Hayestack

We stayed in Rundu for the next few days to catch our breath before heading south to the Etosha National Park and the coast. This gave us a chance to chill out, and for Sally to visit Georgina’s school and meet the learners. On our way to Etosha we camped overnight at Treesleepers where elevated platforms allow you to pitch your tent amongst the branches of the trees. A wooden spiral staircase is built in, so you don’t actually have to climb the tree. It is a long and perilous way to the lavatory from the platform, so if you think you can hear the distant sound of Victoria Falls in the middle of the night you can imagine what is occurring. Unless the moon is shining, the total blackness and absolute absence of artificial light will protect anyone’s modesty.

The Etosha National Park is the main Game Reserve in Namibia. It covers a vast area and has a large, dried up lake at its heart. If you’re lucky, you can see any number of zebra, springbok, Kudu, giraffe, wildebeste, elephant, etc. You have to be lucky to see lion and rhino, and really lucky to see leopard or cheetah. Buy a lottery ticket on that day. Naturally, when the animals hear that we are arriving, they scoot over to the other side of the park which is closed to visitors. In the several times we have visited we have seen most animals in various numbers, but we have not yet had occasion to do the lottery. With Sally we took the main route through Etosha stopping at the best waterholes on the way. Leaving one, we saw the biggest herd of zebra we have ever seen, coming out of the bush and heading straight towards us in our parked car. I hesitate to say this but no doubt they were looking for the zebra crossing. One of the most striking features of Etosha is the dried up salt lake at its heart. We drove onto the pan and surveyed the stark whiteness all around us. It’s an amazing sight. The Halali rest camp, with its shop, restaurant, information centre and watering hole, is a tourist village half way along the main route. The camping site resembles a hardcore car park which did not look at all appealing. I am told that the once pristine ablution block have deteriorated a lot. At the Anderrson Gate, the Park’s exit, we climbed the old brick tower and watched 2 old elephants destroying a tree just below us. As it would soon be getting dark we found a campsite just down the road. We arrived just before a large safari bus full of intrepid explorers who, fortunately preferred exploring the other side of the campsite.

We set off early the next morning for Outjo and, beyond that, the Atlantic coast. Sally was driving and enjoying the blue skies and empty, straight road. We were travelling fast, but safely. We could see as far as a mile ahead. The two black dots on the road ahead gradually turned into little figures, larger men and then full-sized policemen. Unfortunately, one had his arm raised, beckoning us to stop. “What’s your hurry?” he asked, good-humouredly. It was 7am on Sunday morning, no other cars in a five mile radius. Why were the police mounting a road block just for us? They didn’t seem that serious about it anyway. They sent us on our way with the advice to drive more slowly as we were just entering Outjo. He was right and the whole town seemed asleep apart from a few pedestrians and a couple of bare-breasted Himba women plus baby sitting by the side of the road selling jewellery. We took photos and Sally bought a trinket. Suddenly, a line of police cars shot around the corner at great speed, sirens blazing. Was the US President in town and under terrorist attack? The police response could not have been greater. We drove around and discovered police officers on every corner. At 7 o’clock on a Sunday morning this must have been a training exercise and explained our road block on the edge of town.

From Outjo we headed towards Khorixas. The deserted road was metalled, the scenary picturesque. Instead of the ubiquitous, flat, somewhat tedious, Namibian scrubland, we had interesting, rolling, Namibian hills. I was looking forward to getting to Khorixas. The name sounded exotic and alluring, like Timbuktu or Xanadu. In fact, it turned out to be a dilapidated, one-horse town, with a donkey instead of the horse. It was shabby and sleepy, the people looking as though if they were still suffering the effects of too much homebrew the previous night. But there was a filling station, and it was foolish in this semi-arid desert to pass a filling station without filling. Who knows where the next one would be? A group of aging Hell’s Angels had parked their huge machines by every pump (at least 2) and didn’t seem in a hurry to move. I had almost decided to send Sally out to give them some grief, but they moved off before she could get at them, the cowards. Next to the garage was a supermarket that had a group of males hanging around the shop entrance looking bored and thirsty. They did not look too intimidating but they followed with their eyes every movement we made until we were safely inside the store. The best crisps in Namibia are Simba Creamy Cheddar. We could only find small bags but we bought them anyway. Talking about cheese, there is confusion about the different varieties in Namibia. There is only one sort of Cheddar that tastes anything at all like Cheddar and that is made by Parmalat. The rest is rubbery and processed tasting as though it was made of plasticine. There is Gouda which is actually Edam, and Edam here is more like Emmental. The fridges are stacked with feta cheese and there is a South African version of Brie that is quite pleasant. Variety and choice are two unknown words in the Namibian English dictionary.

We backtracked a kilometre down the road leaving Khorixas behind us without a second glance and headed for the Brandberg mountains. The tar soon gave way to gravel and we began to leave a large cloud of dust trailing behind us. There were no cars following us to be inconvenienced and we met few cars coming towards us. The journey was long and arduous, the highlight being when we passed through the sign saying we were crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, but it felt just the same on one side as the other. Although the mountains and undulating road made the scenery much more interesting than the tedious flat scrubland of our usual Windhoek – Rundu route, we were being constantly bounced up and down and buffeted by the gravel roads.

Before scrub gave way to desert, we came across a group of huts all selling small Herero rag dolls. The ladies selling them wore traditional Herero costume including the headdress that resembles a cow’s horns. This exhibition was pulling in the tourists and the ladies were doing a steady trade. The amusing thing was that the Herero costume was not traditional in that part of Namibia. Evidently, someone had decided it would be good for trade, and it was.

I am told that Katima is the only place, or at least, one of the few, in the world where four countries meet, viz. Namibia, Zambia, Botswana and Zimbabwe. We hopped over the Botswana border to the Chobe National Park.

In fact, “hopped” was nearly literally true. To keep out foot and mouth disease and other nasty things, every vehicle entering Botswana has to drive through a sheep dip, and every person has to stand on a footpad of disinfectant. We have done it before and has not been a problem. This time, the lady in charge was exceptionally officious. We gave the board, listing prohibited imports, a cursory glance. No, we didn’t have animal horns, hides, bones etc. “You haven’t read the list,” she insists, suspiciously. Of course we hadn’t. We don’t go in for buying bags made of crocodile skins. “Read the list,” she commands. What’s that at the bottom? Dairy products? We don’t want to lose our lunch especially as it will be inside us within the next half an hour, so we confess nothing. No, we have nothing like that.

“What about your shoes?” she asks. “We’ve done our shoes.” “What about your spare shoes?” “We have no spare shoes.” “Yes, you have.” This woman must have x-ray vision. They are packed securely at the bottom of the car’s boot and were not going to see the light of a Botswanan day. “You have to do all your shoes.” We didn’t have to do anything like this last time we visited. Georgina manages to dig out a spare pair of mine and slap them on the disinfectant mat. This appeases the lady and she lets us go into her country.

Once inside Botswana the road surface becomes appalling. Maybe the deep potholes are deliberately not repaired as a traffic calming measure. Driving becomes exciting as we swerve across the road to avoid the bottomless pits and crevasses. Fortunately, the road is deserted. When we reach the gate of the the Game Reserve, the Wardens won’t let us in as our car is too small. Presumably, an elephant could pick us up and chuck us into the river? We drive on to Kasane, the nearest town, to take a look. It is more lively and impressive than we had imagined. There seemed to be a lot of tourists, many of whom, no doubt had been refused admittance to the park.

We took the pock-marked road back to the border. You have to play the game of swerving to avoid the pot-holes, which is OK until swerving the other side of the road would make you crash into an on-coming car. For us, this coincided with one of the largest pot-holes in Africa. It must be visible from space and , once filled with water, would rival Lake Victoria in magnitude. No, I exaggerate, maybe Lake Malawi. Anyway, we hit it with a heart stopping metallic bang. The wheel must have been torn off? The engine ripped out? No, the tough little car kept on going. It was only later, after we had driven the 700 kilometres back to Rundu, that we discovered that the tyre had developed a large swelling like a huge boil and could have burst at any moment.

Though Sally had stated that she had come to see us and not Namibia, our first expedition took us eastward towards Katima, Zambia and the Victoria Falls. We stopped overnight at the campsite at Nunda, a favourite of ours that overlooked the Kavango River and where we had heard the grunts of carousing hippos at dawn and dusk. If you want to make a campfire make sure you have a Girl Guide or a Scout with you. Sally made blazing infernos with just a few little sticks.

The border crossing to Zambia at Katima was confusing and I’m still not sure what happened. You need to have certain documents and pay certain amounts of money. The guards at the Namibian border took a certificate out of the hire car’s documentation and let us through. We drove to the Zambian border and looked for the control post. There didn’t seem to be one. There would surely be one around the next corner, or the next. There wasn’t. We were practically in Livingstone, the town next to Victoria Falls, by the time we realised we had missed the control post. So, there we were, illegal immigrants in a foreign country which didn’t seem to like the British (nor the Americans) particularly since the visa charges for us were so high. If we were stopped at a police checkpoint we could be deported or even imprisoned. Fortunately, we didn’t meet any and survived the trip.

The Jolly Boys Backpackers was our overnight stop. This was a sprawling hostel for, mostly young, budget conscious travellers who didn’t mind too much about their surroundings. The tiered camping greens were ideal for us as we were there for only one night. Our site had easy access to the kitchen where Georgina spent most of the evening hunting and squashing cockroaches. We drove to the Zambeze Falls Hotel and watched an interesting play directed by a Canadian woman which depicted the harshness of life growing up in Africa. It had everything, the poverty, the mobile phones, the chaotic education, the disease and corruption. It neatly fitted our experiences of Africa. The Zambeze Falls Hotel , with it’s lighting and plush decoration, was like a Disney Theme Park. It must be where the millionaires stayed. Livingstone, the Zambian town dedicated to Victoria Falls tourists, was bustling but shabby. There was no sign of the huge amount of money tourists had brought to the town. Admittedly, the 10 kilometres to the Falls was being tarmaced, but even this was probably being financed by some generous international organisation as are most things in Africa. The main money often lines the pockets of politicians and other government officials. The local underprivileged certainly don’t see it.

The Victoria Falls are truly stunning and surely one of the most breath-taking sights in all Africa. A path takes you along the cliff edge to see the waterfall on the opposite bank, and allow yourself to be enveloped in the mist that rises from the cascading water if you don’t mind getting wet. The sparkling rainbows produced are magnificent. Baboons roam the area scavenging food from the bins and mugging tourists holding carrier bags. A large baboon grabbed Georgina’s bag sending the contents flying over the ground. Unfortunately for the animal, the bag contained no food, just bottled water and reading books, which, apparently did not appeal to the baboon’s literary tastes. It would, no doubt, have been more interested in “Food for Free” or “How to Mug a Tourist”. Incensed at this unwarranted attack I waved Georgina’s expanding umbrella at the mugger. The metal rod expanded more than expected, launching its main body at the baboon not unlike a missile. Badly aimed, it fell harmlessly to the ground, but gave the baboon a moment of concern.

The descent to the “Devil’s Boiling Pot was slow and arduous. At one point, the jungle became so thick we nearly needed machetes. The path had been washed away by a fast flowing stream halfway down which meant we had to paddle across a stream. A couple of enterprising locals sat on a log leasing flip flops and other water proof footwear for the crossing. We eventually reached the Devil’s Boiling Pot and the pleasure at the views was only marred by the thought of having to make the return, steep climb.

If the Falls is a noisy, raging torrent, then the Zambezi, just before it reaches the cliff edge is an oasis of calm. You can even swim in the Angel Pools, but getting to them involves a crab-like progress along a thin concrete ledge submerged just below the water line. You can hold the hand of a guide as you make this perilous journey and we watched one group of three people, wondering if they would put a foot wrong, drag each other into the river and be swept over the Falls. No such luck.

The authorities let you into the town of Livingstone for free, but you have to pay to get out. This was similar to our experience in the Czech Republic where all foreign cars were fined by the police just before reaching the border on the pretext of speeding. It was a routine matter. There was a queue of us waiting to give the cop the remains of our Czech currency. The Zambians don’t make you out to be criminals. They just stop visitors at a road block and ask for road tax. This wouldn’t be so laughable if the roads were in a decent state of repair. I wondered whose pocket my contribution would ultimately be lining. Having said that, however, we did see some road repairs on the way to Victoria Falls, but I think the two men actually working wouldn’t be finished for some time.

Meanwhile, lurking in the back of my mind was the idea that we didn’t have visas. Surely, the officials wouldn’t mind if we paid on the way out rather than on the way in? It was not so easy to leave the country as to enter it. A guard waved us to the emigration building, which was down the road in the wrong direction and obscured by some trees. A burly emigration officer sat behind a long counter and listened to our explanation as if we were confessing to murder. “This is a very serious offence,” he said at last. I could almost hear the prison door slamming behind me. “But a lot of people do it,” he continued. His manner lightened considerably. It will be different when our new office is built nearer the border. I should give you a big fine, but I’m letting you off.” I had the feeling he said this to everyone. “But the custom officers might want to fine you.” He pointed down the corridor. Now we were in for it. We hadn’t paid the duty for importing the car. A group of young Spanish speakers arguing with one of the two customs ladies seemed to have the same problem. The tourists grumbled and looked angry as they handed over a thick wad of note. I don’t know what the Spanish is for “It’s a bleedin’ rip-off” is but I’m sure that was what they were saying. sin her book and quoted a figure, about the cost of a cheap box of wine, hardly anything at all. Was this just a figure she had conjured up? We still had enough money for fuel. We paid up and got out of there before she could change her mind.

Getting back into Namibia was more problematic. When we had left Namibia the policeman had demanded the car’s export certificate which was stapled to the car’s log book. He said we would get it back when we returned. Now, a policewoman was demanding another certificate to allow us back into the country. We tried to explain that we needed our certificate back but, though her English was pretty good, we didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength. I’ve noticed that when speaking to other Namibians. They can have a good command of English. I know what the individual words mean, but when they join them up in sentences the meaning dissipates like early morning mist. I can be in the middle of a conversation with a very friendly Namibian not having a clue what we’re talking about. This can be unnerving.

So, there we were, trying to get back into Namibia, at odds with a policewoman and her male backup, about who should give whom a certificate. Sally and I were becoming more heated, the police adamant, but looking distinctly uncomfortable. The policewoman wanted us to give her a document stuck to our windscreen. We refused. We were all confused and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Somehow, the matter seemed to resolve itself, probably, as usually happens, with an exchange of money. I don’t remember. What I do remember is driving away, giving the policewoman a smile and a cheery wave as she waved back, still looking distinctly bemused.

We spent that night at a campsite in Katima Mulilo at the very end of the Caprivi panhandle overlooking the Zambezi River. It was clean and spacious with just a handful of other campers. As the light faded, we sat listening to the mournful wailing of hippos in the river. The guard came around advising everyone to put all outside accessories into our tents as Zambian marauders paddle over from the opposite bank to steal portable valuables. We put the few things we had in our tents and tried to sleep soundly.

  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.

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.

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.

Etosha is one of the best game reserves in Africa. It is amazing that anything can live on this vast arid plain and the fact that elephants, giraffes, zebra and many kinds of antelope amongst other large animals thrive in such abundance is a miracle.

We took the “gravel” road to Etosha. This kind of road is one that the builders forgot to finish, or they ran out of tar. Consequently, your car, leaving a billowing trail of dust in its wake, will rattle and shake until the joints knock and bits start falling off. An ordinary saloon is no good for this kind of road. You need a 4×4, and a tough one at that. Then you can fly at speed across the ridges and bumps, sneering at their attempts to slow you down and wreck your car. The roads inside the game reserve were even worse. Here there were ridges the size of the Grand Canyon and pot-holes the depth of Cheddar Gorge. We zigzagged our way along the Etosha roads like drunken maniacs with the ominous clanking of universal joints in our ears. But the view outside the car was astounding. In the distance we saw a group of giraffes towering above the trees. We had to take photos. We had not seen a group of giraffes before. By the end of the day, after photographing dozens of giraffes within kicking distance we realised how lame the first photos were.

We seemed to see springbok, impala and zebra at every turn. They watched us from the side of the road as though thoroughly bored by the whole business. At least they didn’t demand money to have their photograph taken. Humans are more canny. The other day I took a photo of the River Kavango as it meandered through a particularly interesting piece of countryside. In the distance I heard a woman calling to me. It turned out she wanted money as I’d apparently taken her photo. She was a blob in the far distance and not a very interesting one at that. Though I admired her enterprising spirit and sheer gall, she was disappointed that day.

We hadn’t seen an elephant all day and when we’d just about given up, a proud male came marching majestically out of the bush. For some reason all the other animals abandoned the water hole allowing the elephant free reign to wallow in the mud.

We visited several water holes that day and saw many elephants squirting water and chucking dust over themselves. Springbok lined up at the water’s edge sipping nervously, giraffes splayed out their legs doing the splits in an effort to have a drink. Amazingly, they managed to recover their posture with little effort. The birds were too laid back and didn’t notice the black-backed jackal stalking them until it had one in its jaws. It was a light snack and gone in a second. The jackal had a harder job surprising the birds after that. One very common bird was the kori bustard. Karin, our Dutch friend, misheard this, we assume, and every time she spotted this large bird she would shout with glee,

“Look, there’s another bastard over there!”

There were lions and leopards in the park but we didn’t see any that day. As the sun sank, the hyenas began to slink out of the shadows one at a time on their way to the water-hole. Looking sly and savage they gathered together for the night’s hunting.

We looked around. All the other cars had left.

“The clock at the entrance definitely said closing at seven-thirty,” announced Georgina with her usual tone of misplaced confidence.

It was now getting quite dark and we were the only people on the road. We were locked in. I was driving and we picked up speed, considerable speed. We nearly took out an impala but it managed to jump off the road just in time. A large mass came into view by the side of the road. It was black and had a horn at one end.

“Rhinoceros,” I shouted, slamming on the brakes. By the time we had reversed, the rhino had sloped off into the bush leaving us with a view of its disappearing rump, which, strangely, resembled the expression on the face of the woman gate-keeper when we eventually arrived at the exit.

The tense conversation went like this:

“You’re late”

“The clock said 7.30 closing time.”

“The clock’s broken. Closing is seven.” (How did everyone else know?)

She frowned and obviously thought we were idiots or desperate criminals.

“Where’s your tickets?” Yes, we still had tickets.

“You Namibians?” As VSO we paid the local rate. Tourists pay at least double.

We didn’t look like Namibians and were obviously confidence tricksters.

With a humiliating amount of profuse apologies, ( I was prepared to go so far as throwing myself on the ground and kissing her feet) she capitulated and instructed her henchman to unlock the gate and let us out. As we drove back to the campsite we felt relieved that we had experienced a close encounter with the wildest creature in the game park and survived.

For Georgina and I, a long car journey can hold a considerable element of surprise. They say (women mostly) that men cannot do 2 or more things at the same time. Well, in my case, they are right. Yes, I can pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time, but I have yet to find a practical application for this. (If you have any ideas please let me know.) I cannot, however, drive a car and faultlessly navigate at the same time. Georgina likes bats (the flying rodent type), so being as blind as a bat generally works in my favour.

“Look at the deer in that field,” she says.

I visually scour the field. Nothing, apart from a large area of green, presumably grass.

“Over there!” I follow the direction of her finger. Still nothing.

It turns out to be not one deer but a whole herd.

“Munich is that way,” she says as we hurtle past the junction. I look at her hands to see if there is an indication whether she means left or right. I suggest she has “L” and “R” tattooed on the appropriate hands. She ignores me.

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Why does that not surprise me, even though it was the size of a double-decker bus?” She can be very hurtful at times.

“Turn around and go back!” Her tone is unnecessarily imperious.

By now we are at least 3 miles past the turning.

“We’ll take the next right and link up.” I hate going back. It seems such a waste of time (and an
admission of a mistake).

“How will you know the way?”

“Just trust my sense of direction,” I assure her.

She makes no attempt to stifle an ironic and, I may say, a rather cruel snigger. It only serves to harden my resolve.

Two hours later, a city looms up ahead of us. “See, I said I’d get us to Munich,” I announce triumphantly.

“Then why does the sign say “Frankfurt”?”

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Well, at least we can buy some sausages.”

Georgina has the gift of sarcasm. If she read the telephone directory she could make it sound sarcastic. It’s an endearing trait.

Our problem (the navigation one), is not made any easier by the fact that Georgina She can have the soundest and most refreshing sleep since Van Winkle hit the sack, but, once in a car, she has nodded off before it’s left the drive. It’s on a par with Pavlov’s dog...cannot keep awake in a car.

Five hundred miles later she will wake up.

“Where are we?”

“Just passed Nouvion on the Brussels road”, I reply confidently, though I have a sneaking suspicion that we are hurtling towards Paris.

She picks up the map. She and maps just don’t get on. They sulk, they hide things from each other, they do not communicate.

“Find where we are? “ I ask in all innocence.

She ignores me.

I must say, though, that Georgina’s skills are improving. Navigation is no longer a threat to our marriage. Driving to unfamiliar destinations is now a positive pleasure.

Back in the summer, Georgina and I were trailing my brother-in-law David’s car as he took us to see my sister Myra in Bordeaux. About 10 miles out we hit congestion. We sit and watch snails overtaking us. Suddenly, David shoots down a side street. Left, right, right, across the junction, left, around the roundabout.. A trail of breadcrumbs would not have taken us back home. We are awestruck at the extent of David’s local knowledge.

“It wasn’t me,” David later confessed. “It was Jane”.

David has a new friend? No. You’ve guessed it we are talking satnavs. Jane is one of the names of his satnavs voices. Ours are “Emily”, “Daniel” and an American voice that sounds remarkably like Drew. These little remarkable boxes are the greatest invention since the wheel, when man ventured beyond his village into the unknown thereby making the satnav invaluable. They are a little short of miraculous. “Emily” knows exactly where we are, even the name of the road. She can plan a route from home to Timbucktoo in a matter of seconds. It would take me a day and we’d still end up in Warsaw. She knows how far we are from the next junction and where the fuel, parking, shops etc are. She knows the instant I take the wrong turn and finds a solution without shouting at me. I suggest that the satnav will save many marriages and decrease much blood pressure.

I was a skeptic. Now I am a firm believer. After all, you wouldn’t go into a strange, dark house without a flash-light?

Isaiah, the smallest baby was just a couple of months old and slept most of the time like any other baby. As I gave baby Elizabeth her lunchtime bottle I wondered what would happen to these children if places such as this did not exist. Some of the babies were HIV positive and very vulnerable. The toddlers held up their arms to be picked up or took us by the hand. “Push me on the swing, Uncle”. “Pick me up, Aunty.” How could you say no? They were safe for the first five years of their lives, but what then? Their individual personalities left their marks on our memories and their leaking nappies left their marks on our clothes. Rain poured down as we approached Kampala. Moses relished the opportunity to demonstrate his skill at driving in adverse conditions. It was impressive. He drove through the deluge of blinding rain and rivers of mud The slow lorries ahead were a challenge that could not be resisted. Even the congestion at Kampala didn’t slow him down. He sliced his way through the traffic, overtook at junctions and took short cuts to avoid queues. Every gap was an opportunity for advancement. He was on his home turf and he was the master. We drove up a mud alley and stopped in a small courtyard. “This is my house”, Moses proudly announced. It was superior to the make-shift shanty huts we had seen in rural villages and along the roads. We jumped over the ditch, nearly squashing the chickens, to greet the girl in a smart, black dress standing at the door. This was Victa, the maid. She had been bought by Moses when she was 7 years old. “I got her cheap in the village”, he said proudly. It was the custom, apparently, for a poor family to place a child with a better off family to improve its social status. There was, presumably, a fine line between this and selling your children. Victa, though shy, looked happy and cared for. She was sometimes visited by her family. We returned to the Red Chilli Hideaway for our last night in Uganda and sat by the small jacuzzi pool to enjoy the last of the evening sunshine. As usual we moved our chairs around to avoid the shadows. Suddenly, we found that we were moving back in the opposite direction. The sun was moving backwards. I looked up. No, the sun was falling from the sky. We had been warned that some malaria prophylactics caused hallucinations. Ours weren’t supposed to. This was no hallucination. Something strange was happening. The sun was actually falling from the sky. I suppose, being on the equator, the sun doesn’t sink in an arc but sinks directly? What do you think? If you have a better idea, please let me know. Our cottage in the grounds didn’t boast a TV, so we didn’t even have the option of turning the football off. One feature it did have was a generator just outside, which simulated the sound of a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle all night. It made a change from squawking frogs.

Have you ever woken up and, for the first 30 seconds, had no idea where you were? It was like that when I woke up in Sophie’s Motel. The bed was strange (I’m not used to waking up in strange beds), the room was strange, the light was strange. Then I remembered…we were half way around the world.  Being on the equator, daylight remains at a constant 12 hours throughout the year. From about 6 until 6, no change, no seasons.

The road from Entebbe to Kampala was being radically improved.  Gangs of workmen and women were clearing rubble, planting trees and bushes.  Mostly, the women did the work while the men looked on.  Moses took great delight in telling us that this was because the Queen (of England) was coming. I looked for a hint of irony in his eyes when he talked of the Queen with such excitement, but there was none.  He seemed genuinely excited.  He wished she would visit more often so that more roads would be improved.

Moses also explained that the Money Exchange at Entebbe airport had short-changed us.  The woman at the counter had deliberately “picked” (Ugandan for stolen) some of the notes from the bundle.  We had given this money to Moses for petrol but some notes were missing.  “They prey on new visitors who don’t know the currency.  And the women are worse than the men,” he explained.  “They are more cunning”.  “Well, isn’t that true the world over,” I thought, but didn’t dare say it out loud.

As we entered Kampala in the early hours of the morning, a faint mist lay like gossamer over the city.  It was only when we entered the cloud that we could smell the diesel fumes in the air.  Lorries, buses and cars all belched out thick, acrid, blue fumes from their exhausts.  “Diesel engines cost more to service than petrol ones, so people don’t bother,” Moses explained as the lorry in front disappeared in a cloud of it’s own exhaust.  It was amusing to think how paranoid we, in Britain, were about our meagre “carbon footprints” when other parts of the world were indiscriminately spewing out huge quantities of pollution.  I don’t mean that we should do the same, but let’s not be so paranoid about our relatively much smaller contribution.  If you spend any time in Kampala, pack an oxygen mask along with your malaria tablets.  The pollution will get you long before the mosquitoes do.  Or, maybe the maniac drivers on those hugely congested roads will.  If there were a Highway Code (and I very much doubt it) there would be just two rules, viz. 1)  if you see a gap go for it at great speed.  2) Ignore all other drivers unless they are two inches from hitting you.  Our driver, Moses, was a professional Kampalan driver and he nearly knocked down just one motorcyclist.  If I had been driving, boy, would there have been carnage?  I’m glad we didn’t hire a car as we now would either be lying in the Kampala morgue or still trying to find our way out of “the city with no street signs”.  Accidents are a common occurrence.  A few days later we saw a car drive into a motorbike.  The pillion passenger (no helmet) neatly jumped of the bike mid strike and nonchalantly walked away as if he’d performed the same trick a thousand times before.

We hadn’t realised how ubiquitous private security guards were in Uganda.  Two burly guards clutching huge shotguns stood outside the currency exchange office in Kampala.  Were they expecting trouble?  We decided not to stay long enough to find out.  It was unnerving to see a line of young men on motorbikes watch our every move as we left the office with our money.  We jumped into the car where Moses had parked hoping it was his.  Fortunately, it was.  As we sped off,  I nervously looked out of the rear window but no bikers were following.   Moses knew all the short cuts.  To avoid congestion he turn a turn and we ended up in pot-hole city.  The road was like a Swiss cheese.  We zig-zagged around the biggest craters and even had to do a cross-country stint over some rough ground to avoid disappearing down a black hole.  The road led, unsurprisingly, to the car spare part centre of Kampala.  Mountains of rusty metal, salvaged, no doubt, from previous wrecks, were piled high by the sides of the road.  Nearly all the vehicles in Uganda are Japanese.  Most are minibus/taxis in various stages of disintegration and full of people.  They are legally allowed to take 14 people.  The one we went on had 19.  The law is regularly flouted.

Dilapidated villages and shanty huts line most of the roads in Uganda.  There was hardly a stretch of road free of buildings.  They were mainly structures cobbled together from odd scraps of wood with a piece of corrugated iron placed on the top.  These were homes to, perhaps two adults and four children.  Some were superior and made with mud bricks.  They looked like rows of garages.  Often they were painted bright yellow or shocking pink.  They reflected the battle between the two mobile phone companies.  The pink were for Celtel, the yellow for MTN.  They seemed to be evenly matched.  Well, I suppose it was one way of earning some shillings and getting your house painted for free. Apparently, this is a country where the average villager travels up to two kilometres to make a call and the waiting list for access to a fixed line telephone is 3.6 years, if you can afford it.  Some were shops, having a small pile of tomatoes, maize or similar placed outside for sale.  The towns and larger villages had shops with piles of mattresses outside, beds or even coffins for sale.  There was probably a good trade in the last item.  The roads seemed to be centres of Ugandan life.  Even in the most remote stretches there were people walking along the road.  They didn’t seem to be walking anywhere in particular.  They were just walking.  The men tended just to stand and stare blankly.  The local “gut-rot” made from Sorghum, a grass seed resembling corn, maybe partly responsible for this, together with the cultural tradition that the women do all the work.

We spent that night at the Margherita Hotel overlooking the Ruwenzori mountain range on the border of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.   Someone said there were gorillas in those mountains.  But he may have meant guerrillas.  I was too afraid to ask.   We didn’t stay long enough to find out.