Hayestack

To reach Henties Bay we had to cross the Namib Desert. This is reputed to be one of the oldest in the world and I hoped our little Sirion car was tough enough to bounce its way across. This was no place to get marooned. As we approached the Atlantic coast the sky became overcast and fog began to develop. It only took five minutes and I began to miss clear, blue skies and sunshine. We had passed from summer to autumn in a few moments. The sky was leaden and the air cold. We hit the Atlantic coast at right angles and headed south to Henties Bay. This stretch of coast is a favourite for South African fishermen who gather here in shoals. The town was shrouded in mist and deserted. I had not felt so miserable about visiting the sea since we had turned up at Morecombe Bay in the drizzle many years before. This certainly wasn’t the hot, sunny Africa we had become used to. We had brought tents but we could not bring ourselves to face the inevitable misery involved. We found a tolerable apartment advertised in a local supermarket. Once we had a roof for the night Georgina announced she wanted to drive up to Cape Cross to see the large colony of seals. To me it was a plan guaranteed to make us more miserable. But it was good. As we walked onto the boardwalk viewing platform the noise and stench from the fat, slimy creatures hit you. There were thousands of heads bobbing around but only one toilet, the beach. The colony was a huge food store for hyena and black-backed jackals. We had seen a jackal on the road to the beach and were warned that they were often rabid. On the edge of the seal colony a dead jackal lay on the rocks and, sure enough, it had been foaming at the mouth.

I was delighted to leave Henties Bay behind us early the next morning hoping we would escape the gloom in Swakopmund. We didn’t. Either the depression followed us, or it was already there. Admittedly, we did not see Swakopmund at it’s sunny best, but one could get the idea of this Namibian Weston-super-mare, teeming with South African and German holiday-makers and wishing you weren’t there. We did, however, have a delicious mug of hot chocolate in a smart cafe just around the corner from the beach, but the owner, who welcomed us with open arms when we arrived, greeted our departure with brusque indifference. Maybe we didn’t spend enough? Still, the hot chocolate and restrooms were welcome. We visited Paul’s antique shop and marvelled at the souvenirs from the Third Reich but resisted buying a German military helmet, though it might have fitted under the bed and been useful at night.

Swakopmund was a disappointment. Walvis Bay was worse. It is a working fishing port and has an air of shabbiness and decay about it. Fresh fish would be the natural thing to eat for lunch. But the best we could find was a Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we took to the attractive lagoon in the better part of the town, where we sat eating our American fast food looking at the flock of flamingos.

Hopefully, the world’s highest sand dunes at Sosousvlei would be different. They were spectacular and were at their best at first light looking just like the photos you see in the guide books and the Windows desktop image. We drove down the winding road between the dunes to reach the car park and the short trek to the main dunes, meaning to take photographs of the dunes we passed on the way back. Of course, the light had changed by then and most of the dramatic shadows had softened. We climbed the ridge of one of the highest dunes and galumphed our way back down the side. I didn’t break my neck and felt ten years old again.

We headed back towards Windhoek as there were only a few days before Sally’s flight to the UK. The dirt road through the scrub seemed endless and our bodies continued to vibrate even when the car had stopped. It was a relief to arrive at the tar road at Malteghohe and find our campsite for the night. This was situated in the front garden of a house and craft studio. The lady of the house kept a few dogs which she let prowl around the camping area at will. One of these was large, powerful and aggressive. “They are good dogs and won’t get in your way,” she reassured us. One, a powerful-looking Rottweiler, she kept caged up during the day, letting it scare off intruders at night. She had to introduce it to us so that it did not take us for burglars and eat us. It sniffed our tent, cocked his leg and weed on it. We lit a fire to cook our food. The dogs sat with us looking hungry and expectant. I, for one, was not prepared to argue if they decided our food belonged to them. We cooked and they stared and licked their lips. The tension became unbearable. In the end we had to ask the owner to lock her pack away from us, which she did. “By the way, she added. I always let the pony out at night to have a walk around.” We cowered in bed that night listening to the clip, clop of heavy metal hooves inches from our heads and we hoped the pony would not copy the disrespect to our tent shown by the Baskerville hound, at least, not while we were in it.

Back in Windhoek we had a proper bed at the Rivendell Guest House, and, boy, did it feel good. Our little Sirion had brought us back safely and looked weary, having travelled thousands of miles around Namibia, as it sat in the car park caked with mud. “What would Simon, our car expert in the family do?” I thought to myself. So I gave it a good wash.

It was sad to say goodbye to Sally and watch her drive off to the airport But we had Christmas to look forward to when we would meet up, not only with our children, but the Maust family, too. Wow.

                                          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.