3000 km separated me from Aili who was in Cape Town, not that the corrupt immigration officers at Lobito harbour cared. On the contrary they did their best to hinder me to get down to Cape Town by refusing me to leave the boat. After 36 hours they realized I wasn’t going to pay any bribes and I was finally let ashore. I wasn’t allowed to stay with my friend Kabila, and the immigration officers chased him away then they stalked me as I walked around town. This made me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I quickly left for Benguela, coincidentally [View Full Entry]

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Somewhere north of Tsumeb in northern Namibia the German influence ceased. I found myself back in the African cultural heartland - unorganized, dirty, crowded and vibrant. After some lame attempts by the Angolan border-police to extract bribes, I was inside the country, swarmed by teenage moneychangers. In a dirty 4x4 a fat white man with a wry face, sat jammed between the seat and the steering wheel, which sank into his belly. He would take me as far as Xangongo for a beer, he said, which sounded great to me although I had no clue where it was. [View Full Entry]

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High were my expectations of the Namibian capital. A castle Neuschwanstein perched on the slopes between the Eros and Auas mountain chains, with a quaint cobblestoned town centre of thatched roof houses, was the least I expected. Of course this wasn’t the case as we arrived at six o’ clock to a nondescript bus-station, next to a soulless mall and the sky was as grey as in a Philip K. Dick inspired science fiction movie. The sun never rose that day, instead that grey excuse for a sky shed yet more dreariness to the capital with its neat and tid [View Full Entry]

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They found a map of the crossroad between Africa, Asia and Europe where someone had jotted down sharp lines for borders; “Modest claims by Theodore Herzl”, it said. The map wasn’t of much help to them. They opened an atlas named the “The spread of the humble Jihad” and they looked at a map that depicted the Mediterranean Sea with Arabic symbols and swords drawn on it. “I recognise this sea, but not all these symbols.” The ghost said. They went through a number of atlases and maps until they finally found a map that the ghost recognised. It was a [View Full Entry]

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“I never thought I would get out again. Hurrah!” The Pipemaker and the fairy looked at each other astonished and quite a bit amused. “So, who would you be then, if I may ask?” The Pipemaker asked the little green man. “My name is I and I’m the genie of the bag.” He proudly announced with a perky accent. “Wow, so that means that I’ll get three wishes now!” The fairy exclaimed excitedly. “Hold your donkeys Ms. that was a long time ago. Things have changed, these days you’re lucky if even one [View Full Entry]

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The Flipperty Gibbets did what they knew best; giggled, then led the fairy into the kingdom. The road was a patchwork of donated tar, a scar tissue of asphalt. On an open field to her right, a group of kids taught a crimson kite to fly by gently stretching its string with rhythmic pulls, then giving it some slack to try its own wings and rise above the silhouette of the Table Mountain and the tree pepper pots that now stood aligned on the slope of Devil’s Peak. On the other side of the road a colourful kindergarten exhaled, exhausted [View Full Entry]

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Outside, the sun was baking. Two boys stood talking to a young woman in the doorway of a large shed. They stood holding blueprints and scale-rulers and were talking about things the fairy didn’t understand. As they saw her they stopped discussing and the young woman said: “Hi. You must be the fairy that Buffy told me would arrive one day.” She said. “The fairy that wants to fix her broken wings.” “That would be me.” The fairy answered with a sigh. “Maybe we can help you, then.” The young woman said and brushed a plait of brown [View Full Entry]

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Without a doubt the fairy would have overslept and missed the full moon if it hadn’t been for Siren - the farm’s grey donkey - braying his usual three o’ clock wake-up-call. A wake-up call that, as usual, turned into a wake-up-jam-session as the aptly named roosters; Posy and Florid, joined in with their cacophonous crowing. The young man was still asleep. Careful not to not wake him up, she sneaked out of the tent. It was pitch black outside, not even the stars could be seen since dark clouds filled the sky. “He must have been mistaken” [View Full Entry]

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A mere stone throw away from the Turkish bath was a hair saloon. Moscow Carmine, she read in bright red letters on the door to the saloon, as she opened it. The saloon was empty but for a barber who was busy cutting with his scissors in the air. “Hi.” The fairy said with a hesitant voice. Mr Moscow - the barber - didn’t notice and continued with what he was doing. “I’m looking for the Dreamweaver.” She exclaimed. Mr Moscow froze in mid-air and looked like a petrified starling. He laid down his scissors and turned to the mirror [View Full Entry]

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She walked and walked, and looked and looked but there was no Fynbos Kingdom to be found and eventually she stopped at a quaint, old Indian woman selling dried roots and peculiar nuts at the roadside. “Excuse me. Do you know where I can find the Dream weaver or the Fynbos Floral Kingdom perhaps?” She asked. “Oh, it’s not everyday someone comes by asking for that. Come inside, we should not weather such matter on this street of a thousand ears.” Inside the store the shelves were full of claw like fruits, leaves, huge tubers, bulb scales, rhizome [View Full Entry]

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