'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.