Backpacking around the Transkie
Trip Start
Feb 21, 2007
1
9
18
Trip End
Jul 09, 2007
Transkie, South Africa
Sunday, April 29, 2007
20/04/07
This ‘backpackers paradise’ is full of holiday makers, hippys, stoners and surfers. It’s relaxed and organised, with everything being put on tabs with which I’ll be frightened with when I leave. A mornings trip to some cliffs had 10 of us jumping 14m into the foaming sea – rather scary and daft, though also good fun. We then walked along the beach until we scrambled into a huge cave where we were shat on by bats. Another scramble up the cliff and back to the hostel for some nosh and beer. A local village head man invited us to his house for dinner. I went with a group of around 15 others, who sat innertly awestruck at the modesty of his house, while I asked endless questions. All the children apparently go to school here, though I can’t quite see how that works as it’s the boys job to look after the valuable cattle. A wife costs an average 10 cows, and a cow costs an average 3000R (£222 each).
The village was offered electricity by the governement a few years ago. The villagers gathered together and decided they didn’t want it. They’ll be asked again after 5 years and this time they’ll probably get it. So traditional food is cooked on a log fire by women bent double by years of labour. We ate a maize and bean dish and then a plate of tasteless wild veg. Local beer’s the conistancy of porridge and it was passed around in old yoghurt tubs. It tasted disgusting. We were entertained with singing and dancing by the children. They danced topless, sang and gave an energy I haven’t felt since West Africa – an energy that even had some of my stoned companions clapping along.
21/04/07
A late night and lazy start showed that I’m breaking from my early rhythms from the road. I joined Lingani again on one of his little ventures. This time we walked for 3.5 hours along the stunning coast 9kms to ‘hole in the wall’. The walk was beautiful, a little like The Purbecks crossed with the Pembroke coast. The path brought us over steep climbs, through revines covered in cactus trees and across waterfalls. The group of 10 or so huffed, puffed and complained in the heat. Some managed the walk in bare feet; which can’t have been easy.
The hole itself is a big hole, in a freestanding wall of rock 30m high and 300m long. It gets bashed by a rough sea constantly, as though it was put there to demonstrate the hardness of rock. 3m waves crashed through the hole, spraying an optimistic fisherman. We swam over to the wall, and peered through the hole; though the usual jumping antics were out of the question in the rough weather. As it was, we had to time our entrances and exits from the sea to fall between the waves so we wouldn’t get thrashed against the rocks.
More typing meant I was finally ready to send my 15 page ‘report’ late in the evening. I also appear to be a chocoholic. I never thought it was possible to really crave chocolate. But having eaten 4-8 bars a day for the last few weeks, I’m really rather hooked. I’ll try to cut down before the inevitable lack of cadbury’s in Zimbabwe shocks me into low blood sugar levels!
The Coffee shack is very much a backpackers party place. And as with most organised, uninstantaneous parties, this place felt like a let down. I told myself to stay away from backpackers after this the ‘shack’. People seemed so inane, scared, boring, dull, unenergetic and unimaginative… I hope I can fit in when I return home!
22/04/07
A morning of ‘work’ had me doing the things I’ve been putting off. Writing emails to contacts in Zim, the British high commissioner and sewing pockets into clothes etc. I had a nice chat to Tuba, an interesting lady from London. Me and the lady sharing my dorm decided each other were mad. She’s on a 6 month round-the-world trip; which includes 4 days in Honk Kong among other pointlessly short stops.
Around 2pm I walked across the river with my rucksack. Up the other side at a tuck shop I found a taxi but no taxi driver. A young stoned guy appeared from a bush when he spotted me. We agreed on 12R before hurtling along the potholed road at a ridiculous pace. Missing cows, sheep and children by inches it was a miracle nothing was killed. 100km/h isn’t appropriate on these roads, where the Transkie big 5 (cows, horses, donkey, sheep and goats) roam absolutely everywhere. There aren’t any fences here and the hills roll like in Hobbiton. (Tolkein got his inspiration from this area and there is really a place called Hobbiton down the coast) After 10kms or so we stopped to pick up a group of very smartly dressed locals. Probably on their way back from church, this family crammed into the landrover. With 14 of us and my rucksack inside it was a tight squeeze; meaning that sharp inhalations of air weren’t possible before every near miss.
We bundled out at a store, where I waited for an hour for the shuttle to Bulangula. Lots of boys crowded round to quiz me in limited English. The only white there I was a target for all kinds of things; a taxi driver shouted at me in Xhosa, probably taking the piss out of me to the hilarity of all around. Another young guy came over to tell me about his studies at Rhodes university. He’d been working for a week in the Transkie, translating for a government project surveying the prevalence of malnutrition. A priest in a suit made a zigzag route across the mud avoiding the puddles. He was the smartest among the smart, wearing a suit and carrying a brief case. He also donned a bright red fabric measuring tape as a tie, hanging from his dog collar into his trousers. A stoned and staggering drunk introduced himself, propped himself against a wall and asked for money. When I said ‘no’ he mentioned a slurred ‘fucking’ before looking aggressive and stumbling off.
Cows, dogs and goats looked for food amongst the verges and food peelings. 2 yoked bulls pulling some woven wooden grass flattening devices were parked outside the shabeen into which my unlucky drunk had tottered. A muddy white landrover pulled in and a withered, grey bearded little black man got out. Rufus smiled and offering his hand introducing himself, saying he was here to pick me up. This little pixy drove carefully, twittering away to a lady lying down, ill in the back seat. We ran various errands and gave numerous lifts to colourfully dressed, large mummas on our way to Bulangula.
The road was magnificent. The sort of road I love because travelling down it leaves my face in a permanent grin. Most other people would call the 30km rutted or non existent track horrendous. It’s the roughest road I’ve seen in Africa yet, making the 4×4 struggle sideways through mud and marsh. Not having had the sort of ‘building’ we are used to with roads, this track tackled steep hills head on, 33% climbs over rocks in 2 foot steps had the landrover bottoming out and scraping it’s way up. The daylight dimmed as we approached the lodge, our slow progress little faster than my bike meant it took nearly 2 hours to cover the 30kms.
Clambering out of the landrover, Dave was waiting for me with a cheery ‘Daniel, welcome to Bulangula lodge’. He showed me around and my grin only increased as I was introduced to the waterless loos, the rocket showers and the mud hut dorms. At night this place looked amazing. Candles lighting brightly coloured, painted rooms. Log furniture, driftwood mobiles, straw mats on the ceiling, a book corner with a brilliant collection of books, and so on – this place is awesome.
A huge, hot buffet meal was served at 7:30, made using locally grown food by women from the village. The lodge is 40% owned by the village, so village children often hang out with guests and all the work is done by locals. I told of my plans and heard of others adventures as evening turned to night.
Dave went on an amazing 1.5 year trip through Africa hitching and on public transport with a friend in 98. He crossed the DRC from East to West between the wars, by river and foot; walking 400kms in the jungle. He said it would be a good place to go by bike. When everyone else had gone to bed a pretty German girl and I lay around the dyeing fire; patting the dogs and gazing at the milky way. Brighter than the flickering fire from across the valley.
23/04/07
I haven’t felt this excited about getting out of bed for a long time! Taking Paul Cohello’s ‘The Alchemist’ and a bowl of cereal I went outside. Below the fire where I’d been last night a beautiful panorama lay. Cows and donkeys on a perfect beach below the lodge were drinking from a clear river before it met the sea. Mud huts with grass roofs dotted the hillsides, with small boys tending cattle playing in the grass. There aren’t any fences here, so you have to close dorm doors to stop animals sheltering inside. There aren’t any locks; there’s no crime and even the tab/bar/food system works on self service and honesty – but the word ‘trust’ was never mentioned; it’s just taken for granted.
At 10:30 I joined 4 English ‘sport relief volunteers who’s just finished their 3 month stint in PE. ‘Sport relief’ is the same scam company who’s disillusioned volunteers I met in Ghana. The guys were cool though. James, a 30 something navigational officer left tenant in the navy is on a 6 month career break; trying to find the courage to go ‘civvy’ after 10 years. A couple of guys my age were on gap years before starting medicine at Bristol. Another guy was planning a 1000 mile cycle trip in aid of cancer research across France.
We trotted across the hillsides with our guide, who stopped to chat to various women who were watching the sun ascend during small breaks from endless work. There are just as many bulls as cows in the fields, unaggressively staring at us stroll past. By the river we boarded canoes. 2 People to a boat, I was lucky to be with the guide who made up for not speaking English by being a powerful rower! Paddling upstream, the banks of the river got steeper and more forested. In a little patch of beach by the forest 2 cows sat and a bull stood. One of his back legs was broken with the bone sticking through the side of his leg. He wasn’t aggressive; just a symbol of pain in paradise. After cooling off under a waterfall we carried on upstream. A lizard maybe 5 feet long crawled out of the water. Jumping fish made the only noise, jumping high then splishing into the water. A few big birds of prey circled above as goats and cows grazed below. Children on the banks fished with home made rods. A spindly wooden stick about the height of the child had fishing string wound around the end.
The more complex models had a wheel thing made from a cotton spool thing. After an hour we turned around and whizzed back down the river. A rest on the side then on to the rivers mouth. As soon as we arrived there a small herd of these fishing boys ran along the bank to take the boats back. Having their use for the rest of the day from where they’d have a better chance of catching fish. Ownership, like everything else is a shared responsibility here: The kids are trying to catch dinner so what’s the use of the boats idly sitting on the river bank. Everything is hared. Responsibility, food, tools, hardship, smiles and celebrations.
During a walk back along the beach I heard of an unlucky swimmer who was staying at the lodge 2 weeks ago. A big storm wrecked all of Bulangulas canoes. This guy was a triathlete, so he went for a swim, but unluckily drowned in the bay.
After a traditional lunch I had a long chat with the German girls from last night. Elenor and her friend Anna are studying psychology and group dynamics in Frankfurt. They’re on a 6 month exchange program with the university of PE. Leaving a trail of carrots up to their hut, they were unsuccessful in tempting the donkeys to join them.
I sampled the rocket shower. A long tube goes through the roof as a chimney and down almost all the way to the floor. You pour paraffin into the little tray at the bottom, lighting it so it roars, pops and farts. It then takes a minute for the water to get very hot. The temperature is adjusted by the cool tap. A lazy afternoon had me chatting to lots of people and reaching page 100 in the Alchemist. An amazing book – all the more so for being read in front of this view. During the evening I talked at length with James. He’s a very interesting guy and so amusingly English. After everyone had gone to bed I went for a stroll along the beach. The lapping of the big waves above the low rumble of the ocean was enveloping. The moon that we’d stared at earlier in the evening through Daves telescope cast shadows of trees across the beach. I strolled further until the moon shone from above a ridge. Watching it set behind this stark horizon the clockwork of the whole thing struck me. James had been talking about navigating at sea. How by knowing the angle of 3 stars 20-70° from the horizon and times they were measured with a sextant; it’s possible to plot where you are anywhere on the earths surface to within 5 miles.
24/04/07
Awake again to another day in paradise. Words can’t do this place justice. It’s just too good. The breeze, sun, beautiful beach strewn with cattle and fishermen, birds, waves and trees. The lodge with it’s carbon neutral policy; solar and wind for electricity, 20l per person per day of water (rather than the average western 70l). The compost toilets, rocket showers, bush shower and even a fire bath – just as Frances once told me about, overlooking the sea. The people are brilliantly interesting; having seen lots of the world.
I sat and read, sitting on a dune overlooking the sea with the sounds in my ears. For anyone who’s read ‘The Alchemist’, they’ll probably remember thinking where they fit into the whole game of life’s meaning and personal destiny. The story of a boy who dreamed of treasure and travelled to seek his destiny is beautifully told. It’s hard not to spot parallels with my situation – though what my destiny is, I don’t know. For this trip I think it is to learn myself, to challenge myself and to give me reference points from which to judge the rest of the world for the rest of my life. To see other peoples and their ways, to discover the real Africa and the real myself. To find my limitations, breaking points, talents, likes and dislikes. To expand my comfort zones and tolerances. To improve my ability to look after myself.
To budget, cook, shop, negotiate, camp, travel, make friends and survive. According to ‘The Alchemist’ only fear of failure can stop someone on the route to their destiny. I’ve heard amazing stories here of travellers. Reading Daves account of walking and punting across the DRC from east to west is an inspiration. (It can be found at www.africanwonderers.co.za ) So is the story of 4 people currently trying to walk from SA to Kenya…. without passports! One of them is a Kenyan Masai – who’s already walked from Kenya to SA, without a passport! I think this day was my least productive and most enjoyable so far. I did absolutely diddly squat except read, sit, eat and absorb everything around me. In the afternoon I ambled along the coast to where there was promise of a pancake serving restaurant. On top of the roundest hill you’ve ever seen a round mud hut stands. It’s exactly the same as all the others, but the pink markers I’d been following for 30 minutes stopped there. I ducked inside where 2 young ladies nodded a hello and pointed to a chair near the door.
They handed me a printed menu from which I chose things that were unavailable before opting for a sweet pancake. I somehow ended up with 2, both perfectly cooked on a paraffin stove in a windowless hut on a hill with no electricity. In the evening I started another couple of books before going to bed.
25/04/07
Another idyllic morning of sitting, reading, eating and strolling along the beach gradually ended at 3pm. A guide came to collect the two Germans and me for a tour of the village. Again we followed these cattle paths around the hills; first arriving at the Sangomas house. She’s the villages traditional doctor. Although these days the majority of patients visit an orthodox doctor 2 hours walk away to the South; many people still visit the Sangoma. Dave told me of a woman who’s given birth 10 times now, always to still born babies. She wont visit the orthodox doctor.
The sangoma was out, but 2 of her granddaughters demonstrated crushing maize into meil. 1 large smooth rock with a slight dip in the middle is used as a base. A few kernels are put on it before being ground with a smaller rock. The girls crouched on the floor, rolling, lifting and whacking the smaller rock into the bigger one. I wondered how long this has been going on.
We walked over another couple of hills as the sun set cast lanky shadows across the pastures. In another identical hut we found a shabeen. Home brewed beer, the consistency of emulsion was being handed around in a 5l metal bucket. Men sat on benches on one side while married women sat on the floor on the other side. Pipes and cigarettes were being passed around with locally grown tobacco inside… again, no need for imports! Everyone was wittering away in Xhosa, basically ignoring us letting us be the flies on the wall we wanted to be. I asked the guide to translate some of the conversations. One of the withered old men had bought some 25kg bags of supplies from the next village. He left them on the bank of the river for a couple of days before rowing over to collect them. Some bags were missing and he was quite sure it was a person, rather than the obese river that had stolen them. He’d talked to the head man, who was looking into it.
A twilight stroll to a rusty corrugated iron shed brought us to a shop. Without a road, a sign or even a door this village store had the bare essentials, all of which were being illuminated by flickering candles while the proprietor breast fed in the corner. Without a hint of a tourist or a touristy commodity; this is one of my favourite shops so far. Back at the hostel, I was sorting out paperwork when a shrill loud voice heralded the arrival of the shuttle and another bunch of guests. Usually people say they’ll come for a night or 2 and Dave writes them down for 3 – no one can leave before that. No one accept the owner of the shrill voice who disturbed us that evening. The 5′ tall, 3′ round woman was from Forbes; a republican version of ‘lonely planet’. She was reviewing the lodge for the guide book, but only had 2 nights to stay. Her laptop fell to a virus on Good Friday which meant she lost her entire chapter on the Garden Route. So she briskly instructed Dave of her needs before heading off in a fluster for a rocket shower.
It took quite a while for her to return, in which time Dave and I discussed whether to ruin her stay in order to keep her readership from ruining the place. We’d just decided to be good when she returned; hair dripping in a girly pony tail down her podgy back. Chatting over dinner I found she’s written various books, mostly political and 1 novel. She later joined Dave and me chatting about South African development. That’s when the fireworks started. She locked horns with Dave providing the rest of us with a riveting performance of an interesting argument. Dave sat back with his feet up, repeatedly peacefully rebutting her. She lent forward, shaking and jabbing her podgy finger in the air: passionately arguing her ideals until tears came to her eyes. She was basically saying that SA is in a terrible state, that there isn’t the political will to raise the poorest from poverty, that the ANC is redundant, corrupt and almost dictatorial in it’s top down, unremovable government system.
She said that because people still think ANC means Mandela rather than separatism; the least educated will carry on voting them in while the country goes down the pan. She wrote a book in 93 about Zimbabwe in which she predicted the collapse that’s since happened. She’s convinced that SA will collapse in the same way in 13 years, thanks to the poverty and unemployment that affects such a huge proportion of the population.
Dave, just as aware of poverty said that things aren’t so bad. That clinics and schools have been built near Bulungula (the poorest province in SA); that black and white people can live and work together and that the miracle of democracy is working and gradually bearing fruit. After Dave went to dance with the village kids on the other side of the room I carried on fighting his corner; mainly to provoke my podgy sceptic into giving some answers. While deploring the proportional representation system in SA, she regretted not having someone who’s accountable to her or her geographical area. I pointed out the floors in the other system (our system) in which the governing party draws constituency boundaries in their favour. She described a pyramid model of government always practised in Botswana. There every adult has a folding chair which he carries to the chief if he has a problem. He sits down and tells the chief what he expects to be done. Then later all the chiefs meet and report to the next layer of government. This means that there is direct accountability; and if the chief doesn’t do what the majority of his constituents tell him, he gets replaced. She also mentioned her dismay in political parties, claiming that they only exist to promote the party and not the people. That by it’s nature a political party only has it’s own interests at heart. She then went on to propose that they should be banned – maybe not such a bad idea.
26/04/07
An early start had me taking down all relevant information from the lodges various display boards, including promises of other paradises in Malawi and Uganda. Soon after 9am I was crammed in the landcruiser, gnome like Rufus at the wheel. 2 Danish girls, my 2 German friends and the plump reviewer also leaving on this sunny morning. For some reason the Forbes lady had decided to leave early. I joked with Dave as to why, deciding we would have to wait for the guide to be published to know for sure.
The drive to Umtata was even longer, more bumpy and unlikely than I remembered it. Rufus dropped us off at the petrol station where the Dutch were waiting for the bazbus – the ‘safe’ backpackers taxi. The Germans and I were hoping to find free seats on a coach to PE. Unfortunately thanks to the imminent long weekend everything was full. So after an hour or so of waiting I decided to start asking for lifts from fuel filling customers. The girls seemed happy enough with this idea and put their charm and good looks into the effort, which yielded results within 15 minutes – not bad considering we were asking for a 6-7 hour lift!
The offer was from a minibus, with 10 blokes on board. We were initially told there was only floor space but by the time we’d loaded up our bags 3 guys had given up their back seats for us. Things got even weirder when we were told that in East London we’d have to get out for 5 minutes while they got something from the airport where we couldn’t go. We were welcome to leave our luggage on the van and they’d even leave some guys with us to ensure that they wouldn’t leave us there. It all seemed pretty dodgy: 10 guys travelling from Durban to PE with no luggage. They all did some sort of work together, though for the first couple of hours they were pretty vague about what it was. Deciding not to ask too many questions I tried to relax in the back of this party bus where cheesy crooner music was being loudly accompanied by our fellow passengers voices.
At the first petrol station the driver – the only other white on board - joined us in the back. He was genuinely friendly, irritatingly perky and relentlessly chatting up the girls. Thankfully he also put our minds a little at rest, giving a plausible explanation of their journey. They were all drivers for a hire car company and had yesterday delivered 10 cars to Durban. So they were now just returning home, popping into East London on the way.
The reason for us having to get out there was never really explained; and try though I have, I haven’t come up with a legal explanation. Oh well… we jollied each other along – me suggesting that he could make extra profits from his role as ‘convoy supervisor’ by getting some of the cars to tow the others and keep the remaining petrol money.
The long road to PE eventually ended as we went around the townships dropping the drivers off. Mark, our main man then took us in his car – me to my old hostel and the girls to their student house on the outskirts of town. The days transport costs were 60R each, which was shared between the 10 guys in the minibus.
At the hostel Herman and Joleen were glad to see me back to collect my gear. I was sitting, chatting to the Lesotho weight lifting team when Joleen used her mothers instinct to detect my days lack of feeding. She dished me up a plate of tasty left overs which really filled a gap as I continued chatting to the weight lifters. The southern Africa championships is happening in PE this weekend and Herman, working for the sports federation gets them all as guests. These short, strongly built guys who lift 200kgs above their head looked amazed when Joleen told them I’d cycled from Cape Town. Being told how fit I must be by these professional athletes seemed quite out of kilter - especially after a week of sitting and eating in which I’d stocked up 3kgs extra. They were desperately trying to loose weight, running around in black plastic bags to try and sweat off 4kgs in an afternoon, to comply with the competition rules. Once the lifters had finished their orange juice and retired to bed before 10pm I sat up chatting to their trainer and team manager over a beer. They’re not looking for podium results but just to put Lesotho on the map; and to draw more young guys from the desperately poor, small, mountainous country into the sport.
27/04/07
More weight lifters were about to arrive at the ‘Wet Hippo’, so I had to find another place for the night. But first I had an arm long list to get started on… emails, photos, coach tickets and hopefully even a dentist and bike shop. Freedom day got in the way of most of my plans, closing most shops; except my 5R/h Internet den run by a Nigerian called Jimmy. He burnt 3.8GB of photos onto 2 DVD’s for me and let me use the internet and skype to sort my life out. A wet walk down to the translux office at the train station left me demoralised when I was told the only company still taking coaches to Zimbabwe wouldn’t allow a bicycle. I found the intercape office where I tried again, trying not to remember the intercape driver from Namibia who disliked Sasquatch and me so much. I bought the last ticket to Jo’burg for tomorrow, being told my bike should be no problem as long as I paid for it as an extra parcel. Right – now time to find a bed for the night. I eventually got hold of German Anna who’d lent her mobile out for the day. She said it would be fine for me to stay so I returned to the hostel to retrieve and repack my gear. I bought edibles and returned to Mr. Fish where I decided not to repeat the cheese toasty episode by ordering ‘fish and chips’ like everyone else.
The sun was setting and the wind was raging as I packed the bike up again, about to cycle out of town to Anna’s. Fortunately Joleens mothering insticts saved me once more, phoning Herman to see if he could give me a lift. As it turned out he we going empty that way to collect another batch of weight lifters from the airport. So after an hour spent watching ‘batman begins’ we were loading my stuff into the and driving across a town I was grateful not to have to cycle through in the dark.
Unloaded outside 12 Sharwood st. Herman drove off leaving me pressing the bell I knew to be broken and banging on a smart gate trying to attract attention in the roaring wind. Luckily Anna popped out after a couple of minutes and let me in. After cooking myself some pasta and tinned ratatouille we left for the video store. Having battled through the gale I at last found someone as indecisive as myself. We finally opted for ‘My uncle Vinny’ which I’d once seen. So after an evening of roubos tea, chocolate and a film we sat talking until gone midnight. It took ages to get to sleep on the couch, I’m so nervous and excited to be leaving SA for Zimbabwe.
28/04/07
A late breakfast with Anna before having a shower and checking emails. I tried calling home with skype, but the bandwidth was insufficient. The weather had turned ‘soft’ as the Irish would say; the wind bringing persistent rain clattering down on the bungalows roof. I ventured out, cycling to the nearest shopping mall 2kms away. I sent a DVD of photo home and found some benzine for the stove before heading back. Going up the hill the wind and rain were both working against me, but it was some relief to not have my luggage.
Back at Annas house I sat in front of daytime TV, untempted to go out until I had to. After a stupid film about cats, I loaded the bike, had my photo taken, thanked Anna and pedalled away. The sun had come through, giving brief restbiet from the rain. On the way to town I felt very sick. As though all the chocolate I’ve eaten since first arriving in PE wanted to chuck itself up. I downed some water and carried on the 6kms or so to the intercape office.
Deciding to arrive early and weigh my bike in as extra luggage at first seemed like an expensive idea. I took the panniers off and weighed it’s 18kgs on the scales. The helpful lady at the desk then quoted me 130R (rather than the 170 it should have been) before issuing me with an official looking sticker. I turned the handlebars around and lowered the saddle before heading off in search of food. After 10 minutes I realised everywhere was shut for the weekend, so returned to wait outside the coach station.
The ladies within banged on the window, telling me to come in. They’d phoned the driver to check he had a trailer – he doesn’t. So tonight’s coach to Jo’burg is a full double decker with no trailer. That means it doesn’t have the normal big flap door lockers like single decker coaches; just a small compartment for luggage under the stairs and around the chemical toilet. The ladies reckoned my only chance was to pack the bike in cardboard, which luckily they had. They were most helpful cutting up boxes as I took the bike to pieces. We then taped the cardboard around the bike in the last minutes before the coach arrived… now it’s down to the drivers mood.
Luckily he was a jolly chap who told me I should get a tandem and a girlfriend – that many SA girls like to cycle and I’m sure to find one here. We twisted the bike into the space behind the loo, luckily it just fit - though it was a very tight squeeze. On the coach I caught up with my diary and listened to music. A fellow passenger was an interesting guy. He worked for a private game range where rich Westerners pay thousands of pounds for a weeks hunting – forking out extra each time they hit a trophy animal. It got freezing cold with the heater broken, so I only slept 2 hours curled up on my double seat, changing my position every 30 minutes when a limb went numb.
29/04/07
There was no sign of a city by 7:50, so I borrowed a passengers phone to tell Cornelius we’d be late. We’d arranged that he’d pick me up and entertain me for the day between coaches. We got in 40 minutes late and I commandeered a trolley for my mountain of belongings: 4 panniers, 2 rucksacks, 2 wheels and a bike. A porter attached himself to my trolley for an involuntary fee; but at least he looked after it when I flitted off to look for Cornelius. Within 10 minutes I’d found him and we were loading my stuff into his 4×4. I then scuttled off to buy the evenings ticket to Beitbridge.
At the Leih residence I had a hot shower before pancakes for breakfast. Kim did my laundry, then on the Internet I received emails from my Zim contacts, Luke from the truck, (saying they’re in Swakop.) and mum. I skyped the whole family before getting an hours sleep on the sofa.
A lazy afternoon followed looking at Cornelius’s clockwork masterpieces and downloading BBC radio programs. We then returned to Jo’burg coach station where my lower rank of bus meant I had to wait outside on a pavement, sitting atop my pile of belongings. Luckily nothing was stolen, though I was pretty tired, worried and nervous about it all. Telling the coach driver I had no more Rand when he wanted extra for the bike backfired, when his assistant wrote me out a bill for 100R. Luckily I had it, so begrudgingly paid up before climbing aboard.
I was the only white on board. And embarrassingly I had far more luggage than anyone else. The bus was much like the older models we had for school, with a very loud engine, lots of drafts and yes – no heater. Luckily I’d taken my sleeping bag on board, so I wrapped that around as much of me as possible (there wasn’t knee room, let alone leg room) and snoozed. Listening to the ‘Reath lectures’ and ‘From our own correspondent felt a world away; though also totally relevant to this old sharabang, chunting slowly through the night, half full to a country that everyone’s leaving.
