South Africa (August to October)
Warning sign!
Part 1 – The Cape
A troop of Chacma baboons distracts us as we approach the entrance to the Cape of Good Hope national park. We pull over to let Holly have a better look as she is quite partial to all things simian. The baboons seem a safe distance away, tucked behind the fence of the ostrich farm. “I know”, I think, “I’ll get Holly out her car seat so she can see them better”; at which point the plentiful road signs warning of ‘baboon danger’ had not registered in my excited, butterfly, new traveller mind.
Merrily I busy myself unbuckling Holly’s seat belt. With child unrestrained, I’m suddenly aware of Mr Alpha-male Baboon, comparable in size to Amy, lumbering towards me with intent. Mildly concerned, I shove Holly back in the car, shut her door and peg it round the other side of the vehicle. Here I find Andy, hanging out the driver’s door, eyes bulging, rasping “I can’t get out, I can’t get out”.
“Get back in then!” suggest I, helpfully. In his panic, it doesn’t register that he still has his seat belt on! I notice, now, the snarling baboon sitting inches from Andy in the passenger seat, bearing his teeth at us and rummaging through my bag. Unsure what to do for the best I momentarily climb in the back seat with the girls, where Amy whimpers hysterically and Holly looks confused. I climb back out and suggest rather firmly that Andy get out the car and do something about removing the threatening primate!
Andy obliges and has a jolly good attempt at shouting the baboon away. Alas this method fails and the baboon looks like he is about to rip Andy’s arm off and beat him about the head with it. I go around the front of the car and look for a stick to poke the baboon with, in order to retrieve my bag and its strewn contents. Yes, a stick! For a few seconds I considered a stick a suitable weapon. Clearly we are incompetent in the face of simian adversity.
Happily, a coach full of tourists comes along at this point causing the baboon to scarper, but not before he’s had the opportunity to wipe his arse on my journal and drink Holly’s juice. Andy (now free of his seat belt) and I see our chance, quickly gather up bag and contents, hop back in the car and drive off at a lick; hearts pounding and hands shaking, as the bemused coach load of tourists look on. We may pay slightly more attention to warning signs in future. Baboons do not suffer foolish travellers gladly and have developed a fine sport of their torment.
It’s just over two weeks since we set out on our big adventure, not much more than a regular holiday so I’m sure no-one’s missing us yet! We’re still finding our travelling feet and I’m still getting my head around the idea that this is our life now for the next year. That, after a lifetime of wanting to ‘go around the world’, I’m actually doing it … family in tow.
A troop of Chacma baboons distracts us as we approach the entrance to the Cape of Good Hope national park. We pull over to let Holly have a better look as she is quite partial to all things simian. The baboons seem a safe distance away, tucked behind the fence of the ostrich farm. “I know”, I think, “I’ll get Holly out her car seat so she can see them better”; at which point the plentiful road signs warning of ‘baboon danger’ had not registered in my excited, butterfly, new traveller mind.
Merrily I busy myself unbuckling Holly’s seat belt. With child unrestrained, I’m suddenly aware of Mr Alpha-male Baboon, comparable in size to Amy, lumbering towards me with intent. Mildly concerned, I shove Holly back in the car, shut her door and peg it round the other side of the vehicle. Here I find Andy, hanging out the driver’s door, eyes bulging, rasping “I can’t get out, I can’t get out”.
“Get back in then!” suggest I, helpfully. In his panic, it doesn’t register that he still has his seat belt on! I notice, now, the snarling baboon sitting inches from Andy in the passenger seat, bearing his teeth at us and rummaging through my bag. Unsure what to do for the best I momentarily climb in the back seat with the girls, where Amy whimpers hysterically and Holly looks confused. I climb back out and suggest rather firmly that Andy get out the car and do something about removing the threatening primate!
Andy obliges and has a jolly good attempt at shouting the baboon away. Alas this method fails and the baboon looks like he is about to rip Andy’s arm off and beat him about the head with it. I go around the front of the car and look for a stick to poke the baboon with, in order to retrieve my bag and its strewn contents. Yes, a stick! For a few seconds I considered a stick a suitable weapon. Clearly we are incompetent in the face of simian adversity.
Happily, a coach full of tourists comes along at this point causing the baboon to scarper, but not before he’s had the opportunity to wipe his arse on my journal and drink Holly’s juice. Andy (now free of his seat belt) and I see our chance, quickly gather up bag and contents, hop back in the car and drive off at a lick; hearts pounding and hands shaking, as the bemused coach load of tourists look on. We may pay slightly more attention to warning signs in future. Baboons do not suffer foolish travellers gladly and have developed a fine sport of their torment.
It’s just over two weeks since we set out on our big adventure, not much more than a regular holiday so I’m sure no-one’s missing us yet! We’re still finding our travelling feet and I’m still getting my head around the idea that this is our life now for the next year. That, after a lifetime of wanting to ‘go around the world’, I’m actually doing it … family in tow.
Bluebottle AKA Portugese Man O War
We got our trip off to a perfect start staying with the very lovely Mandy at her home in Fourways, near Jo’burg. She was the most generous host and within just over 24 hours of arriving in South Africa we were sat in her car, drinking a very nice chilled bottle of wine watching 3 male and 3 female lions devour the carcass of some unidentifiable game! Jo’burg itself is fascinating; seeing the lovely historic buildings, mostly unused, and shops lying empty, while the pavements are full with street vendors. The contrast between the gated communities and the squatters’ camps is stark. After a few days acclimatising with Mandy, we set out on our own and drove from Jo’burg to Cape Town across the Great Karoo, an arid desert region with stunning landscapes and great open spaces (not unlike Arizona in parts). Jo’burg and Cape Town provide quite a contrast. South Africa is hugely diverse and absolutely stunning! The Highveld, the open plains, the mountains, the arid semi-desert, the fertile wine valleys and then the oceans ... provide such amazing scenery.
In Cape Town we’re staying in an apartment in Blouberg overlooking Table Mountain across the bay. We’ve so far visited the amazing aquarium at the Victoria and Alfred waterfront, seen the wild flowers covering the plains up the western coast, driven around the Cape Peninsular and swam with the adorable jackass penguin colony at Simon’s Town (I LOVE penguins!), watched southern right whales playing offshore and stood at the Cape of Good Hope … once we’d survived the baboon incident.
There was also a slight jellyfish incident! We took a stroll along the beach yesterday evening and Amy picked up what she thought was pop weed, only to discover, as the pain coursed through her fingers, that it was a nasty little jellyfish. Turns out in was a Portuguese man-o-war … but a baby one that had been washed up so not fatal. Happily. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll all survive the year.
In Cape Town we’re staying in an apartment in Blouberg overlooking Table Mountain across the bay. We’ve so far visited the amazing aquarium at the Victoria and Alfred waterfront, seen the wild flowers covering the plains up the western coast, driven around the Cape Peninsular and swam with the adorable jackass penguin colony at Simon’s Town (I LOVE penguins!), watched southern right whales playing offshore and stood at the Cape of Good Hope … once we’d survived the baboon incident.
There was also a slight jellyfish incident! We took a stroll along the beach yesterday evening and Amy picked up what she thought was pop weed, only to discover, as the pain coursed through her fingers, that it was a nasty little jellyfish. Turns out in was a Portuguese man-o-war … but a baby one that had been washed up so not fatal. Happily. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll all survive the year.
Feargal Sharkey
Part 2 – The Garden Route
I am mildly altered, for I have made eye to eye contact with a Great White Shark, from a distance of just a few inches. I have been sniffed, eyed up and sized up and disregarded as potential prey by a second Great White, much bigger than the first, his body tattooed with scars.
There were 7 sharks in total that came and went as we were anchored in the Straits of Dyer Island, near Gansbaai. All this with just a few steel bars to protect me. I am humbled! And I want to go again. Cage diving with the Great Whites is an incredible experience which I am unable to describe well enough to do it justice. They are truly magnificent and beautiful creatures. I love them. Looking a Great White in the eye as he swims inches past you, then circles and comes back around again for a closer look is immense. This was one of my dreams for as long as I can remember and I am in awe of the experience I’ve had. I would have liked a bit more tooth on cage action, but maybe next time.
It’s not the most dignified of adventures mind you. First one pulls off a graceless attempt to shoe horn one’s carcass into a wetsuit with fumbling fingers and trembling legs (excitement, not fear you understand!). Next one is required to spit into one’s mask. Spit? What spit? When about to go swimming with a Great White you find your mouth goes a bit dry and spitting does not come easily, so this whole process is not pretty.
Then comes the climbing into the cage bit; trying to place one’s limbs very carefully so as not to protrude through the bars into the jaws of a passing shark. Followed immediately after by pulling oneself down underwater, holding one’s breath, keeping one’s limbs contained, looking for the shark and trying now to swallow too many gallons of chum (a gag inducing fish oil and anchovy soup), sea water and vomit (should you be unlucky enough to be in the cage when your husband and several other people are up on deck vomiting over the side).
We are now staying in Knysna, on the Garden Route. We left Cape Town on Monday and spent a few nights in Hermanus, watching the whales just feet from the shore; then spent a couple of nights at Cape Agulhas, the Southernmost point of Africa and the point where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans collide. We’ve been staying in some brilliant hostels (or backpackers, as they’re called here) since leaving Cape Town and really feel like we’re finding our travelling stride; just winging it, and deciding on a whim where to go next and how long to stay.
We packed a few more touristy trips in before we left Cape Town though, beginning with one of my ambitions for this adventure. I plan to wine taste my way around the world, being a bit of a fan of a nice glass or two, and as we are visiting some of the best wine regions in the world (South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, California). We drove to Stellenbosch (to be pronounced Schtellenbosch in a Sean Connery accent and said as many times as possible in the course of a day) and visited the Spier estate for a bit of tasting. You can pay R20 (about £1.50) to taste 5 or 6 wines and get quite squiffy. No spitting out of the wine once swilled around our chops for us; no we guzzled every last drop and happily consumed 12 glasses of wine between us. Wine tasting is not good for the traveller’s budget. We came away £30 worse off having been seduced by a lovely Private Collection Pinotage and a scrumptious Sauvignon Blanc. The kids prefer the white.
Amy and I rode the cable car up to the summit of Table Mountain, while Andy very graciously waited with Holly at the bottom ... contingency planning! It’s very, very steep, and the floor rotates, and the wind buffets just a little, and as many of you know I’m rubbish with heights and don’t take particularly well to being dangled in a small metal ball, from some floppy wires, many feet above the ground, whilst spinning around, and sharing air space with 30 strangers. But for Amy’s sake, who was so excited about going to the top of the mountain and riding in a cable car, I did my best to cover my occasional audible whimpers with a strategic cough and pointed my camera in the direction of the windows hoping for a lucky good shot of the view. Table Mountain was wearing its table cloth so apart from one brief moment, when the cloud cleared and I nearly fainted at the view, we were stood atop the mountain in the clouds. We could feel, taste and smell cloud, it was amazing.
I am mildly altered, for I have made eye to eye contact with a Great White Shark, from a distance of just a few inches. I have been sniffed, eyed up and sized up and disregarded as potential prey by a second Great White, much bigger than the first, his body tattooed with scars.
There were 7 sharks in total that came and went as we were anchored in the Straits of Dyer Island, near Gansbaai. All this with just a few steel bars to protect me. I am humbled! And I want to go again. Cage diving with the Great Whites is an incredible experience which I am unable to describe well enough to do it justice. They are truly magnificent and beautiful creatures. I love them. Looking a Great White in the eye as he swims inches past you, then circles and comes back around again for a closer look is immense. This was one of my dreams for as long as I can remember and I am in awe of the experience I’ve had. I would have liked a bit more tooth on cage action, but maybe next time.
It’s not the most dignified of adventures mind you. First one pulls off a graceless attempt to shoe horn one’s carcass into a wetsuit with fumbling fingers and trembling legs (excitement, not fear you understand!). Next one is required to spit into one’s mask. Spit? What spit? When about to go swimming with a Great White you find your mouth goes a bit dry and spitting does not come easily, so this whole process is not pretty.
Then comes the climbing into the cage bit; trying to place one’s limbs very carefully so as not to protrude through the bars into the jaws of a passing shark. Followed immediately after by pulling oneself down underwater, holding one’s breath, keeping one’s limbs contained, looking for the shark and trying now to swallow too many gallons of chum (a gag inducing fish oil and anchovy soup), sea water and vomit (should you be unlucky enough to be in the cage when your husband and several other people are up on deck vomiting over the side).
We are now staying in Knysna, on the Garden Route. We left Cape Town on Monday and spent a few nights in Hermanus, watching the whales just feet from the shore; then spent a couple of nights at Cape Agulhas, the Southernmost point of Africa and the point where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans collide. We’ve been staying in some brilliant hostels (or backpackers, as they’re called here) since leaving Cape Town and really feel like we’re finding our travelling stride; just winging it, and deciding on a whim where to go next and how long to stay.
We packed a few more touristy trips in before we left Cape Town though, beginning with one of my ambitions for this adventure. I plan to wine taste my way around the world, being a bit of a fan of a nice glass or two, and as we are visiting some of the best wine regions in the world (South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, California). We drove to Stellenbosch (to be pronounced Schtellenbosch in a Sean Connery accent and said as many times as possible in the course of a day) and visited the Spier estate for a bit of tasting. You can pay R20 (about £1.50) to taste 5 or 6 wines and get quite squiffy. No spitting out of the wine once swilled around our chops for us; no we guzzled every last drop and happily consumed 12 glasses of wine between us. Wine tasting is not good for the traveller’s budget. We came away £30 worse off having been seduced by a lovely Private Collection Pinotage and a scrumptious Sauvignon Blanc. The kids prefer the white.
Amy and I rode the cable car up to the summit of Table Mountain, while Andy very graciously waited with Holly at the bottom ... contingency planning! It’s very, very steep, and the floor rotates, and the wind buffets just a little, and as many of you know I’m rubbish with heights and don’t take particularly well to being dangled in a small metal ball, from some floppy wires, many feet above the ground, whilst spinning around, and sharing air space with 30 strangers. But for Amy’s sake, who was so excited about going to the top of the mountain and riding in a cable car, I did my best to cover my occasional audible whimpers with a strategic cough and pointed my camera in the direction of the windows hoping for a lucky good shot of the view. Table Mountain was wearing its table cloth so apart from one brief moment, when the cloud cleared and I nearly fainted at the view, we were stood atop the mountain in the clouds. We could feel, taste and smell cloud, it was amazing.
Fire encroaches
Part 3 – KwaZulu-Natal
Andy’s great, great, great uncle, William Henry Pointer, fought in the second Anglo-Scruffy Dutch Farmer, I mean Boer, war between 1899 and 1900. (Coincidentally, Andy is beginning to look more Boer than Anglo these days). We know he was decorated for the Liberation of Ladysmith, Laing’s Nek and Transvaal. So in Ladysmith, we visited the Siege Museum and established that, being in the Kings Own Royal Rifles (stay with me) he would have been positioned at Wagon Hill, just an eensy bit south of Ladysmith. So off to Wagon Hill we went, with our KFC picnic lunch … all more than slightly hungry, what with it being 2.30pm by this point.
We drive up to the hill top on a gravel road, dodging stones, potholes and cows, and pull up under some trees near the monument to the battle of Wagon Hill to tuck into our chicken and contemplate history. Imagine this hill top; covered with small trees, long grasses and scrub, overlooking the town of Ladysmith, with a couple of monuments to the battle.
“What’s that noise?” muse I, as between mouthfuls of tasty chicken pieces I become aware of a sort of crackling sound playing on all sides. Too loud to be crickets, go my thoughts, sounds a bit like people trampling through the grass really quickly. “Oh, I know that sound”, I realise, as I couple the noise with the thickening smoke cloud entrenching us, and slowly focus in on the pretty red and orange dancing flames. The bush is on fire, crackling on all sides, and Andy has gone tramping towards it to take photos of the monument!
I’m very, very hungry and not generally prone to panic, so I take a few more chomps on my delicious chicken. As Amy becomes increasingly alarmed in the back seat and Holly practices her use of the word ‘Fire!’, I process the situation. I suggest to Andy, across the burning bush, that now might not be the best time for photos and perhaps we ought to drive away soon. But alas, he is very serious about his family history and is intent on me filming him stood next to the monument, surrounded by smoke and flames, as he delivers a heartfelt piece to camera about Great Uncle Bill.
It’s not a bad piece of amateur film, I admit, but as the children start to inhale smoke and the fire starts to crackle with much ferocity on the other side of the hill, I urge that we should now bid our retreat. Not so. “But I haven’t had my lunch yet ... and I want some more photos from the escarpment!” he informs. “You have the keys if you need to move the car.” So off he trots, disappearing out of sight while Amy continues to feed Holly chicken, Holly continues to delight in the word ‘fire’ and I try to be more concerned about the fire than I am about demolishing a fourth piece of chicken without anyone noticing. Wet wipes issued and chicken skin argued over, I am just beginning to fear Andy has stumbled down the hill and become victim to the blaze when he reappears, emerging through the smoke haze like a scene from Backdraft, right shoe on fire, looking pleased, if somewhat sweaty, with his photography assignment.
So, with the second Pointer having survived Wagon Hill under fire safely back in the car, photographs taken, chicken gone and the wild fire spreading like, well wild fire, we do finally retreat and hot wheel it back down to civilisation, but not before almost taking out an entire family of goats.
Andy’s great, great, great uncle, William Henry Pointer, fought in the second Anglo-Scruffy Dutch Farmer, I mean Boer, war between 1899 and 1900. (Coincidentally, Andy is beginning to look more Boer than Anglo these days). We know he was decorated for the Liberation of Ladysmith, Laing’s Nek and Transvaal. So in Ladysmith, we visited the Siege Museum and established that, being in the Kings Own Royal Rifles (stay with me) he would have been positioned at Wagon Hill, just an eensy bit south of Ladysmith. So off to Wagon Hill we went, with our KFC picnic lunch … all more than slightly hungry, what with it being 2.30pm by this point.
We drive up to the hill top on a gravel road, dodging stones, potholes and cows, and pull up under some trees near the monument to the battle of Wagon Hill to tuck into our chicken and contemplate history. Imagine this hill top; covered with small trees, long grasses and scrub, overlooking the town of Ladysmith, with a couple of monuments to the battle.
“What’s that noise?” muse I, as between mouthfuls of tasty chicken pieces I become aware of a sort of crackling sound playing on all sides. Too loud to be crickets, go my thoughts, sounds a bit like people trampling through the grass really quickly. “Oh, I know that sound”, I realise, as I couple the noise with the thickening smoke cloud entrenching us, and slowly focus in on the pretty red and orange dancing flames. The bush is on fire, crackling on all sides, and Andy has gone tramping towards it to take photos of the monument!
I’m very, very hungry and not generally prone to panic, so I take a few more chomps on my delicious chicken. As Amy becomes increasingly alarmed in the back seat and Holly practices her use of the word ‘Fire!’, I process the situation. I suggest to Andy, across the burning bush, that now might not be the best time for photos and perhaps we ought to drive away soon. But alas, he is very serious about his family history and is intent on me filming him stood next to the monument, surrounded by smoke and flames, as he delivers a heartfelt piece to camera about Great Uncle Bill.
It’s not a bad piece of amateur film, I admit, but as the children start to inhale smoke and the fire starts to crackle with much ferocity on the other side of the hill, I urge that we should now bid our retreat. Not so. “But I haven’t had my lunch yet ... and I want some more photos from the escarpment!” he informs. “You have the keys if you need to move the car.” So off he trots, disappearing out of sight while Amy continues to feed Holly chicken, Holly continues to delight in the word ‘fire’ and I try to be more concerned about the fire than I am about demolishing a fourth piece of chicken without anyone noticing. Wet wipes issued and chicken skin argued over, I am just beginning to fear Andy has stumbled down the hill and become victim to the blaze when he reappears, emerging through the smoke haze like a scene from Backdraft, right shoe on fire, looking pleased, if somewhat sweaty, with his photography assignment.
So, with the second Pointer having survived Wagon Hill under fire safely back in the car, photographs taken, chicken gone and the wild fire spreading like, well wild fire, we do finally retreat and hot wheel it back down to civilisation, but not before almost taking out an entire family of goats.
Wild Spirit
Our journey to Ladysmith took us via Nature’s Valley, where we holed up for several days at the Wild Spirit Lodge - our nirvana – where we met some fantastic people and recharged our spirits. A very special place that we’re keeping to ourselves. In Addo we spent a couple of days elephant spotting and scrumping for oranges and lemons. Our hostel was on a citrus farm (common to the region). It was divine, 2 cabins sharing a lapa kitchen, overlooking the beautiful Sundays River. We left with a bag (about 3 kilos) of oranges and 2 bags of lemons (to make lemonade). I have never tasted oranges so fine!
Yesterday we drove almost 1,000k (feasting on oranges) from Addo to Bethlehem. For much of the way we hugged the border with Lesotho. I can no longer describe the scenery, it is too beautiful. After such a long drive we treated ourselves to a stay in a proper guest house. Luxurious bath, comfy bed, sofa (forgotten how nice it is to sit on a comfy sofa) and breakfast, which we made the most of. We all stuffed ourselves to the point of nausea on eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, pancakes, yogurt, etc. Then Andy - aka Fagin - stole away with 2 packets of Oat-so-simple, some tea bags, some butter, a tea spoon, and a fistful of sweets. I, Nancy, pocketed 2 packets of Oat-so-simple and 6 pancakes wrapped in napkins (oh yes, I’m good). Amy the Artful Dodger, still in training in the art of ‘getting one’s money’s worth’ took nothing, and Holliver took nothing but left behind a nice blob of yogurt in the peanut butter jar (which she had previously been spooning great mouthfuls of PB out of).
We crossed the state border from Free State into KwaZulu-Natal today, ready to embark on a tour of the battlefields (and he never did say ‘Don’t you throw those bloody spears at me’), and the Drakensberg (Dragon’s Mountain), now a UNESCO world heritage site. At Rourke’s Drift we contemplated the idea of being attacked by 4,000 chanting Zulus. In the Drakensberg we soaked up the energy from the vortex of the amphitheatre and paddled in fresh streams. We’ll say nothing about Amy’s encounter with a water scorpion! Now we’re safely back with Mandy in Jo’burg, preparing to take on the next leg of our travels (which includes boxing up a load of stuff we don’t need to ship back to Blighty!). We’re all more than a little bit in love with South Africa, particularly Nature’s Valley and the Drakensberg.
Yesterday we drove almost 1,000k (feasting on oranges) from Addo to Bethlehem. For much of the way we hugged the border with Lesotho. I can no longer describe the scenery, it is too beautiful. After such a long drive we treated ourselves to a stay in a proper guest house. Luxurious bath, comfy bed, sofa (forgotten how nice it is to sit on a comfy sofa) and breakfast, which we made the most of. We all stuffed ourselves to the point of nausea on eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, pancakes, yogurt, etc. Then Andy - aka Fagin - stole away with 2 packets of Oat-so-simple, some tea bags, some butter, a tea spoon, and a fistful of sweets. I, Nancy, pocketed 2 packets of Oat-so-simple and 6 pancakes wrapped in napkins (oh yes, I’m good). Amy the Artful Dodger, still in training in the art of ‘getting one’s money’s worth’ took nothing, and Holliver took nothing but left behind a nice blob of yogurt in the peanut butter jar (which she had previously been spooning great mouthfuls of PB out of).
We crossed the state border from Free State into KwaZulu-Natal today, ready to embark on a tour of the battlefields (and he never did say ‘Don’t you throw those bloody spears at me’), and the Drakensberg (Dragon’s Mountain), now a UNESCO world heritage site. At Rourke’s Drift we contemplated the idea of being attacked by 4,000 chanting Zulus. In the Drakensberg we soaked up the energy from the vortex of the amphitheatre and paddled in fresh streams. We’ll say nothing about Amy’s encounter with a water scorpion! Now we’re safely back with Mandy in Jo’burg, preparing to take on the next leg of our travels (which includes boxing up a load of stuff we don’t need to ship back to Blighty!). We’re all more than a little bit in love with South Africa, particularly Nature’s Valley and the Drakensberg.
