Textiles for Africa or In praise of yet another endangered species: the SA white male

"You can't go to Manzini Market. You see, there are Shangaans there. They steal from you. No, you do not go to Manzini market.""

That is it, as far as the Swazi staff of Sondzela International Backpackers Hostel are concerned. No one in their charge goes to Manzini Market. It is too dangerous.

In a couple of weeks of staying at this hostel, this is the first and only occasion when I have seen these people negative about an aspect of Swazi life. I have watched their patience and enthuiasm as they introduce international travellers to huge range of novel experiences : the minibus taxi form of transport, buying fruit and veg from street vendors rather than the big supermarket chains, horseback riding amongst wild animals, roast warthog on a spit, braaied (barbecue) impala steaks for supper, breakfast with one really dumb ostrich hen running interference and drinking the swimming pool water, the local Chief's village, traditional Swazi dancing, the notion of lobolo (brideprice) and the possibility of polygamy being a viable option.

But Manzini Market: "No. Don't go." Is the response I get every time I raise the subject.

The trouble is I have heard rumours that Manzani Market is the best market in the whole of Southern Africa for African textiles. We are talking 7 or more countries here. I am less than 30 miles from this fabled place. Anyone who know me, knows that I walk through fire for textiles.

As luck will have it, those mysterious little winds of fortuity blow my frustrated female shopper distress signals to the ears of GeeJay. Enter South African White Male (that lately endangered species) to the rescue. The story is long and complex but in summary: GeeJay, South African male, stuck in Swaziland since early December, held hostage by an unfinished business deal gone long-drawn out, studied journalism in the eighties at a certain Eastern Cape University in the city of Saints (and sinners) just happened to hole up in a rondaval at Sondzela backpackers for December 2008 watching South Africa trounce Australia at cricket live on TV in the early hours of the mornings. And of course we all know who else is awake before dawn.

For decades South African White Males have been criticised for their chauvinism. One thing South African White Males have not been given enough applause for is their courage, daring and willingness to do the Dylan and steal her anything she sees. Or to translate that to current idiom; drive her anywhere she pleases and wait patiently in the bakkie (truck) whilst she shops.

And that, with a little twist (of fate) here and there, some warm water encounters with non-existent crocodiles and some Bruce Chatwin Songlines women moments, is exactly how it happened that I got to establish for myself that Manzini Market is indeed the best textile market in Southern Africa. And I have been to a few in my time. And yes, the Sondzela staff were probably not wrong either. There are sections of the market which felt really really wobbly and I am not talking about the dubious ground beneath my feet.

If you are a foreign tourist reading this, I would counsel you to proceed with extreme caution even if you should be so lucky as to find yourself a GeeJay of your own to stand guard in the Toyota on the sidelines. If you have pale skin or a foreign accent, this is definitely an x-rated (potential violence) experience. It bears stressing: this not a tourist market. If you are after curios, do not bother with Manzini Market. Manzini is where local people shop. We're talking skins (monkey, wild cat, whatever) muti and more.

On the other hand: Egypt, India, Africa. Manzini Market is the quintessential souk or bazaar shopping experience. Alleyways, stalls, wares in labyrinthine tunnels made of packing cases and the ubiquitous black plastic (where would Africa be without it!) Winding, close and dark. Humid and strong on smells nearer the rotting end of the scale. Dubious water and even more dubious characters. It would be easy to disappear here. Or be parted from possessions.

But textiles for Africa! Oh yes!

I find the textile section and concentrate in the dim perpetual twilight, checking lengths for accuracy of measurement and flaws, all the while holding my moneybag firm against my body, tallying in my head to avoid the need for change. The fabric is generally sold in precut 2 yard pieces - the amount needed for a wrap skirt, or shoulder cape. The price, incidentally, I found to be a third to a quarter of that asked at the tourist markets in Ezulweni Valley. There one has hardly a choice. In Ezulweni Valley the textile pieces are sad and sun faded, props only to the rows of generic curios. But here the stock is fresh and crisp, neatly rolled in rows.

I hit and run. 40 minutes and no dallying for photography. Oh no, this is not a place where I pull out the camera. News of a big spender spreads like the proverbial wildfire in a place like Manzini market. It is best not to hang around too long. It gives scheemers and dreamers time to make a plan.

Thankyou GeeJay. It was my luck you got stuck in Swaziland. It is a rare person who goes out of their way as unselfishly as you did. Thanks, boet! This one's for you.

It was a slow Saturday morning and she was a pretty girl.......Lobamba, Dec 2008

Lobamba: a morning snapshot

Historically, Ezulwini or Valley of Heaven, has been the home to the Swazi Royal family.

Lobamba is in the heart of Ezulweni, which begins just outside of Mbabane, the capital city of the country. Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary and Sondzela backpackers, my current home, are set in this valley too.
I recently spent a few hours wandering around Lobamba. Another occasion when I regretted not having brought my better camera. But you do what you can do with what you have.
It was early in the day. I hitched a 7:30 am ride halfway with the Sondzela morning shuttle to Mahlangu fruit and veg stall from whence I hopped on a minibus taxi to take me to Lobamba not many clicks down the road.

People were going about their morning business, much of it consisting of women and girls carting water from the central pump to houses whilst men lent against anything available and considered the important matters of the day.

A tailor was at work on his sewing machine outside his house. Fruit and vegetable stalls were opening. Children followed me curiously. Already, by nine in the morning, dogs sought the relief of dozing in deepest shade. Generally it seemed to me to be a typical unhurried start to a hot midsummer's day in a small Swazi town.

No more!

It is 5:10 in the morning. As usual I am first up in the Sondzela camp. I switch the Lodge lights off, open windows to let the fresh morning air blow through and pad on bare feet into the twilight kitchen to put water on to boil for tea. Dawn is my favourite time of day: cool, tranquil and bird loud.

Suddenly I am in a clamourous cyclone swirling clashing tin plates, opening and slamming kitchen cupboard doors. The morning peace is shattered, tattered and torn apart.

"What are you looking for? Could I perhaps help?" I quietly ask the dishevelled, sandy haired, purple veined visage which looms out of the twilight eye of this storm at me. At the same time I need to step back from the strong overripe sour human smell of this creature.

"Spoons. Where are the spoons?"

"In this drawer" I open the cutlery drawer, find him one.

"Oh, you have been here a while. And a bottle opener. I have this bottle of red wine too."

"Wine? at this time of the morning?" In my usual way, I speak without thinking.

"Yes, you see I am AFRICAN.. I do not visit. I LIVE here."

Hmmmm.....Yes. We all know about the shipment of used clothing from Europe and the New World to Africa. That which is discarded then fails to sell in thrift stores such Goodwills in USA is shipped to Africa. So too dated text books and sometimes even more criminally medicines past their sell by date. The unscrupulous testing of drugs on Africans such as was so powerfully exposed in "The Constant Gardener" is still not a thing of the past.

I AM African and this, this calling affliction and addiction, African: NO MORE! The days of white mischief are a century past already and even then they were abberrant. I do not care if your ancestors came to the continent in 1652 or 2002. This is not AFRICAN. No more!

The fine art of messing about in a minibus taxi

We are 18 adults, 4 children, a generous amount of parcels, packages, bags and a couple of hens in plastic bag in a vehicle designed to take 14 on the road between Manzini and Mbabane. When we pass a routine road safety checkpoint (aka "speed cops"), the standing passengers crouch down and are covered by a convenient baby blanket from a nearby passenger. Simultaneously this same young mother forces the head of another of her young children, who is crouched between the first row of passengers and the driver, below window level. The child concurs without a squeak. We drive by unstopped by authorities. Laughter and relaxed chatter all around again.

In many parts of Africa the minibus taxi, known as matatus in Kenya, kwela-kwelas in South Africa, are the only choice of public transport. Swaziland is no exception. Minibus taxis run almost everywhere. They leave when full. Or fuller. They are a good way to get to know the local daily culture. In Swaziland all minibusses are various ages of white paint externally. Whilst local owners have not gone in for the highly decorative exterior artworks which I have seen in Asia (especially Pakistan) taxis might be named. Names I have seen this week seem to be either darkly powerful or romantic: "Poison", "Precious", "Ngwenya" (Crocodile) or "I love you my Darley". Yes, that is not a typo. The latter was in glittering pink and silver cursive lettering across the rump.

[Above: portrait of the photographer in a minibus rear view mirror - pulling out of Mahalangu fruit and veg stand recently]

The safety risks are fairly high with this choice of transport. In some parts of South Africa taxi mafias have arisen resulting in vicious taxi wars with gangster-style shootouts. The excellent recent movie Jerusalema gives more insight into that aspect. Overloading is common. Safety precautions and mechanical soundness can be variable, ditto driver competence. On the other hand when one computes the numbers of people who are moved about by this form of transport, the graph is different. They exist because they do the job.

At the moment I am camping at a reasonably isolated Wildlife Sanctuary with no transport of my own. I need to rely on the minibus taxis to get to shops for supplies, and to get around. My experience so far has been all positive. If I plan ahead, I can take the 7:30 am free Sondzela Backpackers shuttle bus to a fruit and veg stand at Mahlangu, a small settlement with a bustling taxi rank. Otherwise I walk a few kilometres to the tarred road and try my luck. Chances are pretty good that a minibus taxi will be passing.

A taxi will indicate space availability by a couple of short toots on the hooter. (Horn for those of you not from these parts). The person on the side of the road can then wave it down or feign indifference. Minibus taxis one of the myriad reasons for all those people waiting on the sides of the road across Africa.

One gets in and fits in wherever possible. It is probably a good idea to tell the driver where you intend going before getting in, though sometimes there isn't time in the great hurry-up to which many drivers seem obedient. It is thus necessary to become familiar with the local names of places when in a rural area such as I am. Drivers will be making many stops. There are many side routes. A particular taxi might take you part of the way. In this instance you hope someone will tell you where to get off. Then you need to find another taxi going in your chosen direction. Gradually as my sphere of explorations has enlarged this week, I have learned more of the names of places and thus am able to request my route with more confidence.

Most minibusses will have an assistant or conductor. This young man does a lot of hopping in and out the bus, opens and closes the door, often while the vehicle is still moving, calls out the destination, hustles passengers in and out, and takes the fares. Fares are usually paid on exiting. Some drivers will take South African coins, some not. If you are planning to ride the minibusses, it is advisable to have a supply of local money in smallish denominations, easily accessible.

At busy taxi ranks the vehicles bunch like impatient horses at the starting gate of a race. Drivers hoot, engines rev and vehicles might move forward slightly to give the impression of leaving. Vendors with fruit and roasted mielies (corn on the cob) weave between the jostling vehicles. There is heat and dust and a great crush of bodies, human and mechanical. Music thumps and resonates from onboard radios, conductors call destinations..

For getting to the thumping, revving heart of contemporary African life, nothing beats the minibus taxi culture.

Boogie on with the Baz Bus

For what it has done for independent travel and the culture of backpacker hostels in South Africa, the Baz Bus deserves a post of its own.

Whilst not the cheapest of bus transport options in a country reliant on busses of various sizes to move a huge population of migrant workers who do not own transport of their own, the Baz Bus caters almost exclusively to backpackers and independent travellers. There are exceptions: on my journey from Durban to Swaziland there was one gogo (grandmother) amongst the passengers. I am sure she was a domestic worker with a Durban family. I watched as a (white) mother and pre-teen daughter dropped her off, with shy, slightly awkward farewell hug (from the child) and last minute questions as to where the key to her room was (from the madam). I speculate that she has served this family well and for a long time. Her employers, wanting to take care of a trusted servant, paid for a luxury ride home for the holidays.

The other option for this woman would have been the long distance and often overnight busses such as I experienced on my journey from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth, and wrote about in an earlier post. These can be challenging: cramped, somewhat overdue for maintenance checks and almost certainly entail some security risks. Luggage gets lost en route. The points of departure and arrival are not in the most salubrious parts of cities. The times of arrival and departure can leave a lone woman with too much baggage really vulnerable. Perhaps it is significant that the Intercape Mainliner bus I travelled on began and ended the journey with a somewhat ad-libbed rewording of the Christian Lord's Prayer asking for safety and protection. When all else fails and life feels a tad precarious, make it someone else's responsibility....

Typically the Baz Bus is 4 to 5 times more expensive than the alternative long distance carriers, putting it out of the price range of most domestic travellers.

During my stay the cheaper option long distance bus lines have been in the news a number of times. All negative. The day before I left Cape Town, one of the busses from Translux, an alternative company to my chosen transport of Intercape, caught alight dramatically just outside Cape Town Station. The eve of my departure to Swaziland, an SARoadlink bus was involved in a really bad accident with eleven or more dead. Last time I heard, the license for the SARoadlink company was suspended pending investigation and the unfortunatel driver of the crash vehicle was being sought on culpable homicide charges..

Baz Bus offers hop-on hop-off fares, 7 or 14 day passes and door-to-door service to a wide network of backpacker hostels along the entire coastline from Cape Town to North of Durban with a loop through Swaziland or the Drakensberg to Johannesburg as well. In this way they cover the most scenic and desirable backpacker destinations. This carrier seems to be safe, reliable, arrives and departs on time and has excellent (licensed) drivers. With the fares they charge, they can afford to keep the vehicles in good running order.

On my journey from Durban to Swaziland, Jesse was the driver. He gave us useful information about the duration of each leg of the journey, polled the assembled travellers as to what kind of stop we would like: convenience store or Kentucky? and told us when toilet breaks would happen. In many instances Jesse also gave us detailed instructions as to where to find the requisite facilities in the various hostels where we dropped off or picked up sojourners. These refreshment breaks gave me opportunity to do a quick survey of some backpacker hostels along the route. You can take the librarian away from her work....and a smattering of damn! I wish I had planned to stay there!

Periodically Jesse would interrupt the East Coast Radio background noise to tell us a bit about where we were. "Zulu culture" was to be looked for on the sides of the road as we headed north out of Durban. People waiting.

Our border crossing into Swaziland was smooth. The hot and travel crumpled five of us were deposited to walk our way through South African, then Swazi customs, get our requisite stamps then cross back into South Africa to find toilets. Then we waited at the control gate whilst Jesse got the vehicle and bags through the checkpoint. Seamlessly, to my relief. Walking through, I noticed some unfortunates with every possible orifice of their beat up old blue vehicle open and under investigation by uniforms. Dunno what they had done to deserve the scrutiny.

"Swazi culture" was then to be seen along the sides of the road. More people waiting. Hanging out along the roadside, maybe waiting for transport, is pretty much the culture throughout rural areas in South Africa. (The minibus taxi phenomenon will receive a post of its own I hope). Soon after the border crossing, Jesse also gives us useful tips about money: don't change into emalangeni if you can help it, South African rands are legal tender everywhere. If you do have emalangeni (which Jesse promises will be dispensed in copious quantities from one of the handful of international ATM's in the country) spend it all in Swaziland as it cannot be changed outside of the country. During my stay I have found both currencies used interchangeably. Change can be given in either currency. The coins are very similiar in size, design and value.

During our Baz Bus journey, if we wearied of looking at the local culture passing by outside the windows, we could select from a limited number of fairly dated skop, skiet en donder videos. Some of our number decide to take this option after the Swazi border crossing. It takes a while to rewind and find the correct channel on the onboard video machine. The one functional speaker has a horrendous crackle. Dialogue is impossible to hear no matter the volume (which is fiddled to settle at high). The sounds of violence come through defeaningly. Jesse had also indicated at the beginning of the journey that there was a music cd we could play. We ran out of road before we needed to employ that distraction. I have no idea what music was on offer. If the videos are anything to go by, I did not miss out on much.

Baz Bus can be booked online, by phone or conveniently at many of the backpacker hostels making it really accessible to the (Euro or US dollar toting) Lonely Planet generation. It is one of those things which you look at and think: now that was such an obvious notion, what took so long? Well liberation, marked by the first democratic elections in 1994, and post-apartheid South Africa, of course, which means that the country's geographic beauty and rich cultures are now guilt-free options for world travellers.

www.bazbus.com (and no, I was not sponsored to write this)

Sondzela in Swaziland

Like Baroness Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen) I feel near to the sun at Sondzela Backpacker Hostel in the Mliliwane Wildlife Sanctuary, a beautiful and peaceful private wildlife reserve in the Malkerns/Lebomba area of Swaziland.

Sondzela means "draw closer" in SiSwati, the language spoken around here. It is a tranquil place, billed in review media as "the Rolls Royce of backpackers". Certainly the friendly staff, spectacular views of wildlife dotted slopes leading to dramatic mountain peaks, and laid back atmosphere make it a great place to relax and restore a connection to Africa. If it is a Rolls, however, it is a somewhat used model. Comfortable and slightly worn around the edges.

The Sondzela gardens are extensive, cool and shady with songbird filled trees, both native and exotic: brilliant red flowering flamboyant, palms, yellow-green barked fever trees, (yes I am taking my malarial meds - these trees typically grow in malaria zones) heavily scented frangipani surrounding a cool blue swimming pool. Accommodation options cater to a range of pockets: one can pitch one's tent on mown grass under the trees, rent a rondavel for three with a spectacular view, a simple room in the main lodge or share dorm space either in an eyrie like upstairs loft or downstairs with double doors onto a flaming flamboyant in full bloom.

Although there is an indoor kitchen, most food preparation and eating is done in an outdoor clearing around an open fire with an ample supply of various sizes of typical three legged cast iron Swazi cooking pots. During breakfast noisy crows call the odds above us. Supper, as the sky fades to dark velvet punctuated by brilliant stars is eaten to a background chorus of insects, bats, frogs.

There are numerous lounges both indoors and outside under thatch, the Hog and Wart bar for beer and cool drinks, with pool and ping pong tables and a couple of always-on television sets should guests want to indulge habits various. Decor in the shared indoor spaces leans heavily toward bulletin boards packed with curling flyers for other places to stay and things to do in Southern Africa and Mozambique. The atmosphere is comfortably homely, slightly tattered and inimitably African. Taps have a tendency to drip, non-essential fixtures like towel rails or toilet roll holders might be dysfunctional or broken, one of the myriad bathrooms has a serious mildew problem. The telephone only receives incoming calls.

Horse riding and game viewing walks are the main activities. Besides, of course, just lounging with a book in the shade idly slapping mosquitoes between watching inquisitive warthogs trot by, dips in the pool and chatting to travellers from all over the world. I am currently surrounded by the Lonely Planet generation: mostly young people from Holland, France, Australia, USA, Italy and Germany. Languages and accents bounce off the united nations ear. I bury my nose in my Lonely Planet 13 African languages (plus food and culture) phrasebook running a quick update on my Xhosa and Zulu to accommodate the Siswati variants in these Nguni languages.

Many backpackers at this lodge seem to be using Swaziland as a last stop before Johannesburg, the usual exit out of Southern Africa. The Baz Bus, a convenient hop on hop off door-to-door bus which links backpacker hostels in scenic destinations across South Africa and Swaziland, runs a service between Durban, the Zululand Coast and Johannesburg, via Swaziland or alternatively the Drakensberg in South Africa.

Should one want to get to shops, internet or catch a bus for further travels, Sondzela has a shuttle bus system which leaves the hostel once a day in the mornings. Miss that and you walk out a couple of (hot, shadeless) miles. Getting back is seemingly on one's own recognisance. I believe that the chances of rides for walkers from one of the two vehicles passing in a day are high. Watch this space for first hand reports.

Swaziland's first protected area, Mliliwane Wildlife Sanctuary is a private reserve created by conservationist Ted Reilly on his family farm in the 1950's. Mliliwane, meaning "little fire", is named after the frequent fires started by lightning strikes in this red earth and ironstone region. The geography is dominated by the precipitous Nyonyane (Little Bird) peak.. Later I intend to acquire myself a map and rise before dawn to take the six hour walk to the top. Later, as I said.

Already on short walks around the lodge I have seen blesbuck, impala, zebra, warthog and birds too numerous to list. Though of course one doesn't need to stir from the tiled porch to see all above-mentioned. The antelope and zebra graze right up to the perimeter of the gardens and the warthogs know no boundaries. Sparrows inhabit the lodge buildings throughout. Swallows swoop and dive through conversations. The evenings are loud with insects, bats and frogs. Hippos and crocodiles can be seen at a mudhole a short walk from Sondzela.

Technical details: In order to post this I created the text on my laptop, saved it to flash drive, took a bumpy early morning shuttle bus to a vegetable stand where I then took a minibus taxi to a shopping centre which has internet. That internet was down so I did some gratuituous craft market shopping and returned via another two minibus taxis to Ziggy's Internet Cafe and Tourist Information at the entrance to the Malkerns valley, and once more tried to email to the blog. Once again the internet was too slow and the machine had some issues with how my file had been saved. So I wandered around taking photographs of House on Fire and returned to Sondzela by means of 5 kilometres or so of hot walking and then a short lift from a Sondzela neigbhbour "It is only backpackers who walk on the road here in the heat of the day" to save the file in another format.

I slept on the problem of blog posting for a day. Today I walked the several kilometeres ( in the heat of the day) to the Main Rest Camp at Mlilwane, then used all my extensive resevoirs of charm to persuade the guardian of the one internet computer to allow me access. Without wanting to be inhospitable, I got the feeling that she was trying to indicate that this internet is for paying guests - this is an expensive safari lodge - I am slumming it across the valley at the backpackers.

I threw money at the problem by buying an oily toasted cheese sandwich (not the most digestable in the heat) and a refreshing glass of mango juice in the Hippo Haunt Restaurant whilst watching crocodiles, fish and turtles competing for bread crusts tossed over the rails.

There is always a way. In Africa. Just sometimes it can take a while. And an indigestable toasted cheese sandwich.

Botanical visions: Durban part II

Another blog post on the fly from email. From a dial up in Durban where I have spent a valuable few days being lavished with the best kind of nurturing in a lovely family. Thank-you sister/aunt/special person: great food, great company, the familiarity of home to relax in. On Mondays almost 3 year old Alexander has a play date in the Durban Botanical Gardens. Sue made sandwiches, brought fruit. Established around 1846 this 20 hectare space is an amazing place, home to a myriad wonders: the rarest cycad, Encephalartos woodii, as well a many species of bromeliad laid out in magnificent massed plantings, interspersed with rocks. Trees from all over the world. Flowers. Lawns. Paths. The children played on the banks of a pond which almost needed an air traffic control tower, there was so much coming and going of huge birds: pelicans, ibis – Sacred, Glossy and Hadeda, herons of several varieties, Egyptian Geese complete with goslings all over the place. Spoonbill. Dabchicks. The background is lush tropical foliage, mangroves and the long aerial roots of ficus varieties. Bright Red Bishops Birds in their neon orange mating plumage flitting amongst lotus flowers standing fully five foot tall had me wondering what Sue had put in the grated carrot and cucumber sandwich. This sense was only heightened in the orchard house and the frangipani (plumeria) walkway where every colour of this species was blooming spectacularly. Garden of Eden has nothing on this place. These gardens are understandably a favourite place for wedding photography – who wouldn't want to start married life in a paradise like this? They also host an annual concert series featuring KZV Philharmonic Orchestra and other musicians. The morning we were there there were a bustle of activity preparing for Carols by Candlelight. Lawn mowers scattered ducklings, goslings and children alike. Paths were blown of debris, fragile plantings temporarily fenced off. Let's hear it for those dead white men of the Victorian era who had vision to create gardens of botanical delights such as these. The gift across the generations is immeasurable. After the gardens we played in rock pools at low tides on the Bluff. The sky was mercifully overcast, not reducing the humidity but making it a little cooler. Durban is the most steamy and tropical of South African cities.We filled the rest of my Durban-time with shopping and chores like getting homeopathic malaria prophylactic and visiting the Durban Station craft sellers for car tyre shoes, beadwork and I-wish-I-could-have-bought basketwork

The Zulu people are renowned for their beadwork and basketry from lcal grasses and reeds. At the taxi rank outside the station the crafts are closest to the source. One does require a certain courage to enter that melee, however. Mini-bus taxi ranks in South Africa are generally not for the faint hearted of the pale natives. I was grateful for Sue’s calm and confident company and Alexander’s inquisitive spirit to accompany me. Also the relative quiet of the 16 December public holiday, the Day of Reconciliation, which meant the crowds were thinner.

Now I am packed once more. More goodbyes and a Baz Bus ride. Into Swaziland. Crossing international borders again today.

Durban (EThekwini) dreaming

This is my first attempt to email a post to the blog. Sorry, no pictures. With snail paced dial-up internet, words are all you get for now from a humid and hot Durban, the area where I was schooled  (St Mary's DSG in Kloof), the home of  both my grandmothers. The red earth, lush tropical vegetation and sticky heat a homecoming. Of sorts. Similarly the welts of caterpillar stings, the red itchy bumps of mosquito bites around ankles, neck and wrists. It is worth it after all. Truly. There is liberation in abandoning a new world distaste of insects and mud.   I highly recommend flying internally in South Africa with the brilliant lime green Kalula budget airline, if only for their legendary no-nonsense announcements. On landing: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed in Durban. Please take all your possessions. Anything left behind will be shared equally between staff. Please note we do not accept unwanted mothers-in-law or children."   Yesterday Sue, almost 3 year old Alexander and I went for a picnic breakfast hike in Kenneth Steinbank Nature Reserve. In the heat, breakfast is the best time for picnics, though when we arrived the animals were already seeking shelter in the deep shade of clumps of coastal forest. We did however see a bushbuck, a herd of impala, zebra, birds, birds, birds and another tiny antelope whose name evades me at this hour. We also saw a castle complete with magnificent stonework turret and gun slits, lawns decorated by calmly grazing zebras.   We sat on the edge of a dam (waterhole or small lake) to eat our Sue-baked fresh breakfast muffins and fruit, drinking tea, or Explorer's Cocoa, in Alexander's case. Water lilies bloomed, fish jumped for flies. Weaver birds busied themselves across the water.   Whilst we ate a herd of zebras came down to drink. Then the impala trouped by. Birds of prey – falcons, kites or hawks? circled. The Rainbird, Burchell's Coucal, provided background music with characteristic bubbling call. Loeries joined in.  This bush is rich with song birds. The familiar background sounds, a deeper level of un-forgetting.   The Rainbird wasn't wrong (he never is). Last night we had a true Kwa-Zulu-Natal thunderstorm: thunder, lightning, pelting rain. This morning temperatures are pleasantly cool with light drizzle.   I am a few more days in Durban, time enough to find homeopathic anti-malaria medicine (too many locals have wrinkled brows at my plan to go without precaution into Mozambique) and citronella oil. Mid-week, I move on, by bus, to cross borders: Swaziland, an independent kingdom embraced by South Africa and Mozambique.

Port Elizabeth Airport report: decisions and revisions which a moment could reverse.

Port Elizabeth airport. Flight delayed. Once more I have walked through all the checkpoints with my rucksack and hand luggage still on me.

I started out with the best of intentions first thing this morning when Robert dropped me off, Sarah Mclachlan's Afterglow the sound track, the airport calm and sparse in the early morning.

There was hardly a queue. I approach the checkin. "Anything to checkin? "

"Well, I would like to carry on."

"If it is under 7 kilos."

Hmmm .....we weigh my backpack. 9.4 kgs. Jennifer - it's all that cloth you gave me at the last minute. I am not going to regret it - those are beautiful fabrics and worth it. I shrug and hand over the bag.

"Is there a cell phone in there?"

"Weeeell, yes, but it is switched off"

"We recommend you remove it, carry it with you"

"It is at the bottom of the bag. I will have to completely unpack"

"Well you will have to take it out. It could go missing."

Hmmmm...I ponder this a short while, undecided, as my boarding pass is prepared. I don't like the suggestion of vulnerability of luggage. Then she asks do I have tweezers in my hand luggage. Well yes, very small ones. Sorry that must go in the hold, in the checkin bag. Or matches or lighters in the checkin bags? Those must be carried on. This is getting very complex. No. Yes. No.

Airlines around the world! Just when I had learned the drill for flying in the US, I find myself back in Africa. All the rules are different. Now I am thinking seriously about everything I have in my luggage, hand or hold. And about how well packed these two bags of mine are. Everything in it's place and placed for logical access on the continuum of need.

I retrieve my backpack as it is about to be tossed on the moving luggage belt.

"Let me repack"

I wander a little aimlessly, thinking to find a toilet but find a Wi Fi hotspot sign instead. I take a seat and find myself being offered a menu. Ah ha! I buy some tea and get wireless. I recognize this animal. Tea ordered, I take out the silver bird and log on.

Hmmmm. WiFi is not free here. I go through the drill of setting up an account. R50 for 1 hour usable anywhere in the world. No fine, no worries. I have done this before. What is 5 bucks for access to my internet life for an hour. Yes, it is double the price of Hawaii and Mexico but that's inflation for you. Much else is really cheap here. Balances out in the end.

I look around, notice a security check point. I am toying with the notion of carrying on all my bags now that they are in my possession. But that security check point. It could get me seriously entangled.

I use up my table time in the House of Coffees. The clamour of travellers and those waiting for tables has risen to a fever pitch around me. I wander over to checkin. The line there now could rival those famous queues to vote in April 1994, snaking around in long looping s curves across the airport. All for the two Kaluala counters.....hmmm again. I dither a while in the line, in the process hearing that the flight is delayed.

Maybe it is worth a chance at the security side. All they can do is take my luggage. I decide to pull the dumb foreign traveller routine: I checked in. They gave me back my bag.

There only one rushed tearful-goodbye-to-mom-and-girlfriend passenger passing through security. I put the backpack down. And the handluggage. Then remember the laptop. Recall the bag to take it out. Then the money belt. Keep your shoes on. This is Africa. The security officer with the metal detector is admiring my clothing. She compliments me. I thank her, telling her I made it myself. She waves me through wand in hand. Or maybe that is what serves as a security check here. If they like the way you look. Or smile. Without even thinking I talk with the other guy, the one meant to be looking at the bag xray, about my flight being delayed, as the bags go through. He doesn't glance at the screen once, being more interested in the garment his colleague has admired and my ticket.

Now I am through unquestioned, unscathed. Checkin bag still on my back. Cell phone, knitting needles, tweezers, scissors, goodness knows what other dangerous objects in various places on my person and in my bags.

Next discovery: Port Elizabeth Airport hides their toilets really well. But when you do find them, they are clean and very cramped. Once through security, the WiFi hotspots are no longer associated only with coffee shops. There is a whole bank of seats against a wall with convenient electrical sockets for recharging.

I am being called to board. Let's see if I can post this before they leave me behind. Sorry about typos. Will fix later. This is literally a blog post on the fly. Durban here I come in a lime green metal cannister: Kalula.com. Best budget airline in the country.

Hey babe: take a walk on the wild side

Am fresh returned to Port Elizabeth from a week's stay at Mazeppa Bay on the Transkei Wild Coast. The road there was long and winding: a somewhat arduous journey of 8 hours or more punctuated by breaks at truck stops to assess the quality of local hash browns and toilet facilities, at one horse towns where the horse has long died and just sommer along the road to stretch legs and admire the aloes or local architecture of thatch and mud. Or brick. Or wattle and daub. Or whatever comes to hand. Building codes are pretty forgiving the further one is from urban centres and national highways.


The first part of the journey was on tarred national road in varying states of disrepair. Eventually we were on a dusty dirt road winding down through soft rolling hills to the sea. Thankfully it rained during our stay making the return journey less dusty but turning the potholes into small muddy lakes. Everywhere were signs of prosperity. As I found in Cape Town, the season has been generous with rain. The grass was green, the cattle sleek, the settlements prosperous with much evidence of building in progress. Huts and houses were everywhere under construction while fresh new pink, green, blue, yellow and occasionally red walls dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see. Horses, goats, dogs and sometimes sheep were restrained from thriving plots of food crops by sound fences. The world economies might have hit a slump, but all is well in the 'Kei, a heartland of sorts of the rainbow nation. On arrival at Mazeppa Bay, we found a paradise of palm fringed bays, golden sands, rocks and long swells of breakers. Human population was sparse but our hired cottage was well appointed and left us not hurt by the local hotel's closed door policy. Hint to anyone intending to follow our footsteps, the hotel is unfriendly to all but sleeping guests. Do not anticipate being able to drop in for a birthday meal in their dining room. Don't even think about hiring their canoes to go upriver. Unlike Mexico, these proprietors are strangers to generosity and look to stay that way as long as they are so constrained by their self-imposed boundaries of exclusivity.
The fishermen in our party had rods and reels and bait and rocks to pass the time. Others found entertainment in looking into space and in books, waves and beaches, cattle on the beach and the local soccer team practice games in the tidal zone. In the image below, our house was the white roof among the vegetation: ringside seat on sunrise. We had sun enough to warm skin to rich old gold (or flaming red, depending on your original canvas), sand so hot it blistered tender feet at midday, rain, moonlight, stars and sunrises, ah! sunrises to write home about. Whales arced out of the water and spouted for our daily delight. Schools of dolphins put in occasional appearances to remind us of their presence.
One day I walked a piece of the Wild Coast trail miles and hours south along cliffs and dipping down to bays empty of all signs of human habitation. In one of these I startled hordes of crabs, sending them scuttling to their holes for shelter. The Bay of Crabs I named the place, an explorer in pristine place all my own. Later I found a beach of shells, a treasure trove of opalescent riches.

Cattle walk the beaches in these parts, ruminating at the tide line, drinking at the freshwater streams which run in gullies and clefts to meet the sea.
One night we had some excitement when an intruder had the whole house up at 3 am. Lights were mysteriously on, beers missing from an unlocked refrigerator, food strewn around the garden. Someone tampering with the the car alarm woke the head of our holiday household. We got off lightly with warning more than injury considering how we all slept through the original alienation of food and car keys.

Not much essential was missing, but the incident did result in a great gathering of the local tribal council for most of the next day. A young man was found, the worse for the consumption of several too many stolen beers, asleep in a vacant property nearby.

An injury to visitors is a serious thing here: tourism is sparse and a means of rare income for these people. Crime is not tolerated. I missed most of this, being out walking on the wild side, but did come in on the end of the tribunal when a police van from several hundred kilometres away had finally arrived to take the miscreant away. The men with knob kieries and staves various of elder status slowly drifted away. Harmony was once more restored to our caravanserai.

I did yoga on tide-smoothed dawn lit sand, swam in aquamarine salt sea, was tumbled by gentle breakers, walked with the sun on my shoulders, collected shells and bartered for (not very expertly crafted) beadwork. Then it was time to return. The road home is always different though it follows the same apparent route in reverse.


Tomorrow: Kalula, the local budget airline takes me on an early morning flight to Durban. Further back, even, in my history and on to foreign lands too. Watch this space, should there be internet. No promises though. Ahead lies uncharted territory.

Next stop Mazeppa Bay

There will definitely be a hiatus in posts for short while. Before dawn tomorrow I head by car to Mazeppa Bay on the Wild Coast. No chance of internet. Catch you all at the next connection opportunity.

(Hint - if you are looking on a map, find East London and travel east up the coast a bit. The actual road there will go through Butterworth. There is a little bit about it here.)

A hot Grahamstown Sunday afternoon

What makes a vegetarian spend a precious South African sunny Sunday afternoon in the Grahamstown Redwood Spur, the (grossly stereotyped) American Western themed steakhouse franchise chain?

Wireless internet of course.

Obviously there isn't much demand in the normal course of this Spur's life. It took me the first ten minutes to go through a chain of staff members to establish where there was a strong enough signal, and then what the connection passwords were. No walk in and login here though the salad valley is still good value and the mango juice is fresh and authentic.So Grahamstown: city with bonds of blood, beauty and history: ties that bind irrevocably, drawing me back in thought and person no matter how far I travel.

This part of my journey is about continuity and the impossiblity of forgetting. Things have changed and not changed. Donkey carts still wait in the dappled jacaranda shade for loads of wood or perhaps hopeful for a paying passenger.

Grahamstown streets are currently brilliant pools of abovementioned jacaranda blossoms, buzzing lazily with bees. The sun is hot overhead, the sky wide and blue between the spires of churches. The shade welcome, deep and refreshing, the light bright, searing at midday, colours saturated. The academic year is over, university and private school students have dispersed and the town settles down into a summer siesta.The garden of the house I am staying in is verdant with lush growth, flowers and blur of birds in the early mornings. While the household sleeps, I compete with avian foragers for a taste of fruit: slightly underripe plums have proved my favourite, apples, figs, guava trees (no fruit) but beautiful park reminiscent of Madrona, grapes, lemons.