We'd finally made it! After two and a half months in South Africa, we'd finally breached the borders of Western Cape province to end up in the altogether different Eastern Cape province! Not much of an achievement, granted, but it felt like a big step. And it wasn't any old weekend that we'd rocked up in Grahamstown either – it was K-Day Weekend!!
If you're unsure as to what this actually means, you're not alone. We only found out on the way up to Grahamstown what K-Day actually was, and I don't think we ever found out what the K in K-Day stands for. Grahamstown, you see, is a quite high-class town with some of the best schools in South Africa. St. Andrews, one of them, is where Bast went and his younger brother Ben still goes. Kingswood, the other, is the big rival. And it is on K-Day weekend that the two schools meet on the rugby pitch to officially decide which school kicks the most ass. Grant had driven up from Cape Town for the weekend as well and we got introduced to Bast's exceptionally groovy parents. And so it was that, come the Saturday, we found ourselves in the grandstand of Kingswood school's rugby pitch munching chips with biltong sauce (or so we were assured: it didn't taste like biltong at all). The tone for the main game had been set by the Old Boys the previous day with Bast starring in what was presumably a demolition of Kingswood's Old Boys, although it subsequently emerged that no-one had been keeping score so we were just left to speculate. M and I had scored a point though – it was the first rugby game either of us had ever seen without the intermediary of a television screen. Boy, were we proud!
5 minutes into the Old Boys Game. Bast proves that a cigar on the road more than compensates for 12 months of cycling half way around the world
The actual game seems to mean a lot to the people of Grahamstown – people had turned up in enormous numbers and I'd guess there were probably a thousand people watching at least. I banished the thought of those old school football games on wet and windswept pitches with only a passing farmer and his dog as spectators, and enjoyed the spectacle. It involved a guy with bagpipes, other kids from the school forming shapes on the pitch for the players to run through when they entered the pitch, and cheerleaders (as in proper people who led the cheers, not girls in skimpy outfits who jumped around). I won't comment on the game itself too much as M and I spent most of it turning to someone else and asking for the rules to be explained again, although the outcome was that St. Andrews officially kicked more ass yet again. “This game doesn't really mean that much to us any more”, Bast lamented. “We've won it 18 years in a row now”. Apparently, Kingswood are so set on beating the mighty St. Andrews that they offer scholarships to good rugby players from other parts of the country to come and study there (and hence play for their team), but they are still helpless against the mighty St. Andrews steam train. M and I cheered anyway, regardless of our slight lack of understanding of what precisely was going on.
K-Day weekend was high season in Grahamstown and so Bast's parents house was full, although we were welcome to camp out in the garden. After another night spent in the “Rat and Parrot”, we came back to discover that strong winds had blown the tent into the pond, and having desperately fished it out, it seemed that the damage wasn't as bad as I'd have imagined – there was only a puddle in the corner.
The tequila saleslady (on the right) didn't seem to ratchet up too much enthusiasm. Grant probably didn't need any anyway...
Waking up the next morning feeling not only tired but also wet had me checking those flights to Jeddah again, although we also had our farewells with Grant, who was heading off to see his family in Jo'burg and then back to Cape Town, so we wouldn't see him again on this trip. It's hard saying goodbye, and as we'd done so with Mav and Dixon not long ago, the Sudan gang was finally breaking apart. Being half asleep and hungover did make it easier though! The rest of the week was mercifully gentle on the liver – Bast's parents had gone on holiday and left him in charge of their restaurant, meaning that he had to get up at 5.30 every morning. We were left to watch TV and wander around Grahamstown during the day, and to further teach the wonders of Jungle Speed in the evening, along with various other constructive activities. With the clock running down on our South African visas, we got tickets to Durban after a few days and, for the first time in months, had a good ol' fashioned ride on an overnight bus!
Appendix: A Cautionary Tale.
Ben had been volunteered by Bast to take us down to the bus station at 8pm, well in time for the bus at 8.30. On the way down, a shrill familiar voice rang out from the back seat. “Where's my passport? I gave it to you, T”. “No you didn't”. “Hmm”. A frantic search broke out during which M concluded that she must have left it somewhere at the house and so we drove back. The passport was still nowhere to be found and so M decided to completely demolish her backpack. The offending passport was finally located stuck to the back of a Durex 12-pack which she'd earlier removed from the smaller bag in which she also had her passport, and which appeared to have had some tape still stuck to the back. They do drastically reduce the chances of unwanted pregnancy and STD's, but without proper use they can also scupper your chances of getting to the bus on time.