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.

Humewood, PE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  East London

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

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

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

Nic Nac Backpackers

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

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

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

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

Today we were invited for a cruise on the Kavango River. Fourteen of us, volunteers with VSO & Interteam, set out at 6.30am. It was dark when we left home but soon the stars disappeared and the orange glow on the horizon showed that it was almost daytime. We floated along in the flat bottomed boat eating breakfast and watching so many different and interesting birds, the red shouldered widow, the carmine and blue cheeked bee eaters, the darter, the purple heron, the blacksmith lapwing etc It was great, so beautiful, calm and peaceful. Here’s wishing Friedwart & Sylvia a wonderful expedition to Malawi and happy return to Switzerland.

Danie is an artist of extraordinary talent. He is married to Marie being therefore John and Kathleen’s son-in-law. They live together and Danie has his own studio built onto the back of the house. He has developed a unique style of creating metallic effects using ordinary paint. The results are stunning. He has recently finished three paintings of a statue that stands outside the South African Stock Exchange. They are an important commission and amply demonstrate this young artist’s talent. He works very hard and his paintings are selling well. His website is www.dmarais.co.za

It was about midnight and we were just slipping off to sleep when loud screams of searing pain snapped us back to reality. Someone was murdering a child outside our bedroom window. Georgina jumped up and peered out. The body was slung to the branch of a tree and was howling pitifully like an animal.

“They’re skinning it,” she said. “Looks like a goat”

“Poor kid,” I thought. I could see black shapes moving among the shadows and I suddenly realised the date. It was Halloween and midnight at that. Maybe our neighbours were Satanists performing a sick, sadistic ritual to placate their evil spirits. Couldn’t they go “trick and treating” instead? There was a severe crack of bone as they tore their poor victim apart in their frenzy.

Let me digress for a moment and tell you about Namibian sweets. They are unutterably disgusting. To my mind they are inedible. Wrapped in shiny, coloured foil they are all show and no substance. Street traders sell them individually by the side of the road. We had one on our pillows at the posh Tsumeb hotel to confirm its luxury status. It tasted sweet and scented like cheap perfume. It began to foam in my mouth. Was I eating the complimentary soap? No, it had been in a sweet wrapper, and had looked like a sweet. Were they used as punishment for naughty children as in “Go and wash your mouth out with soap and water.” Perhaps I should have washed my hands with it and eaten the complimentary soap instead. It couldn’t have tasted worse.

Back to the slaughter. It turned out that our neighbours were having a separation party and had killed the goat for the occasion. The man was leaving his wife and family to live with his second wife/mistress a couple of hundred miles away. They were having a big party to celebrate. In fact, it was a two goat party. We were treated to slaughter part two the following morning. The children were sitting around in eager anticipation. We had thought the midnight killing was to spare them, but no, here they were in the best seats. We had a great view from our bedroom and, like bullfighting this was definitely a spectator sport. The handsome, white male goat had been strung up to the hanging tree by its hind legs and for some reason didn’t like it. It screamed horribly. The father and two oldest sons stood by ready to do their bit. One of the sons grabbed the goat’s horns to stop it swinging like a pendulum while the father danced around, his large knife glinting in the sunlight, trying to find the best angle of attack. The father stepped forward and put the knife to the goat’s throat. The creature struggled so fiercely that the two killers could barely restrain the animal’s head. In a few moments a thick line of red liquid began to pour from the goat’s neck. All the while the goat screamed hysterically. Suddenly, the father stepped forward again, grabbed the goat’s genitals and sliced them off with one swift stroke of the knife. There was now an empty, pale pink patch between the goat’s legs. All the while it kept screaming and panicking though now, no doubt sensing that the game was up, was putting up less of a struggle. The five and six year olds were, by now, in a high state of animation running around copying the harrowing death cries of the agonised goat. After some minutes the goat became still. The steady trickle of blood from its neck continued. “Baargh, baargh.” The children still danced around screaming in mock imitation of the goat’s last agony.

The party was a big one and grew to a crescendo throughout the day. People kept arriving, the women carrying bowls of food, the men six-packs of beer. They seemed less eager than the women to relinquish their burdens but sat down in a group becoming more animated as they drank and chatted away. A bakkie (pickup van) arrived with a cheap looking sideboard and bookcase. Maybe the deal was that she got some MFI furniture and he got his freedom? Fair, no? The DJ tested his equipment. The house vibrated with the noise. The hired, plastic chairs arrived and were set out for a formal meeting with a table at the front. The master of ceremonies began to list the programme for the evening. There would be speeches, eulogies celebrating the family’s worth, the father’s sterling qualities and his achievements (eg. gaining his freedom at so little cost). There would be singing and there would be dancing. At this the heavens opened and everyone, carrying their plastic chairs, ran for shelter. I hoped the sound system had been flooded beyond use, but, miraculously, it survived.

The rain subsided and the group reformed. Again the heavens opened and again people ran. The party was not proving to be a unparalleled success and, like the couple’s marriage, was on a steady decline until it petered out around midnight. It all seemed rather sad.

Our journey to Kisora took us on a short safari through the Queen Elizabeth National Park.We could see elephants in the distance and many water bucks, kobs, water buffalo, hippos and gibbons. But we were disappointed not to see zebras and giraffes in particular.  We were told the recent rain had sent many animals deeper into the bush (where they kept their umbrellas, no doubt).  However, a driver stopped to tell us where we could see lions eating a water buffalo.   Moses’ eyes lit up at this and he became very excited.  He really wanted to see a lion eating a buffalo and we shot off at great speed.   We reached the place before the lions had finished their breakfast.  One female ate while the others stood guard.  We warily climbed out of the car to get a better view.  Suddenly, a lion’s head popped up from the grass uncomfortably close by.  Moses reached for the thin twig he had picked to ward off attacking lions.  I didn’t fancy his chances with this, though he did use it later on, very effectively, to shoo off little boys who were coming too close to the car to beg.

The road from Kabale to Kisora was appalling.  The word “road” is a ludicrous exaggeration for that dirt track with ruts in it the size of the Grand Canyon.  Huge articulated lorries carrying petrol thundered along sending up clouds of dust and thick, blue diesel fumes while we picked our way between the crevasses,  fearful that the back axle was about to drop off.   Moses stopped to examine the back of the car.  “What’s up?” we asked.  “There’s a strange noise.”  There was a strange noise. He jumped back in the car and resumed the switchback ride strangely unconcerned.  We, however, were haunted by that noise all the way to Kisoro and back knowing that the nearest RAC man was at least 4,000 miles away.    The noise mysteriously disappeared when we hit tarmac again.  But sometimes, when dusk falls and the night is still, I can hear that strange noise taunting me from afar.

It had taken 2 hours to travel 50 miles and our internal organs were playing musical chairs.  My knuckles hadn’t been so white since a ride on Disney’s Space Mountain, where the drops weren’t so sheer and I had never thought I might actually die.

The fading light didn’t improve the feeling of gloom and depression that hung in the air over Kisoro.   The poverty seemed no worse than anywhere else, the rubbish tips were just the same, the shops just as drab.  Huge chunks of meat for sale hung outside the butchers’ shops to collect dust and flies just as anywhere else in Uganda.  It was probably the sight of these that gave us our first and enduring bout of diarrhoea.  I apologise for this subject.  It’s a bit like vomit.  I didn’t want to bring it up.  We were very particular about hygiene and washed our hands every time we saw a toilet.  We had bottles of ant-bacterial gel and were careful what we ate. We certainly didn’t eat the gel.  Sometimes we were caught unawares, such as by  the shredded goat meat on the avocado that was hidden under a dollop of 1000 island dressing ( They had, obviously, forgotten to remove  a cess pit from one of the islands before they made the dressing).    I suspect the currency is a great transmitter of disease.   The bacteria on some of the filthy brown notes was probably the only thing holding them together.

The television in the hotel room that night had only 1 channel.  Previously we had had 3,  namely 2 football channels and an African soap much like Neighbours only much slower and worse acting.  Boy was it bad?   I mentioned this lack of choice ( i.e. football or off) to the porter who said he could change the channel from reception.  Which did I want BBC or CNN?   Either would be fine.  A few minutes later the screen flickered and the channel changed to rugby football.  I gave up, exercised choice and switched off.

The Ugandans are crazy about football, especially the English Premier League.  They wear the strips and know who all the footballers are, like er, (who do I know?) Oh, yes, David Beckham.  Slogans painted on their vehicles such as “Jesus lives” and “God is Great” rub shoulders with “Arsenal” and Man. Utd”.  (see Gallery)

There is one good thing about Kisoro.  It’s near the Rwandan border where petrol is a lot cheaper.  Uganda has abolished Road Fund Duty and placed it on petrol.  Our hotel wasn’t in a good location, though, being next to a disco that raved until the early hours.  This was complemented a bit later by the Muslim call to prayer.  All that was missing was a cock crowing.  No, I spoke too soon.  There it goes….. cock-a-doodle-do.  What joy.

Mweya Safari Lodge has been dubbed the “Sheraton in the Bush” and is a popular resort with Royalty, Presidents, Pop Stars and us. It was our only night of sheer, unadulterated luxury and we should have been ashamed of ourselves, except that we enjoyed it so much.  We could only stay one night because it cost an arm and a leg, or it would have done if we’d fallen into the adjacent lake, which contained crocodiles.  From the al fresco restaurant you had magnificent views over Lake George and a wild-life watering hole with its many water buffalos and hippos.  The bird life was profuse with pretty yellow birds flying around the restaurant entertaining the diners.  Sally noticed an elephant with only one tusk at the waterhole having an early morning drink.  As it moved off, she and Georgina tracked its progress through the undergrowth.  I lost it amongst the bushes.  “See the dark line of trees?  Go up to the dark patch of brown about three-quarters of the way up to the ridge, the go along to the dead tree by the big rock and down to the light patch of brown.  No, not there.  You’re looking in the completely wrong place….…”  Georgina might as well have been talking to a blind man.  The elephant could have been standing three metres in front of me and I probably would not have seen it.  I gave up, feeling dejected and completely “out of the loop”.

A child had left a gaudily painted, plastic lizard on the pool decking, probably as a practical joke to scare the sunbathers.  You could tell it was a toy as the colours were so garish.  Then, it shot off and hid under the decking just like the real thing.  Those Chinese are so clever.

“Can I jump in the water, Mommy?  Can I?  I want to jump in the water, Mommy.  Can I?  Can I jump in the water?”   For two pins I would have put down my book and pushed in the annoying little girl myself.  She jumped in anyway, whether her Mommy allowed it or not.

The boat trip took us to have a closer look at the watering hole.  Every passenger was given a life-jacket.  “Don’t worry,” said the guide.  “We haven’t had an accident in twenty-one years.”  Then, he proceeded to tell us that hippos habitually put their trotters on the side of a boat, tip it up and sink their teeth into the beleaguered swimmers.  They were the most dangerous of African animals, killing more humans than lions, tigers, elephants etc.  I noticed that most people had put on their life-jackets.  We passed a small fishing village on the top of the ridge.  “It’s often attacked,” said the guide.  “Lions, elephants.  A young boy was recently attacked by a hyena.  Hyena, there’s a thing. It doesn’t kill you outright.  It starts eating you, then you die.”  One young woman was looking decidedly green.  The guide invited questions.  “Are there any chameleons around here?”  I asked.

As we sat back after dinner in the restaurant, dreaming of colonial days, there was a flash of lightning and the lights went out.   I bet this doesn’t happen when the Queen visits, I thought.  She was due in November and the hotel was in the process of building a new lodge for her.  In the lightning flashes a large bat could be seen flapping around the room.  And the lights came on.  You could only admire the stiffness of the British upper lip as this huge bat fluttered around peoples’ heads.  No-one batted an eye-lid.  If we had stood up en masse and sung the first verse of Rule Britannia, I would not have been surprised.  One felt prooouuud to be British, old boy.

I did my own big-game hunting that night and bagged 5 mosquitoes lurking in my bathroom.   I looked them straight in the eye and squashed the little blighters before they could attack.  It was a near thing with the big, bull mozzie, which had got the wind up and was nearly upon me.  But my nerve held and gave it both rolled up newspapers right between the eyes.  Unfortunately, the damage was too great or I would have had it stuffed and mounted on my wall.   Shucks.

We are having a great time here at Biscarrosse in south west France. Myra is improving by the day and is strong enough to get out of bed for short periods. She is eating some soup and drinking tea. Dave is pleased with her progress and brings back good news at the end of each day. It was good to see Sara when she came over for a flying visit on Sunday to see her Mum.

We have enjoyed a couple of glorious days and have been cycling to the lake where we saw a Mummy deer and her two young offspring wandering through the forest. Dave thinks they may fall foul of “la chasse” and end up on someone’s dinner table. Quels braves, les francais!

We return on Thursday 9th Aug. See you soon.