This Is The End, Beautiful Friends

April 9, 2008 at 6:48 pm (Travel)
Tags: bonnievale, camps bay, cango caves, cango wildlife ranch, cape of good hope, cape point, cape town, car crash, car hire, clifton, constantia, district six, eggs benedict, gansbai, hermanus, hollow on the square, karen void, long street, marlene dumas, mossel bay, new years eve, ostrich farm, oudtshoorn, robben island, saldanha, saldanha backpackers, saltycrax, shark cage dive, signal hill, sir lowry's pass, south africa, springbok, springbok nude girls, swartberg pass, table view, V&A Waterfront, wine tasting, winery

With the final border crossed, we took shelter in a town called Springbok, in the rustic, chintzy charms of Annie’s Cottage, an oasis of Laura Ashley floral prints, knick knacks and frills, seeming incongruent to the dusty wilderness from which we’d come. The shower was powerful enough to blast away the dust that had clogged our pores, to massage the aches of the six thousand kilometres we’d driven. We threw the last of our meat on the brai, popped the lids on a couple of lukewarm beers and reclined on the flowery quilt to contemplate the run in, our final twelve days away. Then realised we had satellite TV and settled in for a crap movie instead.

The following day started with the breakfast of kings, a fine eggs Benedict and several cups of strong coffee, in the over ornate setting of Annie’s dining room, a haven for porcelain collectibles and the casual clashing of artistic styles. The Queen of Chintz herself was on hand to loom over us in inch thick makeup and spin cautionary tales of her own driving misadventures in the Namibian dirt. She seemed to think we’d been exceedingly fortunate not to have died or been horribly disfigured in our crash and leered encouragingly to emphasise the point. We took our leave, packed the car once more and hit the N7 south as fast as possible.

By mid-afternoon we’d reached Saldanha, a picturesque seaside town on the Atlantic coast a hundred kilometres or so north of Cape Town. We quickly found our lodgings at the friendly Saldanha Backpackers and settled down at the patio table to chat with the owners Leon, a cuddly, smiley shaven headed host, and Clive, a tousled haired space cadet. As is the way with these things, cold beverages and chilled out tunes, the gorgeous sunshine and superb views out over the sea combined to relax and re-energise and we were soon making plans to join our new cohorts on an evening expedition.

As the sun began to slide into the sea our numbers were augmented with the arrival of Tony and Melissa, old friends of our new ones, and we were soon piling into a ubiquitous Toyota Corolla and driving to a large live venue in the neighbouring town for an evening of top South African rock and roll entertainment.

Refreshments and comfortable seating procured, we were soon introduced to the hard rock stylings of Karen Void, a guitar toting Valkyrie in leather trousers. The crowd went wild and we sat, a little bemused, and concentrated on drinking. Shots arrived and were dispatched. We queried Tony’s refusal to remove his sunglasses in a darkened indoor environment, only for him to reveal that he was actually one of South Africa’s top pop songwriters and a bona fide rock musician in his own right, thereby gaining him immunity from the rules that apply to mortals in this respect.

Karen brought her racket to a close and was replaced on stage by the, apparently legendary, Springbok Nude Girls, veterans of the South African rock scene on a reunion jaunt, banging out the hits for the kids one last time. By this point things had deteriorated somewhat into the chaotic. Clive, shirt open to the waist, was thrashing and head banging like a man possessed, in between theatrically snogging Leon in open defiance of the resolutely heterosexual surroundings. Lee had suddenly become heavily inebriated and was administering excruciating shoulder massages to all comers in between shouting nonsense and knocking over beer bottles. Alas, the music left me unmoved, far too much pointless guitar widdling and a singer who was very much a fifth rate Michael Hutchence wannabe.

None too soon, the entertainment came to an end and we were forced to endure the compulsory drunken drive home. Back at the hostel I persuaded Lee to retire for her own safety and then joined the others on the terrace for a nightcap before admitting defeat myself and stumbling to repose.

I had seemingly forgotten that we had an early start as we needed to ensure we returned the hire car before eleven in the morning. Fortunately Lee was on the ball and, by the time I roused myself, had the car packed and had persuaded Leon to give it a good hosing down so it didn’t look quite as filthy. We swapped emotional hugs with our generous hosts and then quickly drove the final stretch, entering Cape Town on a picturesque road that followed the curve of the coast and provided magnificent views of the Mother City with the monumental mass of the mountain behind.

We drove somewhat sheepishly into the car rental garage and Lee went to sort out the paperwork and recount our intricately constructed cover story regarding the motoring mishap while I unloaded. A stern, matronly rental company lady listened and promised to let us know our liability for the damage before we flew. Moments later John and Jacqui, our surrogate African aunt and uncle, arrived and I was able to pile everything into the boot of the car they had so generously agreed to lend us. We retired to a cafe to update them on our adventures and made plans to see them in a few days at their house in Bonnievale.

Next, we motored out of town and into the upmarket suburb of Constantia to seek out a jeweller we’d been recommended. We spent a pleasant hour or so trying on rings and swapping stories with Paul, a jeweller who also ran a restaurant, lectured in psychology at the university and ran a charity to help underprivileged kids. An engagement ring – yes, another one – and two wedding bands were chosen, we agreed to pick them up on our last day and then headed back into the city centre again to check in to our hotel.

Once again, the peak holiday season had meant that lodgings had been difficult to find in advance and we had been unable to get a bed at any of the backpackers’ hostels. Sadly, this meant that we’d had to book a room in the Hollow on the Square, a delightful boutique hotel within easy walking distance from all the main amenities. Even more unfortunate, a further room shortage meant that they’d had to upgrade us to a suite.

We ensconced ourselves, bathed and snoozed and then wandered back out into the delightful afternoon sunshine for a stroll up Long Street to drop off laundry and then made our way down to the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, a large tourist magnet conclave of shops and restaurants overlooking a marina. We perused the boutiques, Lee forced me to buy expensive jeans on the basis that my arse looked amazing in them, and then we settled down for a spot of dinner at a harbour-side open air bistro. More exotic game meats were consumed with a fine bottle of easy drinking red and a moment was taken to appreciate finally being at rest, with no more hectic drives or impending destinations for the next few days.

Indeed, the following day we could barely leave the bed, such was the delight at not having to do anything in particular. I briefly took a ride into town in a glorious vintage Mercedes taxi, luxuriating in the green leather folds of the back seat, to no avail, the laundry wasn’t ready, the camera shop was closed, I returned, got back into bed and we ordered more room service.

Our laziness extended into Sunday and it was only in the afternoon that we were able to rouse ourselves to venture out. It was back down to the V&A Waterfront to take in the delights of the aquarium, though not delightful enough to warrant taking the opportunity to scuba dive in the shark tank when it was offered. Next on the agenda was a visit to the National Gallery, where we particularly enjoyed an exhibition by Marlene Dumas, but the sloth of weariness was soon wrapped around our necks once more and we eschewed the temptation of a cloud free Table Mountain to return to the hotel and take in a disappointing nil nil draw between Manchester City and Liverpool and then have another early night instead.

The following day was New Year’s Eve and a packed programme commenced with a coach tour of the Cape peninsula, an activity we’d signed up for as it was the only way to get a ticket for Robben Island before we were due to leave. A small coach collected us painfully early and then whisked us off down the coast and through the beautiful beach communities of Clifton and Camps Bay. Inevitably, the guide proceeded to launch into a lengthy lecture on, of all things, Tanzanite, the semi-precious stone unique to Tanzania, about to become more precious as the mines are running dry. The lecture encompassed the investment benefits of purchasing Tanzanite jewellery and then led seamlessly onto a retail opportunity to purchase the stone at preferential rates as we pulled into a Simon’s Town shopping complex. We groaned inwardly and used the stop to purchase lattes instead. After twenty minutes of hanging around, during which no one seemed remotely interested in Tanzanite investment, we were shooed back onto the bus and the journey continued down into the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve.

We had to admit the scenery was breathtaking. The road skirted beautiful, dramatic cliffs with craggy drops down into the Atlantic Ocean, all under the vista of a clear, cloudless sky and the ever present golden sun. The reserve itself was of interest as it is completely unique. A World Heritage Site, the Fynbos habitat is the richest place on the planet for plants, containing much flora and fauna not found anywhere else. At Cape Point we were finally able to get out, stretch our legs and leave the guide and the rest of the group behind. We set off along a footpath, following the coastline around to the Cape of Good Hope itself while being buffeted by the fresh sea winds. Finally, it was back to Simon’s Town and Boulders Beach, where we were able to sit and observe at close hand a colony of jackass penguins basking on the rocks.

The tour completed, we had earned our prize and left clutching our precious Robben Island tickets. We grabbed a bite to eat and then drove to the District Six museum for some more cultural learnings. District Six was another stark reminder of the oppression of apartheid and the museum gave us a vivid insight into the way in which a once vibrant, colourful, cosmopolitan and mixed community, almost a tenth of the city’s population, had been forcibly removed and re-housed in strict segregation and the whole area bulldozed just to stop people of different races living side by side. Ludicrously, most of the land is still lying empty some four decades later.

Somewhat sobered, it was time to continue delving into the country’s murky past as we set off back to the waterfront to catch the ferry to Robben Island. At the ferry terminal an exhibition chronicled further the oppression of the black majority and even the terrorist aggressions perpetrated by the white regime in other countries, both neighbouring and further afield. It seemed strange to learn, for example, that the United Kingdom had been so supportive of the South African government when a bombing campaign was carried out against the ANC by their agents in London.

We queued, doors were opened, the ferry arrived, the passengers disembarked, the ferry left to refuel, we continued to queue, the departure time came and went.

By the time we had boarded and the ferry reached the island, we were way behind schedule. We were herded onto yet more buses and given a brief guided tour of the leper graveyard, quarries and so forth, gaining insight once more into the level of degradation imposed on the prisoners and the depth of their strength to continue the struggle despite it. Finally, we reached the prison complex itself and joined a huge mass of people following a former inmate around, listening to tales of daily life from someone who had suffered it at length. There were obligatory pictures of Nelson Mandela’s cell and then, with the evening drawing in, it was time to board a different ferry back to the city. This one was a piece of history, one of the ships which had brought the freed inmates back upon their release in the 1990’s, all very well but it was less than half the speed of the modern vessel that had brought us.

Back to the hotel and we were reunited with old partners in crime, Kirk and Michelle were to join us to see in the new year on the town. We had a couple of preliminary beverages in the hotel bar and then retired to the room to polish off a couple of bottles of wine and put on our glad rags. Then it was off to Long Street where the party was already in full swing. We grabbed take away noodles and then settled upon a snug little bar with a DJ playing some funky tunes, managing to find a cushioned snug literally in the shop window where we could take in the sights outside whilst dancing to the music and partaking of beers and the inevitable shots. Midnight saw us thusly, shaking booties and throwing shapes at the hordes outside the windows in complete abandon.

We ventured outside to take in the scenes, the carnival procession of drumming bands, high spirits on the streets, casualties and carnage. As the hour grew later, we decided upon a tactical retreat, garnered essential supplies and withdrew to the hotel room to lounge on the bed, stick on TV background and talk rubbish till the early hours over endless glasses of wine.

Sleep followed, mercifully, followed by another majestic eggs Benedict and then the four of us piled into the little car and took a drive down to Camps Bay. We ended up in a slow crawling procession, winding its way through the suburb alongside the beach packed with people making the most of the holiday sunshine. Cars with boots open pounded the air with various sound systems, above, a rescue helicopter hovered, in the rear, Kirk snored loudly. We made our way up Signal Hill and joined the throng looking down from the amazing viewpoint over the Atlantic, Camps Bay and Clifton below, sparking one up as the sun turned the sea into golden shards as it crept closer to the horizon. We discussed the final few days of our journey, a road trip back eastwards into the Winelands and the Karoo, persuading Kirk and Michelle to join us, and then dropped them back to their hostel at Table View before slumping once more, gratefully, into bed.

We returned to Table View next morning, extricating our road companions from Saltycrax, a backpacker hostel, and hitting the road towards Bonnievale. We stopped only for a delicious lunch, and another easy drinking bottle of red, at a winery and took the opportunity to stock up with a few bottles to present to our hosts.

A couple of hours later, and with the minimum of navigational muppetry, we’d arrived and were being warmly welcomed by John and Jacqui. Corks were removed, glasses were filled and we settled in for a long evening. Jacqui managed to rustle up a delicious meal, with a little help from trained chef Kirk, and, before we knew it, it was early morning again and we were rolling off to bed in another advanced state of inebriation.

The day started badly as I awoke with the worst heartburn I’d ever experienced. I lay in agony until some instinct forced me to drag my carcass out of bed and limp down the corridor to the toilet. Not a moment too soon, as it turned out, as I then vomited copiously into the porcelain receptacle. A shower went some way to reviving me, as did a cup of strong coffee in lieu of a solid breakfast and then we set off in the direction of Oudtshoorn on the famously beautiful Route 62.

The road took us through rolling pastures, verdant valleys and between impressive peaks, vineyards dotting the hillsides, a pastoral paradise. Until, just before Ladysmith, we reached a sign informing us that the road was closed due to a huge rock fall caused by the recent bad weather. This pointed us onto a diversion that ended up taking us hundreds of kilometres out of the way, down to the sea and along the coastal highway to Mossel Bay before we were able to turn back inland. By the time we reached Oudtshoorn tempers had frayed and a general level of grumpiness, perhaps not unexpected bearing in mind the endeavours of the previous few days, had set in.

We checked in at the, rather too big for its boots, Backpackers Paradise and dispatched the girls to obtain supplies while Kirk and I pitched the tents. Erections completed, we retired to the TV lounge to stare vacantly and wait for them to cook our dinner. Surprisingly, they actually did then cook us dinner. So we ate it and then went to bed.

A thrilling day of Karoo adventures awaited. We broke camp reasonably early, ate a not particularly pleasant breakfast of scrambled ostrich egg and then clambered back in the car. First stop was a local ostrich farm where we took a tour of the facilities and got a close look at the enormous birds. It was all a little disappointing, perhaps due to being around animals in captivity after seeing them wandering free on safari, it just didn’t feel right. Our unease grew as handlers demonstrated that putting a bag over an ostrich’s head renders it immobile and completely docile as its brain is too small to process information when its eyes are covered. Next we stood and watched as various children were plonked on an ostrich’s back, the bag was removed and the bird trotted dutifully around an enclosure for everyone’s entertainment. Finally, a pair of jockeys mounted up and performed an ostrich race. It left a bad taste in the mouth. We cheered ourselves up in the extensively stocked gift shop and then made our exit.

Next stop was the Cango Wildlife Ranch, another destination that seemed to fall into the category of “seemed like a good idea at the time”. A short, fat woman led us through a series of wildlife exhibits, a procession of noble beasts that all seemed a lot less noble having been deprived of their freedom and cooped up in enclosures for the benefit of the paying public. The woman gave us a relentless overblown commentary, trying to convince us of the conservation role the ranch was playing, but it couldn’t dispel our negativity. Pick of the bunch, and the epitome of the wrongness, was a large shallow pool with a pair of huge crocodiles lying motionless and minding their own business. Billed as cage diving with crocs, tourists were encouraged to part with more money, don a mask and snorkel and climb into a cage suspended from a small crane. The cage was then lowered into the pool and manoeuvred into close proximity with the crocodiles. Naturally the crocodiles did their best to evade the cage but were followed at every turn by the intruders. It was all a bit sad.

The final part of the tour, and the reason we’d decided to visit, was to see the big cats. We followed a raised walkway over a series of pens containing lions, tigers, jaguars and cheetahs. Handlers came out to show tricks and they even wheeled out various cubs for some oohing and aahing. Once more, we were offered the opportunity to part with further cash in exchange for being allowed into the pens to pet the cubs, we declined and decided we’d seen enough. The day was sliding downhill a little, we were unused to such commercial attractions and large crowds of annoying tourists, it was time to grit our teeth and move on.

We drove out of town and, some time later, reached the Cango Caves, a massive network of deep underground caverns featuring impressive rock formations. It also featured an enormous car park full of coaches full of tourists. We parked up and went to the ticket office. Two tours were on offer, a run of the mill guided stroll and a more extreme adventure option. We surveyed the information, pondered the diagrams showing the narrow openings we’d have to navigate and decided, three to one, to go for the sedate non-adventure option. We approached the ticket office and were only able to secure places on a tour some two and a half hours later. Fortunately, this meant we could leave the area immediately and find somewhere off the beaten track for lunch away from the tourist hordes.

We settled on a picturesque hotel restaurant and took a table overlooking some pasture, populated with various eland, kudu, springbok and the like. Then we all ordered bits of the various eland and such to be cooked in a variety of sauces and brought to us accompanied with vegetables and beer. Then we blatantly, and shamelessly, ate the various antelope parts in full view of the aforementioned eland, kudu and springbok. It was absolutely delicious.

Satiated, we returned to the caves at the appointed hour to join with yet more crowds of irritating tourists in another underwhelming jolly. We did our best to be interested but the guide was a bore and, to be honest, one cave full of impressive rock formations pretty much looks like any another. The tour couldn’t end too soon, we strolled back to the car and made our getaway.

Fortunately, the day was to about to be completely redeemed as we took a turn off the main road and made our way up towards the Swartberg Pass. The surroundings gradually became more and more spectacular as we climbed into the mountains along a twisting narrow road. This road became more treacherous as the tarmac gave way to gravel and the sides gave way to massive sheer drops. The views out and down across the Karoo were breathtaking, simply stunning, and we were forced to stop the car regularly to drink it all in and take photographs of the mountains stretching off into the distance with the green patchwork plains in between. We reached the top, noting the sign reading “Die Top”, and then crawled our way back down again taking immense care with each tight bend dropping away into an abyss.

The remainder of the journey back to Bonnievale took us, once more, through picture postcard valleys of lushness, mountain ranges extending in each direction as far as the eye could see. We reached John and Jacqui’s house a little after dark, tucked into another superb dinner but, this time, laid off the wine before retiring, exhausted, for a sensibly early night.

A lie in ensued before we dressed in the smartest things we had and all piled into John’s people carrier for an outing to a local winery. We arrived and had a tasting, selecting some deliciously crisp, refreshing whites, and then went on to choose a selection of breads, cheeses and pates. Our selections were then gathered up into a picnic bundle and we boarded a boat for an hour long cruise up and down the adjacent river.

This was my idea of absolute heaven. The sun blazed down on the perfect surroundings, we tucked into the delicious fare and sipped generously on the delectable wines. Best of all, the company was first class and we yabbered away loudly as the craft made its stately way up the river and back down again. Back at the winery, we took a couple more glasses, made some further purchases for later and then jumped back into the car. A further winery stop was decreed and we set about tasting the produce from another local grower. More purchases, plus some sleight of hand with one of the sample bottles at the behest of a mischievous Jacqui, meant that we returned to the house fully loaded with enough wine to fuel a hefty session of bacchanalia.

It was a perfect sunny day, we changed into shorts and t-shirts, lit the brai, opened a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a bottle of rose and retired to the terrace to revel. Who knows what happened next. Presumably we ate, we definitely drank copious amounts of wine, there’s a vague recollection of some evil shots. Day turned into night, legs turned into jelly and bed became a sanctuary.

One that afforded shelter all too brief as I was awoken at 4.00am. Our departure time was 4.30, the destination Gansbai where Lee and I were booked to go cage diving with sharks. Once more, I stumbled to the toilet, threw up horribly and at great length. No time for a shower, I threw on some clothes and took my sea sickness tablet in readiness for the shark boat. Alas, I had carried it so long it had crumbled into dust. I threw it into my mouth anyway, washed it down with water and then dragged my bag through to the kitchen to say my goodbyes.

My humiliation was not yet complete though. The tablet dust made me gag, I made a desperate run for the sink and left a trail of vomit across the kitchen floor, over John’s foot, up the cupboards, along the worktop and into the sink. Then I just stood there, mortified as, thankfully, John and Jacqui saw the funny side and simply laughed at me. I apologised profusely, thanked them for their amazing hospitality and generosity and then let Lee lead me to the car where I collapsed in a heap on the back seat.

The gorgeous surroundings meant absolutely nothing as we motored towards Gansbai. I had my head covered with a jumper and managed to achieve a few brief bursts of sleep. Twice I had to demand the car be stopped so I could honk the final slops of acid bile out of my stomach at the roadside. Reaching the shark dive office I had no option but to simply refuse to leave the car for fear that a boat trip would literally finish me off. Lee, quite legitimately, was livid at my betrayal but I was unmoved and unmovable, a sorry shabby mess of an excuse for a human being and a shining example of the perils of drink. I was vaguely aware of Lee stomping off into the office and then passed out.

When I came round we were parked on the sea front and Kirk and Michelle were staring out at the ocean. We decided to take a drive into town to see what we could find, eventually ending up at a packed Wimpy where I was able to gorge on eggs, bacon and precious, precious latte. The appointed hour arrived and we drove back to the harbour to wait for the boat to return. The skies were grey and full of rain, I could only give thanks once more that I hadn’t got on board.

Eventually the boat steamed into view and the passengers disembarked. We caught up with Lee at the office and had coffee while they showed the DVD of the trip. It hadn’t been a success with only a couple of shark fins seen from the boat and none from the cage. Indeed, the sea had been so choppy the cage had been deemed unsafe and the dives curtailed. All in all my abstention seemed the wisest choice. On the TV monitor it was clear to see that the passengers had suffered horrifically with sea sickness. In my condition I’d have been throwing myself to the sharks just to make it stop.

We drove on up the coast, stopping briefly in Hermanus to share a quick cup of coffee with Joy, John’s sister, and her husband Jerry, both of whom had been on our Botswanan safari. Then we set our noses westwards and joined the dense traffic heading back to Cape Town. We dropped Kirk and Michelle back at Saltycrax and said our goodbyes, promising to meet up again back in England. Then we had to retrace our steps half way back to Hermanus to Sir Lowry’s Pass where we were to spend our last night before flying home.

Turning off the main road, we drove through a village and up into the hills and into a private estate, finally parking up outside a large wooden villa set into the side of the hill with superb views out over the plain to the Indian Ocean. Here we were met by Ian and his wife Marie-Helene, friends of Lee’s brother Jason who had moved over to manage the villa. We had a chat on the terrace to get to know each other and then retired to our luxurious suite, beautifully furnished with its own private terrace.

We had a quiet, restful night, taking a delicious dinner in the room and for some reason watching a film about the Rwandan genocide which reduced us both to tears. Most of all we just sat, all too aware it was the last night before we got on the plane home but at the same time incapable of believing our year was coming to end so quickly and so suddenly.

Our final day began with a top notch cooked breakfast and then we gathered ourselves together, thanked Ian and Marie-Helene for their immense generosity in letting us stay and then climbed back into the car to drive to Cape Town one last time. First stop was Constantia where we collected the wedding rings and said more thank you’s to the jeweller, Paul, who had also been very generous in his dealings with us. Then we headed back to Long Street and had a hectic final dash around the shops and market stalls to pick up some more essential wood carvings, beaded wire animals and bongo flava cds.

Glimpsing up above the skyline, the top of Table Mountain seemed to be beckoning us, peeping out intermittently from the table cloth of cloud that covers it so frequently. We decided it had to be done and drove swiftly up to the cable car station. Tickets purchased, we joined the throng in the revolving cable car and sped swiftly up the mountain side. At the summit, the cloud was thick, but every now and again it cleared long enough to present magnificent panoramas of the surrounding countryside. Robben Island and the Atlantic Ocean, Table View where our friends were staying, Clifton and Camps Bay beaches, all stretched out below us. It was difficult not to feel emotional as we gazed out to sea, north and westwards, towards our families and friends, with whom we would soon be reunited.

As the clouds drew in we decided to abandon the mountain and caught a cable car back down. Back in the city it was the usual sunshine and pleasant heat, we still had time to kill and so we took a stroll through the municipal gardens and had a quick spin round the Slave Lodge museum. Finally, we did a last re-pack, the last of the essential supplies were skinned and we drove off to the airport through the rush hour traffic.

Car parked, we trolleyed ourselves into the terminal and went to check in. In the queue in front of us a classic nice-but dim posh bloke with obviously surgeried trophy wife allowed his kids to run amok. At the counter our luggage came in massively overweight and I was directed to another desk to pay the excess and presented with a figure of £186. The man was very apologetic and dashed off to see what could be arranged, returning minutes later with the amazing news that there was now no excess to pay as our tickets were round the world. With boarding passes in hand we wandered back down the terminal and made our rendezvous with Jacqui and John. There was time for a final beer, a very final cigarette and some final goodbyes and then we made our way air side, got rid of our rands on Amarula, Jagermeister and Biltong and boarded.

The flight was the usual uneventfulness and free drink. I was able finally to see the Simpson’s movie and witness an argument between the posh bloke from the check in queue and the woman sitting in front of him. We landed, collected bags and then made our way through customs and a maze of corridors, hearts in mouths, minds in shock. I filmed Lee as we neared the doors so as to record her tears for posterity.

The doors opened and then we were back.