Yes, I don’t know what it means either. There is a new law that says everyone has to pay to register their land that they have lived on for generations. It is not just the cost of administration but constitutes a substantial tax on the poor. A Community Volunteers Day was organised to advertise the benefits of Formalisation. I would not have touched it with a barge pole (if I had one) had not John, our gardener, been involved in the drama competition. Bruce, Linda’s partner, and I were at the market by nine in the morning, the appointed time for this entertainment. We expected a few minutes of street theatre where a few actors improvised while a crowd stood around cheering. Instead, we found the market set out like a huge theatre with a large stage and many chairs. They were expecting a very large audience. We were shown to the front and had VIP rosettes pinned to our shirts. We felt like prize exhibits in a cattle show. We sat and waited…and waited…and waited. Nothing was happening. I went off to do my shopping. They were singing the Namibian National Anthem when I returned. It was refreshing to see how seriously they took this. Even those on the periphery who could have got away with chatting amongst themselves stood solemnly. The government feels it important that the many tribes should be united as one Namibia. They have chosen English as their official language as English, one Namibian politician told us, “is the language of liberation, of freedom”. “The different tribal regions will be able to talk together and Namibia will be one nation.” We hope that his instincts are right. At the moment, most Namibians speak to each other in their own language, though all business, commerce, media and education is in English. Most schools are failing partly because the learners do not have a good command of English. Also, the education system is generally mismanaged by incompetents and the corrupt. Otherwise, they are doing fine.

After the anthem came the introduction of guests. The market hall was large and the public address system inadequate. They spoke in English with a Rukwangali translation. We heard the same speeches twice, but didn’t understand them once. It didn’t matter as, with a booming sound system, it all sounded like one big blur. We could make out about one word in ten. The honoured guests stood up and waved to the audience. I thought I heard the Master of Ceremonies say the letters “VSO”. He was staring at us. Bruce had casually mentioned to the lady who seated us that we were vaguely connected with VSO. Suddenly, we were their official representatives and honoured guests. We stood up and gave the audience a wave. The Mayor gave a speech, the chief Technical Adviser gave a speech, the Chief Liaison Officer gave a speech. Each time, somewhere along the line the letters “VSO” were mentioned and we smiled sweetly and appropriately.

frangipani (should have been in the last post).

We had been there since 9am and there was still no sign of the drama.

“I’m going at 11.30 if the drama hasn’t begun,” I said to Bruce, who particularly wanted to see the plays as he does some directing back home. I was bored out of my mind.

The time for the drama came and went. The lady speaker, who didn’t need a public address system, started giving out certificates, which shouldn’t have happened until after the drama. They had changed the order of the programme. We had sat around all morning for nothing. That was enough for me, and for Bruce. We exited stage right, pursued not by a bear but by gardener John who was a bit disappointed that we were not prepared to waste the rest of our lives waiting for a non-existent play. In fact, the 9am dramas did not start until 1pm. No-one was surprised except us. Delay is the African way. We should have known better. Unfortunately, John’s drama team, though highly comic, did not win, but it was a great day for Formalisation and I didn’t waste the rest of my life.

I have found a new pet, or more accurately, it has found me. Why it chose to land in my garden and wink at me with its great golden eye, I don’t know. It is a banded goshawk according to Nico (who loves birds) and who knows about these things as he has a book. It’s funny but the name goshawk sprang to mind as soon as I saw it. I was walking around the back of the garage to water my germinating melon plants and I almost trod on it. If it had been a black mamba I would be communicating this to you from celestial realms where everyone has state of the art laptops and free, superfast broadband connections.

Apart from its razor sharp beak and stiletto-like talons it did not look at all dangerous. I determined to keep my distance in case it mistook me for a frog or vole and tried to carry me off to its dining room. It made no attempt to fly away. It was friendship at first sight. I was so happy with my new pet I began to fantasize about how we would spend time together. Birds of prey like to hunt. We could roam the hillsides together looking for small animals to snatch and tear apart. Naturally, I wouldn’t eat small rodents myself but if I taught it the skills of an osprey, maybe it could catch fish for me. Oh, the wonderful times we would have together, my goshawk and I.

My new friend needs a photograph and a name.

“Don’t go anywhere. Just fetching my camera,” I said. He winked assent. We were already communicating.

As good as his word he hadn’t moved a muscle when I returned. In fact, he looked like a very handsome goshawk statue. Only his winking eye told me this goshawk was not stuffed. We had a little photo-shoot and I tried to capture his best side. I approached him from all angles and he knew instinctively not to fidget. His poise before the camera was natural and serene and would have made an excellent goshawk fashion model.

Now, the name. Spurning alliteration (Gordon the goshawk, Gary the goshawk just didn’t suit) I went for SK since initials are always cool and matey. They stand for “serial killer,” but I’m not going to tell SK that.

“Here, SK,” would be our cry over the vast Namibian hills.

Karen arrived and was introduced.

“Nico (who loves birds) would want to see this,” she said and gave him a ring. He came rushing over and confirmed him to be a banded goshawk. By this time I was getting concerned about my new little friend. Apart from his eye he hadn’t moved at all since we’d met. I had just read “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” about a man who could only communicate by moving his eyelid. Maybe this was the goshawk version. Or, perhaps he was exhausted, even ill. Nico (who loves birds) offered SK a mop handle to perch on. He ignored it. Nico gave him a poke. SK did the splits and toppled over. Sadly, it was SK’s final topple. My new, two hour, pet was gone taking with him my hopes and dreams.

John, our gardener has interred SK in an unmarked grave amongst the frangipani trees.

We couldn’t find Kei Mouth on the map because Willy, Danie’s aged parent, insisted on calling it Kei Mon. Willy had a strange sense of humour. I’m still not sure whether the biltong he gives us to eat is actually giraffe as he claims or not. “I good at English” he tells us. “Speak me no question,” he says to prove it. This, of course is just part of his act, which he rehearses a surprising number of times while we are with him. As you can imagine, he is an absolute scream.

He and his wife, Hilion, have kindly consented to give us a lift to the coastal village of Kei Mouth, just north of East London, where they will spend their annual vacation with their four children and assorted spouses. Lifts in Africa are paying affairs. No-one has much money so you, quite rightly, pay your share of the transport costs and accommodation. Willy had been a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church until they had a falling out about something fairly crucial, namely, amongst other things, the presence of Jesus in your life. Since then he has been involved in a number of money making schemes. He has been a melon trader and currently runs a pancake stall in the Saturday Farmer’s Market in Bloemfontein. Neither of these has dampened his evangelical zeal and is keen on an organisation from the USA called “Christ Love”. “Willy loves to preach,” we are warned. “When you have had enough, tell him so. My husband just walks away,” says one well-wisher. In fact, Willy is quite refreshing. We were growing tired of the “prosperity gospel” that we have heard preached so much in Africa. You know the sort of thing, believe in God and you will have a big car and a grand house. To hear the message that the only thing worth having is the living presence of Jesus in your life has the definite ring of truth about it. After all those years of being a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church it is wonderful that he has at last come to recognise the living presence of Jesus in his life.

The day of our departure from Bloemfontein does not start particularly well. We have been told that Willy and Hilion would be making a leisurely start, say about 11am. At 9am Kathleen says that we have to be ready to go in 30 minutes. Panic stations. We haven’t begun to pack. We bundle everything into our rucksacks and we are ready to go. It is sad to say goodbye. Kathleen and John have been such good hosts and have practically made us members of their family. Marie did a very efficient job organising our travel to the coast and booking our bus back to Rundu on the internet.

As Kathleen drives us to Willy and Hillion’s house we worry that we may be delaying their departure. We arrive to find Willy outside in nothing but a pair of shorts cleaning a large tarpaulin. They won’t be ready for a few hours yet. This gives us time to accompany Kathleen on her weekly visit to John’s mother who lives in an old folks’ home a short distance away. “She can be a difficult woman,” warns Kathleen, “so don’t mind what she says.” Old people are supposed to be cantankerous, aren’t they? I look forward to being so when i get old, which is a long way off. We stop off for a few groceries and cigarettes. These are rationed as mother would smoke them all in one go if she could. She has good fug going by the time we reach her room. Is she smoking or burning a pile of wet leaves? Her outline emerges through the smoke. She is pleased to see us and is on her best behaviour. She speaks fairly good English with a deep, husky voice. She sounds like and elderly Lauren Bacall and the atmosphere is pleasant and warm, in fact, disappointingly, no drama at all. A sepia photo on the wall shows a smartly dressed young man and a beautiful young lady. What couple they must have been in their heyday. On the way out we pick an apricot off one of the trees in the grounds. Someone taps on the window. The apricot is hard anyway so we chuck it away.

Willy and co. are still packing so we go back to Kathleen’s for a cup of coffee. When we’d parted an hour previously I had wondered if we would ever see this family again. I never dreamt it would be so soon.

First goodbyes are difficult, second are just plain embarrassing. However, we survive.

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

In the photo you can see (l to r) Danie, who is married to Marie, who is the daughter of John, who is married to Kathleen, who is the friend of Georgina, who is married to the illusive cameraman.

It is a special delight to visit this family as we thought we would never see them again when they returned to South Africa after a time working in the UK. We sit sipping cool drinks on their front lawn in the cool of the late afternoon. It is not long before the question of security crops up. It is a subject that John feels strongly about and is never far from his thoughts. He gives a catalogue of who has been mugged and murdered recently in the neighbourhood. A local shopkeeper was shot and killed the other day for his meagre takings. You are vulnerable everywhere but particularly at ATM’s. Beware of who’s watching you. Too many young thugs have guns. You are not safe in your own home. They will think nothing of bursting in and shooting you. They will hi-jack your car while you are stopped at the lights (called robots in SA). John knew someone in Pretoria who had stopped at a red light, was confronted by a gunman and was shot in the arm as he sped away. Only last year Hermann, his son, had had his brand new Navarro 4 x 4 stolen from their very drive. He had only just registered it and a corrupt official had passed the details to a gang of car thieves. I get the impression that John feels less than safe in his own country and all this talk is beginning to make me feel paranoid. Will we ever get out of South Africa with our lives? The constant, perceived threat of imminent danger is having a deleterious effect on the quality of life here. Even if the real threat is exaggerated, the perceived threat in people’s minds is real. In effect, they are prisoners of their own perceptions. John has no confidence in the police force. He says they are unresponsive and ineffective. He thinks many of them are indolent and barely literate. He believes the law would allow him to shoot an armed intruder in self defence. John has a gun and tells me where it is hidden. I shall know where to run if we are attacked in the next few days. I just hope it’s as easy to operate as I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot. On second thoughts, maybe it would be safer to throw my hands in the air and let intruders take what they want. John seems to have had enough. The constant concern about safety is very wearing.

Ann, Kathleen’s elder daughter, is visiting with her cute little Annika and Lisa. After dinner, John goes out to see them off. Suddenly he rushes into the lounge in a high state of agitation and shouting madly. “Phone the police,” he yells. They have taken Ann and the car. It takes us a few moments for the enormity of the situation to sink in. Five black gunmen have hijacked Ann’s new 4×4 and taken her and four year old Lisa hostage. Kathleen and Marie are naturally distraught and we all rush around not knowing what to do for the best. John had already locked the garden gate and felt helpless as his daughter was kidnapped. One thief had pointed a gun at him and he was lucky to have escaped with his life. John and I jump into Dani and Marie’s bakkie to look for Ann. Kathleen thrusts a stun gun into my hand. These gunmen had better not try anything now that I’m armed. I must remember not to stun myself. Halfway along the road a neighbour flags us down. Ann has managed to escape and rushed into a neighbour’s house with Lisa. She is, naturally, very shocked but unhurt apart from a sore shoulder where one gunman had struck her with the butt of his pistol as she tried to escape and a graze to her leg when she fell down in the road. Back safely with her family she tells of her ordeal. The gunmen spring up from nowhere. They must have been hiding in the patch of waste ground next to the house. Ann was bundled back into the car with Lisa at which point the men had a disagreement about whether Ann should be in the front. This confusion gave Ann the chance to escape. Ann said she was calm and confident as she felt the reassuring presence of God in the car with her.

“Stop or I’ll shoot you,” yelled one of the men. “Shoot me then,” replied Ann as she stepped out and ran.

John says that hi-jackings are a common occurrence here and we all thank God that no-one was hurt. The fact that Ann was deliberately kidnapped was a worrying turn of events. It does not require much imagination to picture Ann’s fate had she not escaped. These men think nothing of rape and murder says John with evident disgust. Thieves target expensive 4x4s and they are often stolen to order. They are taken out of the country, typically to Mozambique. In fact, Ann’s car is later found near the Mozambique border. It’s not a good idea to have an expensive car in South Africa. It’s much safer to drive an old, battered Fiat or Toyota. Kathleen jokes that she could leave her little, old banger in the road with the keys in it and no-one would steal it. Now, that’s the sort of car to have. The next day John lifts up his polo shirt to show me his gun strapped around his waist. Last evening’s events have just reinforced his worst fears.

The rest of our stay in Bloemfontein was less eventful, though a car was broken into outside the hotel where Ann was staying. We did normal things like visit the shopping mall and garden nurseries where there were playgrounds for Annika and Lisa. We went to the Saturday Farmers’ Market which was a strange experience since there was hardly a black face to be seen. Although apartheid has been formally abolished, the races don’t seem to mix much. Separate living still exists and will probably take a long time to die out. This is not the case in Namibia where there is far more racial integration and a more relaxed security situation. Since we’ve been living there the only crimes we’ve experienced are the thefts of some straggly cabbages from our garden, a bag of rubbish from our wheely bin and Georgina drinking half of my glass of wine, a persistent crime which shows no sign of abating.

Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, we are going to Bloemfontein.  This is the legislative capital of South Africa, sitting smack bang in the middle of the country and is the home of our dear friends, Kathleen and John.  Funnily enough, there is a small town called Bethlehem just up the road, but we will not visit it as the inns will probably be full, i.e. no room at.

We are sitting on the forecourt of the Engen Filling Station at 10pm with Mary (see "The African Church") waiting for the Intercape Bus to take us to Windhoek and then on to South Africa.  We are advised to sit where it is light as people lose their luggage in the shadows around the corner.  Mary has completed her 3 years as a missionary in Namibia and is on her way home to Weymouth.  She hates travelling alone, so the fact that we are on the same bus as far as Windhoek can either be seen as, a) coincidence, or, b) God’s design.  Personally, I favour b).

Eventually, the brightly-lit, double-decker coach looms into view and we snuggle down for our overnight ride to Windhoek.  Only an aeroplane seat is less comfortable for sleeping and it is only sheer exhaustion that eventually renders me unconscious.  Georgina, who falls asleep before any vehicle has gone more than half a mile, has been snoozing for hours.  The bus makes a comfort stop at every 24 hour garage on the route whether we want it or not.  it has been designed (no doubt and very wisely) for someone with an acute case of diarrhoea. Or, maybe, the driver just wants a cigarette? Those of us with stronger constitutions groan as we pull into yet another garage and stumble, zombie-like off the bus and towards the nearest convenience.  The forecourt is instantly transformed into the set of  "The Night of the Living Dead". Georgina stays asleep.  How does she do that? 

We roll into Windhoek at 7.30 in the morning  and stop at the minimalist central bus station.  It is so minimalist the casual observer might think it’s just an empty car park.  In fact, it is just an empty car park, but does boast a public convenience in one corner, not that we need it after all those stops.  Our connection to Upington leaves at 6.30 this evening so we have the whole day in Windhoek.   We get plenty of amused looks as we stagger along Independence Avenue to the VSO office.  I have a huge rucksack tied to my back (Georgina insists I do up all the straps around my waist and chest, and I always forget to undo at least one when trying to take it off, with the consequence that I have to squirm and wrestle with the damn thing before it will let me go).  Also, I have a couple of large bags hanging from my neck giving me the appearance of being prematurely stooped. Georgina is dragging along her rucksack on wheels and grappling with a variety of carrier bags.  She looks for all the world like the archetypal "bag-lady".  Together we must resemble ageing hippies on our way to a music festival.  Peace and Love, man. We dump our bags at the VSO office and try to straighten up.  We creak and groan.  We have each lost at least an inch in height. 

The British have the dubious honour of having invented the concentration camp during the wars in South Africa.  However, was the Germans who transformed them into the evil instruments of terror that they became.  One of their earliest ,the "Alte Feste", can be found on the hill overlooking central Windhoek, near the Parliament building and just down the road from the President’s Palace.  It was here that the German colonists imprisoned the Herero trouble-makers who, for some reason, objected to having their land stolen and the genocide of their people.  Outside is the prominent statue of a German soldier on horse back celebrating their victory over the native peoples.  It is a wonder  that this monument to colonial repression and cruelty hasn’t been blown up years ago.  Namibians must be unusually tolerant and forgiving.

We try the railway museum.  It is situated in Windhoek station with the entrance on the south side.  The sun at midday is directly above us.  Like Peter Pan, we have no shadow.  We  climb the winding stair to reception.  It should be open but there is a metal gate barring our way.  We ring the bell.  No reply.  We ring again.  No reply.  Maybe the receptionist has had a heart attack?  We peer into the entrance hall but see no body.  Maybe this museum doesn’t like visitors?  Some don’t. We tramp down the stairs and go away.

We head for the smart shopping mall at the end of Post Street.  As I pass the installation comprising 12 or so meteorites  I notice that the person walking beside me is not Georgina but a disheveled and less than fragrant young man.  His hair is unkempt and he has a strange look in his watery eyes.  He is walking too close to me and I begin to feel distinctly uneasy.  He tells me he has just been let out of a mental hospital.  He needs the fare to get home.  His bus leaves in half an hour. Could I give him some money?  I turn around and see Georgina lagging behind pretending to look in a shop window.  I lead the madman away.  No need for us both to be knifed.  Peering out of the corner of my eye, I see no weapon about his person but his demeanour yells "unpredictable" at me.  Resorting to the last refuge of a scoundrel, I decide to tell him the truth.  "I have no spare cash to give you".  Our trip is already testing available resources.  "I take euros, rand, anything" he tells me.  This beggar runs an international outfit.  Would he take Mastercard?  I speed up.  He speeds up.  I slow down. He slows down. A limpet could not have been more tenacious.  And all the time he is explaining to me why I should give him money.  He favours euros.  He wants me to give him euros.  Are they strong this week?  He must know something I don’t, or, maybe he really is just mad? We reach the mall entrance.  The guard gives him a knowing look and he disappears into the crowd.

We go to visit Kentucky Fried Chicken to kill time.  We were nearly drawn into King Pie, which has many establishments, but Colonel Sanders wins the day.  We could have gone to Hungry Lion, the African equivalent of Macdonald’s, but we would have had to cross the main road and we now have our bags back.  Sadly, it is too much effort.

We take a window seat and after spending 10 minutes moaning about the paucity of the portions, we sit and watch the behaviour of the street beggars outside.  They merge with the passing crowd and at first glance you may not know they are there.  They have targeted the entrance to KFC and are hunting as a co-operative group.  The first boy accosts a young man leaving with a take-away.  It may be fast food, but this young man is not fast enough.  He momentarily hesitates and the young beggar senses a kill.  He follows the young man down the street digging deeply into his not inconsiderable resources of persuasion.  They are followed at a distance by a straggler who, unsuccessful at making first kills himself, hopes to benefit from anything that is left over.

This leaves the way open to beggar number two who has already been summarily brushed off by his first mark and is stalking another.  The attack fails.  The woman does not even acknowledge the predator’s presence as she marches smartly away.  This is how we will leave, though our bags will slow us down.  In the meantime, we are safe inside  since there is a security guard at the entrance who, though half asleep and looking thoroughly bored, by his very presence is keeping the beggars out.  It is time for us to go.  We hitch up our bags and gird up our loins.  I give my wing support a brief briefing. We know the enemy is outside, camouflaged and waiting for us.  With courage and determination we shall withstand all assaults and win through to a glorious day of victory and liberty.  We shall not tire nor be deflected from our purpose.  A bus is waiting for us and we shall not let it down.  With a steadfast smile of encouragement we open the door and wing our way into ambush alley.  In an instant we are facing a direct onslaught.  "Give me some money" comes the opening salvo.  I veer to one side and the words go over my head.  I open up the throttle but chummy is light and manoeuvrable.  His is a newer model and unencumbered by baggage.  He slips from my right flank to my left releasing one volley after another as he pursues me down the street.  His aim is good but he incurs no serious damage.  We maintain speed and height and surge on regardless.  He sees his attack is failing and breaks off.  I reduce speed  for Georgina and we reestablish group formation.  "Give me a dollar,"  A goon emerges from my blind spot out of the sun.  I did not see him coming.  Only evasive manoeuvres can help us now.  I dive behind a telegraph pole and skim a line of parked cars.  Chummy falls back to avoid collision but clings to my tail strafing me mercilessly.  I try to pick up speed but my engine splutters and threatens to stall.  I am about to enter a free-fall dive.  I can see the ground racing up towards me.  But no, my plugs spark back to life and I shoot forward.  My pursuer has no heart for the struggle and backs off.  I see a new wave of goons crossing the road to my right but they have another target in their sights.  We are free and our victory is in our grasp.

We are the first ones on the bus and get the front seat.  The engine is off and the upper deck is rapidly turning into a sauna.  Passengers are congregating outside and I see the madman who had accosted me earlier outside the mall.  He is carefully selecting his marks, young, female and friendly. He must have changed his tactics as I was none of these.  His fictional bus would have gone 2 hours previously.

I peruse the people chatting in the car park.  There is a lady in a green dress with 2 blue parrots standing one on each shoulder.  They are so still they must be stuffed.  No, they move their heads. They seem happy on their perches and make no attempt to escape.  There are no shrieks of "Pieces of Eight", but surely, this must be Mrs Long John Silver.  Admittedly, she does have 2 legs, but, there again, she does have 2 parrots. 

Popa Falls is a rapid on the Kavango River just outside the Mahango Game Park. On our way there we stopped at a supermarket to buy cold drinks. Small and dingy, it was anything but “super”. But it did have cold drinks. Men and boys propped themselves against the walls as though the walls were in imminent danger of falling down. Swigging periodically from bottles of Windhoek lager and tins of cola they stared at us as if trying to work out from which planet we had just arrived.

A bedraggled youth of about 15 years sidled up to me. His body odour had arrived a good minute before him. I suspected that his torn, stained and holey brown tee-shirt had started out in life as a white one. In one hand he held a long stick to one end of which he had attached bottle tops in the form of two wheels which he pushed around in front of him.

“Gimme a dollar,” he said without moving his lips. The words were nearly totally incoherent but this was the beggar child’s usual demand. His eyes were glazed and watery, his face puffy. His repeated demand was turning into a mantra. Evidently, his tactic was to wear his victim down with a combined assault on nose and ear so that the victim would give a coin just to get rid of him. And before you think me the most callous person who ever breathed, you must understand that these “professional” beggars can earn anything up to 80 Namibian dollars a day and have to give most of it to the older boys in the gang. Our hard-working cleaner earns 50 Namibian dollars and has to support a family.

John knew the best way to Popa Falls. “There’s a track at the end of this garden.” We looked but saw no garden. “There!” he said, pointing to a field half the size of England. “Oh, that garden,” Linda said.

It turned out that we had managed to evade the enterprising woman who had appointed herself entrance fee collector to the Falls.

“That woman robs people” said John. She had been a former class mate of his and he knew her tricks. We were pleased not to have been robbed that day.

At Popa Falls, John and his family stripped to their pants and braved the foaming water. It looked cool and refreshing, but, for me, totally resistible.

Of course, they had no towel, so, with jeans over wet pants they paraded back to the car like cowboys who had been in the saddle for 2 months without a break. Laugh? I could have wet myself.

“Hey you,” he said (he was a talking elephant). “Wotcha doin’ here? This is my spot for pickin’ up chicks.”

“OK, man, we’re not going to cramp your style.”

We edged the car forward.

He stared at us for a bit wondering if he should give us a bit of action. No doubt he had a flick knife hidden about his person.

“Don’t go any nearer,” warned John, our Namibian gardener and whose ancestors had been mighty warriors.

“These animals are dangerous. They could flick this car over easily.”

Maybe his forebears had had trouble with elephants flicking over cars?

“Don’t be such a wimp, John, “ said Linda, (or words to that effect). “We’re miles away.” Nevertheless, all our senses were on full alert looking for the slightest sign that this cool dude was beginning to heat up. He flapped his magnificent ears and lifted one leg. Was this the first sign of a charge or was he waving goodbye? Apparently it was the latter because he turned and sloped off into the undergrowth without even a high five.

Linda, Georgina and I had driven the 2 hours to Mahango with John, his brother, Andreas and 3 children from their extended family. Although they were native Namibians they had little experience of the local wildlife. As we drove through the park there seemed to be elephant droppings everywhere. This was evidently an elephant toilet.

On first arriving at the park, the childrens’ entertainer in Linda had come out.

“What animal will we see first? A prize for whoever gets it right.”

“A lion,” said one. “Elephant,” said another. “Giraffe, buffalo.”

I plumped for “kangaroo” as the others seemed a little obvious. They, unanimously, and I might add, rather unkindly, pooh poohed my suggestion. Given the number of droppings in the park, there seemed to be a lot of pooh poohing going on that day. I scoured the scrub for a kangaroo in vain. Were those kangaroo droppings? If you threw them would they bounce?

Springbok and impala were everywhere all wanting their photo taken. The latter have the markings of a Macdonald’s “M” on their rumps which is apt as they are a favourite “take away” for lions. Zebras crossed the road, buffalo hid in the bushes, wart hogs did “piggy” things and monkeys sneered at us from the tree tops. If we are descended from apes surely I would be better at climbing trees? A herd of 22 elephants cavorted in a swamp trying to keep cool.

A huge boabob tree stood in the centre of the park. It looked as though it had been there for thousands of years. It had that “established” look.

“From the time of Jesus,” suggested Linda. John nodded in agreement and, as he was the only one with a book on boabob trees at home (just how many books on boabob trees are there?) we deferred to his greater authority.

Mahango is one of the few game reserves where you can get out of your vehicle. No doubt there is a disclaimer against being eaten by lions or trampled by buffalo. For some reason John didn’t want to be mauled by lions and only left the car with great reluctance. Attracted by the evocative sounds of singing hippos we pushed our way through the bushes behind the boabob tree to be confronted by a vast plain stretching out before us. The river with singing hippos and flying white egrets was a fair distance away, and beyond that lay a range of mountains from which many palls of dusky smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

I had made a carrot cake especially for the trip. After slicing off its burnt bottom and disguising it with a soft cheese and icing sugar topping it looked almost edible. Unfortunately, the heat of the car melted the top, and most now was creeping across the boot of Linda’s car leaving the cake looking as though it had a pepperoni pizza topping. Strangely enough, the monkeys at the picnic site made no attempt to steal our food. The cake was unexpectedly delicious. I may try putting real pepperoni on the top next time.

Almost as annoying is the irritation felt at seeing these very same dogs the next morning stretched out under a shady tree snoozing the daylight hours away so that they can stop us sleeping at night. Rose took us on a tour of Rundu in her car. We passed many dozing dogs. “Swerve to the left,” I urged as we approached one, but Rose could not be prevailed upon to decrease the dog population by a measly one. Neither should revenge tempt you to give a dozing dog a hefty kick up the north pole. This is rabies country, after all. Let sleeping dogs lie. What puzzles me, though, is, if Africans are prepared to eat dog, then why are there still so many of them around? They are a good source of nutrients and they probably taste as good as a steak. Eat more dog is what I say.

Then the cocks start crowing. Don’t believe these creatures only crow at dawn. I can personally vouch for the fact that, given half a chance they will crow all through the night. There is a cock a few houses away. Its call is answered by one a quarter of a mile down the road, then by one a quarter of a mile further on and so on until the sound of the cock reached Windhoek seven hundred miles away. Georgina assures me that when her grandfather kept cocks he would put them overnight in a coop where the ceiling was so low the cocks couldn’t stretch out their necks to crow. Ignore the connotations of medieval torture. This sounds like a good idea.

In the rare and, oh so brief, moments of silence in the night I can hear something prowling in the garden. It sounds as if it has the weight and dimensions of a gorilla. It can’t be John the gardener as he only comes on Mondays and Thursdays. What it is and what it’s doing I do not and don’t wish to know. Besides, Georgina is safely between me and the window, so I snuggle down under my mosquito net choosing to ignore that a rampant primate would make short work of a flimsy bit of lace.

A new horror has emerged to destroy any chance of a goodnight’s sleep. Yesterday, a couple were married next door. Part of the tradition is to ensure that anyone within a one mile radius gets no sleep that night. They easily achieve this with what sounds like a hundred African drummers a choir of a thousand well versed in African chants and excessively loud ululations. You have to remember that our windows are neither double nor even single glazed. This facilitates the sounds travelling directly from their drums and voices to our ears with no let or hindrance. After 2 hours your brain begins to throb. After 4 you are on the verge of insanity. After 6, your thoughts turn to bloody murder. Each of our gardens in this part of town has a large and substantial air raid shelter plonked in the middle of it to protect the population against Angolan shelling during the regional uprising a few years ago. Contrary to popular belief, they were not shelling Namibia for helping their enemies in the war but, I believe, to stop the nightly cacophony of dogs, cocks and weddings. Unfortunately, they did not succeed.

We were at Jinja, a short journey from Kampala and where Lake Victoria pours out its massive waters into the source of the Nile. In the nineteenth century the location of the Nile’s headwater had been a puzzle for many eminent Victorian explorers including David Livingstone, and it wasn’t until John Hanning Speke found this very spot that the actual source was discovered.

Just down the river was Bujagali Falls, a series of dangerous rapids where you could pay a local to throw himself into the water with a plastic yellow bottle tied to his body so that you could watch his deadly progress over the rocks.I did not wish to be a party to this assisted suicide attempt, so graciously declined the offer. Apart from our visit, two significant events occurred at Bujagali Falls that day. One was a visit from the Ugandan President who was inaugurating the building of a new hydro-electric dam, The other was the ritual of gaining the approval of the water spirits by relocating them before the dam destroyed the rapids. The local witch doctor announced that the water spirits were appeased and showed their approval by causing a rain storm. Moses laughed cynically, proclaiming it a scam to attract tourists. I think he had a point.

Huge jackfruit, like giant elongated melons, grew everywhere in this region. Moses stopped to buy a slice. Before we could eat it he had to clean off the dust and grime of the road with an old piece of newspaper. Newsprint was the flavour of the month, apparently. The jackfruit tasted sweet and not unlike pineapple, though nicer.

The tree-lined town of Jinja was well built, spacious and hinted of richer colonial days. There was a large Asian population and decent, well-stocked shops. Surrounded by Coco-pops, Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut, and Bird’s Custard Powder, we could have been at home. Even the prices were the same. We bought Snickers. They had been made in Egypt and tasted as if they had been dug up from Pharaoh’s tomb.

We stayed in a Mexican hotel that night. It had been owned by an Asian man who had been expelled by that evil tyrant Idi Amin dada (who may at this very moment be rotting in hell). After restitution, the son returned from Leeds, improved the hotel and landscaped the grounds. He was enthusiastic about the British Royal family and grateful for the opportunities he had been given while living in Britain. Our villa-type rooms, hidden by climbing vegetation, over-looked the swimming pool. The hotel was beautiful, though strangely devoid of guests. The owner’s wife was Texan and had started the nearby Amani orphanage to look after orphaned and abandoned babies.

Georgina couldn’t resist the lure of the swimming pool and joined 2 black girls who were being given a swimming lesson by their father who sat fully clothed on the side. “ Precious, keep kicking”. “Precious, keep moving your arms.” “Precious, swim over here.” Precious paid little heed. Georgina joined in, moving Precious arms & legs in the required directions. “That’s it, Precious. You’re in school now. Do as teacher says.” “Precious, though reluctant at first, was warming to her lessons.” The father, sucking on a clear bag containing amber liquid, was becoming more and more incoherent. His wife, sitting alone on the other side of the pool paid little heed to the proceedings and seemed pleased when it was time to go. “Say goodbye to the dog”, the man shouted to his children as they left the pool. “It’s rude to go without saying goodbye to the dog”. Precious had already gone. He stumbled his way towards me. I kept my head down and pretended to carry on reading my book. “It’s good that people can get on and live together.” He slurred at me. “”We can be friends together. You help my children. We are friends. My father was a professor. He wanted me to be one too, but I was a failure and let him down. I don’t beg. There are people who beg. But for what? Eh? I just want contacts. It’s just contacts. Some people beg. But what for? He hunched his shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “But I don’t beg. What for? Eh? What for?” He was waving his arms about and seemed to want a response.” Not knowing what he was talking about I struggled to find one. Best agree with him, I thought. “Yea, what for?” I ventured. This was not an adequate response. He carried on as before. “My father had expectations of me and I could not live up to them. I was a disappointment.” This man clearly needed counselling. “All I need is contacts. Contacts are good, no?” Some people beg. But not me. It’s contacts, eh?” “Yes,” I agreed. Suddenly his tone changed to one of annoyance. “You are friends to my children, but you are not my friend.”With that he stormed off.Being particularly dense that day I had not realised he was asking for my name and address etc. What would he have done with them? He doesn’t beg. The bag he was sucking turned out to be “Mike Tyson, the drink with extra punch, 40% alcohol.”

That night we slept in a mad house. Rats were running a marathon in the roof space. Was that a baboon jumping on our roof? In the early hours, a chorus of raucously discordant birds screeched incessantly, and continually dragged us back from sleep. There was nearly a serious case of bird murder, but we later discovered that this horrific noise was made by a tiny tree frog attracting a mate. It wouldn’t have needed a mate if I’d have caught it.