Hayestack

To reach Henties Bay we had to cross the Namib Desert. This is reputed to be one of the oldest in the world and I hoped our little Sirion car was tough enough to bounce its way across. This was no place to get marooned. As we approached the Atlantic coast the sky became overcast and fog began to develop. It only took five minutes and I began to miss clear, blue skies and sunshine. We had passed from summer to autumn in a few moments. The sky was leaden and the air cold. We hit the Atlantic coast at right angles and headed south to Henties Bay. This stretch of coast is a favourite for South African fishermen who gather here in shoals. The town was shrouded in mist and deserted. I had not felt so miserable about visiting the sea since we had turned up at Morecombe Bay in the drizzle many years before. This certainly wasn’t the hot, sunny Africa we had become used to. We had brought tents but we could not bring ourselves to face the inevitable misery involved. We found a tolerable apartment advertised in a local supermarket. Once we had a roof for the night Georgina announced she wanted to drive up to Cape Cross to see the large colony of seals. To me it was a plan guaranteed to make us more miserable. But it was good. As we walked onto the boardwalk viewing platform the noise and stench from the fat, slimy creatures hit you. There were thousands of heads bobbing around but only one toilet, the beach. The colony was a huge food store for hyena and black-backed jackals. We had seen a jackal on the road to the beach and were warned that they were often rabid. On the edge of the seal colony a dead jackal lay on the rocks and, sure enough, it had been foaming at the mouth.

I was delighted to leave Henties Bay behind us early the next morning hoping we would escape the gloom in Swakopmund. We didn’t. Either the depression followed us, or it was already there. Admittedly, we did not see Swakopmund at it’s sunny best, but one could get the idea of this Namibian Weston-super-mare, teeming with South African and German holiday-makers and wishing you weren’t there. We did, however, have a delicious mug of hot chocolate in a smart cafe just around the corner from the beach, but the owner, who welcomed us with open arms when we arrived, greeted our departure with brusque indifference. Maybe we didn’t spend enough? Still, the hot chocolate and restrooms were welcome. We visited Paul’s antique shop and marvelled at the souvenirs from the Third Reich but resisted buying a German military helmet, though it might have fitted under the bed and been useful at night.

Swakopmund was a disappointment. Walvis Bay was worse. It is a working fishing port and has an air of shabbiness and decay about it. Fresh fish would be the natural thing to eat for lunch. But the best we could find was a Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we took to the attractive lagoon in the better part of the town, where we sat eating our American fast food looking at the flock of flamingos.

Hopefully, the world’s highest sand dunes at Sosousvlei would be different. They were spectacular and were at their best at first light looking just like the photos you see in the guide books and the Windows desktop image. We drove down the winding road between the dunes to reach the car park and the short trek to the main dunes, meaning to take photographs of the dunes we passed on the way back. Of course, the light had changed by then and most of the dramatic shadows had softened. We climbed the ridge of one of the highest dunes and galumphed our way back down the side. I didn’t break my neck and felt ten years old again.

We headed back towards Windhoek as there were only a few days before Sally’s flight to the UK. The dirt road through the scrub seemed endless and our bodies continued to vibrate even when the car had stopped. It was a relief to arrive at the tar road at Malteghohe and find our campsite for the night. This was situated in the front garden of a house and craft studio. The lady of the house kept a few dogs which she let prowl around the camping area at will. One of these was large, powerful and aggressive. “They are good dogs and won’t get in your way,” she reassured us. One, a powerful-looking Rottweiler, she kept caged up during the day, letting it scare off intruders at night. She had to introduce it to us so that it did not take us for burglars and eat us. It sniffed our tent, cocked his leg and weed on it. We lit a fire to cook our food. The dogs sat with us looking hungry and expectant. I, for one, was not prepared to argue if they decided our food belonged to them. We cooked and they stared and licked their lips. The tension became unbearable. In the end we had to ask the owner to lock her pack away from us, which she did. “By the way, she added. I always let the pony out at night to have a walk around.” We cowered in bed that night listening to the clip, clop of heavy metal hooves inches from our heads and we hoped the pony would not copy the disrespect to our tent shown by the Baskerville hound, at least, not while we were in it.

Back in Windhoek we had a proper bed at the Rivendell Guest House, and, boy, did it feel good. Our little Sirion had brought us back safely and looked weary, having travelled thousands of miles around Namibia, as it sat in the car park caked with mud. “What would Simon, our car expert in the family do?” I thought to myself. So I gave it a good wash.

It was sad to say goodbye to Sally and watch her drive off to the airport But we had Christmas to look forward to when we would meet up, not only with our children, but the Maust family, too. Wow.

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.

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?

Dusk descends as we leave Windhoek for Upington, South Africa. An Aussie accent breaks the silence. He is a boiler maker back home and works for only part of the year to make enough money to globe-trot. On this trip he has already been to India and northern Africa and is on his way to Pretoria, then on to South America. It appears that he has not seen much water on his travels and has certainly not wasted it on personal hygiene. His Medusan dreadlocks move as though they have a life of their own and his bushy beard is, no doubt, the home to many forms of wildlife. This lone Aussie is not alone. As we journey around South Africa we come across a number of antipodeans, each one travelling alone. Maybe they don’t like each other’s company?

There is even less room at the front of these buses than at the back. I try to stretch my legs and end up practically lying sprawled across Georgina’s lap. I hope I don’t push out the windscreen with my feet in my sleep, though this would certainly improve ventilation. We visit more filling stations throughout the night, each one identical to the last, and arrive at the border as the sun rises behind the distant mountains throwing a golden glow over the vast, arid plain stretching out before us. We make the mistake of using the dirty and, no doubt disease-ridden Namibian toilets to freshen up, unaware of the new South African ones at their custom post just down the road. This is no “drive through” border as between France and Germany. We queue at the Namibian customs and everything is checked. Half a mile down the road at the South African customs we do the same thing again. This time a sniffer dog is let loose on the bus and I hope it doesn’t find our sandwiches. At least this is a chance to stretch our legs and watch the sun rise. We are in South Africa. There are few trees and the social weaver birds have built giant nests enveloping telegraph poles by the side of the road. We don’t see any birds, so we assume they are being sociable inside.

The scenery has been created on an epic scale. Huge tracts of savannah spread out as far as the purple mountains on the horizon. There are no people, no animals except for a few zebras and ostriches which stir up dust clouds as they run. We eventually see a few ramshackle huts on the hillside but no occupants. Further along, a township comes into view. These are made of breeze blocks and regimented into tight rows. They seem the human equivalent of battery farming. Some huts are painted bright, garish colours possibly in an attempt to give them some character and individuality. The rest remain drab and ugly. The bus passes on giving us just a brief glimpse. We are lucky. Some people have to spend their lives there.

We are an hour late as we arrive at Upington. This is a thriving, commercial town with a large industrial zone on the outskirts. We learn later that Upington grows some of the sweetest melons in South Africa. The route gives us a tour of the industrial area on our way to the bus stop. Our first impressions are not favourable. When you’ve seen one factory…. Though we are late, our connecting bus will wait. Our new driver stands patiently by the bus that will take us on to Bloemfontein. There is no rush. This is Africa. We are alone on the bus. A few passengers join us. We wait for more. The idling engine fades and dies. The driver tries to restart it, but fails. This is not the luxury bus we are used to. It has seen better days. The engine eventually splutters into life but it is now making a high-pitched whine and peters out after a couple of minutes. Two drivers from our Upington bus take a look. They give our driver plenty of advice in Africaans but the engine still does not respond. They take out their mobile phones and gabble into them incomprehensibly. This, too, has no effect upon the engine. More drastic action is required. One driver lifts up the engine housing at the back of the bus and all but climbs in. He emerges with hands covered in oil and an expression on his face akin to that of Lady Macbeth after she has slain Duncan. “Is this a carburettor I see before me?” Astonishingly, the engine starts first time. Like Banquo’s ghost the whine gradually emerges from nowhere and the driver once more attacks the engine. The offending noise is exorcised and we take off while the going’s good. It is a matter of faith that we will eventually reach Bloemfontein. The whine threatens to emerge several times during the journey but periodic oblations of water are poured into the engine’s parched throat and catastrophe is averted.

We have crossed the Orange River (which is, in fact, brown) and are now in the Orange Free State. The area along the river is green, lush and fertile. We pass acres of vineyards and once more emerge onto vast arid plains. You can almost see hordes of Boers doggedly driving their cattle and wagons across the scrub to find a home free from British interference. The white tribe of Africa were, and still are, a tough race of fighter/farmers. They were up against it then and are up against it now. Their destiny is one of persistence and struggle.

Kimberley was famous for its diamond mines. Now it is famous for its Big Hole. We pass signs pointing to its Big Hole but go the other way. It is trying to turn itself into a tourist attraction, but just how interesting can a big hole be. Something inside me suggests that we have missed seeing a rare and wonderful sight. However, it is not difficult to suppress this feeling as we chug on accompanied by only a faint whine on our way to Bloemfontein. One thing surprises me about Kimberley. It seems that not much of the diamond wealth was spent on the town. The small part we see seems dowdy and provincial. There again, we do not see the Big Hole.

We try to send an sms text Kathleen, but our Namibian cell card doesn’t work here. We are running about 2 hours late and become concerned about poor Kathleen waiting for us in the heat. She may have dehydrated into a pile of dust by the time we arrive.

Bloemfontein lives up to its name. It is a garden city. Trees spring up as you enter its boundaries. Plant-life is diverse and profuse. Roads are grass-lined and well-cared for. People here love their environment and look after it. We drive past the new soccer stadium that will be needed for the World Cup in South Africa soon and eventually reach our terminus. Kathleen has already seen us and comes to greet her. She looks just the same as she did in Walthamstow all those years ago, and not at all dehydrated. These Boers are a tough race.