be translated as 10 miles. We see a rusting chunk of metal on a piece of waste ground. This is our taxi that will take us to the outskirts of Cape Town. Feeling as though we have already walked there, we squeeze into the minibus taking the last of the seats and sit around roasting in the sun for at least six more people to arrive. There is always room for just one more. This is the bus where the driver takes six attempts to shut the sliding door and it is the worst taxi so far. We don’t mind, we are on the last leg of the journey to Cape Town, the end of the line. As the driver crunches the gears and the minibus wheels begin to turn we begin to pray.

Looking for whales, Mossel Bay

As we travel along the coast towards Cape Town, we enter the acclaimed “Garden Route” of the Southern Cape. This is one of the lusher and, reputedly, most botanically interesting parts of Africa. Some plants here grow nowhere else in the world. We travel through its green forests and valleys and I am reminded of journeys through the British West Country. It is certainly no more picturesque here. The only differences are that, the sun doesn’t shine all day everyday in Devon, temperatures rarely reach 34 degrees centigrade and there are no signs that warn “Feeding the baboons will incur a fine of 100 rand”. Otherwise it is just the same.

Plettenburg Bay’s up-market ambiance rivals Torquay. We drive through it with scarcely a second glance as our backpackers hostel is 7 kms north. The owners, former hippies, have collected us with characteristically casual timekeeping from the taxi rank. He has a strange accent and a stranger looking beard. We are being kidnapped for all I know. The publicity states that this backpackers is situated “on a pristine farm with white picket fences.” Whoever wrote that must have been on hallucinatory drugs as the farm is dilapidated, the fences falling down and must have been painted before paint was invented. “Visitors may help themselves to the vegetables growing in the garden,” says the sign. In the event, there are only two radishes on the tiny plot. “Have you helped yourselves to the vegetables?” asks the long haired, paunchy lady owner enthusiastically. Georgina, who has tried one of the radishes is able to say “Yes, thankyou.”

The one great advantage of this backpackers is that it has unlimited internet access and not many people around to use it. We forgive it all its other faults for this alone. Besides, we are only staying one night. There is also a television room and a selection of aging videos. The threadbare couches smell of dog but we manage to get through one film without gagging. It is a shame that dog owners grow oblivious to the smell of their own pets. The film is set in Africa and stars Kim Bassinger, who had, apparently, turned from the erotic to more serious (lol) acting. Her talents, it would appear, are more suited to the erotic. The film makes such a big impression I cannot remember the plot. It’s Africa, though. There were elephants and they had big ears (like the male lead).

The other backpackers owner drives us to the minibus taxi the next day. He is formerly from England and very pleasant to talk to. He takes our photograph to go on their website. We smile and try to appear like happy, well satisfied customers. Thinking of their internet connection helps us with this.

We drive through the beautiful lagoon town of Knysna, reminiscent of the English Lake District, and stop at Mossel Bay. We like this small, comfortable seaside resort with many historic buildings. The backpackers is compact and attractive. We just about manage to fit our tent on one side of the small front lawn. Any closer and the bushes would be inside our tent. As it is we can justifiably claim that we have “camped in the bush”. The coastal promenade is just down the road and the school field there has been turned into a camping site for the summer holidays. Tents and caravans are so packed together that people camping in the middle would have to be air lifted in. We come to a large cave overlooking the sea which has been developed into a whale watching platform. We stare out to sea until our eyes become blurred and our heads spin. But there are no whales today. We should have been here last October when the whales were migrating along the coast. Never mind, we see a lot of rock dassies which are a kind of very large, guinea pig. They can be quite tame and approach you for food. Some of them have a mad, rabid look in their eyes. A large one stands in the middle of out path and is reluctant to move. We stare each other out and the mad dassie is the first to blink and slinks into the undergrowth. Further along the cliff path we meet a young couple staring out to sea. After mild interrogation we discover that the girl comes from Walthamstow. We try to resist the cliché, “What a small world,” but it inevitably slips out.

Georgina is keen to swim in the Indian Ocean before it meets the Atlantic just down the coast. The rocks here form a natural swimming pool. Though waves crash into it, it is safe to bathe. There are even chains sunk into the rock for swimmers to cling onto to stop them being swept away by the swell.

natural pool, Mossel Bay

In the evening the High Street is transformed into a large, Christmas market. Strangely enough, this takes place just once a year and always before Christmas. We walk along inspecting the stalls. It could have been Walthamstow market especially after our earlier experience. It sells the same cheap, tawdry trash. There is nothing distinctively local or interesting about it. One novelty is the stall that cuts up potatoes to resemble a twirly thing on a stick, which is deep fried as one long twisted chip. Somehow I manage to resist. Nothing else catches our eye apart from a shop selling palm trees covered with so many fairy lights it illuminates the night sky and must warn shipping for miles around.

Our friendly receptionist’s boyfriend drives a minibus taxi and he will fetch us and take us door to door to Stellenbosch, our next stop. Luxury. The trouble is that all the other passengers are picked up door to door, so we have an extensive tour of the local housing estate, several times, before we are eventually on our way. Will your National Express bus stop and wait while you pop back home for a pair of shoes you’ve forgotten?

Humewood, PE

Our minibus takes us into Port Elizabeth through one of the outlying townships. This is one of the most shocking and disturbing experiences of our journey so far. It is if a gigantic bonfire had been dismantled to form a massive rabbit warren of shacks and lean-tos for people to live in. Scrap timber and branches have been assembled to provide shelter for a desperate population. To live in such a sprawling mass of degradation must be like hell on earth. The well-spaced, traditional homesteads of northern Namibia made of mud and branches are attractive residences in comparison. Next time you throw out that unwanted off-cut of MDF or rotting piece of pine, remember that it could form an essential part of someone’s kitchen or toilet in a South African township.

We are heading for Humewood, a former white, and therefore, comfortable, part of PE. Our black driver won’t take us there. He says he didn’t know the way. I don’t believe him. He drops us off in the centre of the city and we walk. We climb the hill to our preferred backpackers and arrive hot and sweaty. We are on the verge of collapse. The receptionist gleefully tells us that the hostel is full. We use her restroom to freshen up and phone the backpackers down the hill. It has space for a tent and provides free tea and coffee. We love it. We walk along the promenade and wonder where in Port Elizabeth my brother lived when he first came emigrated to South Africa. We arrive at a new shopping mall with an ATM to get money. A young black couple sidles up closely behind us. “You have to press that button and put in your PIN,” the man says. He reaches out to press the button for me. “Now put in your PIN”. There was no way I want to push that button with them breathing down my neck so I press the terminate button. “No,” shouts the young woman in my ear as though I was about to cost her a lot of money. “You can’t do that,” she cries, seeing her scam evaporating. “Just watch me,” I reply, taking my card and beating a hasty retreat. Credit card scams are very popular in Africa and we have been warned against them. We are not sorry to have spoilt their fun. No doubt we have cost them a lot of (our) money.

There are Christmas lights along the promenade. We decide to return after dark in spite of the guide book warning us not to. The lights are all the prettier for the hint of danger and we are practically alone on the prom apart from a few figures waiting in the shadows. We experience no problem but are relieved to return to the hostel intact.

Port Elizabeth is a historically interesting city. It has one of the most beautiful libraries I have ever seen. Built in the reign of Queen Victoria, shelves of books reach up to the sky on different levels all visible from the ground floor. It is truly inspiring. “All libraries should look like this,” I whisper to Georgina. The female librarian overhears and smiles. To cap it all, a resolute, unamused statue of Queen Victoria stands guard at the entrance. I feel a frisson of pleasure tingling down my back. It may be that, at this very moment I feel proud to be British. It symbolises the best we have given Africa and I try not to enjoy it too much. The politically correct would not approve.

We climb the hill past the Opera House (the only remaining in South Africa) to the pyramid built by the first Governor to his wife, the eponymous Elizabeth, who died prematurely at the age of 28 years.    

We enjoy the views over the city and look far out to sea. No whales visible. Port Elizabeth has a lot of history attached to it. An ancient fort guarded the harbour and houses the grave of its beloved first commander, Captain Everett. Everyone seemed to have liked him, even his wife.

Further up the hill is the renowned equestrian statue and rider to those horses which fell in the two world wars. The nearby Checkers Supermarket makes a very good “Cornish (ha,ha) pasty” which more closely resembles a very good steak pie. The heroic deeds of military horses are best remembered standing beneath this statue eating one of these pies (hopefully not made of horse meat). Ahh, who cares?

We have booked a minibus ride from Port Elizabeth to Plettenburg Bay but have to wait until midday for more passengers to arrive. As we leave the sprawling industrial area of Port Elizabeth behind us the driver puts on a tape of a tramp wailing, “Give me the power to go.” Looking out at the sprawling township I am entirely with him in spirit.

  East London

After a couple of days Willy Junior gives us a lift the short distance from Kei Mouth to East London. We have enjoyed our stay but the relief on departing was like leaving home for a second time. The feeling of independence was palpable and the world was waiting to greet us.

East London, like its UK counterpart is run-down and dilapidated. Its wide streets remind us of former, grander days but they are now quiet and deserted. The promenade has more life. The southern end is more opulent with a beach recreational area, comprising trampoline and other amusements. A smart, promenade shelter is spoilt by a large dollop of human excrement on the seat. We move on and eat our spam sandwiches on a bench overlooking the Indian Ocean. East London is predominantly a black town. We seem to be the only white faces around. The guide book advises travellers that the northern esplanade is dangerous. We wonder why and head north. We pass through a gated fence monitored by police. Families are sitting around eating picnics as if this were a bank holiday. This is not dangerous. We are most at risk from the sand blowing into our eyes when we sit on the beach. We walk further up to see a crowd of people bathing in the sea. A massive crowd has gathered and seem to be hanging around waiting to see someone drown. We don’t linger. The males are in groups and their eyes follow us as we walk around. We head south and feel less uncomfortable when we leave the gated northern esplanade. The town has an old colonial feel. The houses and streets are grand but dilapidated. They have seen better days and the roads are eerily quiet.

The Nic Nac backpackers hostel is an oasis of charm and tranquillity. Our tent just fits into the secluded garden bordered by banana plants and other exotic species. There is a pool and good cooking facilities. We are in paradise and will be reluctant to leave.

Nic Nac Backpackers

Camping in a backpackers’ hostel is one of the cheapest and most enjoyable forms of accommodation available. We are travelling light, so we have a tent, a sheet sleeping bag, but no mattress. Who needs luxuries like a mattress? Humans slept on the ground before mattresses were invented and it is surprising how quickly your body becomes accustomed to it. Try sleeping on the floor for a few nights. You’ll love it and, either your spine will benefit, or you will be crippled for life.

We are on our own now and have to get to Cape Town by Christmas Day when the Intercape bus will take us back home to Rundu. The main buses along the coast are prohibitively expensive. Georgina is feeling adventurous and wants to take the black minibus taxis which are much cheaper and within our price range. The taxi area is a sprawling, chaotic mass of people. One man can make sense of it and tells us which minibus will take us to Port Elizabeth. We squeeze in with our entire luggage so tightly that we can barely move. The rucksack wedged on my lap must be a sure proof against any accident. I feel safe, though I cannot move my legs. This is fine for five minutes when I decide I want to move my legs. This casual desire rapidly turns into an absolute necessity. The very fact that I cannot move them makes me crave it even more. I will go mad if I cannot move my legs. Do I have legs? I can’t feel them. Just as I begin to panic the bus stops and the rearrangement of one bag turns hell into heaven.

Nineteen of us are travelling at great speed in a minibus taxi allowed to carry 12 people. Georgina and I thought we were the last to board but we waited for at least a half a dozen more people to squeeze on. We feel safe and everyone is friendly, but I wish the man behind hadn’t been eating garlic for breakfast. Who eats garlic for breakfast?

“Whatever you do, don’t use the minibus taxis,” everyone has warned us. There are a variety of reasons for this. The vehicles are not road worthy; the drivers take unnecessary risks; they may even fall asleep at the wheel; you may be kidnapped, mugged or worse. There is a cemetery in Rundu dedicated to the victims of one minibus accident. The entire complement of 18 was killed outright in a horrendous accident on the Windhoek road some years ago. Drivers are not regulated and can be reckless. They drive fast and sometimes overtake on dangerous bends. The driver might have driven too long without a break. The vehicle may be mechanically unsafe. There are many reasons why not to use the minibus taxis. Our experiences, on the other hand, are generally pleasant. The exclusively black passengers, are friendly and helpful. One young lady even tolerates our luggage on her lap on one journey. The drivers are caring and considerate. The taxi ranks may be dens of thieves and muggers but we see none. Above all travel is cheap and affordable. The vehicles range from new and clean to old, battered and dirty. Only one vehicle felt unsafe and that was between Stellenbosch and a town on the outskirts of Cape Town. The driver takes 6 attempts to shut the crumpled door next to me and the rusting vehicle bounces along at break-neck speed, threatening to roll at every corner. The journey is mercifully short.

Kei Mouth

Willy is a careful driver. Some may call him slow. I wouldn’t, because we rely on him for our lift. He veers off across the yellow line that marks the hard shoulder. I wonder if he is just taking a little nap at the wheel but it turns out to be a common tactic to allow the faster drivers behind us to pass. There are frequent road sides that command, “Do not ride the yellow line,” but nobody pays them any attention. Willy rides the yellow lines a lot as there are many racing cars and even racing lorries behind us. “We’re on holiday, we’ll take it easy. In a few hours we paddle in the Indian Ocean. We’ll get there before it’s dark”, he tells us. “Are we on the right road?” he asks. “This is the right road, Willy” I reassure him. He stops the car to check the map. Later on, “According to the map we have to turn left here,” I urge. Willy stops the car to phone someone who knows the way. Yes, we have to turn left here. Eight hours after we set out on this five hour journey we arrive at Kei Mouth in total darkness. Exhausted and relieved, we find the right accommodation. It is a large bungalow with a separate block of three “motel-type” rooms which look as though they are as tired as we are. The bungalow has seen better days and its dimly lit shabbiness threatens to cast a gloomy shadow of depression over us. Willy, however, is overcome with enthusiasm. “This is the Ritz,” he announces with glee. I, thinking he says “pits”. I agree. They have spent an arm and a leg on this place and it would be churlish to spoil their holiday especially as they have been kind enough to take us into the bosom of their family. “We are lucky to have this place,” he announces. I study his eyes to see if he is being serious. Sadly, the balance of probability suggests that he is.

Nobody has brought coffee. Willy must have his coffee. He has a friend nearby who will give him coffee. Willy and I jump into the car. Willy was here last year. Surprisingly he finds his friend with little difficulty. Willy’s friend has a boat. “I am going fishing in that boat,” he tells me as we drive past it. Willy is a fishing fanatic. He has come to Kei Mouth to catch fish, and catch fish he will. Getting back to the bungalow is more difficult. “We turn right here, Willy.” “No, it’s straight on,” he replies. After getting lost for an age we eventually find the right road. I suspect he still does not trust my ability to navigate. As we approach the bungalow we see 2 armed men lurking in the shadows. Georgina has pressed the security button by mistake and these are the guards who came running. It is reassuring to know that we have a little army on our side.

In the daylight, Kei Mouth turns out to be a small seaside resort complete with camping site, bars and a fish and chip shop such as you might find on the Devon coast. Hidden behind the foliage of trees and bushes is a long golden, unspoilt beach. We walk the short distance down to it from the bungalow. Willy has come bare-footed as he doesn’t want the bother of carrying shoes on the beach. We are only halfway there and the gravel paths have all but crippled him, but he determinedly gropes his way over the stones. His face is a picture of agony and regret that he did not wear anything on his feet.

As we walk along the beach, we dip our toes into the Indian Ocean and pick up strange and exotic shells. The sea is surprisingly cold. Willy and Hilion have been talking on their mobile phones since we left the bungalow. Now they stop for a few moments to enjoy the beach. Willy sees fishermen and is overcome by the urge to catch fish. “We shall have fish for tea,” he announces with what turns out to be unfounded optimism. He strides off to glean local knowledge. He returns gloomy. He needs a fishing licence but the post office is closed for a national holiday. The old Africaan’s Victory over the Natives Day has, since independence, turned into National Reconciliation Day. It is stopping Willy getting his fishing licence and he is not happy.

Later that morning three of the “children” arrive. They are grown up, independent and, somehow, have been persuaded to join a family holiday. Willy Jnr is a great reader and has brought along three “self-help” books. Hilion turns up her nose at them. He is determined to improve himself by the end of the holiday. He recommends I read Wilbur Smith. They are fully of historical detail and can be very sexually explicit. I like historical books and make a mental note to read one.

Ben, the other son, is more of a fishing fanatic than his father. To him, fishing is not a hobby but a way of life. “You won’t see much of me,” he warns, “I shall be on that beach fishing day and night.” He is distraught when he finds out about the lack of a licence and so is everyone else when he destroys the bottom of his sister’s new Volvo by driving too fast over the gravel road. “We shouldn’t let him drive for the rest of the holiday,” Willy whispers to Hilion. Ben is unhappy, but the fish are not.