Home for Carnets - 12 Sep 2002
Flying for once
Why do things the easy way?
Blighty
Scully Stop Press
Back ëHomeí
Passing time in Cape Town
VSO bit
Leaving Capetown (1)
We whisked back to England care of KLM on a long haul involving three flights; Cape Town ñ Joíberg ñ Amsterdam ñ Birmingham. At Joíberg we had been daft enough to leave a painting on the plane when changing flights and whilst a dear man sorted out our stupidity we waited at the counter. A white Afrikaans ëladyí (I use the term loosely) began berating the poor man behind the desk. She apparently had travelled business class and her luggage had not come onto the carousel yet. She was in that mode where the targets for her abuse took the only options to let her rant and rave until she ran out of steam. Now Pat on the other hand took the non-pragmatic approach
I had to stand up for the poor chap behind the counter who was being given a bit of the ìGet my problem sorted now, Kafferî treatment. The guy had been straight onto his radio trying to find out what was going on even before she had got to speak to him as one of his colleagues had pre-emptively given him the low down. I am afraid I was extremely rude to this woman. What I said should really not be committed to the written word. She replied that communists like me should go back to where they come from!
The guy behind the counter was quite delighted when the lady departed and congratulated me on my lack of diplomacy. This is the second example I have seen of counter staff dealing with stroppy customers in South Africa and I have to say that their crisis management skills are most impressive.
Back in the UK, I saw the homeland a little more through the eyes of a foreigner. Arriving in Brummy International it was warming to see the number of non-whites catching flights. Having just left Cape town where the non-whites seemed only be there to work and it seems did not have the money to catch a flight.
Having collected my luggage and I shambled out in need of red bull having had no sleep and knowing this was only 8am and I had to make it through to civilised sleeping time. CP to newsagent and the necessary purchased I then realised that I was a little overdressed on a scorching English summerís day. While everyone else was in short and strappy tops, I was still in winter CT gear, complete with long johns, fleece and motorcycle jacket. As I starred vacantly around the foyer, looking for a toilet sign to divest myself of sauna wear, my sister managed to approach silently and be right under my noise before I spotted her.
Strengthened by some coffee, we hit the complexities of Birmingham road system in a car, that more than demands attention it summons it. This is a low, wide, long, red sports American number, with of course the steering wheel on the wrong side, which allows visibility at junctions to the passenger mostly.
In theory the trip to my friendís house in Notts. was relatively simple. Follow the M6 south and then turn off to Coventry. However, there is a bolognaise of spaghetti junctions around Birmingham, all relying on a driver to know which lane to be in, with split second precision, whilst travelling at the obligatory maximum speed. Needless to say, we spent the next hour and a half ending up going North on the M6 trying to go back the other way and ending up on the M5 slip road, due to contra flow systems not being able to get to the correct turn off. Basically without 2 hours all my worst fears of the UK had been fulfilled, too much traffic, too fast and junctions too complex. The only compensations were a lovely man in a Merc who seemed to hold back traffic as we clearly dithered at sign posts and the fact that Mary was very tolerant of my poor navigating. Although she was too polite to say, she must have been thinking, ëHow on earth did this girl manage to navigate her way around the world?í
In the end I reverted back to familiar territory and navigated us successfully through the suburbs of Birm. Where the junctions are of the traditional, non-slip road variety.
My return to the UK had some more twists to it. Having landed in Amsterdam at 5:00 in the morning with no sleep on the flight, I had to find the cheapest way to Paris to meet up with the stag party. This turned out to be the overnight train to Paris GdeN. So I spent the day wandering around in Paris and even managed to get a couple of hours kip in a park recommended by the girl in the train ticket office.
Back at the station at 10:30, I boarded the train for Paris which, of course, was filled to the gills with dope smoking Inter-railers. I guess the police avoid raiding this train simply because there would be so many offences taking part they would not know where to start.
In Paris, I had another pointless day shambling about waiting for the stag party. A couple of hours kip and a good walk around found me back at the Gare de Nord in time to meet an already inebriated party of chaps staggering off the train ready for an all night session. I only managed ëtil 4:00 in the morning and then had to try and find a spot to get some shut eye. I failed miserably and in fact stayed awake until the rest of the guys turned up at 8:30 to get the train home.
One hours kip on the train and a trip across London on the tube (I had been horrified at Waterloo to find that you now have to pay for station trolleys ñ really helpful to our foreign visitors who arrive off the train with no local change to put in the lock!) found me at the door of Webmaster Willy who took me in and gave me coffee. I guess I must have seemed a bit hyper and being the gentle soul that he is, he did not wake me until 7:30 the next morning after I had crashed out at 3 in the afternoon having taken a lovely hot bath.
Being at ëhomeí was something of a blur. We spent most of the time up at JP and Trishaís pad for which we are very grateful. We even had the chance to do domestic things like gardening and cooking on a real cooker.
For my part I realised that gardening and cooking in a proper cooker instead of a one ring camping stove, are honestly the only things I have missed.
A main project for our time in Britain was to renew the Carnet for the bike. I rang up the AA to tell them what I wanted only to be told that they do not issue carnets any more. Nice of them to tell me that beforehand. So, back to square one and dealing with a new accounts manager at the bank meant that the process took almost as long as last time (refer back to the prologue). Suffice to say, the process was not complete before we headed back to South Africa.
I had had the task of renewing our medical insurance. Who not only put up the premium but also tried to uninsured me for dental treatment arguing that an extraction was an ongoing condition. After a firm conversation a convinced them otherwise. Bar stewards.
Mary had arranged a weekend with my other sister Jane and the Peak district was gorgeous. Although the UK lacks the dramatic countryside of other parts of the world, its unique dry stone walls and hedgerows make it some of the worldís prettiest. It is easy to see why so many fall for this country. A dash to the Cotswolds for the Hen night merely compounded this view of the UK.
Trish and JP married on the 30th September and we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. The gathering included many of our friends and we managed to catch up with gossip and we were chuffed to hear that many people have been giving to our chosen charities. It was so nice to know that there is something good coming of all this as well as a fantastic jolly up for us.
I was left with a feeling that although it had been fantastic to catch up with everyone, somehow we were not on the same wavelength and that the physical distance had grown into a distance of ethos. Donít get me wrong I love my friends to death, and probably always will, but we have different goals, and different means of measuring success to some. All in all, it was marvellous to have an excuse to visit the UK, but so far I see it as strange to picture myself living back here.
A friend asked me ëWhen are you going back?í ëIím going home on Tuesdayí - this just slipped out. It wasnít until I heard the words out loud that I realised what I had said. There was a lot of meaning in these simple words. England no longer felt like home and travelling from place to place with our little tent did feel like home. How a tent and motorbike can be home I donít know? But it is.
I was embarrassed by the number of people that felt the need to apologise for the ordinariness of their lives. Apart from the fact that their lives felt very extra-ordinary to me, and even surreal. As I am sure mine may have seemed to them.
The truth is I donít have the strength to face the stresses that Britain imposes and am full of admiration for those that can drive a course through it and remain sane. Those that have the guts and responsibility to bring up children, when I can only just muster up the nerve to have responsibility for myself. To me there is a fine line between adventurousness and cowardice ñ remember I am the one running away from every elseís reality.
I must say that Hippy seems to feel things rather more than I do. There are obviously many advantages to living in the UK. I get a bit vexed by the fact that things donít happen in the blink of an eye. After traipsing through the African jungle ñ and by that I mean the hassle involved with any organisation of repairs, paperwork or whatever, I was kind of looking forward to instant response. Regrettably it was too much to ask and many simple tasks have had to be completed with the aid of the net. All of that having been said, buses ran to timetables and shelves in supermarkets were full. Canít be bad. The obvious pros and cons leave us still looking for our ideal home.
Scully made it to Cape Town. Stop.
Bike blew up 200km short. Stop.
Valve cracked. Stop.
Using 10l of oil in 50km. Stop.
Stopped by police twice. Stop.
Forced to abandon and put bike on truck. Stop.
Good effort mate!
Things are back to an African pace of life. We arrived and of course the bike had not finished itís service, so ideaís of just picking it up and disappearing off on phase two were rather hit on the head.
To be fair, the recurring gearbox drama had had a few extra twists. The nice guys at the bike shop had found cracks in the casing and had found a new casing for me at a knocked down price. All of the extra work had taken time and as they were doing work on the cheap for us, their prime working hours were devoted to premier customers and we had been put to the back of the queue of jobs.
We had decided to do the usual thing to minimise the effects of a sleepless night on the plane and stay up till sensible retirement time. This could be considered to be questionable in judgement, as while we were preparing dinner, I turned to see Pat lying face down on the kitchen floor amidst a pile of chopped tomatoes. His foot looked badly twisted and a fumbled around trying to straighten it. Thankfully, there were no lasting injuring and even the potential embarrassment scar was absent as he only had me for an audience (this in a backpackers place is quite a rarity, maybe we do have a guardian angel). Maybe, a take out on such a sleepless day would have been a wiser choice.
I must point out that I had fallen over an awkwardly placed piece of furniture ñ not fallen over drunk.
You have doubtless heard about the crime rate in Capetown and I will be thankful if our only brush with it was a chap ñ too obviously engaging me in flattering conversation as he unsubtly tried unsuccessfully to open my rucksack. No harm done, but a little warned.
Having to spend time by the phone awaiting exciting news about the bike meant that we wasted a lot of time at the hostel. Fortunately it was quite a civilised place by backpacker standards. Many of the guests were on language courses and so we had quiet evenings and lots of space during the day. One time after tea, we had a game of monopoly with a Dutch couple. The game was frustrating in many ways. Hippy does not understand the concept behind Monopoly and seems to permanently run some kind of cooperative. The Dutch guy, Nills, had more luck than can be believed. Having landed on the equivalent of Park Lane and Mayfair in the run up to the house buying stage of the game, he promptly developed hotels on them and wrapped up the game in about two more rounds. I still believe his proximity to the bank box had something to do with it.
The following night we played again. This time Mr. Lucky managed to pick up one of each of the sets in the normal run of play and therefor claimed victory. Ursula and Hippy could not get their heads around the fact that he could simply run the game out without trading with anyone and eventually win. We have made a small alteration to an age old expression and now use ëthe luck of the Dutchí. As my family will bear out, I am one of the most level headed losers of the game of Monopoly and there is no question of sour grapes here.
My only minor gripe is that the person, who I let off his rent, because he would have gone bankrupt, later failed to show me the same courtesy. Clearly, I should avoid the cut-throat business world, if I return to work.
We got an email through from VSO in Joíberg and found out that there was a volunteer working for the Big Issue in Cape Town. Not having been given a contact number, we used our Sherlock Antcliff and Doctor Watson techniques and simply bought a copy of the magazine and looked her up on the staff list at the beginning to get her number.
We set off to meet her in down town CT and, by a strange coincidence, pulled up at a set of traffic lights where the paper was being sold. We apologised to the vendor pointing out that we had already bought an issue. The bloke in the car next to us said ìWaste of moneyî. He looked bewildered when we pointed out to him that the aim was to help the homeless. Clearly there is confusion locally as to what the point of the paper is. Not surprisingly when people sell the daily paper informally on the streets, everyone thinks that the Big Issue is another mainstream news publication.
Nikky is an accountant with unenviable task of managing the affairs of The Big Issue to try and keep them afloat. In her experience back in Blighty, she would have looked at the business and made the decision that it was not viable. This is not so easy to do with a charitable organisation. The basis of the accounting boils down to the street vendors receiving a minimum of 51% of the selling price. The rest of the price is obviously not enough to cover the price of printing and there is an endless task of trying to raise funds from advertising and donors to keep it alive.
Donations please?
We decided to take Nikky up on her invitation to climb Table Mountain the following day and met up with her and a couple of friends. We were a little worried when in conversation the short walk became a hike and Nikkyís fitness level transformed from very out of shape to ëhave joined a gymí and mention of the running club crept in here and there.
Table Mountain (youíve all seen pictures) is basically very steep sided. Hippy is not too keen on steep ups and Iím a bit porky for steep downs and so the day was quite hard work for both of us. We were glad we did it though as we got the whole effect ñ clear views, lovely weather and finally the weird effect of the mist creeping in form the sea to cover Cape Town below us. Lovely.
Next day, we were as stiff as you like, and only just managed to creak onto the bike to head off to Paarl to see Mike and Patsy at Mikeís leaving do before he sets off on a jolly jaunt as driver for ìGetawayî magazineís Cape Town to Cairo jaunt with a Landrover.
Some people have all the luck, and heís not even Dutch. It was lovely to enjoy their hospitality again, not to mention some great food, and a chance to thank their son Matthew in person for the use of his flat.
The rain fell throughout the BBQ, sorry braai, and their offer of staying the night was increasingly attractive. But if we ever to make it to Joíberg to collect a parcel of stuff sent to ourselves at the VSO office before we left a year ago, we must brave it. We dragged ourselves away about 3.30 and got 2 hours nearer to our goal.
Next morning the rain was dreadful, and the sky in the Jíberg direction was no improvement. In full biking wet suits, we set off. 150miles down the road, the sky had cleared and we were heading for blueness. Pat discovered that the gear box was pissing oil. A phone call to the garage in Capetown and it looks like theyíll do the work for nought and loan us a bike. Now the worst part of this, is we had just dried off and now we had to head back into the rain clouds.