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Published: February 5th 2011
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We all have to start somewhere on the road to blogdom. And since I have just returned to Spain from a trip to southern Africa, what better than to test the water with that topic. Oh, and if you don't like a mix of flippant and serious, you might wish to stop right here.
South Africa has always been a whacky country, politics and that amazing first-world/third-world mix aside, if you can 'aside' such things. Where else would folk wear carved watermelons on their heads to sports matches? Where would folk drive about with plastic oranges on the tip of their car aerials? Where else do you find a tiny roadside shop boasting "Solly's Hairdresser and Car Wash"? Brazilians go to the beach wearing a tanga and carrying a small towel. South Africans go as though they were planning to emigrate to the sand - and every year they cart some new gizmo with them, one year it was portable barbecues, the next awnings capable of hosting a small circus, or a series of cooler designs all meant to keep the "good stuff" at perfectly drinkable temperature. So what was newer and whackier?
But the trip had a sad
start. My mother-in-law, the gracious Cynthia, had been battling an aggressive form of bone cancer for some time. Her hope and her eastern beliefs enabled her to maintain such wishes as "When I am better, I will visit you in Spain again". But, alas, that was not to be. An urgent phone message recommended that my wife, Diane, return sooner rather than later. We had already agreed that this time I would accompany her, delayed by a week or two. Cynthia departed from us four days after Diane had arrived in Johannesburg. So there we were, sad, but with the pressure removed. It was the perfect reason to unwind and shift focus to other things.
But instead of just leaping into a travelogue, perhaps I should start with a few reflections on how such a trip could affect us. We are both born-and-bred South Africans, me near to Cape Town (Somerset West in fact) and Diane in Johannesburg ... I know, traditional rivals, but that has not affected our relationship ... I think. In 1980 I joined an international company as a geologist and was soon offered the opportunity to work in foreign lands. A South African passport was not the ideal travel document at the time, so I availed myself of an Irish one based on my paternal grandfather's birth there. We spent a year in Zimbabwe and then it was away, to Europe and South America, with returns back to the RSA which became less frequent as time went on.
I suppose the point here is that I did not leave South Africa because of some liberal political conviction, or some need to flee a country whose future was looking progressively bleaker. I left because I loved geology, because I could see more of it this way, and ... uhm ... because the pay was way better.
Obviously time has passed since then, a lot of historical water had passed under the bridge, momentous events had occurred, and both Diane and myself have been changed by force of the environment in which we since lived. We are a small family, and these adventures made us progressively more rootless.
So how would a rootless South African feel on returning to a country that had undergone so many changes? What would I find? How would I judge these changes? What would shock or console me? Surely these would be equally important as enjoying the fine wines, good food, picturesque scenery, the company of friends, and the facilities for an intense exposure to nature? As keen but not fanatical birders we fully intended to maximise the latter. Bushbuck, baboons, birds, buffalo, and all that bush ... lemme at it!!
After a few sober days in Johannesburg we loaded up Cynthia's little Ford Fiesta. The first adjustment was a bit comical, as the vast difference from our short-wheelbase Toyota Landcruiser back in Spain became evident. That cooler box would have to stay; there was simply no room for it, and that orange on the aerial would have to go. And our viewing would be at knee- rather than at shoulder-level, depending on the animal of course. Would we get stuck?
Not to worry. We pointed the dark blue nose eastward and headed for Mpumalanga on our way to the Kruger National Park, that jewel in the crown of South Africa's wildlife havens. Mpuma ... what? It used to be the eastern Transvaal. And its new capital has a tricky name. Luckily everyone still refers to it as Nelspruit, at least for now. I was to learn more about labels later on. The first stop was … the toll booth on the highway. Ah well, good that the government is catering for income to keep the wonderful road system in tip-top shape. Little did we know. After a few hours of rumbling down the blacktop, it was time for lunch. The problem was that the surroundings were zillions of acres of grassland sprinkled liberally with black-wattle trees, the odd coal mine dump, and some settlements that did not look like they were accustomed to feeding passing birders.
So we were forced to dive into one of the mega service stations. Would the little Fiesta be safe here, we wondered. Three steps out of the car we encountered an attentive looking gentleman wearing a “security” sign on his back and carrying a lethal looking riotgun. The Fiesta would be just fine where she was.
“What do you want to eat?” I was asked. “Dunno, I’m not too hungry.” And then I remembered those glorious toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches of yesteryear, the ones with the crunchy outside and the soft tasty filling. I ordered. It arrived … finally. I unwrapped the parcel took a bite and pulled gently at it. I was alarmed to note that I was still attached to the sandwich by half-a-dozen thin filaments of remarkably ductile bright orange material. This presumably was described as cheese. I plucked, pulled, twisted, and it finally parted company.
I was left with two sticky orange filaments draped over my chin, which soon attached themselves to my neck. I finally subdued them with a handy paper serviette and then started to chew. The stuff was the putty-equivalent of the glue that is used on Post-It notes. It pretended to let go without quite doing so. From my wife’s look of disapproval I realised that my chewing motions must have become rather exaggerated and I suspected that, anyone foolish enough to look into my mouth, would have been greeted by the formidable sight of a fine electric-orange web, like from a scene from Alien. So I tentatively sucked at the mixture instead and it finally slid down. It tasted like … damp toast. I made a mental note not to try fast-food cheese-burgers either.
Mister Security seemed to be looking at me more intently than at other passers-by. I unconsciously wiped my chin with the back of my hand and nonchalantly walked past. We pointed the Fiesta north towards Dullstroom. What other novelties were awaiting us?
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