A VERY FIRST WORLD SAFARI
A VERY FIRST WORLD SAFARI
For most of human history a journey began by taking the first step, today the intrepid traveler climbs into a first class, air-conditioned, six cylindered, fully wired and connected, stereophonic, turbo charged, road eater’s cabin. So imploring my faithful retainers to please not burn the place down, eat my cows and other irrational fears I set out into darkest Africa to give my new pick-up a good burn around the southern end of it.
The first stage to Johannesburg was dull, with only a short stop to get some stimulants, which since the advent of the Nigerians being in charge of the Peruvian marching powder market was useless, and even after several doses up the nostril I still had lunch, conclusive proof of a stinker in your gram! And art supplies.
Less than stimulated by either the art supplies or the Nigerian not so white, I sailed uneventfully down towards Bloemfontein, with only a bit of paranoia to show for my blocked nose and saddened by the sad state of the fencing, which seemed to my farmer’s eyes the thin edge of the wedge, foretelling the immanent collapse of our society, due I suspect to the ‘people’s’ need for farms, as they say in the press.
This has always been the downfall of even the most egalitarian of Revolutions, namely who is to stay in the Lords/Bosses/ King’s house once the old Lord/Boss/King has been turfed out of his silken sheets and had a stick shoved up his bottom. A vexing question that has abrogated the many fine ideals of founding fathers from the French Revolution to our own change of regime. America being the only exception, where the Brit’s were sent packing and the lads went back to their farms with no redistribution of wealth expected or offered, thus maintaining their constitution and ensuring today’s ‘Trailer Trash’ paradise.
In this fashion the mind wanders, as the eye searches over the endless plains for some comfort from the dreary architecture of miserable little ticky tacky houses and the many tin shacks, the weight of the architects hand notable by its absence on all the manifestations of human habitation, quite weird really, almost on the level of the workings of the devil.
I was a bit beaten by the pervading sense of the landscapes human expression which seemed so utterly ruled by the expression of the lowest denominator and seeing a sign offering a barn experience in overnight accommodation I pulled off the highway into a deserted farmyard, which did indeed boast an old American style barn, attached to the inevitable electrified fortifications of the African country abode.
This establishment radiated a strangely disquieting atmosphere of charm and poor white desperation that the dribbly web toed youth that approached did little to disperse. Missing an arm, to add to his addled expression, he stared at me blankly as I enquired if the establishment was indeed open as it was all very quiet, too quiet. This elicited a grunt, some small shuffling of the feet, and a gap toothed grin. Not very encouraging, however at this stage a very large, also bare footed lady of indeterminate age and provenance appeared from one of the numerous dilapidated structures leaning about the place and her bandaged legs and arm in a sling and grubby piney did not offer the tired traveler much comfort and attached to her skirts was yet another blank eyed expression of unregulated copulation that was missing several digits! This family was falling to pieces in front of my eyes, but they implored me to stay as the owners were, they assured me were but a call away and that I would find comfort and succor in what was I still thought, quite a charming place, genetic throw backs not withstanding.
A call was made, a message left and I went to stretch my legs around their lake that was heaving with waterfowl while I awaited their return.
The Barn B&B is not I think for the more discerning traveler, one requires a spirit of adventure to see beyond the remains of a litany of broken dreams that were scattered around the place, the tired sad remains of pig sties, chicken runs and even an empty pigeon loft which all pointed to many attempts with few if any success’s, the barn was very nice though and although it was infested with weirdo’s it was still stand up and clean so I gave them a gap and waited for some time before giving up and dragged myself now really quite tired, to Bloemfontein and pulled into the first hideous Motel I could find and collapsed, it had been a long first day of my holiday.
Day 2 started with an expensive breakfast that I thought was part of the deal for the room and so still a bit miffed at missing the charms of the Barn B&B and under an overcast sky I plunged into the vast majesty of the Karoo.
The cosmic scrublands floated past my window propelled at a steady 150 up hill and down, cool air wafting over me from the air conditioner, insulating me from the heat and dust I was passing through, when I spotted a magnificent herd of cows gathered about a water trough. I had already passed many miles of hamburgers on legs, with not a moments interest other that attempting to estimate just how wealthy the owners were of these massive crowds of ruminating bovines that infest the country side, but these were N’guni Cows and I came screaming to a halt, climbed through the fence to admire them a bit closer, and fine fat cows they were indeed even though to my eyes there was absolutely nothing to eat that would support anything larger than a thin lizard, but these ladies seemed more than contented, amazing beasts.
The Karoo stretches for forever and beyond, glorious in its emptiness that humbled the soul, and the lightning on the horizon promised a massive storm which struck with extraordinary violence, a once in a life time experience to see rain in the desert. And what rain, a storm of note with horizontal driving rain which turned the land into a vast lake a couple of inches deep in seconds as I sheltered behind a massive truck that ploughed the way through it for me, while the even loonies were reduced to pulling of the road to shelter from the rage of the tempest.
It was over as fast as it arrived and nary puddle to be seen just a few miles later, the water having soaked straight into the ground, which was almost as startling as the storm itself.
Eventually I rolled into Beauford West and feeling peckish, looked about for some emporium that might grace my palette with some Karoo Lamb but was fobbed of with usual array of Franchises, the curse of our modern age everywhere. Disappointing, so I drove on, but pulling of the main highway onto a minor road I noticed a sign that all resort owners recognize as a lodge that was foolishly also proclaiming to the public that they were willing to feed the passing trade I trundled down a long dirt path to pull into a very empty but charming establishment in an Olive grove.
The management was a bit startled to have a punter arrive unannounced at their door but rose to the occasion and did indeed rustle up a plate of chops. And what a plate it was, the lady in the kitchen might have appeared flustered and a little insane but she knew how to cook like an angel and the chops and spuds lightly fried in olive oil with sesame seeds in a light creamy sauce was a revelation, I had by pure chance happened on without doubt the best meal anyone had got on the entire freeway, I was blissfully happy.
Well fed I wandered into Prince Albert to join the Trollop women for Christmas, Nicola, the second oldest and one of the unfortunate women that had attracted my attentions in the past, with all the tears and distress these encounters engender, none-the-less welcomed me into her house for Christmas which was already heaving with her other sisters their daughters and her mother. It was to be an estrogen bath of note an intimidating prospect for one that had had NO female contact for nearly a year! Thankfully there was a new boy friend and Mothers chap to share the fortifications of masculinity with me, me being so macho and all.
The conversation started early and went on till late, chatter, chatter, fight, chatter never ending about ……………...
‘RELATIONSHIPS’, with the briefest of interludes to talk about food. It was exhausting and never stopped, and by the time the actual feast had been eaten and Tanya our resident ‘Lipstick Lesbian’ had stormed out in a huff I was deeply grateful to take Trollop the younger’s boyfriends bike up the Swartberg pass to escape the remorseless dissection of men and the past and present incumbents in particular.
After the festivities I wondered not a little stunned down the road to that ghetto by the sea known as ‘Plet-doll’ which was indeed full to the gunnels with red sea pedestrians clogging the facilities, but the holiday hut my mate has a share in, more than compensated for having to fraternize with my tribe of pyramid builders at play.
He has acquired a well-moored Yiddisher ship, in fact a palace that thankfully is firmly built on dry land and contains all but all-possible creature comforts for the weary traveler.
On first being confronted by this awesome concrete and carpeted pile which used to be a hotel, that was taken over by the boys, lock stock and barrel down to the magazines books and videos in the foyer, was a little confusing and disconcerting, but I was conducted with squeals of joy at my arrival (always gratifying), to a truly deluxe suite overlooking the sea which radiated 25 star blue pool, fluffy towel splendors, I was dead pleased.
The rhythm of the house soon settled into a very commodious pattern based on Lynne’s rather erratic sense of time, they got up late and I got up early to walk along the beach with my new I pod featuring my dear friend’s most marvelous music selection.
Let me digress to give him a punt.
Greg is a man who LOVES his music and boasts a comprehension and collection that is really quite fine indeed, and since he has joined the wonderful world of the computer literate, has compiled from his aforementioned comprehensive knowledge of music a selection of easy listnin tunes, 1000 at last count, which can be sent to you on a DVD that will sort all your listing needs forever! Send $10 (no Zimbo ones please) to Greg at…..
PO Box 84115,
Craighall
2024,
South Africa
With a self-addressed envelope, enjoy.
Howies little fishing hut on the beach was not at first a haven of peace and quiet, in fact there seemed to be an endless round of visitors and guests, the place was swarming with new faces of all ages, sexes and inclination. All pleased well fed, lucid and friendly, I was lost in the throng of new names and it was only after a few days that I even knew who was actually staying in the hut. One couple that was in and out I only realized were actually staying there after they had left, well they were having their Honeymoon so we did not see much of them. ‘The Hut’ is a very nice hut indeed and come complete with all the toys, sauna, pool, Jacuzzi and best of all this thing in the kitchen that serves constant boiling water and another that gives endless ice, the words get, good, as gets and it, spring to mind.
So days melted into days, flying kites and painting pictures, competitive card games and lots of food, and what with even a massage being thrown into the pot in our own private health and beauty spa there really was little call to venture into the maelstrom that is this village on the coast in the season. We sailed through New Year and the last of the marching powder actually kept me up past midnight, just 5 minutes but better than I have done for 5 years.
This was turning into a real holiday, so ascertaining that all was well on the farm I gratefully accepted the invitation to wallow in conspicuous consumption for a little longer.
All good things come to pass and after devouring many crayfish, reading several novels, was soundly trashed at our card game by an all time record loss of 23 cards, which without doubt gave Howard the best 10 minutes of his life, even I enjoyed watching the cards fall in almost mystical harmony,but too soon the time came to vacate this haven of wealth and privilege for my own little bit of paradise.
I stopped in Port Elisabeth for plastic bottles for sea water, I had thought that this ritual of African Holidays was a thing of the past, but as all the others were taking some up for their retainers I was not to be undone and as I have more than most and was also keen to cheaply please the entire village I was committed to many bottles thus the diversion into Lizzies port.
After drifting up and down the coast a bit I found a convenient beach (close to the road) to fill from but even this was toil, crouching over a rock pool filling bottles and lugging them over hot soft sand was sweaty work and after 20 bottles I gave up, but it turned out to be worth the effort, and all were dead pleased to get theirs, especially the older ones.
4000 kilometers later and deeply impressed with my pick-up that had carried me up and down the hills and valleys of this mighty land with nary a single hiccup other than a slow puncture, was deeply gratifying, as are my feelings towards my country, true the place is in a sad state, the architecture and development leaves a lot to be desired, and whether it was the correct choice to build in every village, miles and miles of little plumbed and electrified huts is questionable, the fact that they have done it is admirable, the roads are smooth and spectacular and being improved, everybody is very nice, fat and well dressed, well a hell of a lot of them are, that used to be horrid, thin and scruffy are anyway.
The police seemed very much out there, smiling at the old ‘UmLungu’ (white man) sailing past them, in their uniformly smart new vehicles and snappy uniforms, they seemed extremely pleased to see me at the many road blocks, checked my paper, gave me a map, waved me on with smiles and good wishes and even let me off a large speeding fine after only a bit of groveling. This revolution seemed to be looking better and better, my minions had looked after my estate with style and panache, the new year is already old, and I am grown-up by yet another 365.25 sleeps and am now officially a GOM (grumpy old man) the cows are fat, the machines are broken and the dams have filled nicely though we still long for more rain and watch the sky with anxious eyes.
For most of human history a journey began by taking the first step, today the intrepid traveler climbs into a first class, air-conditioned, six cylindered, fully wired and connected, stereophonic, turbo charged, road eater’s cabin. So imploring my faithful retainers to please not burn the place down, eat my cows and other irrational fears I set out into darkest Africa to give my new pick-up a good burn around the southern end of it.
The first stage to Johannesburg was dull, with only a short stop to get some stimulants, which since the advent of the Nigerians being in charge of the Peruvian marching powder market was useless, and even after several doses up the nostril I still had lunch, conclusive proof of a stinker in your gram! And art supplies.
Less than stimulated by either the art supplies or the Nigerian not so white, I sailed uneventfully down towards Bloemfontein, with only a bit of paranoia to show for my blocked nose and saddened by the sad state of the fencing, which seemed to my farmer’s eyes the thin edge of the wedge, foretelling the immanent collapse of our society, due I suspect to the ‘people’s’ need for farms, as they say in the press.
This has always been the downfall of even the most egalitarian of Revolutions, namely who is to stay in the Lords/Bosses/ King’s house once the old Lord/Boss/King has been turfed out of his silken sheets and had a stick shoved up his bottom. A vexing question that has abrogated the many fine ideals of founding fathers from the French Revolution to our own change of regime. America being the only exception, where the Brit’s were sent packing and the lads went back to their farms with no redistribution of wealth expected or offered, thus maintaining their constitution and ensuring today’s ‘Trailer Trash’ paradise.
In this fashion the mind wanders, as the eye searches over the endless plains for some comfort from the dreary architecture of miserable little ticky tacky houses and the many tin shacks, the weight of the architects hand notable by its absence on all the manifestations of human habitation, quite weird really, almost on the level of the workings of the devil.
I was a bit beaten by the pervading sense of the landscapes human expression which seemed so utterly ruled by the expression of the lowest denominator and seeing a sign offering a barn experience in overnight accommodation I pulled off the highway into a deserted farmyard, which did indeed boast an old American style barn, attached to the inevitable electrified fortifications of the African country abode.
This establishment radiated a strangely disquieting atmosphere of charm and poor white desperation that the dribbly web toed youth that approached did little to disperse. Missing an arm, to add to his addled expression, he stared at me blankly as I enquired if the establishment was indeed open as it was all very quiet, too quiet. This elicited a grunt, some small shuffling of the feet, and a gap toothed grin. Not very encouraging, however at this stage a very large, also bare footed lady of indeterminate age and provenance appeared from one of the numerous dilapidated structures leaning about the place and her bandaged legs and arm in a sling and grubby piney did not offer the tired traveler much comfort and attached to her skirts was yet another blank eyed expression of unregulated copulation that was missing several digits! This family was falling to pieces in front of my eyes, but they implored me to stay as the owners were, they assured me were but a call away and that I would find comfort and succor in what was I still thought, quite a charming place, genetic throw backs not withstanding.
A call was made, a message left and I went to stretch my legs around their lake that was heaving with waterfowl while I awaited their return.
The Barn B&B is not I think for the more discerning traveler, one requires a spirit of adventure to see beyond the remains of a litany of broken dreams that were scattered around the place, the tired sad remains of pig sties, chicken runs and even an empty pigeon loft which all pointed to many attempts with few if any success’s, the barn was very nice though and although it was infested with weirdo’s it was still stand up and clean so I gave them a gap and waited for some time before giving up and dragged myself now really quite tired, to Bloemfontein and pulled into the first hideous Motel I could find and collapsed, it had been a long first day of my holiday.
Day 2 started with an expensive breakfast that I thought was part of the deal for the room and so still a bit miffed at missing the charms of the Barn B&B and under an overcast sky I plunged into the vast majesty of the Karoo.
The cosmic scrublands floated past my window propelled at a steady 150 up hill and down, cool air wafting over me from the air conditioner, insulating me from the heat and dust I was passing through, when I spotted a magnificent herd of cows gathered about a water trough. I had already passed many miles of hamburgers on legs, with not a moments interest other that attempting to estimate just how wealthy the owners were of these massive crowds of ruminating bovines that infest the country side, but these were N’guni Cows and I came screaming to a halt, climbed through the fence to admire them a bit closer, and fine fat cows they were indeed even though to my eyes there was absolutely nothing to eat that would support anything larger than a thin lizard, but these ladies seemed more than contented, amazing beasts.
The Karoo stretches for forever and beyond, glorious in its emptiness that humbled the soul, and the lightning on the horizon promised a massive storm which struck with extraordinary violence, a once in a life time experience to see rain in the desert. And what rain, a storm of note with horizontal driving rain which turned the land into a vast lake a couple of inches deep in seconds as I sheltered behind a massive truck that ploughed the way through it for me, while the even loonies were reduced to pulling of the road to shelter from the rage of the tempest.
It was over as fast as it arrived and nary puddle to be seen just a few miles later, the water having soaked straight into the ground, which was almost as startling as the storm itself.
Eventually I rolled into Beauford West and feeling peckish, looked about for some emporium that might grace my palette with some Karoo Lamb but was fobbed of with usual array of Franchises, the curse of our modern age everywhere. Disappointing, so I drove on, but pulling of the main highway onto a minor road I noticed a sign that all resort owners recognize as a lodge that was foolishly also proclaiming to the public that they were willing to feed the passing trade I trundled down a long dirt path to pull into a very empty but charming establishment in an Olive grove.
The management was a bit startled to have a punter arrive unannounced at their door but rose to the occasion and did indeed rustle up a plate of chops. And what a plate it was, the lady in the kitchen might have appeared flustered and a little insane but she knew how to cook like an angel and the chops and spuds lightly fried in olive oil with sesame seeds in a light creamy sauce was a revelation, I had by pure chance happened on without doubt the best meal anyone had got on the entire freeway, I was blissfully happy.
Well fed I wandered into Prince Albert to join the Trollop women for Christmas, Nicola, the second oldest and one of the unfortunate women that had attracted my attentions in the past, with all the tears and distress these encounters engender, none-the-less welcomed me into her house for Christmas which was already heaving with her other sisters their daughters and her mother. It was to be an estrogen bath of note an intimidating prospect for one that had had NO female contact for nearly a year! Thankfully there was a new boy friend and Mothers chap to share the fortifications of masculinity with me, me being so macho and all.
The conversation started early and went on till late, chatter, chatter, fight, chatter never ending about ……………...
‘RELATIONSHIPS’, with the briefest of interludes to talk about food. It was exhausting and never stopped, and by the time the actual feast had been eaten and Tanya our resident ‘Lipstick Lesbian’ had stormed out in a huff I was deeply grateful to take Trollop the younger’s boyfriends bike up the Swartberg pass to escape the remorseless dissection of men and the past and present incumbents in particular.
After the festivities I wondered not a little stunned down the road to that ghetto by the sea known as ‘Plet-doll’ which was indeed full to the gunnels with red sea pedestrians clogging the facilities, but the holiday hut my mate has a share in, more than compensated for having to fraternize with my tribe of pyramid builders at play.
He has acquired a well-moored Yiddisher ship, in fact a palace that thankfully is firmly built on dry land and contains all but all-possible creature comforts for the weary traveler.
On first being confronted by this awesome concrete and carpeted pile which used to be a hotel, that was taken over by the boys, lock stock and barrel down to the magazines books and videos in the foyer, was a little confusing and disconcerting, but I was conducted with squeals of joy at my arrival (always gratifying), to a truly deluxe suite overlooking the sea which radiated 25 star blue pool, fluffy towel splendors, I was dead pleased.
The rhythm of the house soon settled into a very commodious pattern based on Lynne’s rather erratic sense of time, they got up late and I got up early to walk along the beach with my new I pod featuring my dear friend’s most marvelous music selection.
Let me digress to give him a punt.
Greg is a man who LOVES his music and boasts a comprehension and collection that is really quite fine indeed, and since he has joined the wonderful world of the computer literate, has compiled from his aforementioned comprehensive knowledge of music a selection of easy listnin tunes, 1000 at last count, which can be sent to you on a DVD that will sort all your listing needs forever! Send $10 (no Zimbo ones please) to Greg at…..
PO Box 84115,
Craighall
2024,
South Africa
With a self-addressed envelope, enjoy.
Howies little fishing hut on the beach was not at first a haven of peace and quiet, in fact there seemed to be an endless round of visitors and guests, the place was swarming with new faces of all ages, sexes and inclination. All pleased well fed, lucid and friendly, I was lost in the throng of new names and it was only after a few days that I even knew who was actually staying in the hut. One couple that was in and out I only realized were actually staying there after they had left, well they were having their Honeymoon so we did not see much of them. ‘The Hut’ is a very nice hut indeed and come complete with all the toys, sauna, pool, Jacuzzi and best of all this thing in the kitchen that serves constant boiling water and another that gives endless ice, the words get, good, as gets and it, spring to mind.
So days melted into days, flying kites and painting pictures, competitive card games and lots of food, and what with even a massage being thrown into the pot in our own private health and beauty spa there really was little call to venture into the maelstrom that is this village on the coast in the season. We sailed through New Year and the last of the marching powder actually kept me up past midnight, just 5 minutes but better than I have done for 5 years.
This was turning into a real holiday, so ascertaining that all was well on the farm I gratefully accepted the invitation to wallow in conspicuous consumption for a little longer.
All good things come to pass and after devouring many crayfish, reading several novels, was soundly trashed at our card game by an all time record loss of 23 cards, which without doubt gave Howard the best 10 minutes of his life, even I enjoyed watching the cards fall in almost mystical harmony,but too soon the time came to vacate this haven of wealth and privilege for my own little bit of paradise.
I stopped in Port Elisabeth for plastic bottles for sea water, I had thought that this ritual of African Holidays was a thing of the past, but as all the others were taking some up for their retainers I was not to be undone and as I have more than most and was also keen to cheaply please the entire village I was committed to many bottles thus the diversion into Lizzies port.
After drifting up and down the coast a bit I found a convenient beach (close to the road) to fill from but even this was toil, crouching over a rock pool filling bottles and lugging them over hot soft sand was sweaty work and after 20 bottles I gave up, but it turned out to be worth the effort, and all were dead pleased to get theirs, especially the older ones.
4000 kilometers later and deeply impressed with my pick-up that had carried me up and down the hills and valleys of this mighty land with nary a single hiccup other than a slow puncture, was deeply gratifying, as are my feelings towards my country, true the place is in a sad state, the architecture and development leaves a lot to be desired, and whether it was the correct choice to build in every village, miles and miles of little plumbed and electrified huts is questionable, the fact that they have done it is admirable, the roads are smooth and spectacular and being improved, everybody is very nice, fat and well dressed, well a hell of a lot of them are, that used to be horrid, thin and scruffy are anyway.
The police seemed very much out there, smiling at the old ‘UmLungu’ (white man) sailing past them, in their uniformly smart new vehicles and snappy uniforms, they seemed extremely pleased to see me at the many road blocks, checked my paper, gave me a map, waved me on with smiles and good wishes and even let me off a large speeding fine after only a bit of groveling. This revolution seemed to be looking better and better, my minions had looked after my estate with style and panache, the new year is already old, and I am grown-up by yet another 365.25 sleeps and am now officially a GOM (grumpy old man) the cows are fat, the machines are broken and the dams have filled nicely though we still long for more rain and watch the sky with anxious eyes.
posted by Francis at 1:33 AM
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