Christmas in Africa 5 To the Indian Ocean
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.