World Wittering

Around 6.30 the doorbell went and it was, once again, all aboard the bus of Spaz and onward toward the Garden Route, tourist mecca, reeling from an unseasonable battering of high winds and torrential rains, landslides and flooding. It was appropriate then when we arrived mid-morning at the aptly monikered Storms River. We checked in at the rock ‘n’ roll sounding Tube ‘n’ Axe, pitched our tent and then wandered round the corner to another lodge, Dijembe, where Kirk and Michelle were staying and waiting excitedly to meet some friends from home who were on their way to see them.

We loitered around the garden for a while before leaving Kirk to wait and taking Michelle off to Tsitsikamma Falls for an afternoon of foofie sliding – ziplines to you. We were strapped into various harnesses, given twattish helmets and oversized gloves and then marched off to be given a stern lecture on the do’s and don’ts. Finally cleared for lift-off, we took it in turns to launch ourselves out into space dangling from a pulley and realising, with each successive ride, that it was rather lame and not at all exciting. The scenery did its best to make up for it, providing forest canyon visions of babbling brook, majestic conifer and pretty flower variation but we weren’t convinced. Even the strange coloured mud pools caused by exotic minerals failed to win us over. Soon enough though we were relieved of our equipment, managed to avoid being relieved of our rands in exchange for predictably dull photograph cd purchasing opportunity and pestering the lady to take us back in the courtesy bus.

Back at Dijembe Kirk’s friends, Bryn and Lee, had arrived, having blagged a lift with some Germans for a three day road trip from Cape Town. We said our hellos and immediately piled into cold quarts of Black Label from the bar. In no time we had slipped easily into drunken banter as the two new Reading boys furnished us with hugely entertaining stories of Kirk’s various embarrassments. The man himself’s voluminous outraged denials and explanations further increased the hilarity as we broke out the essential supplies and descended into a hazy mist.

As the sun set, a local woman arrived with twin 6 year old sons dressed in baggy blue and white striped shirts and gleaming smiles. We settled in and they set off dancing like a couple of junior hotsteppers, causing us to whoop encouragement of the Sarf Lundin, “Goowaaahnmiiisaaaaaahhhnnnn” ilk. The boys continued to dazzle us, moving onto a drum each and entrancing us with their heavy tribal beathz, they brought the house down. The hat came round and we stuffed bills inside with the unique abandon of the appreciative drunk. So enraptured, I persuaded Kirk to donate his prized harmonica, promising him that he was assisting struggling artists in the development of their act. Like a gentleman, he concurred instantly and handed the treasured item over in moment of beautiful solemnity made only faintly ridiculous by his insistence on launching into a speech, imploring the boys to study its mystery diligently, delivered in the overloud, uber-slow enunciation of the Englishman abroad.

The hunger pangs grew and Lee and I took our leave to find a spot for dinner. We wandered a kilometre or so to where we’d seen a sign advertising a local restaurant, read it, then turned and trudged most of the way we’d come to the appropriate junction. Dinner was delicious, of three luscious courses and contained large quantities of red meat, washed down with a slightly more expensive than usual bottle of full bodied red. Afterwards, we retired to the delightful bar, all wood panelling and ancient stuffed trophy heads adorning every inch of wall. We ordered gin and tonics.

The stumble home involved only a small number of wrong turns and retracing of steps. We reached Tube ‘n’ Axe, with its slightly trying a bit too hard name, weaved through the bar in a drunken interpretation of Archie Gemmill dancing through the Dutch defence in 78, noted that our vague arrangement to meet the others hadn’t manifested and proceeded directly to the tent and the innocence of unconsciousness.

The following mid-morning we were roused enough to wander back round to Dijembe and see what was what. What was, was that Lee was alone watching TV, Michelle was death warmed up in her tent and Kirk and Bryn had gone to do the highest bungee in the world. We took the opportunity to loll on an oversized sofa and zone into the programme about fish on the telly.

Our reverie was broken by the return of the gallant heroes brandishing bright, shiny DVD recordings of their adventure. We sat up alertly and cajoled them to load them in yonder DVD player. The look of shear terror in Kirk’s eyes as he shuffled to the lip of the abyss, yelping “Easy boys” as he was manoeuvred a little too close, was too much to bear and maintained its high comedy even after repeated viewings. Bryn had managed to show the calm poise of the young Ray Winstone we all knew him to be, despite apparently feeling as if his bowels were about to let him down at any moment.

Reinvigorated, yet limited by the weather prospects, we decided to treat ourselves to a trip to Plettenberg Bay, specifically to a large shopping mall – a luxurious treat we hadn’t experienced in many many a month. The prospect of shopping had me bounding about like a Labrador puppy in a mountain of toilet paper.

The drive took an hour and involved passing over the bridge Kirk and Bryn had jumped from earlier. We craned our necks over the barrier from the moving car without ever glimpsing the bottom. First stop at the shops was a refuel from the chippy and then it was off on a rampaging binge through retail outlets of every exciting variety. Money changed hands in return for tee shirts, shoes, finally a jumper, thank the Lord, a floppy brimmed hat and so on and then it was time to hook up and buy food for the evening’s brai. I quickly realised the too many cooks nature of the situation and elected to wait on a bench outside the supermarket and let the others get on with it.

The car was loaded with the booty from our successful raid and we sped off back towards Storms River. This time we stopped at the bungee and watched agape as punters threw themselves off the under-arch of the bridge, bounced, screamed, jiggled about and then hung limply for, what seemed, far too long until someone was lowered down to hoist them back up. The bungee veterans among us agreed unanimously that the hanging around upside down was far worse than the jump itself.

A quick roll about in the tent saw the new togs donned and then we joined the others congregated around the Dijembe Jacuzzi where Kirk and Bryn hadn’t gone easy on the bubble bath. The strong breeze caused little fluffy clouds of foam to detach, fly briefly and attach themselves to the branches of nearby trees. We warmed up with a few preliminary beverages and then began the brai arrangements. Lee and Michelle started preparing the food while I asked the nice man to light the brai pit for me.

Soon enough, we were gathered around a wooden outside table tucking into delicious kudu steaks and ostrich sausages with all the trimmings. Braiing rules were strictly adhered to and copious amounts of wine were consumed. Then we were satiated and retired to sit in a circle around the adjacent camp fire and gaze, out of focus, into the flames. The primal instincts of my distant heritage managed to puncture their way through the gloaming of my consciousness. I lurched forward and picked up a log that had fallen from the fire to prod it into further magnificence.

A subjective eternity later I dropped the log, it rolled away revealing its glowing underside and I thrust my thumb into my mouth attempting to suck the pain away. This caused a great deal of hilarity amongst the assembled masses. I decided there was only one thing for it and lead the congregation across to Tube ’n’ Axe’s more lively bar. Outside there, we found a similar camp fire burning and a number of Scottish people in a parallel state of inebriation to us. We made their acquaintance and then descended upon the bar like drunk people upon a bar. A ludicrous round of Springbok shooters was the opening gambit. We retired to a table and gradually slumped as wave after wave of shooters strafed us with Jaegermeister, Amarula and Crème de Menthe.

The chaos was the perfect opportunity for me to demonstrate my extremely convincing Scottish accent to the Scottish people conveniently located around me. Loudly. They congratulated me heartily on its flawlessness.

The bar gradually cleared until there was just us and the staff, flagrantly continuing to sell us alcohol when we were in no state to refuse. For some reason, I dragged myself to my feet and zigzagged unsteadily back to the tent to get something or another. I managed to unzip the door and then fell face first into the lovely downy cushion of my sleeping bag.

Some time later I heard voices outside the tent, my feet received a sharp kick and then the conversation grew softer and moved off down the road. The next few hours allegedly involved Lee falling over repeatedly and Kirk putting a condom over his entire head, I cannot confirm this, I wasn’t there.

Another mid-morning invaded our polyester sanctuary and we realised we didn’t have long to pack before our appointed pickup. We stuffed everything hastily into bags and were almost done when Kirk and Michelle strolled up to say goodbye – only until the following day when we were to meet up again. We boarded, nodded to one or two familiar faces on the Spaz Bus and went swiftly back to sleep.

Two or three hours down the line we disembarked at Fairy Knowe, a small country cottage in a woodland glade near a town called Wilderness. We were booked into a pleasant, minimalist Laura Ashley fusion of a room in the old house, deposited our bags and went straight back to bed. We finally rose for a delicious home cooked stew, the perfect comforter for stomachs in need of revival, and then retired, sober as judges, back to the room and back to bed and books.

Somewhat refreshed, we strode purposefully into the day, stomachs lined once more with a substantial country breakfast, and made for the nearby Wilderness National Park, an area of beautiful steep green wooded hills and valleys. We started following the river path and then took a, possibly unwise, detour, climbing the hillside sharply but eventually bringing us out of the trees and opening up gorgeous panoramic views all the way to the coast. We photographed an alarmingly large, garishly coloured grasshopper and then proceeded down an equally precipitous path to meet the river once again.

It was now that we started to encounter evidence of the flooding which we’d heard so much about. The path had been partially washed away in several places and it was necessary to clamber over large boulders, tiptoe along narrow ledges and wade across the river when the path disappeared altogether. It was a shame I’d sent my boots home after Kilimanjaro, but the real pity was the fact I’d elected to wear flip flops.

After three hours of sometimes quite unexpectedly heavy going, we finally reached our goal, yet another waterfall. This one was better than average and had some giant rock formations perfect for sunning oneself with a cold beer on. Alas, we’d neglected to bring said cold beers and the sun was stuck behind the clouds. We posed for some photographs and started to get back.

The highlight of the return journey was having to jump into the river from a high bank. The water was only knee deep but Lee managed to make it seem like a drama and then pulled off a classic girl’s jump for the benefit of the video camera that had me laughing till we reached the tarmac. We took a short cut back to the hostel along a stretch of railway line which we were fairly sure wasn’t in use and waited for the others to arrive.

The car duly pulled into the car park, our compadres rolled out and then we all piled back in and made for the beach with a couple of wine boxes and all the essential supplies. We found a spot by a large, gnarly chunk of driftwood and stared out at the crashing waves. The sun came out, a man fished, some joggers went by. We amused ourselves with that beach bat and ball game and then broke the Frisbee out, inevitably edging closer to the surf until we were throwing ourselves about in the water like lunatics, trying to catch lost causes in the most spectacular fashion. Wine flowed, time wore on.

We stopped to buy victuals at the local shop and drove back to the hostel. I put some sunset tunes on the ipod and we gathered around a table to talk nonsense until dinner time. The allotted hour arrived and we helped ourselves to another hearty brai, lovingly prepared by the lovely Fairy Knowe ladies, another fabulous feast of devotion to the God of Red Meat. More ales, more wines and back to the old house to play cards and listen to drum and bass, candles lit, the stars came out.

The following morning the pace was really starting to show. Bryn was deathly pale and had apparently been awake all night sitting upright to counter his stomach’s alarming acidic reactions to the wine. The rest of us were simply bedraggled, creased around the edges, crumpled. Fortunately I was excused the walk to the waterfall, by virtue of having already completed it. We bade goodbye once more as Michelle forced Kirk and Lee into the car and off for their hike. Bryn excused himself on medical grounds and so he, my Lee and I sat beneath the shade of a tree and passed the time staring blankly and intermittently sighing heavily.

Once more unto the Spaz dear friends, once more, our final pickup took us off for the last punishing stretch to Cape Town. Along the way some young buxom Essex girls boarded and entertained us in their traditional manner. People came and went. We stopped at McDonalds and ate one less cheeseburger than we ordered. Pretty Garden Route towns, George, Mossel Bay, scrolled past the windows until sunset, and then we immersed ourselves in Wedding Crashers on the bus TV and hung on grimly for the Mother City.

And, Lord a’Mercy, hours earlier than we’d feared, we started a steep descent, winding our way on unblemished tarmac down towards the gleaming lights of Cape Town. There was a brief period of to-ing and fro-ing as punters were dropped at their allotted digs, then our destination was called and we could wave goodbye to the Spazzers for good. Our hostel was called simply The Backpack and was way more boutique hotel than traveller doss house. We found our way to another wonderfully minimalist designery cuboid of a room, obtained beer and collapsed into bed.

When we emerged, the sunlight was unrelenting, the mid-morning heat already higher than anything we’d felt in a week or two. We grabbed a seat on the terrace until, as arranged, John and Jacqui, last seen at the end of our Botswanan safari, turned up. We exchanged enthusiastic greetings and then caught up with each others’ news over breakfast and giant lattes. Next, the four of us took a leisurely stroll downtown and picked up our hire car, a pristine white Mark II Golf, the staple small car throughout South Africa, brand new but retro. We drove back to the hostel so that John and Jacqui could hand over a load of camping equipment which we were to borrow for the forthcoming weeks. Fully equipped, we waved them goodbye for the time being and made our way to Long Street, Cape Town’s epicentre of bars, boutiques and backpackers. More latte was ordered, Lee took off for the shops and I spent the rest of the day pouring out yet another monumental blog entry.

Later that evening, back at the hostel, Kirk, Michelle, Bryn and Lee arrived. Bryn was wearing a rasta hat with dreadlocks. We fell foul of the residents only bar and so headed down to Long Street, deciding on a Mexican restaurant for sustenance. Anti-indoor smoking saw us boisterously loitering in the doorway knocking back Coronas, before demolishing several plates of nachos and a burrito and then some more Coronas. From there it was to a Cuban bar as some of our party had never tasted a mojito, a state of affairs in urgent need of attention. Several mojitos were followed by vodka Red Bull, Kirk and Bryn disappeared, returned and we hailed a cab, our systems primed.

Five minutes later we were inside Mercury Live, a two story warehouse club with a dance floor downstairs and a live venue above. As we arrived a jaunty, punky ska band with full brass section were finishing off their set and lots of people obviously younger than us were bouncing around in enthusiastic fashion.

More beer, more beer and then a second band, again ska, a bit better, another brass section and a guitarist who looked like Van Morrison. We bounced about ourselves amongst the youth, blending in expertly in a cloud of derangement, moved downstairs and squeezed our way to a spot on the dance floor for some student disco. The DJ played hit after hit, mixing disco cheese with indie stompers and pop classics. We responded gratefully, throwing shapes all over the place, the knee thing got going, Lee, not my Lee, nearly punched someone, Bryn stepped in to defuse, hands were thrown in the air and waved as if we just didn’t care and, before we knew it, it was three in the morning.

There was a brief dalliance in a next door pub but we were spiritually gone by then. A taxi returned us to our lodgings where everyone joined us for a final chill out, then we said emotional goodbyes, kicked them out and sought sanctuary beneath cotton sheets.

All together too soon, the alarm went off. It was another searingly hot, sunny day. We shovelled our possessions into their bags, gritted our teeth and packed everything into the car. We managed to find the motorway with ease, set the nose to the north and motored up through the Western Cape. Kilometre after kilometre of stunning landscape passed by. Remote mountains, grassy plains, lush winelands, we drove on, stopping only for essentials like latte, sausage rolls and the toilet, until, around 4pm, we reached Vioolsdrif on the Orange River, the border crossing to Namibia.