Somewhere in the Namib Desert

We're at another campsite, but this one's a little nicer than the previous one. I'm currently in the bar, my laptop plugged into a mains socket. So, this means there'll be a few more words yet.

Last night was cold. After the first couple of nights, I thought I was going to be okay, but last night I woke at around 3am, shivering. I put a fleece on, but it wasn't really enough. I use this word carefully, but 'luckily', we were rising at 5am to get on the road. I asked Bjorn if it was likely to be as cold tonight. Whether or not it's because he's Belgian, Bjorn hasn't quite got the hang of looking on the bright side. He said, 'It'll be a little warmer than last night, but that's because we're rising at 4am to see the dawn over Dune 45. The coldest part of the night is just before dawn, and we're missing that.' Thanks, Bjorn. Before bed we'd sat round the fire telling jokes. This was a bit of a challenge, since you had to somehow avoid jokes based on wordplay, since few people spoke English as a first language. And since there were a couple of kids present, we had to go easy on the profanities. So, the 'best' jokes were those that were utterly filthy, but only if you understood them.

So, most of today was spent on the road. The main roads are little more than tracks, and it's a rough ride, but it's amazing how one is able to adapt, even sleeping when being bounced off the walls. We stopped first when we saw some Springbok, then again when we saw a family of ostriches. I commented to Bjorn that I supposed the journey was only fifty kilometers, but that we'd be stopping every ten minutes. Evie, I suppose being a dairy farmer, and thus good at spotting animals, proved to be adept at picking out game from the rolling scrubland.We stopped for lunch by the side of the road, and were inundated by dozens of 'Armoured' Crickets. These are about two inches long in the body, plus legs and antennae. They're not exactly 'cuddly'. At one point, I looked down to see one sitting on my sandal-shod foot. It was all I could do not to leap in the air, but I held it together and it duly trotted on its way.

We arrived at camp around 3pm. The tents are up, and we're in a small, walled grove, about fifty metres from the bar and swimming pool. Very pleasant. The two Spanish girls are sunbathing (natch), and Magda and Artten are swimming. Magda is Polish, Artten is from Finland (or, as previously mentioned, Mettalica), and they're a couple. They met on a language exchange in Holland, had their first 'date' in London, and now they've been studying in Cape Town for a bit. They're good fun, and they have good English – due in no small part to the fact it's their best common language, so they carry on in English, with the odd Finnish or Polish profanity thrown in. I find it fascinating to watch a couple of carrying out a relationship in a second language. I'm not sure I could do it. I'm not sure I could date a woman who's first language isn't my own, as I'm difficult to understand in England at the best of times. Let's add that to the criteria list, shall we? This is truly 'desert-ed'. There are mountains around, and some trees, but it feels more like we're at an oasis. One of the great things about this trip so far, is that every campsite has been a total contrast from the last. It's an utter cliché to those who've visited Africa, and probably makes little sense to those who haven't, but the sky is massive here, and the sunsets mesmerising – and made so much better with a beer in one's hand. I'm not sure it's the taste of the beer, the photo opportunity, or feeling like you're in the last scene of 'Ice Cold in Alex', but there's something very emotional about it. I find myself thinking about everything I've done, everything I haven't done and everything I could have done in my life, all in the passing of a day....

Ahem, not sure what happened there. Cut to some of Bjorn's 'stupid client' stories. Amongst others... when staring at the night sky, a woman asked 'should I keep looking for a shooting star, or should I focus on one star and wait for it to shoot'. I'll save the rest until I (and so, I guess, you, dear reader) are struggling a bit. I'm heading back to the tent and food before the sun goes down. It's going to be cold.

Hobbas Camp - Namibia

I spent last night knocking seven shades of sh1t out of my testicles.

Well, I had dinner first. We had mealie-pap – a traditional African dish consisting of ground up corn, mixed with water and cooked to the consistancy of mashed potato. Bland on it's own, but it's traditionally eaten with the right hand, rolling it into a ball, then using it to scoop the various gravies and sauces. We had a meat thing, and a peanuty sate vegetable thing. I asked Lissom, our assistant guide and cook what was in it, expecting a list of ingredients. 'Peanut butter and cabbage', he said. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out.

After dinner, we hit the bar. The barman, Leon, was a Cape Town guy who was working there for a few months, having just come back from an eighteen-month stint in London. It was fantastic to be able to talk to another native English speaker. We got each other's jokes, and everything! It was funny seeing the remarks I've been making that have been sailing over everyone's heads suddenly finding somewhere to land. Anyway, my Swiss bus-mate, Radda, is into 'fire dancing' – that is, swinging two lit balls on chains around in spectacular fashion. She had some new ones that hadn't yet been 'sooted', so I spent half an hour practicing. I'm getting quite good, and I aim to do it with fire by the end of three weeks. I kept smacking myself with them, though. The knocks weren't too bad, until a spectacular double-hit to the nether regions sent me reeling backwards onto the floor, uttering all manner of expletives, to much hilarity from those still drinking in the bar. I crawled back to the table, answering their enquiring stares with, 'It's just the left one. The right one's fine.' It must be something to do with the way, in taylor's parlance, I 'dress'. Anyway, there's a small core of us forming who quite like more than one drink a night, so together with Leon, we played 'Jenga with dares'. Each piece had a handwritten instruction on it. I won't go into details, suffice to say that by ten pm, I was wearing Heidi's jumper, and yelling 'bus!' at our truck (they hate it when you call them busses). Fairly vanilla stuff

So, some of us went cannooing today. There were about eight of us with various levels of fitness and expertise. Watching the two Korean girls, though, was one of the funniest things I've seen in a while. Round and round in circles, they went. It was a leisurely glide down the river, with a couple of 'rapids' that were so torpid they were 'ungraded', according to Leon, who was 'guiding' us. We had a good laugh, mainly at the Koreans.

Anyhoo, we jumped on the truck as soon as we were back at the camp. We headed to the Namibian border, which consisted of a portacabin with a young bloke inside wearing a jacket two sizes too big for him, and with an hilarious photo of 'his excellency' the President on the wall. The road is fairly awful now, and it was a couple of hours to the camp, which was 'sandy', but with a rather cold breeze. We pitched, then headed straight to Fish River Canyon to hike and catch the sunset. The canyon is, apparently, the second deepest in the world and there's an eighty-five kilometer hike you can do in winter. Not in summer, though: it reaches over fifty degrees centegrade at the bottom. We hiked along the edge for twenty minutes, and were met by the truck, snacks, and some beers we'd bought earlier. To be honest, while the canyon is stunning, the sunset was rather hazy, with little contrast. I think it would be great to see it from the other side of the canyon (or, come to think of it, just see the sunrise instead). There was a Dragoman truck there, too, and heard a group of english guys...'So, your first pick is Annelka. Why do you want Annnelka?' To be honest, I think I'm happy to be on the Nomad truck.

And now we're back at camp. We're clicking as a group now, and I can hear lots of laughter outside, round the fire. This trip's beginning to take off. Just need some more engish speakers. We're losing Evie, our kiwi dairy farmer, at Windhoek, but gaining two Australian girls. Whether this is a trade-up, down, or across, remains to be seen...

So it's a twelve hour drive tomorrow – longest of the trip. We're waking up at five. Lucky we had a huge spag bol tonight. There's nothing more important than heavy carb loading when you're going to be sitting on a truck for half a day.

Bushwacker Camp - Banks of the Orange River

I'm sitting on the bank of the Orange River as the sun goes down, gazing across at Namibia. We've just been for a swim, and I'm just drying. Some of us swam over to the Namibian bank, and I had visions of trying to explain to Bjorn how two army trucks pulled up and arrested everyone in their swimsuits. This can only be described as idylic. We've been on the road for about ten hours today, but it didn't feel like it. We're the only people at this campsite, I'm twenty metres from the river, and once again, the showers are ace. The bar's just opened and, wouldn't you know it? Jack Johnson. He really has got the summer-surf-beach-riverbank-bbq market sewn up, hasn't he.

So, I woke at 3am to the sound of water dripping on my sleeping bag. We'd left the windows and doors open, but a steady drizzle had started. I closed the flaps, but by the morning the tent was soaked on the outside. I'm told it happens every night in the mountains. It's chillier at night, and Bjorn advised heavy sleeping bags, but my combination of summer bag and silk liner seems to be doing the trick. The showers here were awesome, though – just the tonic needed – and we were on the road by quarter to seven.

Not too much to say about this, you'll be pleased to know. A stop for lunch, then a stop in the town of 'Springbok', jus9uuuuuuuuuuu.

...Sorry, I had to drop the laptop and dash after a dog. It grabbed one of my sandals from outside the tent. Do you know how hard it is to free a sandal from a dog's mouth. There were four of us chasing it. Still, it's moments like this that bring a group together. Things are better now. It's still not my 'perfect' group, but second day and I can hear conversations all around me now. I think, perhaps, it's because we now have shared experiences. You can always make conversation with anyone, but sharing experiences lets you fill in the gaps. Anyway, yes, we stopped in Springbok – a mining town named after the water supply there, rather than the animal. I bought some 'Springbok' biltong, too – licenced by SA rugby and it's Halal. My goodness, what an untapped market. So, I guess I'd best go get a beer

'Gecko' Backpackers - Cederberg Mountains.

I'm sitting in a two-man tent, on terraces on the side of a hill covered in orange trees. There is a good chance I will throw up orange juice tonight at some point...

So, despite only being at the hostel four days, the staff decided that I should have 'leaving drinks', so instead of packing, then a nice early night, I got to bed at 2am, thoroughly befuddled. I made the mistake of asking Chrissie if anyone had ever told her she was a scary woman. For this, I was made to drink a 'Dorset'. I'm still not sure what was in it, but it curdled...

I arrived at the Nomad offices at quarter to eight this morning (storming down Long Street with huge rucksack, a hangover and my best 'F**k with someone else!' expression) and walked into the meeting room. I'm not really sure what I expected. I certainly didn't expect the Canadian-Family Robinson. Yup, mum, dad and four kids. Hmmm. French-Canadian, actually. Mum and Dad had that 'look' about them – you know, 'Bill Bryson-esque', if you will. They both had 'quirky' red glasses on. The older girl (somewhere over sixteen) came up to me and introduced herself and her younger brother. Carrying a hangover, as I was, my first thought was, 'precocious little f***ers!'

This is is certainly a weird and disparate group of people, and I'm struggling a bit. I'm sharing a two-man tent with a german bloke, who's standard response to anything seems to be, 'I thought you were a man!'. That's when he's not complaining about the cold. Or his lost sunglasses. Actually, he's not a bad bloke. Just has a sort of clumsy arrogance to his sense of humour. So, we left on 'Ella', our bus. They're all named after singers. We spotted another of the newer trucks with 'Kurt' on the side, and I'm wondering if the age of the singers corresponds to the age of the bus. Sorry, TRUCK: The guides get annoyed if we refer to them as busses. Bjorn, a Belgian guy, was our head guide and driver. He looks a bit like Robocop without the helmet after a few weeks in the South of France. Or Ed Harris, perhaps. We also had a couple of others with us – an assistant/cook called Lissom and a trainee guide called something like Aleesa – both from Zimbabwe.

It's been a bit of a funny day, with the group not really clicking immediately. We have such a mix. A family of six, as I mentioned, two Spanish girls, four or five Koreans, a girl from SA born of German parents and now living in NZ, a German, a Swiss, a girl from the Faroe Islands, and a couple from Finland, one of whom looked like he may have once been in a Metallica tribute band (or come to think of it, Metallica). Our first stop was at the 'Gecko' backpackers, in the Cederberg Mountains. This is a World Heritage site, apparently (the mountains, not the backpackers). After Bjorn showed us how to pitch our tents, the owner – an avuncular chap called Rheinhardt – took us on a walk through the hills, then down through the Orange groves. He encouraged us to grab as many as we liked, and they tasted fantastic. It's harvest at the moment, and they have crews working flat out with ladders, filling bins with oranges. They're paid a basic rate, but heavily incentivised by results. They're also paid as teams, to encourage discipline. As he described them, I don't know, I got a funny feeling. Perhaps it's the way all bosses describe their unskilled workers. As we took photos of some pickers around a tree, they all came dashing over, and suddenly five ladders were against the tree. He said, 'Look, they'll start acting and clowning for the camera, now.' He was a really nice bloke, but he just sounded mildly patronising...'They can be real lazy, too, hey?'

Anyway, dinner was 'pwoikee' (no clue how to spell it, but think Bradd Pitt in 'Snatch') – another of those long-cook stews. Reminded me of the stew mum used to make, actually – although I'm fairly sure her's wasn't derived from 'slave' cooking. A big talk on the trip from Bjorn, then. Lots of rules and rotas. This felt very 'schoolboy', but I guess they've developed these over years to keep everyone happy. We rotate seats every day, for instance. A few made especially good sense, though – amongst them, strict rules about handwashing in the provided bowl before every meal. I'm on the 'packing crew', which means I get to skip food duties and stand on the truck roof every morning, packing tents and mattresses. We then went around the room doing introductions. The Canadian mother is a university professor in communicable diseases, which does not suprise me a jot. Father works in the Canadian IP office. He likes to travel with his family – 'we love to travel together'. I could practically smell the cheddar. Yes, but has he asked the kids? Oldest daughter is seventeen and at university – she 'skipped a couple of grades'. Interesting. Rather surreally, one of the Korean women really wants to visit Namibia because she 'really likes Angelina Jolie'. Apparently, she got one of her kids from Windhoek. Bjorn said, 'I can show you the restaurant she went to and where she went quadbiking. I know where she stayed....'
I said, 'Ah, Bjorn, clearly you like Angelina Jolie!'
Silence.
Somewhere, in the distance, a bell tolled. I yearn for some English speakers. Or maybe I'm kidding myself that's the issue.

We have to wake up early too – on the road by six-thirty, so up an hour before. My tentmate ('they have no word for “fluffy”') decided we should awaken fifteen minutes earlier...

'Then vee get to za shower ferst.'
'Ah, perhaps we could put our beach towels there the night before...'
'Was is das “beach”?'
'Don't worry about it.'

So, signing off before he returns from the showerblock.

The Cape

So, I was on a 'Cape Tour' today. We were picked up at eight-fifteen (which hurt after bed after 1 and being woken up at 5am). 'Alexi' was our guide, and we had a mini-bus with a trailer on the back with about eight bikes on it. Kelly (teetotal, works in a bar, from DC), I and a couple of older Americans were there from our hostel, together with two Dutch girls and a British guy on his own. A boat trip, seals, a Bit of biking, bit of hiking, the obligatory Cape Point and Cape of Good Hope photographs, and lots and lots of penguins.

The British guy, Jack, had been in Zimbabwe on a tour, and did a bit of scaremongering, but I trust the tour company to know whether or not Victoria Falls is safe. The most depressing thing about today was seeing out-of-work people standing at every junction, waiting for work. The unofficial unemployment figures are somewhere north of forty percent, and it shows. The major problem is lack of skills. I don't know if this was publicised in the UK, or anywhere else in the world, but since last Thursday, around eighteen thousand 'Foreign Nationals' in the Cape Town area have moved out of the townships due to violence from locals blaming them for 'taking their jobs'. Cape Town has set up six 'refugee centres' to deal with the problem, and are now 'denying' the outbreak of disease' within the camps. The more I find out about this place, the less I like it.

Anyway, I'm now just getting up-to-date, going to grab a Nando's (mmmm - all that chickeny-goodness!) and go pack before having a beer or three with whoever happens to wander into the bar. Love it. On a truck tomorrow, so going to be out of touch for a bit...

Interlude - anecdote

Clearly, they get all sorts staying here – and from the stories, some of the niaivity is breath-taking. Alex swears this is true... a guy arrived here, was standing outside the hostel with his phone in his hand. A 'local' came up to him, holding a book with Nelson Mandela on the cover (he's well known in this parts...), offering it to him for fifty rand. He hands the guy the book, and the guy gives him is phone to hold. Voom! - the guy is away on his toes up the street. The book, of course, is rubbish, with a fake cover. Seeing this, a young teenager walks over, and tells him he can get his phone back for 100R. The guy gives him the money and, of course, Voom! Seeing this, an older local wanders over and sympathises with him ('kids today', etc.). He remarks that he's most worried about the phone numbers, and the local tells him he can get his sim card back for fifty rand. Still, having not learned his lesson, the guy hands over the cash and Voom! - he's now one phone and one-hundred-and-fifty rand down. At this point, I believe he cut his losses and went back to the hostel.

The twist, then, was that, coming out of the hostel later, the same older local guy lurched up to him, clearly drunk, and gave him his sim card. Apparently as soon as they have the phone, they throw the card in the gutter...

True story.

Bar

Norway and, um, Balham

So, a few drinks tonight, in the bar, since it's the Norwegian girls' last night. I've been gently playing the 'high roller' bit, buying drinks for some of the 'youngsters' – since beers are only seventy or so pence each, you could, if you wanted to, walk into the bar and say, 'drinks for everyone!' I think, though, there's a fine line between 'generous' and 'bit of a wanker'. The scale, for me, goes something like this...

Good bloke -Really good bloke – show-off – bit-of-a-wanker – eccentric.

I think I have it right, so far. Which brings me to another point. I've been talking to Alex, the manager, a bit more. It turns out that, in a previous life, he was a 'financial database programmer'. He got divorced five years ago, they sold the house, and now he's here, 'working', drinking and socialising in the bar every night. Not sure I could do it, but it seems he's very happy. and certainly doesn't need to earn anything. Oh yeah, Chrissie has a Master's degree, too. I guess this place is a 'lifestyle' thing.

Alex also mentioned a few problems they'd been having. The night before I arrived, they'd had to throw someone out. She was an 'ex-resident' who was, apparently, very high on coke. Alex was telling me that, often, people end up staying for a few months, but they forget that they're still only guests. Alex and Chrissie live there, and he reckons it's like having uninvited house guests, after a while. 'Yeah', I said, 'at least I'm going on Wednesday, and if and when I ever come back, I'll have some new material'.

Lion's Head

It's late, I'm tired. Buzzing, though. Things are going to be hectic from now on, I have to be up early in the morning, so I've left the others in the bar (which Alex was going to close two hours ago). From the noise, I'm clearly not going to get to sleep any time soon, so...

Come three o'clock, no-one was up for Lion's Head, so I set off by myself. It was a forty minute brisk stroll uphill to get to the base of it. Lion's Head itself is, basically, a big lump of rock, connected to 'Kloof Neck'. The walk from the bottom is quite pleasant, with an eight foot wide track. This, however, rapidly narrows until you're clambering up rocks like a goat. I ran into Claire on the way down (she of modeling and Cisco networks). That girl has a boatload of enthusiasm, and it's infectious. She'd been at the top doing yoga for a while. She reckons she might come on the Cape tour tomorrow with us, but while she's infinitely enthusiastic, I have a feeling it might be a tad ephemeral. We shall see.

Anyway, I continued upwards and ran into a couple of guys – one Welsh, one American. The Welsh guy was doing some sort of missionary work. He looked a bit like Jesus...well, actually, that's unfair. He looked like John Lennon when he looked like Jesus. Anyway, he chatted on about voluntary work, then mentioned the 'J' word. It all sounds a bit dodgy to me – like they're doing positive construction etc. work, but only to spread the Gospel. It was hard not to get into a theological debate. Anyway, they were heading up the chains and he invited me to join them on 'the chains' (and, to be fair, didn't preach to me either. I had visions of being trapped half way up, and him telling me, 'Only The Lord can help you now...'This was one of the scariest things I've done in a while. You can either do the quicker 'chains' route, or the slower, easier path. Basically, you have to haul yourself up vertical rock faces on these chains with only the odd foothold. I made the mistake of looking down at one point and realised I was one slip from a plummet. I kept climbing.

The top was wonderful. I sat for around two hours, watching the sun turn golden, then pink, then red. There's a three hundred and sixty degree view of the surrounding area, over about twenty square metres. There were a few people up there – a few on their own and a couple of groups. It was great to sit there and stare out to see, although I think it would be wonderful to come back with company and some wine.

I set off back down after sunset, putting my headtorch on after ten minutes. To be frank, I nearly got lost. I think I would have been okay, but the path isn't clearly demarcated in places, and mainly consists of rock-hopping. Luckily, a local guy and his girlfriend came down, so I followed them down the chains. It took me thirty or so minutes to reach the bottom of the trail in the dark, and it was only then that it dawned on me that I'd have to walk back through Cape Town after dark. Excellent.

I tried to remember every film or documentary I'd seen on evasion and diplomatic protection. I looked like a total tourist, with zip-off khaki trousers, rucksack and hiking boots. So, I hurriedly marched down the centre of the street, looking ahead for junctions and potential places where people could jump out. I even had my headtorch in my hand, with a half-arsed plan to shine it in any assailant's face. I figured I'd be safe when I reached Long Street..

Sadly, that theory proved to be very wide of the mark. Long Street was where the trouble started. At least five people tried to 'get my attention' on the way down. I simply refused to make eye-contact, and since I was walking faster than some people jog, they'd have had to assulted me to get me to stop. The most unsettling point for me was, just after some guy had said, 'Sorry...sorry...sorry...' about eight times (I almost turned to him after five!), a not-unattractive white woman I was walking past said, 'Hi'. I turned to her as I walked, thinking she was from the hostel. She said,

'Sorry to bother you, you're clearly in a hurry. I was wondering if I might ask you something...'

She almost had me. I simply said, 'no', and kept walking. In that split-second, I reasoned that if she was going to ask me something, she could have done it already. If she had a problem, orneeded help, she could have stepped into any bar. I try to focus on the fact that no-one is going to offer me anything that will benefit me – and if it does, it's a scam. I'm still a bit shaken by this, even now, as frankly, I didn't expect white people to be involved. Back at the hostel, the opinion was that she would have got me to stop, and distracted me while someone robbed me. Kelly tells me all the girls in the hostel she's spoken to have been robbed at some point, and I can't really wait to get out of here now. Cape Town's beautiful, but it has a nasty underbelly.

Wine - denied.

I was supposed to be on a wine and cheese tour today. It was a 9am departure, so I dragged my carcass out of bed at eight to head down to the Nomad office to pay the balance of my trip. I was actually woken by what sounded like someone trying to tunnel into my room. When I ventured out to the bathroom, I walked into a ladder right outside my room, on top of which a guy was standing, chipping paint from the ceiling. Since, the previous morning, I'd been awoken by what I thought was someone trying to let myself into my room, but was actually Alex locking his room, which is just across from mine. I fully expect someone to be coming in through the window tomorrow morning.

Anyway, the wine tour was cancelled. Not enough people, apparently. It did mean, though, that I could nip down to Nomad to finalise the tour – their office is just around the corner. I have heard a lot about the crime levels around Cape Town and, while I haven't seen any, I think that's because I've been sensible (living in Brixton has provided great training). The signs are all around, though: Long Street has cameras all along it, and guys in day-glo vests with 'security' written on them. The local advice is not to go off Long Street after dark unless it's in a taxi. Nomad is on the corner of a market square. It's on the second and third floors of a small office, but the main door has a locked metal gate on it, with a security guard standing by it – essentially, to stop random locals wandering in.

So, the tour's all booked – I'm very excited about it now. It looks like the 'single supplement' got lost along the way but I'm not too stressed about it. Claire, the 'senior consultant', tells me it's a full trip – twenty-three people – and it's 'mostly girls'. I mention this purely because it means there's a good chance I'll get my own tent anyway. Happy days. So, I'm now killing time until around three o'clock, when I'm going to hike up from Kloof Neck to Lion's Head. Apparently, the sunset from there is fantastic. I'm taking a head-torch, too, as I'll be walking down in the dark. I'm hoping Kelly comes back from Robben Island in time, as I'd imagine she'll be keen to join me, but otherwise, I'm going to do it solo. The question, right now, is is 12:40pm too early for a beer? Clearly not.

Okay, Sunday evening. I have been busy, so I'll try and keep this brief. Slept in until 9:30am this morning. There was an option of going 'shark-diving' this morning (that is, standing in a cage surrounded by 'up-to-six-metre' long Great White sharks. I could have done it. I love trying new things, I've got the time and the money, yet something about it doesn't sit right. I'ts not that I'm frightened. I guess it's more that I kinda feel it's taking the p1ss out of the sharks a little. It's one thing to observe them in their natural habitat. It's quite another (in my oh-so-humble opinion) to poke them with sticks and drag fake seals in the water to get them excited. I dunno, maybe that's unfair. I read months ago, though, that this sort of thing has increased the likelihood of shark attack in these waters, since the sharks are less wary than they used to be. Who knows?

Anyhoo, this morning I mostly spent sitting at the bar talking to Claire. Claire is from Newcastle, spent months travelling around, then decided to settle. She's just going to do some part-time work at the hostel. This afternoon, she was off to a casting (she's a model. Oh yes, she is.). She's worked in a lion-breeding programme, and as a midwife's assistant in a rural village. Claire used to be a Cisco network enginneer for Pricewaterhousecoopers. This place.

So, went and had a look at Robben Island with the Norwegian girls this afternoon. It's a ferry out, then a couple of hours of coach tours and a walking tour round the prison. Sadly, the mist rolled in, and you couldn't see much - let along the apparently-spectacular views of Table Mountain. Still, it was really interesting. All the guides and workers on the island are ex-political prisoners. One of our guides was arrested as a student during the seventies. The most interesting thing for me was the way they treated various prisoner categories. There's a photo of political prisoners breaking rocks while the actual convicts learned to make clothing. They also dressed and fed them differently - 'asiatics', 'coloureds' and 'bantu'. I didn't take too many photos, because (and this sounds a tad self-righteous, I suppose), I was trying to listen and learn. It was incredible, though. I'd say ninety percent of the people there had a camera or camera-phone, and frankly, I found it a little rude how many flashes were going off while the guide was talking about hunger striking, for instance. I guess this is really rather rich coming from me, but it's not all about the photos...)

The funniest thing was the guide on the bus, who'd developed a 'ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls' routine with a few, 'anyone here from Denmark?'s thrown in. Ironically, he had a number of mildly rascist jokes up his sleeve ('...because every time they get to a corner, they build a shop!'). Nobody seemed to notice but me, though.

Anyway, cab back to base, a free veggie stew in the bar, made by the owner, and I have a beer waiting for me (together with the bar's 'back in five - it's just for the love' note).

Bed time

There is something of the 'Fresher's Week' about this place. I've met quite a few people today. They're all very friendly, but invariably the conversation kicks off with the same three questions. Instead of:

1. What course are you doing?
2. What A-levels did you do?
3. What hall are you in?

it's,

1. How long have you been here?
2. Where were you before this?
3. Where are you going afterwards?

Like clockwork, it is. It's human nature, though: we all look for common ground, and since most backpackers are unlikely to be high-flying career bods (at least, any more!), 'what do you do?' is no longer available to come off the bench.

I met Kelly (two days, four weeks travelling solo through Namibia and Tanzania, home) at the bar. Kelly doesn't drink. She works as a bartender. I said, 'Well, you know what my next question is...' God, it's like picking a scab, isn't it? One can't leave it alone. What is it about non-drinkers that makes us feel the need to either get them smashed or ellicit a bloody good reason? Personally, I guess it's the 'policy' attitude that is a bit of a red rag for me, but enough of that...

Alex and Chrissie have been issuing me with a lot of free drinks, and I had a brief tussle with my conscience while I considered buying them shots back every time I bought another beer (at 4% for a 220ml Windhoek,this was often). The 'forex' penny dropped, though, and I realised any drink was about seventy pence. It makes for a darned fine atmosphere at the bar, although apparently it’s quiet compared to peak summertime, when it’s a bit like a nightclub. Right, bed then. I think I’ve done rather well today. I had a sambucca and a beer for breakfast, climbed table mountain with four Norwegian girls on one square of chocolate, then bbq’d springbok and boerworst. Chrissie also made me try the boerwors raw, and it tasted rather good. Stomach seems to be keeping up, too.

(I know that's a lot of posts for one day, but seriously, it feels like I've been here a week. God knows how I'm still going - running on vapours I think. Anyway, I'm sure these'll tail off a bit soon.)

Carlsberg don't run backpacker hostels, but if they did...

You won't believe this...

I went downstairs this morning to have a chat with Alex, the manager, about what to do. He and Chrissie were both behind the bar (I haven't yet worked out which is in charge). Deciding arriving at any destination should be celebrated with a beer, I ordered one. This turned out to be the very best and the very worst thing I could have done, as Alex and Chrissie immediatey warmed to me, deciding I had to do a 'welcome drink' with them. I mentioned 'sambucca' off the top of my head, and I have a nasty feeling that is 'my' drink from now on. So we were just chatting about wine tours and whether today would be a good day to climb table mountain when – and I swear I'm not making this up – a young blonde Norwegian girl stuck her head round the door and asked the best way to get to table mountain, because 'she and her three friends are going to climb it today...'. Ten minutes later, myself and four gap year Norwegian girls are in a taxi, bound for Table Mountain. I could get used to this backpacking lark.

So we hiked, we climbed, we sweated, we rested. I was the only one who'd brought water, and they were all dressed in skinny jeans and trainers or plimsoles(!) They also all seem to have had a cold or flu in the last week, so I guess that's me ill for the forseeable... We struck it lucky with the weather, too. After a bit of cloud, it cleared, and was gloriously sunny at the top. They're a good crew, actually. Dry sense of humour, as 'skandys' seem to have, they're all around twenty years old, taking a gap year before university. They've been travelling for four months, and they head to London in three days before home. We larked around for a few hours, took photos, then took the rotating cablecar down to the bottom and back to the backpackers. I was greeted with another couple of shots and a beer. I have a nasty feeling I'm being sucked into something that I may pay for later.

Anyway, I've just returned from the supermarket. There's a brai (or bbq, if you like) at the backpacker's today. The deal is they provide the fire, and we bring all our own food. So, I've just fetched up some springbok steak and 'rugby boerworste'. Should be interesting. I'm feeilng a bit out of water again right now, since I'm reminded I have no-one to retreat to. I've also discovered my phone's screen has malfunctioned. So, I know I have messages, and I even managed to call my parents by remembering the sequence of keys needed to unlock it. I have no way of reading messages or responding, though, so please mail me if you've called or messaged me since Friday evening.

Okay, to brave the bbq, then....

Cape Town

Well, I'm off to a blistering start. I had contemplated spinning a story about getting into the wrong cab at the airport, ending up in a township and getting mugged of all my possessions since, y'know, it's more interesting than 'arrived-safely-my-isn't-it-pretty'. However, stuff's already gone wrong, so that should provide some amusement... I'm just sitting in my room (they had a single, and I chickened out of the dorm) at the Long Street Backpacker's hostel, on Long Street, Cape Town, wondering what to do with the rest of the day. It's looking like being a clear day, so I'm tempted to book some tours for the next few days, then simply take a stroll/hike up Table Mountain. First, though, I have to fiddle with my phone which, with impecable timing, blew up the moment I cleared Passport Control.

I kid you not, I walked out into arrivals, looking for my 'backpacker bus', took out my phone to call the hostel, and the screen 'went funny' on me (that's a technical term – amazing how quickly one loses the vocab when one's not working). I think it's terminal. Only to be expected, though, really. Heaven forfend it should have happened any time in the last year-and-a-half, when I could have done something about it.

Plugzilla

In addition, the super-dooper-all-singing-all-dancing-intercontinental-usb-adaptor I bought appears to work everywhere else in the world apart from South Africa. Instead, they have three fat round pins in the same configuration as a UK plug. Luckily, the guy working here has decided he trusts me and has very kindly leant me the requisite adaptor – it's resale value somewhat compromised by having 'LSB' written on it in permanent marker.

Speaking of criminal acts, I had quite a funny debate with the 'backpacker bus' driver over 'who's home has the most crime.' Despite defending Brixton to the hilt for the last ten years every time anyone so much as suggests it might not be utterly salubrious, any impugning of its 'edgeyness' had me reeling off stories of riots, murders, carjackings (True story: My road, Chris' first week living with me in London. Cosmic.)

So, this place is tatty but clean. Honestly, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it's certainly not a Travelodge. It's now 10:16 local time and I'm beginning to hear voices – that's real voices. This is going to be great at some point, but right now, I'm feeling very out of water. Speaking to various friends on the phone at Heathrow, I very much wanted to join them for a Friday night pint, rather than fly to Cape Town. On the plane, it occurred to me that that moment was the last time for a month that I would be within my comfort zone, completely unstressed. It's all doing me good, though – but man, I'm impressed with anyone who decides to travel on their own aged eighteen. Right then, time to sort out what to do. I think Robben Island today, maybe.

Oh, while I'm here...

Hostel Dude: “Here's the door code. Four digits. Don't forget the hash.”
Me: “So is that policy, then?”
HD: “Sorry?”
Me: “'Don't forget the hash'. Is that hostel policy.”
HD: “Ah, yes, ha-ha...”
Me: “I'm very tired.”

Kamchatka Vid

Seb, one of our guides in Kamchatka, has put this video together. Gives a rough idea - and that's me in the orange jacket. Generally, I seem to be eating...

Fingers crossed

I managed to get an earlier appointment, at 12:45pm today, so my passport - and ninety-seven quid - are now in the hands of the 'Passport and Identification Service'. Typically enough, the woman who 'examined' me today wasn't nearly as officious as the one that I dealt with yesterday, didn't even look at my proofs of address (yes, plural - I had three), and looked slightly puzzled when I explained what happened the day before. Anyway, it's now on its way to being sorted, and is guaranteed to reach me by next Wednesday. Fingers crossed.

In other news, I've booked a hostel for the first few days. I asked for a single room, but they've put me in a four-bed dorm. This trip is as much about the experience for me as it is about seeing Southern Africa, so I've decided to simply roll with it and see what happens. Bit concerned about valuables, but there we go. They're picking me up from the airport, too. I've lobbed 'em another mail to see if they can help me organise the Cape and Table Mountain before I arrive. I'm now picking my friends' thoughts on what to do, since a couple of them have been to that part of the world before. It's funny, is part of the appeal in travelling that few of your peers have done what you've done? Or is it the challenge that means that so few people have done it? Would Sir Edmund Hillary have been slightly ticked off if, having mentioned to one of his friends that he was to attempt Everest, the friend said, 'Ah yes, watch that steep bit just before you get to the top.' It's becoming apparent that it's getting harder and harder to do anything truly different. Is it that desire that drives on the Ranulph Fiennes' of this world?

And it goes on...

It is turning into a frustrating day. I'm on foot today (as opposed to on public transport). Having utterly failed to sort out the passport, I decided to walk over to Covent Garden, with its abundance of 'outdoors' shops. It's now around nine-thirty. Every shop in Covent Garden opens at
ten, I find. So, I'm now on a bench in Victoria Embankement gardens. There is a guy sitting on the next bench talking to himself (or his imaginary friends – there may be more than one) in Italian. I must confess this is one of the first time I've encountered a foreign nutter (although I suppose he might just be from Barnsley, but with a very convincing accent). He's a mass of contradictions. He's wearing a blue velvet jacket, a shirt and a tie. And a baseball cap. He also has a couple of bags, and a coffee he's obviously bought. Despite all this, he's still chatting away and has just been perusing the contents of the two bins next to him. I'm praying he doesn't decide to engage me (in conversation, rather than consultancy work – although...).

God, so many people – don't they have jobs?

So yes, preparations. Flights are sorted, overland is booked. I have four days in Cape Town to kill before I depart on tour, and I haven't decided what to do yet. I wouldn't mind having a look at the Cape itself, and perhaps climbing Table Mountain. I'm hoping, though, that provided I book a decent hostel, I can sort everything out when I get there. I have never travelled on my own before, and it's daunting. It'll do me good, though, and I shall approach it with my childhood mantra: 'What's the worst that can happen?'(sadly, as a child, it was 'the woman behind the counter will tell me to go away', whereas in Africa it's more likely to be 'hijacked or mugged at knifepoint. Or catch Malaria'.
Yay.)

Time to go. I have a nasty feeling the odd Italian guy has told himself a joke and is finding it very funny. I wouldn't be worried but for the fact that I think he may not have understood initially, and had to explain the punchline to himself a couple of times before he 'got' it.

%*~@%!!!

I wonder what the standard sentence is for punching someone in a passport office. I am so annoyed I can hardly think right now...so I'm now sitting on a bench in St. James' Park, collecting my thoughts.

So I'm off to Africa next week, for a month. I'm flying to Cape Town next Friday. Thing is, my passport is beginning to look a bit frayed – to the point where it's attracting second glances from passport control (loveable tinkers that they are). So, I figured I'd get it renewed at short-notice, since I don't want to get stung for 'fines' when crossing various dubious African borders. So, I made an appointment for 8am this morning, at short notice. I have two address proofs, photos, and an application form. Oh, the application form...I phoned them yesterday to make the appointment, then went to the website to download the form and found that you can't – you have to get it from a post office (I called again and explained. The woman didn't quite get it). I ran – ran! - to the nearest sub-post office, queued for ten minutes, only to be told that they don't do them, and that I'd have to go to the main post office. Argh!

Anyway, back at the passport office, the terminally-unhelpful, officious automaton behind the counter tells me that my passport is damaged, so I'd need a countersignature. This is the countersignature I could have got from a mate who lives down the road last night, but didn't bother because I 'didn't need it for a renewal'. I pointed out that my passport is still valid and been used three times in nthe last month, but like a referee who's made a decision, she wouldn't budge. So, next appointment is Thursday morning. At 8am.

Y'know, every time there's an election, I have the same rather patronising thought: I consider myself more intelligent than the average person in this country, so if I don't really understand all the policies, what chance does the rest of the populace have? Patronising, as I said. Anyway, I had a similar thought in that passport office: I'm a very placid person. I've never been in a fight in my life. So if I was ready to leap over the counter and punch her lights out, how likely is it that someone with a shorter fuse than I can keep themselves under control? Patronising, yes.