Hayestack

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.

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

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

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

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

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

At last I have found a pet (or pets, to be more precise) that I can love and care for but which won’t dominate my life. A cat or dog needs constant attention. Ants don’t. A cat or a dog needs a kennel or cattery when you go on holiday. Ants don’t. A cat or dog needs feeding and watering every few hours. Ants don’t. They don’t need taking to the vet, nor are you distraught when one dies as there are always more. And I don’t mean keeping them in a glass tank such as you see in the zoo. Ants are free and fiercely independent creatures whose natural dignity would be curtailed were they kept trapped in some cruel enclosure. No, my ants feel the refreshing wind of freedom on their tiny little faces in the morning. They travel hither and thither or wheresoever they would go. They are constrained in no way by me.

They first entered my life as little black spots scurrying around outside my bedroom door. I am ashamed to say, my immediate response was to exterminate. Early conditioning is to blame. Then I thought why, in this continent where death is cheap, why fall into the easy trap of destroying what I don’t like? Why spuriously destroy something you cannot replace. Ants are small and intricately made. They are a miracle of creation. They are well organised and cooperative. They march in lines in their constant search for food. One line travels out of the garage, another meets it going in the opposite direction. There is a moment of confusion , then they go on their way. They carry neither food nor bottles of water.

At the moment, their favourite footpath is into our shower. They enter through a crack in the ceiling and parade in close formation over the white tiles to the hot tap and spend some seconds exploring this before retracing their steps to the crack in the ceiling. They are playful little things. Sometimes when the shower splashes them they bravely hurl themselves off the wall like cliff divers, and have a little splash around in the puddles on the floor. Their comic antics are a joy to watch.

The main problem is finding names for them all. I tried doing it systematically, starting with Aaron and ending with Zebedee but I soon ran out. Maybe I need to get hold of a “Naming Baby” book. Another alternative would be to call them all Anthony with a number. For example, we would have Anthony 1, Anthony 2 etc. You can see what I mean. But I thought the numbers would dehumanise them (or should that be “de-anticise”). You will appreciate that apart from “antics”, I have been very sparing with the “ant” puns. I didn’t want it to be silly.

Most people do not realise how affectionate these little creatures are. I often feel them playfully tickling my legs, as they make their way up to my knees. They like sky-diving but are nervously reluctant to make the initial leap. I help them out, and with a chuckle and a flick send them into what for them must be the stratosphere and earthward again. They are so intrepid they do this without a parachute.

They love my company. Only last night Peter, or was it Mabel (I still have trouble recognising them) came scurrying over my laptop keyboard wanting to play. Luckily, I needed a “q” rather than a “w” and a catastrophe was averted. I was cross but relieved. With a puff of breathe I sent it flying to bed with a flea in its antenna. They don’t realise how dangerous it is out there alone at night.

Oh, horror. I’ve found a pot of “Doom Powder, Kills Crawling Insects on Contact” on the window sill in the toilet. I fear it is already too late. I have discovered tell-tale signs of white powder in the cracks in the shower and it’s not talcum powder. My little friends are no more. Bath time will never be so much fun again. I shall have to shower alone.

                          Boarding the Intercape, Christmas Day

Early on Christmas morning we trudge through the Company Gardens for the last time. Now seasoned backpackers, we are comfortable carrying our rucksacks and other bags and no longer feel conspicuous as the ridiculous geriatrics we undoubtedly look. Hopefully we would inspire sympathy rather than violence from any mugger. David has dashed off at the last moment to buy his Christmas dinner and doesn’t return in time to say goodbye. We have cold chicken, olives, crisps, chocolate and other treats for lunch on the Intercape bus to Namibia. The station is already alive and a queue is forming. It must be about this time that two of our fellow travellers, a mother and son, are mugged here and lose all their possessions. We see and hear nothing and only find out about it once we are on the bus. Their lack of passports is a real problem at the border and delays our bus considerably. Our discomfort must be nothing to that felt by the victims who, so easily, could have been us.

We travel all day and night and arrive in Windhoek on Boxing Day. It is a public holiday and everything is shut. The lack of traffic makes it feels like a ghost town. The only people on the streets are young men who seem to be looking enviously at our possessions. We feel very vulnerable and a sense of panic rises within us. We’ll find a backpacker’s hostel and take refuge there. The empty streets fill us with concern. Every car seems dangerous. The backpackers is on the other side of town. We can’t find it. They have shut down. It no longer exists. The next one is a short walk away. They are open and will let us use their facilities, which includes a swimming pool, for just N$20 (£1.40) each. Our feeling of relief is palpable. But we have to cross the city again later that evening to catch the bus to Rundu. Windhoek is supposed to be a relatively safe, law-abiding city, and I was not expecting such a tangible feeling of menace when it is empty.

                                                           African sky

We arrive back in Rundu about midnight and, although relieved to be home, we are still suffering the after effects of our recent experiences. We decide to take a taxi even though we live only a short distance from the bus’ drop off point. The journey takes about 2 minutes, but since it is after midnight, the driver charges us at least double the usual rate (N$20). As the taxi drives away we realise we have left our tent and another bag in the back of the car. Forgetting paranoia, Georgina runs back through the dark streets to the taxi rank with me in hot pursuit. The driver hands over our luggage telling us what a good service he gives. He also tells us that the twenty dollars we gave him was not enough. We still owe him N$20. Unfortunately, we have left all cash at home. Besides, our ride had been short and we feel we have given him enough. He takes it in good part and, instead of running us down, offers us a free lift back home. Feeling brave, we decline his offer, preferring to walk the short distance home under the stars. Our Christmas in Africa 2008 draws to a very pleasant close.

                                          Table Mountain

If I had to live anywhere in South Africa, I’m pretty sure I would choose Cape Town. It is smart, cosmopolitan, friendly and small enough to be able to walk anywhere. We certainly feel more secure and comfortable here than in any other part of South Africa. The main centre lies between the newly developed harbour and the impressive and imposing Table Mountain.

Our first experience of Cape Town is not auspicious. A taxi man, touting for business picks, up our rucksack as soon as our minibus stops and leads us through the crowd, supposedly towards a taxi that will take us to our hostel. He is accosted by another taxi driver who wants our business. An argument ensues with the new, younger driver winning by throwing our rucksack into the back of his car. We ask the cost of the journey but he is reluctant to give a price. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good deal,” he says. That’s what we fear. We insist on a price and eventually he quotes £14 to take us half a mile up the road. With a polite “No thank you,” we grab our rucksack and walk speedily away. The original taxi man is still following us holding out his hand. We give him a couple of dollars for carrying our bag. He holds out for more. “No, that’s enough,” we say, but this guy is not easy to shake off. He eventually gets the message that we mean what we say and falls back into the crowd.

One of the good things about Cape Town is that everywhere is within walking distance. Our backpackers hostel is just under Table Mountain and is a good one. The “Ashanti” is one of the few backpackers in Cape Town that takes tents. We simply have to stay there as there is nowhere else. The man behind reception is flexible. “If you can fit your tent in you can stay.” At first sight there is no room. It is a small area anyway and a large, sprawling tent takes up half the space. The guy ropes of another tent stretches out unnecessarily wide. With a bit of imagination we could pitch at an angle, encroach upon the path and block the French window to the female dorm. An intruder would have to climb over us to gain entry. “Did you find enough space?” asks the receptionist. “Masses,” I reply. We had arrived.

Cape Town is an enclave of civilisation and glamour. The newly developed harbour has an attractive collection of shops, restaurants, entertainment areas.

Large, expensive yachts line the marina while people sit at waterside cafes sipping coffee and soaking in the atmosphere. And all the time Table Mountain stands proudly as an ever present backdrop, shielding you from the poverty and distress of the rest of Africa.

The Hillsong Church meets every Sunday in the new, international conference centre nearby. Following Simon’s (our son) recommendation we pay them a visit and watch a very entertaining nativity tableau produced with Hillsong’s usual style and opulence.

I am back in childhood when Santa, descending from the back of the hall, shakes my hand thrusting into it a candy lollipop. Equally memorable are the unusual, modern washbasins in the rest rooms, comprising a jet of water falling onto a flat, inclined slab of marble. Strange the things that impress us.

We struggle up the steep hill behind our hostel to the base station of the cable car that will take us to the top of Table Mountain.

We contemplate the steep angle of the cable and wonder how the car can make it vertically up the last few hundred feet. We buy a single ticket as we are going to risk taking the footpath down. We have put on an extra layer of clothes as it is much colder at the top. We are mad. One extra layer is totally inadequate. It is like the north pole at the summit and everyone is turning blue and shivering uncontrollably. A few people wearing fleeces smile smugly as we develop goose bumps bigger than geese.

There is a small shop on the summit selling fleeces and woolly jumpers. They are doing a brisk trade. The view is spectacular, especially when the clouds part. We can see Nelson Mandela’s Robben Island just off the coast. We ask at the Information desk about the footpath down. The girl claims she knows nothing about it. Are we sure there is one? She wants to sell us tickets down in the cable car. We want to walk. We will ask the guides. These are three pensioners who give guided tours of the plateau in their spare time. They are well wrapped up in anoraks, sturdy boots and carry walking sticks. They look incredulous when we mention the path. We have no warm clothes, no water, we are wearing sandals and have no stick. We are utterly crazy, they suggest politely. It is a steep and very dangerous path. We are about to commit suicide. The rest of the group smile sympathetically. We are innocents; we are foreigners and English to boot. I feel that the guides mistakenly think I have suggested climbing Everest in my shirt sleeves. They peer at us closely. Are we experienced walkers? I am indignant. We’ve walked everywhere, up mountains, down mountains, through mountains, over mountains. I list all the mountains I have ever heard of and several I haven’t. We’ve walked around the world twice and are planning to walk to the moon. We are obviously seasoned walkers. The guides relent. They will show us the start of the path but will take no responsibility for the tragedy that will inevitably befall us. “I will read about it in the newspapers tomorrow morning,” says one of the guides with an annoying smirk.

They show us the path as if it were the Holy Grail and wave us on our way. The path is steep and stony but in no way is it an exceptionally lunatic way of getting down the mountain. There is a steady stream of walkers going in both directions. It is a very enjoyable and sensible way to descend. Moreover, we have saved a small fortune on the price of a ticket.

Halfway down the path we hear a scream and see a young girl doing cartwheels through the undergrowth. She stops with a bump and lies still. Her two young friends sit on the path crying hysterically. They think she is dead. Three young, energetic young men come trotting down the path. One happens to be a doctor. They just happened to be passing. The girl is not dead. She is not really injured at all, apart from a sore ankle. She had slipped off the path and tumbled down the mountain. She was still unsteady on her feet so we agree to help her to the bottom. She is fifteen and in a school party. The teacher has gone on without them. As we reach the bottom of the mountain our leg muscles begin to seize up. It is agony. We barely make it back to the hostel and it takes three days for our legs to return to normal.

We walk through the sunlit Company Gardens to Cape Town Cathedral situated at the end. The gardens were laid out centuries before to supply the many ships sailing around the tip of Africa. Now they are just a beautiful place to stroll on your way to the centre. It is Christmas Eve and we are on our way to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at the cathedral. We are walking with David, a backpacker about our age from New Zealand who has tagged along. He had owned his own vineyard down under and has come to experience South African viticulture. He thinks the wines here are wonderful. Even the cheap ones are very drinkable and superior to the “plonk” you get back home. He has put a bottle of “fizz” in the fridge for us to celebrate Christmas after the service. The cathedral is quiet outside and we speculate whether we will be the only ones in the congregation. The cathedral is, in fact, full and many faces are black. This must be one of the high-lights of a Cape Town Christmas and it amuses me to think that, here in Africa, we have found people enjoying one of the most quintessential of English Christmas services. We notice that Archbishop Desmond Tutu is preaching at the Midnight Service, but this time he will have to do it without us. Even the hard ground of the tent seems attractive when you are exhausted.

Our ride to Stellenbosch is in the largest and most comfortable bus yet. The road takes away from the coast into the hills and vineyards of one of South Africa’s most renowned grape growing regions. We pass the Klingklop brandy distillery and the Robertson Winery, names we have become strangely familiar with after such a short stay.

Our driver is as good as his door to door word and having driven around lost for a while and with the help of our guide book, eventually drops us off at out backpackers hostel. This backpackers is friendly, relaxed and has a good sized garden for tents. It also has backpackers who like to talk loudly way beyond midnight and we hope our early morning noisy movements wake them up prematurely and leave them feeling tires and bleary eyed for the rest of the day.

It is just a few days before Christmas and the lights are being officially switched on. The manager gives us directions. “The quickest way is here,” he points to a map. “But if you feel unsafe come back this way as there is more traffic.” Stellenbosch is the second oldest European settlement and the colonial architecture is splendid. The town square, nestling between 2 churches, is large, bordered by trees and decidedly French in feel. The many strings of lights are hung ready between the trees, and a metal tree covered with lights stands at the centre of the park.

Crowds have begun to gather and sit on the grass listening to a loud band on a lorry stage at one end. As the sun slips down behind the trees, the band mercifully stops, giving way to the usual, interminable speeches from local bigwigs. After only a short while the amplified speeches are competing with a hum of background voices. I look around. Everyone is talking to his neighbour. No-one, apart from Georgina and myself is listening to the longwinded speeches. Nevertheless, they drone on incessantly. Complete darkness comes with a growing sense of anticipation. Soon the speeches must finish. Someone flicks a switch and the square is illuminated by thousands of coloured lights. The effect is amazing and for the first time we feel a little bit Christmassy. Sirens wail and the blue, flashing lights of several fire engines appear down the street. The power surge has set something alight already? A white bearded man in a red suit and hat is waving from the first vehicle. Surely, this is our cue to depart? We slip away as the procession circles the square and heads for the central tree. Maybe they are going to string up Santa Claus?

We are just a stone’s throw from Cape Town. Forget the minibus taxis. We could go by train from here. “Travel in daylight and make sure there are others in your compartment,” we are advised. From what we have heard, on-lookers merely provide an audience for an attack. You would be very lucky if anyone intervened to prevent one to even to staunch the flow of blood pumping from your wound. The station on the edge of town is old and dilapidated. A few people hang around following you with their eyes. There is no timetable and no indication when or if, trains ever run through here. I suppose the African way is to turn up and wait for the next train whenever that may be, hours, days or weeks. The people are predominantly elderly. They have probably been waiting years. No-one knows when the trains run. In the end someone hazards a guess that it might be at lunchtime the following day. We decide to take a minibus taxi.

Loaded with all our stuff we head out the next day. “The taxis are just up this road,” says a helpful, but less than convincing, passer-by. We trudge on. Two miles later, we ask someone else. “It’s just up there.” “Just,” in this case can be translated as 10 miles. We see a rusting chunk of metal on a piece of waste ground. This is our taxi that will take us to the outskirts of Cape Town. Feeling as though we have already walked there, we squeeze into the minibus taking the last of the seats and sit around roasting in the sun for at least six more people to arrive. There is always room for just one more. This is the bus where the driver takes six attempts to shut the sliding door and it is the worst taxi so far. We don’t mind, we are on the last leg of the journey to Cape Town, the end of the line. As the driver crunches the gears and the minibus wheels begin to turn we begin to pray.

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.

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.

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.