Hayestack

  Sheena, Georgina, me, the wall and the rockery.

The sudden and unexpected nature of the encounter made it quite shocking. It happened like this. We had had a wonderful night at the luxurious lodge at Ghaub saying goodbye to Addy and Barbara who were returning to the north of England after a three and three quarter stint with VSO at Katima.

“Have you seen the meteorite?” asked our good friend Sheena, a lively 66 year old from Scotland who had come to Namibia shortly after us. She was driving us back to Rundu in her bakkie and was having trouble locating the main road. The more we drove, the more familiar the roads became so that we began to think we were in a vortex loop like the Bermuda triangle from which we would never escape. If you can read this, then we have escaped. If we have not, we are still there and you should come looking. Let me know if you can’t read it.

“No, we have not seen the meteorite,” we replied. Let’s go and see it. It is the largest known meteorite in the world and is 800,000 years old, at least. We parked the car and wended our way to reception. Opposite the rockery is a suntrap wall perfect, with hindsight, for basking snakes and other reptiles. We walked in a line towards this wall, Linda, myself, Sheena and Georgina. As Linda was passing the wall I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and saw a snake wriggling in the short space between Linda and me in an agitated state. One more step and I would have blocked the snake’s escape into the rockery, a most unfortunate occurrence. The word “snake” involuntarily escaped from my throat and I instinctively took a step backwards. Fortunately, Sheena moved in the same direction and Georgina shot off behind the wall. The snake, which seemed just as anxious to get away from us as we from it slid in front of me into the rockery. Between 1-2 metres in length it was brown and closely resembled the black mamba we had seen dead on the road some weeks previously. Not wishing to believe that I came so close to the deadly fangs of such a poisonous snake I am happy to believe it was a less harmful mole snake, though this is shown as being more orange in one book. The lack of obvious moles is inconclusive since the snake may just have eaten them all.

The meteorite looked like a big chunk of metal with silver streaks where people had scraped slithers off. It comprised iron, nickel, cobalt and other metals. It seemed strange that this large object was once flying along in outer space. It was not far beyond the bounds of reason to imagine this to be an alien spaceship and I was half expecting a hatch to open and strange creatures to emerge. I have been standing in the sun a lot recently.

Why is it the roads that seem perfectly flat when you travel along them in a car become death defyingly steep when you cycle them? We cycled to the campsite at Samsitu last weekend. It is a five minute car ride, or 2 hours by bike, and uphill, so it seems, all the way. The strange thing is that it seems uphill on the return journey as well.

The road takes us through many traditional homesteads and little children wave and shout, ”I’m fine!” forgetting that the convention is for us to ask, “How are you? “ first. People stop and stare and we realise that they have probably never seen a woman on a bicycle before, not even a white one. To them, Georgina is an oddity, a freak of nature – something I’ve suspected for years. Georgina makes a point of saying “hello” to everyone and they generally respond favourably. There is a certain reason in her thinking, as these are the communities we shall be cycling through on the way back, and we may need help.

We are riding parallel to the River Kavango which always bursts its banks in the rainy season. This year is no exception and we cycle through tented villages set up by the Red Cross for people along the banks who have been flooded out. Each year after the floods have subsided, these villagers go back to their homes along the river and look forward to next year’s camping holiday. The idea of moving to higher ground may not have occurred to them, or they may just like camping. We do, and eagerly erect our little tent on a pretty site next to the Kavango River, paying little heed to the mud caked to our feet from having to walk over the last bit of flooded track. Our pitch at Samsitu overlooks the river and on to Angola beyond. We look for crocodiles but don’t see any. Instead, an Angolan fisherman stands on the opposite bank, and a canoe and small observation boat float lazily by as the sun sinks slowly into the river. The pitches, secluded by trees and undergrowth, are all empty but one, occupied by a mother from Botswana visiting her son up from Cape Town. We meet in the bar in the early evening after dinner of cold chicken pie and a hot mug of tea. Georgina amazes me by boiling a pot of water over a fire made from a few twigs she has gathered nearby. She tells me it is a skill learned as a Girl Guide. I wonder what other skills she learned there. Maybe she can track a wild boar, skin it and roast it on a spit made from knitting needles and knicker elastic?

Everything here, including the bar and swimming pool, is open air and looks over the river. Andy and Karen, the site owners are pharmacists in Rundu, and know everything about malaria. Andy who reminds me of a slightly rounder Clive Anderson, says we are safe from this parasite now that winter temperatures have arrived. It has headed north towards the equator with the sun. Andy is not unduly concerned about malaria. He has had it 41 times and says it is OK as long as you catch it early. He has learned to recognise the “ping” in the small blood vessels in his fingers (the parasite in the red blood cells makes them swell), the aching of the joints and lower back. Treated early, you don’t even have to stop work. Caught late, you won’t be needing a job. Being a pharmacist, Andy has medication readily available.

On the wall is a sign warning visitors to be aware of snakes. I ask Karen if they see many. “All the time,” she says as if it were the most common thing in the world, and this was not just bravado on her part. “I had a cobra in the lounge the other day. “ she tells me. “ Just put my glasses on in case it spat (deadly venom) and managed to shoo it out. It was no problem.” Andy says he trod on a puff adder behind the bar the night before. Fortunately, he was wearing his leather shoes which took the full force of the fangs (and poison). He was OK, but the shoes died. He had a fright at what he thought was a black mamba in the gloom, but it turned out to be a hose pipe. Karen reassures us they have not lost a camper to snake bites yet. Those who die have usually trodden on a snake, something that snakes aren’t partial to. We made a mental note not to tread on anything resembling a hosepipe, in fact, not even a hosepipe, though we would like to see some snakes before we leave Africa, but at a distance.

The ELCIN Church in Namibia is crazy. Take the other week, only the most important Sunday in the Christian year, viz. Easter Day, Nico and Margreeth, our Dutch friends, were away on holiday, so the congregation had to sing the hymns without the support of an organ. This would not normally daunt them. It usually makes them sing louder if the hymns are good and they have a fair wind behind them.

However, somebody had the bright idea of setting up the organ in “demonstration” mode to entertain the congregation before the start of the service. It is one of those small “Casio” keyboard things that you might give to a child for Christmas. But in the Rundu church with its weird acoustics it can sound vaguely, and I emphasise vaguely, like the organ in the Royal Albert Hall.

Anyway, the “demonstration “programs on these keyboard jobs are designed to cover all seasons and anniversaries so that the proud owner can pretend he can play the thing without the drudgery of practice. We sat in the front of the church staring at the lone keyboard playing such sober and edifying tunes as “Greensleeves” at a very subdued though clearly audible volume. Though Nico’s organ chair was empty, we could almost feel his ghostly presence. Our sombre meditations on the death and resurrection of our Lord were rudely interrupted by the exuberant strains of “Happy Birthday” coming from the mischievous organ. I couldn’t believe it. To laugh or the cry, that was the question. The surreal tone was set. The pastor will turn it off when he comes in. He didn’t. He walked straight past, oblivious to the sound. Easter hymns and prayers were performed to the strains of Christmas Carols in the background. The creed was recited to the accompaniment of “Jingle Bells”, the gospel to “Oh, Suzannah”. You may find this hard to believe. I did, at the time. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Was that a Sousa march? My foot was tapping. Does God have a surreal sense of humour or was the devil playing tricks on us? I was certainly distracted and inclined to sing alone to the catchy tunes in the background. Nobody, not even the guy who had switched it on, stood up to turn it off. Maybe, and understandably, he did not wish to identify himself? Maybe everyone was enjoying the anarchy as much as I?

Eventually, towards the end of the service the pastor suddenly and without a word turned the organ off and spoilt our fun. Soon Nico will be back and we will have to sing properly again. Still, I’m looking forward to singing Easter hymns at Christmas.

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?