We're still here, kind of

Sorry (if anyone's still reading)!! We're back in Europe now and struggling to find work. As such, the blog has taken a bit of a back seat and we'll be back and updating as soon as we can...

In the meantime, please amuse yourselves with this picture.

Sincerely, M and T

Cheap meal, Lesotho

The Kingdom In The Sky

13^th September-15^th September – Days 348-350 – Port Alfred, South Africa to Semonkong, Lesotho

Leaving Port Alfred was about as complicated as getting there was. Not spectacularly so, but probably more so than it should have been. Megan had given us a lift into town at 7.30am, dropped us off at the minibus taxi rank and gave us a cheery goodbye as she disappeared off to work. There was only one minibus in the area so locating the one we needed wouldn't be hard, we thought. That was until we were told that this was the local minibus station and to get anything else we'd need the other station which was accurately described to us as being « somewhere over there », accompanied with a vague waving of hands. We walked around in circles until the sight of a shopping centre reminded M that she hadn't had her morning coffee and so we ducked into a Wimpy so that she could get her fix for the morning. This was also useful as the Wimpy staff were slightly more helpful than the minibus taxi drivers – we'd have to get a local minibus to an intersection somewhere out in the townships where we could get onward transport from there.

We were aiming to get to Maseru, the capital city of Lesotho, but we weren't yet quite sure how to do it. We'd originally thought of going through Port Elizabeth but I thought that, given that P.E. was in the wrong direction, that might not be such a great plan. We decided on trying to find our way to Grahamstown again and get a bus from there to Bloemfontein, from where we could get something to Maseru. Easy. And in fact, for once, it turned out that we did make it easy. Grahamstown was sunny, as it always seems to be. M and I tried our hand at tennis, which we realised that we weren't very good at, and we got invited by Grant and Bast for a game of touch rugby, which I realised that I wasn't very good at. Rather than realise that she was crap at two sports too, M trekked off to the Pick N Pay to pick up some supplies for the night bus we'd arranged up to Bloemfontein.

M practises her backhand...

...and shows a distinct lack of coordination with the tennis racket

...but T's attempts with a rugby ball make her feel much better.

Now, not only was this a night bus but it also arrived in Bloemfontein at 3am, meaning that we'd have to find our way to the backpackers place that M had called up during the day, call up a guy inside to open a door for us and pitch up our tent in the middle of the night. It just seems that we're suckers for punishment – you know that line you always come up with after a heavy night? "I'm never going to drink again"? I'm starting to have that with night buses. Always uttering the same words yet, when it comes down to it, you always end up doing it all over again. I guess it's useful in a way for us as we have somewhere to sleep and don't need to pay for a bed for the night. In this case though, we'd arrive at 3am and would pay to spend the night in Bloemfontein anyway. Fortunately, when we eventually got there and woke the guy up, he seemed to take pity on us and offer us a dorm bed at a tent price. And in any case, that was the only bus going from Grahamstown to Bloemfontein so we had no choice. The fact that it was Greyhound, one of the smarter companies with nicer buses, didn't seem to make any difference – sleep was just difficult to come by. I think this is down to several factors: a) the movie on TV is always loud enough to prevent you from sleeping, but quiet enough that you can't really follow what's going on. Given that you can't sleep, you try to watch the movie but only catching half of it gets annoying. This in turns further prevents you from sleeping; b) you will always end up in the close vicinity of either a screaming baby, or an extremely large person who spends the night either clearing their throats of snorting like a hippo (as happened on this particular bus). This will be the only such person on the entire bus and is always either in front of, behind or next to you; and c) you will be woken up at every stop by a booming voice on the loud speaker. « WELCOME TO ALIWAL NORTH, WE THANK YOU FOR TRAVELLING WITH GREYHOUND. IF YOU WERE SLEEPING, TOUGH SHIT FOR YOU. YOU SHOULD HAVE WORN EARPLUGS. PLEASE TRY AGAIN. ». Of course, the only time that you would potentially sleep peacefully through this announcement is at the town where you are supposed to get off, which means that you spend the entire trip paranoid that instead of waking up at 3am in Bloemfontein, you'll wake up at 8am in Johannesburg. This paranoia, in turn, prevents you from sleeping. In this case you'll either be utterly tired when you get off the bus, or you'll pass out at 2.50am, and end up Johannesburg just as you thought. Miraculously, M and I found ourselves getting off the bus exactly where we should have, and by 4.30am we were sound asleep.

M poses before Naval Hill Backpackers, one of Bloemfontein's more arresting tourist attractions

Bloemfontein itself is one of those places that is nice enough to wander around for a day – pleasant and green, a few nice old buildings and an easy layout that means that you won't get horrifically lost very quickly. It's also big enough to keep you from stumbling upon the same thing every 5 minutes but also small enough to be walkable. Not the kind of place I'd take a 3-week holiday in but nice enough to while away the day waiting for a bus. It's also got a « Waterfront » shopping centre which is quite funny, given that Bloemfontein in the middle of the Free State, which is itself in the middle of South Africa and hence nowhere near the sea from which Cape Town's equivalent gets its name. We went there, split a pizza, and kept on walking. I had quite a headache for some reason, so we trudged back up to the backpackers and had a lazy evening (easy enough since we were the only guests there, by the looks) before turning in for the night. The owner was one of those guys doesn't seem interested in running a backpackers at all, but rather prefers watching horse races on TV and occasionally coming out with the odd racial slur, but he had a Franco-German guy working for him who was friendly and helpful and recommended to us that we go directly to Semonkong as Maseru was just a town with nothing much going for it. Besides, from the look of the maps, the road to Semonkong looked like a dead end so we'd have to bus it up back to Maseru anyway. The decision was made, a taxi was called for 5.30 the next morning, and we slept again.

The Bloemfontein skyline at sundown. Nice cooling towers.

The final day of the trip to Semonkong was a beautiful one. From the modernity of South Africa to the rural charm of its smaller neighbour, from the flat plains of the Free State to the towering mountains of Lesotho, we saw just about the full range of sceneries within a single day. The bus left bang on time and by 9am we were walking through the Maseru Bridge border crossing and before we knew it, we were in Lesotho. Arriving here was just like arriving in Swaziland – people suddenly started waving and smiling at you in the streets, people said hello to the tourists and we were asked if we needed help. We were pointed towards the minibus rank to get into town, where we went through our normal « new country » routine of getting a sim card, looking at the new money we got as change for it, and then wondering where the hell we were. In Lesotho, the fun was added to by the fact that many people spoke Sesotho to us and seemed quite taken aback that we couldn't understand them. The fact that they didn't speak English either restricted the depth of many conversations. In the end, we asked in the fabulously named « Hip Hop Shoe Shop » for directions to the Semonkong bus, and a woman inside said she'd show us the way. We weaved through market stalls, in and our of roads, stopped as our new friend had a chat with various people, and eventually got to the central bus station. The bus was due to leave in three hours but we were too tired to wander around with the huge backpack. Consequence being, we sat on the bus for three hours and waited.

Lesotho smiles at us in one of those "out of the bus window" pictures that turned good

It's a bumpy ride down to Semonkong – half of the way it's a gravel road, and the other half is pothole with a little bit of tarmac here and there. We rolled along the sides of mountains, up and down, left and right. Half of the time on such a ride, you'd be admiring the beauty of the mountains. The other half, you'd be thinking « Gee, I hope the brakes don't fail on the 1870s-built bus-like contraption, or we'd be rather finished ». The fact that this 1870s-built bus-like contraption appeared to have done the run from Maseru to Semonkong every day since its construction probably helped me to believe that it would be OK. And hence, with about 90 people on board, the chattering of Sesotho all around and M humming the Vengaboys to my left, we bumped our way through the countryside for quite a while. Every time we'd come over a pass, the mountains and valleys would spread before us without any sign of life or habitation bar a few herders on horseback here and there. People did get on and off quite regularly though, making the more inquisitive minded European wonder where the hell these people are going/where they came from. I guess Lesotho is just one of those places where people will walk 3 weeks over mountains to get back home just because they think they may have left the gas on, and then wander back without a care in the world to pick up the next bus. My aimless thoughts were crudely interrupted just after we crossed the Makhaleng river by the delightfully familiar sound of KABOOM coming from underneath the bus. We'd blown a tyre in a spectacular way and I realised everything that I had missed since being in South Africa, the country where things just seem to function well. In other parts of Africa things never go according the plan – things break down, things go the wrong way and things blow up, and that's part of the fun. I tried to count how many passengers were squeezed into our bus-like contraption several times but lost count and then it was time to get back on. We went repeatedly over passes again, and as night fell, I started to think that Semonkong was just an urban legend, an Atlantis of Southern Africa. We'd just drive through the night and eventually arrive back in Maseru tomorrow morning. « Semonkong » was just Sesotho for « Circular route » and the whole thing was an inside joke to be played on the monthly tourist.

Back in Africa!! T waits for the puncture to be fixed, one of his favourite pastimes

Like many of my imaginative and unlikely scenarios, this one also came to nothing. We pitched up in Semonkong which, in the dark, looked like a village with a population of at least 6. We were approached by several people asking if we needed help to get where we were going and one guy walked us half way across the village to give us some directions, wished us a pleasant night and turned around, walking back where we had come. How nice. This is Lesotho, it seems. In fact, there wasn't really much point in asking a foreigner with a backpack where they are going at night because it seems that Semonkong only has one place to stay, the Semonkong Lodge. But it's a good one.

Boat Camp

10^th September-13^th September – Days 345-348 – Port Alfred, South Africa

I don't want to get too far into the complexities of getting to Port Alfred from Mthatha where we were dropped off by the approximately 103-year-old driver from Bulungula. Let's just say that getting to East London was an easy minibus ride but that we had to seek hard and long to find onward transport from there and ended up in a shared taxi that cost us the same price for an hour's drive to Port Alfred that it had cost us for the 4-hour ride to East London from Mthatha. But we made it there in time before the next day's event and that's all that counts.

Port Alfred is a little seaside town at the mouth of a river on which all of SA's biggest universities (and some international ones too) come to compete in the noble sport of rowing. The annual boat race is a big happening for the student population who come here to drink and soak in on the sun while shouting for their university's team to row quicker and beat the arch rival – whichever university that might be. We were here to support Rhodes University as one of Bast's friends, whom we'd also met earlier, was the captain in the team. So we reunited with Bast and Grant and their various friends on the river bank armed with beer. Or we would have, had we not got separated from our crate as a result of a badly organised day. The lovely manager of the backpackers in town, Kim, took us out onto the riverbank in the morning and stored our beers in the fridge of her office not far from the river. We then lost Kim after finding Bast and Grant as she was out with her baby and the dogs and hence couldn't come down to our spot on the river but instead gesticulated that she'd come and find us before heading back. She never did, and so we went dry-mouthed for a while (despite Bast and Grant keeping us supplied with what they had) before we embarked on a mission to find her – at the pub not far from her office. We'd walked all the way back to the backpackers just to get her mobile number before we caught up with her again and she kept us at the pub for a few rounds before we managed to pull back to the riverside, which caused us to miss a good part of the day.

Spot the cox (har har)

"We've lost a soldier!"

The party had continued all the while we'd been gone, of course, and we had to pick up the pace in order to catch up with the mood. Somehow we didn't manage it, however, and felt a lot more tired than our fellow celebrators (Rhodes had apparently done well). After ending up at the party in one of the boathouses later in the night – via Bast's friend's house party where we spent some time in between and where we got the free tickets for the boathouse – and not being able to get excited over the standard concept of a drunken student fiesta, we decided to head back to the backpackers not too late at all. The fact that the dorm room was embraced in the sweet smell of weed and that someone was watching movies with loud sound on didn't bother us one bit as we crashed and snored within minutes.

T tried hard to fit in with the students in the background but something was amiss...

The next day we were invited to Bast's friend Megan's house just down the road for breakfast and to stay for the next night if needed. We sort of missed the breakfast but happily took on the offer for a free bed for the night. Bast and Grant headed back to Grahamstown with the rest of their friends early in the day, and Megan was feeling tired from the festivities and slept through most of the day, so we got the lounge and TV all to ourselves for the day and benefited whole-heartedly by watching soppy movies and eating noodles in front of the telly.

The outcome of the weekend would suggest that we really are getting too old to keep up with the pace of the party, but I am refusing to believe it. Lesson learnt: look after your own beers.

Familiar faces...?

Party Interlude

8^th September-10^th September - Days 343-345 – Bulungula, South Africa

Coming from Coffee Bay to Bulungula was like arriving at a harbour of tranquility, and like T insinuated in the previous post, this was exactly what doctor had ordered for us. Bulungula is not really a village in itself (even if we think one of the villages close by might be called something similar) but a patch of land right on the Wild Coast that is remote from the surrounding bigger habitation centres and acts as some kind of a “resort”. It's mainly of interest to those who like to spend some slow hours in a natural setting observing the local, simple way of life.

Bulungula camp at sunset

Our hosts welcomed us warmly and immediately took us on a tour of the essentials of the place: the compost toilets and what they call 'rocket showers'. Bulungula runs on the principle of sustainability, and these two elements were at the core of their operations. Compost toilets I believe everyone is more or less familiar with, but as for the rocket showers, I'll tell you that they are showers that work on liquid paraffin which you place at the bottom of the water pipe and set on fire in order to heat the pipe which then provides you with hot water for a full eight minutes. So not only do you use little energy but also minimise the consumption of water while showering. The quick tour ended with the introduction of the campsite right next to the ocean and the main lounging area where a delicious home-made dinner was served a bit later. We were very appreciative of all the amenities and started our two days of ultimate chilling there and then.

Takin it easy by the coast. Life is hard.

We spent our days at Bulungula catching up on our newly-bought novels and getting to know the other inhabitants: an American girl who was studying in Cape Town, an English traveller guy, a Swiss pair of siblings and a small group of Germans who we'd already seen in Coffee Bay but hadn't exchanged many words with so far. We also booked ourselves on one of the community based tours, namely the herbalist trail, which included a meeting with the local medicine man, tasting some of his potions (some black powder made of extracts from sharks, snakes and some roots) and familiarising ourselves with the plants that he collects from the local woods. The tour ended at a local “restaurant” where we were served very nice pancakes.

De medicine man, man

The scenery here was much of the same as around Coffee Bay: traditional Xhosa huts scattered on rolling hills and a few schools to keep the kids of the area busy with the experience of learning. The bushy forest lining parts of the coast provided us and the other guests with relaxed surroundings for sitting around and conversing about the multitude of stars above us on the clear night sky, among other things. To write here about what we actually did or talked about during our time at Bulungula would be both uninteresting and pointless, as you just have to be there to share the uneventful moments in order to appreciate them.

De herbalist man's huts. One broken, one cool

We would have liked to stay at Bulungula for longer but had also planned to make our way to Port Alfred for the annual boat race between all the universities' rowing teams. According to Bast, the one who had invited us along, things were going to get “Hectic!” so I was glad we'd stopped here to charge the batteries before that.

Wild Wild Coast

5^th September -8^th September - Days 340-343 - Coffee Bay, South Africa

On first appearance, the Coffee Shack was a haven of tranquility. We'd woken up in Mthatha with the usual night bus stiff neck at 7am and tried to get down to Coffee Bay. Fortunately we shared a bus with Klaus, a German guy who worked at the Coffee Shack, and Sophie, an Austrian who was heading there too. The usual headscratching on emerging from a night bus was thus eliminated and we followed Klaus a few blocks to the minibus-taxi station and waited for a small eternity for it to fill up. Mthatha is a tired looking city full of boarded up buildings and radiates the impression that its better days are long gone. Our minibus to Mqanduli eventually left and from there we transferred over quickly and painlessly to another minibus to Coffee Bay. From the stop, it was a short walk to the Coffee Shack where we were made to feel at home and flopped out to compensate for the night bus syndrome.

Transkei minibus-taxi fun

A good start.

The drive down was through true rural Xhosa country – rolling green hills with blue and cream-coloured rondavels scattered all over. Goats and cows wandered through the fields and across the road, people ambled around, schoolkids chased chickens – it was that kind of place. It lacked the spectacular scenery of some parts of South Africa but it was definitely among the most scenic parts of the country that we'd seen so far. It was with this and the ocean as a backdrop that formed a part of Coffee Bay's charm. We whiled away the day playing pool, chatting with whoever came our way, reading books and enjoying what little sunshine there was. It was the kind of place with attracted backpackers from all over and a generous scattering of hippies and vagrants – we met the usual quota of tourists plus people like Marie-Claire, a 50-year-old woman who was born in the Congo, escaped to South Africa as a refugee as a child, was divorced by her husband 15 years ago and immediately hit the road, which she's still on. Her conversation tends to hover around yoga and inner peace and the like, but she has a fascinating story. She made bead necklaces for a living and was waiting for a good sale before she could move on. Two brothers from Johannesburg was also around for a few days – they'd decided that they hadn't seen enough of their own country and rented a camper van for a while to drive around. We spent quite a bit of time with them too. They invited us one day over to their camper van for what turned out to be a rather competitive game of dominoes, and we discovered on leaving that the inlet between them and our tent had succumbed to high tide. We could either swim across, or stay with them. And so it was that we spent our first night in a camper van.

Jungle Speed was a smash hit in Coffee Bay, as it is everywhere.

M considers a swim. And then reconsiders.

As the first day went on, the Coffee Bay silent idyll disappeared and the place turned into a backpacker loud-n-brash bar which was good fun as always but, slightly partied-out by recent weeks, we tended to retire earlier rather than later and started thinking about moving somewhere a bit calmer. In a small twist of fate, we met with one of M's primary and secondary school friends whom she hasn't seen for a good ten years. She was there with a friend of hers who knows several friends of mine and went to school with my ex. Small world? Maybe not, but Finland is a small country...

This is Xhosa country

One of the days, we signed up for a walk off to « Hole In The Wall ». Aside from the fact that it was a hole in the wall somewhere, we weren't really too sure of what to expect. During the 4 or 5 hour walk across the rolling hills, we had a good look around as well as spotting the « Transkei Big Five », where the traditional safari group of lion, leopard, buffalo, hippo and elephant had been replaced by cow, sheep, goat, horse and donkey. At one particularly steep looking hill, some of the group started wondering out loud if it would be possible to go around rather than over the hill and so, with the tide coming in, we hopped from one cave to another, trying our best not to be swept out to sea. We managed it just about without any loss of life, although our poor, long-suffering camera took another pounding as I was partially submerged by waves. It still works, bless it. When we weren't panting our way up hills or expiring at the top of them, we busied ourselves looking at the same beautiful scenery that we'd come through on the way here and M also spent part of the afternoon working on her sunburn, which came out nice and red. Getting to the Hole in the Wall itself was great – not for the hole in the wall itself (which, aside from being a moderately interesting example of hydraulic pressure on rock, wasn't anything spectacular) but we did get toasted sandwiches thrown into the price of the walk. It was a happy moment, one to make me forget that I was feeling slightly worse for wear after the previous evening...

One of the Transkei Big Five

As its name would suggest...

Honestly, it was just tiredness.

Generic Wild Coast coastline shot #8882929737/92.6

In the end, though, we decided that we'd seen enough and the party party scene was getting rather repetitive so we upped sticks and moved a little further up the coast to Bulungula, which a German girl in Coffee Bay had recommended to us (although, this being Africa, it took us about 5 hours to get the few kilometres via an enormous detour) to see what we could find there. We hoped for Coffee Bay minus the party party. Hopefully it wasn't too much to ask...

Our first taste of Jozi

3^rd September-4^th September – Days 338-339 – Johannesburg, South Africa

The ride on the freeway from Pretoria to Johannesburg takes about 40 minutes, during which time you can see the skyline of the city whose reputation precedes itself opening up and spreading in front of your eyes. It looks so harmless, so ordinary, so dynamic, so human that one just wonders where all the fuss comes from. We've heard different opinions about Jozi from people we have met in South Africa. Tourists and backpackers tend to dismiss Jozi as a “a dump”, “not interesting” or “restrictive”, whereas South Africans who are from there or have lived there most tend to love the place.

“It has so many things going for it – so many things to do, so many places to see! There's always something going on.”
“It's so beautiful. You just need to know where to go. And people are less stuck-up than in the Cape.”
“It's about the only place in South Africa where 'The Rainbow Nation' actually exists to some extent. The cultural mix and vibe are great.”

One thing's for sure: we had been told by everyone that you only get the positives out of it if you know someone and get shown around a bit at least.

We didn't quite have that privilege. Only a vague date with Grant later in the evening, and possibly another even vaguer one with barman Chris from Strand who had re-located his life up here. But first, on our arrival at Park Station on the minibus we had to get to a part of town called Melville (where the backpackers we were going to stay at was) somehow. The minibus taxi driver dropped us off at the corner of one of the many minibus stations around the area where he thought the taxis to Melville would go from. We walked around and asked. Didn't seem like they went from here. We were instructed one block further into the city, behind some buildings next to the station we'd been circulating around. We upped our bags and hiked there and asked around again. Not from here either. Apparently we'd have to find another minibus station completely, and first take a taxi to get there. But poor as we are, we just chose to ask for directions to walk there instead, which we got quickly and easily. So we walked another 10-15 blocks west towards this other station, the heart of Jozi beating around us in true African rhythm. We loved the place instantly: finally we had found the Africa inside South Africa. Music blasting out loud, sellers and hawkers everywhere, foul smells from sewers and sweet ones from fruit stalls, minimal logic in the traffic around these parts but instead endless hooting and yelling from car windows. We passed a few spots which could be considered as minibus “stations” but were always pointed further on, until we got to a big parking hall building. Once inside, no one seemed to have any idea where Melville was, never mind that we'd been pointed this way confidently by everyone on the street. Yep, we were definitely back in Africa. We got helped by a friendly lady, however, who explained to us that no one would know Melville by that name, but that we'd have to ask for a bus towards Cresta (a big shopping mall Northwest from the centre) instead. The only other white person we saw during the entire 1 ½ hour adventure of finding the right minibus sat right next to us, and she was a friendly one too.

So we found the backpackers eventually and paid the going (high) rate of R150 for a dorm bed each. Ouch and ouch, but this is the big city. While waiting for replies from our contacts about the plans to meet up later in the evening, we strolled down the 7th avenue which is the happening street in Melville. We had an excellent pizza, but less than excellent excuses from barman Chris who had had a shit day apparently and therefore wouldn't be up for anything. That's all well and good, but we were opportunistically hoping for a possible ride with him up to Sandton where the date with Grant was to take place. Of course we had been looking forward to seeing him too – before you evil souls go ahead thinking that we are just full-time scroungers these days – but this definitely meant a stick in the works as taxis in Jozi are NOT cheap. Now we'd have to take one all the way across town in the evening time (with higher rates) as well, but with no other plans in the cards and always up for keeping our scheduled dates with friends, we silenced our inner wincing children and paid R120 (after unsuccessful negotiations) to get to Sandton. We had paid R25 each to drive down to Jozi from Pretoria earlier in the day.

Sandton is the new CBD of Johannesburg, complete with the shiny towering buildings and posh neighbourhoods. Therefore showing up at the Baron (which is in fact a rather ordinary chain bar, but just has a very pretentious crowd) in our casual outfits we felt slightly out of place amidst all the suits and dresses prancing around us. “You'll be fine after a few jars, brus. It really gets going later on”, was Grant's reassuring reply to our sarcastic text about feeling rather overdressed. Grant and his friends showed up later and we were fine indeed – apart from when seeing the football scores on TV (France lost to Belarus, and Finland got flattened by MOLDOVA. Thankfully the Italians came on top of Estonia at least). The evening was glorified when an incredible David Villa lookalike made a pass on T. A fact I found so funny I had to text it across South Africa and all the way to Finland as well. Don't ask me why.

Woohoo! Grant DOESN'T have a funny pose on. AND he's smiling.

Grant refused to let us pay for another expensive taxi back but instead suggested he drop us off even if he lives in directly the opposite direction. Now, this meant yet another adventure, as the ride up from Melville had taken about 25 minutes in the taxi, and we weren't entirely sure of the route what with our first night in Jozi plus being pissed – and Grant had had a few happy jars himself. We got lost, of course, and ended up first nearly on the freeway and then nearly in Hillbrow (not a very reputable area, in fact quite the opposite). But eventually and after asking a friendly night guard of some country club we found our landmarks and guided ourselves to the familiar petrol station close to the hostel. A traditional night pie and a chat later, Grant took off home where he'd have about two hours to sleep before having to get up and going again in order to attend a wedding (not his own) somewhere in the Karoo. We slept in and did not much the next day. To be precise, we got a minibus taxi to that Cresta mall to get some bus tickets for the night, had a great schwarma each and got back to the hostel to pick up our bags. Early evening we took another minibus taxi to the Park Station in order to catch said bus to Mthatha. Our first visit to Jozi was brief but sweet.

Disclaimer: We didn't get mugged at any point. No one even attempted to look like they might potentially want to mug us. Nonetheless, we were cautious and did not move in town with our camera on us. We look forward to being back and we'll have pictures for you next time.

Warning: Boring town ahead

29^th August-3^rd September – Days 333-338 – Pretoria, South Africa

One of the results of coming back into South Africa through Matsamo instead of Oshoek was that we got another 3 month visa without any trouble. High fives ensued and any thoughts of Inna murdering us for not being in Jo'burg for when she arrived slowly evaporated. Another result of this, however, was that instead of taking a direct minibus to Pretoria, we ended taking a bus to Pigg's Peak, another to Matsamo, walking across the border, another minibus to a mysterious transport station in the middle of nowhere named “Plaza”, another from there to Malelane, where we changed to another one headed to Nelspruit. From there, finally, we boarded a minibus to Pretoria. 10 minutes out of town, one of the passengers started yelling and the others begged the driver to return to town. A crowd gathered to dispense some mob justice as the guy was originally presumed to be a thief. It transpired, though, that he had a history of mental problems and so was not beaten to a bloody pulp in front of our eyes. A Zimbabwean in the front seat claimed that he would have been first in line to give him a battering if it came to that. “My name is Godfrey! But you can call me God, for short.” He was a nice guy. The trip passed smoothly.

In Pretoria, we ended up staying with Christine, who my dad knows through work, and her husband Nik. As we arrived, they claimed that they'd show us to our room but it was more of a small mansion – a lounge, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom right next to a swimming pool. Once again, we were lucky that people have been so kind to us on this trip. We were shown around and ordered to make ourselves at home and a bottle of wine was thrust into our hands. We were back in a world of satellite TV, washing machines and what I believe is the first dishwasher I have seen since setting foot in Africa. The culture shock continues.

Bagsy playing in the back jungl... eh garden.

It seemed that every time we ended up in a place where we could lounge and relax, we had stuff to do. First on the list was to save money for the future by replacing the tent pole that had been destroyed in Mbabane, and Christine drove us around to a few malls before leaving us in a shop where it seemed we could be getting lucky. Not only did they have tent poles but they sold them in pairs, and they only had one left. One of the sole remaining pair was broken and so the guy just told us to take the unbroken one for free. Bonus. It was too long for our tent but that was nothing that Christine and Nik's hacksaw couldn't fix. Not only did I manage to saw the pole to (approximately) the correct length but I also managed to do it without lopping off several of my fingers, which I believe is better than my father has ever managed. I cracked open a beer and sat in front of al-Jazeera news a proud man. Seeing on the news that major deadly riots have erupted in several cities of Mozambique dampened my spirits slightly as we are planning to head there next, but such is life. Ups and downs.

As for Pretoria itself, I am going to have a bit of a tough job being diplomatic. We were staying out in the eastern side of town where there are suburbs reminiscent of those movies you see set out in the boondocks of large American towns. Roads go in a straight line as far as the eye can see in any direction, and without the aid of a set of roadworks on a main intersection close to Christine and Nik's place, I imaging we could easily be wandering around Pretoria well into our late 30s, wondering where the hell we should be going. It quickly became apparent that this side of Pretoria was some sort of Californian implant into South Africa, a town where no-one walks. Pavements only go down one side of the road although, given that we were the only people who walked anywhere, there was very little congestion on them. The prime source of entertainment is traipsing through shopping malls and trying desperately to amuse yourself. Christine had prepared us for this (“You've been to Harare? Well Pretoria is a more boring version of Harare”) as did Nik (“Things to do in Pretoria...? Hmm... I'd say you're probably better off staying by the pool and relaxing”) but we were determined to find something. Christine had told us that we were four blocks from pretty much everything but, of course, this being South Africa's American suburbia, a block was about 5 kilometres long and so four blocks took the better part of a day to walk across. The first day we contented ourselves with a beer at a chain restaurant and, rather than walk another day or so back to the house, we hopped into a minibus taxi and returned to laze at the house.

T and M get back on the straight and narrow.

The second day we managed to do even better – Nik gave us a lift to another mall and we wandered around aimlessly until we stumbled across a shopping mall map indicating that there was some sort of minigolf and we jumped at the chance! In Pretoria, this passes as high quality entertainment. It turned out that this was “Jungle Golf”, probably the most entertaining golf course I've ever played on, and we had a good time. After passing an hour or so there, we went back home again. There was only one set of keys and so we had to get back before the maid left, otherwise we'd be locked out until late evening. And finding something to do in Pretoria until the late evening would have been quite a task, hence the decision to sit by the pool with a beer instead.

What a choice. "As long as you get me outta here!"

"Now this is much more fun!" T's golfing skills are not adjusted to the tropics.

Today's "Spot the Ball" competition.

It wasn't that hard to guess now, was it?

Lazing and doing laundry was useful though, as was managing to watch TV and hence realising that there was a world beyond where we were. One day, we got word from Grant that he was in Johannesburg and so we decided to head down and meet him there. We left a bag in Pretoria as well, which means that for the next month, we will be able to argue over whose turn it is to carry the backpack. High spirited and well-rested, we got to the minibus-taxi station and got moving towards big bad Johannesburg.

House on fire

27^th August-28^th August – Days 331-332 – Mbabane, Swaziland

Laura had alerted us to a big big night in a nightclub-bar-entertainment complex out in the middle of nowhere – Bholoja was playing!! Never heard of him? Neither had we. Apparently he's the top dog of Swazi music though, and has been nominated for a newcomer award in France for his new album « Swazi Soul ». It was a mixture of Afro-soul, electric-guitars-blaring style African music, and a slightly bizarre rendition of « Knockin' on Heaven's Door ». Much fun was had by all and after the rules and regulations of South Africa, it was nice to see that the country's most famous son could still give a concert where members of the audience just wandered onto the stage to have a word with him and adoring female fans could come and give him a hug between songs.

With these two inside, it certainly will be.

The new James Brown?

We eventually headed home and, at 5am, we retreated to the tent. It was already in a bit of a rough state after being savaged by monkeys in Kenya but it seemed that at some point during the night it had turned into a cage fighting arena for Bombasos' resident dogs and lay prostrate in a rather sorry state with two dogs on top and one inside. Hence, we spent the night on sofas in the lounge and celebrated the next day by doing very little and ordering delivery pizzas, playing Rummikub and so on and so forth.

It was time to leave. After 3 months in South Africa, we expected any escape to have a far more « African » feel, and so Swaziland kind of fitted the bill. It not only had a slightly more rural feel than much of South Africa that we'd been to but also, thankfully, the issue of skin colour was not as all-encompassing here as we'd had it since May. There are a fair amount of white Swazis too, but I suppose that the historical lack of total and complete animosity that Swaziland's larger neighbour went through has contributed to the fact that white kids like us can interact with black Swazis without a second thought, which isn't quite as easy in South Africa. The prime indicator of us being back in « Africa » was at the bus station as we prepared to trek out of Swaziland. We'd decided to go out of the northern border as we were told in Bombasos that it may be easier to get a new 3 month visa there than at the main border in the west. This would require a trip up to Pigg's Peak and a change of transport there to the border post at Matsamo. As we were deciding whether to take the waiting bus or the waiting minibus, a woman walked out of the big bus. « You are better off taking the bus rather than the minibus », she said. « The minibus only leaves when it is full, but the bus leaves according to the clock ». Great, we said, and enquired as to what time the bus would leave. « Ah... » she smiled. « I don't know. » God Bless Africa!

A walk in the parks

26^th & 27^th August – Days 330-331 – Mantenga and Malolotja Natural Reserves, Swaziland

Our first trek out was to Mantenga Natural Reserve in the Ezulwini Valley. We weren't really sure at all what was there aside from a waterfall but it was great to be out in the countryside where we could walk without having to yell over minibuses. Getting there was pretty easy – we got a lift into town with a passing Iranian doctor who lamented the current state of his country for most of the ride (« It used to be beautiful but now this Khomeini business... Gahhh... ») and then a minibus down into the valley. It was a lovely warm day which would have been great otherwise if not for the fact that I'd decided to wear jeans that morning and I was rapidly broiling inside them. We picked up a drink from the Pick N Pay (free advertisement for this ubiquitous supermarket, yet again!) and wandered off into the bushes.

Generic nature reserve picture #8759395.

The scenery from the earth road was nice with mountains on both sides (as one would expect in a valley, I suppose), we were surrounded by the sound of birdsong and the trickling of a small river to the left of us and then, somewhat bizarrely, we turned a corner to be greeted by a large, fluttering Finnish flag. We were so surprised that we went to poke inside and it turned out that it was an art gallery/cafe/honorary Finnish consulate, which I was not particularly expecting to find in the middle of the bushes down a small road in the Ezulwini Valley. We had a freshly squeezed juice from the cafe and a korvapuusti cinnamon roll for M («It tasted just like home! »), and took some obligatory pictures in front of the Finnish flag before going on our way, wondering what we'd encounter around the next corner.

Ta-dah!

Rather than Nelson Mandela or Godzilla or any other surprising find, it was the gate of the Natural Reserve where we paid our 50 rand and trotted off towards the waterfall. It wasn't Victoria Falls and we couldn't get anywhere near it without some sort of canoe (which we stupidly hadn't brought along with us) but it was almost therapeutic to sit there for a bit, forgetting that we are in the 21st Century. Just us, and the sights and sounds of nature. Nothing more. « Excuse me » came a voice from just behind us. « But have you seen an SD memory card? ». Resisting the urge to go back at the guy with something like « Thanks for bringing us back into the 21st Century with your modern technology, asshole », we apologised and said no, and then decided that it may be time to get back to Mbabane. We decided that we were on a roll, and that we'd get going to Malolotja Natural Reserve the next day for more nature and wandering around. The plan was to get up reasonably early and get a bus towards Pigg's Peak.

Not quite Vic Falls but nice all the same.

Surprisingly, we got up reasonably early and got a bus towards Pigg's Peak. Getting dropped off at the gates, we walked in and, once again had a nice and warm day wandering around trying to spot animals and birds and so on but not really succeeding. We were told at the entrance that there was a waterfall (and given a map as well, just in case we couldn't find it) but after walking around 6km we couldn't see or hear any water. It was getting late and we turned back, scaling up to a plateau to have a look down at the dramatic scenery unfolding beneath us. It was quintessential Africa, I thought, and so immediately I expected someone to shatter my illusion in the same style as the memory card boys from yesterday. This duly happened as a minibus pulled up and discharged its cargo of a bunch of birdwatchers from Torquay in the Southwest of England. Lovely. We had a short chat with them and walked back the same way we'd come.

Happy hiker. Until he runs out of breath.

Malolotja rolling hills.

There was no time to waste – we had a big concert to go to.

Visa Run

22^nd August -28^th August - Days 326-333 - Mbabane, Swaziland

With baited breath, we wandered into the immigration building at the Golela border post. The 3-month visa issue was on our mind – not being able to get back into South Africa would be disappointing on many fronts, not least because our flights back to Europe left from Johannesburg and also because we were scared of M's friend Inna murdering us when she landed there to visit us and discovered that we weren't actually in the same country. The large, prehistoric-looking Afrikaner border guard explained to us in no uncertain terms that we would be interviewed when we came back into South Africa, and that in all likelihood this interview would be completely pointless as we'd only be given 7 days on our return. We started mentally penning our apologies to Inna, got back into the car, entered Swaziland and pressed on. The sun had already gone down by this point and it was hard to see anything of rural Swaziland. The only thing I could tell was that the vast majority of the country was on fire as farmers burnt the old crops from their fields.

The guys took us to Bombaso's backpackers where they'd been living for a few months and we got a bed in a dorm with 4 Indian guys who eventually noticed our presence, moved their chins about half a centimetre up and then down in acknowledgement, and got back to what they were doing before, which seemed to be staring at the wall in silence. We left the room, had a few beers with the guys and met Laura, a Helsinki girl who had been living there for a while too, and went with all of them for a very typically Swazi dinner of enchiladas.

At least the weather is better than in Durban.

The fact that we could hear the Indian guys snoring from the main house seemed to indicate that there would be a problem, and Riku emerged from the room laughing nervously. « It smells.... kinda funky in there... ». We walked in to assess the situation and found ourselves in a room where the snores were making the floor vibrate at a strength of about Richter 4. We made a snap decision and, not for the first time, found ourselves setting up the tent in the darkness of night while the guys settled for sleeping on the sofas in the lounge.

Mbabane is one of those towns which is pleasant enough without anything in particular to actually do besides walking around and looking at such exciting things as the City Council and the Swazi Mall. The market, potentially one of the interesting points, seemed to have no-one in it, and we quickly found ourselves having seen absolutely everything. I suppose that's what happens when you go as a visitor to a capital city which has a population of about 90,000. The Finns had mentioned going to a craft market so we went along with them down to the Ezulwini Valley not far from town, where M bought mini masks and salad spoons and I managed to score myself an outrageously loud Swaziland t-shirt. We stood around chatting and admiring our purchases and then headed back.

The sign says it all.

What lovely purchases.

We spent a few days aimlessly wandering, going to Pick N Pay to buy food to cook at the hostel and so on. The walk from the hostel into town was over half an hour so that gave us a bit of time to get some fresh air. When we had nothing to do outside we sat on Bombasos' patio and played Jungle Speed, Scrabble and Rummikub, wondering what else we could do. It was eventually decided that we couldn't really find an answer to this so we decided to head out of town to some Natural Reserves. Swaziland, unlike South Africa, is a small enough place that you can get a minibus from one town to another, get off half way, and find yourself standing at the gates to a National Park or the like. We decided to make use of it.

Oh, the excitement! M, Erno and Laura losing to T at Rummikub.

Happy hippos

19^th August - 22^nd August – Days 323-326 – Durban, South Africa

Ahhh, how we had not missed night buses. Arriving at Durban bus station at 8am after a night of old school van Damme movies and interrupted sleep, and being woken up by fellow passengers who wanted to get past my legs sticking out from the row of benches I'd grabbed reminded me quickly of what exactly we had been doing for eight months before getting into South Africa. Somehow we had managed to escape all the roughness of travelling while being here, so after just one semi-standard night we were weeping like little kids at the end of the summer when the theme park closes its doors for the season. A coke and a ciggy later, however, we were back in form and arguing over the price of the taxi into town in good old fashion. It was only after I phoned up the Happy Hippo backpackers to inquire about space and what the taxi ride there should cost that we bent over and agreed to pay what was rightfully asked from us the first time round. Old habits die hard.

A short while later we'd deposited our stuff in the dorm and started exploring Durban by going around the corner and into the uShaka Marine World, not to see the sharks or anything but just for some overpriced breakfast in one of the cafés. The area around the Hippo seemed slightly devoid of commercial activity apart from an Engen garage and the uShaka so the choice was taken to upgrade the breakfast from GIY (grab it yourself) pies to served sandwiches on this grey and miserable morning. During the World Cup Durban had been loudly and proudly advertised as the city with only two seasons: summer and summer. Excuse me, Durban and your precious promoting committee, but that is a big load of kak. On our first two days here we were wrapped up in sweaters and scarves strolling along the beachfront under black skies and struggling against horizontal sea “breezes”, seeking shelter anywhere that would provide us with a pint and an indoor smoking area.

M's hair enjoys a gentle sea breeze. Who needs 'strong-hold'!

On our first night here, Thursday, we were doing this at the rooftop terrace bar of the Hippo (with canvas walls to shield against the wind) and met an Englishman called Stuart with whom we ended up chatting away and keeping our blood warm by consuming a few beers. At slightly past dinner time o'clock we went hunting for some South African food and ended up doing a ridiculous tour around town in a taxi and ending up within walking distance in a local butchery. Stuart was in SA doing the practical part of his medical studies and had spent the past few weeks in Kokstad, but hadn't tasted bobotie (basically curried mince with raisins and rice baked in a pot) yet so this was on his list of things to taste before leaving. Obviously, the butchery didn't serve any bobotie but we ended up having a hearty braai with pap and salad instead – and eating with our fingers for the first time in SA as well. For the second time in a day we had a flashback to our previous months of travel.

Stuart's lifelong ambition: to appear on our blog (ahead of getting married and working in Mauritius).

Back at the Hippo bar later on, we stumbled across one of the great phenomena of the trip for me. Sitting at the bar there was a calm and relatively quiet fair-haired young man minding his beer and engaging in some chatter with the bar lady. As we kept swooshing past him on a few occasions in order to get more beer from the bar, we got to talking terms with him as well. “Where you from then?”, we blurted out the most-heard phrase of backpackers' places. “Finland”, he blurted back. Whaddawheredahowdahell? The first Finn!!!!!! I started blabbering excitedly in Finnish and the guy just looked at me as if he had no clue as to what I was saying. Just when I thought he'd been winding me up and only said he was Finnish for the test of it – as he'd probably heard already two hours ago where I'm from – he grinned so widely it was unmistakable that he had in fact understood every word I said. The thick Tampere (a.k.a. the Manchester of Finland) accent he answered to me in confirmed this. Just as unmistakably, I noticed I've been out of Finland for too long to catch the domestic drags any more. So there we go, this was how we met Erno, the first Finn of the trip. About bloody time.

Erno wasn't alone either. The next night we got introduced to his friend Riku, an equally refreshing sight with his southwestern accent and frequent cultivation of the unique Finnish humour together with Erno. The two of them were here on a two-week holiday tour after their four-month internships in Swaziland, coincidence of coincidences. As T and I needed to get to Swaziland next anyway (to escape SA before the expiry date of our visas), and the guys were heading back there to pick up their stuff before flying back home, we all formulated a plan to rent a car together and drive it to Swaziland on Sunday. Afterwards, we played drinking games to celebrate this fact. The same games we already started playing before securing the plan. The night continued happily into wee hours (again) as we were playing pool – Erno at one point chasing everyone away from the table while gate crashing a game and insisting semi-violently that he should pot everyone's balls – and having lengthy Finglish conversations at the bar three hours after closing time. Erno, always the philanthropist, also trekked to Steers next door at 3am and bought a burger meal for the security man while getting one for Riku and himself.

Introducing the Finns: Erno and Riku. Veljekset kuin ilvekset.

During the course of our evenings at the Hippo we had all made friends with the bar lady, Lynette. She had been touring the Finnish guys around Durban on one of the days already and suggested we all come see a game of egg chasing (i.e. rugby) with her and a friend on Saturday. T and I spent the day walking around in the centre of Durban, which included admiring the biggest mosque in the southern hemisphere (not very big) and checking out the market on Victoria St. Frankly, Durban isn't a very interesting city unless you're here for the beach, so the highlight of the day for us was when we were sitting at the ABSA Stadium with Lynette & Co. plus the Finns yelling “Proooooooooooooviiiiiiiiiiince!!!!” and trying to keep hold of our pints while looking steeply down onto the field.

Window shopping at Victoria St. market. All the salespeople were women.

Riku eyeing out Moses Mabhida.

It was Natal Sharks vs. Western Province Stormers, and we were instructed to support the Stormers as Lynette and her friend Wayne (and about three other people inside the stadium) were supporting them. The Stormers are usually at the top of the table, whereas Sharks are fairly average, but of course to honour our presence, the Stormers went ahead and lost. Oh well. It was our first live rugby game, and we all know how first times go. To save us from too much disappointment over what Durban had offered to us so far, Lynette and Wayne took us out for some nightlife. The Finns stayed back as they were still trying to recover from the previous night and saved themselves from a lot of gay old fun as well as from spending a decent amount of cash. After having had to listen to one guy's endless jitters over his sweet and cute and hot lover from Cape Town, and later been instructed about where the ATM was by another because we skipped him on the last round of drinks we bought but got one for his friend (who had actually got us a drink first), we started feeling rather worse for wear – especially as Lynette had been left behind at some point by Wayne who never picked her up again after she went to take a quick shower at home. There's also only a certain limited amount of Madonna one can take in one evening. Wayne kindly dropped us off afterwards and we tucked in like no tomorrow.

Rugby virginity gone forever. "Can someone explain why the crossbars are so low?"

Apartheid is NOT dead.

Wayne and Lynette, our initiators to the gentlemen's sport.

The next morning the Finns were gone. We woke up at the agreed time but couldn't find them anywhere at the Hippo and there was no answer at the door of their room. Just when we were wondering what to do next Lynette arrived in order to take us all to the airport to pick up the rental car as had been planned. She couldn't believe the guys would have done such a dirty on us, and so couldn't we. We had two days to be out of South Africa before the end of our visa and here we were, sitting at the Hippo with our plans trashed and 700km away from the border. An hour later the Finns rocked up the stairs with bags from Spur (steakhouse/diner chain) greeting us cheerfully. “Oh yeh, maybe we should've left a note or something to say that we've just gone out to get breakfast”, was their side of the story. Phew, phew and phew, I tell ya.

A speedy and breezy ride to the airport followed, and so began the hunt for the rental car. Riku and I were sent in as the battle horses to make the inquiries and the booking while Lynette was driving the bakkie around the parking lot depending on which agency we went into, as she wasn't allowed to park anywhere else apart from where the business was being made. T hiked to get soft drinks and Erno kept Lynette company while staring into space, still looking slightly weak from two nights ago. Riku and I finally emerged from one of the agencies not entirely sure as to which kind of car we had bagged. I hadn't caught the make from the clerk's thick accent and Riku thought we had rented a Toyota Avensis, but the paperwork just said 'Avanza'. It had been the cheapest deal for 4 people with heaps of luggage so we had taken it. Now all we had to do was to bloody identify it from the rows and rows of parked cars. Once we found the spot we noticed we'd actually got quite a beast! It was a five-door high-clearance automobile with one of those large spaces in the back instead of some Asian blender-and-vacuum cleaner-in-one-compact-size which we were expecting to see. Erno stuck the GPS to the front window, T changed it kindly from French to Finnish, and off we swerved listening to directions given in the smooth tone of Matti (about as standard as a Finnish man's name gets)! Lynette waved us goodbye and welcomed us back to Durban any time. “Honestly, I could definitely use some more straight conversation!!”

It didn't take long until Matti started playing tricks on us, telling us to “Stay on the right. – After 200m, turn right. – Then turn right.” Also we tended to end up getting off the freeway for no apparent reason only to make a U-turn in order to get back on the freeway. When Matti guided us down some farm's driveway, and we couldn't stop the giggles for about 15 minutes, it was time to re-tune the cursed device and to find the problem. Apparently we had chosen the shortest route when walking instead of driving. Zzzzzzzz. A few adjustments later we were back on the right road and heading into the right direction: the Swazi border.