Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Windhoek, Namibia - The Itchy & Scratchy Show"

As we pulled into the eastern Namibian town of Gobabis, I was aware something had changed.  The people were different from those we had encountered to date.  There were many colourfully clad Herero women, lots of coloured people (a light brown skinned race that was born in the Cape from a mix of Khoisan servants, Malay slaves and white settlers, who are neither black nor white) and of course there were far more Afrikaners.  Since independence from South Africa, the official language of Namibia is English. However, there are more Namibians who speak Afrikaans or indeed German than English, and this lack of dominance of the international lingua franca became quickly apparent.  Furthermore, the streets of Gobabis were free of potholes and along the pavement sat a variety of new shops of every description.  I went a bit mental and splashed out on a T-shirt, a jumper, a multi-coloured blanket and enough junk food to give adentist nightmares.  Enal Noj even sought fit to procure a metre and a half long bag of Nami chutney puffs, which were still to remain unfinished by the time we pulled into Cape Town, despite the best efforts of himself, Chris and the Willing sisters.  To contain all my new possessions, I acquired one of those large plastic sacks that one sees mad old ladies carrying in laundrettes the world over.  The back locker people (Ruth, Catherine and Noj) quickly christened it the "Gav Bag".  Now every time they take it out from the depths of Oscar, they shout "Gav Bag - Ultimate respect!" and then proceed to kick the crap out of it and all its contents.  The back locker people are a strange bunch.  They have a nickname for practically every piece of luggage or sleeping mat that they twice-daily store and remove from the truck.  "Lunar Landing, Mother and Child, Buy one get one free, Muff's Stuff, Potato Sack, the Scanty Pack, Double Whammy, The World is not Enough, Tramp Bay, Oily Bin, Mr. Blobby, Best Bag".the list is endless. None of us working on tent duty (Bruno, Law, Steve and myself) have ever named the different tents we haul up and down from the roof every day.  It's quite funny watching the back locker bunch at work.except when I hear the cry of "Ultimate Respect" of course.

After lunch we drove from Gobabis to Windhoek, the capital of Namibia.  Windhoek is a pleasant city, very clean, easygoing and with all the amenities of any Western metropolis.  We lodged in the Chameleon Backpackers Lodge on Wagner Strasse, a fantastic hostel 20 minutes walk from the centre of town. Windhoek is quite peculiar when it comes to street names.  Wandering around its clean boulevards I came across the names of classical composers like Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Grieg, Mozart, Schubert, Strauss and Verdi, scientists such as Curie, Newton, Pasteur, and Roentgen, philosophers like Freud and Goethe, and important European historical figures such as Bismarck, Florence Nightingale and Guthenberg. African leaders such as Nelson Mandela, Sam Nujoma and the ubiquitous Robert Mugabe did get a look in also though, along several of the more important avenues. Windhoek is unlike any city I have been in before, African or otherwise.  Far more Western and tidy than its sub-Saharan counterparts that I have visited, like Dakar, Bamako, Abidjan, Nairobi, Dar Es Salaam and Harare, it is also bizarre in the way that one can walk directly from its leafy quasi-Mediterranean suburbs into its financial sky scraper laden centre. It has much Germanic architecture, especially when it comes to its churches, Lutheran, Roman Catholic or otherwise and it is quite a pleasant, hassle-free city in which to stroll around.

After bush camping in the Okavango, the Chameleon Backpackers Lodge truly was a sight for sore eyes. Furnished with its own bar, a pool table, a television and video room and thankfully laundry facilities, we found loads of other overlanders (some of whom were even women!) staying there, something we had not encountered since Zambia.  The hostel was also home two pit bull terriers, named Crash and Burn, and a couple of really cute meercats, appropriately enough called Itchy and Scratchy.  Just like their counterparts in the cartoon series "The Simpsons", they were a mischievous duo, who constantly ran into our dorm and rummaged through our rucksacks in search of food of any description.  Leafing through plastic bags was their particular speciality.  Then every once in a while, they would stand erect on their hind legs look at one of us and make really funny noises.  Dog lover though I am I'd really love to have a couple of meercats as pets.  When we finally finished playing with Itchy and Scratchy, we watched Italy versus Holland in the Euro 2000 Semi-finals.  Having had to listen to the biased commentary of Radio France International on my short-wave radio the previous night, only to hear of the cruel last minute elimination of my other team, Portugal, by the French, all my hopes for winning the US $100 bet were now riding on Italy.  Chris had backed Holland and having by now recovered from the elimination of the English the week before, he was in optimistic mood.  A quick word on the English - and Catherine's slanderous suggestion in my web Guest Book that I supported them in their game against Romania.  Having duly revelled in the Sports Bar in Harare at their defeat at the hands of the gifted Portuguese, I had to feel a touch a happiness for Chris and Jamie, who were so intoxicatingly enthralled by the England's victory over a poor German side, when we watched the game in Bulawayo.  So in a moment of foolish solidarity with my fellow travellers, I might have muttered that I wouldn't be too put out if Kevin Keegan's team progressed to the next round (where they would obviously have got ripped apart).  This comment was misconstrued and exaggerated by the English gang as an undying pledge of allegiance to Harry, Saint George and the House of Windsor.  Well, just to set the record straight and ensure a trouble free return to the land of saints and scholars, here goes. "Maggie Thatcher, Sir Winston Churchill, Bobby Charlton - your boys really took a beating tonight!"  Anyway, as you probably know, on the evening in question, the Dutch managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as only the Dutch can and I slagged the hole off Chris "Oranje Boven" Davis.  This ardent "Forza Italia" stance of mine was to work very well and prove highly enjoyable until the fourth minute of injury time in the Italy v France final, when I got my just desserts for being such a cocky bastard.  Ah football - it's a funny, and occasionally bloody annoying, old game.

Chris and I caught a cab and caught up with the rest of the gang at Joe's Beer House on Independence Avenue, one of the finest restaurants I have ever been in - and after living in Italy for over four years, that's saying something.  We sat at a long candlelit table in their beautiful tree-festooned courtyard and proceeded to order a wide range of game.  Kudu, zebra, ostrich - there were massive cuts of meat to suit any type of carnivore.  Namibia is a long way from being at the forefront of global vegetarian cuisine.  I think the Afrikaners must weigh their meat dishes in kilos as opposed to in ounces or grams.  We ate and drank far more than our fill and then migrated all of ten metres to Joe's bar, which is at the front of the restaurant.  The décor within is very definitely German.  One could almost be in a tavern in Bavaria, were it not for the stuffed heads of large animals protruding from its wooden walls and a battered old Spanish guitar, which is for some odd reason was hanging from the ceiling.  A free found of apple Schnapps was laid on in recognition of our gregarious custom and after that there was no stopping us.  Well there was in fact one thing stopping us.  The disco to where we were due to go, "Sessions Night-club" on Lazarette Strasse, turned out to be closed, so our cabbie took some of us (namely myself, Catherine, Mel, Noj, Jamie, Bruno, Jen and Denisse) to another huge club nearby on Ferry Strasse, called "La De Da's". The others, not having such an industrious driver at the helm of their taxis headed back to Chameleon's. The club was great initially, a welcome reintroduction to regular Western after hours activities.  There were people of every colour and creed in the night club, and bizarrely they all cheered any time the DJ put on a new track as if the group itself had arrived on stage to perform live.  This obviously got to the DJ's head, who ignoring my suggestion that he play some Armand Van Helden and tripping house beats, started playing a succession of very cheesy African-American, bump and grind R&B.  It was all a bit reminiscent of the Torinese club "Dr. Sax" down by the murazzi, which endeavours to be African, but insists on banging out a plethora of West Coats tunes.  One particular lengthy dance tune repeated the lyrics "I don't know, You' don't know, We don't know etc." incessantly.  It was as if the record was designed to teach foreigners how to conjugate the verb "to know" in the present simple negative tense.  So for the rest of the evening (and basically the trip) we have taken turns to keep repeating the words "I don't know" over and over again, until we begin to seriously confuse or annoy people.  When the volume of noise and dry ice became too much to take, we decided to head back to base camp.  We all piled in the back of a car owned by an off duty policeman who insisted, due to the apparent high crime levels against inebriated tourists, on escorting us back to our hostel gratis.  Another fine example of African hospitality.  We found Dolly propping up the bar (he has learnt his trade quickly), so we joined him for a few bottles of Windhoek lager and several glasses of Amarula (a popular sweet viscous liqueur that looks like Bailey's and tastes of berries).  Due to what the sleepless evening that ensued, we promised ourselves that we would not get up to anything too alcoholic the following evening.  True to out word, we had a quiet night in watching "The Negotiator" and one of my all time favourite movies, "Braveheart", for which Jamie and I appropriately coloured our faces half blue with the chalk from the pool table.  "You can take our chalk, but you'll never take our tables!"  True enough.  Thus significantly inspired and refreshed by a relatively early night and with clothes freshly washed, we bid adieu to the meercats and set off the next morning the northwards to the Etosha National Park.

Gav (1 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Etosha,Otjitotongwe & Twyfelfontein, Namibia - Springboks on the Rocks with Salt"

Having been used to pitching out tents in East African camping grounds full of overland trucks, boisterous young adults and late night bars, the caravan parks of Namibia, full of South African cars, Afrikaners cooking meat on portable barbecues and school children running around playing rugby came as quite a change. I longed for the sandy surroundings of the slushie bar at Macadi Beach in Dar.  Where we stayed at Namutoni at the eastern end of Etosha National Park, they not only had a restaurant and a cocktail bar, but they even had a supermarket!  Never would we look at a supermarket again with the wondrous joy that we had done when we first laid eyes on the Shoprite store in Chipata in Zambia.  In Namibia, there's a Spar in every small town.  This was the first time we had gone on safari in Oscar, and from his windows we observed numerous beasts, especially at the various watering holes in the park.  Animals we saw as we drove along the tarmac road past the many thorny acacia trees included springboks, ostriches, jackals, kudu, hartebeests, kori bustards, zebras and the beautiful oryx.  Watching a couple of nervous giraffes drinking was definitely one of the wildlife highlights of the trip so far.  In the evening one of the ladies working in the restaurant let Chris, Jamie and myself into her apartment to watch the Euro 2000 final.  With us we brought cheese, crackers and some excellent South African Nederburg red wine and for the first 93 minutes I had a very pleasant evening shouting "Show me the money!"  The French Golden Goal ensured Jamie winning the US $100 and consigned me to the fact that I have now unluckily backed the losing finalists (Germany, the Czech Republic and Italy) in the last three successive European Championships and have consequently remained none the richer.  Well at least I got to see Chris cheer for the French, something that obviously doesn't come easy to any Englishman. The next day we headed to the Etosha Salt Pan itself and by the time we had reached its desolate expanse, the cries of "Vive La France!" had finally subsided. Considering how cold the evenings have become in Namibia, it is hard to adapt to the searing heat of midday.  The Salt Pan (basically a dried out lake) was very impressive in its total barrenness.  One could spy nothing for miles except sandy dry plains, the dust from which the wind occasionally blew skywards in gusts.  In the distance hazy mirages could be seen. We all went a bit mad taking an array of arty photos of the complete nothingness, which will probably look seriously boring when developed.  We slept at Okaukuejo Camp, south of the Salt Pan, where they had a well-lit watering hole where a chorus of frogs croaked the night away and where we were lucky enough to view two black rhinos and a couple of giraffes quenching their thirst.  Jen hilariously gave her after dinner "talky bit" three times, as she'd had a bit too much to drink.  Some of the older passengers  (I'll name no names, but they know who they are) thought this was not on and were obviously not amused.  I (and happily most of the gang) disagreed. Jen and Dolly are our drivers. They are not our kindergarten supervisors.  They can do what they want in the evenings as far as I am concerned.  Nobody should be required to be on duty 24 hours a day.  People who go on overland trips should be old and wise enough not to need their hands constantly held.  Unfortunately, in some cases, wisdom does not always come with age.

The next morning it was back aboard and off south to Otjitotongwe Cheetah Farm.  A cocky Afrikaner called Mario, who has a penchant for wearing John McEnroe-esque headbands, runs the farm, where both tame and wild cheetahs are kept.  Whatever his motivations, and the mighty dollar seems a big one, the cheetahs seem to be well cared for.  Whether he will eventually fence in the whole farm, which would give the wild cheetahs a huge area in which to roam, as they have been saying for some time now, remains to be seen.  At least the existence of the farm means that local farmers will consider selling captured cheetahs to Otjitotongwe, rather than just shooting the predators as they had previously done.  We got some excellent photos of us playing with the tame cheetahs.  One of the cheetahs, Suzie, took a worrying fancy to my baseball cap, while another one, Cindy, amusingly became enamoured with Jeff's sandals.  Mario then took us to see some new-born cheetahs, disproving the myth that these cats can't reproduce when held captive.  It was obvious to us that they will never lose their killing instincts either, when we saw the wild cheetahs tearing into the huge shards of meat Mario threw for them.  Again our cameras went into overdrive.  Mario feeds the cheetahs two kilos of freshly killed meat per day, which is enough to stop them from wanting to pounce on unsuspecting tourists. Of all the animals I have seen in Africa up close, the cheetah seems the most vicious and consequently the most frightening.  You can forget about trying to out run one for starters.  The feeding frenzy we witnessed bore testimony to that.  One of them got a bloody nose and afterwards I felt a bit guilty, as if I had just viewed a circus performance, a show put on for the entertainment of the viewing public.

In the evening we went to the bar for a major session.or so we thought.  After a few rounds of drinks, Mario's friend Fred (who possesses a hearty vice-like handshake) suggested a round of Springboks (Amarula and Crème de Menthe), that we had to neck in traditional fashion (i.e. not using our hands).  This resulted in poor Bruno (Yes please!) having to lick his Springbok off the bar, after he knocked his shot glass over with his teeth.  Once everyone had downed their glass we were amazed to find Fred and Mario charging us for the shots they had badgered us into drinking.  They must have a bar policy of you drink - you pay.  Generous bastards.  Never did the fact that we had left behind real Africa, and black African hospitality, hit home so hard.  After that, we determined not to give them any more of our money and the evening around the campfire fizzled out.  Back at the truck I fell asleep in a tent with Steph, Catherine and Mel.  Apparently, dreaming of imminent victory in a game of Switch (a card game we had been playing that day on Oscar) I called out "Last Card" and promptly was woken up by much laughter from the girls.  I have to admit that it's pretty sad when one starts dreaming of card games.  Sign of the times, I'm afraid.

The next day was glorious, if a tad Antarctic, temperature wise.  We drove all the way to  Twyfelfontein (meaning "Doubtful Spring") to see some 4,000-6,000 year-old San rock engravings.  En route, Catherine, Bruno, Mel, Steph, Jamie, Noj, Ruthie and I sat on the roof seats of Oscar, the first time we had done so since South Luangwa.  The parched beauty of the surrounding countryside was breathtaking.  As I listened to "Rainbow Country" by Bob Marley & Funkstar De Luxe on the Walkman, I stared out over the sparse vegetation of the land, which resembles what I imagine Colorado must look like on a cold morning.  Patches of silver grass were interspersed with green acacia bushes.  A pink sun reflected its light off ancient reddish-brown rocks.  Nowhere was there anybody bar us to be seen.  Namibia, at a mere two people per square kilometre, has one of the lowest population densities of any country.  When we arrived at Twyfelfontein, were taken on a whirlwind tour of the rock engravings, by a guide who must have fancied himself as Haile Gabrieselasie.  He literally ran at pace over the hills and between the sandstone rocks like a mountain goat.  Even Bruno had difficulty keeping up.  We were shown engravings, made by hunters using quartz rocks, of elephants, buffalo, giraffes, people and surprisingly also of seals and penguins.  Apparently, several thousand years ago, the Atlantic Ocean was nearer to Twyfelfontein than it is now.  In this part of Namibia, they receive less than five millimetres of rain per annum and that is how these drawings remain preserved.  The engravings acted as maps and guides to other nomads, informing then what animals could be hunted in the vicinity and where the nearest watering holes were.  By the time we descended the rocky slopes to rejoin Jen, our little guide was already on his bike cycling down the road.  He must have been late for his tea.  We spent a thankfully mild evening in thatched huts, though the mosquitoes and the sighting of a scorpion (cue Ruth screaming "Oh my God!") put many off this and they resigned themselves to setting up their tents late at night.  All the same it was good to dust down my old self-standing mossie net, which I hadn't used since I left the Ivory Coast. Alas I think balmy evenings such as tonight can't last much longer.  The ice man cometh.

Gav (5 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Cape Cross & Swakopmund, Namibia - Return of the Adrenaline Junkie"

Before arriving in Swakopmund, we made for the coast and the Cape Cross.  In 1485 a Portuguese mariner, Diego Cão, landed here and place a large cross or "pregão" on the peninsula, to act as a signpost for future vessels travelling along the barren and inhospitable coastline and to announce the arrival of the forces of King John II.  The original pregão was removed and sent to Berlin by the German colonial forces in the late 19th century, however, there are now two replicas in its stead, with a copy of the original message written in Portuguese, English, German and Afrikaans.  It is discernible from the text that when the original cross was laid, the powers at be still believed that the world was created in the year 4,200 BC.  Cape Cross is also famous for its Seal Colony.  The seals are actually sea lions (they have ears) and anything up to 300,000 of them congregate on and in the waters around Cape Cross.  They come here as the cold waters of the Benguala Current, which travels from Antarctica up along the south-west coast of Africa, provides a rich bounty of fish and cephalopods (squids, octopus and other invertebrates), upon which they feed.  An adult seal will daily eat 8% of its body weight and each year the sea lions consume over 1,000,000 tonnes of fish (300,000 tonnes more that the combined fishing industries of Namibia and South Africa).  An adult male seal normally weighs less than 200 KGs, but during the mating season this can balloon up to more than 360 KGs.  Females generally weigh less than 75 KGs.  The predators of baby seals include hyenas, jackals and of course the most serious, man.  Every August several hundred sea lions are culled, ostensibly to keep their numbers manageable.  Once we stepped off Oscar, we could immediately smell the seals.  The odour of rotten fish is not my favourite fragrance in the world and I found it very difficult not to keep my fingers constantly pressed over my nose.  The animals themselves are very noisy and violent with each other.  They reminded me of German holiday makers competing for deck chairs on a Spanish beach, as they climbed all over each other in search of their place in the sun.  Nonetheless the sea lions are very cute and were pretty much oblivious to our snap-happy presence.

Leaving the stomach-turning smell of the seals behind, it was a short drive down to the quaint town of Swakopmund, which the Lonely Planet described (to Denisse's delight, not) as being "more German than Germany".  At first Swakop, with its brightly painted, multi-coloured edifices seemed about as German as Jamaica, but as we passed under the palm trees, which lined the route to the town centre, several buildings of a Teutonic flavour did catch the eye.  First stop was the Swakopmund Adventure Centre, run by a guy called Jeff, where Lisa (of blonde Germanic descent) and Sharon (of Indian extraction), two of the finest looking women I've seen on this side of the equator, both work.  When Chris and I had finally finished drooling, I signed up for sandboarding (US $30), quad biking (US $55) and, in a fit of madness, tandem skydiving (US $150), only to discover that I was the sole person to take on all three activities.  We stayed in the Swakopmund Rest Camp in four two-story cottages called the A-Frames, due to their angular shape.  The cottages with their wooden interior were very alpine in flavour and they reminded me of après-ski weekends in Sauze d'Oulx or Zermatt, back in a time when I had flatmates instead of tent partners. Swakop is an excellent spot for food and the first evening we had a hearty meal in a restaurant called "Frontiers" on the corner of Brücken and Moltke Strasse.  It was early to bed for me (though not for my roommates alas) afterwards, as I had to rise at dawn to go sand boarding with Steve, Chris, Christina, Steph and Law.  We were picked up in a cool old battered Volkswagen van and taken outside the town to the Namib Desert.  Steve, Chris and Christina opted for just going on the flat boards, while, having gained much experience snowboarding, Law, Steph and I chose the standing option.  The major draw back about sand boarding is that in the desert there are no drag lifts, chair lifts or cable cars to take you to the top of the slope.  So during the course of the morning, Laura and I (Steph eventually gave up and joined the flat boarders) must have climbed up the steep sand dunes at least ten times in our soft ski boots carrying our sand boards on our shoulders. After two months sitting on a truck, it was a quite demanding task under the glare of the sun.  For those boarding aficionados out there, sandboarding is basically the same as snowboarding off-piste on powder.  One must put weight on the back leg and limit oneself to making small turns, as wide carving in the sand will slow you down too much.  Plus before commencing each run, one has to wax the board to ensure it slides sufficiently well over the sand. After doing a dozen or so runs without any mishaps or falls, I decided to try my hand at the flat boarding. This turned out to be much more fun as one goes a hell of a lot faster.  One starts with a flat smooth piece of cardboard large enough to cover one's torso.  Then one lies down and lifts the front of the board off the ground with ones hands, making sure that one's elbows are also raised like the wings of an aeroplane.  One's feet act as a rudder and if one starts to go in the wrong direction, one has only (in theory) to put both feet simultaneously in the sand to correct one's course.  Then all one needs to do is to get a push over the hill and gravity takes care of the rest. Travelling so quickly so close to the ground, I got quite a head rush (probably the best since my first bungi jump) and as I careered up the other side of the dune I momentarily left the ground.  I did two runs, one 60 metres long, the other 80 metres long, before strapping my feet back into the sandboard.  I was going to try a jump our instructor had set up until I saw him crash and burn while attempting it.  Deciding that discretion was the greater part of valour, I sped past the jump and skilfully avoided collecting a mouthful of sand.  After a welcome lunch and short respite, all of us, bar Steve, joined the rest of the gang for a blissful afternoon of quad biking.

Bruno and Noj, being the motorcycle fanatics that they are went for the super-fast stick shift quads, while the rest of us chose the automatic models, which despite what one might perceive from the video, went quite fast enough thank you very much.  Spread out between Muff and Enal Noj at the front and Denisse and Ruth at the back, our group formed like what seemed like a mechanised camel caravel as we sped up and down the sand dunes with our two guides and the cameraman. Trying to look good on camera, I hit the accelerator and stood up out of my seat each time I passed the lens.  However, given that on the video we look more like we are driving at the speed of a defective three-wheeled golf buggy as opposed to anything one might see in the Paris-Dakar rally, all I achieved was to give the impression that I had a serious case of piles.  Nonetheless, the few hours spent on the four-wheeled bikes was great fun and I'll not soon forget bounding over one of the last dunes only to see the vast Atlantic lapping the shores around Swakop. It was a truly serene moment.  That evening we ate another sumptuous meal in "Africa Roots" on Breite Strasse.  Dolly, Catherine and I were invited to the bar upstairs by one of the waitresses, Michelle, who I had been chatting up.  The bar was pretty surreal.  I could have been back in Hamburg.  The played music by Culture Beat and Dr. Alban, not to mention a very long hardcore techno set.  Everybody, bar Michelle, who's from Cape Town, spoke German.  It was difficult to fathom that we were still on the African continent.  I probably stayed up too late playing pool with the German-Namibians, but the lads had come up with the mother of all hangover cures the next day: skydiving.

I am not by nature an adrenaline junkie.  If anything I'm more of a creature comforts kind of guy.  A good book, and entertaining video, a couple of cold beers or a decent bottle of red wine on an evening and I'm pretty happy.  So if you would have told me two months ago that I would go white water rafting down the Zambezi, jump off the Vic Falls Bridge (twice for God's sake) and go speeding over sand dunes on a quad bike, I would have told you that you were a few sandwiches short of a full picnic.  Therefore, I can't really explain why I felt it necessary to throw myself out of a plane at over 3,000 metres (10,000 feet), trusting my life to some nylon sheeting and the will of the gods.  I suppose the fact that Bruno, Jamie and Noj were all doing likewise helped, especially as Enal seemed as terrified as I was.  The idyllic location proved quite an effective enticement as well.  So by midday Jamie and I, having visited the toilet several times already, were to be seen gazing skywards as two tiny specks of colour appeared in the cloudless heavens.  Noj and Bruno had just leapt out of the light aircraft with their instructors, and their parachutes had thankfully unfurled.  When they landed safely a flurry of questions ensued.  They were both ecstatic.  Well, who wouldn't be to have ten minutes of diving with Muff!  Then, before I could procrastinate further, or think of any more bad jokes, it was our turn to go through the training drill.  My tandem instructor's name was Mike, and he seemed like a decent chap to whom I could entrust my life.  Jamie and I learnt what we had to do and not to do, the aerodynamic positions to adopt, and most importantly how to smile (laugh in the face of death if you will) at the video camera even though plunging at 220 kph headlong towards Mother Earth.  Then for the third time since leaving Harare, Jim and myself climbed aboard a small plane and sped down the runway.  Only this time we wouldn't be returning to the runway. Crammed into the small plane were the pilot, two cameramen, our two instructors, and two very nervous first-timers.  Some eejit had left one of the plane doors open.  Mike assured me "What's the worst that could happen?"  "Well, you could fall out of the plane!" I answered.  "Indeed, but isn't that the point?" was his wry reply.  He had me there.  I had paid a king's ransom to be thrown out of an aeroplane.  Now who was the eejit?  We flew along the coast down to Walvis Bay, and then turned around back towards Swakop ascending all the time.  The scenery was stunning, but to be frank, I was trying my best not to look out the window.  Terra firma seemed like a bloody long way off.  It took us just over 20 minutes to reach the desired altitude, during which, (in the words of Christy Moore's "Black is the Colour") "I suffered death a thousand times".  It was weird.  One minute I'd be there thinking "Yeah, I'm the man, I can do this, nothing's gonna happen".  Then seconds later I'd bricking, sighing "Santa Maria" repeatedly and cursing myself for ever letting myself be convinced that this insane act was a good idea.  Then at 10,000 feet, Mike gave me the nod, hooked himself up to me and we shuffled forwards on our knees to the exit or the plane.  By this time, the cameraman was outside the craft hanging on with his bare hands to the wings, the wind nearly blowing through him.  These guys must have balls of steel.  Then out went my first leg, both my arms and finally my second leg.  Upon the given signal I reluctantly let go of the wing (Christ, I even now feel tingly just writing about it!) and then so did Mike.  With that we vanished from sight in an instant.  Jamie later told me that that moment was when he fully realised what he was about to do, for one minute I was there, and the next I was gone.  I don't remember a helluva lot about the first few seconds, only that I uttered the words "Oh shit!" several times and that my legs were not as tightly back to Mike's body as they should have been.  But I soon corrected this and we assumed the correct position.  A tiny parachute was released to make sure we didn't reach terminal velocity (360 kph), which is an uncomfortable speed at which to descend, pressing the goggles into your face and making your cheeks ripple like a wobbly jelly.  Once the cameraman reappeared ahead of us, I started smiling at the camera and giving silly thumbs up signs like a pleb. I didn't choose, as Bruno did, to give the finger to the camera, as I was very glad that he was there to be honest.  He stopped me from looking downwards to my impending doom and momentarily I nearly forgot that I was plummeting headlong at a rate of knots.  After what I was later told was thirty second of free fall during which we descended 1,500 metres (5,000 feet), Mike released the parachute and we started to descend at a more leisurely pace.  He showed me how to guide the chute, make turns to the right and the left, speed up and slow down, but after making a series of ever decreasing circles, I began to get a bit queasy and handed back the ropes to mission control.  The cameraman caught our landing, which basically can be described as Mike and myself plopping down on the ground on our arses.  I then thanked Mike and the divine winds for guiding me to safety once again and kissed the ground like Pope John Paul II used to do in his younger days.  Jim, the show-off, effected a perfect landing and seemed a lot less drained by the whole experience than my good self.  The four of us then got out of our jump suits and watched the excellent videos the lads had made, which along with a roll of film, I bought for US $40.

Feeling suitably chuffed and macho, I then felt it time to head to the Rest Camp laundrette, just to make sure I hadn't left any unwanted surprises in my jeans while skydiving.  The laundrette there is my kind of washing facility.  Complete with a shop, a bar, pool tables and video consoles (including Pac-Man, which I hadn't played in years), doing laundry has never been such fun.  Shot a game of pool with Noj, Steph and Catherine and then went to the bar for a gin and tonic and some Wimbledon on the telly!  Returned to our A-Frame with a set of clean clothes and sufficiently inebriated to head out for our third meal in Swakop, this time in "Kuckie's" beside "Frontiers".  The evening degenerated into complete silliness once we all arrived in O'Kelly's pub.  We all thought we were going to have the proverbial "One for the Road".  As luck would have it, Noj was their 100th guest that evening and won Nam $100's (15 Euro) worth of free drinks, which believe you me, goes a long way in this neck of the woods.  Shots of flaming sambucas (Dolly's speciality) were produced and then there was no stopping us.  Steph enticed the local lads with her excellent dancing, while some of us produced a dodgy rendering of YMCA and "Hey Mickey".  Noj made an announcement on the DJ's microphone that I was free and willing to procure female company.  Fortunately, he was slurring his words too much for most of the German speakers to have a clue what he was saying.  I don't know why, but I still feel strange hearing German spoken in Africa.  This is not the case with French, English or Afrikaans.  I suppose it's because it seems to be only the white people of German descent (only 2% of Namibia's population) who still speak it. At least Afrikaans is spoken by many coloured people. After hours of seriously sweaty dancing with the gang and some surprisingly skilful early morning games of pool with Muff Daddy, the evening ended with Noj, Catherine, Jamie, Mel, Bruno and I staggering down the main street of Swakopmund at 05h00 singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" at high volume.  We had not given this classic tune a decent airing since we arrived at the north coast of Zanzibar, and the moment seemed propitious to do so again.  The good burghers of Swakopmund would probably disagree, but we didn't hang around long enough to gauge their esteemed opinions. Back in our cottage Noj brushed Mel's teeth for her as she wasn't up to doing it herself.  Then we did our best Walton's impression and yelled good night to each other.  I hit the pillow with my headphones on in the hope of not hearing anyone snore (including myself) and to catch up on what was happening in the real world.  By some miracle of global electronic wizardry, I managed to pick up RTE Radio 1 perfectly on the FM band of my small radio.  I can only imagine that a Namibian station was relaying it.  Why?  I don't know.  (You don't know, we don't know etc.)  But in any case, I took this hazy opportunity to catch up on the latest racing results from Leopardstown and the outcome of the day's greyhound racing at Harold's cross!  So after sleeping all of, oh perhaps 90 minutes, we rose from our beds with military precision.  Cup of tea?  Cup of tea!!!  There ain't no time for cups of tea in this army soldier!  With the zest of basic trainees, we somehow managed to load all our stuff and ourselves onto Oscar and by 08h00, we were leaving Swakop for good, heading in the direction of Sesriem and the heart of the Namib Desert.

Gav (9 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Sossusvlei and Kolmanskop, Namibia - Brimful of Handstands on the 45 & Singing with Spirits in the Material World"

Our arrival at Sesriem was pretty uneventful by our standards.  After having made lunch the day before arriving in Swakopmund in a sandstorm, Bruno and I (or "Fondue Face" and "Potato Head" as we've now started to call each other - good to know that even in these enlightened 21st century times cultural stereotyping is alive and well) were obliged this time to make dinner without lighting.  Speaking of cultural stereotypes, I came across a packet of crisps called Flanagan's in a shop here.  These crisps, portending to be made in Ireland (they are actually from South Africa), display a text on their packaging, which is bigoted enough to make a racist Boer blush.  Check out the following quotations from the story of Sean and Molly Flanagan: "I was just a brick and three 'tatoes high when me granddad first brought Kettle Fried Crisps home from his pub in the small village where I grew up.  I used only the best Irish potatoes, washed and cut 'em leaving a bit o' skin for wholesome goodness.  What can I tell ye?  Me crisps are as Irish as the Leprechaun, and just as famous (yeah!).  I'd say ye couldn't be luckier if you stepped into a field of four-leaf clovers."  It goes on and on thus and I have a good mind to write to the "Moreish Irish" shower at their company informing them that a) there crisps are not quite as famous or as Irish as they imply on the packet and b) their contents taste like crap!  Knowing me, I probably will write to them. Anyway, back to the plot.  Jen and Dolly had to head off from the campsite to come to the aid of another Dragoman truck, captained by Fraser, which had run into difficulties.  So as the desert sun began to decline over the rocky red horizon, and as Noj and Ruthie set off for a mad jog into the dark sandy wilderness, cook group number 3 set about chopping, frying, dicing and slicing by torchlight.  The results were well received, even if our tight budget of Nam $250 (40 Euro) proved a miserly amount, with which we were meant to furnish breakfast, lunch and dinner for 19 people.  Southern Africa is alas not as inexpensive as East Africa.

The next day we made for Sossusvlei, where some took a guided tour to see the various salt pans and others availed of a taxi there and back.  Bruno, Steph, Law and I however, aware of the serious lack of exercise we were getting stuck for many hours on Oscar most days, opted to make the return journey on foot.  We made the pleasant walk over the sandy cracked earth to the Sossusvlei itself, stopping occasionally to look at scurrying beetles, colourful lizards or to pick up some finger-sized, banana-shaped fruits, fallen from the surrounding trees, which when rattled, sounded like a pair of maracas.  We ensured that we drank plenty of mineral water on the way.  I couldn't imagine repeating such a trip in the searing heat of a southern summer.  The four of us ascended a large sand dune over the vlei (salt pan) and witnessed some spectacular scenery.  Climbing up the sand dune certainly proved a lot easier without ski boots and a snowboard.  Then, in a scene reminiscent of a cross between "Lawrence of Arabia" and the opening sequence of "A Little House on the Prairie" we ran, jumped and bounded down the dune, managing to get sand into every article of clothing and body part.  If I remember correctly, I used to do the same daily two decades ago when I went to St. Fintan's National School on Burrow beach in Sutton. The sand had an intense crimson colour, due to the fact that strong winds had blown it all the way from the red Kalahari Desert.  Feeling unabashedly juvenile, we then headed back to rejoin the grown ups, attempting to shed some of the sand we had acquired on the way.

After lunch we made for Dune 45, so called, as it is exactly 45 kilometres from Sesriem.  At 120 metres it is not the highest of the sand dunes.  That honour belongs to a dune called "The Crazy One", which stands at a massive 360 metres.  Nevertheless, Dune 45 receives the most visitors, as it is easily accessible from the main road.  I set off up the dune with Bruno, who in true Swiss army style, ascended it like the mountain goat that he is.  He had reached the top within 11 and a half minutes, while I trailed in second, two minutes later.  Some of the group couldn't make it all the way.  Others didn't even bother trying.  I'm certainly glad I did though.  Dolly, who had brought his Mini-Discman up with him, started playing Sonata No. 13 in G Major by Mozart, more commonly known as "Eine Kleine Nachtmuzik" (A Little Night Music).  Lying on our backs, Bruno, Dolly, Noj and I, listening to the Austrian maestro, hung upside down on the crest of the dune, and observed the inverted world below.  Below in a clear blue sky, both the setting sun and a gibbous moon could be seen.  For some reason, in Namibia, the moon is almost always visible, even during the midday hours when the sun is at its most powerful.  The hills and sand dunes slowly turned a pinkish hue, which reddened as dusk approached.  A lone desert oryx, specially adapted to this desolate environment, stood motionless at the base of the dune, its massive horns casting long shadows over the sparse vegetation from which it was feeding.  The landscape reminded me of the view one might get from an aeroplane window.  Never have I seen such a resplendent scene while my feet have still been touching terra firma.  Breaking the serenity, Dolly tried to perform some handstands on the summit of Dune 45 and one of them nearly worked, until his hands gave way and he keeled over backwards.  That evening saw the very same co-driver teaching the gang a new drinking game (as if we needed any further encouragement in that department!).  Everyone was called after a certain fruit or vegetable.  Dolly was "Kumquat, kumquat", Steph was "Kiwi fruit, kiwi fruit", Bruno was "Melon, melon", Law was "Passion fruit, passion fruit", Ruth was "Raspberry, raspberry" etc.  I, originally enough, was christened "Potato, potato", though I wasn't even there at the time when the game was being played.  The object of the game is to call out one's own pseudonym twice, then call the pseudonym of someone else in the group twice.  Sound easy enough you might think.  The trick, however, is that one is not allowed to use or to show one's teeth, lest one receives a drinking penalty.  Even displaying one's dentures while laughing is punishable.  The upshot of these antics sounds vaguely similar to a gardening convention for dissipated septuagenarians. At times, it has to be said I fear that we might be regressing on an evolutionary scale.

We reached Lüderitz late the following evening after a long day's drive. Lüderitz, which we immediately nicknamed "Looney Bins", is an eccentric place to say the least.  The people seem to be living proof of what happens when cousins marry.  The houses are painted a mish-mash of luminous funny colours and the higgledy-piggledy architecture of the buildings in the town is positively confused.  We stayed on a rocky promontory, comfortingly known as the Shark Island Camp that was surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic, which was throwing up a storm.  Watching the moored ships sway in the nearby anchorage and the waves crashing over the rocks reminded me of Howth Harbour.  And I felt a tiny tinge of homesickness. This was soon resolved, however, with a bottle of Zonnebloem Cabernet Sauvignon.  Then later in the evening Noj borrowed Dennise's guitar and I sang along while he played.  We reworked a few songs such as "Losing My Religion" by REM, "Distant Sun" by Crowded House, "All I Want Is You" by U2, and that classic rock anthem with no end, Led Zepplin's "Stairway To Heaven", for which Mel and Catherine were unfortunate enough to be present.  By now certain cliques had been well and truly established in the group, with eleven (or thirteen if you counted the benevolent neutrality of Jen and Dolly) on our side and six on the other.  I suppose given the age differences and mix of nationalities aboard that such a division was bound to happen sooner or later.  And while it didn't detract in any significant way from my enjoyment of the trip, I still think that it was unnecessary and a pity.  But such is life.

Most of the next morning was spent wandering around the abandoned ruins of Kolmanskop (or Kolmanskuppe in German) just outside Lüderitz and bordering the Sperregebiet or Forbidden Diamond Area.  Kolmanskop was a bustling town before the Great War and in the twenties and thirties during the Namibian diamond rush.  However, the location of larger diamond fields to the south towards Oranjemund and the South African border, led to the slow death of Kolmanskop.  The last inhabitants packed their bags in 1956 and the relentless dunes have been encroaching ever since.  It is now classified as a ghost town, similar to those towns that arose and declined in the wake of the Californian gold rushes of the 19th century.  Though technically a ghost town, Kolmanskop ironically was bustling with vitality due to the large number of tourists milling around the souvenir shops.  Indeed, it might be said that at times there's more life in Kolmanskop than in Lüderitz!  Armed with a roll of black and white film, I set off with our group around its sandy streets in search of some arty photos.  We were led by a mad fellow called George, who spent more time telling us about the late Scotty, a hermetically inclined canine, who inhabited the town alone for years before he was beamed up to the celestial kennel upstairs.  When he had exhausted all his stories about the dog, George brought us to the old "Casino", wherethe locals used to drink, go bowling and hold plays and operas.  Due to the spookily melodious harmonics of the decorous room, our guide asked for a volunteer to sing.  My name was mentioned.  Once he discovered that I was Irish, there was no escape.  Ever conscious of the fate that befell those who defied the wishes of the Phantom of the Opera, I nonetheless I trundled up onto the ornate stage.  I then belted out "Black is the Colour" for the Drago crew and the bewildered group of other tourists who had assembled to witness this unexpected spectacle.  Fortunately, no supernatural rotten cabbages or ghoulish tomatoes were hurled in my direction, so the spirits must have been none too displeased by my rendition.  I then spent the next twenty minutes telling a very eager George all about Celtic ballads and writing lists of the movers and shakers in traditional folk music.  Finally, I managed to drag myself away and unleashed my trigger-happy camera finger on an unsuspecting Kolmanskop.

Our last full day before venturing into southern Namibia was spent in Klein-Aus-Vista, a pretty campsite with clean, piping-hot showers, on the outskirts of a small village called Aus.  Highlights of a less than thrilling afternoon included watching Jen and Dolly extricate Oscar from a sandpit into which they had driven and listening to Bruno yodelling from the top of a large hill that himself and Noj had scaled.  We gazed up at them with our binoculars as the fading sunlight cast a stunning shade of apricot pink over the rock face. The temperature then plummeted and people retired to the fireside to write their diaries or onto the truck to play "Hearts". Everyone was in bed by 21h00, aka pathetic hour.  It was now the turn of Aus to suddenly assume a ghost town aura.

Gav (12 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Quiver Tree Forest & Fish River Canyon, Namibia -Taking the Path less Travelled by"

Our next stop was the Quiver Tree Forest or Kokerboomwoud, situated in a place called the Giants' Playground near the town of Keetmanshoop in southern Namibia.  The Quiver Trees only grow in this region as they have adapted to living in rocky soil.  The igneous basalt rocks, among which the oddly shaped silver trees grow, are 170 million years old.  Over the millennia the sedimentary soils that used to cover the volcanic rocks were eroded away, leaving behind an array of smooth boulders, ranging in sizes from that of a pebble to that of a large van, piled high in columns.  It reminded me of a quirky inland equivalent of the Giant's Causeway, which lies off the coast of County Antrim in Ireland.  The evening was spent at a party held by Chris and Christina, who had rented out a lodging shaped like something that would look more at home on the set of Doctor Who?  A spot of midnight trampoline action was subsequently the order of the day.  With Dolly and Ruth leading the way, things were proceeding remarkably calmly and accident-free until I descended at pace onto Catherine's chest.  Her mixture of crying and laughing proved initially confusing, but after the hilarity of the situation subsided, I realised that she was indeed in some pain.  Knowing her, she should swell up in one big bruise, thus leaving doctors no option but to amputate half of her upper torso.

We ventured next to Hobas and the Fish River Canyon, which, it is perhaps ambitiously claimed by the Namibian Tourist Board, is the second largest canyon in the world after Colorado's Grand Canyon.  On a very windy day most of us set off to descend the steep paths into its rocky depths.  Jamie and I decided to go down the canyon at a leisurely pace.  Indeed, we frequently stopped en route to practice our stone throwing (we must have watched Braveheart too much), only to discover later to my regret that the piles of rocks which acted as our targets, were in fact markers for the correct path ascending out of the canyon. When we eventually reached the base of the canyon we walked out onto a tranquil sandy beach through which ran an icy cold river.  Long green reeds bordered the stream that glistened in the intermittent sunlight. Nonetheless, sheltered from the strong winds by the imposing canyon walls, which bore more than a passing resemblance to Mount Rushmore, the temperature was quite mild.  We made the journey back towards the canyon entrance with Ruth, Laura and Steph, though impatient by their slow progress I decided to up the tempo alone.  This proved my undoing.  Upon reaching a fork in the path up the ever-steeping cliff face, and unable to see a marker of any description, I opted for the wrong route.  As the foundations underfoot became looser and the drop below grew sheerer, my heart started beating much faster and my nerves increased. By the time I could heard the cries of those up above on top of the canyon's ridge that I was going the wrong way, I found myself stuck on a precipice with nowhere to go.  Without rope, crampons or climbing equipment of any description, ascending higher was not an option.  By now adrenaline was pumping through my body and vertigo was not far off.  Left with no choice I attempted to backtrack by sliding down the shale on my bum.  After what seemed like an age, I thankfully rediscovered the yellow brick road and making sure I didn't look down any more, I hurried on up to the top.  I then collapsed in a sweaty heap and promised myself not to try any more stunts, which required me to come face to face with drops from a great height.

We then journeyed along the canyon ridge down to the resort of Ai-Ais (sounds like Ali G's kinda place - aye), where we shared the twin pleasures of a warm swimming pool and a hot Jacuzzi.  Bruno and I spent most of the evening cooking a traditional Swiss speciality called Auplermagarone (Alpine man's macaroni).  This heavy-in-carbohydrates meal is made from pasta, potatoes, cream, cheese and bacon slices and is topped with crispy fried onion rings.  Sweet applesauce is an optional side dish.  It's just what the body needs after a hard day of canyoning.  I spent most of the evening reeling off a load of Irish songs, occasionally accompanied by Jen and Noj.  As we passed pathetic hour, some more of the gang joined in the singing and through our noisy late night shenanigans, we gained our long awaited revenge on all those German and Afrikaner early birds, who constantly made loads of noise at the crack of dawn these past few weeks. And with rousing rebel songs and Oasis anthems ringing in my ears, I hit the sack for the last time on Namibian soil.

Gav (15 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "The Cederberg Mountains & the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa - End of the Line"

Crossing into South Africa (my 13th African country) proved less momentous than I had imagined it would be.  After almost three weeks in Namibia, I left the country with fond memories.  It has the most breathtaking scenery of any country that I have visited since Morocco, and is well worth a visit, even if its citizens lack the charm and warmth of the black people of countries further to the north.  As we drove south towards the town of Afrikaner town of Vanrhynsdorp, losing one hour in the process due to the change of time zone, the roads of the Northern Cape seemed to be in no better condition than those in Namibia and the countryside was just as sparsely populated.  At the campsite where we put up our tents, unknowingly for the last time, we were greeted by a bouncy cocker spaniel, whose owners had saw fit to name "Hitler".  This was enough to send Denisse, who is Jewish, off down to stay in the local hotel in protest.

In order to stock up on supplies, we spent a couple of hours the following morning in the next town to the south, Clanwilliam, which though it possesses a quaint café called "Nancy's Tea Room", must be the most boring hamlet in which I have even been.  Clanwilliam, however, is the gateway to the Cederberg Mountains that rise to 2,000m and into which we ventured after lunch.  As we ascended the winding road up the hills passed hibernating vineyards, the topography of the land changed greatly.  With snow to be seen on the south-facing slopes, the flora and fauna was distinctly Alpine in nature.  Green pine and cedar trees towered over clumps of purple heather, silver mosses and fynbos scrubs.  Glacial mountain streams and the occasional waterfall cascaded down the weathered sandstone formations.  Steph, Law, Catherine and I, with a panoply of hats, gloves, fleeces, jumpers and blankets in tow, climbed up onto Oscar's back roof seats to witness the Yuletide scene and brave the icy Cederberg winds.  In a matter of days we had travelled from the heat of the Namib Desert to the frozen environs of the Cederberg Mountains.  It was as if summer had become winter in an instant.  I felt like I had come full circle from the Cedar Forests of the Atlas Mountains, through the endless Sahara, the sweaty tropics of the Ivory Coast and Zanzibar, the arid Namib and now back to chilly mountain peaks again.  Sleet started to fall and as we crossed the Kromrivier, its banks had begun to swell.  Fortunately two large apartments were made available for us when we arrived into which we gratefully piled.  A Christmas-like evening was spent playing "Ri-Ki-Ki" and a dice-like game called "Pigs" around a log fire. In the course of the night, Catherine and I succeeded in polishing off four bottles of Nederburg '97 - Lauréat, Edelrood, Shiraz and Pinotage respectively - all of which, bar the latter, we found very agreeable.  Most of our party braved the elements the next day for some hill walking, while I squandered the daylight hours in a vain attempt to wash my dirty clothes.  I must have emptied half the Kalahari sands into the bath in which I was thrashing my clothes about, only to then discover that the icy winds outside possessed poor drying properties.  I consequently assembled what paralleled a Chinese laundry in the apartment, hanging clothes everywhere and attempting to steam dry the dripping garments on the metal chimney above the fire.  This worked satisfactorily in some cases, but several of my shrunken t-shirts would alas now only fit a waif catwalk model.

Oscar trundled south down the mountain the next day towards the Cape.  Surprisingly the landscape of the Western Cape reminded me a lot of Ireland.  Many rolling green hills, misty grey skies, shards of brilliant sunshine breaking through the clouds and fields full of sheep and cows.  However, the occasional herd of farmed zebra and ostriches belied the otherwise homely scene.  As we bypassed Cape Town, I read up on the history of the Afrikaans language, which appeared beside English on the road sings. Afrikaans is basically a bastardised form of Dutch. Over the centuries after Dutch settlement of the Cape in 1652, the Germanic language of the Dutch colonists mixed with French, English and Malayhu, the language spoken by the Muslim slaves brought in from the Dutch East Indies to work for the white settlers.  The hybrid tongue that resulted was then gradually learned from the slaves by the children of the Hollanders, who initially wanted to have nothing to do with what they saw as pidgin-Dutch.  That is why today, despite popular misconception abroad, there are more "Coloured" (the mixed-race descendants of the Muslim slaves who call themselves Malay) Afrikaans-speakers than white.

We ventured down the Cape Point peninsula, from where we could witness the rough cool waters of the Atlantic meeting the still warm waters of the Indian Ocean. The inclement conditions we faced as we stood under Cape Point lighthouse only added to the savage beauty of the place.  Then we made the short ride to the Cape of Good Hope, which is the most south-westerly point of th  African Continent.  The Straits of Gibraltar seem a long way away now.  More spectacular photo opportunities of waves crashing onto the cliffs and tossing piles of kelp onto the shoreline presented themselves.  It was easy to see why the Portuguese mariner, Bartholomew Diaz, originally called this area the Cape of Storms.  Unfortunately, we had to promptly leave the Cape in order to drop Jeff, Heather, Denisseand Rick off at the Simon's Town train station.  It was a shame as I could have easily spent a whole afternoon by the sea.  Due to the stormy weather, the owner of the campsite took pity on us and allowed us to stay for no extra charge in four little cottages that they were in the process of renovating.  When I emerged, steam pouring everywhere from my hot shower, Dolly hilariously announced to Noj, Mel and Catherine; "And tonight, Mathew, I'm Gary Glitter!"  Enough already!  They'll want to volunteer me for "Stars in their Eyes" next.  Once back in the affluent picturesque community of Simon's Town, the 13 of us who remained had dinner in the centre of town in a delightful little restaurant called "Café Pescudo". Unluckily, Simon's Town is a seasonal tourist spot and at this time of year, taxis are impossible to come by.  So we all had to walk three kilometres in the pouring rain through the dark streets of Simon's Town, parts of which were experiencing a blackout, to the restaurant.  However, once there, we were delighted to see that not only had they great food and wine, but their bar was stocked with draft cans of Guinness and Boddingtons, so the beer drinkers among us were well looked after.  A rather well behaved evening was had by all, bar Laura's ever present teddy bear, Jenson, who toppled into a pint of stout and was all over the place after that.  It was an early rise the next morning to walk down to the see to look at the Jack Ass Penguins.  These cute creatures, smaller in height than most penguins, are the only penguins to be found in Africa.  We spent a good hour watching the funny birds as they waddled from the nearby golf course down to the waters' edge, occasionally negotiating a series of steps with much aplomb.  Once in the water they assumed a new-found grace and speed, which they do not possess on land.  Chris, Christina, Steve, John, Jamie, Ruth, Catherine, Steph, Law, Bruno, Noj, Mel and I then climbed aboard Oscar for the last time together as Jen and Dolly drove us back up to Cape Town.  We had reached the end of the line.  Most of us opted to stay in the excellent Ashanti Lodge on Hof Street in the Gardens area of the city for 55 Rand (8 Euro) per night.  The twilight hours of our overland trip together from Nairobi were upon us.  But, lovers of tradition that we are, we were to make sure that our stay in Cape Town was anything but quiet.

Gav (20 July 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: JuLy 2000 - "Cape Town, South Africa - Nine in a bed a little one said"

So after travelling together for roughly 13,062 kilometres in ten and a half weeks all the way down from Nairobi, we finally arrived at Cape Town on a glorious sunny winter's day.  Deciding to strike while the iron was hot if you will, we headed straight up to the top of Table Mountain.  So Jamie, Noj, Bruno, Steph, Law, Catherine, Ruth, Mel and I took a taxi to the cable car station.  It is possible to make a three-hour hike up the 1,085 metres of Table Mountain, but due to the relatively late hour, we were all pretty happy to play lazy buggers.  The Rotair cable car, which is Swiss made old Fondue Face reliably informed me, rotates 360° and offers spectacular views over the beautiful city of Cape Town and the Atlantic coastline.  Safely aboard, we ascended to the summit of the mountain in double quick time.  Once on top it is easy to spend hours walking around the fynbos festooned walkways that criss-cross the flat peak of Table Mountain, observing the cute rabbit-like mammals, called Rock Dassies and the red-winged starlings.  Each direction offers breathtaking views over the plains of the Cape, while thrill-seeking hand gliders, parachutists and light aircraft circle the skies overhead like prehistoric pterodactyls.  We took what we thought would be the last group photos together before taking the cable car down again when the sun began to dip towards the horizon.

As Jamie was due to return to Europe the next day, we decided to have a final meal together.  So Jen, Dolly, Chris, Christina, John and Steve joined the nine of us, in a fine Indian restaurant called Bukhara, on 33 Church Street in the centre of town.  We had a sumptuous oriental feast, though I recall struggling to finish the very spicy Chicken Madras.  The local red wine nonetheless helped the digestive process.  As I had done a month and a half earlier in Bulawayo, I circled the dinner table like a vulture with my Dictaphone, ready to pounce on any silly comments or memorable final words.  The subsequent collection of drunken blather that I recorded from my fellow travellers will no doubt make a memorable souvenir, with which I'll be able to double-cross the gang in future, if they ever try to blackmail me with photos from my birthday in Malawi!  Many debates raged around the table, foremost among which was regarding whether Ronnie Barker of "The Two Ronnies" fame was still breathing or not.  Most of us assumed he had already shuffled off this mortal coil, but Mel and Tacklebury insisted that he still runs an antiques' store not far from where they live.  No doubt Elvis runs the local chip shop and Marilyn Monroe teaches at the parish primary school too.  Steph's inebriated rendition of "I'm a Little Ogo Pogo" (apparently the B-side of that all time classic tune "The Sun has got its Hat on") and Laura's childlike account of the trip down from Kenya being the best standout cringe mementoes.  We arrived back at the Ashanti Lodge at precisely 23h45. Technically the bar there, known as the Kumasi café, is supposed to close at midnight.  So when Jamie, Noj, Bruno, Steph, Law, Catherine, Ruth, Mel and I piled in, we foolishly assumed that it would be just for "one for the road". However, the guys who work in the Ashanti, Neil, Dan, Henry, Steve, Karen, Sue, Mark and Silvia, are a lively bunch and they had other ideas. So two hours and nine shots later, the Kumasi still remained open.  We were forced (well to be honest, there wasn't really that much coercion needed) into downing a selection of Slippery Nipples (Cap Velvet & White Sambuca), Mini Guinness' (Kahlua & Amarula) and a powerful little number worryingly called a F*ck Up (Kahlua, Cape Velvet and either Red or Green Sambuca).  Given the large amount of Indian food I had earlier consumed, my stomach walls were literally by now at breaking point and I tried to crawl unnoticed out of the bar.  The others were having none of it.  Escaping from Colditz would have proved easier.  I was finally won over when a microphone was produced and not needing much encouragement in that department, I started to belt out a collection of popular ditties. More photos were taken.  Steph apparently used up a whole film in the bar alone.  We fell into our dorm around 03h00, and before you could say "Interesting Meester Bond", we decided that it would be a brilliant idea to all pile into one bed.  Things were already getting desperate for Noj, who was on the bottom, by the time Catherine, the penultimate person climbed aboard.  I, however, provided the killer coup de grace as I hurled myself on top of the others.  The screams emanating from beneath me would have woken the dead, let alone the guests in the other dorms.  But it seemed like an appropriately childish action with which to draw a close to our overlanding shenanigans. Jamie certainly thought it was a blinding last night and I'll wager it provided a formative preparation for the college years that await him when he returns to Scotland.  Over the following days, the Drago gang left one by one, till none bar Catherine and myself remained.  Though other fun nights in Cape Town were had, I believe that the memories of that first one will live on long after the rest have faded from our collective memory.  I don't know how many of the Dragoman crew I'll see again.  Quite a few I would like to think.  But I'll look forward to next year when I'll get to develop the photos from the last two months, and relive all the magnificent memories once again.

But Cape Town is about much more than just wild nights on the town.  And while the others busied themselves confirming flights and packing bags, I filled the hours doing regular urban things which Cape Town affords the possibility to do.  Bruno and myself visited the excellent "Two Oceans Aquarium", which offered me the best chance I have had to view marine life since I visited Sea World in Florida many moons ago.  There are nine separate halls in which visitors are given the chance to see a wide array of aquatic flora, invertebrates, fish from both the Indian and the Atlantic Oceans, sea mammals, sharks and moray eels.  Afterwards we treated ourselves to a cinematic feast in the massive Victoria & Albert Waterfront Shopping Centre.  Showing in the Nu Metro cinema were two excellent epic films, "Gladiator", starring Russell Crowe and "The Patriot" with Mel Gibson. Given that each film cost only 20 Rand (3 Euro) we decided to see both movies in rapid succession, leaving ourselves barely enough time to stock up on popcorn and refill our Slush Puppies at the interval. Another day saw the two of us along with Steph, Law and Catherine going on a excursion around the Cape Wine Lands with Ferdinand's Tours.  We visited the vineyards at Simonsig, Simonsvlei, Eikendal and Rhebokskloof and learned a lot about wine production. Given the excellent South African wines that we had drank up till then, sampling their wares on the day proved somewhat disappointing.  But a fun day out was had meeting new people and enjoying the lush countryside.

By this stage, a significant amount of web updating had built up for me.  So taking full advantage of the fact that Niamh, an Irish friend of my cousin Alison, was living in Cape Town for a few months, I headed out past New Lands Rugby Stadium to her flat in the leafy southern suburb of Kenilworth.  Spending two full days nailed to the seat in front of her flatmate Amanda's computer, I was again feeling ready for some more tourist action.  So Niamh and I opted to do the very worthwhile Grass Route tour "Behind the Rainbow Curtain".  Most tourists to Cape Town think of the city in terms of the picturesque V&A Waterfront.  For the price of 160 Rand (25 Euro) the Grass Route tour affords one the opportunity to see how people live in the many shanty towns where thousands of non white Capetonians live.  The driver of our tour was a friendly coloured chap called Peter Veerapen, who typically for the new South Africa, was of mixed extraction - Indian, Tamil, Filipino, French (from Mauritius) and Khoisan.  For our tour, Niamh and I were the only white people on board.  Peter told me that in all the years since 1994 that he'd been doing the tour, he could count the number of white South Africans that voluntarily paid to come along on one hand.  Perhaps this is due to ignorance or the fact that one tends not to do tourist things so close to home.  More probably though, Peter said, the reason was due to a combination of disinterest and guilt.  We were joined by a group of African-Americans - one lady from Bermuda, a couple and their daughter from Chicago and a mother and daughter from New York.  We began in the colourful hilly Muslim area of Bo-Kaap, the oldest suburb in all of Cape Town.  The Cape Muslims are the descendants of slaves who were brought here by the Dutch from countries in the east such as India, Malaysia, Java and other Indonesian islands.  The slaves spoke a trading language called Malayhu and consequently their descendants call themselves "Cape Malays".   When they were freed by the British in the 1830s they were allowed to settle in Bo-Kaap, where they have remained ever since despite the best efforts of some Afrikaner governments.  Not so lucky were the inhabitants of a former lively suburb of Cape Town known simply as District Six.  Home to a vibrant heaving blend of races - coloured, Jewish, Greek, Italian, Indian - District Six disproved the white government's lie that the races had to be separated because they couldn't get along.  Though black Africans had been forced out of District Six earlier in the century, its remaining mix of inhabitants helped to mould the popular soul of Cape Town, making a mockery of the government's stance and apartheid ideology.  Having failed to change the area into a "Whites Only" zone, the racist government then decided in the mid-sixties to declare District Six a "slum". Offering its inhabitants paltry sums of "compensation", they sent in the bulldozers in 1966 forcing the people out.  Now it lies as a barren wasteland, testament to the Nationalist's government's stupidity and cruelty.  Looking down the barren remains of the main thoroughfare of Hanover Street, it was hard to picture the street as a bustling walkway. However, in the excellent District Six museum, they had plenty of photos of District Six back in its heyday.  There we learnt about the hated pass laws that forced blacks to live in their overcrowded "native" Bantustans, as well as how life was for non-whites under apartheid.  Keen to learn more about District Six, I bought two novels by Alex La Guma, a local author, and representative of the ANC, who died in Cuba in 1985.  "A Walk in the Night" (1962) & "In the Fog of the Seasons' End" (1972) describe the decay and disintegration of the poor tenements of District Six with a compelling crispness that one can almost smell.  To try to capture the sounds of the era I bought an excellent compact disc on the global Nascente label called "Freedom Blues - South African Jazz Under Apartheid" (1999).

Next we headed to the black townships of Langa and Khayelitsha.  Langa, meaning "the Sun", is along with Nyanga (meaning "the Moon"), the oldest formal shantytown in Cape Town.  There we visited the Chris Hani Community School run by a lady called Maureen Jacobs for destitute children of the illiterate or semi-literate hostel dwellers, who have migrated to Cape Town from the Eastern Cape in search of employment.  These kids, aged 6-16, are very poor, do not yet even have birth certificates and even in some cases if they do, definitely lack sufficient education to be accepted into state schools.  So Maureen and her colleagues try to teach practical facts like basic reading and writing or how one should cross a road safely to these needy, but spirited kids.  The children sang and danced for us and also gave a moving rendition in Xhosa of "God Bless Africa", the beautiful national hymn of South Africa, a song that it was once forbidden to sing.  Then we made for Khayelitsha, meaning "new Home", Cape Town's largest informal settlement.  In the 12 square kilometres of Khayelitsha, it is estimated that between 1.2 and 1.3 million people live.  We visited the house of Vicky Dzuni, a long-time inhabitant of Khayelitsha.  Outside her home looked like a mish-mash of wood and corrugated iron, but on the inside, Vicky had done her best to make it very homely and comfortable, adding what mod cons she could afford.  Once again the friendliness of the people, despite their poverty, was disarming.  We ventured into a shebeen, a word borrowed from Gaelic, that was used to describe the illegal bars, which served as important meeting places during the dark days of apartheid.  Here follows a quote from Alex La Guma's "A Walk in the Night", which describes the roll filled by these shebeens.  "The pub, like pubs all over the world, was a place for debate and discussion, for the exchange of views and opinions, for argument and for the working out of problems.  It was a forum, a parliament, a fountain of wisdom and a cesspool of nonsense, it was a centre for the lost and the despairing, where cowards absorbed Dutch courage out of small glasses and leaned against the shiny, scratched and polished mahogany counter for support against the crushing burdens of insignificant lives.  Where the disillusioned gained temporary hope, where acts of kindness were considers and murders planned."

Finally, we visited a soup kitchen run by Rosie Gwadisa.  She told us how, despite the abject poverty of the black shantytowns, and the mounting problems of HIV and AIDS, everyone looked out for each other and they felt very safe.  Peter informed us that he found the coloured townships far less safe than the black shanties, because before 1994 black youths tended to join the African National Congress (ANC) or the more radical Pan African Congress (PAC) as part of the anti-apartheid struggle, while coloured teenagers used to join gangs. The culture of gangsterism is still very much a part of South African urban life today. On the very morning we ventured into Khayelitsha, a bus driver and a passenger were shot dead on the outskirts of the township as part of the continuing taxi wars that are occurring as the government tries to regulate the taxiing industry.  Nowadays white people bemoan how violence in South Africa has become much more widespread since the ANC gained power.  But as Peter told us - the violence was always there. It's just that now white people are also feeling its effects.  Since the first democratic elections in the country, however, the ANC have managed to build 750,000 new homes for first time homeowners.  These houses are 80m² and cost 15,000 Rand each.  Funding is totally subsidised for those who earn less than 800 Rand per month and partially subsidised for those who earn more than this amount.  The government estimates that it will take 20 years to be able to provide all modern amenities (electricity, clean water, postal services, street lighting, signposting and rubbish collection) to the sprawling townships in the area. But at least they have made a start.  If you ever visit Cape Town I heartily recommend taking the Grass Route tour, as you will gain a truer picture of what the new South Africa is really about.

In the afternoon I said farewell to Niamh and venture out to Robben Island on my own.  The boat journey over only took 25 minutes.  Our guide and driver around the island were called Sobantu and Kevin respectively.  We took in some spectacular views of Cape Town and visited the Lime Quarry, where forced labour was used for decades.  Robben Island has served as alternatively as a leper colony, a mental ward, a military base and a jail for criminals and political prisoners since the 19th century.  During the height of the anti-apartheid struggle, Robert Sobukwe, Govan Mbeki (father of President Thabo Mbeki), Walter Sisulu and of course former President and Nobel Peace Prize winner Nelson Mandela were imprisoned here.  A lively former inmate, Moseli, from the Eastern Cape, who was jailed there for five years from January 1977 till January 1982, took us on a tour of the maximum-security facility.  We saw the tiny cell where Nelson Mandela was held for two decades and I learned a lot about the tricks the inmates used to try to frustrate the efforts of the cruel Afrikaner wardens to break their spirits.  During all my time in Cape Town I found it difficult to imagine how only a decade ago Mandela was still in jail and apartheid had not yet been dismantled.  Visiting Robben Island helped in this regard and is just one more of the "must do's" that make up any Cape Town itinerary.  The final hours of my stay in beautiful Cape Town were filled with visits to the interestingly named "Labia" cinema, and a "Doctor and Nurses Party" organised by the Ashanti, where a group of very attractive young girls dressed up as nubile nurses administered injections of vodka and Red Bull.  For medicinal purposes obviously. Otherwise I meandered around the flea markets and shops around Long Street, where there was a great African music shop, in which I picked up a blinding album of Afro-Portuguese tunes from Lisbon, Angola, São Tomé & Cabo Verde called "Adventures in Afropea 3 - Telling Stories to the Sea" (1995).

Now Catherine and I have left the administrative capital of South Africa, heading east on the Baz Bus, a hop on hop off mode of transport ideally geared towards backpackers.  I'm currently staying at the very homely Moby's hostel in the town of Hermanus, run by a friendly couple called Jannie and Elmine Boonzaaier, where yesterday we spent the afternoon watching shoals of Southern Right Whales.  These beautiful giant creatures come within 10 metres of the rocky southern shoreline and it is easy to spend hours watching them going to and fro'.  So another month now draws to a close.  Ahead lies August and two weeks of working our way through the Garden Route, the Drakensberg Mountains, the hilly country of Lesotho, the Boer, British and Zulu battlefields (Don't you throw that bloody spear at me!), the Kingdom of Swaziland and finally Jo'burg.  By the time I write my next update I might even be in Perth, Australia.  But something tells me that you'll have enough already on the web page to keep you busy till then.  So in the meantime, keep sane, safe and healthy and I'll try to do likewise.  Till then, goodnight, or as the Xhosa say "Rhonanai".

Gav (31 July 2000)

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