K-Day in G-Town

12^th August - 18^th August – Days 316-322 – Grahamstown, South Africa

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!!

Our chauffeur.

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

While M just likes to make a point.

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.

The snake formation

Ben post-game with proud brother and parents

And in the clubhouse after the game...

We stumbled upon Flash Gordon's bachelor party!

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...

Birthday shots!!

No comment.

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!

Spreading the love (yet again)

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.

The entrance to Rhodes University

One of Grahamstown's many churches

View over town from "1820 Settlers Monument" at the top of the hill

The "Rat and Parrot"

All Roads Lead to STRAND!

29^th July-11^th August – Days 302-315 – Strand, South Africa

It felt weird to go back to Strand where there hadn't been much to do the first time and hence even less likely there would be any more to do the second time around, but somehow I was thrilled to actually return to a place we'd spent a long time in. It makes a change on a trip like this to roll into a town where you know the general layout, the transport links, the shops, the restaurants and bars, and in the case of Strand even the people. We've returned to quite a few of the capitals (Addis, Nairobi, Dar, Kampala, Lilongwe) on the way down because of transportation connections or to pick up our bags after a loop trip, but these bigger cities we hadn't got to know in the same sense as we had got to know the small Strand after our first five-week stay there. Before we left from Strand the first time, I had a conversation with Carl about how weird it is that certain places and people from along the way we will remember for reasons we couldn't have predicted in advance and how Strand will be one of these places and the people from there some of those people. We had made a weird connection with Strand, so going back there was like coming back home in some sense.

Bast and Lou(ise) gave us a lift in exchange for some lunch at the Seafarer after T had advertised the ½ BBQ chicken to Bast for the full previous day. So we rolled in through the magic doors after nearly two weeks and it instantly felt like we'd never left. After the chicken Bast dropped us off at Ivan's place where we were warmly welcomed by our host and suspiciously barked at by his two guard dogs, Tessa and Shadow. Originally we'd asked if we could camp in Carl & Co.'s garden but Carl had a word with Ivan about it and they thought it would be a better idea for us to stay at Ivan's, so we were guided into a room with a bed instead of the backyard. Carl rocked up a bit later to say hello and welcome us back to Strand as well, and we all chattered happily over a few beers.

Ivan is always delighted to welcome visitors

Thanks to Carl we quickly got up-to-date about everything going on in Strand. It seemed the other barman, Chris, had moved indeterminately to Jo'burg to take time off from his girlfriend so we wouldn't be having another reunion with him any time soon. Carl's sex and love lives (topics which he brings up eagerly) were on their usual tracks and he had also given up and hired a maid to come and clean their house – possibly in expectation of boosting his sex/love life in the near future. Shockingly, he also informed us that Seafarer now had a Happy Hour(!!!) from Sundays to Thursdays. It seemed business really had slowed down after we left. It also seemed Carl's favourite website Sickipedia.com hadn't run out of faithful posters of crappy or politically incorrect jokes. It felt good to be back.

We had planned to stay in Strand for only a couple of nights before Bast would drive us to Grahamstown where he was going to stay and work in his parents restaurant for a few weeks. Somehow our stay extended to two weeks as Bast had some stuff to sort out, friends to see and various presentations to give in Cape Town before setting off. My guilt trip about staying at Ivan's place extended in similar proportions every time we heard of another postponement, so we made a point of doing the shopping and cooking for Ivan during our stay as much as he would let us. We also kept him supplied with coffee when he got back from work and cigarettes (which we regularly bummed off him), benefiting from his and Stephan's advice on where we could buy cartons of crappy cigarettes for R60. We also got Ivan a bottle of brandy as a token of our gratitude, and well into the second week of our stay I announced we would be scrubbing down his kitchen as well, something T silently abided with.

T, Matthew, Addie and Ivan set a new record in the "how many people can look like morons eating breakfast in the same picture" category. Just click on the picture. We really do look retarded. Ivan in particular.

In between playing housewife we spent many nice nights with the « old gang » Carl and his flatmate Stephan joining us for dinners and beer at Ivan's or just beer at the « old locals » Seafarer and Barts where Gerhard would join in. We also got introduced to a couple of new faces, namely Ruann (Stephan's brother and the third flatmate in his and Carl's house) and his girlfriend Lorraine, who we had heard of or seen briefly during our first visit, but not really spent any time with. Also, a girl called Addie kept running in and out through Ivan's door on most days so we made friends with her and her boyfriend Matthew in these two weeks. Ivan himself we had only met a couple of times at the Seafarer and once when invited to his place for the braai on World Cup Final night, but as we were spending all this time under his kind wing he became our dear friend over time. He shares my passion for good cooking – Ivan made us a very tasty seafood potjie, a South African style “stew” cooked in an iron pot over open fire for many hours – or at least eating well for my part, quality movies, and coffee and cigarettes at every turn, T's passion for loading up anything funny on YouTube (Thanks Ivan for showing me Tim Minchin!) and mine and T's mutual passion for leisurely conversation about anything over a jar or two, so it's easy to see how we all got along.

Ivan also shares T's passion for monstrously oversized sandwiches. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a Gatsby.

Once a year there comes a time when I get to have fun on T's behalf in bottomless measures. That time starts when T's birthday comes along and lasts for a good two and a half months before we hit my birthday. This year T turned 27 which is a big number pointing to an increasingly old age but at the same time such a boring digit that a birthday of said digit couldn't have landed on anything but an ordinary Tuesday. I shouldn't even have to mention how ordinary Tuesdays can be, but this Tuesday was all of that. To spike things up a bit, we bought a crate of beer (twelve quarts) and organised to rent – or with the help of Carl's networks, namely Ruann who works in a video store – Buzz the PlayStation game for the evening. The guys came around for this, of course. Not so much to celebrate T getting older but to prove to themselves that they were older and wiser. Ivan demonstrated this well by misspelling the word 'salt' in what was (and I quote in true T rhetoric:) “with utter certainty the easiest question ever posed by Buzz”. We all were in bed before midnight, T having drunk seven or eight quarts and not even feeling tipsy. With age comes tolerance.

When it wasn't an ordinary Tuesday the drinking scene in Strand was its old familiar self. Choose your pub for the evening and despite which one you choose (or even if you run in between the two during the night), a couple of beers and brandy&cokes in you run into other familiar faces in their usual states. The level of game at the pool table in Seafarer was again sunk by our inexplicable talent, and of course we also had to try and beat the top score of the new monthly challenge on the bar games machine. Ivan introduces us to the world of gatsbies (the local giant sandwiches to be had after hours when in state of slight deterioration) and took us for a ride home from Barts on his motorbike risking it to break under our round beer-filled beings. Grateful for the female company, me and Addie picked up a habit of having one-hour sessions of heart-to-hearts in ladies toilets. On a few occasions I tried to get the boys to dance with me, succeeded poorly and ended up being called the Grinder. One night Gerhard and I thought it was a good idea to go wake up Carl in the middle of the night on our way back from the pub and were rewarded with the sight of a pissed-off Carl opening the door after a minute with the computer open on the background. Busted!

Addie and Matthew and Lorraine decided to provide us with some small tours of the area as well, and so on the second weekend back in Strand we drove east along the coast a bit to Cools Bay and Rooiels to see the scenery or rock formations on the beach. Western Cape provided us with the nicer side of its frequently changing weather for the day and after hiking around the rocks and the scenic drive we stopped at Gordon's Bay for some Mojitos recommended by Addie. Sadly, and to Addie's disgust, we got served lemon juice mixed with soda water with a leaf of mint each. In the evening Lorraine took us out to the hills lining Somerset West for the night skyline view over the area and onto a patch of road where your car roams on by itself even if you're out of gear and facing an uphill. The trick to this is that it's an optical illusion and that the road actually slopes down slightly, of course, but it's a funny feeling all the same. Lorraine also showed us a cemetery she likes, and me, T and Matthew went walking around in the dark while the girls stayed in the car, supposedly not because they were scared.

Cools Bay ROCKS!...

The Adventure Gang engage in a bit of scrambling in Rooiels

...without the loss of any limbs at all!

"Sunset Beach"

Somerset West and Strand by night. You'll have to take our word for it...

Such a nice day came to a worse end when, after ending up at the pubs later on, I somehow managed to start an attempted pub fight. The background to this story is that Carl and Ivan (taught by Carl) have picked up a habit of tickling me whenever wherever as I am very ticklish and seem to provide some kind of entertainment to the souls of their small devils when tickled. So, when I walked into the Seafarer late at night I was met with the standard reception of Carl tickling me and picking me up from my feet so that I'm Jane-of-Tarzan style helplessly hanging somewhere in the air over his shoulder. Now this one guy we'd met at the pub the previous night was at the scene and thought it was a good idea to follow suit and tickle me as well but I didn't take too kindly to being anyone's tickle-bag and, while giving my revenge of pinching the guys in the neck with my sharpish nails, gave him one of these pinches too. It's all a bit blurred how the snowball effect worked here, but he came back to demand an explanation about why I'd pinched him and started getting really pissed off at me. At some point I bought him a shot to signal that we should just forget about it but got « F*CK OFF! » screamed at me as response, followed by some threatening and finger pointing some time later. Drunk as I was, my response was to shrug him off and tell him what I thought of people who come and bully women when their boyfriends are in the toilets. Needless to say, that might have been a bad move considering T's well-being... To say this guy is a beefcake is a nice understatement. This guy came back a while later once again, pulled mine and T's barstools apart looking like he wants to throw a few punches around and started a pushing and shoving session to which all the men in our party somehow got involved. T got pushed but thought to play the calming tactics which worked for a bit. Disturbance was enough still for Carl to have to get involved from behind the bar and decided to employ a slightly different tactic, namely raising his voice at the troublemaker in Afrikaans. This landed Carl in a quick wrestling match with the guy as he took to going behind the bar in order to try and strangle Carl. At some point the other barman and also our old acquaintance, Mitch, called the police who turned up with their bellies bouncing up but in less than five minutes to finally break off whatever could have started. Carl obviously had to stay in duty but the rest of us took our leave and headed back to Ivan's where I finally caught up with what had just happened and felt awful and worried sick about causing all my friends to stand in line to calm this guy down. The next day we heard that he is the husband of one of the barladies, Erica, who we also know reasonably well, and usually a fairly nice guy. Small town syndrome strikes again, together with the fact that we all have double personalities, one when sober and one when drunk. The previous night we'd been in the same bar with T and Gerhard talking to the same man about the beautiful flowers of Namaqualand (where he's from) and about going swimming in Crystal Pools (natural pools halfway up the mountains close to Strand). Such is life.

Post-bar-fight: M tries out her new anti-dickhead uniform

Even the longest two weeks eventually come to an end, and after a few inquiries by T into the matter Bast had finally sorted his life out enough to promise us a definite departure date. On other fronts, the dogs had gotten so used to us by now that they were becoming lazy rather than alert and would wander in through the kitchen door for snacks. For his part, T was getting so used to Ivan's place that he forgot to turn the alarm off one afternoon on his way in, causing the security man to drive up and demand the password which Carl had to shout out loud in the drankwinkel (=liquor store) on the phone to T due to him standing by the side of a busy and noisy road. I felt relieved to get off Ivan's corners to give him his privacy but also heavy to be leaving old and new-found friends behind yet again. I suppose I should be used to it by now but I'm also happy I'm not quite there yet as I don't like goodbyes, just see-you-laters.

We thought it would be a nice idea to do something together before we'd leave so on the last evening us and most of the gang went bowling in Somerset West. Carl claimed he'd never been bowling before and we soon found out his friend Leonard apparently hadn't either. Carl proved his level by constantly finishing bottom but Leonard comfortably fell in the middle with me and Ivan as Lorraine and T controlled the game. Bowling of course involves beer so we unexpectedly ended up at the pub after the game with Carl and Gerhard (again joining in at this stage) to toast to just about whatever for the last time, with Leonard the driver sleeping on the couch. Having talked about his snorting abilities to us on several occasions Gerhard finally impressed us by polishing off a line of sweet chilli sauce mixed with black pepper, which he soon after went to blow back out, decorating the tissue in a very artistic way. (The proof is available on video to anyone who requests to see it.) Another scene later, we're buying pies from the petrol station at 2am and once again rocking up at Carl's – to Stephan's and Ruann's grief. While Leonard was snoozing on the couch, the rest of us said our long see-you-laters many times over insisting the guys must come and visit us in Europe one day soon.

Carl attempts to deflect attention from his poor performance. "When you guys were out bowling, I was busy getting laid...". Clearly the green balls would suggest differently

Ivan puts on a bizarre vampire face for the second time in this post. Other than that, it's a very serious nostalgia-evoking picture

M gives Gerhard a hug but obviously his lovemobile is what she will be missing more..

Ivan woke us up around 7am the next morning before heading out to work so we wouldn't miss out on our early date with Bast but also to say bye for his part. Similar painful hugs followed as the night before, never mind that our hungover state made everything else hurt physically as well. But hey, mates say bye when they are drunk, friends when they are hungover. We went back to snooze for another hour before waking up to a panic packing session when Bast phoned us up from the McDonald's across the road. We swerved by Carl's place to drop off Ivan's key and say our hungover friend byes to him as well before hopping in the Bastmobile and riding towards Eastern Cape.

Confidently striding on to new adventures!!

Back Home!! (Not us. Someone else.)

23^rd July-29^th July – Days 296-302 – Cape Town and Stellenbosch, South Africa

Just as we were considering running off to Saudi Arabia in order to have a few weeks free of the devil's juice, we faced a weekend of double celebrations, neither of which we really wanted to miss. So that flight to Jeddah was postponed yet again. The first took place not in Stellenbosch, where we were, but in the Newlands district of Cape Town and so, along with Mav, we dragged ourselves onto the MetroTrain to the unglamorous station of Salt River before eventually putting ourselves on another one to Observatory station. There, we met up with Mav again after he'd got onto a train and we failed to fit onto it (because of backpacks, not beer bellies) and found ourselves a hostel in which to set up camp. The “Green Elephant” was quite nice, once you'd configured the positioning of your tent and its doors in the garden so as to avoid having to play dodge-the-dogturds when you turned in for the night.

We did things that civilised human being do from time to time such as showering and so on (and in my case, applying cream to a delightful sty that had sprouted up on my left eye) before going out to meet Emma, a friend of a friend from Finland who we got to hear about in complicated circumstances that I can't be bothered to explain here (and if I did, you wouldn't find them very interesting). We had a few civilised drinks, went to a bar/club with the world's most appalling DJ (whose talents M very diplomatically explained to him at the end of the evening - “DJ, you're KAK!”. Ok M, let's go. “No, I don't think he heard me, I'll go to tell him again”. No you won't, let's go. “OK”). We kept it very low-key aside from that, knowing that it was only the warm-up to the big event.

Mav takes a well earned rest on the way to Newlands

The big event began at 11am the next day as we piled onto the MetroTrain once again down to Newlands where, after wandering around in circles for quite a while, we eventually found the pub we were looking for – the Forester's Arms. It was in the carpark of this pub that Bast and Grant, lunatic cyclists par excellence who we'd last seen in Ethiopia in November last year, were about to finish their mammoth trip from the northern tip of Scotland to the southern tip of Africa, in just a little of 12 months. And so, as they pulled in, a crowd awaited them waving flowers and bottles of champagne (for the better off) and jugs of beer bought at a knock-down price (for the likes of Dixon, Mav and us). When the mass subsided, the poor sweaty things were finally allowed inside and we got back to what we do best – yakking with people.

Hurrah!

M, of course, is not only prolific in yakking but she is also a budding artist, and so it was that, towards the end of one of her beer jugs, she was struck by a sudden wave of inspiration and decided to take a photo through the remaining beer and bottom of the jug. The picture was taken and in celebration, she dropped the 2-month-old camera into the jug where it bobbled about for a bit. Dixon, ever the knight in shining armour, urged her diplomatically to remove the camera from the jug and remove the memory card and battery as soon as possible. Hence, no more pictures were taken from that evening. But anyway - congratulations, guys!!!

Dixon shows off the contents of his parcel (see Stellenbosch episode 1) while M enjoys a jug

T, unaware that the makarapa hat is on back to front, also enjoys a jug

But cameras, as is well known, are less likely to enjoy a jug. The infamous final picture

It didn't quite finish as we'd planned – the nightclub that the boys had lined up for everyone rejected the four bums (Dixon, Mav and us two) for various crimes: M and I had trainers on, and Dixon and Mav didn't have collared shirts on. After some head scratching, Dixon and us left Mav having what we assume was a polite and friendly discussion with the bouncer who could have probably eaten him in about 5 minutes, and wandered off down the road to a tacky club where we had lots of fun before Dixon scooted off back to Stellenbosch. The three of us remaining spent the entirety of the next day sat in front of the TV at the Green Elephant watching brainless movies (Godzilla, Transporter 3, and so forth), eating delivery pizza and playing rock-paper-scissors to determine who should go downstairs to buy the next round of Fantas. Exactly the kind of day that we live for. The only useful activity carried out was a quite check to see if the camera was back in working order. It wasn't.

But the fun was not over yet! It had come to our attention that Mav's birthday was coming up very soon! “What are you doing for your birthday?”, we asked to which the ever enthusiastic Mav replied “meh, not much”. It seemed that he was eventually press-ganged into doing something and we were summoned to come for a large braai for that evening. The always helpful Bast had sorted us a bed with some of his sister's friends and gave us a lift back up to 'Bosch and so we had a few nights there, teaching the wonders of Jungle Speed (which were greatly appreciated by all), attempting to smoke their extremely temperamental shisha pipe, and bumming around in the sun. Yet again, a few days well spent. We also checked to see if the camera was back in working order. It took pictures, but they were so blurred that you couldn't really see what was going on which, in my definition, is against the point of taking a picture. Unless you're some kind of post-modern photo-artist, which we are most definitely not.

And it finally gets back up on its feet! Michelle, Bast and M enjoy a game of souped-up Jungle Speed, South African style

The ever-helpful Bast had told us that he was going up to Grahamstown (where his family lives) in a few days and that if we wanted to split the petrol, he had a few seats in his car. Savouring the prospect of a road trip, we happily agreed. Not wanting to be in the girls' feet for those few days, we made a few phone calls to familiar people, and hit the road...

Wine and Cheese

17^th July-23^rd July – Days 290-296 – Franschhoek and Stellenbosch, South Africa

Bastille Day!!!! Well, not really – the South Africans do like to celebrate all things French with a bottle of wine or 3 and so the celebrations were put off to the weekend. Through a few misunderstandings on both Dixon's and Mav's part, we were sort of invited to come and join the festivities in Franschhoek (Afrikaans for “French Corner”) with some of their friends (who they knew through the South African cyclists we all met in Sudan and with which Dixon and Mav had spent two weeks in Mozambique partying while we missed the party due to my parents being over for a visit).

A respectable pair sampling a respectable bottle of wine

Thus we yet again put our lives in Dixon's hands and rode up to Frenchyland in the infamous rustmobile. As usual when Dixon is driving, the journey itself was half the fun, even if the actual driving bit of it is getting better and better. To give some idea of what happens when riding with Dixon: a vuvuzela was blown from out of the driver's window with two hands a few times whilst driving, a poor minibus driver received some Tarantino-inspired abuse (“You talking to me, you fat fuck??”), absolutely every signpost or billboard that can be pronounced in a funny way was be read out, and many a fit lady walking on the street got the horn honked at her. And in the end, Dixon shook behind his steering wheel finding a free parking spot and fitting the vehicle in it.

We'd already been to Franschhoek briefly with my parents, but the town offered much more than the pretty surrounding mountain scenery to us this time. We got to walk around in the sunshine with all the people around us dressed in themed outfits, mostly colourful berets, and stinking of sweet, sweet wine – red, white or both. There were farmers' markets selling all things French or just agricultural in general and boerewors stalls steaming, reminding us of the true South African side of the French heritage. After a tour around town we bought a lump of delicious cheese for R76 (I had a weak moment!), met up with Dixon's and Mav's friends, joined in on the wine picnic and sipped away in the afternoon sun.

Self-explanatory picture related to above text.

We all stayed the night at the house of Jess' (one of the said friends) parents where also a big table dinner was served for everyone. So we socialised with the older generation and got to meet some great characters with interesting stories, T received some parent-style advice on the next turns in his life, and Dixon questioned all the married ladies in the house about the meaning of their wedding dresses to them (“If it got ripped or broken on the wedding night, have you or would you restore it to its original condition?” , and the same scenario hypothetically for the rest of us unmarried ones. At some point late in the evening the whole jolly crowd hiked to the pub and, slightly later, back from there.

Bastille Day gets the ugliest it's been at any point since 1789 as M and Mav do battle for the remaining cheese

The next day most of the younger generation wandered back into town to the wine marquee, but us two and Dixon didn't really want to pay the somewhat high entrance fee so we decided to do some wine tasting around the area instead. We spent another nice afternoon getting happily tipsy on the scenic hills before driving back into Stellenbosch.

"Hmm... a strong nose and a solid body... the wine's not bad either..."

Generic Stellenbosch shot #992827276 feat. students sitting on the lawn doing what students do best (i.e. not much)

Back in the Bosch and at iKhaya we didn't do much nothing at all for the next few days. As Mav had started his job at the bar downstairs we were more than happy to keep him some company in the evenings while the days were spent sleeping late, getting laundry sorted, blog updated and plans for future destinations reconfigured. We also took some leisurely walks around town just to say we'd seen it. We duly appreciated the calm before the next storm – scheduled to hit us over the weekend coming up.

Chillin' with Leone and Eurice, Stellenboschers who we'd met in the Strand, the centre of the universe

From Stuck-in-the-Strand to Bouncing-in-the-Bosch

14^th July-17^th July – Days 287-290 – Stellenbosch, South Africa

For the first time in quite a while we faced a situation similar to what we have done for the rest of the trip – arriving somewhere new! The effect was mitigated by the fact that we got a lift up in Dixon's rustmobile along with Sal. The Dixon effect was added to by his attempt at parking on our arrival in Stellenbosch. Setting the scene: the space was around 10 metres long and Dixon claimed “I'm not very good at parallel parking”. None of the persons present were to expect the show that followed. After a few backwards-and-forwards manoeuvres that led nowhere, I got out of the car and started to gesticulate helpfully to help Dixon into the space, to no avail. The car in front then moved, as it apparently had a woman waiting inside who decided to extend Dixon's space to around 13 metres. Further gesticulation coupled with an amused grin. M got out and gesticulated further. The woman in front moved further. Parallel parking attempts continued unabated, and still to no avail. M and I began laughing outwardly. The woman in front then got out of her car and asked “can he actually drive?”. Dixon finally managed to park (in a manner of speaking) and Sal and I ran towards a backpackers that Dixon had recommended. It was full, but the manager reserved us a couple of beds somewhere else. With smirks on their faces, Sal and I ran back through the rain to the car – Dixon would have to pull out again and go somewhere else. To Dixon's immense relief, there was a huge empty area in front of the Banghoek Place hostel, and without further ado we checked in for the night.

The outrageously large parking space. In his defence, it was raining.

Dixon and Mav had lived in Stellenbosch for a while and so we were given a guided tour of Bosch's nightlife – firstly at the Stumble Inn backpackers which we'd tried to check into earlier and then to a place called the “Social Café”, where we caught up more, and then witnessed one of the highlights hit the trip – Sal was interrupted in a sentence he was half way through by a bicycle rack which he had failed to spot in the darkness of the South African night, and went flying into the air, picking himself up with a look of total bewilderment. All were concerned and calm, aside from me who found the whole thing hilarious and was concerned yet laughing my arse off for quite a while to come. When calm had descended again on the quiet streets of Stellenbosch, we hit the road back to the hostel and snoozed like babies. I managed to wake up early to go to the toilet although his attempts at going back to sleep were interrupted by thoughts of Sal from the previous night which sent me into fits of uncontrollable giggles which prevented me from sleeping any more and turned me into a tired wreck for the rest of the day.

Dixon receives a package from jolly olde England. Tune in next week to see what the package contained...

Banghoek Place was nice enough but a bit of a trek out of town, and as soon as we heard that Mav had got a job in a town centre hostel called iKhaya, we upped camp and Dixon gave us a lift into town to settle into our new home (cheers Dixon!). The next day was utterly ruined by a lack of ability to get up early and we only emerged in the early afternoon for a wander around town. “Shall we go for one beer at Bohemia?” suggested M. It was to be only that, until Mav texted his intentions to have a wild night out. We'd be very welcome to join, apparently – and who were we to turn down such a kind invitation? The quiet and civilised evening turned into a decadent night of barhopping through most of Stellenbosch's party venues, featuring such fantastically South African named bars as the Mystic Boer and the Springbok, and terminated at the distinctly non-South African venue of McDonald's. Mav's attempts to order a normal sized Big Mac meal took around 10 minutes due to McWaitress' completely inability to comprehend what was in fact a very simple order, and mine was completely misunderstood as “I'll have the same as him [points at Mav]” landed me with the same as M. Mav managed to depart the booth with a disappointed/disgusted closing shot of “you f@*king retard”, to the great amusement of all. The fact that I failed to realise that we were at the entrance of the hostel we were staying at would give some indication of how short the night was before Dixon came to pick us up to drive us across the pass to Franschhoek. Possibly for further festivities.

The view from iKhaya. We will return next week...

“How We Spent the World Cup Final”, or “The Fantastic Adventures of Spain-O-Man”

10^th June - 14^th July – Days 253-287 – Stories from Strand, South Africa

Carl had, since the beginning of the World Cup, been somewhat of a Spanish fan. We didn't think he had much in the way of Spanish ancestry and indeed he didn't - “Every South African supports two teams in this World Cup” he said. “South Africa, and the team that they think will win it”. For Carl, this team was Spain. His excitement mounted as Spain charged through the rounds (or rather spluttered through them, somehow managing to proceed again and again) and suddenly, World Cup Final day was upon us. The day started off in the traditional way – M and I got up sometime in the early afternoon. We'd been invited to Ivan's house for a braai (South African for barbecue) and trudged down there to be confronted with a rather large pile of what used to be animals. Ivan fired them up for several hours in expert fashion which we have come to expect from South Africans – whipping up a braai is the national sport, and you'd be extremely hard pressed to find a South African man who would even be able to pronounce the word “vegetarianism”. Entire racks of beef ribs are sold in South African supermarkets as well as other hunks of meat weighing up to and including several tons. This is hardcore braai country.

Ivan, braaimaster extraordinaire, throws another zebu onto the coals

As tanked up on meat as we possibly could be, we piled into the bed of a bakkie (South African for a pickup truck, the driving of which is South Africa's second national sport) and rumbled through Strand's mean streets to a heaving Seafarer where we managed to negotiate our way to a bench with a good view to the big screen. Carl had removed his jacket to display his uniform for the night – a Spanish shirt, a Spanish scarf, a yellow vuvuzela, a Spanish scarf draped superhero-style around his neck and a slightly glazed look due to the beer ingested at the braai. His cheering and encouragement of the Spanish team became increasingly vociferous (for some reason he chose to cheer for “Español!!!!!” - surely a reflection of his state rather than the lamentable state of his Spanish grammar) and thus was born the legend of Spain-O-Man. After the final, which wasn't particularly memorable, Spain-O-Man disappeared for half an hour, reappeared again and invited us along with Gerhard to celebrate the Spanish victory at his place.

"ESPAÑAAA!! WITH AN A!!!"

White men can't help other white men to jump

If it hadn't been for my idea to film parts of the evening we may never have realised quite how funny alcohol makes people seem. Spain-O-Man eventually retired to bed several hours before we left and was rather ill the next day (we assume his illness was unrelated to anything that happened on World Cup final day). Even superheroes can't always be on top of their game.

Yaarrrr! Rest well, Spain-o-man!

Fun and Games with the Brits

10^th June - 14^th July – Days 253-287 – Stories from Strand, South Africa

Dixon and Lukas, who we'd met in Sudan all those months ago, had been in South Africa for quite a longer while than us, but a lack of wheels on both sides (we had none, theirs was broken down) we hadn't managed to meet up yet. On the days between the Second round and the Quarter final though, this would change. We'd arranged to meet up in Cape Town as they were lounging in Stellenbosch and it was convenient for both of us to get into town. Mav (as Lukas was more commonly known due to his preference for Tom-Cruise-in-Top-Gun style aviator sunglasses) had got the car fixed and so they were finally back in business. We had a lazy day in Cape Town, sipping cocktails in a string of happy-hour-priced establishments and catching up the lost time from the last 7 months, and promised to meet up soon.

Mav explores his sensitive side with a few Cosmos. Dixon explores his sensitive caveman side by munching on a maraschino cherry

Mav, T, Laura, Dixon, Matt, M. It's business-face time.

On the days we'd lined up, Mav couldn't make it but he was ably replaced by Sal, a friend of Dixon's from university days who lived in Sydney and had come over for a few weeks, and we picked them up at Strand train station. Dixon, with his usual political correctness had nicknamed him “the terrorist” although we're not sure why (I doubt his Pakistani origins and beard had anything to do with it). Any comparison with Osama bin Laden quickly dissipated after he proved himself to be an able drinker of beer and the few lingering doubts were extinguished as he joined Dixon and me on the beach in his boxers one morning for a swim and a quick kickabout of Dixon's football. He was good fun and we liked him immediately, and he completed the unphotogenic quartet to make any pictures of the four of us utterly repulsive. It seems he liked us too, as a few days later they were back.

Dixon explores his traitor side by delivering a fiery speech on Argentina's right to the Falklands

Sal joins the gang

And proves himself immediately

Being good hosts, of course, we took the lead in cooking the dinner for us although, as the cooking got underway, I realised that we had no cheese left. This would have been a disaster for me at the best of times but given that cheese was urgently required in the dish, the lack of cheese took on an unprecedented urgency and Dixon was enlisted to drive me to the shop (for they had now come with the car) so that we could pick some up, while M and Sal entertained each other in the flat. As we sat in the car he turned to me and said “You know, this is the first time I'll have ever driven in the dark”. Despite the two of us having a few reservations about zipping down Strand's main road with someone at the wheel who'd never driven at night before, I don't think that either of us expected him to crash immediately. This is, however, exactly what happened. He engaged the reverse gear, probably said something along the lines of “right, let's go”, and reversed the newly-repaired car straight into the pillar that stood to the side of the car, taking a lump out of the driver's door and leaving his wing mirror hanging by its cables. For the next half hour (or so it seemed), he adopted a pose that one would more expect of a devoted Christian in a church, rather than a demoralised motorist in a car park, sinking to his knees and looking abject. What separated him most noticeably from God's faithful flock was the amount of cursing that his mutterings produced. It was a pitiful, yet highly comical scene.

CRASH

...and his ability to park his popcorn into his mouth is not much more developed

I'd managed to hold my nerve up until I got back upstairs to see if there was any duct tape or the like, although M and Sal had to wait until I'd got rid of my giggles to actually find out what had happened. There was no duct tape and M decided to put the cooking on pause as Dixon drove us to the Seafarer to ask if they'd have any equipment to help shore up the wing mirror while we got our cheese. The cable ties they had didn't work and so we went off to a petrol station down the road where the manager kindly donated some kind of blue sticky tape to us which did the job perfectly. The supermarkets were closed by this time and so we bought some crappy petrol station cheese and a 6-pack of eggs for the morning at extortionate prices. On our return, Dixon parked at the other end of the car park and refused to move it until it was time for them to go back to Stellenbosch, while everyone else managed to turn absolutely every conversation into a joke about driving or crashing for the remainder of the evening. We helped him drown his sorrows with 5 of the best in the Seafarer's "poncho challenge" as Dixon turned to the good stuff to escape this constant hounding and, on arriving to “Pirates”, a restaurant serving burgers and steak which remains open until 4am, he retired to the toilets for a nap, earning him further badgering. Sometimes it's just not worth getting up in the morning.

The poncho challenge laid out

Dixon gets the upper hand...

...but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

Of course, not all of our time together was debauchery and bumming around in substandard bars. Besides our morning at the beach, we also managed to visit Lourensford winery (quite a classy activity in these parts) to sample some of its products and look like we actually knew what we were talking about, swirling the wine around and so on. Most of the comments flying across the table were slightly negative or comically derogatory although this doesn't actually mean that the wines were bad. It just reflected the fact that we had no idea what we were talking about. Somehow, the conversation turned to the isolated Christian communities in the north west of Pakistan and we decided to find out if we could do a wine tour in the Kailash valley where we thought that one of these communities lived. One for the scrapbook I'm sure.

Wine tasting??? In PAKISTAN???????

The boys eventually left although it wouldn't be long before we saw them again. Our last day in Strand saw a massive power cut which would have affected the metro trains running from there. Dixon, always the good Samaritan (or rather sometimes the good Samaritan who decided to be a good Samaritan on that particular day) came to pick us in the rapidly deteriorating car to take us up to Stellenbosch.

A farewell gift from Strand, courtesy of Chris the Yank's printer (probably).