( Continuation)

Long before one-armed Chris can cause any problems the convoy set off at the crack of dawn. We crawl up and over the rocky hill, I came down last night. Twenty kilometres into the day drive Williwaw blows her exhaust just at the sound box. In the silence of the desert, she roars like a tank. Temporary repairs reduce the noise.

The plan is to follow the Somadommi River and camp that evening at Purros.   The sun makes it difficult to hook up meaningfully impressions, with any scenery. Everything is warped, distorted. Shades of shale colour on the ground mingle into one block of a parched desert.

A midday stop brings to light that our new companions are two x Royal Navy captains. Robin and Robert with their perspective anchors Julian and Juliet.   It seems that Juliet daughter has marked a map, which is produced. My eyes read a note on the map < bare and beautiful sandy desert. > I make a mental note to veer to the right when we get going again.   The bare and beautiful can wait till mother and daughter are together. We have had enough sand for a lifetime.

A dust devil (mini tornado) passes over us lifting Williwaws sun canopy sucking Robin’s hat skywards.   Covered in a shower of dust it’s a sort of macho event as no one made a move even though we all saw the funnel approaching. I am sure that our two Captains as I had seen waterspout at sea. Mind you I had never experience been hit by of one. It gave us quite a wake up to take evasive action in the future and not to stand there with our mouth open.

After Purros, we push on to Orupembe our first Himba settlement/village. Not a Himba or Himbo to be seen.   Not to worry says the bible they are a nomadic cattle loving people who move from one location to another. We have a close look at one of their beehive style dwelling. Inside there are a few utensils and it is obvious from the number of empty bottles about that they are rapidly developing a liking for the daemon alcohol.

Juliet map has a campsite marked on their some ten to twelve kilometres to the north.   The lure of a gin and tonic, dinner with some British sarcasm and wit defeat any other course of action. However, pitch no 75 presents the first real test of 4×4 driving. The site is situated on an island at the source of the Somadommi River.

To reach it we are faced with a decent of a steep riverbank onto a sandy dry riverbed and an even steeper out on the opposite bank has to be negotiated. With Williwaw roaring I lead the way. The decent is no problem. The whole trick is not to get stuck in the soft sand and to have enough speed to attack the opposite bank. In low dif, we hit the floor a dart of smooth acceleration and we are across. Three car lengths from the out bank I whip her into high dif. We mount the opposite bank, doubling clutching I change her down as she drags herself out. We have just cleared the bank when Robin at the helm of their Toyota on their second attempt goes air born Dakar Rally style. Landing on all fours the Toyota bounces up and down on its suspension to the sound of Fuck my head. All inside hit the roof twice for good measure.

Installed in amongst the trees that night we all get to know each other better with Florence getting her first music lesson on the recorder.   Morning > my head won’t take another day of Williwaw blowing exhaust so with some effort I make a splint out of last night Heinz bake beans cans. Some wire and a substantial smearing of exhaust gum we once more have a silent Williwaw.

After a few slip up to find our bearings it is out with the compass. Gravel plains as far as the eye can see. Our target is a red drum about fifty kilometres to our north than another 80 or so more through the Mountains to the banks of the Cunene. The drive is rugged with striking topographical features. A craggy escarpment run’s parallel to the coast, dividing the interior plateau from the lower lying, semi-desert steppe, which gradually merges into the gravel, flats which we are on a haven for four-wheel driving.

Arriving at the red drum our high point we crawl down into the stunning valley of the Hartmann’s, named after Hartmann’s zebra which aew extremely agile, more adapted than gemsbok at digging for water.   The drive is gobsmacking. Open grassveld country called the Marienflues.   Trees and shrubs are mostly absent.   A sea of golden grass dotted with large and small circles of exposed terra cotta earth some time called fairy circles or hardpans depending on the theories of their origin.

Prof. Theron South Africa theory: Euphorbia plants once grew in these circles then died leaving poisonous chemicals in the soil. Prof Moll’s South Africa theory:   Tropical termites are blown in during the wet cycles but snuff it during the dry season. Another is that the hardpans are layers in the soil, which are waterproof making plant life impossible. We like the fairy one. Florence theory: Fairies practice ground for weaving their wands burning the grass.

On our right, the Otjihipa Mountain range comes into view and our first signs that we are approaching the Cunene. Birds:   Where there are birds water cannot be far. Furthermore we have been travelling downhill for some considerable time also there is a similar smell in the air as when you are at sea approaching an Island.

Our new bird book is in overdrive. There are ten species of birds, which are endemic to the Kokoland/Damaraland with two of the rarest in the whole of South Africa found only along the Cunene. They are the Cinderella waxbill and the Rufoustailed palm thrush.

We arrive at the banks of the Cunene full of the joys of the Kaleidoscope of Physical beauty. The landscape now changes from the dry Mopane savanna and the open grassveld to the dense riverbank vegetation almost tropical forest. Leadwoods >Sycamore fig> Boesmangif with a striking pink flower, Strangler fig, Makalani palms all too much for the amateur botanist.

Our campsite chosen by Colin is six kilometres beyond Otjinungwa just above some rapids. The water looks inviting but no one is in a rush to take the plunge.   Fourteen-meter crocs as large as fallen tree trunks slumber on sandy banks. With visions of one-armed Chris Pitch, no 76 is no the roof. Colin, however, has told us that far up the river there is a bend where it is shallow and safe for a wash. True to his word we find a sweeping bend. With Robin on croc watch, we strip off and soak the day’s heat away.   The sparkling crystal clear water has some little fish that nibble our bums or feet a Japanese treat in this unspoiled jewel of nature. In the true sense of the word an unforgettable day.

Morning brings a visitor. He appears as if out of thin air promising to return with some gemstones.   A lazy day with a spot of fishing is in order. (Top Tip: Bring a fishing rod and some tackle.)   I am obviously using the wrong bait for not a hint of a bit do I get. If only Chris was about I could have borrowed a morsel of his arm.

In the late afternoon, we the men drive down to the rapids. They are located down towards the Skeleton Coast. It does not take long before we meet sand.

Parking some distance from the river we walk past a dilapidated sign indicating mines. An old wreck of an army vehicle bears witness to the sign so our footsteps follow the leader till we reach the river. Across on the opposite bank set in dense tree cover the remnants of an army lookout post that add to our tingling hair sensation does not mention a dozen Goliath size crocodiles.

I know from Colin that many a poor soul was tossed into the river, as croc fodder during South Africa guerrilla war contra SWAPO (South West Africa People’s Organisation.) and later when a full-scale invasion of Angola to smash the Marxist-oriented Popular Movement (MPLA) who supported the UNITA which controlled much of the south of Angola. Angola is just a short swim.

The walk back is silent.

That evening our gems arrive. >Uncut garnets. My knowledge of gems does not surpass my knowledge of botany, but there is no need to worry thirty fingers around the campfire is vastly experience in these matters. The girls buy a bag full each.

Morning brakes with the news that Robin is suffering from heat exhaustion.   Not last night’s grog. There is no way up the river to Epupa falls located over a hundred kilometres to our east other than on foot. It is back to the red drum. For Robin’s sake, I suggest we drive it a night. In the silvery track of the moon, we lift anchor and are once more stunned into silence by the beauty of our surroundings. Other than the crocs we had not seen any large animals. No desert Elephants, No Zebra of any strips, No Rhino and no Himba. Arriving at the Red drum we camp looking back down the Hartmann’s valley. Pitch no 77

We awake to the sound of an approaching motor. One-armed Chris appears with another ranger. A cup of coffee rules out the Van Zyl’s Pass. It is a one-way system down not up from or side and anyway according to Chris the track is in bad condition after the rain. What a shame. It means a long haul over to Opuvio.   From Chris description of the Pass the girls are relived and to tell the truth so am I. Even though Colin map is in favor of this route there is no way with our English friends driving experience that I could attempt it.   There is one bonus to the Opuvio it is one of the two places in the whole of the Kaoko region that has fuel.

With a warning to watch out for Scorpions especially the one with a flat black tail deadly to all whether they be English or whatever.   Chris is not gone more than three minutes when a specimen turns up.   All look in horror. I decided to Caterpillar it with my Caterpillar boots. (Top Tip:   It is good advice to shake out one sleeping bag and one’s boots before putting them on.) It is not the last one we are to come across so we are not ungrateful for his advice. Before our meeting, we were pulling on boots without a care in the world and hopping into sleeping bags.

In the late morning, we start back to Orupembe.   Driving west from the drum we once more close the coast of Hell as the Portuguese seafarers knew it. Sculpted by the wind five hundred kilometres long it got its name after a Swiss pilot Carl Naver who crashed somewhere along it in 1933.

Twenty miles inland from the coast fog lingers till the sun burns it off usually by ten am when there is instantaneous sunshine. Turning south we run parallel to the coast over corrugated Desert floor.   The dunes on our right are said to drone when the hit by the East wind called Soo-oop-wa. The noise is caused by the slip face of the dunes collapse.   (Crumbling quartz)

It’s a hard drive in relentless heat, on the tiers; the girl, and on poor Robin who we are sure has had his fill of Namibia.

Its handshakes all around on reaching Orupembe. “If you are in Etosha on the first or second of May it is Robin’s birthday.” The Toyota is swallowed by the land and dust. We are never to see them again. Fully fueled we turn east at a more leisurely pace towards the Hoarusib River that forges a passage between the Tonnesen Mountains and the Giraffen Mountains to the sea when it flows.   We call a halt in one of most exquisite places of all our camping so far.

Pitch No 78. Is surrounded on all quarter by mountains. Below us, a dry riverbed with large Palm trees sucking the last of the remaining waters captured in deep and shallow pools.   Next to us looking like large bee hives a Himba settlement stands silent and deserted. The greys and purple of the surrounding mountains make it a spell-bounding tender place in an unforgiving landscape.

To the sound of the gently swaying palms, our tent rustles in the evening breeze.   Over a few whiskeys, Fanny and I listen to Florence loving snoring. Namibia so far has shown us on many occasions, around many bends, and over many hilltops, there is a surprise waiting. Tonight is to be no different. To capture the moment on paper it is like sitting in an undiscovered painting by the master of all artists nature.

Here we are sitting in the haunted air of twilight, soaking up the unpopulated, unpolluted, pristine, natural surrounds when over the mountains Fanny notices a comet.   In the clarity of the ink coloured night sky it turns our surrounding into a surreal backdrop > A new world > A biblical scene > A science fiction movie. Halley’s Comet we cry the only comet name we know. Not so it is Hale-Bopp and won’t be back till the year 2400 unlike Halley’s which visits every 76 years or so. Over the next hour, we watch the captivating beauty of its bright tail and blue surround pass over us at 120,000 kilometres per hour. It is hard to believe that it is over 200 million kilometres away from, earth and a mere one million klms wide shell of gas.

The Majestic beauty of the earth and the far-off Galaxies gives us weird dreams.   We awake half afraid to open our eyes just in case it has all disappeared and that we will step out into what could be another world. In the silence, you could hear the grass drinking the water that ran deep in the earth.   Before breakfast, Florence and I explore the riverbed. There are many small animals’ tracks in the soft sand which fuel Florence desire to see a large animal, a lion, an elephant, anything. I assure her that when we arrive in Etosha we will see everyone from a dinosaur down.

Refueling before we depart calls us back into the real world. We cross our dry river past another larger Himba settlement, which we had not been aware of. No sign of any occupants.

Late afternoon we come on a sign declaring cold beers. We pull in to what can only be described as a container. Converted into a house it is owned by a German named Adi who grinds his false teeth constantly, and even more stridently after a few beers. As the sunset his alcoholic consumption increases.

Our host has a small shop and a garden full of basil. Watched by young faces through the wicker bamboo fence that surrounds his garden we discover that there is a village nearby.   Even more importantly I learn that he has a welding unit. He is all welcoming offering a hot shower. “Help your self to whatever you want.”   With an offer to weld Williwaw exhaust Pitch, no 79 is on his doorstep.

After dinner, Florence and I take a wander into the village.   Florence clings to me for there are many unwelcoming dogs. She spots a man tucking into a large bowl of caterpillars. Why caterpillar I don’t know as there is no sign of starvation. They must be some kind of out of the ordinary treat. I ask Florence would she like to try one. The look of horror on her face confirms that it will be some time before she will complain again about Mum‘s cooking.

Heir Germany is late-arising. In the daylight, he is a coarse sixty-five years or plus old. As to how he had come to be living in a container amongst the Himba out in the middle of nowhere there is no chance of finding out. To steady the hands and gets the teeth grinding he is already on the grog

Running out of gas and welding rods Williwaws exhaust ends up been riveted.   Several more beers are consumed to seal the exhaust after which he crashes out for an afternoon siesta. Before he passed out he has sent a young lad off to get a few Himba lassies to drop over and dance for us tonight.  Not exactly the ideal way we wanted to encounter our first Himba close up.   Three young Himba arrive. How young is difficult to say. At Adi command, they half heartily shuffle their feet and clap their hands.   It is a strange contrived encounter. Florence is spell-bound. Fanny and I are uncomfortable. Adi is drooling. They are the first partially unclothed Africans we have met.

The Himba still dress according to ancient customs and traditions.   They are a tall people characterized by their proud yet friendly manner. There are about ten thousand living in the Kaokoland (50,000 square klms.) broken up into 26 tribes each with its own headman. They arrived from SW Africa in the 16^th century after migrating from North East Africa and are closely related to the Herero.     Not unlike the Dinka or Masai in looks, they are nomadic travel from one kraal to another on a temporary basis. Their cone-shaped homes are fashioned from Mopane trees and plastered with cow dung.   They rub their whole bodies with a sour butterfat and red ochre mixed with the aromatic resin of the Omuzumba bush > A suntan lotion of factor 1000 with a forceful reddish shine.   Both the men and woman adorn themselves with hand and ankle bracelets made from beaten copper.   Every newborn baby is adorned with a pearl necklace.   The women wear elaborate hairstyles, loincloths and a large shell dangling between their breasts. Like the Herero, they tend a sacred fire, which constantly burns in the middle of their campsite. To walk between the fire and the headman home is a large NO, NO.   It is looked on as the basic ingredient between the living and the dead. Also similar to the Herero they were almost wiped out. Angola and Namibia used them as trackers. Hardcore tourism is now finishing the job turning them into beggars for alcohol and whatever while coffee table photo books continue to exploit their beauty while it lasts. 

Resisting clicking our heels we wave our departure with a sigh of relief. Three hours later on what left in the spare tank, we pull into Opowo. While I fill Williwaw tanks and jerry cans Florence discovers a swimming pool behind the Fuel station. Another offer to get the exhaust fixed our covering of a fine film of dust, a clean room and of course the blue pool has us check in for the night.

We wake to a Sunday morning with no hope of anyone looking at Williwaw exhaust we leave. Our roar wakes the sleeping dogs. We pass sad evidence of the Himbas future empty vodka bottles on the one-kilometre of tarmac road out-of-town in the whole of the Kaokoland. A long drive with numerous retracing our steps one of which is to recover Florence’s new bought tin Himba toy car which she had parked during a pump ship stop. Made from coke cans and wire it is guided on four wheels over any terrain by an attached stick without any fear of engine failure, puncher, or lack of fuel. As always the drive is intoxicating with many stops to take shots of flowering stones, lichen, deformed rock outcrops, flowering cactus, bird book consultations, and our first unpretentiously meet the Himba.

Epupa falls at long last becomes audible. With a seasonal peak flow of 50,000 liters per second, it bears it Himba name meaning falling water. We choose a well-shaded spot for Pitch No 79 in amongst tall trees of which the Ana tree; Faidherbia albida is the most dominant.

There is a sense of adventure and discovery when looking at a waterfall for the first time. The same feelings I am sure that many an early explorer had.   So we can’t wait to go and have a look.

( To be Continued )

Donation News:  Plenty of Free Likes. Nare a Tip.  Just in case there might be one reader or Publisher with a few bob. Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189 Ulster Bank 33 College Green, Dublin 2. Sorting code. 98-50-10

( CONTINUATION)

With a new hartebeest hide cover for Williwaw front seats, fully provisioned we depart. It’s until we meet again Time. The longing in Colin’s eyes sums up Walvis Bay. We turn off the tar road towards Spitzkoope.

Now begins a part of our journey where Christianity and Islam has been held a bay by the inaccessibility of the region.   Where we hope for the next few weeks there will be only the earth the sky and us. However, before we reach the Kaokoland there is arid Damaraland. Home to a massive mountain range that rises up out of the plains to a height of 2,570 odd meters above sea level called the Brandberg.

Williwaw seems to be running hot. Touch wood that we don’t have a repeat performance. The sun climbs higher and higher. Our shadows have abandoned us as with all other shadows long disappeared. The dreaded hours of the early afternoon are upon us. Fanny has her window draped with a black scarf. Florence is snoozing. The grey dusty road horizon is flat, empty, and lifeless.

We pull into a dry riverbed behind Spitzkoope.   Inspected by some long-legged beetles we set up camp.   Pitch no 71 looks out on two rock peaks that hang in the evening heat like Hover crafts.   Luckily our beetle friends are not good climbers so we all sleep on the roof thankful for the smallest breeze.

A quick water search in the village produces not a drop. The cloudless sky promises yet another sizzling day. So rather than waste time, we hit the road with some urgency to get as many kilometres under our belt before it becomes a joke to be out in the noonday sun. Two hours into the day’s drive we arrive at a bank of a dry river. Stuck in the middle of the riverbed sands are two Namibians > Telecommunication Men. By the look on their faces, it is their lucky day. They have been digging, stuffing rocks, and branches under their Toyota for some hours.   Mobiles don’t exist never mind work out here. When stuck you are stuck till someone happens bye, which is one in a million. Williwaw to the rescue to eternal gratitude.

Out of the stony landscape rises an eerie brown mountain range. The famous Brandberg’s with Konigstein the highest peak in Namibia. Standing at 2500 meters it might not be an Everest but against the blue, its burnt red-brown colour gives it a presence larger than its height. The range covers an area over nineteen miles by fourteen miles on first sighting it is somewhat like Alice Rock in Australia.   You can see it but it takes an eternity to reach it. Another hill, another dip, and another, and another till we eventually arrive at the sunset turns all in front of us to a rustic red.

As darkness begins to consume the Bergs magnitude our campfire under acacia crackles in a perfect silence. It is not long before new sounds of the African night fill our ears. Sounding like a machine gun fire the resident rock bunnies are in full communication till the moon rises and shuts them up.

Our campfire light dances on the Brandberg, Afrikaans for “burnt mountain.”   We are surrounded by total darkness. Not another light pierces our surroundings except the stars. Pitch No 72 is sensational in its purity of wildness.

(Top TIP:   Campfires. They attract attention. They fend off unwanted animal/ insect company. They cause bushfires. They have limited light penetration in heavy bush or jungles so don’t walk far away.   Use felled wood where possible. Always bury the ashes.)

After a game of Dominoes won by Florence, Fanny and I enjoy a glass of whisky to the night sounds. A lion roar, if there were any, would have capped our evening and made us jump out of our skins. The heat of the day releases itself from the Berg.

Morning > Not quite seven a.m. and the Berg is already reheating. The view from our pitch is a sea of golden savanna grass, dotted with blobs of green.   We treat ourselves to a hot shower. (Top TIP:   If you buy a solar shower fit it with a longer bit of piping.) Down below us, a cloud of dust warns us of an approaching vehicle.

A group of Over Landers arrive in a large truck almost before it stops regurgitating fifteen whites in various shades of sunburn. Without further ado, they evaporate into the mountains. We in the meantime over a leisurely breakfast are somewhat less than unenthusiastic to leave this first camping spot recommended by Colin. We remain undetected until I turn the key in Williwaw. Her coming to life rebounds of the rocks, startling the trucks tour guide from his siesta.   Daza the tour guide is a Mozambican of twenty or twenty-five years of age. He has one of those smiles that toothpaste manufacturers would die for.

He is more than mildly surprised by our appearance as if by magic out of the mountains. We learn that his group had gone to see the White Lady a rock painting.   We were going to do the same till he told us that it was a waste of time. Apparently, it is over one hour hike to see the old girl.   She is covered in graffiti and now rests behind a wire-protecting cage. Bowing to Daza knowledge we decide to push on the Twyfelfontein where the most far-reaching collection of early Stone Age art and engraving in the whole of Africa awaits our viewing. According to Colin the Louver of Africa rock art and one of Namibia best sites for camping.

Armed with what is best and stay away from that information, Daza waves us off promising a few beers on our next meeting.   In the coming weeks, he will be driving his group after they have visited Fish Cannon back up into Etosha, across the Caprivi Strip into the Okavango so our paths might cross again.

Our stay under the Brandbergs, with Daza metaphors, has lifted our Walvis Bay despondency.   The day’s drive is full of chat of expectancy. The orange ball of the setting sun is just visible on the horizon as we arrive in Twyfelfontein campsite named after Ada-Huab River, which is dry as a bone. There is a funny fact about driving after dark in rural Africa. Drivers avoid it like the plague because they speed up rather than slow down. The potholes, ruts, landslides disappear, while your eyes search either side of the road for the daemons of the night.

The campsite is peaceful. Pitch no 73. Rather than the usual ugly concrete synthetic round huts with thatched roofs and a utility block, it is at one with its surroundings.

The washing out the girls find a wonderful shower in a clump of bamboo worked by pulleys. We all sleep like bricks. Tomorrow seven kilometres down the road it is the Louve of rock art and engravings and around the corner the Burnt Mountain itself.

Arriving at high noon we find that a guided tour is unavoidable. Florence takes a fancy to an older guide sporting a Crocodile Dundee hat and very smart whiskers. There is no cover so hats, water, and a heavy smearing of sunblock and we on our way not before the formal welcome with a well-rehearsed speech. “This is the biggest concentration of rock engravings in Africa, dating back thousands of years there is the picture of lions, elephants, rhinos, giraffes back in the Stone Age.” “We will also visit the Lion’s Claw.” “First my fee.” As we are his only punters the fee parley is agreed without much argument.

Unlike the Prehistoric art of the Vallee Vezere or the Dordogne in France, all housed in caves this art, is hands on. > Exposed to all.

After two hours of crawling over rocks, the heat is crucifying bouncing back of the polished rocks each engraving get the odd shower of our perspiration. The engravings are of animal’s long gone, eaten bearing witness that they once meandered in these parts. There is one of a whale somewhat out-of-place considering our surroundings. Our guide explained that some of the pictures are bushmen’s art but it still requires some imagination that a little bushman had gone to the coast and spotted Mobi Dick.

Under the unforgiving sun, the lion’s claw rock formation is of Picasso quality but is our limit.  For the sake of some cooling air, we drive on to the Burn Mountain.   A complete waste of effort as it turned out to be just a large mound of barren basalt shale and rock with one section somewhat like the giant causeway in Sligo in Ireland.

On we move arriving at Khorixas where the Michelin map has all but given up the ghost. Luckily we have Colin detailed map of the Kaokoland. There is a Petrified Forest marked nearby which we give a miss. Hallelujah, his map has a waterfall marked that fills a deep pool.  The promise of a swim kills the stoned trees a thousand times over.   We push on to Ongongo. Dusty, hot, tired, and grumpy we are lost in less than fifty miles. The pressure is on. Can you read a map or can’t you type hassle. A small broken board lying in the dust with an arrow is my only salvation. “How do you know it’s pointing the right way?” “I have a feeling.” Another few minutes and doubting Thomas would have taken over. A Hero saves us not the Hollywood type but a real Herero.

With two people to ever-square mile of Namibia landmass of 824,269 sq km the chances of meeting someone out here is like winning the Lotto. (Four-time the size of the Britain 27 times the size of Belgium)

We who know nothing about Herero people are totally flabbergasted by the vision of a woman dressed like a Victorian lady sitting in the middle of nowhere. She sporting an enormous crinoline dress puffed out by several petticoats down to her ankles.   On her head she is a horn-shaped hat or as Florence observes a corkscrew made from rolled red cloth.   Patently hearing the Jeep coming for miles she is not in the least fazed by our sudden appearance she. All we can think is that she must be steaming in gear like that. God forgive the puritanical missionaries that did penetrate this Wasteland to con them into wearing clothes.

Fanny who has a good grip of the language enquires after the waterfall.   Bob your uncle. In a jiffy we are alleviated of fifteen rands, engage low differential and disappear over a rocky cliff.  What that? > A stream.

Rather than subject our bodies to any more torture we settle on the side of the stream > A mistake. The insect life beside the water is overbearing. We move back up precipice to a spot under a large Acacia. Pitch No 74. Florence and I go on a reconnaissance trip up-stream. We not had gone more than a few minutes when we discover Colin’s pool > A sparkling diamond of crystal clear water fed by a small waterfall.   No invitations needed for us to drop our drawers. The resident terrapins dive for cover a Wilderness experience of a lifetime.

The Herero are believed to have arrived in Namibia from east Africa lakes some 350 years ago. There are about 100 000 in Namibia found mostly in the central and eastern parts of the country.   They are divided into several sub-groups > The Tjima, the Ndamuranda the Mahereo and the Zeraua. Around the town of Gobabis once known as Hereroland, there is another group named Mabandero. The word Herero may be derived from Okuhara, meaning to throw an assegai. (A slender hardwood spear with an iron tip)

They are unique among South African indigenous people to recognize their descent from both the mother’s and the father’s families. Residence, religion and authority are taken from the father line, while the economy and inheritance of wealth are passed on via the mother clan. They believe in a Supreme Being called Omukuru the Great one, or Njambi Karunga.   Like the Himba, they have a holy, ritual fire, which symbolizes life, prosperity and fertility. Most are converted to Christianity although their church the Oruuano, combines Christian dogma with ancestor worship and magical practices.  

Traditionally they are nomadic pastoralists. There is no private ownership of cattle since they belong to the lineage of the mother‘s tribe.     An heir is expected to share his inheritance with his brother’s and the sons of his mother’s younger sister.   He must also now take care of the wives and children of the deceased.   However, this system is changing and nowadays more children inherit cattle from their dead father.  They fought the Nama people who were migrating northwards.   The Nam descended from the Khoi-Khio groups (Hottentots) came from the South.   The Nama were responsible for the gradually displacing the San (Bushman) and the Herero in there turn displaced the Nam and what was left of the San.

They prospered till the colonial period. Namibia been colonized by Germany.   The Herero attempted to preserve their Independence rebelling in 1904. The response was genocide in which 80% were wiped out. Those that escaped fled to Botswana. The Herero gave the now named Kunene River its name from which the name Kaokoveld derived. When they arrived the river was on their right hand so they called it Okunene meaning big or right hand. They hold that their right hand is larger than the left. The land on their left they called Okaoko meaning exactly what it describes on the left.

It has now been several weeks if not more since we spotted a cloud of any description. The hard blue sky is almost touchable. Every Acacia, every hill slice opens its blueness. An early morning swim, a good breakfast, a leisurely braking of camp, we climb aboard wet and fresh. Damaraland gives way to the Kaokoland at Sesfontain.

Sesfontain gets its name from six perennial springs that have their source near bye.   A small Lawrence of Arabia style fort once manned by German police that had it signal hill outside its walls where a heliograph was erected by German soldiers. It is now owned by Sean Marshall a friend of Colin who has turned the fort into a hotel.   For us it is the thought of a cold beer, crisp sheets and good food, not forgetting the swimming pool that attracts us like a strong magnet.

Gone are the days it was a desert oasis called Nani/ous with date palms, enormous fig trees and the ubiquitous Bushman who were ousted by the Bergdama who in turn were subjected by the Herero cattle nomads.

Now a day’s it all adds up to a spot of but who cares credit card bashing with a splash of Florence breaking the blue waters of the pool.   We decided to stay the night.   One beer leads to another. Florence is in conversation with the only other poolside occupant > a young red-haired clutching a beer with his only good arm. “What happened to your arm” “It was bitten off by a crock.” The pool looks less inviting. “Did it hurt?” “The Croc.” “NO!”   “You.” “Florence ——– dinner.”

A dusty friend who has just driven in for dinner joins Chris our one-armed, red hair, Croc killer.   I am invited over for a pre-dinner drink. Fifteen minutes into Who, Are you, Where are you going, Where, have you come from the type of conversation dinner is served. It is a dismal affair. German chicken al la the new German manageress with whiplash all washed down with some highly overpriced wine.

Chris turns out to be a ranger as is his dusty friend. They live in one of the twenty-odd houses up from the fort. He points it out to his friend and me up on the hill. “Drop by for a few beers when you are finished here.” The girls call it a day.

Armed with two six packs and the light of the moon it is not long before we spot the light in the window. “Hy it is us”, shouts Dusty through the window” Like a Springbok, a large breasted naked woman jumps out of the bed and starts yelling like a dog. Within a split second every dog within yelping distance has joined in. Whoops! > Wrong house. We stumble on up the hill towards a fire.

Croc Chris scar tissue looks the part in the flickering light.   The story goes that he went he was in the South African army he went for a swim in the Cunene River. A Lot of bodies were dumped into the river during those times. Apparently, he was watching a croc on the opposite bank when he entered the water and had not noticed a younger croc lurking underneath the bank he was standing on.   He was seizing by the arm. In the struggle not to be dragged into the river, he lost his hand from the elbow down.   He has nothing against crocs but after a few more beers some very warped views come to the surface. The English are not worth pissing on.   Might is the only thing that black understand. The banning of the word Kafar is a tragedy.   Apartheid was correct. He is proud of what he did in Angola. All lead to a heated discussion so by the time I staggered down the hill to the safe haven of the fort I was glad the croc had bitten his hand off.

Ironically overnight a group of British turn-up. They have a permit to enter the Kaokoland but have very little off-road driving experience and need to be accompanied under their permit. We agreed to team up for a few days. I will take them as far as Otjinungwa up on the Cunene River. 

(To Be Continued)

News on the Donations/ Tips. It’s not too late to be the first.

R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank, 33 College Green Dublin.

Sorting code: 98-50-10.

NAMIBIA.

What we know.

Skeleton Coast. Diamonds. Walvis Bay. Kalahari.

We cross into a country we know sweet Fanny Adam about. Our bible has twenty-eight pages covering a daunting landmass. Armchair travel programmes conjure up visions of wilderness where little skinny men called Bushmen run for days under the blazing sun with their quivering spears to get a meal. White beaches littered with rusting ship hulls and diamonds. Merciless desert, Sidewinder adders, Scorpions, and Beetles, Elephants, Oryx and Zebra, that has developed ingenious methods of conserving moisture and slating their thirst.

The border asphalt peters out and the lush irrigated fields of yesterday give way to the stark beauty of a gasping land percolating under a hot sun. On our left is the Skeleton coast with the loneliest beaches in the world washed by the cold Benguela Current. To our right is the longest never-ending expanse of sand in the world the Kalahari Desert. In front the oldest Desert in the world the Namib one thousand nine hundred km long with an annual rainfall of 2 inches.   All in all the perfect blending of rock sand and sea.

Our progress is under surveillance from the top of tar weeping electric poles. Is it an eagle, a buzzard, a kestrel, a falcon, or a hawk?   It is time to invest in a bird book. Without coming across one human all day we arrive in Ai-Ais at the southern end of Fish River Canyon. A small hot water thermal oasis set in a desolate rock- strewn landscape of the Huns Mountains. Under the lofty peaks of red rock the combined pale muddy waters of Orange River (South Africa largest with its source in Lasotho) and the seasonal Fish River have cut out a canyon second to the Grand Canyon in northwestern Arizona.   Well over one hundred mile long, it is wide and deep, with views that have been around for thousands of years.

Pitch no 67 in the camping grounds is fortuitously out of sight of the large ugly gray hotel that makes no effort artistically to compliment the beauty of the area. A swim confirms that here is no way one would spot a snake or anything else in the orange water.   The very mention of snakes has the girls under our shower to cool off before dinner. Next day while the girls relax in the sun I make a sortie along the riverbank up into the canyon.   Normally the eighty kilometer/ four to five-day hike starts at the other end when the river is dry, and requires one to have a medical cert of fitness and to sign an indemnity form more to do with dying from heat than water. After the tenth of just around the next bend I decide the quickness way back snakes or no snake is in the soup. What took five hours of clambering up takes less than twenty minutes on my back to arrive back to my starting point?

Williwaw begins our climb out of Ai-Ais in the cool of the early morning sun.   The Hunsberg Mountains shadows fast disappear as our dust trail lingers in the still air. We surface onto the Huib Hochplato Plateau and follow the canyon wall to Hobas where according to the Bible the most spectacular views of the Canyon are to be had.   At high noon in searing heat we look down into the depths of thousands of years of aquatic carving.   Its immense antiquity is lost on us.   There is an atmosphere of menace imparted by the heat wobble trapped within the canyon and the orange color of the river waters. The view is not African in its true sense. Not a blade of grass or tree for miles. It is the water that is phony with its surroundings. No matter we are moved by the majesty of nature. I appreciating once more that nature is the great equalizer whether it be water, sand, ice or wind.

Leaving the canyon we skirt the largest restricted area called the Sperrgebiet, the Forbidden Zone, or Diamond Area #2 in the world.   A large hunk (200-kilometer) of the Namib-Naukluft national park is encircled by razor wire. I remember reading in the Geographical Magazine about some English bloke who traveled through up this area on camel back. I am sure he watched the ground for all that glittered.

Unfortunately for him he was shadowed all the way, just in case he swallowed a star of Africa.   Ignoring the lure to go and have a look for ourselves we swallow our first piece of game meat in a restaurant in Keetmanshoop before camping in its municipal campsite also behind razor wire. (Pitch No 68) Fortuitously the razor wire cannot keep the stars out.   Never the less our departure is delayed with several visits to the throne of knowledge. After which none of us are any the wiser whether it was Springbok, Steenbok, Gemsbok, Impala, Dikdik, Bushbuck, Duiker, or just plain Antelope that had changes the texture of our spoors.

(Top TIP: Diarrhea in this part of the world is almost impossible to avoid. Bring Lomotil. Drink lots of purified water. Keep a few empty bottles of Sprite or Coke so you don’t have to pay a deposit on the bottles you buy. Bottles are scarce in Africa.)

Stomachs rumbling we are once more immersed into the empty wilderness of Namibia. (Literally meaning nothing)

Passing the finger of God we follow the Fish River north to Hardap Dam our turning point to Walvis Bay. Turning due west at Mariental we arrive at the gates of the dam attached game reserve. The Gamekeeper relieves us of 79 Namibian dollars confirming that the wide-open spaces don’t come for naught. “Yes their are animals to be seen.” “There are four black rhino last spotted on there release back in 1990.”

We pitch No 69 in our designated spot. The camping center has a few purpose-built lodgings that pay their surroundings no effort to harmonize. A small island covered in white confirms a popular site for the dam lake Pelicans. Once more with the odd feather friend we have the place to our selves. It is obvious that the rhino are fabrication of the mind’s eye so morning see us packing up early and leave long before the rising sun.

The Naukluft Park is truly a topographical dry land of stone and sand carved by water and wind covers over 49,000 square kilometers. It presents a totally different experience from traveling in the bush. Not a patch of cultivation in any direction where the fragrances of a flowering plant can travel of miles> where lizards stand on two legs in order to allow the suspended legs to cool after contact with the hot desert sands. Very few have trod here.

We stop at Sesriem to visit its small canyon named after the small Kuiseb River. This one turns out to be more like an earthquake crack. Only a mile long and six feet wide its hundred foot high walls give us much welcome shade for a few hours.

We arrive at Sossusvlei camping site after a day’s dusty drive to beat all vacuum hovers with Doubting Thomas moments to beat the ban.

Pitch No 70 is somewhat questionable, not due to the fact that there is no official camping site in the Sossusvlei, but more to do with the waxing lyrics of our Bible, “You will never see anything quite like this.” With no reservation we are banished to a spot out in the blazing sun. What we see from our unshaded swirling dust windswept campsite, is the start of another ugly tourist building – a very large tree situated on the other side of the barrier blocking the road.   Unknown to us sixty kilometers further down this road waits what only can be described as a landscape that takes our breath away.   The Namib-Naukluft Park grew to its present size over a period of ninety years. Today it is almost the size of Belgium and Wales. A Permit is required to enter which is obtainable in Sesriem. (Top TIP: Firewood and water are expensive at Sesriem so bring your own, and deflate you tires before setting off.)

It’s three a.m. when Williwaw comes to life. Under the Milky Way we trundle down the dirt track leaving an apricot bank of drifting dust. Darkness throws itself at our bouncing headlights and spots while the sand muffles our sound.   By the time we come to the end of the track, dawn is hinting in the wing mirrors.   There is a sense of deep peace as if everything is preparing itself for the day’s heat.

What unfolds before us is a landscape shrieking with the beauty of contrast.   Our European culture has ill prepared us for this. The air starts to quiver with the first rays of the sunlight. All the shadows begin to shrink. Trapped in clear turquoise water of the lake is the biggest sand dune in the world.

(Top TIP: Early morning or late evening is the best for photography.)

From under a large acacia tree, which is in full foliage, we watch our shadows recede like the incoming tide across the cracked surface of the saltpan.   The curving symmetrical edges of the dunes cut sharp clear lines in the blue sky and the water mirrors.   Our footsteps crunch and crackle on the baked surface of the receding waters of the saltpan.   The long curved scalpel dune 45 Photo Opportunity has a bewitching draw.   Standing at 300 meters it is said to be the tallest in the world.   I might not make it to the top of Everest in my lifetime but I am going to be king of the castle.

At the first sidewinder bend I say adieu to the girls. Two hours later after one-step backward for every two forward I sit on the top. The panorama views of the mountains in the distance, purple in color, kissed by red sand at their base and iced up their gullies with gold and white sand is rewarding beyond words. The ‘Piece de Resistance’ is however a solitary Oryx (Gemsbok) standing in the valley below me. The Gemsbok bye the way has a built-in radiator.   It is moments like this one finds oneself reflecting on life.   We humans are taught to think that we can be master of our destiny. Scientists may well in the future remodel man. However I fear that the destruction of their natural world, and its ecosystems never mind wars, and the urge to reproduce will wreak havoc.

Looking back down the leading edge my footsteps trace the slog up.   The quickest way down is the slip side.   It is steep and the slightest foot pressure sends small avalanche of sand on its way to the mosaic of white tiles of the dry pan below. With each giant step the sand flows in front of my boots. I hit the deck in three minutes flat.   Not a trace of the Oryx or my descent is visible.   Petrified trees decorate one section of the pan.   Deformed twisted trunks and branches witness to there stop start once existence.

Rejoining the girls the voices of the first humanoids to arrive down the track breaks the porcelain of our natural surroundings. Their voices in the distance remind me of the virtual world — the new inhospitable surroundings in which our children will roam without any maps.   On arriving back to our campsite all efforts to get the park ranger to use his initiative to allocate us a new site away from a thumping generator and into the shade of one of the many unoccupied sites fails.   The decision is made we will move on in the morning.

TOP TIP: There is a saying that the early bird gets the worm. This applies very much in Africa. Apart from the obvious advantage of beating sun up early morning gives sharpness to hearing sounds, avoids the shimmers, and energy levels are high.

Dawn brings a total contrast in our surroundings.  Vast gravel plains, distant mountains, scrub, and our first Welwitschia a dinosaur of botany named after Friedrich Welwitch an Austrian Botanist. Darwin described it as “ the platypus of the plant kingdom.”

Why? Your speculation is as good as ours. Apparently they are unique to Namibia with some of them a thousand to two thousand years old.   As far as we are concerned they sure picked one hell of a hostile place to grow their wind torn long green leathery leaves. Leaves been the operative word as they have only two leaves.

Fifty odd clicks from Walvis Bay disaster. Williwaw is belching smoke from under her bonnet.   First reaction is panic. We all bail out. Opening the bonnet horrors of horrors a small flame. Completely forgetting our fire extinguishers I jump up on Williwaw wing whip out my John Thomas and piss.   Success the human sprinkler does the job.   It looks like a long walk in the morning for we have not seen another human all day. Our map shows we are stranded at Vogefender Bergs (Birds feathers mountains.) We are just resigning ourselves to our situation when along the dirt track comes a car with a French journalist. Three hours later behind a V8 Ford I am towed into the only Land Rover Agency on the west coast of Africa.

It’s the weekend in Walvis Bay. Nothing moves till Monday. We find a room and curse our luck and Nana Kodie back in Ghana.   If he had brought us here on one of his fishing shrimp boats none of this would have happened. All seemed extremely logical at the time. By Monday we have found out that we a prisoners of Walvis. There are no buses, no taxies, no camels, no boats, and no trains. Auto Fliess Land Rovers agent tells us that Williwaws starting motor is fried. They can only source three such starting motors in the whole of South Africa.   At 5780 N$ almost a thousand quid sterling never mind that it will take over a week to arrive some radical action is required.   I ring Brooklyn Engineering in the UK where I acquired Williwaw. DHL and 3000 N$ solves the rip off price but not our enforced stay.

Our depressing holiday lodging overlooking a Total petrol station brings on a bout of homesickness. It’s not surprising, as Walvis Bay according to some of its locals is a place where one cries twice during your life. Once when you’re a born and again when you leave the dump.   The smell of fish processing factories and a perpetual moaning wind that shapes the ever-changing, moving dunes called Soo-oop-wa make the prospects of a prolong stops in Walvis Bay less than attractive. Hazel in the local Chinese’s saves us. She sees the SOS on our foreheads and suggests that we should move to her friend’s house out on the lagoon.

Installed in some luxury things chirp up. Walvis is a mind-numbing hole. Once called Santa Maria da Conceicao (Conception Bay) or Bahia das Bahleas (Bay of whales) in Portuguese it is Namibias only deep-water harbor.

It has one restaurant out on an old wharf owned by one of the many who wants to escape – Danny. On learning that I am a yachtsman he brings us to a yard where he has purchased a partially finished steel hull for 30000 rand.

Some other poor Wally or Walvis went broke rolling his owe steel in an attempt to escape.   The hull lies alongside a steel lifeboat, steel motor cruisers all in different stage of rust warping.   The vision of Danny welding his way out of Walvis Bay is farcical, but rather than crush his dream I draw a picture of him one day sailing out into the blue yonder. (To join the rest of the rust buckets parked on Namibia’s insurance claims coast.)

We borrow a car from Lorna our new young wealthy Spanish landlady to visit Swakopmund. Namibia’s main get away from it all resort. A short drive to the north we pass large wooden raft platforms of the coast that adds to Walvis Bay aromas when the wind is in the right direction a touch of guano. Swakopmund turns out to be haven compared to Walvis. Small and compact its Germanic cleanliness, and buildings, are surrounded by nature’s timeless work of art sand dunes.

On our return to Walvis my yachting know-how has attracted new attention. Over dinner on Danny’s wharf I am invited to look over an old classic racing yacht of the sixties owned by a South African doctor. This time I find up on blocks totally exposed to the blazing sun a yacht of beautiful lines. Rumoured to have won the Sidney-Hobart in the sixties she is now a sorry sight. Her chances of seeing the open sea are as much as the doctor has in burying the horrors of his time in Angola. After two hours of indulging the doc’s life story I accept an invitation to the yacht club for a brier, and a few beers.

Here we are introduced to Colin and his second wife Kathy.   Colin works in one of Walvis Bay fish processing plants. His first wife was one of the founding members of save the desert elephants.   Unfortunately she died from kidney failure. It turns out that Colin in his time has trudged for ten years all over Namibia as a prospector for De Beers.   He knows the Kaokoland in the north of Namibia like the back of this hand. His eyes sparkle with a deep love for what he describes as one of the worlds last true wilderness. His descriptions of its topographical features, its animals, its birds, its vegetation, and its people are intoxicating.

When he invites me to go crayfish diving with a promise of a fish dinner to best all fish dinners I jump at the invitation.

An early start sees us in the middle of nowhere some thirty miles up the coast from Swakopmund. The sky is cloudless. Gold colored dunes are separated from the sea by twenty feet of flat black rock.   I have forgotten my dip in South Africa when my head never mind my balls ached from the cold Benguella current.

The sight of Colin donning a wet suite top brings it all rushing back with a venomous clarity. Also, I have never dived in kelp, which does not help my confidence. Colin, handing me a wet suit top assures me that there is nothing to it. All we have to do is dive down and stuff a few of the blighters in our net bags. Splash. I stand watching his air bubbles. Will I or won’t I test the waters before taking the plunge. It can’t be all that bad. He still has not surfaced. In I go without dipping the toe. Jesus, Mary and fuck me. I gasp for breath. Just my luck he pops up beside me before I can leap out. He dives again. I wait for my heart beat to take on some form of normality.   My first attempt to submerge leaves my backside on the surface. He resurfaces. I feel that my mercury has hit rock bottom. He gone again. I make another attempt this time getting down as far as the kelp. Man this is for the birds. I throw the towel in – Colin spends twenty more minutes in the water. He must have antifreeze for blood.

Dinner at his home that evening is as promised.   Crayfish, kingfish, octopus, seduces our taste buds. Several hours of marking our map with the best campsites and water holes beckon us to explore one of Africa’s remaining remote regions about 42,000sq km (17 to 20 deg S to 15 deg E) excluding the Skeleton coast. Bordered to the north by Angola, to the east by Owamboland and Etosha National Park. Damaraland to the south and the Atlantic Ocean to the west.

Colin describes clear pools with terrapins, crocodiles as big a battle ships in the Kunene River. Open golden grassveld areas with fairy circles (circular patches on the soil with no vegetation cover), dry mopean savanna near Sesfontein our point of entry. Natural bathtubs, on the very edge of Epupa Falls.

Vegetation east of the fall that is almost tropical.   Python fig with trunks as big as a man’s leg. Ana trees, Palm trees, Hairy Shepard’s tree, animals from the more famous unique desert-dwelling elephants almost on the point of extinsion to Hatmann’s (mountain) Zebra.

He also tells us not to camp in or on riverbeds. They are animal highways in the dry season. Some travel over 80 kilometers to watering holes and don’t take kindly to a blocking tent or whatever. Not to enter a Himba village without asking first.   There are burial sites and holy places.   Never to walk between the holy fire and their main hut or the holy fire and the cattle pen. The fire is sacred to the Himba who are a semi-nomadic peoples of around 26 tribes each with it own headman. For nearly half a century the Kaokoland has guarded the Himba from outside interference but according to Colin we will be one of the last to see these peoples and what left of their culture. Angola used them as trackers against South Africa in return for cheap booze. Now they are reduced to begging from tourists, exploited by coffee table photograph books what was once a beautiful and simple people are now a sorry sight.

We return in the late hours of the morning to Lorna.   Her Stafforshire hounds and her two African gray parrots have the run of the place. The parrots are busy eating the furniture and the joists when not guarding the pantry door. Her Spanish boyfriend Salivdor is crashed out on the sofa oblivious to all. In the morning we are somewhat late surfacing but we are in time to see that Salivdor like most of the place has being pecked clean.   The good news is that Williwaw is ready and that we have decided to venture into the Kaokoland for a few weeks.

I visit Colin who arranges a permit. Usually it is a requirement on visit the Kaokoland that one must travel in pairs in case there is a problem. Colin is sure we will not have a problem if we go it alone. I pick up Williwaw. Bump into Salivdor who is brainless as a wet squib but wealthy.   He asks me to give him a hand.   He has a Volkswagen combi, which needs a tow to get it started. Twenty minutes later the combi it standing in a pool of oil. Salivdor while being towed in reverse has slammed her into first gear. It is time to hit the road.

(CONTINUATION)

The Cable Car is out of action.   The three-hour hike up does not appeal never mind all the steps to the girls. The iron ladder up the Lions Head is deemed less attractive.   Much to the horror of my credit card, I promise another dose of downtown Cape town for an assault up to an old Gun emplacement, which is situated halfway up the Table. It wins hands down. A short drive brings us to our departing point.   A crabby Florence follows us along a track with super views of the city that is to be sure, to be sure, set in one of the worlds beautiful spots. Cape Flats where most of the Cape inhabitants live remains hidden to our view.   My card pays the penalty for most the afternoon.

A day of rest is what the doctor orders. Where better than the municipal open-air swimming pool whose water is refreshed by the odd growler crashing on the sea wall.  Cascading a shower of white surf on all unsuspecting oiled covered sun worshippers. Flo to her joy and ours makes a new friend living opposite the Hostel.

The sunset on the bobbing heads of a few seals, playing in the glimmering kelp. Yawns, yawns, bring a new day and time to head up the coast.

Williwaw is back to one of its old tricks behaving like a drunken sailor as we rumba along the N2.   A long climb out of False Bay up over Sir Lowry’s pass test her worn out radiator to boiling point. The garden route starting at Mossel Bay ends at the Tsitskamma Coastal National park. With me fighting our odd tire we pass through one dreary town after another whose names seem to be added to over the years to make them more lifeless.   Or perhaps there is a hidden agenda to overthrow Newtownmountkennedy from the Guinness Book of records.   Riversonderend, Buffeljagsriver, Heidelberg pass by.   So far the Garden route raved by many as being one of the most beautiful drives on the continent is not up to scratch.   We are fast learning that it takes some considerable time for the scenery to change.

We stop at Mossel Bay, take a wind-swept walk on a grey beach and move on to Knysna Lagoon the first spot of some beauty.   Resisting a Boerewor for lunch (large sausage), we push on to Plettenberbaai or Plettenberg Bay. All along this coastline short rivers to small to qualify naming on our map drag the muster colour soil from the Outeniqua Mountains into the sea.

The next eighty kilometres begins to live up to its reputation passing through South Africa largest native forest we arrive at Storm River. Here with cormorants that I have not seen before, we witness in dramatic colours the bleeding of the land. The clawless otter and the right whale, not the wrong whale favour this section of coast but we see neither.   Just up the road, we pull into Tsitsikamma Forest national park where the otter has a trail the whale and snorkelers an underwater trail. A Swiss-style chalet accommodation takes our fancy. We have arrived well off-season so the overnight rand rental against the dollar is a snip.

Superbly positioned on manicured green lawns the chalets come en suite with all towels, pillow covers, and napkins, blankets embroidered with the emblem of the park. The shower is more than welcome after the day’s struggle with keeping Williwaw on the straight and narrow. With full stomachs, not even the Indian Ocean can keep us awake. Long before the girls stir, I am on the otter trail all 100k of it in two hours. Not a hint of otter to be seen anywhere but Yellowwood, Stinkwood, Bastard Ironwood with intense, exquisite flashes of deep blue ocean mix the shadows and beams of sunlight. My two hours are a spell-bounding encounter with the Garden Route.

With Williwaw still acting like a drunken sailor we are once more in search of a true competitor for the Guinness book of records.   Eersterivierstrand, Gamtoosriviermond, don’t make it. Humansdorp   (Dorp meaning country town in South Africa) does, however, have a ring to it to be twinned with some suitable complimenting named city. Opting for a short day’s drive we stop at Jeffery’s Bay, Sea View house perched out on a sandy point of a beach that runs all the way over to Port Elizabeth is our target sand castles and a spot of founder fishing put the last touches to-day with all my toes intact. The art of spearing a founder before you are lifted off your feet by the incoming swell not to mention the shock of feeling it wriggle from under barefoot soul takes practice.

In the middle of nowhere with the sun at its apex, Williwaw still protesting about asphalt comes to a sudden halt. Sometimes I love her, other times I could take a sledgehammer and beat her to smithereens.   After two days of battling her lee helm, I am in no mood for one of her characteristical qualities which are all blamed on me.   With the girl’s reminding me that it I who attribute them to her in the first place a fuse is my first thought. No such luck. “The security system has cut off the fuel.” Any more bright ideas ladies! Bonnet up I might as well be looking over a field gate into the blue wonder. Not a thing I learned in my two-week car/engine/ change the oil course has a chance of reaching an electrode.   Wiggle the battery and the like.   Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum my oil covered hand happens on a loose cable.

The accelerator cable has snapped or to be more precise a small split pin holding the cable to the accelerator has given up the ghost.   I cannot believe that an off the road 4 wheel drive vehicle relies on such a tiny item. Let’s hope there is a spare in the box.   Luck shines on us packed in its plastic bag is a spare cable pin and all.

We pass through Grahamstown arriving in East London where over the next few days we are turned into that strange couple that is endangering their daughter’s life in darkest Africa.   To Florence’s delight, our friends live in a modern bungalow with the mandatory swimming pool. East London is a nondescript port town with an Aquarium was once named Port Rex after the illegitimate son of George Ш. We are introduced to friends of friends over braai (barbecue anywhere else in the world). Over the next few days our gnashers are biting into Kingklip (a fish) Bunny Chow (bread hollowed out and stuffed with curry) stakes with monkey gland sauce, and the trusty Boerwors. (Sausage) East London might be as dull as dishwater but we receive hospitality hard to forget.

Borrowing a hardtop flat caravan trailer and local knowledge we set off for a few days to the meeting of the three rivers. Williwaw blows a tyre giving us all a missed heartbeat followed by a half an hour of effing and cursing compliments of my good self. Our hand-drawn map and directions eventually lead us down a dirt trail with a steep gradient into a superb hidden cove. Apart from us, there is only one other visitor.   Three fishermen, down from the Free State with a large deep-freeze.   In the morning we learn that they spend each years holidays filling the deep freeze with kingfish, bass, rock cod, before returning to their dry farms. Steaks all year round with biltong as a staple diet might also give one the urge to fish non-stop.   They fish from early morning to darkness, consuming enough beer for a piss every ten minutes.

We spend three wonderful days exploring our surroundings ultimately making the choice to give Swaziland and the Transvaal (Latin Trans meaning across and the river named Vaal) a miss. Rather than going up the Mozambique side where one is likely to lose a leg from landmines (It scoring ten pages of difficulties in the Bible) we opt for the Skeleton Coast.

After another round of east London social gathering, which sharpen my flirting abilities much to Fanny’s amusement we hightail it back to Cape Town.   Apart from some wind-swept beach walks, oysters, dragging a stranded car out of a river and a meeting with a wooden Boar owned Land Rover (1960th model rebuild in wood.) we arrive back in Bunkers.

Over the next week, I sort out Williwaw sobering her up with new treads.   Her carnet (proof of import and export document is out of date) valid for a year is in need of renewal. The South African AA turns out to be worthless so with a little doctoring I extend the validity for another year. Her larder is restocked, and Fox security system renewed compliments of its guarantee. We take in the Michael Collins movie, which I happened to be an extra in before leaving Ireland. Neither the girls nor I spotted me so the Oscar will have to wait. Seeing the movie left us with weird feelings of unfinished business.   Bunkers backpackers provide a gossip shop of fellow wanderers. Some raw prawns like one Irish Looney that stands out with a bike.   He is going to cycle to “Say that again Sam.” He arrives back with sunstroke a sore ass, and fear of wide-open places. Others, who opinions varied so widely they might have been talking about different subjects, would do well to take a leaf from Jonathan Seagull when advised by Chiang, “You must begin by knowing that you have already arrived”

The girls are reluctant to leave the civilized trappings.   As usual, Fanny and I get our knickers in a knot as to which is the best route out of Cape Town. It is an observable fact that I have a short fuse relying on a sense of direction (navigation by dead reckoning) when it comes to motorways, bypasses, traffic lights, roundabouts, and the like. Sulks over, I being the lemon, we head for the land of Oranges and Citrus fruits. A three-hour drive brings us to Citrusdal, and on to Clanwilliam.

Here we pick up brochure advertising a camping spot on the Krom River, which borders the Cederberg Range. The Cederberg is the Western Capes wilderness covering seventy-one thousands hectares of Quartz and sandstone rocks and Bushman’s Art. A 57km gravel drive brings us to the gates of our first pitch since leaving Ghana. Pitch no 64. We have arrived at a place called Algeria situated on the western side of Pakhuis Pass. Algeria how are you. Just goes to show where one can end up with dead reckoning.

Our first problem is getting a spot on the camping site.   Although several sites are obviously visible from the gates are not occupied we are informed that they are full.   The gaffer turns up, and in no time the ramp is lifted.   Morning reveals a stunning setting of a landscape. We have indeed found a gem of a campsite to explore the area.   Famous for its sandstone formations I pick the Maltese cross a massive rock begging a Michelangelo.   After a false start, I eventually find a small sign pointing up a shale track to the start of the hike to the cross. Top TIP: Apart from the common sense things such as a cap, water, lip salve, decent shoes, sun block, tell someone where and when you are going.

Following a small stream. It’s banks peppered with wild orchards we climb up to a high of 1700 meters. Emerging onto the flat Fanny has had it. She and Flo’s head back. Continuing on, the first thing I notice is that the balancing monk of Tibet has been here. Small mounds of rocks like spoor to the trained eye mark the way to their shrine the Maltese cross. The cross appears and I have to admit it is an impressive piece of Cederberg art.   Back at base, we decide to move up-country to the Wolfberg cracks.

Pitch no 65 is a farm overlooked by a large cliff with four deep cracks.   “On the top, it’s like walking on the moon,” we are told.   Watched from a long way off by a large population of rock bunnies or to give them their proper name Hyraxes we arrive at the foot of the first crack.   (It is hard to come to term according to genes that these little buggers are related more to the horse, Manatee or elephant)   Our way up is blocked by a large rock fall. We watch a man coaxing a four to five-year-old along a ledge on one of the other cracks. Two teenagers looking more than anxious are following them.   They convince us that crack three is the quick way to the moon and blue yonder. Crack two and four are for the Hyraxes.   High up on our rock fall a small mound of stones is a sure giveaway sign that the balancing monks pass this way.   With some hoofing and pushing, we scramble over the rocks into the gut. One hour later we are emerging out onto a rock plateau.

A wander around confirms that the monks have been at it in every direction.   Not willing to follow any given trail we lunch, descend, and nurse our shock absorbers over a whisky or two.

We sleep late. Florence has teamed up with two kids her own age. We are free to go on an archaeology sniff around with two keen UK geomorphologies. After a wonderful day of red sandstone caves in all shapes and sizes each sculptured by thousands of years of erosion we move on to Vredendal (Vale of Peace) on the Oilfants river valley gateway to Namaqualand.

After a drive of some considerable beauty, we arrive in the middle of Vredendal.   About 25 kilometres from the Atlantic coast with its cold Benguella current giving the region a very low rainfall.   It is only a very large irrigation scheme that allows viticulture. Canals covering a distance of 261 kilometres deliver water to over 600 farms. It is the Cape Garden of Eden producing watermelons, spanspek (muskmelon) summer fruits, and vegetables, flowers. The wine harvest is in full swing with lines of tractors waiting their turn to have their golden loads crushed in the local Co-op. It’s not long before our lips are dipping into, Grand Cru, Ruby Cabernet, Merlot, Colombar, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Chardonnay. Sweet dreams come early in a local pad.

Still half asleep we slip out of the vale of peace on our last day in South Africa. Leaving the Western Cape we head for Springbok in the Northern Cape.   A long easy drive gives us time to reflect on our stay.

There is no arguing that Europeans have given Africa its written history and that South Africa contribution to its future history lies unknown. Its own path will in our opinion be shaped by land and by the sharing of its wealth for little has changed in the conduct and mentality of men.   There is no getting away from the feeling that Africans snatches from the present while the land takes them back to familiarity to something that has always been there. Our last Pitch no 66 is behind razor wire.   Early morning we check out at Vioolsdrif without a hitch.

(To be continued)

Donation news:  Perhaps its the word donation that is the problem. So how about leaving a TIP.

R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code: 98-50-10

Footnote ( We seriously looked at the possibilities of trying to pass through the Congo. Thank God we did not attempt to do so, as it would definitely have ended the trip.)

SOUTH AFRICA.

What we Know:

Zulu. Boers. Cape Town. Table Mountain. Cape Hope. Apartheid. Stephen Biko. Afrikaners. Nelson Mandela. Robben Island. Soweto. Johannesburg. ANC. Maguba. Winnie Mandela. Tutu. De Klerk. Christian Bernard. Diamonds. Kimberley. De Beers. Cecil Rhodes. Springbok/Rugby. Rand. Wine.

Downtown Jo’burg, the city of gold is somewhat of a shock from the air. Its skyscrapers and large grey office blocks never had the walking African in mind. The car rules.

Looking distinctly like an American city, it is totally out-of-place with its outer suburbs.   Soweto galvanized rooftops glittering in the southwest. To its north the sheen of blue mark white middle-class housing with a steep geographical ridge running east to west.

Sporting a reputation for all things nasty day or night, black or white the heartbeat of the inner city has long stopped beating by the time we leave the airport.

Our first Jo’burg problem is not the city’s scant regard for a life it is Kurt the Racist terrier.

With the cargo doors fully open his mother is standing on the tarmac wailing, “He is dead, he is dead.”

One empty cardboard box has come down the ramp.

A security guard is dispatched into the bowels of the plane.   The disembarking passengers form a small crowd around the tail of the plane. Unlike them, we know that if Kurt had his way he would reinstate Apartheid. If he is alive there is every likelihood that the guard will emerge with a terrier locked onto his black backside. A few minutes pass by with no sign of the guard.   Anticipations run high. It looks like Kurt’s liberation from time and space will have a physical and psychological impact, if not on him we hope not on his panic-stricken Dutch mum.

A spontaneous round of applause greets Kurt’s survival. We all clear immigration and are set to venture out into the land of fast food, street lighting, four-lane highways, and traffic lights.   Kurt, however, is nabbed once more for questioning. By the time he is given the all clear we have no time to mess around looking for lodgings. A phone call confirms that dogs with attitude are accepted – we are off to the first Hostel mentioned in the Bible.   Fairview house situated three kilometres from the city centre. It is described as a large old house with sunny rooms and a cheerful atmosphere.

On arrival in South Africa, the first thing one become aware of is that there are a lot of uniforms standing absolutely still, like sticks or scarecrows supporting walls, pillars, windows, counters, cars, doors. The second is the warning notices on doorways – ARMED RESPONSE.   It is said you can tell the wealth of any household by the sharpness of the razor wire on top of the walls.

Glittering with two Doberman.        –            Wealthy.

Dull with one Alsatian.                  –           Not so well off.

Rusty or glass with a black guard. –           Middle class.

Just after the crack of dawn, we are ready to set forth into one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Our early start is more to do with the Fairview dorm accommodation than anything else. It must be said however that none of us have that feeling of security/familiarity with our surroundings as we walked downtown towards the nearest shopping district.

The fortified garden /backyard walls give off an air of danger from under their bright-coloured flowering fuchsia Bougainvillea covering. The boarded-up shop windows do little to dispel this feeling of insecurity. By the time we come upon our first group of blacks lounging on the grass surrounded by last nights beer cans we have decided that Jo’burg is a sorry sight for any new eyes.

With a few days to kill before training it down to Cape Town, we decide to venture where no Kurt dares to go to Soweto, the lion’s den of modern-day South Africa.

But first, a competent modern bank is required not to stick up but to arrange the transfer of funds to top up our now very much in short supply stock of US Dollar bills.

While the girls look at a second-hand clothes shop I thank Jo’burg for a bristling modern bank that agrees to facilitate the receipt of funds on my behalf for a small commission. I instruct my Irish bank to forward the required amount of US dollars, requesting them to ensure the packet against theft. It would be unwise to ignore all the Burg’s claims to fame.

Eight a.m. our guide to Soweto arrives in a white transit. He is so full of chat I have made up my mind long before we enter the township to escape his barrage.

First stop is the Soweto museum. Housed in two sixty-foot containers it is the only Museum in the world perpetually packed.   As a relic of justice, it reminds us that it is not always the mighty that write history.   Paradoxically its black and white photos graphically depict what went wrong with White Supremacy.

A donation to the upkeep finds us outside once more.   After yesterdays helping of razor wire and welcome notices I can’t help wondering if the new fashion of justice in South Africa is what the doctor ordered. The big question remains can there ever be justice in an unjust world?   A deliberation way and beyond our guides brief.

Back aboard we pass Winnie Mandela’s pad with its manicured front lawn just as much out-of-place as Jo’burg skyscrapers. Spotting some of the local wildlife I call a halt outside a Shebeen.   No one seems too enthusiastic to give a mating call, so I slide the van door open and wave to our gobsmacked guide to continue the tour without me.   Perhaps here I will flavour some of to-days Sowetans and get some answers as to why I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen in South Africa. I am stared at by one and all as I order my first bottle of Castle beer.

TOP TIP: It still pays in South Africa to announce that you are not a white South African if you want to unfasten some of the countries’ black soul, or for that matter in dealing with its police.

“Cunnis ta to I’m Irish.”   The ice broken, I am without further ado surrounded by the big heartiness of ordinary Soweto people.   Understanding I know is a kind of ecstasy, however, I am sure that the bottle of brandy I won in the pubs weekly draw had a lot to do with the ecstasy and the mistaken belief that I was in the market for a BMW.   There is something generous and rash in the spirit of their offer.

All are hungry to talk. So talk we did and as far as I can remember covering a wide range of subjects.  All agree that African leaders still think like chiefs telling their people what to do. Tourists are seen as a feeding frenzy to the street vendor, beggars, and the petty thief. National debts are the power kegs of African countries. That AIDS, lack of water and land will be the cause of future African wars.   That Afrikaners still think that they are gods chosen people of South Africa.

By the time the girls return the bottle of brandy is long finished I have also learned that Africa has 30% of the world minerals, 51% of diamonds, 47% gold, 5th of the worlds dry land and an 8th of the world’s population.   To the dismay of our guide, I have accepted an invite to play a game of pool. Firstly, a drink for the girls and then the guide has to be buttered up to drive us to another location, not on the tour route. A task set to by my learned doctor, teacher, car dealer, the Shebeen owner, and the pool game challenger. At the change of venue, we have a spot of dinner and a chuck and doris, (Last drink)

By the time my cruel hangover has lifted we are leaving Africa’s most dangerous city after a few hours delay on the overnight train to Cape Town. A year of youth work in Dublin’s inner city with a snooker cue had conquered the best that Soweto had to offer on the pool table. The brandy had conquered all fears of any armed response. The local cop shop has had its cash-dispensing machine pinched from the fourth floor – some feat it has to be said.

I begin to wonder as the train whistles towards Table Mountain, if Stephen Biko the founder of The Black Consciousness Movement was right when he said, “ Being black is not a matter of pigmentation – being black is a reflection of a mental attitude”.   I am sure if Biko were alive he would view modern-day South Africa not by the shadows of the past, but by the remaining razor wire. Regrettably, tribalism the deep-seated political illness of modern South Africa remains in the whole of the African Continent and we all know that one body can lead to thousands.

Enhanced by years of bad world press the vastness of South Africa slips by while we sleep to the sound of rolling stock.

Over breakfast, our train turns into a scenic kaleidoscope through which we pass one by one the many shanties town better known in South Africa as townships coming to a halt in downtown Cape Town.

We emerge into Africa’s best-known city famous worldwide – not because of its African culture or its African architecture or its stunning setting.   It is more to do with that it is here in 1910 the Union of South Africa was born by educated men who decided that there were only five species of humans left living in South Africa. Europeans (Dutch Calvinist / French Huguenots) becoming Afrikaans speaking Boers the Coloureds who made up of what was left of the Zulu, the Swazi, the Xhosa, the Sotho, the Nguni, the San or Bushmen referred to as the Khoi- San   is long gone leaving the Asians Indians who were brought in by the British as laborers not forgetting the Blacks leaving I suppose the Tourists– us.

It is here the Dutch East India Company arrived in 1652 establishing the Cape Colony in order to supply their ships on the way to and back from the East Indies and India only to have it grabbed off them by the English in 1795 and then given back 1803 then surrender, to be annexed in 1806 officially becoming a British Colony in 1814.

It is here where the British invented concentration camps to beat the Boers, (meaning farmers in Dutch). It is here where Michael Cane immortalized the Zulu or perhaps it was the Zulu’s who immortalized Mr Cane. It is here where Cecil Rhodes founder of De Beers in 1889 or thereabouts laid the seed for today’s troubles in Rhodesia (named in his honour) now Zimbabwe.   It is here where the Indian Ocean meets the South Atlantic.   It is here where the Portuguese navigator Bartholomew Dias discovered the Cape of Good Hope, naming it Cabo Tormentoso until John И renamed it Cabo de Bõa Esperangça.

It is here where the truth reconciliation commission in 1997 found that the five police officers had murdered Biko in 1977 while he was in police custody.   It is here where under the terms of the Commission all five were given amnesties.   It is here where one human’s heart is transplanted into another human in 1967.   It is here where we are to be reunited with Williwaw. It is here where homeward bound we turn and modern shopping malls called Victoria and Albert await the girls.

Installed in Bunkers hostel at Sea Point in the direction of Camps Bay one street removed from the seashore we are overlooked by the Lions head we are all set to go and explore, to see if the ‘too painful to recollect’ supine politics of the past is being washed away from this vast country that makes up small part (3% in total) of the African Continent.

Our plan is no plan at all. We begin with an early morning walk along the seafront.   Intoxicated by blue sky, refreshed by the power of the sea, we mingle totally unaware with the 5 million Europeans (Whites), 29 million Bantu (Blacks), 3 million Coloureds, (Mixed race) and 1 million Indians.

As we clamber aboard one of the local minibus taxis that rocks and rolls to the sounds of a local radio station Table Mountain named by Antonio de Saldanha a Portuguese navigator in 1503 is cloaked from our view with a reverse waterfall of white cloud. Fairs are passed forward and change arrives back in due course while the conductor toots all walking humanoids to fill any empty seats. Our first port of call is the port converted into a waterfront of shopping malls, restaurants, bars, smart shops, and a large covered market, the tourist trap. Resisting a Big Mac we marinate contentedly in the windows of consumerism. We take in an IMAX show and the day ends with a sundowner at Ferryman’s Tavern, which is just across the road from the Customs, and Excise building Josh, and I target for tomorrow to retrieve our vehicles.

The next morning we enter the ground floor to secure clearance for our trusty Land Rovers. It is our intention to save some loot by filling in the required papers ourselves. Knocking on the door labelled Customs produces a gruff, ‘Enter’!

We are met with a torrent of language that would normally get one in jail for abuse. A discourse of sewer gutter tongue is being directed towards a black woman. It’s our first Boer, red-faced, an exact copy of his photo hanging on the wall behind his desk. The black and white photo portrays him in shorts with a cane in hand when white was white and black was Robin Island. We stand shocked. Josh looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Our request for clearance papers is met with another insurgence of vowel vile that has him retreating to the door. The fat bastard would do well to take a holiday in Northern Ireland where he would see two other colours, Orange and Green. I follow Josh out into the corridor.

Irish temper is well-known worldwide but it has never served me better on my re-entry.

I threaten the bastard in true Celtic Zulu gift of the gab. In full flow, my outburst is brought to a halt by his hand sliding across the desk to pick the phone up “ Is that you O’Donnell? You’d better get your ass over here before one of your tribe has my lunch”.   In a stunning silence, the desk phone is returned to the cradle.   A complete makeover has a glass of whisky in my hand. “Yes, the container has arrived. We can get it cleared as soon when O’D arrives.”

Two hours later the seal on the container is cut. Out rolls Williwaw and the other two jeeps. No immigration inspections are required. Carnets stamped, a full clean bill of health is given with a handshake and “Enjoy your stay in South Africa”.   Over a glass of beer O’D tells us that ulcer mouth has a good side to him helping many a young one that finds themselves on the bread line.   I am tempted to inquire whether it is brown or white bread.

I threaten the bastard in true Celtic Zulu gift of the gab. In full flow, my outburst is brought to a halt by his hand sliding across the desk to pick the phone up “ Is that you O’Donnell? You’d better get your ass over here before one of your tribe has my lunch”.   In a stunning silence, the desk phone is returned to the cradle.   A complete makeover has a glass of whisky in my hand. “Yes, the container has arrived. We can get it cleared as soon when O’D arrives.”

Some hours later parked in the car park we mount the steps to the Cape lighthouse (34°-23° South 18°-31°East). This is not as many believe the southernmost point of the Africa Continent.   Cape Agulhus 154k to its southeast is at (34°-51° South 20°-03° East.) Aghlhus. (Portuguese for needles) is the meridian boundary between the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean.   No matter! Being able to say ‘done that got the tee-shirt’ has us here.   For me, a Yachtsman Lighthouses warn of danger. The meeting of the waters some 256 meters below us looks far from inviting.   I am sure Mr Dias in 1488 gave it a wide berth when he first saw it.   Unfortunately, he perished off the cape – it could be the reason why Bartholomew Dias left the naming of Table Mountain to Antonio de Saldanha.   We resist the temptation to scrawl our names and date on the lighthouse, which appears to be the sole ambition of many, a visitor. The views, however, scrawl their images on our minds. We leave Bonne-Esperance without seeing a Cape buffalo, a Cape gooseberry, a Cape Sparrow, a Cape primrose or Cape jasmine.   We did see a Cape Pigeon.   Tomorrow it’s up Table Mountain.   TOP TIP: Bring some warm clothing. 

( To be continued)

(Continuation)

We slide down the track into Dixcove. A strong aroma of dead fish and raw sewage hangs in the air to meet us. Watched by an ever-hopeful vulture we slate our thirst in a dingy bar. Wherever we look there are photo opportunities to grace any travel magazines. The old shanty buildings of mud and wood look as weary as the few pathetic palm trees left standing. Like sentries, they cast their cooling shadows in the noonday sun.   We purchase a fish called Skip Jack for dinner back in the car park.

To the annoyance of Florence, the white walls of Metal Cross and its cannons beacon me. Two hours later we emerge after one of the most enthusiastic guided tours by the fort’s caretaker. The piece the resistance is the Blackhole into which new bewildered arrivals were lowered blindfolded to crawl through to their holding cells. “You can stay in the fort if you wish says or guide.” There are two rooms for rent. The very thought sent a shiver down the girl’s backs. We rather face crossing the turd minefield and dine on SkipJack.

We awake to Ghana national Hash day sponsored by Ashanti Gold mines. The runners are hopeful gold miners. Eight hundred cides gets you in the run with the all-important Hash tee-shirt. Running in the noonday sun is only for mad dog and English men. God only knows why I am on the start line. Fortuitously I team up some like-minded we hitching a lift back to Gloria arriving well ahead of the main contenders we are rewarded with cold beers.

That night the Hash turns into a late night of dancing to a steel band that plays the same number over and over for hours and hours non-stop.

It’s headaches all around in the morning.   We spend our fourth day in the surf venturing into Busua for the evening meal.   Over the meal, we run into an Aussie pufter. He turns out to be a left overlander named Harry who caught typhoid from the drinking the local water some years ago and never recovered enough to leave.

(Top TIP: Beaches, car parks, airports, ferry crossings, and the like are places not to leave your tent, vehicle unattended. Hire a watchman.) On Harry invitation, we agree to visit Takoradi in the morning up the coast towards Accra for a spot of shopping.

We arrive late morning dropping Harry off with a warning if he is not back to the Jeep by two pm its shank’s mare for him back to Busua.   The coastal town is nothing to write home about.   A large market constitutes the town heat beat. Set in the middle of a roundabout full of frustrated Ghana cops that spend the day sending the traffic in whatever direction they fancy.

Loaded with American football-shaped Pineapples that you would die for, McVitties, Digestives, Soups, Cheese, Guinness, Sweets, Sprit, Cooking oil, Scallions, Cabbage, Carrots, Tomato sauce just to mention a few of the essentials we arrive back sans Harry.

Over a delicious dinner with Pineapple juice drooling down our chins the decision is taken to move on. One more day is Busua to look after some domestic shores and car perseverance is agreed.

By eleven in the morning, I am covered in oil, and another tee-shirt has bit the dust.

The girl’s stay put in the afternoon I venturing up the beach to a village named Butrue.   Here I bump into Nana Edjuba Thea the village chief. No problem with a cup of tea on this occasion.   Butrue cuddle’s up to a golden sandy beach that runs as far as the eye can see and like Dixcove has a fort that overlooks it. A small river flows between large healthy palm trees into the surf. The village is set like a jewel on the end of a small peninsula that is covered, in lush tropical vegetation. Nana Edjuba informs me if I could buy the Peninsula that he would accept a knocking down fee of one bottle of the locally distilled gin and 50,000 cides.

Back at Busua it is rumoured that a disillusioned geologist in his search for gold bought a similar peninsula for 4000 US $.   Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Arriving back the good news is that Jerry wins hands down with an alleged few hundred thousand voted in the kitty just in case they were needed. We leave for Accra. Our route along the coast passes Sekondi, Cape Coast, Saltpond and Winneba. Each place has its slave forts. Fort Good Hope, fort Patience, fort Orange, and Fort Grossfriedrichsburg to name but a few.

Surprisingly fort Grossfriedrichsburg has not yet attracted a Mac Donald franchise. The day is hot and unbending. Williwaw suffering a blowout, with the welded exhausts cracking once more. We arrive on the outskirts of Accra as darkness descends with a very hot engine. Large cities are difficult enough in daylight to find ones way around combined with a very tired, hungry, and sticky short-tempered passengers it is a nightmare.

Our contact Sam is waiting for our arrival at a restaurant named the Country Kitchen. (Top TIP: If possible you should make up a list of contacts before leaving they can be more than useful when in need.) On completing the country verbal mile of around and around finding him several hours late.   I park Williwaw on a corner but decide to move her across the road. In the dark, I reverse her into a storm drain.   Down she goes with a loud thud on to her back axle. It is the last straw. There is no hope of getting her out. Sam comes to the rescue. Across the road is a gym. He returns in a few minutes with four iron-pumping blokes. With two lifts I am back on the road.

After a drink and something to eat, we set off in hot pursuit of Sam. We are booked into a small hotel a friend of Sam’s.

Accra has no visible landmarks nor does it seem to have any rhyme or reason to its layout or traffic. We seem to drive forever before arriving at a small modern building. The bed is more than welcome.

Sam offices turn out not to be too far from the hotel. He is a well to do Accra newspaper and journal businessman how loves his status and Mercedes more than his family.   He knows everybody worth knowing in the city. It is just what we need as Accra is one of our main visa stops.

Most countries Embassies and consulates are represented in the city if you can find them. Also English being the first language of Ghana is a big bonus when it comes to looking for a visa. The first jobs on hand are to extend our Ghana visa and to get Williwaws strut bars straightened and strengthened. With Sam’s help, a garage is found. After much discussion two starting handles are welded to the back strut to give them added muscle and the exhaust get the once over.

Getting the additional time on our Ghana visas turns out to be easier said than done. The contact list comes to the rescue. There shining in big letters is the Foreign Minister name. Sam is impressed so am I.

A phone call has his driver Oliver on his way with the forms with an invitation to visit Sam’s house that evening which we are sure was not on his list of hospitality duties.

There is not much to see in Accra. A downtown trip with a wander around a huge parade grounds named Independence Square or Black star square as it is referred to by the locals has us wishing for the coast.   Although Accra is built on the coast it is to be five long days before we are to see water again.

Oliver brings the right forms on day three and on day four manages to bring back our passports with a three-month extension.   Sam has had his fill and we have more than our fill of the Triumphal Arch overlooking the square bashing parade grounds, the post office, and Jamestown the small lively commercial centre of Accra.

On the other hand, I have happened on an invitation to Rawlings re-election party in the football stadium. This is an opportunity not to be missed. You only live twice I tell the girls who are not too keen to attend. What a night they missed. It was not my introduction to the flamboyant audacious Mr Rawlings that stole the night but Angēlique Kidjo who gave non-stop performance.

Out of the wacky tobacco cloud, a spotlight finds me.   What followed begs to be believed.

While Rawlings bodyguards are battering a passage for him through the throng to the stage he stops right in front of me. My chance handshake meeting with coup de main is unlike the Ghana handshake, which usually ends with a click of the thumbs. I receive a firm western handshake from a man who looks more like a cowboy than a Nana dressed in traditional Kente cloth. God only knows if only Sam had got the picture I might be offered a job.

Fleeing Accra we check out of Faraware to Coco Beach camping recommended by the Bible. Will we ever learn? The name itself should have warned us but there is not much choice near Accra. If the extension of our Visa is anything to go by we are going to be around for quite a while waiting on visas for Benin, Togo, and Nigeria. Coco beach one saving grace according to the Bible is that it is popular with overland trucks. This is good news as from here onwards is difficult solo travel so we are hopeful of running into some like-minded travellers. We pull into a plot of shade less land the campsite, Pitch No 61

Run by a deranged Accra woman of dubious reputation Coco Beach resort is a rundown joint serviced by one toilet and shower. Lambasted on all sides by disco music at night it is a dump of dumps.   It is to turn out that we shall not forget our stay in a rush. The Bible this time has got it right when it said it was a good place to run into some over Landers.

Parked near the rubbish dump standing on new tyres is a twenty-year-old series three petrol Landrover. Over near the fence are two Trucks with a swarm of small tents pitched out in front of them. Parked near us is a young couple named Josh and Annmarie with a small terrier named Curt. They are also travelling down to Cape Town in Landrover similar to ours bar their tenting arrangement that comes off the roof to covers the bonnet.

The piece the resistance is a Mercedes Mobil home decked out to the nines > owned by a Dutch family who according to Josh hit the headlines of the Dutch Newspapers on their departure expostulating their bravery in taking on such a trip. A few others on foot made up all the happy campers for Christmas.

Over the run-up to Christmas, the topic of conversation is the War in Zaire, the war in Chad, the war in Cameroon, the war in Congo, the war in the Central Africa Republic. There seems to be no way that one can tack around or cross these countries never mind the horror stories coming out of Nigeria.

The brave Dutch family are resigned to throwing in the towel. They had made a fundamental mistake with the Mercedes it is too wide to handle any off-road tracks not to mention its axle clearance.

The twenty-year-old Land Rover turns out to be suffering from an electrical meltdown. It’s proud owned penguin style walking Bob is an English electrician travelling with his rather plumb girlfriend an irresistible target for all short- tempered camp mosquitoes. Unfortunately, while he is up to his oxers replacing the congealed mess of wiring her rather large bikinied rear arse is begging for a bout of malaria.

Josh and Annemarie terrier Curt having being brought up on a diet of black and white photos spends his days demented by any passing dark-skinned humanoids. Josh spends a good part of his time calling him from the foot of various trees.

We also have another new arrival the three young musketeers who are agreed come hell or high water to hack their way through the Congo in their new TDI Landrover.

All in all, we are a mixed bunch waiting to go our separate. For the moment we are tied together awaiting visas, the passing of Christmas, or the confidence to take on the unknown.

For us, it is out with the contact list. Sam has done his bit is there anyone else how could help. How about the chairman of Barclay’s bank he might be useful.

Under a sun hot enough to examine everyone’s deepest emotions the days lumber bye.   The surf is our only relief. The beach is long and disinterested with a nasty undertow. I am to experience it first hand one early morning.

Luckily for one young man, I had taken to wearing fins when swimming. On the second day of our stay at Coco Beach resort, a lanky Australian presented me with the worst kind of dilemma.   Will I or will I not. A billion to one chance had me swimming just beyond the breaking surf when I hear that dreaded cry HELP!   From years of yachting, a drowning man has the grip of despair. Well appreciated by me.

On my second circle of the disappearing hand fortuitously for him, I overcome my fear of leaving my daughter and beloved for another world with or without a visa.

Too exhausted to ask if he was still alive one hour later I leave the fool to roast in the midday sun on the beach. Fanny and Flo are shocked on my return; my hard-earned suntan has all but disappeared being replaced by the shade of an opened coconut. That evening a red lobster backside appeared to thank me. All I can think of is that I hope the stupid blighter will have to stand for the rest of his African overland experience.

God is good, however. That evening up the coast in a posh suburb of Accra   I am rewarded with the discovery of Ryan’s Irish pub. It had just opened. I have no trouble in downing a few ball of malt with a chaser to get rid of those images of the six-mile deep. However, Ryan’s is to have a sting in its tail, which arrived on Christmas Eve.

After failing to recognise Fanny on the street she having a change of hairstyle for the Christmas Festivities I am left to my find my own way home with Williwaw.   The girls returned to base with Jose and Annmarie, so Williwaw and I have no trouble in finding Ryan’s.

The X-Pat – American brigade in Ryan’s are also on their way home.   All encounters in the pub whether they are Accra Nanas, gold panniers, bull shiters, lost accountants, or just plain ordinary blokes have a story to tell.

Several hours later in no condition to walk in the early hours of the morning I rolled out into the night more than three sheets to the wind. Oblivious to the following blue lights there seemed to be a new slackness in Williwaws steering.

I am waltzing my merry way back to Coco Beach. Suddenly surrounded by a swarm of assorted police I am helping from the driver seat with the assistance of a very painful cold gun barrel up the nose.

The Blarney Stone is in for an extreme test. Thank god for Irish.

(Top TIP: You never really learn to swear until you learn not to drive with drink aboard.   Passport, Passport! )

” Nil thigem me” “English, you are English”. I am brought around to the back of Williwaw.   Pointing the gun at GB > “English”.   “Nil.” > Pointing at the IRL.   “Irish”. My nose is in the process of swelling when it is decided that I should follow them back to the station. I am told to drive Williwaw.

The rain starts a thunderous drumming on the tin roofs, and my head starts throbbing as I try to avoid the braking lights in front of me. The convoy arrives at a large flat grey building. I am put sitting in front of a large desk. An hour of Passport demands with two trips to the back of Williwaw. GB? IRL? Still preserving with on speak the English, Irish only.

A large book lies open on the desk. “Where are you staying?” “Nil thigem me” “You’re in big trouble.” “You will have to appear in court.” NIL THIGEM ME!

Dismissed from the large desk morning light is creeping in over the windowsill.   A large man appears in army camouflage uniform. Pointing at me the man behind the desk calls him over. What a sight I must be. A bright swollen nose with a look of total bafflement   “You served with the Irish in the United Nations.” “Can you ask him for his Passport?” He walks in my direction. Good morning I am Mr—- “Nil thigem me.” He turns to address the man behind the table. “ The Irish are all like this over Christmas the best thing to do is to let him go.”   I can believe my ears when I hear that I am a lucky man. “You can go.” Jesus that was too close for comfort. Whoops spoke too soon. “You escort him back to where he is staying” orders the man behind the desk.

I arrive back at Coco Beach with the blue flashing lights to awake the whole campsite.   A wave from the driver window sees my escort wave back in true Christmas spirit. To the alarm of Fanny and Florence on all fours, I crawl into the tent and crash out.   They have the sense to let sleeping dogs lie.

Christmas day starts with a large dose of humble pie. Curt has a red bow. I have a red nose. The rewiring is completed and Cass the girlfriend has taken to wearing long trousers after a bout of malaria.   The newspaper Dutch have turned into parasites. The Musketeers have decided on a route through the Congo.   By the time I surface the over Lander’s Christmas party is about to start or more to the point it has already started.

Feeling like Rudolph the red nose reindeer I wander over to the bar for the hair of the dog that bit me. “Happy Christmas.” “Many happy returns.” Ah! “You do speak English.” Fuck I’m nobbled.   “What would your children like for Xmas?” “A dash for Christmas cheer would not go astray”. “Thanks be to Jesus for that.”   The dark vapour shape behind last night’s desk smiles as if to say I always get my man.

Christmas night starts in earnest with a visit to the 7^th Son of Jesus Church. It is packed to the gunnels. The altar is adorned with a five-piece Band, a backing group of halleluiah woman who could be heard on the other side of the galaxy. With a roving microphone, we are all asked to introduce ourselves to the faithful. After an hour of praising God no high in high-octane, it is not difficult to see why Ghana’s shops and business are named in such a way that you are not sure what you are entering for. Such as Fanny reappeared from the hairdresser called THE Divine Beauty Salon that she now wants to change too – God help You Salon or O! Well If I must look like these don’t laugh. In Ghana every lorry, taxi is bejewelled with signs on how to get to heaven. Be Merciful. Who cares God knows why. There is only one way up.   We dance and boogie until the early hours of the morning.

The New Year is not long in coming with the serious business of finding a way forward. Josh and I decided to pay a visit to the port to see if there is any possibility of securing a passage by ship to Walvis Bay in Namibia.

( To be Continued)