Hayestack

Sally suddenly burst through the Arrival doors at Windhoek Airport and we through our arms around her. It was great to be with one of our children again and reminded us how much we had missed them after eleven months away. We picked up the hire car and set off for the City. Windhoek is much the same as a European city. It is not large and you can see the main sights in a few hours. We saw the Christus Kirche, the equestrian statue, the fort, the meteorites, the shopping mall and set off for Rundu

The small, black Daihatsu Sirion was smart and fun to drive. Like Dr Who’s Tardis the interior was surprisingly huge. But the build was cheap and plasticky. The interior trim felt as though you could easily put your finger through it, but, on the road up to Rundu, the car felt nippy and reliable compared to Linda’s Pajero, a lumbering monster which growled and groaned and spent most of its life in a repair shop, retaining few of its original parts. We stopped once for fuel at Otjiwarona and I was impressed by the small car’s fuel consumption, perhaps too impressed, since, with this full tank I judged we had enough fuel to reach Rundu. In the end it was touch and go. The Daihatsu Sirion was a fast little car and the faster we went, the faster it drank fuel. Though we were still 60 kilometres outside Rundu and it was pitch dark, the fuel indicator had sunk well below empty and we were travelling on petrol fumes. At last we passed the Rundu boundary sign and, with the help of gravity, we rolled to a stop at the Engen Service Station.

We spent those first few days chilling out in Rundu, giving Sally the opportunity to meet our new friends and to visit Georgina’s school.

John and friend

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.

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.

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.

Just as in Israel at the time of the birth of Jesus, everyone in Rundu travels at Christmas.  It’s not that  we need to be registered for taxation, it’s just too hot here. At times the mercury hits the forties.

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. 

I went shopping today. This is not exactly news as I go shopping most days. Today, however, was different. I have given up looking out of the window in the morning and wondering what the weather will be like as it is hot and sunny most days. The days when it is not hot and sunny it is sunny and hot. I am not yet fed-up of this as I am still making up for a life time of sun deprivation. But when I ventured out of doors this morning the sky looked different. It was still blue but today there were some white, wispy things up there. I haven’t seen one for a long time but I think they call them clouds. There are two periods of rain in Namibia, the little rain and the big rain. The little rain occurs mid October and the big rain at the end of December. It was 1^st October today, so the little rain is imminent. Georgina and I are only equipped for the little rain as we only have a little umbrella. When the big rains come we are going to get wet.

The clouds were premature. It has not rained today. The only wet I became today was from my own sweat dripping onto my neck and trickling down my back. Had I stayed out any longer, the trickle was in danger of becoming a raging torrent.

Shopping recently has become a life and death experience, quite literally. Rundu has opened a new shopping mall, small, compact and boasting a brand new escalator. It has opened for business but they are still building it. To by a loaf of bread you have to enter a building site, and without a hard hat. Avoid the piles of bricks and dumper trucks. Weave your way around the scaffolding and pray that the workmen above you don’t drop a brick or piece of scaffolding on your head. Don’t look up or you will lose your footing on the polished marble ramp which, I suspect is Rundu’s substitute for a ski piste. Try as it might, I don’t think Rundu will ever be in contention to host the Winter Olympics. I inadvertently tried out the ski slope this morning and nearly fell on my first attempt. I was spared any serious injury (no bruising to my first attempt) apart from the horror of hearing the peanut butter jar crash against the marble ramp and realising the eggs were in the same bag. Miraculously, nothing was broken, though the peanut butter seems crunchier now.

Once you are in the mall the only other danger is from high prices. Food prices seem comparable to those in the UK, the choice isn’t as big and the quality isn’t as good. I suspect the managers ring Mr Sainsbury everyday to find out what he is charging. The shelves are fully stocked but this may be because no-one can afford to buy anything. Stealing isn’t an option either if you were that way inclined. To leave the shop you have to negotiate what can only be described as a tight line of riot police who will study your receipt, inspect your bags, eye you up suspiciously and only let you out if everything checks out. If you buy nothing you will be frisked. This, I suspect, may not be an altogether unpleasant experience for some, but Marguerite was outraged the other day when an overzealous guard wanted to see inside her handbag.

“I have come here to help this crazy country, yet you treat us like criminals.” She protested.

But all the stores are the same. They are all rife with crime and that’s only the prices they charge. Two new supermarkets have opened in the last month so competition may push prices down unless they, too, have a hotline to Mr Sainsbury. I am not holding my breath.

The most exciting thing about the mall is the escalator (I can’t believe I said that – my life must have become very sad). But it is a very versatile escalator. When I saw it the other day it was full of joy riders and they were going up. Today it was empty and the direction of travel was down. There are not yet any shops on the upper level so the escalator’s use is purely for pleasure. You can tell the escalator virgins as they have not yet realised that hands and feet have to be co-ordinated. One without the other spells disaster but great entertainment for any onlooker. One brave lady, the other day grabbed hold of the handrail as though her life depended upon it, but her feet let her down at the last minute. She was practically sprawled on the steps before her feet decided to join her. Her 2 children looked on aghast as if this monster was devouring their mother. It was not enough, however, to stop them trying out the novelty for themselves. Don’t mock. We were like this once.

Sunday melted into Monday as we flew above the clouds over Eastern Europe, Turkey and Iran towards our change at Dubai.Miss Potter entertained us as did the seemingly endless flow of food and drink which stopped thinking that we were in a huge chunk of metal weighing hundreds, if not thousands of tonnes, flying 36,000 feet above the earth’s surface, supported by nothing more than air and trying to defy the inexorable pull of gravity.

It’s good how you can choose your own film/game/music entertainment on your own monitor.  And, you don’t need a twelve year old computer geek to explain the controls.  Good job, since there weren’t any around.  Georgina sussed the controls, no problem.  After the film she started to play computer “Patience”.  She’s good at it having been married to me for yonks.*  William Wilberfororce and his “Amazing Grace” proved too taxing for my exhausted brain and I gave up after about ten minutes.  It was a shame because the small bald man with the continuously shocked expression (some Duke or other) was turning out to be quite amusing.

I defy anyone to sleep comfortably in an aeroplane seat (economy, that is).  The back is too upright.  It reclines about 2 inches, max.  I lean this way and then that.  I stick my leg out to the left and nearly trip up an old woman going to the toilet.  I stick out my leg to the right and kick Georgina in the shins.  I feel hunched up and can’t breathe.  I throw my arms over my head.  I still can’t breathe.   Maybe, if I lie in the aisle….?  Three hours later I wake up….still breathing, just in time for breakfast.  It’s funny how a tiny omelette with an even smaller piece of bacon and a cocktail sausage leave you thinking you’ve just had a full sized meal

There was a camera at the nose of the plane which allowed you to see take-offs & landings from the pilot’s point of view.  You could not only feel the wheels hitting the runway and bouncing up and down for five minutes and the swerving off the white line.  You could see it too. More white-haired passengers got off the plane than had got on.

When you leave the plane at Dubai the wall of heat smacks you in the face.  You could cook an egg on the tarmac.  Actually,  my omelet had tasted slightly strange.  The inside of Dubai airport looked curiously familiar.  Then it clicked.  It was Lakeside Shopping Mall.  The shops and shiny floors were the same.  The chromes and plastics were the same.  The ethnic mix with the occasional burqa was the same.  Even the queues at the women’s restrooms were the same.  We said goodbye to Dubai and, after a quick stop at Addis Ababa we landed at Entebbe Airport, Uganda.  Have you ever tried skimming a smooth pebble over a lake to see how many times you can make it bounce?  I swear our pilot was doing that with our plane ever time we landed.

The entertainment at baggage reclaim was watching an Alsatian dog clamber over the bags as they made their way over the moving belt.  If its job was to knock every tenth bag onto the floor, it did it well.  It didn’t find any drugs and its handler seemed indifferent anyway.

Isn’t it good to be met at an airport, especially if you don’t know the place, the people or their customs?  What a relief to find Moses with his car waiting for us.  And there were monkeys roaming wild.  This was Africa.  We had arrived.