Transcription of an MP3 Audio Diary, kept between Friday January 11th

and Saturday March 15th 2008. Part Nine.

Friday, 22nd February

Must look up www.couchsharing.com

The train is bucketing along at about 30mph, but the vibrations coming up
through the floorboards and the pitch-black night outside generate an urgency
and virtual speed, so that I feel as if I were in a hydraulically-cushioned space
module at a fun-fair.
We were in 2F (a four-bedded compartment) with two South Africans: an
Afrikaner, the other an Irish South African from Durban. The 4th guy is Jens,
who's from Denmark.

But now the four of us seem to have established residence in three different
compartments and a total of 8 beds in 2 different carriages.

This came about because 3 of us had booked bottom bunks ( - I'm not sure if
Jens booked anything at all). We all three of us put our foot down with a heavy
hand when the sleeping-car attendant visited us for the first time, so he went
off to see if he could find 'an empty double'. By the time he got back to us with
the good news that we actually had a choice, the other three were comfortably
outside a couple of beers and schnapp-chasers and preparing for the long haul,
so I took my books and crosswords and went elsewhere to prepare for an early
night. It will be a long daylight section tomorrow and I want to be prepared to
dash from side to side of the train (with and without my camera), as well as
giving myself enough time to jog the length of the train (on the platform) at
each and every opportunity: I have sorely missed physical exercise in the past
couple of weeks.

Jens has been bumming his way around the world for the past 10 months. He
flew in to Jo'burg a month ago from Mumbai and has been walking and hitching
around Kwa-Zulu Natal; he's now going down to Cape Town to look for a
'pleasure craft' – he intends to offer himself as experienced crew and find his
way back to Denmark sometime in the nearish future.

Saturday, 23rd February

On the train from Pietermaritzburg (PMB) to Cape Town through the (Orange)
Free State, then rejoining the Cape Town-Jo'burg line at Bloemfontein.
At the moment, I'm sharing the (2-berth) Coupé 4D with Danish 'Jens'. I got the
beds made up last night and paid for both without knowing who was coming to
join me and it turned out to be the small great Dane.

He talked a little about his travels and philosophy of life when he came to bed
sometime after 2am...
He's obviously very much on a shoestring, so I shan't press him to pay for the
bed-roll. But I DON'T want to drink any of the strange concoctions that he has
lurking in his bag.
I think an English breakfast would go down quite well.
I might very well ask the attendant to make me up another bed tonight,
because this one is really wet from perspiration. A new bed will be R35 which
is less than SF6, so it's worth having another one made up and starting off the
night comparatively dry, at least... but we shall see as the day goes on.
Perhaps it will dry out, as there's quite a pleasant breeze coming in through the
window at the moment.

The countryside's quite different from the trip up-country. Going through the
Free State... it's very much farming land, but nowhere near as green as the bit
of Natal that I got to know... and I think not even really as green as the Cape.
But it's probably brownish now because a lot of the fields look as if they are
ready for harvesting.
And just to remind myself again, it's: www.couchsurfing.com 'Couch surfing',
NOT 'couch sharing'!

The Danish boy in the top bunk here, has finally woken up. It's about 10
o'clock.
When he came to bed, he was full of stories of the different effects his 40%
alcohol black liquorice drink had on our South African Irishman. He'd been
sharing it with both of them in 2F, then, apparently, he'd gone into another
compartment and tried to share his booze with some black people. Whether to
try to get them drunk or not, I don't know, but he seemed determined to try to
get rid of the bottle, even though he still has another night aboard the train... I
reckon there are more doubtful bottles stashed away in his cornucopia.
Danish. Jens. Flown in from Mumbai. Been in... Siberia... Been in... Pakistan,
where he enjoyed himself more than anywhere else. He's a biologist, but
specialising in botany. If he can't get a crewing job aboard a yacht going north
from Cape Town, then he'll still make tracks for Denmark; he absolutely has to
be back to start work in June, although he already has a job lined up for April,
just in case, if he arrives early. Cushy Gap Year in inverted commas.

We've passed Bloemfontein on the way to Kimberley.

When I said before, when we were in the Midlands, that it was like being in
Switzerland, it really was. Yet other areas are remarkably like parts of England.
But the instant you scrape off the surface and you get this earth... this colour...
it's like... salmon paste... I mean, it's red and it's pink... a really strong colour.
You can smell it, almost taste it... Once the top surface has disappeared, then
you have this incredible hue, so in green fields you've got what are either
shocking pink ant-hills or mole hills ('tho I think they're ant-hills) in the middle
of this still quite green landscape. It's not as green as Natal, but it's still
impressive... and even more so when you suddenly get this shockingly
orangey, reddy, pink of an ant-hill popping up in the middle. Very odd. Very
strange. Something out of a dream that's about to turn nasty...
And there's plenty of time for that to happen, because this red topsoil stretches
for miles and miles and miles, hundreds, thousands of square miles... It's
granite down at the tip of Cape Province, but once you start moving through
the Karoo, you meet the other end of this incredible red earth. I want to get my
hands dirty. Not that it would really be dirt; I'm sure it would be like squeezing
fluorescent silly putty between my fingers, but with the temptation to want to
dig deeper and follow that nightmare...

Everybody says that today, the 23rd, is going to be very hot... 37°C, 38°C... and
very humid, so that's made my mind up about asking to have another set of
bedding for tonight. It's extravagant I know, but I'd rather get into cool sheets
than ones which are still damp from last night or this afternoon's siesta.

There's a Zulu saying that 'once a white man has been bitten by Africa, He will
always come back'. It's an itch that has taken me 60 years to scratch.

Sunday, 24th February

On Belleville Station, at half past six in the morning, on the way in to Cape
Town, on Sunday 24th February, there's a white guy who... well, he looks as if
he's an out-and-out alcoholic, but he could be on drugs as well... he's
staggering along another platform -not this one, because we're all sealed off
from the commuter trains- staggering along, begging from embarrassed black
commuters who are waiting to go into Cape Town to work...
I woke up as we pulled into the station and looked out to see the people calmly
and quietly, waiting for their local trains. The drunken white beggar looks so
incongruous, I found myself looking for the camera crew... a scene I could
never have invented, because it touched no part of my reality, or even of my
often overactive fantasy. Suddenly a clear visual message that some things
have changed out of all recognition...

Formula 1 on the Foreshore?? The train arrived an hour early in Cape Town, so
I decided to go straight to the hotel. Jens came out of the same back entrance
of the station, then said he was making for the marina beside the Waterfront.
As I've said, it was still very early in the morning, but Jens was sure that he
would find someone preparing breakfast in their galley, someone who would be
only too pleased to share it with him.
Probably the best way to find out how, what and why Jens thinks, is by going
onto: http://www.couchsurfing.com
then following the links. The way he's explained it to me, it sounds very 1960s,
the kind of crowd that I would have got involved with when I was between jobs.
I must have a look at the website tonight.

After waving Jens good-bye, I walked to the Formula 1 (Foreshore), deposited

my luggage (check-in is at midday), inadvertently left my distance glasses in
reception, and went to find the immigration/emigration offices on foot. They
are open 24/7 and I checked that I did not have to go there immediately prior
to embarkation, planning to come back after my midday check-in at the
Formula 1. Then I set off for a final stroll around Cape Town, walking up
through the Gardens to my (un)happy hunting grounds of 60 years ago.
A little last-minute present-buying in GreenMarket Square, then I went to sit in
the sun at a bar in Long Street facing what is now 'Carnival Court', an up-
market back-packers hotel, but where the exterior upper two stories have not
changed a jot since 1948.

After a couple of glasses of incredibly cold cider, it was time to get back to the
hotel and check in. My distance glasses were waiting for me in an envelope at
reception and I collected my luggage on the way up to my room on the first
floor. The room is fine and, if I crane my neck and squint a bit, I can actually
see a snippet of Table Mountain which is just up the road; but the view can't
compare with the one I had out at Milnerton when I first arrived.
A welcome shower, then I walked back to Immigration-Emigration. And once
again I found the woman who had been offhand and then dismissive three
weeks ago. Obviously I'd asked the wrong person at security check-in on the
ground floor when I came earlier, because their information was quite wrong. I
can only 'sign off' just before I embark, so I have to organise my time
accordingly. Only when I have the definite OK to go aboard can I come back to
the same “window number 3, please” and get my papers and passport
stamped. I was stupid enough to let my irritation show and suggested that
things might have been easier if I had used my British passport, to be asked:
“Hu in their roit moind wud wanterbe stuck with wanna those? Yu come
beckier with or these papers OFTER the agenters tolljew it's tom te go onbawd.
Not beefour. And not ofter the 26th, bighorse yo visa will have ran out !”
I'm married to a very small woman and know just how domineering they can be
at times, but this little monster was something else !
I thanked her... and she informed me that I was Welcome ! Fortunately there
was no 'Have a nice day'!

A windy morning, but pleasant enough for a gentle stroll along the old docks to
the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. That's right: 'Victoria & Alfred', NOT 'Victoria &
Albert'.
In the Paulaner Bräuhaus at the Waterfront, they have lots of exciting things to
eat, including wonderful fish in batter (made, naturally enough, with German
beer) and real chips. They also have a dessert called a 'Beeramisu'. I would
have accepted a 'Beerchermüesli' with a smile, but Beeramisu made me laugh
out loud.
I went right through the menu, then came back to the old stand-by because it's
my last... probably my last... meal here... and tomorrow I'm likely to be rushing
around all over the place, although I've heard nothing from the Grey Fox yet...
...so I ordered fish & chips.
And they've brought me two huge pieces of fish, but only a few chips and a
large mixed salad, which is better for my expanding waistline. The saved
calories go into a 1.5 litre stein of dark beer; not as good as Slovakian or
Hungarian Dreher beer, but respectably chewy and pungent. And all that for
R60, which is about 9 Swiss francs.

Well the chips are nothing to write home about, but the fish is almost worth the
trip her... I mean to come back from Europe, not from the other side of town. It
is absolutely exquisite. And certainly merits the 2nd Stein of dark Paulaner beer
that they have just brought me.
One thing that I couldn't help noticing in my three weeks here in South Africa is
that doggy-bags are the order of the day. Portions are huge; although, if you
go into different ethnic restaurants, you'll find the cooking is much better than
the equivalent meals in England. However you can also get your bucketful of
gunge and slosh thrown onto your plate like you do in the UK, so there's no
reason why British visitors shouldn't feel at home. And if there's too much of it,
you can ask for a doggy-bag and take it home to share two-thirds of it with your
family. Where I live in Switzerland... you'd get rather raised eyebrows, if you
asked to take home what you hadn't been able to finish at the table...

I'm still in the Paulaner Bräuhaus. Behind the serving counter, there's a huge,
beautifully polished copper beer vat. It's steaming, because the pressure's up
and, according to the ad on the wall: “On a weekly basis, our brew-master is
brewing four and a half thousand litres of original Paulaner Beer on the
premises”. As you'll see from my photographs, the serving ladies are dressed
as they would be for the Oktoberfest in Munich. They seem to have chosen
some very attractive young ladies... mostly black, a few coloured... a couple of
Eurasian girls...I haven't seen any white girls... The rest of them and all the
men, who are not in traditional costume, are wearing what you might call
modern traditional costumes, with “BrewCrew” on their black sweaters and T-
shirts.

In most places I've been, the white population has been decidedly odd: elderly,
rather elegant ladies accompanying or accompanied by rather doddery older
men; the middle-aged group, for want of a less polite word: stout. Walking or
waddling from side to side, rather than forwards... of course, there are lots of
exceptions, but they only emphasise those who are mostly overweight, mostly
unfit... probably very much like the same age-groups in the UK at the
moment... but I still find it rather strange to see myself with people 20 years
my junior and feeling that I'm the younger, slimmer, fitter one in comparison.
And I weigh over 115Kgms, which is over 18 stone (253lbs) in real money.

I've decided to walk back into town, cutting across the marina and past the
little artisanal dry dock. Although iPhones haven't made it to SA yet, there are
still many people with Walkman headsets and, I suppose, a fair number of
iPods. But there are also radios pumping out DJ mixes and the occasional
classical station. Many of the groups are very reminiscent of Kwela music that I
remember from the Tracy revues 'Wait a Minim' and 'Time to Breve' and a lot of
Charles' 1960s African Twist had much of the same flavour. My musical
memories from 1948 are mostly of piped BBC dance-bands and an obvious
affection for American Big Bands and Jazz. I don't have any clear memory of
black African music when I was enjoying District 6... the songs coming out of
shop doorways were Italian opera, West Indian calypsos and what I would have
identified as Dixieland Jazz, but which might very well have been Langarm...
In the dry dock, the dominant music is also Italian, so a presume that some of
the white workers refurbishing small trawlers and sport-fishing boats are Italian
immigrants or 1st generation South Africans. One radio is obstinately playing
'The Three Tenors' while another has set up a provocative counterpoint of
'Pavarotti and Friends', with Brian May and Lucio Dalla... suddenly it's 1970 and
I'm standing on my 7th floor balcony in Rome, waiting for the dear departed
Lucio Battisti to make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck...

Feelings of 'homesickness' are really only engendered by things Italian. I sat on

a bollard listening to the contrapuntal Italianness of it all for over an hour,
before coming back to the present and realising that I needed to call King &
Son. Still no news, but I had broken the spell and decided to continue my walk
back into town. I'm suddenly very thirsty.

I remembered there was a Caltex garage and mini-market close to where I had
once caught the HOHO bus, so I decided to buy something to drink and a
Sunday paper.
And I was assaulted.
Not in the obvious way that you might think, but it felt like an assault and I
eventually reacted accordingly...
While I was busy stocking up on wine gums, a pleasant, very well-spoken Asian
gentleman asked if I had a moment to spare. Returning his politeness, I said:
“Of course”.
He asked me where I came from, what kind of car I was driving (!), whether I
always did my shopping on a Sunday... and then, very kindly and politely,
offered me a text to read. And asked if we could share some 'quality time' to
discuss it.
I suppose I could have thanked him, glanced at it, put it into my pocket, taken
my leave and moved on.
But I didn't.
In society, as opposed to button-pushing politics, I believe proselytisers are the
most dangerous and potentially destructive beings on this planet. And the
reasonable, arm-round-your-shoulder charismatic charmers are hyper-
dangerous. I don't care which 'religion' is being sold, the eventual outcome is
death and destruction.
I told him that I had met many good missionaries in my time, but that I
perceived their mission as being flawed. I asked him if he could tell me, now,
of one religion or philosophy that did not result in hierarchy. Like a well-
groomed politician, he tried to side-step the question, trying to explain how
belief could change my thinking – as if I haven't searched, often in desperation,
over the years...
That's my point. In anything but pure research, I firmly believe that it's better
to travel hopefully than to arrive. But people who try to convert and control
you -in a tiny sect of 2 or 3 people, or in a mass movement of millions- can
never break bread with you in absolute equality; as a breed, we demand
leaders and subjects, a descending or ascending stairway with someone under
someone else's heel...
Conforming for the sake of conforming, playing safe in order not to create
waves, joining the herd in order to deny responsibility for the stampede. I
presume to ask my own questions and try to evaluate the answers. I
remember writing a poem round about the time my first marriage was breaking
up. I hadn't got a clue about how to handle my frustrations, my aggression, my
unresolved talent, my limitations, my doubts about existence, my pre-
programmed childhood and adolescence, my battle against accepting what was
deemed to be the 'only true' interpretation of humanity. But I was always
trying to make some kind of sense out of it all.

(01/05/09 It just happens to be May Day. I've found the poem I talked about:

WHY ?

Why ?
Because.
But why ?
Because you can…
Why ?
You used to…
Yes, but why ?
Because you’ll be able…
Even when or if I get there, there will still be a ‘why’,
 I hope…

22nd September 1974

Roger WORROD

I left the Caltex garage at a fair lick, seething with the anger that I had been
unable to express to the gentleman with his conveniently pocket-book-sized
texts. In what seemed like just a matter of seconds, I was standing outside the
ArtsCape theatre, listening to my breathing shivering inside my nostrils...
Sunday evening in Cape Town. Perversely, I realised that it was too late to drop
into a church and that the market square nearby had three of them on different
corners. I enjoy the musical experience of religion.

I must find out if Peter Cartwright who was at RADA with me, and played the
official who threw Gandhi/Kingsley off the train in PMB, if Peter has anything to
do with 'Cartwright's Corner' here in Cape Town. It's near Adderley Street. On
my way back to Formula 1 (Foreshore).

Monday, 25th February

Called Capt. Böckmann first thing: the Grey Fox is still out in the roads because
of fog! I then called the agency, King & Son, and the guy who had been CCed
in my correspondence with Pieter Botha (Nathan N) took my mobile number
and said he would send me an SMS as soon as Grey Fox had berthed. They
have at least 6hrs of loading & unloading, but there is still a chance we could
leave before midnight.

It's 09:45 and the fog seems to be lifting; how much must it lift to allow a 192m
ship to manoeuvre into Duncan Dock?
Mini-drama for me! Race against time. I have to confirm my extra night at the
Formula 1 by 10:45, otherwise I have to check-out, wait for midday and check
in again... but the sky looks really promising now. Think I'll pack and leave my
luggage in the storeroom, while I say a second 'final farewell' to Cape Town...

Another call to Captain Böckmann who told me that as far as the Grey Fox was
concerned, he couldn't see the far side of the starboard wing of the bridge,
because of the fog. By his reckoning, it would still take a further 3hrs after the
3 boats ahead of him had started to move and he was sure that the agents
would know more about any movement sooner than he would.
So I called the agency and spoke to Nathan. He promised once again that he
would send an SMS as soon as he had any information.
Then I decided on the Red Hop On, Hop Off Bus yet again, to make my
absolutely, positively, final farewell tour of Cape Town. This Farewell Tour is
becoming so familiar, I feel like Sinatra, Streisand or Tina Turner ... one mo'
time !!

The kind receptionist at the Formula 1 (Foreshore) told me to take my luggage

back to my room and, that if I collected it before 6pm, there would be no
charge. The tip I gave him this morning has been repaid five-fold ! Jauntily, I
set off for the Conference Centre, Bus Stop No. 3 of the Red HOHO bus tour.
Our HOHO guide is giving us the Marks & Sparks/Woolworths story again as we
pass in front of the store, which is almost opposite the famous flower market...
The Trafalgar Flower Market is open 24hrs a day. It's been open for 120 years,
day and night... they say it never even closed over a century ago when there
were various health scares and epidemics.

Eat to live, or live to eat? I know which side of the bed I roll out of !
Half a kilogramme of prawns, R55... half a kilogramme of mussels, R45. That's
chalked on a first floor verandah on the hill halfway up to Kloof Nek. But I have
to wait at least half an hour before we reach Camps Bay and I can calm my
grumbling stomach.

Up at the Table Mountain Cable Car departure, we have a magnificent view of

the city below, the Foreshore and 100m of harbour, backed up by an ever-
rotating loofa of fog... through which, magically and menacingly, emerges the
prow of (what I presumed to be) the first container ship being piloted and
tugged into harbour.

There's still fog down there in the harbour, but obviously it's lifted enough to
allow something to come in. I don't think it can be the Grey Fox, because the
last update they sent me confirmed that she was 4th in line to come into
harbour. Let's just hope that's true, in which case I should get an SMS pretty
soon telling me that I can go aboard. There's definitely at least one container
ship coming in at the moment, but I don't see any of the others queuing up
outside in the roads... in fact I can't see that far, because the mist is rolling on
itself just behind the newly-arrived container. And as the pilot has to get off
this one, then go back out and pick up the next, as Captain Böckmann said, it's
probably going to be at least 4 hours after they've had the 'Go Ahead'. The
Duncan Dock itself is free of fog, but this large container ship has just come
through the final bank of mist into the outer harbour. So let's wait and see if I
get an SMS telling me that I can go aboard. Not forgetting that I have to deal
with the unpleasant woman in Emigration beforehand.

2 hours ago Grey Fox was 4th in line, so I've just checked that my mobile phone
hadn't mysteriously switched off. Better safe, than sorry. All's well, so I'm
sitting back to enjoy the rest of the tour, confident that I shall be going aboard
in the early evening. Or late evening. Or during the night. Or tomorrow...

I can now go through the Hop On, Hop Off guides' script with them and lead the
titters of laughter in all the right places.

In Camp's Bay, the fog was rolling along the beach, so solid that it cut a volley-
ball pitch in half, the other side being totally invisible. I decided to give the sun
some time to work its magic and went to the Cape Town Fish Market once
more, enjoying a cream of abalone soup as my 'Hop On, Hop Off'' Free Starter.
As yesterday's fish at the Paulaner Bräuhaus had been so outstanding, I didn't
want have that tasteful memory spoiled, so I've ordered grilled lamb cutlets
with new potatoes – available in all the best fish markets. Washed down with
the usual glass or three of Hunter's Dry Cider, this time with a twist of lemon.
All of which should set me up for my proposed afternoon dip.
As I said, the Fish Market restaurant overlooks the beach and what is visible of
the volley-ball court. Somewhere behind that, the various cargo and container
ships are marking time until they are allowed into dock. I only saw the first one
coming in, when we stopped at the Cable Car base station, so we just have to
hope that the 4th one along is also able to get into harbour today, otherwise I'm
probably going to have to stay on in the hotel and then leave at about 4 o'clock
in the morning, which won't be all that pleasant. But we shall see what we
shall see.

No phone call or SMS, so I'll get the next or next-but-one HOHO bus back to the
Waterfront. The last guide, who sounded as if she'd moved here from Greater
Manchester in the UK, told us that she lived a little way back up the coast,
towards Llandudno. She pointed out that it's possible on this part of the coast
to sit out on the fine sand in 35°C of heat and dabble your toes in sea-water
that could be as low as 5°C. Which must be great for heart attacks...
The other piece of original information was about the baboons. There are no
lions left here; the last one was shot on Lion's Head in 1802. But there are
baboons around here who have become very 'humanised'. To the extent that
they actually invite themselves into your house and, in her case, into her
fridge. There had been two of them who had gone into her next-door
neighbour's house, collected what food they could and gone and sat on the flat
roof to eat it. She went into her house thinking: “Well, I don't have a flat roof,
so they won't bother me”, but she found one in her lounge, having opened the
fridge. It/She/He was not sitting at the table, but had the picnic spread out on
the floor. Her big problem then was to make sure she didn't stand between the
baboon and the door when the animal started to get rather agitated. But she
was there to tell the tale today, so obviously it all worked out quite well in the
end. The one black spot being that her insurance company has so far refused
to pay for the damage until she could 'prove' that she had not left her door
open as an invitation to burglars or baboons...

As soon as the sun breaks through, it's 33°C, but here at the sea-water pool,
I'm dabbling my toes in VERY cold sea-water.... I wonder if I'll be able to swim
again in Swakopmund? It's odd, to have come all this way and never actually
swum in the sea; I had planned to swim in the Indian AND the Atlantic Oceans,
like I did in 1948. I think I'll have to come back in winter, when the sea is
warmer(!!)... and make sure I bring a towel with me!
No minibus hi-jack this time, strictly HOHO to go back to town.
At 4.30 (while going down the stairs to get off the HOHO bus) I just got a phone
call from Nathan: at 18:00 I have to go to emigration, then go aboard at 18:30.
That doesn't leave me much time, so I'm going back to F1 to move my luggage
out of the room and prepare to visit emigration.

At 17.10 there was another call... saying Grey Fox was staying out all night, so
I had to find myself a hotel; although I'd moved my luggage into the storeroom,
I begged for my old room back.
Bought some Internet credit, Skyped all my loved ones, had a look at and
Bookmarked www.couchsurfing.com, watched Manchester City lose 0-2 at
home to Everton (is it lose 0-2 or lose 2-0??), set the alarm for 6.20 then went
to bed.

Nathan's call came at 11.20pm saying Grey Fox was now alongside, and could
leave some time before 9am...
...after dozing for a while, I decide to get up, check out and go aboard; I left at
12.45. Taxi to emigration – no hassle this time, only too happy to get rid of me,
although it was a man this time who actually smiled; then on to Duncan Dock,
ringing a bell to alert the night-watchman to let me in the back way. 3rd officer
met me at the gangplank and said 'Welcome Home!'. In my chambers by
0115.
I've set my alarm for 0705, now I'm going to crash out.