Posts Tagged With: south africa

Chapter Seven

The Magic Bus

To keep the trip flexible we’d decided to avoid booking all of our transport in advance and just see what happened along the way. This approach, in all honesty, had been quite painful for me as I could be incredibly anal about planning. For months before a trip’s departure I would research places of interest; writing down locations next to dates before scribbling them out again until finally coming up with what I believed to be an exciting, feasible and affordable trip.

One of the reasons I’d begun this painstaking ritual was because I got bored at work very easily. I didn’t exactly have a challenging job, so rather than eating myself into a fat mess I’d use the time when I wasn’t busy to create in-depth itineraries.

The other reason I was so meticulous in planning was because being well organised is an excellent way of saving money. The earlier most flights are booked nowadays the cheaper they are, providing you stick to your pre booked dates that is. And we were soon to learn that this rule applied to South African buses also.

Originally I’d planned for us to travel by bus up the west coast of Southern Africa into Namibia. Namibia sounded a fascinating and extremely beautiful country. The giant sand dunes of Sossuslvei were high on my list of things to see. Their burnt orange slopes contrasting against the post-apocalyptic looking dead trees at their base would have been incredible to visit. Sadly though, it wasn’t meant to be.

When I first checked ticket prices back in England the Intercape Mainliner bus service between Cape Town and the Namibian capital of Windhoek seemed very affordable. When we checked a week or so before our intended departure, however, the price had risen to almost four times the original cost.

This dramatic increase, coupled with the fact that Namibia wasn’t a particularly cheap country to visit, made us realise that we needed to revise our plans somewhat.

I was a bit annoyed we hadn’t booked the tickets when first suggested. I was upset that we weren’t going to have a chance to visit Namibia and looked for someone to blame. I hadn’t pressed the issue of pre-booking at the time though, and had agreed with the others that it might be better to wait, so it was as much my fault as anybody’s.

The rise in cost wasn’t so extreme that it couldn’t have been paid for there and then. Yet the knock on effect of such an unbudgeted outlay could have been disastrous. None of us wanted to go home early due to insufficient funds. One important factor you learn with budget travel is that you simply can’t see and do everything. You must live to your means and prioritise what is most important. Although high, Namibia wasn’t at the top of our list. Making it to Zambia and beyond was.

Flights to the Zambian city of Livingstone were looking like our best option out of South Africa, even though we would have much preferred travelling overland the entire way. For both cost and time reasons we just couldn’t afford to do it by land. Or should I say, that was the case until Danny played an absolute blinder.

For years tourism in Africa has been incredibly popular. Unlike Asia and other parts of the third world, Africa can be both expensive and difficult to travel. Lack of infrastructure and political instability hinder the free exploration of these vast lands. Yet where there’s demand, there is always somebody willing to supply. And for many a young adventurer wanting to explore the colourful and sometimes volatile countries of Africa, the safest and easiest way to do so is by travelling within an overland tourist truck.

These huge vehicles, run by many different tour operators, usually operate between Nairobi and Cape Town, stopping at a myriad of interesting locations along the way. For the lone traveller keen on seeing this huge and uncompromising continent these trucks are an ideal solution. The down side, however, is that they cost an absolute fortune.

While Dean and I had either been inebriated somewhere or unconscious in bed, Danny had been talking to a Kenyan gentleman named Bob who worked for one of these particular tour operators. Bob and his colleague Vito had just finished a long, ninety day Nairobi to Cape Town trip the evening before and were chilling for a day before driving the truck back to Nairobi.

Having listened to our plight, Bob proceeded to inform Danny that if we slipped him a few Rand – the equivalent of about £80 – he would take us all the way to Livingstone, four days drive away.

The control freak in me was incredibly dubious when Danny told us of Bob’s suggestion. I couldn’t help my scepticism, doubting as to whether the guy would actually come through with his offer. If Bob changed his mind or was full of shit then it would mean the flights we’d seen would most likely increase in price, or we’d waste more money and time hanging around in Cape Town waiting for a better offer.

As it happens, my concerns were unnecessary. On the day of our planned departure a big yellow truck was parked up outside the hostel raring to go. When Bob had finished snogging the face off a Kiwi girl he had pulled from the previous trip, we loaded our bags and made ourselves comfortable in the truck’s spacious seating area.

The truck itself was fantastic. Between the three of us we had thirty two seats to spread out on, complete with fridge, ipod docking station and most importantly for me, a bookshelf full of half decent reads. It couldn’t have been any more ideal.

After Dean feigned disappointment and asked Bob where the plasma screen TV was – receiving a ‘get fucked’ for his efforts – we set off in a north easterly direction into the heart of South Africa.

Except for Danny’s wee jaunt to Chintsa, and when I nearly pooped myself in Mossel Bay, the three of us had been in one another’s company on a constant since leaving the UK. I’m quite a solitary person on the whole, both at home and whilst travelling. I find a lot of peace and contentment in my own thoughts, and am not one of these people who need the presence of others around them all the time or they feel lonely. I’m quite the opposite in fact. It’s strange, but I almost feel lonely in many peoples company as I’m not a very outspoken person. So, having enough space on the truck to keep to myself felt like a luxury. And that’s exactly what I did for the majority of the four day journey to Livingstone.

Danny and Dean occupied the front eight seats of the bus where the ipod station and radio lived. I holed up on the eight seats at the back beside the bookshelf. Granted, I also had the slightly stinking bin to contend with, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. The time left to be alone with my thoughts was well worth the sour pong.

In comparison to a normal bus journey this was absolute heaven. It felt like we had our own tour bus. To be able to lounge around, feet on whichever chair you so wished was fantastic. It certainly wasn’t what I was used to with regards overland travel.

The back of the truck was quite a bit bumpier than the front seats. A few times I was thrown about a foot in the air after hitting a particularly nasty pot hole. You certainly couldn’t sleep for any prolonged period without being woken up with a hefty jolt, yet on the whole it was a pleasant ride.

After a long first day of driving we spent the night parked up in a large truck stop. Filling up on dirty burgers, we all then made ourselves as cosy as possible on camping mats wedged between the seats.

An internet trawling Vito had joined us in the back of the truck for the night. Driver’s privileges allowed Bob the liberty to create his own little wank nest in the front cab – a place in which he claimed many a bout of fornication had taken place with horny western backpackers. Considering he looked like Predator’s dumpier younger brother I doubted this highly. Although the New Zealand lassie he had been exchanging saliva with earlier had certainly shown willing, so maybe he was the top shagger he professed to be after all.

The back of the truck was not a great place to sleep at night. Each and every movement a person made banged and creaked like a fat lass walking blindfolded through a haunted house. For fear of mosquitoes and murdering thieves we’d rolled down the plastic game viewing windows, transforming the truck into a mobile greenhouse. Add the hot, farting bodies of four men and the airless compartment soon made for an unpleasant environment to say the least.

Day two on the road wasn’t quite as enjoyable as the first. Bob had awoken at around 4:00am and decided to get an early start, bumping us all awake in the process. He was a man on a mission that day, barely stopping until we hit our destination of Johannesburg twelve hours later.

I was happy enough reading an Ernest Hemmingway book I’d found in the back. It was basically two hundred pages of him trying to blast the life out of Africa’s most beautiful animals with a high calibre rifle. Although not exactly my cup of tea, it was a good read all the same.

Despite Ernest and his mates slaughtering local fauna, the day did tend to drag a touch. A few five minute breaks at service stations to wee and fill up our fattening bodies with more burgers from Steers – a South African fast food chain – broke the tedium slightly. And we were all relieved people when the truck eventually pulled into the nice suburb of Johannesburg where Bob planned for us to spend the evening.

Our driver had hoped that us three lads would be able to sleep in the hostel we were parked outside. Sadly it was already full, and we were subjected to a second night sleeping in the back of the sweaty truck with Vito.

Bob talked the hostel staff into allowing us use of the shower facilities. So after a welcome wash in which Dean and I nicked Danny’s towel and clothing, we decided to make sleeping in the truck more tolerable by getting plastered first.

We’d agreed on a bit of a booze ban of late, thinking it would be easy to steer clear of alcohol due to the lack of birds on the bus. This grand idea had gone right out of the window no sooner had we seen a few tidy young women wandering in and out of the hostel grounds. Ignoring the pleas from our bodies to give them a break, Dean and I bought a crate of beer from a nearby off license. Danny, on the other hand, managed to stick to the plan, spending his money on a nice meal instead.

A strange light lit the early evening sky of Johannesburg as we returned from our alcohol run. Divided by a straight vertical line, one side of the sky was light blue and the other half a much darker grey. It baffled us how the skies appeared to be dissected so cleanly into two different shades. Although we didn’t have time to mull over the phenomena for long. Thick, brooding clouds rapidly replaced the fragmented skyline, before evolving into a powerful thunder storm.

Making it back just as the rain began to fall, Dean and I sat with Bob in the back of the truck. Ploughing through our chilling stash of beer, we mused over how soaked Danny would be when he finally returned from the Italian restaurant he’d decided to eat in. ‘Dripping’ was unanimous verdict judging by the horrendous downpour outside.

Conversation between the three of us soon drifted onto one of our more favoured subjects.

“So what are you boys into,” asked Bob, “Big girls with booty or little mosquitoes?”


“Yeah, mosquitoes. You know, skinny chicks with no ass.”

“Ah. What do we like better, fat girls or skinny girls? I would have to say skinny. Deano?”

“Skinny, definitely.” confirmed Dean.

“What?” replied Bob incredulously, “Skinny girls aint got nothing to grab hold of.”

“Some do. But I’m not all that bothered either way really. As long as they are pretty and a decent person, I’m happy.”

“But what about a big ass?” quizzed bob again, “Big girls, with big thighs and a big ass is what you want.”

“A big arse can be jolly nice, yes. Providing the rest of her isn’t just as big. I’m just not all that attracted to fat girls. They look like they would smell a bit.”

“You guys are deluded. Crazy white boys, you don’t know what’s good for you.”

Danny returned soon after our fat girl debate looking like a drowned rat. He wasn’t best pleased about his clothes being soaked as he’d just had them washed and was in no mood to accompany us three into the hostel bar.

Danny had made the right choice by going to bed early. The hostel’s on-sight watering hole was absolutely dire. There was not one semi tidy woman to be seen in there. God knows where all the beauties from earlier were lingering, but it most certainly wasn’t where we wanted them to be. After two dismal drinks I left Bob and Dean chatting to a trio of rough German birds before heading to the truck to read my book by torchlight.

Dean, having told the annoying barmaid she had a dodgy eyebrow and a gimpy hand, soon followed me to the truck feeling terrible. It transpired that the barmaid’s ailments were due to a stroke she’d had as a teenager and she was quick to let him know such following his quip.

Unwittingly offending a semi cripple in a bar full of oddballs was not an ideal way to spend his final night in South Africa. Danny was also fed up about his now musty clothes, and I was frustrated at the lack of fun had on the lady front. Needless to say, we all went to our sweaty beds feeling a touch jaded that night.
The following day’s travel wasn’t quite the early start the previous one had been. Having enjoyed a gigantic breakfast at a nearby café, we then spent a good hour wandering around a huge shopping mall while Vito dashed from shop to shop in search of an elusive pair of trainers he’d agreed to buy for a friend.

It was Danny’s birthday today and as a loving gesture Dean and I purchased him a tube of Back to Black hair dye to cover his salt and pepper speckled locks. He was hardly greying, a few stray hairs near the temple perhaps, we just wanted to give him a gift that would wind him up a little. We also bought Danny some nice wine and a card to go with his dubious looking afro dye, so we weren’t complete arseholes to the birthday boy.

From Johannesburg we drove north westwards, arriving at the border crossing with Botswana late in the afternoon. A bitch of a customs official reluctantly stamped my passport as we filed through the frontier having accused me of driving an unregistered vehicle. When she realised she’d made a mistake I got even more attitude, so I called her an offensive term for the female reproductive organ under my breath before jumping back onto the truck.

We didn’t press too much further into Botswana that evening. It had begun to get dark shortly after crossing the border so Bob opted to spend the night in a truck stop close by.

The sun had completely set by the time we found a parking spot at the primitive roadside services. Changing our remaining South African Rand into Pula – the currency of Botswana – we then went and spent the majority of it on food.

Feeling completely drained of enthusiasm at this juncture I soon slipped into a trademark sulky mood. It seemed as if Danny was feeling similarly and the two of us brooded over our tender chicken in silence. With Dean stuck in the middle, Danny and I directed our angst at one another again. Nothing directly was said between us, there was just an uncomfortable sense of animosity brewing that wasn’t pleasant for anybody.

My half roast chicken was thrown down my neck with animalistic zeal; fists and fingers oozing with meat, skin and bones. Sitting back with my giant can of coke I waited sullenly whilst the other boys delicately picked at their chicken with cutlery. I’m not sure at what point in my life I became a graceless pig. I certainly wasn’t brought up in such a way. It now seemed as if I could only enjoy my food if consumed within eighteen seconds and it frustrated me that Danny and Dean were messing around with theirs.

The boys finally finished their poultry and we left Vito in the restaurant charming the knickers off a young lady handing out hot sauce. The shrill of cicadas filled the air as the three of us silently made our way back to the locked truck.

The services we had parked up at for the night was a hovel of a place. It teemed with mosquitoes – real ones, not skinny women – and mournful looking prostitutes. Large groups of local men were getting drunk in a windowless room near the truck where the only illumination came from the glowing ends of their cigarettes. You could literally feel the depravity in the air.

There was no way I was going to use the public toilets in this place. The pressing dump brought on by Vito’s friend’s hot sauce would have to wait until morning. A quick piss out of the truck’s open doorway was all I dared do before marinating myself in DEET and settling down into my creaky makeshift bed for the night.

At three in the morning I heard a stir at the front of the bus. Not knowing where I was or what was happening I sat upright and listened in mild panic.

“Pssst. Deano, are you up?” I heard Danny whisper before receiving a grunt from the man in question. “Come and have a look at this.”

“Fucking hell!” uttered Dean after a minute or so of fumbling his way to the front window.

Clamouring over Vito, I tip toed my way down the aisle to see what the boys were gawping at through the truck’s front window.

“What is it lads? Jesus Christ!”

A few metres in front of Bob’s cabin, in a place where we’d all stood a few hours before, a colossal hippopotamus – one of Africa’s most dangerous creatures – stood drinking out of a dirty puddle. These things can bite a crocodile in half apparently, and there it was, mincing around a garage forecourt where prostitutes and pissheads mingled happily night after night.

I had loved travelling Africa, although I hadn’t felt completely at ease in my surroundings all that often. This anxiety had mainly been due to dodgy looking people I admit, but on occasion it had been caused by the myriad of terrifying creatures knocking around. And a situation like this proved how right I was to be intimidated.

After having its fill of the fudge coloured water, the hippopotamus decided to rip out a steel girder with its teeth and contort it like it was tin foil. That girder could so easily have been any one of us. Scared to leave the relative safety of the truck, I let Danny and Dean chase after the fat, destructive bastard with their cameras on their own. I went back to bed instead, thanking my lucky stars we weren’t camping.

Skirting the eastern flank of the Kalahari Desert the truck pressed northwards early the next morning. By this stage in the journey we were all well and truly bored and just wanted it to end. Listening to the same songs time and time again was really beginning to grate. Those four days managed to put me off Chris Daughtry for life.

I was still hiding away at the back of the truck, sulking to myself at how cold and windy it was when Danny and Dean had the windows rolled up at the front. Not daring to have any kind of confrontation about the matter, I kept quiet and stewed in my own juices. For something so trivial it wasn’t worth any crossed words, especially when we were all exhausted from the past few nights of dreadful sleep.

The only respite from the windy chill came as we slowed upon entering the city of Francistown. All I could see of Botswana’s second largest town from my elevated viewpoint were fried chicken outlets. I’m sure there was far more to the place than that, but we didn’t have time to probe any further.

Sadly we’d only been in the country for around twenty four hours by the time we arrived in Kasane, the border town on the Botswanan side of the Chobe River. This wasn’t enough time to learn anything about Botswana, especially when the entire time was spent cooped up in the back of a speeding truck.

Had I not seen the giant hippo the day before I would’ve been very disappointed at not experiencing more whilst there. Like Namibia though, Botswana wasn’t going anywhere soon and would simply have to be visited more thoroughly on another trip.

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A boozey visit to the Winelands and Cape Town

10391722_223116455119_491616_nThe Jo’burg – Delhi Express

An adapted blog from 2010
Chapter Six


The morning after our meet and greet with the Great Whites, tensions between Danny and I weren’t much better than the night before. Neither of us had done anything remarkable to cause any ill feeling, or nothing that I was aware of anyway. Yet when you spend such prolonged periods of time with certain people it’s natural for personality traits to irk on occasion. Danny and I were civil to one another, offering a brief “alright” upon awakening, but did our best to stay out of each other’s way for most of the day.

When the Baz Bus arrived later that evening Danny and Monica sat in the back, whereas Dean and I got in the front seats hoping a bit of time apart would see us all right.

The journey into the South African wine lands was glorious. It was a beautiful evening, and more than once the Baz Bus driver felt compelled to pull over so we could take photographs of the sun descending over a distant Cape Town.

I’d assumed it was just me Danny had issues with. During the brief camera stops Dean too had felt a definitive frostiness, making us both baffled as to what was actually wrong. If it had just been me then I could get it – I’d been quiet the night before and he could have interpreted that as if I was sulking again. Danny and Dean had spent the night together though, getting along great with the three young English birds in the hostel common room.

Unable to come up with a logical reason for the discord, Dean and I resigned to let it be. Everybody needs a little space now and then and we felt it best to give Danny just that.


Arriving into the small, student city of Stellenbosch a short, fat guy working reception checked us all into our new hostel with carefree haste, practically throwing the keys at us before burying his face in a Chinese banquet spread across the bar.

Grabbing a quick shower, it wasn’t long before Dean and I were back in the chow mien stinking bar area. Ordering a couple of beers we waited semi patiently for Monica to get ready.

Danny hadn’t fancied venturing out with us when asked. Dean’s recruitment endeavours proved more successful when he cajoled two Swedish girls into joining us however. One of the Swedes was the slurring, drunken mess we’d met in Hermanus after our warthog stew. Sober, the two of them came across as very pleasant lasses and quite capable of stringing two words together after all.

When all three women had ceased tarting themselves up we set out towards Stellenbosch’s city centre. A quick drink in one of the oldest and possibly dullest bars in town was followed by a few more in a newer, more thriving nightspot nearby.

The colourful bar and restaurant teemed with young, good looking South Africans. Everybody appeared to be having a great time, either lounging on the wide, comfortable sofas or sat eating delicious looking food in the more formal dining area.

Many of the beautiful females certainly weren’t stingy with their flirtatious glances. Either that or they thought we were a couple of oddballs. We choose to interpret their occasional stares in a positive light, giving both Dean and I a real confidence boost to start the night on.

After a couple of hours doing shots and puffing on apple flavoured shisha we moved to a place recommended by a chatty bouncer. Relatively cool house music spilled from the busy looking club. A plethora of young fillies tottered through the door so we thought we’d give it a go.

It turned out to be a club predominantly frequented by Afrikaners. Dean and I were probably the only two people with a British heritage in the place. Not a great ratio when the notoriously proud Afrikaners still held a grudge against the conquering Brits. But we were well on our way to being inebriated at this stage in the evening so the Anglo-Boer conflict was hardly our chief concern. All the scantily clad tarts bopping to Euro pop were what Dean and I preferred to focus on.

Inevitably, it wasn’t long before the two of us were overheard talking in the toilet and suddenly became very unpopular indeed. The large, multi-floored establishment was filled with arrogant young lads with big, block like heads and word that two English chaps were in the building spread like wildfire. Most people didn’t seem to give a shit where we were from. Yet a good number of boorish oafs weren’t happy with our presence, taking great pleasure in knocking into us whenever they could to provoke a reaction.

Trying to avoid any trouble, we left Monica and the two Swedes on the main dance floor and went to look for a less hostile space in the club to frequent.

The top two levels of the bar were similar to any tacky student club found the world over – cheap drink, short skirts, flashing lights and frustrated lads not knowing whether to fight or fuck. The basement of this Afrikaans club, however, was a rather different affair altogether.

Rows of boys and girls in their late teens and early twenties stood facing one another in the centre of the dark, wooden room. Grabbing a partner by the hand, the strange group of revellers proceeded to dance around in choreographed circles like something straight out of 17th century Rotterdam. It was bizarre to witness such fashionably dressed young people jigging around like morris dancers. The same people had been going bonkers with Dizzy Rascal five minutes earlier, now they were thigh slapping around a log cabin like room to Afrikaans versions of country and western ditties.

Dean and I were transfixed by the youthful oddities enjoying their primitive hoedown. We stood open mouthed, unsure as to whether we were dreaming or not, until the boys who had wanted to smack us in our chops earlier began hovering again.

The five of us only stayed a short while longer in the club. It was pretty obvious we weren’t welcome there and the chances of being chinned by a deer shagging yokel were growing by the minute. Dancing around on the smoky dance floor had been fun for a while. But coming up against a group of locals who looked like amateur wrestlers wasn’t the way we’d hoped the night would pan out.

All the excitement of the evening had been too much for Monica to handle. That or she was just completely plastered once again. Either way, she was unable to contain herself on the walk home and dropped her pants outside an all-night garage and proceeded to give what suspiciously looked like a tit wank to a lamp post.

What was going through Monica’s mind at that moment was impossible to determine. Yet this was why we’d grown to love the girl – you never knew what was going to happen next.
The next morning Dean, Monica and I awoke feeling remarkably fresh. Danny, who’d opted for an early night, had arisen in fine spirits and was off breakfasting with Kat, Amanda and Rio – the three American chicks we’d dined with in Hermanus. The girls had coincidently arrived at the same hostel the night before and bumped into Danny whilst we were out on the town.

It’s amazing what a few hours of reflection and a bit of peace and quiet can do to a person’s disposition. Danny was a pillar of geniality when we joined them at the posh little bistro. It felt as if the past twenty four hours had never happened. Everybody seemed hugely relieved there was no longer any tension and the three of us got along famously.

Pulling a few tables together we sat out on the front patio enjoying the sunshine. It was a perfect morning and the sun was already high and warm despite the early hour. Everybody was in good cheer and the Americans were far more sociable than they had been in Hermanus.

Unlike the charming setting and good company, the food served at the snobby little Stellenbosch bistro was very average indeed. Despite costing three times what I’d have liked to pay for breakfast, the portions were small and thrown together carelessly. My omelette was fine – as far as omelettes go – and a few other people were satisfied with their choice. Dean, however, was not a happy camper whatsoever.

“Where the friggin’ hell’s the rest of it Trisha?” he asked the waitress as his food was placed in front of him. “I ordered the Big Breakfast?”

“This is the Big Breakfast sir.”

“It’s not so bloody big is it me lass?” replied Dean with a grimace. “It’s a plate full of bloody tomatoes. And I don’t even like tomato unless it comes out of a Heinz bottle.”

The waitress only managed to comprehend about three words of what Dean had said. She simply smiled back at him and walked away. I was subsequently awarded Dean’s tomatoes and in return he helped himself to my dwindling omelette.

“How did you know she was called Trisha?” asked Monica baffled. “She didn’t have a name tag on or anything.”

“Do you not get Trisha on telly in America?”

“Canada,” corrected Monica. “No, who is she?”

“Trisha Goddard,” answered Dean. “She’s got some sort of chat show. That waitress looked just like her didn’t she Blair?”

Raising my eyebrows I gave them half a smile as if to say ‘I can neither confirm nor deny such comments’. She looked sod all like Trisha Goddard but I didn’t want to burst the boy’s bubble. Not after the whole tomato disappointment and all.

After eating, the Americans and Monica spent a good twenty minutes fussing over a bottle of HP Sauce. Failing to be inspired by condiment based conversations, Dean and I did our best to be excluded from their idle prattle – the two of us debating whether to order another coffee whilst waiting for their saucy talk to finish.

“Pass us that menu dude,” said Dean before having a quick perusal. “A glass of red wine is cheaper than a brew in this place.”

“Its 9:30am Dean,” quipped Monica, butting in.

“Keep your bloody nose out HP knickers. Get back to discussing the ins and outs of Big Ben on a fucking sauce bottle.”

“Shut up, idiot. You’re not going to drink wine at this time are you?”

“Well, we have been saying we need to start saving money. So we may as well start now if alcohol is the cheapest option?” replied Dean, all pleased with himself for being thrifty.

“And we are in the wine region Mon‘,” I added. “It would be silly not to have a little taste whilst we’re here.”

“Where’s Trisha at?” said Dean looking around for the waitress. “I’ll get us two large ones eh?”

The red wine enjoyed post breakfasting was delicious. It was probably a very average drop for all we knew, but as we were still a bit pissed from the night before it tasted like nectar. The three American girls didn’t know what to make of us drinking at such an hour. Judging by their reaction though you’d think early morning boozing was unpopular across the Atlantic.


The pile of cooked tomatoes Dean had stacked on my plate, combined with two large glasses of red wine, didn’t seem to agree with my belly all that well. And soon enough it was necessary I make a trip through the busy bistro to the little boys’ room.

Saying farewell to a solid piece of business I pulled up my pants following a hasty clean-up operation. It had been a two wiper – swift and efficient, the best kind. I was feeling especially content after unloading my gurgling burden. Right up until the moment I flushed and reached for the door knob that is.

Admittedly, I’ve been known to have a few issues in the past regarding what comes out of my rear end. The front end, however, I’ve had no issues with since I was perhaps five years old. I pride myself on the fact that I don’t piss myself very often. I don’t like to brag about it, but I know it’s a gift and I’m very grateful for it.

On this particular morn though, things in the willy department were slightly amiss. Whether it was the alcohol or just sheer excitement at being in South Africa’s lovely wine lands, I’m really not sure, but I ended up leaking a good half litre of urine down the inside of my right leg.

I simply couldn’t control it. My bladder had a mind of its own that instant – it and mine having two very opposing opinions on when apt to secrete a jet of piss. It all happened too fast to whip the old todger out and aim it at the pot. All I could do was stand there wondering what the hell was going on – my jeans filling with warm wee until eventually it seeped into my flip flop.

When the flow finally ceased I looked down at my bandy legs and shook my head in disbelief. The grey skinny jeans I had on were sodden. I couldn’t get my head around why my knob hadn’t fired when I’d given it licence to a few minutes earlier. Perhaps it was rebelling against the lack of action it had seen in recent months and this was its way of getting me back for not introducing him to more ladies. I was on his side though. My recent celibacy hadn’t been something I’d willingly entered into, I’d just been shit at chatting up of late. Turning against me in golden protest certainly wasn’t going to make me anymore desirable to the fairer sex, that was for sure.

Having considered taking my jeans off and holding them under the hand dryer I eventually decided the best way to avoid embarrassment was to not give a shit in front of our little breakfast club. If I acted like everything was perfectly normal then maybe they would feel like idiots for not soaking their legs in liquid waste.

With the aforesaid attitude I strode through the busy bistro with my head held high. Reaching our table I curtly announced what had just transpired in the toilet. Possibly a little too smugly in retrospect.

“You did what?” asked Monica, looking at me all weird.

“I pissed my pants.”

“And why did you piss your pants? You were in the toilet; why not aim for the hole.”

“It wasn’t that simple. I’d done my thing and tucked it all away nice and snug in these skinny jeans, and then all of a sudden it just poured out. I couldn’t stop it.”

“Is this normal?” asked one of the disgusted looking yanks in a tone which knocked my misguided confidence.

“No, it’s not. It was just an accident.”

“Then why look so happy about it?”

“I’m not happy. These clothes are now going to have to get washed. And laundry makes me far from happy when my mother’s not doing it. I just thought there is no point crying about it, I may as well embrace the fact I’m incontinent and have a laugh about it.”

Following the initial repulsion, my piss filled pants did bring forth some joviality. The faux nonchalance had worked a treat. I would’ve taken endless glee in ridiculing the offending party if the shoe had been on another foot. How could they mock me though if I did it all before them? Instead then, my uncontrollable bodily actions made me the toast of the town. I exaggerate slightly, but I didn’t get any stick and they all soon forgot about it so I was happy about that.


Our newly formed gang returned to the hostel a lot closer than what we’d been a few days previously. Initially I’d thought the American girls to be snooty intellectuals who looked down on us a little. After the nice breakfast we shared I felt we’d all united a little more. They still probably looked down on us a bit, and who could blame them when Dean and I were pissed by ten in the morning and I behaved like I needed a nappy. But the girls had certainly warmed to us a touch it seemed.

Having picked up a few items at the hostel our gang of seven set out towards Stellenbosch’s tourist office. To visit South Africa’s famed wine region and not sample its produce would have been a terrible shame, so with this in mind we all went to sign up for a tour of the local vineyards.

The group unity created over breakfast was to be short lived. Dean and I refused to pay the ridiculous price of the bus tour, judging it to be expensive and pretentious sounding. Resisting some pretty intense peer pressure, we insisted the rest of them go and have a lovely time if they had money to burn. Instead, we set off into town having decided to hold our own Stellenbosch wine tasting event – except ours would be cheaper and much more supermarket based.

On our way to the shops Dean and I encountered a large grassy park I half remembered from the evening before. The area was quiet, save for a couple walking their dog and a small group of homeless people warming themselves in the sun.

In one of the far corners of the park was an enormous bronze rhinoceros which practically begged two inebriated idiots like us to play with it. Swinging from the beast’s horn for an amount of time that could be deemed excessive for two people who supposedly don’t have learning disabilities, we then decided to take things further and scale the monster’s back.

It was a bloody big statue, and a very long drop should we fall. I struggled to find an appropriate footing for my slippery flip flop initially. But was soon aided by a middle aged gentleman who I discovered by the smell of him to be a homeless drunk. Whether he’d been a Himalayan Sherpa before hitting the bottle or just a dab hand at mounting animal statues, I really don’t know. He was up there straddling the rhinoceros’s back as quick as a flash though, dragging me along with him as he went.

After a knee trembling photo with the toothless urchin I managed to climb down without breaking any bones. Generously rewarding my guide with the cash to buy himself enough methylated spirits to ward off the night’s chill, we then pressed on to the supermarket.


Every bottle of local wine procured for our day long tasting event had to match a strict set of guidelines: They must be red. They must have a pretty label. And most importantly, they mustn’t cost more than the equivalent of two English pounds.

With this austere criteria met, we sourced a selection of appetisers to bring out the unique flavours of our wines; namely two chicken and mushroom pies apiece and some potato croquettes.

On the way back to the hostel Dean suggested we transform ourselves into one of the modern day great travellers: The very brilliant Keith Lemon. Keith’s World Tour had recently been aired in the UK and was a great inspiration to us both – his sage, rousing thoughts being quoted regularly throughout the trip, mainly because we didn’t have an original sense of wit of our own.

On the whole Dean and I enjoy very different types of humour, so the one time we liked the same thing we decided to embrace it tenfold. The two of us bought a big animal tooth necklace apiece from a Rasta market similar to Keith’s, just much smaller and cheaper. And once back at the hostel we set about removing all of our facial hair, with the exception of our ginger hued moustaches.

Personally, I absolutely hate being clean shaven and avoid it at all costs. I look prepubescent without any growth. My furry facial covering is the only thing stopping me resembling a youthful Martina Navratilova, so taking it all off was a very big deal for me at the time.

A sink full of bum fluff later and we were ready to unveil our new Keith Lemon look on the world. And by world, I mean the two Swedish girls we’d gone out with the night before.

Admittedly, an animal tooth dangling around our necks and a wispy moustache hardly qualified us as masters of disguise, but the thought was certainly there. The Swedish philistines were unimpressed with our efforts however, principally because they hadn’t a clue who Keith Lemon was. They were much more interested in getting a tan on their enviable Scandinavian skin and we certainly didn’t hold it against them when they slipped into their bikinis.


After a lovely few hours of wine tasting Dean and I returned to the supermarket for more bottles to scrutinise. The others had returned to the hostel whilst we were gone. Staggering around the back garden like anaesthetised apes, Danny, Monica and the three Americans were that drunk they actually made us look sober.

The five of them were leathered; giggling like idiots and flopping all over one another beside the shimmering pool. It was despicable behaviour. How dare they look like they’ve had a better day than us? ‘We have moustaches!’  I wanted to shout at the dribbling buffoons. ‘We are far more fun than you lot!’

Reluctantly accepting that they were probably having a more agreeable time, Dean and I decided to join their party and did a bit of flopping around ourselves. An affectionate reuniting ensued, followed by a few more hours pouring local produce down our necks under the hot sun.

Wine tasting in Stellenbosch had proved to be a consistently enjoyable pursuit. And it was with great sadness that we called a temporary halt to our drunken frolics. The three of us lads and Monica had to catch our final Baz Bus to Cape Town that evening. The American girls were heading that way also though, and agreed to meet at our intended hostel to continue the festivities.

Hastily packing up their rental car, the yanks somehow managed to drive all the way to Cape Town. All of them had gone at the wine with the tenacity of a part time alcoholic and were well and truly under the influence. I don’t condone drink driving at all, although in South Africa where it can sometimes be safer driving home after a few drinks, I can certainly see the logic. Driving to Cape Town in the state these girls were in was a terrible decision though. I was too drunk myself to care at the time, but in retrospect they were incredibly lucky they didn’t hurt themselves, or anybody else for that matter. They should really have known better and caught up with us all in the morning. It just goes to show that being intelligent is not necessarily synonymous with having any common sense.




The short drive from Stellenbosch to Cape Town was a good one. I sat at the back of the Baz Bus with Danny and we drunkenly discussed the slight ill feelings we’d harboured towards one another over the past couple of days. It was all put down to a misunderstanding once again, and we hugged it out before becoming as thick as thieves for the remainder of the night.

Testing the patience of the exceedingly big African guy working on reception, we checked into Cape Town’s Ashanti Lodge with great effort. I could barely write my own name after drinking wine all day and the others weren’t much more capable.

Dumping our bags in the shared dormitory, we proceeded towards the hostel bar. Being one of Cape Town’s most popular backpacker accommodations, the bar at Ashanti Lodge was filled with travellers. Here, Dean bumped into Charlotta, one of the two Swedes he’d gotten along well with since the day of the bungee jump in Storm’s River. Not having taken to the Americans quite as well as the rest of us, Dean stayed with Charlotta and her pal for the evening whilst Danny, Monica and I went to visit the yanks in their room.

It just so happened to be thanksgiving, that famed public holiday hardly anybody out of North America knows anything about. I’ve read that it’s a day of giving thanks to God for the new harvest or something silly and biblical. In the case of these particular Americans it should have been offering thanks for not crashing on their recent drunken drive from the wine lands of Stellenbosch.

Between us all we ordered a take away chicken and a variety of sides from Nando’s to celebrate the festival. A tin of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce was rummaged from the bottom of a backpack – tinned, gelatinous fruits being an essential travel companion for all true Americans – and with the accompanying chips and coleslaw we had ourselves a lovely thanksgiving feast.

With the dinner finished, I amused myself for a while by fabricating the chicken carcass into a Frankenstein like creature, much to the bemusement of the females in the group. Drink driving was embraced, but show a bit of artistic flair and one is ostracised for their efforts.

Tidying away the bones and skin, we refocused on the alcohol consumption once again. Chatting gaily for an hour, it wasn’t long before we were well acquainted with the other dorm room occupants. A small posse had formed on the floor of that boisterous dormitory and everybody appeared to be enjoying each other’s company immensely. So much so, things then got a whole lot more interesting.

Never have I had the pleasure of attending an orgy, but they do look quite marvellous things. A bit unhygienic yes, fantastic fun though all the same. Or the ones in pornos do anyway, in reality I imagine they’re a bit more aged and depressing. However, what happened next in the American girls’ dorm was the closest I think I’ll ever get to finding out what an orgy is actually like.

I have no idea who initiated it, or their reasons for doing so, but all of a sudden people were touching and grabbing at one another’s body parts. A young Yorkshireman who’d joined us had his top off and was being massaged by a gigantic, pretty faced German girl on a bed at the back of the room. Danny was sensually rubbing Kat up, while Monica and Rio were both caressing each other’s feet.

For most of the night I’d been chatting to Amanda, the American girl I’d gotten along best with. Both of us were more than a little confused as to what the hell was happening when we became aware of the situation. One minute all had been normal, the next people were semi naked and the place had transformed itself into a big, greasy, massage party.

“What’s going on Monica?” I asked, taking in the scene.

“Were massaging, what does it look like?”

“I can see that, but why?”

“I don’t know. Rio just started rubbing my feet, and she’s hot so I started doing hers,” replied Monica with a drunken smile. “You guys should join in. It’s sweet! Pass me your foot.”

Acquiescing, I offered her my scabby hoof and realised she hadn’t been exaggerating. It most certainly was sweet. Grabbing the bottle of moisturiser that was doing the rounds I followed suit and took a hold of Amanda’s tootsies. Giving them a good rubbing, I then shoved my spare foot in her direction in order for her to return the favour.

Having your feet massaged by two different women feels a little bit like what I’d expect heaven to be like. It was that nice it almost made me want to believe in heaven and all the other nonsense that goes with it. Our horny little rubbing party was fantastic. And I’m pretty sure it would have continued long into the night had Amanda not suddenly decided she was going to throw her ring up.

Feeling a little guilty that my scabby feet may have induced her nausea, I went to assist Amanda in the toilets. She had been the only girl in the room I’d felt on a similar wavelength to, besides Monica but she didn’t count. Amanda was good fun, with a very dry sense of humour and didn’t take offence at some of the more risqué things I’d come out with that night. When I’d made a rape reference earlier an Australian girl had walked out in a huff, whereas Amanda thought it capital fun and took the joke in its intended sense.

Unable to drink anymore, Amanda and I decided to call it quits on the wine. We’d done our fair share of tasting and had come to the sound conclusion that South African vino was bloody good stuff. Many of the rubbing party had disappeared by the time we returned from the toilets or jumped onto one of the surrounding bunks. We followed suit and consequently shared a nice bit of smooching. Amanda had brushed her teeth before the encounter I hasten to add. She may have been both pretty and funny, but she wasn’t so enthralling that I wanted the taste of her sick in my gob.
England were set to play South Africa in an international cricket test the day after our foot rubbing debauchery. The three of us lads had been saying for a while that it would be great to attend the match, despite the fact we all believed cricket to be a monotonous pursuit.

Feeling absolutely awful, Danny, Dean, Monica and I all caught a taxi to the Newlands Stadium on the other side of Cape Town. The area was busying upon our arrival. Joyous sports fans mixed with various vendors in a relaxed and happy melee.

Searching for the ticket office, we were confronted by an overweight Shane Warne look-alike who offered us his services. Shane’s friendly patter and jovial nature convinced us to buy four tickets from him, claiming he couldn’t use them due to making prior engagements. They were half the price of normal tickets so our interest was naturally piqued. Having asked a steward if the tickets were legitimate, we handed over a wad of Rand and became rather smug at our prudent purchases. Idiotically, we then went and spent all the money we’d saved on ridiculous hats and flags in hopes of looking more ‘crickety’.

My throbbing hangover intensified as we awaited the stadium gates being opened. I found a cool little spot in the shade of a tree and curled up there feeling very sorry for myself while the others socialised with the excited South African fans.

When the gates were eventually unlocked we entered the stadium with little fuss. Trundling behind, I followed the others in search of the stand written on our tickets. Unsuccessful, we then asked a steward to direct us to our seats.

Ushered into a glass lift, we were led by the stern faced steward towards the executive suites. This is brilliant, we thought, fat Shane Warne has played a blinder. He’d sold us tickets to an executive box for a pittance.

While Danny went to find somebody with the keys to our own personal suite, Monica convinced a cleaning lady to let us through a well catered box so we could wait in the stands.

The Newlands Stadium has to be one of the most beautiful sporting venues in the world. Table Mountain towered majestically over the bright, airy stadium – the manicured field contrasting brilliantly with a sky so clear and blue that it couldn’t have looked any more stunning.


Choosing the best seats in our lofty segment was easy considering we were the only people in there. The four of us sat patiently awaiting kick off – or whatever it’s called in cricket – soaking up the amazing scene in front of us. Fans from both sides were rapidly amassing, singing and dancing in their droves.

As much as we loved our executive setting, it was a little disconcerting that all the other boxes around us had catering staff flitting in and out, whereas ours was still locked up and gloomy within. Danny had been unsuccessful in getting anybody to open up our suite, so we decided to just wait and see what happened.

Monica continued to walk nonchalantly through the other boxes – much to the annoyance of punters and staff members alike – heading to the toilet or bar every ten minutes. Eventually she irritated one woman sufficiently with her coming and goings that the lady said enough was enough. If we couldn’t open up our personal suite then we would have to leave the stand.

With none of us deft in the art of breaking and entering we made the pained decision to depart with little fuss. Our prime positions had been snatched away just as effortlessly as they had come. Dejected, we headed back down to the plebeians below.

It was gutting to have been conned by a ticket scammer. Not because of pride or anything like that, but because we then had to traipse around the whole of the lower sections of Newlands Stadium trying to sneak past stewards in order to find unoccupied seats. And for someone who was suffering from the worst hangover of his adult life, this was a far from pleasant experience. My head felt as if it was on the verge of exploding.

The whole point of going to the cricket had been to get drunk with the other fans and enjoy the carnival like atmosphere. I couldn’t touch a drop of alcohol in my fragile state however, so despite the incredible setting, being there seemed completely pointless.

Staying for the toss, which is apparently a coin throw to decide who bats first and not a metaphor for the game of cricket as a whole, I then attempted to convince Monica that this was as exciting as it was going to get and that we should head back to the hostel directly. It was so unbelievably hot that day, and having to move from one empty seat to the next every five minutes was far from my idea of fun. Thankfully Monica was feeling pretty ropey herself and didn’t need much persuading.

Dean and Danny stayed to watch the match for a while. Although they soon grew bored of the mundane sport and drinking the stadium’s crappy, warm beer. Instead, they took a taxi into the city dressed in their cricket fan gear – Dean in a St George’s flag coloured Mohawk wig and Danny sporting a giant false moustache a colonial pith hat. Whilst browsing the shops in Cape Town’s heart they inadvertently got a guided tour by two fourteen year old girls. Unable to shake off their young admirers, and fearing a police caution for socialising with minors, they soon returned to the hostel and continued on the beer beside the pool.

On the whole the cricket had been a disaster, which was a shame as it could have been quite a novel experience. If I hadn’t have felt terrible, and we’d acquired genuine tickets for the grass embankments with all the fun loving supporters, it would’ve no doubt been great. Sadly, it just wasn’t meant to be.


After a good night’s sleep my hangover had all but gone. Unfortunately though, my kidneys had now started giving me angst. I was a far cry from 100%, yet felt well enough to attempt scaling Cape Town’s iconic landmark: the very impressive Table Mountain.

Dean had been out again the evening before. He’d drunk late into the night with the two Swedish girls and was feeling a touch delicate to say the least. Danny and I had been sensible on the other hand (only because I’d convinced myself I was having kidney failure) and gone to bed relatively early.

None of us had quite anticipated how challenging the climb up Table Mountain was going to be. It doesn’t even have a top half, I’d thought, how hard can it possibly be?

Dean and I were knackered before we’d even got off the tarmac road at the foot of the famed mount. Dean’s head was pounding and my kidney pain was back with a vengeance. To make matters worse, neither of us had considered bringing along any water for the gruelling two hour trek under the scorching African sun. Thankfully Danny had brought some and kindly rationed it with us two unprepared retards.

To say coursing my way to the top of Table Mountain was an enjoyable experience would be an out and out lie. It genuinely wasn’t. It was rubbish in fact and I felt like death for the entire ascent. Yet reaching the flat, bush scattered summit and being afforded sublime vistas of Cape Town and the surrounding coastline was hugely rewarding. The city looked incredible from up here and well worth all of the suffering.

Despite the pride of reaching the top of Table Mountain there was no way we were going to walk back down. Danny wouldn’t have minded the descent, but Dean and I outvoted him. So after a couple of cans of sugar laden drinks we took the cable car to the bottom and a taxi back to Ashanti Lodge.


That evening was to be our last with Monica, our wonderful Canadian mascot. Since picking her up three weeks ago in Swaziland we’d grown increasingly close to the girl. It genuinely felt like she was an established member of the group. Monica had been an amazing travel companion for us all in different ways. She was a fun little enigma we’d all loved having around. Very switched on in so many ways, yet utterly clueless in others, her bizarre conduct made for great entertainment. If Napoleon Dynamite had a sister, she would be just like Monica.

To say farewell, and celebrate three great weeks with our Canadian barrel of fun, we took a taxi to a restaurant of Monica’s choice on Long Street. Joining us at the fancy burger joint were the two Swedish girls Dean was pally with and a Swiss friend of theirs called Rosie.

Long Street is the supposed party place of Cape Town. It teemed with bars and cool eateries, although I wasn’t particularly impressed. The area had a real sinister feel. In its popularity Long Street had become a magnet for local thugs who preyed on isolated revellers. It certainly wasn’t a terrible place, it just wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and the genuine essence of danger was more than a little disconcerting.

The food at the highly recommended burger restaurant was lovely, as was the banter flying around the table. So much so, on several occasions we were given dirty looks by the staff for being too rowdy. To avoid disturbing anymore customers they soon began making subtle efforts to hurry us on our way.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…..where are you going with that Adebayor?” quizzed Dean in annoyance to a dreadlocked girl who tried to take his plate away, “I’m not finished with that yet lass. There’s a few chips left on there.”

I had to look at my own plate in hopes of not laughing and making the girl anymore uncomfortable. The poor lass didn’t know what to do. Like most people in Africa I doubt she understood what the hell Dean had said, but it made her embarrassed all the same.

This wasn’t the first occasion Dean had cracked me up in a local woman’s face. He had a knack of waiting until a girl was about two feet away before mentioning the name of a long haired footballer she bore a vague resemblance to. I was positive Didier Drogba was going to knock my teeth out down the veg aisle of a supermarket in Johannesburg one time.


The Dubliner appeared to be somewhat of a Long Street institution. It was to be the first and last bar we frequented on our so called pub crawl for Monica’s departure. Nobody seemed to mind however; the place was full of life so most people were content enough to stay for the duration.

My internal organs were still giving me pain. All I wanted after dinner was to go to bed and rest. As pathetic as it sounds, I was genuinely concerned that my kidneys were failing. However, trying not to look a complete misery on Monica’s last night, I stood with a bottle of cider in hand drinking my way through the agony. This wasn’t exactly the medically recommended cure for organ malfunction, but I really didn’t want to be there any longer and assumed getting pissed may make the evening more tolerable.

The Keith Lemon moustache that had seemed like such a good idea when drunk in Stellenbosch wasn’t quite so fun anymore either. I’m not particularly a poser, yet I am quite self-conscious as to how I look when I’m out on the town. On occasion these insecurities can become rather excessive, and if I think I look like a tit I can’t seem to let myself go. Tonight was one on these nights.

It really wasn’t a good time for me to be ill at ease with myself. The Iranian girl Pariah, whose company I had enjoyed in Knysna, was on Long Street that evening and had sent a text saying she would be in The Dubliner shortly.

My confidence was at rock bottom and I felt like shit. Not the greatest cocktail for a spot of potential Anglo-Persian fornication. To combat these frustrating issues I upped my alcohol intake and hoped to inebriate myself into a happy go lucky attitude. The more I drank though, the more my insides began to pound, which in turn made me unable to relax.

It was nice to see Pariah again when she eventually turned up. The last time we’d met I had really enjoyed her company. Unfortunately, this time around my agitated state got the better of me. I came across awkward and nervous when we reunited in the busy bar. I couldn’t get my words out and must have looked a complete tool.

Sticking to my idiotic theory regarding drinking more to feel better about myself, I told Pariah I was nipping to the bar and I’d catch up with her a bit later on.

Ascending the stairs to a less raucous part of The Dubliner I sat with Dean’s two Swedish friends and began a punishing assault on the alcohol. The beers failed to have the desired effect and I didn’t feel the slightest bit better. Even a free double vodka and orange bought by two sweet English girls from the hostel couldn’t perk me up.

Eventually my melancholic state bored everybody into buggering off to the dance floor, leaving me to feel sorry for myself alone at the top bar.

“Right,” I said to myself. “If you don’t shape up you’re gonna put Pariah off and make everybody else think you’re a miserable cock. Now get your finger out of your arse and have some fun.”

Finishing my drink I then sauntered downstairs. Wiggling into the middle of the dance floor with a big false smile and an awkward spring in my step, I came face to face with a scene I really hadn’t expected to find: Pariah with her tongue down another guy’s throat.

I was gutted. The tiny threads of confidence I’d manage to salvage were ripped to shreds in front of my very eyes. All I could do was stare at the kissing couple until Danny grabbed my shoulders and dragged me over to where they were dancing.

I knew I hadn’t made a great effort to talk to Pariah that evening, but it hadn’t been through not wanting to. It was because I’d been incredibly down on myself and hadn’t believed she could possibly want to spend time with me in such a state.

Even though she wasn’t to know how I was feeling inside I felt Pariah was taking the piss. Especially after all the email and SMS contact we’d had since we met a week or so earlier. Granted, I’d kissed Amanda a few days earlier. But I hadn’t known Pariah and I were actually going to reunite. Getting off with a guy right in front of my face was totally out of order and I was furious.

There was nothing I could do about the situation. I couldn’t exactly go and smack the guy. Pariah wasn’t my girlfriend. She owed me the respect to not try and hurt me, nothing more. She hadn’t given me that however, and this really upset me, even if deep down I knew I’d caused the situation by being a miserable introvert.


Trying my best to forget about Pariah I stayed at the opposite end of the dance floor. Witnessing Monica get her face sucked off by an Erroll from Hot Chocolate look-alike certainly cheered me up a bit. It was great to see Monica having a good time on her last night, yet after a while I started to become suspicious of the guy’s motives. There was something in the way his hands were all over Monica’s body, and two other local women watching on with keen interest struck a negative chord also.

My doubt was confirmed when I found the burly African trying to lure an inebriated Monica into the men’s toilets, most likely to have a diddle and rob her at the same time. It could have all been innocent, but the cold, insistent way he acted led me to believe it wasn’t just her spam purse Erroll was after, the leather one was about to have some sticky fingers in it also. Dragging Monica away to the bar I gave the tall black guy as dirty a look as I dared – which wasn’t all that filthy considering he was twice the size of me.

Back on the dance floor I made one last attempt at having fun. It really wasn’t working for me that evening though. Everybody else was having a great time, especially Dean, who at this point had taken his top off and replaced it with a girl’s tiny cardigan. Even his button busting shenanigans failed to raise much mirth in me as I could still see Pariah and her friend Denise dancing close by. Unable to control myself any longer, I stormed over and made a complete arse of myself.

“What are you doing?” I asked angrily.


“Why here? Just fuck off over there will you. These aren’t your friends.” I said, pointing at the group of travellers from Ashanti Lodge. “Stop taking the piss out of me and fucking fuck off!”

My rant at Pariah worked temporarily. She and Denise disappeared, and for a while I actually began to relax somewhat. That is until I got a tap on the shoulder.

“Jordan, can I have a word?” she asked.


“I want to talk to you. Can we go outside?”

“You didn’t want to do much talking an hour ago did you?” I snarled sarcastically.

“And you did?” replied Pariah, sounding annoyed. “You were sat upstairs talking to every girl in here apart from me. All I got was a little wave.”

“I was sat talking to a girl who really likes Dean.”

“And the other two girls at the bar? What about them?” She had me there. I wouldn’t have minded a little roll around with one of them but I wasn’t going to give her that so easily.

“They’re friends from the hostel. There was nothing going on.”

“How am I supposed to know that when you’ve ignored me all night? Please, let’s go outside and talk. It’s too noisy in here.”

Yielding to the persuasive Iranian, the two of us ventured outside. It was a warm night on Long Street. The area teemed with people, many of them incredibly dodgy looking. Sitting on a kerb in safe view of the pub’s hard looking bouncers Pariah began trying to justify her actions.

She said over and over how sorry she was, and how she’d thought I wasn’t keen at all. I then began trying to explain how I’d gone to get more drinks in order to feel confident enough to talk to her, yet neither of us would fully accept the others’ excuses and continued going round in circles for over half an hour.

Eventually, we almost accepted each other’s way of thinking. I was still hurt, and my pride would take more than a kerbside chat to offer it solace. As I helped Pariah stand, however, I knew she wasn’t completely to blame. I shouldn’t have avoided her. I should have manned up and let her know how I felt instead of feeling sorry for myself and relying on alcohol once again.

The two of us said goodnight, sharing an awkward hug Pariah initialised, before I crossed the road and met the others outside a dirty kebab shop to share a taxi home.


The next morning I awoke to the sound of Monica noisily packing her bags. Of all Monica’s many qualities, subtlety was not one of them. When she’d finished cramming all her Tina Turner T-shirts into her backpack, Danny, Dean and I wearily forced ourselves out of bed. Slipping on sufficient clothing to adequately cover our morning erections, we then helped carry Monica’s gear towards the hostel gates.

When her taxi pulled up outside Ashanti Lodge the realisation Monica was leaving us truly hit home. It was genuinely very sad to see our new friend go. Monica had experienced pretty much everything with us up to this point. To know she wasn’t going to be around calling us retarded, farting on our legs, talking utter crap or being a wrestling buddy for Dean anymore was pretty hard to take.

We said our goodbyes, had a long group hug and stood waving at Monica’s airport bound taxi until it was out of sight. Shuffling back to bed, my ipod speakers were subsequently plugged in and Mariah Carey’s greatest hits played throughout the room. The three of us lay on our bottom bunks, transfixed with melancholia, hoping the sorrowful wailing of Mariah would send us back to sleep.

“Drink anyone?” said Dean after half an hour.


“I’m in too.”


Making our way back to The Dubliner, we holed ourselves up with a beer in order to watch the Liverpool and Arsenal games live on TV.

Pariah had known there was a good chance I’d be in The Dubliner that day from an email I’d sent her a few hours before our little bust up. She’d come into the pub to see if I had still made it for the football with the hope of us reconciling our differences.

Appreciating the effort Pariah had made, I was pleased to see her but didn’t let her know this straight away. My pride was determined not to let her off the hook so easily. She was looking incredibly fit however, so eventually I invited her to a little soiree we’d considered having in our dorm room later that evening. She said she hoped to make it, before leaving us alone to watch the hugely disappointing games of soccer.

We returned early hoping to catch the second half of the Arsenal game in the hostel bar. It was already occupied by people watching cricket, so instead we had a few peaceful drinks sat around the pool.

The harmony by the swimming pool was soon ruined by an annoying brigade of Dutch girls who were either on crack or had intense personality disorders. So, leaving the riotous Dutch to their bombing and squealing, we then headed back to bed for a short siesta before getting our dorm party started.

A pleasant British guy called Nick had shared our room in Ashanti Lodge. Nick had paid for a single night, yet ended up staying for another six in the dorm as nobody was any the wiser he was still there. I’d enjoyed talking to Nick. He was a good hearted, clever guy with some pretty entertaining terms regarding his wooing of the ladies. One particular favourite was the word he adopted for making love. Although when I heard him actually ‘ruining’ a girl during his free stay I wasn’t such a fan. During this awkward period Nick was doing his level best to make the phrase literal rather than metaphorical. I don’t know what came off more ruined mind, the Danish girl in question’s fanny or the bed springs. My sanity didn’t cope too well from the late night dorm romp either.

Nick had flown back to England a day earlier and left us all some wine he couldn’t be bothered carrying back with him. Buying whatever red wine they had at the hostel bar to add to Nick’s parting gift, we amassed our wares for what we hoped would be one of the wildest parties in Cape Town that night.

In all honesty, our shindig didn’t really hit the heady heights we’d aimed for. Dean’s Swedish friends arrived with a loaf of Banana bread rather than the vat of KY jelly and loose morals he’d craved. And their friend Rosie brought along a bag full of various cheeses, so it wasn’t exactly the free love orgy we had envisaged. The goat’s cheese of Rosie’s was delicious however, so every cloud does have a silver lining I suppose.

Pariah arrived at our massively dull party with her friend Denise, staying just long enough for me to offend her greatly. I’d joked that she was virtually Pakistani due to Iran and Pakistan’s close proximity – not that there is anything wrong with being from Pakistan, I just said it because I knew it would wind her up, like calling a Scot an Englishman. Knocking her down a peg certainly made me feel a lot better after the previous evening’s escapades. Although the elbow I got to the guts in response didn’t make me feel overly special.

Our mini party proved to be an embarrassing failure. Whether due to fatigue or us all missing Monica, the small gathering was a very morose one indeed. We tried to salvage the night by frequenting the hostel bar for a bit, but no one was in the mood to drink it seemed and eventually everybody dwindled off to bed.

Dean had managed to coax Charlotta into coming back to his bunk with him, an act which she had staunchly resisted since their first encounter in Storms River. As it was her last night she’d thrown caution to the wind and entered his bed for a cuddle.

Danny was soon fast asleep in the bunk below me. I was drifting in and out of consciousness myself, but kept being awoken every ten minutes by a new text message from Pariah who was back on Long Street. She was keen for us to meet up again later that night. As was I, despite her making a complete twat out of me less than twenty four hours earlier. A semi erect penis and a full sack works wonders at erasing self-respect it would seem.

I was in no mood to go out into the city, no matter how horny and forgiving I was feeling, so I invited Pariah up to our hostel again instead. She accepted the offer, on the frustrating proviso I pick her up from Long Street, giving me some none too pleasant rape statistics concerning taxi drivers to play on my guilt.

Reluctantly I agreed. All the juicy kissing noises emanating from Dean’s bed were making me jealous and I was determined to get a little bit of loving myself. Slipping on some jeans and a T-shirt I asked the others if they fancied escorting me into town. Receiving only a snore from Danny, a grunt from Dean and a whimper from Charlotta I took their responses as a collective no.

Long Street was crawling with the usual hordes of drunks and scumbags when I arrived. I found Pariah in The Dubliner and said I’d wait in the taxi while she said goodbye to Denise. Walking out of the bar I hopped into the back seat. Seeing me alone, a burly African guy proceeded to stick his head into the passenger side window and give me all manner of intimidating abuse. I had no idea what he was saying, but it was scary all the same. One thing sounded like he was complementing me on a ‘nice wig’ so I thanked him kindly and he eventually buggered off. I was a relieved boy when Pariah finally joined me in the cab and we sped out of the area and back to the safety of the hostel.


The two of us sat talking on a sofa atop a grand staircase for what seemed like an eternity. The chatter was nice for a while, but I was exhausted and Pariah’s constant, excitable patter began to grate on me a little. Chancing my luck, I asked if she fancied retiring to the boudoir. Receiving an affirmative I breathed a sigh of relief and led her by the hand to the ground floor dorm.

Sneaking into the darkened room, we used the slobbering kisses oozing from Dean’s bunk as a guide to find my own little love nest in the corner.

Pariah and I proceeded to fumble around in my squeaky little bunk. With my loins charged I soon forgot about all the miscommunication the eve before.

Unsure how she wanted to play things, I was coy in my approach. Yet I was soon asked that wonderful whispered question which affirms to a gentleman that his luck is very much in.

“Do you have a condom?” Pariah quizzed, looking longingly into my eyes.

Do I have a condom? I had a frigging backpack full thanks to the Swaziland health authorities. My bag literally spilled over with semen receptacles due to the amount of free condoms I took from the border crossing a few weeks back. Although on the exceptionally rare occasion I needed a jonny I couldn’t find a single one. Searching in the dark for a libido quelling five minutes I finally admitted defeat.

“God knows where they’ve all gone.” I said, annoyed with myself.

“Can’t you ask Dean for one?”

“I think he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment. Hang on, I’ve had a brainwave.” I whispered, wriggling into my jeans. “I’ll be back in a second.”

I’d just remembered a Baz Bus condom dispenser situated a few metres from our door. So, like a navy seal, I stealthily made my assault on its wares. Little did I know the hostel’s huge, black security guard was doing his rounds at this time and I practically ran into him – the purple headed mushroom peeking over the top of my jeans almost grazing his hefty thigh. Smiling as innocently as possible, I bid him a goodnight before grabbing a handful of condoms. I think he was in too much shock to challenge why I was running around semi naked and hastily left the scene.

Back in bed, awkward prophylactic acquisition achieved, things quickly turned lovely and heated once again. It was all very nice I must admit. Possibly too nice even, and I thought it best to highlight such. It’s always good to lower a girl’s expectations – it reduces the levels of inevitable disappointment.

“Erm, we might have to go a bit slow.” I urged into the darkness.

“Why? Because of the noise?”

“Well, the noise yeah. And, erm, I’m not a million miles away from…. you know.”

“Coming? But we haven’t even begun having sex yet?”

“I know. But it’s been a while, and we’ve been playing around for ages.”

“Five minutes?”

“Exactly!” I replied, relieved she understood my plight. “So just go slowly ok?”

“Ok.” answered Pariah, grabbing my stiffy and lowering herself onto it. “How’s that?”

“Ohh, hmm, that’s very nice.” I answered, trying desperately to think unattractive thoughts. “Slow down a bit thoughhh……Jesus, shit, bollocks!”

“Are you ok? Have you come already?” quizzed Pariah, wriggling free of the knee trembling bear hug I’d just given her.

“Nope.” I lied.

“Are you sure?”


“So you have?”

“I may have done a little bit.” I said, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s ok,” she replied with a little giggle. “I’m tired anyway. Goodnight Jordan.”

If only the political representatives of our two nations could resolve little spats as easily as my Iranian friend and I. Tensions in the Middle East would be far less explosive. Forget pride, it only brings a person loss. The UN should incorporate a spot of dorm room coitus in the peace process every now and then.

‘You want nukes Mr Armedinajad? How about I gently jiggle your bollocks for five minutes instead?’

            ‘Annihilate Israel you say? Surely a nice spot of rumpy-pumpy would be a far more agreeable idea?’

Simple. Although they may need to last a little longer than the measly thirteen seconds I clocked in at.

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Near misses and Great White shark encounters


The Jo’burg – Delhi Express

The adventures of young men discovering the world
Chapter Five

A few people we’d met in South Africa had recommended Knysna to us, claiming it to be a charming little town with plenty of activities to keep a person entertained for a few days. Understandably then, with all the positive comments received, we were very much looking forward to paying the place a visit.

Unfortunately, despite the rave reviews, we were to be disappointed. Knysna and its surrounding areas were undoubtedly quaint, but really not worth all the hype. Or not in my opinion anyway. I imagine if you were an affluent visitor then it would be a great little place to have a summer home or go sailing on the lagoon. But for a group of rag arsed, lazy backpackers Knysna really didn’t seem up to much at all.

Monica’s chum Adrian left us in Knysna to return to her studies in Johannesburg – so it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Adrian wasn’t a bad girl as such; her heart was definitely in the right place. Yet the incessant attempts at jokey flirtation had driven us lads insane. Danny was one innuendo away from breaking her nose it seemed. Plus, we didn’t want to share our talisman Monica anymore, so frankly it was good riddance to the gobby Canadian.

The three of us lads and Monica decided on the first day in Knysna that our budgets couldn’t justify a trip to the nearby attractions, purely because they didn’t appeal sufficiently.

Instead, we strolled the pretty town’s heart and beside the attractive quay before holing ourselves up in our little hostel watching premier league football. Liverpool were playing and Dean was determined to watch them. And I was just as eager to watch Arsenal who were scheduled to play later in the afternoon.

From the ensuing results we wished we hadn’t bothered. Liverpool managed to fluke a draw having played terribly. Whereas Arsenal weren’t quite so lucky, losing to a poor Sunderland side after performing in a similar vein.

I know travelling half way across the world to watch football is a bit silly. But if you are passionate about something then why should your location dictate whether you enjoy it or not? In saying that, I can’t actually claim to have enjoyed viewing Arsenal play like a troop of paraplegics, and by the final whistle I was in a foul mood.

We’d learnt of terrible floods sweeping across many parts of Cumbria – our home county – at this juncture in the trip. Flood water had seeped its way into the homes of both Danny’s mother and sister and this had understandably upset him. He was now in a similarly pissed off mood to both Dean and I, except his reasons were more justifiable than ours regarding the poor football results.

“I don’t know about you lads but I’m going for a beer.” said Dan looking fed up.

“Bollocks to this no drinking lark,” replied Dean, referring to our latest attempts at sobriety. “I’m well up for getting smashed after watching that shite.”

“Jord’, are you game?”

“Hmm,” I uttered, not really feeling it. “I dunno if I can be arsed.”

“I’m only having a couple. I’m just going out dressed in this,” said Danny pointing to his shorts and t-shirt.

“Go on then. So long as it is only a couple. I really don’t wanna be feeling ropey for the bus tomorrow.”

Danny, Dean, Monica and I set off towards the swanky quayside area in search of a decent looking bar. We made the error of taking a shortcut past the local markets. Here, gangs of dreadlocked men were plying all manner of rotten looking root vegetables spread upon equally foul looking rags. It soon transpired that these manky vegetables were just a cover up for a less legal plant based product they wished to sell. Although by the looks on their bleary eyed, docile faces I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d smoked most of their stash already.

Escaping the shortcut weed free and still with all our belongings, we arrived at an inviting looking Irish bar and made our way to a free table.   The beer flowed fantastically within. It always does when you’re trying hard to avoid the stuff. And before long the decision was made that we couldn’t just have ‘a couple’. That would’ve meant two people escaped getting a round in and that’s just not on. Plus Monica had annoyingly ordered one of the most expensive drinks available so we were keen for the fussy cow to delve into her purse and splash her cash a little too.

Four beers, or four double clementine vodkas later depending on one’s tastes, and we were all well on our way to being tipsy. Little Monica was especially drunk, having consumed the equivalent of eight shots. Sitting there all red faced, grinning and content, the happy Canadian looked like a stoned tomato. She would’ve fitted right in sat on a mucky rug at the shifty market we ventured through an hour earlier.

“Who’s up for a shot of Stroh rum?” asked Dean.

“Not me. That stuff nearly killed me last time.”

“What is it Deano?” quizzed Danny.

“It’s this shot they made us take when we were at Black Mamba’s. It’s killer stuff like. It separates the men from the boys.”

“I’m in then. Jord’?”

“Nope, I’ll leave you two men to it. Me and Mon’ will remain with the boys.”

“Monica’s having one, aren’t you Mon’?”

“Sure.” she replied mid hiccup.

“She is fuck. It’ll knock her right on her arse,” I said concerned. “I’ll do one if I have to, but you shouldn’t make her.”

“Ah, she’ll be alright off just one shot.” confidently added Danny. “I’ll go half’s with you Dean. Get four and if Monica doesn’t drink hers then Jord’ can have it.”

The smell of the Stroh alone was enough to make me want to vomit. I was pretty determined Monica wasn’t going to have one as I felt it would have knocked her out cold. And I really didn’t fancy carrying her stout arse all the way back to the hostel if it did.

Reluctantly I took the shot the boys had got me, just so as to not look like a complete tart. Unfortunately I then had to have Monica’s shot, seeing as though I’d stupidly taken on the role of her temporary guardian. I managed to get half of the noxious rum in my mouth before she grabbed the glass from me and threw it down the hatch.

Stumbling from the Irish pub, we set out in the direction of our accommodation, stopping off at a bar called Zanzibar along the way.

The large and colourful pub was relatively busy considering it was still early. Various groups sat around tall tables sipping at beers or playing pool in the main room.

Within minutes of arriving Dean and Danny were socialising with a group of good looking Scandinavian chicks by the pool tables. The Stroh had obviously had a positive effect on them as they appeared to ooze charm and wit from every pore.

Conversely, Monica and I weren’t so buoyant. The Stroh shots had transformed us into a couple of slobbering introverts and the concept of mixing with others seemed a feat well out of our grasp. Avoiding the boys and the group of giggling Swedes, we sat in a quiet corner slurring amongst ourselves.

It was decided – mainly by Dean and Danny – that seeing as the alcohol ban had already been broken we may as well continue drinking and have a big one. Had I been the one getting stuck into a bevy of attractive girls then my enthusiasm may have been a tad grander. Yet as I had the charm of a soiled toilet brush that eve, my readiness to carry on was minimal to say the least.

“What’s up with you mate?” asked Dean as we hurried back to the hostel to spruce ourselves up a touch.

“Fuck all.” I snapped, not wanting to explain that I wasn’t feeling up for a session on the beer.

“I was only asking. Jesus.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve clearly seen your arse so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Aye. Nice one.” I responded, getting Dean’s back up and causing an all-out slanging match to ensue.

Admittedly, I was in a foul mood on the way home and no doubt had a face like a slapped arse. I don’t know why for certain. Perhaps it was jealousy because I hadn’t been talking to any women. Or maybe my melancholia was due to Danny and Dean getting along so well and I felt a little left out. Whatever the reason though, it caused Dean and I to share our first crossed words of the trip as we drunkenly meandered the now darkened streets of Knysna.

In a lot of ways Dean and I were very similar. We could both be extremely awkward when we wanted to be. Stubbornness was a commonality too, and also the fact that each of us had a frustrating level of pride to the point of being very unreasonable. All of the above traits could prove volatile when spending prolonged periods of time together and very few people who knew us both had faith that we would remain friends throughout the trip.

Both Dean and I had been abroad a lot since our late teens; Dean working in bars across Europe, whilst I’d been lucky enough to independently travel a fair bit of the world in recent years. Deep down I think there was a tinge of jealousy between Dean and I regarding what the other had seen, done and achieved. I admired him greatly for the courage shown to up and leave our small town at seventeen like he did, and I think he respected what I had done also. Idiotically though, we proceeded to slag one another off during this first spat over the very things we found admirable in the other, until eventually we exhausted the argument completely and brooded home in silence.

It soon dawned on me that our falling out had stemmed from me being petulant. Right from the very start of our travels we’d discussed how difficult it was inevitably going to be living in each other’s pockets. But if the adventure was to be a success we’d agreed to be open with one another and not hold any grudges.

Five minutes after the crossed words I swallowed my pride and asked him how he had got on with the girls in the previous bar. Appreciating the gesture Dean shook my hand, acknowledging it was my awkward way of saying I was sorry. We both then apologised properly for our parts in the argument before Dean went on to say how he would have loved to bang the lot of them.

Our quick shower and change managed to disturb the entire hostel – an easy feat when the only other guest was a peculiar Frenchman who slept in the attic above the bathroom

We were back in Zanzibar in no time. With clean clothes and my quiff fully erect I had a renewed sense of vigour. I still didn’t have the balls to go and chat up the still drinking Scandinavians like the other two lads, but I was happy enough in myself to avoid becoming the introverted freak once again.

As well as my occasional shyness, another excuse for being unsociable and not joining the group was that they were playing pool. Pool is a pastime I have detested ever since my Dad would wipe the floor with me every time we went for a family bar meal growing up. Leaving the group to their confidence destroying billiards, I sat watching on a small set of steps nearby.

It wasn’t long before I began chatting to a fellow traveller named Tanveer. He was from the Bronx and had a similar view to pool as my own. Tanveer looked massively familiar and I was sure I’d seen him somewhere before. It bugged me that I couldn’t quite place the guy, so I did my best to put it to the back of my mind.

I soon learned that the pleasant Tanveer was of Bangladeshi ancestry. I hoped to visit Bangladesh in the months ahead and I really enjoyed talking to him about the country. We spoke for ages about his roots and where his family originated before moving onto the subject of past travels and our experiences thus far in South Africa.

As discourse flowed onto his home city of New York, it finally dawned on me where I thought I knew Tanveer from.

Flight of the Conchords.

Tanveer was the spitting image of the xenophobic fruit vendor who doesn’t sell to ‘New Zealandies’. His cool, good looking girlfriend only added to my suspicions that he was a TV personality of sorts, yet I didn’t dare ask the guy in case he took offence. I generally try and avoid ‘we don’t all look the same’ situations if I can.

Sitting on the steps, waiting for my new mate to return from the bar, I was approached by one of the Scandinavian girls who asked if I wanted to play doubles with them. Thanking her, I declined the offer and expected her to walk away insulted at the rebuffing.

“So why don’t you play pool? Think you’re a bit too cool for it?” asked the girl sarcastically.

“Not in the least. I’m just shit at it, so I’d rather not bother.”

“It doesn’t matter if your good or not, you should come and join in.”

“I’ve been quite happy getting to know this guy” I said pointing towards the possible fruit vendor who was walking towards us, “He’s a really interesting dude.”

“Your rubbish.” replied the Scando.

“Thanks,” I said offering her my hand. “But I’m actually Jordan.”

“I’m Pariah,” she answered, shaking my mitt. “You’re English like the other two boys, right?”

“I sure am.”

“You don’t really look English.”

“And you don’t look particularly Swedish.”

“You’re right. I was born in Persia,” Pariah said, looking confused. “How did you know I was Swedish anyway?”

“I asked Dean about you before. Persian eh, that sounds wonderfully exotic. How is Iran nowadays?”

“Ah, so you know the difference?” she answered, smiling, “I’m impressed. Normally the Persian thing fools people.”

“Not me dear. I really want to go there someday. I think Esfahan and Shiraz sound amazing. I don’t know why people are ashamed to say Iran – everybody I’ve met with Iranian roots says they’re from bloody Persia.”

“Persia just sounds more exciting,” replied Pariah. “And a lot less terroristy.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. I was being chatted up by a tidy Middle Eastern/Scandinavian. At least I assumed I was being chatted up. We were certainly chatting, and she had since sat on a lower step looking up at me, so in a literal sense, I was definitely being chatted up.

Discussing a country I’d been fascinated with for years was brilliant. I don’t believe there was a western man alive as thankful for Mahmud Ahmadinejad’s existence as I was that night after name dropping the Iranian leader a few times for extra impetus.

Pariah and I stayed together from then onwards. I was enthralled with the stories of Iran she shared. Her family had left during the war with Iraq in the early nineties. And dodgy visits back to the country where she was held up at gun point by the psychotic religious police kept me entertained for ages. The girl really intrigued me and I was very happy to have met her.

The others had continued playing pool until the staff at Zanzibar kicked everybody out. Dean and Danny were getting on great with two young Danish girls and the four followed me and Pariah, plus her friend Denise and a pissed up Monica, towards another club across town.

The distant nightspot was absolutely dead when we arrived and showed no signs of getting any better. Three people danced lethargically while the rest of the room gathered at the sides watching in quiet embarrassment.

Having poked their heads around the door Dean and Danny hadn’t bothered paying to enter. Instead they had offered to walk their new Danish pals back to their hostel. Unlucky in their pursuit of a quick bit of romance, the boys then stumbled home, amusing themselves along the way by each having a dump on the pavement of Knysna’s main street.

The dirty bastards.

While they were defacing pavements with their bowel based graffiti, I continued to flirt with Pariah. I was very keen on her. And from the amount I dropped her home nation into conversation, she couldn’t help but be smitten back too, surely? Working on the presumption that incessant chatter about a volatile Middle Eastern state had won her affection, I went in for the kiss. And thankfully I wasn’t rejected.

Regardless of our delicious smooch, the terrible nightclub soon depressed us both. Pariah asked if I wanted to join her at her hostel for a drink and I eagerly agreed. Walking a dribbling Monica safely home, we then traipsed across town again to Pariah’s domain.

The hostel was as quiet as a mouse upon our arrival. It was three o’clock in the morning so there was little wonder the place was so eerily still.

Getting the proposed drink seemed impossible without waking other residents. The only other option was to head straight to bed. Praying I wasn’t going to be asked to leave, the invitation towards the small room Pariah shared with her friend soon arrived.

Whispered chit chatting proved too noisy to be maintained without disturbing Denise curled up on the top bunk. Instead then, the two of us communicated directly with our tongues, sharing a passionate kiss and semi clothed fumble before falling into a cosy slumber.

The next morning I said farewell to Pariah on the pavement outside her accommodation. I was a little sad saying goodbye considering we got along so well. But hasty partings are one of the few downsides to travelling. Life goes on, and so must you – onwards and upwards hopefully. In my case it was onwards and westwards however. I had a bus to catch leaving in half an hour’s time.

Giving Pariah one last kiss I then sprinted back to the hostel to throw my shit together.


The ride from Knysna to Hermanus began just as pleasantly as all the other South African bus journeys had. Surprisingly, I wasn’t hungover from the night before, and the drive through the unspoilt countryside and juxtaposed ragged townships proved a joy to behold.

The colourful inhabitants of these downtrodden townships were an interesting bunch. Having driven through a number of impoverished areas in South Africa I now know where the second-hand clothing of the first world goes before its days are numbered.

The local populaces all appeared to sport a funky mix of forgotten trends from the west. From shell suits to tweed blazers, old school uniforms and outdated military wear, all were enjoying one last shot at adornment in these quiet South African settlements.

Everybody I came across on this particular day sported a bizarre cocktail of styles, shapes and sizes. I appreciate it would be a little unfair to expect some of the poorest people in the world to be well and truly in vogue. But a little bit of fashion sense wouldn’t go amiss surely? High heels, for example, should at least be the same colour when worn with a pair of half-mast army issue cargo pants. Just as purple shell suit jackets designed for thirty stone Americans are not a child’s full length dress. And rugby socks should be on the feet rather than worn as long, dangly hats.

A gentleman who looked a lot like Seal particularly tickled me that morning. Not the flipper clapping, ball balancing kind of seal obviously. I mean the musical, punching well above his weight by impregnating Heidi Klum regularly Seal. Not only did this guy look like a celebrity with a semi aquatic mammal for an alias, he too appeared to be all set for a prolonged period spent out at sea.

His attire was exactly like that of Captain Birdseye: sailors cap, long pea coat, white roll neck – the works. The fact we were nowhere near the coast and it was a red hot day hadn’t put off this nautical aficionado whatsoever. His confident swagger outside a TV repair shop was certainly akin to a man who had just returned from a daring voyage across the seven seas. Either that or he was simply off his head.

Pulling into the small town of George for a quick lunch break I couldn’t help but gawp at another band of ill-fated beings. I don’t usually make a habit of ogling people less fortunate than myself – it’s a most unbecoming pastime I know. On this particular day however, I simply couldn’t help it.

This latest group of sombre looking souls were stood outside the gates of a sinister looking hospital. Every one of the miserable posse were puffing greedily on cigarettes. Not the wisest of pursuits when you’re hardly the picture of health, but this lot seemingly didn’t give a hoot.

Sick people damaging themselves further with lung blackening fags are omnipresent throughout the world and not overly entertaining. It is certainly idiotic, but not particularly amusing to see. What got me though was that each one had a different part of their body bandaged up. One man’s left arm was in a cast, as was another guy’s right. A broken left leg on one puffing woman was matched by that of a broken right on somebody else. A gent’s skull was wrapped up, Jacob Marley style, while a lady had her neck in a thick brace. And the last poor addict kept himself upright by holding onto a portable drip.

Put all their ailments on one person and they would’ve been wrapped up tighter than Tutankhamen’s mummy. The melancholic scene was like something out of the Beano.

However ill the group of morose smokers had looked, they appeared a lot better off than the next dude I saw in George. He was lying face down and spread eagled in the middle of a grassy park. God only knows if he was dead or just drunk – he certainly didn’t appear overly alive to me with his face buried in the grass. This kind of scene must have been a regular occurrence in George as nobody on the streets appeared to give a shit about the poor bloke. They all just continued to amble by regardless.

The Baz Bus pulled into a McDonalds’ car park and ground to halt outside the front door. Disembarking, the bus load of hungry travellers raced inside the popular restaurant. Once filled with delicious junk food, everybody hopped back onto the bus, eager to reach the next destination.

I had pigged out in McDonalds and regretted it the moment I sat back in my seat. Karma, that good old friend of the Hindus and Buddhists, came swooping down from the heavens and delivered me a solid and possibly well-deserved kick in the stomach.

“That will teach you to find amusement in the deprived you massive streak of piss” it would have said, had karma had vocal chords and colloquial diction. The vindictive bastard.

Hot flushes rushed through my body and I could feel myself turning green. The McDonalds I’d gone over the top on, although absolutely delightful, did not agree with the alcohol in my belly on this rare occasion and had sent my guts into spasm. Cold sweats intermittently replaced the hot bursts and I was gripped with nausea.

Within ten minutes of departing George I gained the terrible knowledge that I was one speed bump away from filling my underpants with McSlurry.

Not far from George was the coastal town of Mossel Bay. It was with good grace that the bus stopped here to pick up a group of backpackers from a beachside hostel. As soon as we pulled over I jumped out and sprinted off to do my business in the lavatory of a rather fancy restaurant.

Returning to the bus I felt drained but very relieved. Setting off to another hostel across town however, I became aware that my relief was premature. My guts began going bananas once again, and as we returned back to my original place of defecation to pick up a couple of late passengers I almost crapped myself for a second time in ten minutes.

There was no way I could continue the journey to Hermanus. Not without severe embarrassment anyway. Consequently, I meekly asked the driver to find my bag in the hold.

“Are you alright Jord?” quizzed Danny.

“No mate. I’m fucked. My guts are going mental.”

“Are you gonna spend the night here then?”

“Yeah I think so. I can’t stay on the bus man, I’ll end up shitting myself for definite.”

“We’ll all stop then,” replied Danny. “It would be best if we all stick together.”

“You’re alright mate, honestly. You lot go and do that whale kayaking thing. I don’t fancy that so I’ll catch you up tomorrow if I’m better.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Cheers though. I should be ok soon. I’ll see you at Hermanus Backpackers right?”

After an answer in the affirmative I entered the reception of the hostel we’d pulled up outside and prayed they had a spare dorm bed for me. As it happened they had plenty of dorm beds free, largely due to the place being completely empty of guests.

The peculiar hostel was set within an old, stationary train. The dormitory was a converted carriage with creaking bunk beds lining each side of the grotty aisle where seats had once lived.

Once checked into this strange form of accommodation, safe in the knowledge that I had no more travelling to do that day, I suddenly felt fantastic. The belly ache had gone, and the feeling that I could shit through the eye of a needle was nothing but a distant, stinking memory.

Realising Mossel Bay was a relatively pretty but rather boring place to be when alone, I made haste to get myself out of there as soon as possible. While in reception waiting to use the phone I listened into the conversation of an erratic Belgian girl as she shouted at whoever was on the other end of the line. The Belgian was moaning about how she and her friend had been deserted in Mossel Bay by the Baz Bus. I knew this not to be true. The driver had in fact gone out of his way to collect these girls twice, hence my own personal alighting on his second trip to pick them up. They’d failed to show up on both occasions, so he had quite rightly buggered off without them.

When the girl finished on the phone I smiled politely and said hello.

“All ok?” I asked, knowing fine well all was not.

“No,” she replied predictably. “The fucking Baz Bus has gone without us again.”


“This happened yesterday.”

“And again today? Weren’t you here on time for it?”

“Yes we were here on time,” she barked back. “But they didn’t wait for us.”

“The bastards,” I said hypocritically.

“Exactly! They are bastards. I’ve just complained about the driver.”

“That’s not very nice of him,” I replied, giving Karma another excuse to pay me a visit. The driver had been very kind to me when I told him how rotten I felt and this was how I repaid him – turning on the guy to side with two people who had absolutely no concept of being on time, purely because they possessed vaginas. What an utterly shit human being I am.

The girls, a Belgian and her more reserved German pal (who clearly hadn’t been informed of her nation’s stereotypical timekeeping) subsequently checked back into the dormitory carriage.

Whilst rebooking my Baz Bus seat to Hermanus for the following day I received a spot of bad news. I was told by the booking office that my ticket had expired that day and I’d have to stump up a further £35 for another.

I was gutted. This unforeseen expense made the stomach wrenching experience earlier all the more harder to bear. Not only had it been one of the most painful and potentially embarrassing episodes in a long while, it had now become the most expensive dump I’d ever undertaken.

My one night in Mossel Bay was rubbish. Sitting alone in an expensive beachside restaurant I ordered a chicken sandwich which only became edible once I’d scraped all the chicken out of it. I’d hoped the two girls from earlier would show their faces and I would be able to tempt them into an impromptu drinking session, but that never happened. Instead, the girls returned back to the dorm well after I had gone to bed and rattled around until the wee hours repacking their bags.

I’d felt miserable and also pretty scared in the dark train carriage before the tardy women had returned. The place felt incredibly exposed. Earlier that day I’d caught a very shifty looking black guy dressed in a dark green parka jacket rummaging around in the dorm room fridge. Terrified, I confronted him, and was soon made to feel an idiot when he told me he was the hostel’s security guard. Turning the tables, the guy then proceeded to make me prove who I was by flashing my passport.

It was nice to know there was some sort of security, even if it did go around stealing food. A prepped and ready Swiss army knife was under my pillow for most of the night nonetheless.

I wasn’t being picked up until mid-afternoon the following day, meaning I had practically a full day to kill in Mossel Bay. The idea of catching a few rays didn’t seem like such a terrible one. Yet ten minutes of sunbathing on the windy beach felt like I was being sand blasted, so I ditched the towel and decided to explore the town instead.

There really wasn’t much to see it transpired – the highlight being a museum depicting the arrival of the first Portuguese explorers to the bay in the 15th century. The most enjoyable part of my day came when I ate a cheese and ham sandwich and two packets of crisps sat beside a giant whale skull in the museum gardens.

I stayed in these gardens a while, reading my book and writing my diary before heading back to the train cum hostel. Having packed my belongings I then collapsed in a wicker chair at reception and fell asleep for an hour whilst cuddling my backpack. I had a packet of biscuits in there and didn’t fancy my chances of keeping hold of them with that sticky fingered bastard in the parka flitting around.

On their third day of attempting to leave the town, the two moaning girls were actually on time when the Baz Bus arrived. We all set off together, leaving the relatively dull, yet also quite attractive Mossel Bay behind us and drove westward in the direction of Cape Town.

The bus dropped me off at a small motel a few miles from the coastal town of Hermanus. Danny, Dean and Monica were all waiting for me here and an amiable member of staff from Hermanus Backpackers hostel – who looked like a handsome version of Sideshow Bob – arrived shortly after to pick me up.

Upon reaching the hostel I was met by Danny and Dean in the car park. They told me they were just heading out for dinner with Monica and three American girls they’d been chatting to earlier that morning.

“There’s even a tonga for you Jord’.”

“A tonga?” I said, momentarily confused before remembering they were being lovably racist. “An Asian chick? Tidy. Where from?”

“Christ knows. China or something maybe? She’s bonny though, you’ll like her. Hurry up and get ready, we’re heading to the restaurant ASAP.”

We arrived at the small African themed restaurant and made our way over to the table where Monica sat with the three girls. The boys had been right – I most certainly was attracted to the Asian girl amongst them. But then I’m pretty much attracted to any Asian girl providing she is legal and under thirteen stone.

This girl was undeniably pretty, as were her other two Caucasian friends. Slipping into my most agreeable persona I offered warm salutations and began to smooth the path for a spot of casual wooing.

“So Jordan,” said Monica, trying to suppress a grin, “How’s your stomach today? You’re not planning on shitting yourself at the table are you?”

“No Monica, I feel fine now thank you.” I replied before mouthing the words ‘gobby twat’ at her over the table.

“So, what was wrong with you?” asked Rio, the good looking Asian girl.

“I had a McDonalds and it didn’t agree with me too well.”

“Monica said you had to rush off the bus or something.”

“Did she now?” I said, giving Monica another look. “That was good of her. Yes, if I hadn’t then I would most definitely have crapped in my pants.”


“Not really,” I replied honestly, knowing that my chances of pulling her were now none existent. “But you did ask.”

Sitting there pondering which peculiar African animal we should devour from the menu seemed to take an eternity. I was starving, and the women were doing my head in with their indecisiveness.

Eventually a doddering, geriatric waiter came and finally took our order. He was a sweet old guy, but was dressed – I am afraid to say – very much like he styled himself on the images found on the underside of Robertson’s jam lids. Before they became politically incorrect that is. His oversized corduroy suit, big collared shirt and jazzy red tie were possibly de-rigueur for employment in a restaurant which served warthog ribs. But the man’s outfit didn’t half make him look like he’d have been more at home on the mantelpiece of a moderately racist conserve enthusiast from the early 80’s.

As we waited for our food to arrive, a large group of African men dressed in loin cloths and not much else walked into the restaurant and congregated at the foot of our table. The guy who appeared to be in charge of the troop began leading the men in traditional song, dancing and miming energetically as he went.

The group of local musicians were fantastic. It was like having a personal concert performed by Lady Blacksmith Mambaza. Their five minute show was far more enjoyable than attempting to pull a girl who thinks you have irritable bowel syndrome. Even if I didn’t have a clue what they were hollering about at the time.

It turned out that the men were singing of health and crime issues. Their aim was to educate the local populace and better society as a whole. The group’s animated passion was quite moving, and the spectacle as a whole was very enjoyable. Their noble crusade was appreciated wholeheartedly throughout the restaurant and rewarded justly. Even I was happy to part with a few Rand from my usually tight wallet.

The African meal was a novel experience and the warthog I ordered was really quite tasty. The conversation and night as a whole, however, was actually rather drab. Apart from the unexpected local singers, we all returned to the hostel having had a very average evening indeed.

Rio and her friend Kat stayed with us for a quick drink at the hostel’s honesty bar before heading to bed. The academic women had a strict revision schedule planned for the following morning and weren’t willing to break it. Their American chum Amanda on the other hand remained with us for a few more beers and turned out to be witty and enjoyable company.

It wasn’t long before we all decided to call it a night too. A docile young Swedish girl had joined us and proceeded to bore the tits off Dean and me by asking the same drunken questions over and over again. It would have been nice to stay up late and get to know a few more people in the hostel, but we had bigger fish to fry in the morning. And a hangover apiece would no doubt have made a very uncomfortable experience decidedly worse.

At 11:00am Danny, Dean, Monica and I were picked up at the hostel by a balding, middle aged South African named Geoff and his Jack Russell terrier. Cramming our wide selves into his not so wide car, we then set off on the forty minute drive towards the tiny fishing village of Gansbaai.

“So, how are you all feeling today?” asked Geoff, looking at us in his rear view mirror.


“Ha. Good. That’s to be expected. Any of you guys ever swum with Great Whites before?” he quizzed as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Surprisingly, no,” I said. “We’re all novices.”

“Ah, you will love it,” Geoff replied, setting us at ease slightly with his confident retort.

“How many times have you done it Geoff?”

“Well, I haven’t actually done it myself.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t fancy it. Those things are bloody massive.”

“Good to know. Cheers.”

Our fear stricken group soon arrived at the Great White Shark Diving Company main office. Here we were shown a brief video of the tiny boat that would take us to the dive site, followed by some petrifying shark footage. Geoff and his yappy little dog then walked us down to the harbour and introduced us to the captain.

A Frenchman and his daughter, plus a quiet South African couple were to join us on the diminutive vessel. All aboard, the boat set sail for shark alley – a location just off the coast notorious for its heavy population of Great Whites.

“Will there be many sharks today do you think?” asked the nervous looking French guy.

“There should be,” answered the captain. “We left the cage out there a few hours ago with a load of bait strapped to it, so I would expect a few big ones feeding off it by now.”

The thought of a cage bobbing in the middle of the ocean as giant sharks swarmed around it, tearing chunks of fish from its sides intensified my fear tenfold. I was scared out of my wits as sharks had been one of my biggest fears since childhood.

Reaching the cage, the captain proceeded to attach the flimsy metal structure to the port side of the boat. One of the captain’s assistants, a quiet man who had been laboriously smashing up frozen fish heads with a blood covered spade, threw a bucket load of his meaty stew into the ocean. Within thirty seconds a graceful shadow swam beside the cage as we looked on from the viewing deck above.

“Right, who’s up first?” asked the ponytailed captain. “I need four of you to suit up and meet me downstairs.”

“Us! We will!” screeched Monica, raising her hand and accompanying it with a little jig.

“Shut up you cock.” I urged. “Let someone else go first.”

“Don’t be such a wuss. It’ll be awesome!”

“Right, you four,” said the captain, responding to Monica’s enthusiasm. “Get your wetsuits on and let’s get you into the cage.”

“Shit a brick,” whimpered Dean peering over the edge of the boat as a giant beast eased by, “Look at the size of that bastard!”

The ocean was absolutely freezing when all four of us slipped into the compact cage. The icy chill numbing our brains was the least of our worries at this particular moment mind. The waves which had looked minimal from above felt like small tsunamis at sea level, sweeping our limbs around uncontrollably.

“Where do I put my legs?” shouted Dean, panicked.

“Good question,” I replied before my gob filled up with icy salt water. “I think mine are hanging out the back. I don’t like this one bit.”

“Rest your arse against the back lads,” said Danny, all calm and collected. “Then put your feet on the grey bar half way down.”

Finding the grey bar we did as instructed. Now it felt as if our ankles were going to get nibbled as they teetered out of the back of the cage. Once we were all comfortable, or as comfortable as a person possibly can be when a ton of instinctive killer is in close proximity, the long haired Afrikaans captain barked out our orders.

“When I shout ‘down’ you take your feet off the bar and push on the blue foam roll with your hands until your head is underwater. I will shout the direction to look before shouting ‘down’. If anybody decides to reach through the bars and attempt to touch the shark then I will turn the boat around and we all go home. Understand?”

He was giving us a little more credit on the bravery front than we deserved I think. Who in their right mind would intentionally put their arm in the path of a hungry Great White? We all nodded anyway to say we promised to resist the temptation and he told his crew to begin luring the sharks in.

The guy making the fish head soup tossed in another bucket load of his bloody mixture. When a shark was spotted another crew member threw a big fish head connected to a piece of yellow rope in its general direction. None of us could see any of what was going on above or below. We simply bobbed around in terrified anticipation, trying our best to keep all our limbs out of open water.

“Look left, down!” cried the captain and we all took a deep breath before forcing ourselves underwater. Through the slightly murky sea the grey torpedo like shape of a great white gently glided in front of the cage.

Resurfacing, we sat back on our little ledge, trying to get our breath back. It wasn’t long before the unwanted cry of “look right, down” was hollered from above.

Getting my left and rights mixed up for a second I submerged to see Danny looking at me. Even through his goggles I understood the other way dickhead look in his eyes and quickly turned around.

This time the shark came much closer. The rows of serrated teeth set in gnarled, pink tissue clearly visible as it effortlessly swam towards the bait. Making a lunge for the fish head, the shark missed and disappeared into the darkened depths below.

It was an incredible sight to behold so close. Underpants filling yes, but utterly beautiful at the same time.

Bobbing up and down in the deep blue sea the four of us chatted nervously. A couple of minutes passed and since none of us had been mauled to death yet we each grew in confidence.

“Straight ahead! Down!” screamed the captain as the tip of a fin sliced its way slowly through the rippling water, shattering our premature sense of comfort.

The yellow rope with the fish head attached was a few metres in front of us and just visible from underwater. The huge shark made a grab for the bait with its colossal open jaws. Clamping down on the head and rope, the Great White attempted to twist away with its prize. The guy on the other end of the rope wasn’t going to give it quite such an easy ride however. Fighting with the beast in a tug of war style contest he hauled the writhing shark back towards our cage.

The shark – now within touching distance if you were mental – thrashed and pulled at the fish head before slamming itself into the front of the cage. Its head was first to collide and the beasts eerie black eyes seemingly stared into my own. In a flash the beast quickly contorted its body – all the while battering the thin cage precariously with its bulk – until it was vertical. Massive sections of fin and tail slipped through the wide gaps in the cage, swiping at our legs as we all forced ourselves as far away from the shark as possible. The brilliant white underbelly, almost a meter in width, lay flat for a moment pressed against the thin metal strips a few inches in front of us. The shark’s scarred and battered torso writhed with one last violent yank and its razor sharp jaws sliced through the rope before swimming away with its snack.

It was a lot of effort exerted for a little fish head. Had I been the Great White I don’t think I would’ve been quite so focussed. But then I’m not really a big seafood fan.

Once it became clear the sharks weren’t interested in eating us, we relaxed a bit and began to really enjoy the close contact with these incredible fish. I say we, but I mean Danny, Monica and myself. Dean on the other hand wasn’t quite so content. Blaming his distaste for sea water, he got out of the freezing ocean after twenty minutes and stayed out. Not before ruining the group video with one of his “fuck” filled tirades following a particularly fierce encounter with a four metre long beast.

Most of us had our fair share of time in and out of the cage. But it was the little trooper Monica that made us lads all look like wimps. She left the cage once in the entire time we were at the dive site, and that was only because the captain asked her to. For well over an hour she floated in the bitterly cold sea having the time of her life.

That evening, having returned to Hermanus after a day conquering childhood fears, we signed up to a barbeque being hosted by the hostel owners. The food put on was absolutely amazing – another testament to the wonderful produce available in South Africa.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere within our little group wasn’t quite as fantastic as the food. I had begun to feel a bit jaded since returning to the hostel. The only thing I could put my dejectedness down to was having experienced such an amazing high at the shark cage diving, returning to relative normality again felt a bit crap. Separating myself slightly from the others I sat and read my book in silence. I may have come across rude or moody, but I hadn’t intended to. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts. However I came across though, I don’t think it bode too well with the lads.

Before departing for the shark dive a bit of indecision had arisen as to whether or not to pay a cheaper price and go with a less reputable company. A few minor words had been crossed when we couldn’t come to a conclusion, but it was soon sorted out. Everything seemed to have been swept under the carpet with all the excitement during the dive. Yet upon returning to the hostel the tension had seemed to reappear also.

Nothing was said that evening and I kept well out of both Danny and Dean’s way. They were talking to three young English girls we’d seen on the Baz Bus in the communal living room and seemed happy enough doing so without me.

After a while Monica and I left them to it and ventured to our dorm for a bit of a heart to heart. She too was feeling down that night, possibly for the same reasons as me. Uncertainty regarding our respective futures was an issue that concerned us both also. Why the self-doubt and worry had reared its ugly head on this particular evening I don’t know. But whatever the reason, it made both Monica and I a little forlorn and in need of space from the revelry downstairs.

Categories: Chapter 5, humour, The Jo-burg - Delhi Express, travel | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fun times in Durban

Booze loving Lads travelling Southern Africa


Chapter Three


Driving from the wet, mountainous region of north western Swaziland, the Baz Bus descended into a hot, arid environment from where we crossed the frontier back into South Africa.

Within five minutes of having left the border post I spotted two giraffes grazing on an acacia tree. They were definitely real ones this time and not heavy machinery look-alikes. The elegant animals were stood near the main road, only a few feet away from a woman who strode along the hard shoulder wearing a traffic cone on her head.

We’d been lucky enough to see a good number of giraffes since landing in Johannesburg. Yet no matter how unoriginal they were slowly becoming, seeing such wild beauty never failed to rouse an awareness of how lucky we were to be in Africa.

The long, full day drive to Durban was expected to be a bit of a nightmare. In actual fact, it ended up being a very enjoyable journey. Dean and Danny passed the time by trying to chat up a young Dutch girl on the back seat. Whilst I sat alone, listening to my mp3 player and relishing the picturesque scenery that rolled by.

Originally we had planned to stay in the centre of Durban for the entire weekend – principally to enjoy its reputedly good nightlife and infamously loose women. Having enjoyed Anusa’s company greatly whilst at Legends, the three of us decided to accept his invitation and stay at the Black Mamba Lodge instead, a hostel owned and run by his older brother out in the suburbs.

The eccentric Monica, whom we had all developed a soft spot for by this stage, decided to come to Black Mamba too. All of us really wanted to show our appreciation of Anusa’s kind offer and were genuinely looking forward to our stay.

However, when Anusa also invited a Dutch guy sat next to him on the Baz Bus we all had a sudden change of heart. This lanky prat had been a selfish gobshite for the entire drive. Arriving back late from every toilet stop, he stunk of stale fags and bored the bollocks off anybody who had the misfortune of speaking to him.

Except Anusa, obviously.

Dean, Danny, Monica and I had already told the gracious Malawian we would go with him, and it was too late to back out at last minute. Alighting in the city centre then, we waited patiently beside a quiet lane before being picked up and driven to the suburb of Hillcrest, located half an hour away in the Valley of a Thousand Hills.


The Black Mamba turned out to be an absolutely fantastic place to stay. It was everything and more a backpacker could wish for. Anusa’s big brother Tease proved a gracious host also, grabbing us all a welcome beer at the hostel’s cool little bar as soon as we walked through the door.

The barmaid who served us our complimentary brew was just as pleasant as the setting. Her most appealing asset not being her geniality, albeit lovely, but came in the form of the two gargantuan bosoms that swung from her enchanting rib cage.

I’d never seen breasts like it. They were colossal, and precisely what the doctor ordered after ten hours on the road.

Dean and I sat at the bar ogling the barmaid’s awesome cleavage all evening. The two of us ploughed through the hostel’s stock of red wine in no time, before Tease and Anusa quite forcibly introduced us to their wide selection of shots.

It wasn’t long until I was plastered. Therefore my recollection of the evening’s events is limited, although the pictures on Danny’s camera enlightened me a little more as to what had transpired.

As well as Salome, the buxom barmaid, one of the other staff members at Black Mamba was a cute young black girl named Zola. She was very well behaved and sensible during work hours. Yet when Zola finished all her jobs and got on the Tequila with Dean and myself, it appears as if we managed to coax a bit of the devil into the faithful church goer.

As I mentioned, my memory fails me as to exactly what happened during the night. But there is photographic evidence of myself and the lovely Zola indulging in a hearty bout of smooching. Another picture shows us prancing around the common room like a poor man’s Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers; just decidedly less nimble on my behalf and considerably more African on Zola’s.

Zola and I seemed to be having a ball in our drunken merriment. At the same time however, we appeared incredibly ill matched. I bore a scary resemblance to Fagin from Oliver Twist in Danny’s photos – all nose and gangly neck, hunched over like a personified question mark. While poor Zola looked like a more feminine version of Arnold from Different Strokes.

We were a strange looking duo, that’s for sure – possibly too peculiar for the bubbly Zola as she put me to bed shortly after our dance. And from waking up fully clothed, it’s safe to say I didn’t manage to slur her into any form of drunken immorality along the way.

More’s the pity.


The following morning I felt dreadful. Merely picking at the English breakfasts sat in front of us, Dean and I soon gave up on the idea of eating for fear of being sick. Taking to the giant hammock in the garden, the two of us swung in it lazily whilst weighing up our options for the day ahead.

It had been decided the evening before we would stay longer at Black Mamba. Not because there was a lot to see and do in the surrounding area. But simply due to the fact Black Mamba was a quality establishment and it would’ve been a shame to leave so soon.

Danny had been sensible and arisen early that morning, driving with Tease into central Durban for a spot of exploration. He hadn’t drunk much the evening before and was therefore fresh on. Dean and I on the other hand had slept until eleven. Neither of us could be bothered doing anything overly strenuous in our fragile states. And in a joint effort of creativity, concluded that the best thing for us to do was start drinking again post haste.

I couldn’t stomach anymore beer and opted for vodka on the rocks for my hair of the dog. And within the hour we were suitably leathered once more, to the point of being immature pillocks.

Since the trip began there’d been a considerable amount of piss taking going on between the three of us lads. It was usually based around the size of Dean’s giant forehead and the dimensions of Danny’s and my own extra-large noses. In our puerile drunkenness, Dean and I had decided to wear Danny’s clothes for the day. Not out of malice or to really wind him up, but just to get a bit of a reaction when he eventually turned back up.

The more alcohol we consumed however, the more we forgot what we were wearing. And by early afternoon, having lain out in the hammocks with the hostel’s resident canines for most of the day, we had enough dog hairs on us to qualify for jobs leading the blind. Realising we had probably taken our silly antics too far, we slipped out of Danny’s freshly laundered clobber and gave it a good shake off.

Joining Monica and a South African lady at the bar, the two of us began trying to act our age. It was tough. But we almost managed it.

The South African woman was called Mandy. Although she seemed to exaggerate a little, Mandy had an almost mothering quality that made her pleasant to be around.

“I work for a charity.” She said as I quizzed her on her job.

“What sort of charity?”

“It’s difficult to explain,” replied the older woman. “But basically I go around encouraging local artists to produce pieces of art to be auctioned off for the needy.”

“Sounds interesting. So why are you at Black Mamba then?”

“I’m at the hostel checking it out. I want to see if it’s a potential place for my artists to stay whilst in the Durban area.”

There was a bit more to it, but I lost interest in Mandy’s job after a while. She seemed hesitant to go into any real detail and would often contradict herself. Mandy seemed like a nice enough woman though – if a tad simple – and didn’t make for terrible company during those early hours boozing by the bar.


The drink was taking its toll by the mid-afternoon. Collapsing on a giant L-shaped sofa, I rested my head on Monica’s knee as she multitasked playing with my hair and reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography. Individually, most females would rather cut off a toe than pursue either of these activities. Not Monica though. She endured both tasks like a true stalwart.

Just as I was drifting into a vodka induced slumber, I heard the front door slam shut. The loud bang was shortly followed by the promising clip-clop of high heels against laminate flooring.

Opening my eyes I was rewarded with the sight of five attractive African girls sauntering through the living room. Smiling in salutation, the girls proceeded to take up residency at the hostel pool table.

Full of drunken beans, I shouted over to the newcomer I deemed to be the most attractive and asked how she was doing. She didn’t ignore me, much to my surprise, and receiving quite a pleasant response in return I was encouraged enough to take my head from Monica’s lap and engage in a full on pull offensive.

“Are you girls staying here?” I asked, hoping for an affirmative.

“No, we’re friends with Anusa,” replied the fit one. “He invited us up for the day.”

“Your boyfriend is Anusa?” I quizzed disappointedly, mishearing her retort.

“No, I said we are all friends with him.”

“Ah, sorry, I can hardly hear you. It’s a bit noisy in here, do you fancy coming outside to the hammock? I’ll let you have a mouthful of my vodka if you do.”

“How kind of you,” responded the pretty black girl.


“Sure, why not.”

Smooth operator.

Wrestling the dogs out of the hammock, I assisted my new friend into a comfortable position before hopping in beside her.

The ensuing conversation flowed easily between us – which was a real rarity for a social retard of my calibre. Aided considerably by the drink, I managed to come across as a confident, semi intelligent and perhaps even witty young man during the couple of hours we sat chatting. So much so that Ada, the very attractive young Tanzanian girl sat next to me, appeared to be rather smitten.

When the evening chill drew in Ada and I were forced back inside. The two of us joined Dean at the bar whilst he playfully mocked Ella, the nineteen year old Dutch girl he and Danny had tried chatting up the day before.

I’d given Dean a book called The Game before we left the UK which documents one man’s mission to become a master of seduction. It sounds a bit sleazy and pathetic, but it is actually a very well written, interesting and amusing book. Dean himself would admit to being a reluctant reader, but he’d relished The Game and was using everything he’d learned from it in his pursuit of Ella.

One of the things we had both taken from the book was to give negative compliments to a girl. For example, ‘that’s a nice dress’ (compliment), ‘I saw a couple of girls wearing the same one last week’ (not so complimentary). This, if executed correctly, will hopefully keep a lady on her toes, making her think you may be interested, although she isn’t completely certain she could have you if she saw fit. And because women are odd, this doubt strangely makes them all the more keen.

Dean and I took this idea of negative compliments and elevated it to the next level – almost to the point where we were basically just uncomplimentary. Neither of us was ever nasty, as that would have got us nowhere. But a cocky, piss taking approach gave us far more success with women who had a sense of humour than the false, Mr nice guy method favoured by many other gentlemen.

Assisting Dean for a while with his joking put downs, we were soon joined at the bar by some of Ada’s friends. Ordering round after round of Savanna Cider, here we all stayed for much of the evening.

Dean and I loved the crude banter we all shared, and before the night was out we decided to enlighten our harem of women to some of the finer points of British comedy. And by some, I mean the one Dean and I were fixated with at the time.

Namely, Keith Lemon.

“Say bang tidy,” Dean urged Lily, Ada’s only friend who wasn’t referred to by what she was wearing or the size of her knockers.

“Bong tardy,” replied the Tanzanian.

“Bang tidy,” corrected Dean, repeating Keith Lemon’s catchphrase. “With an ‘a’, not an ‘o’.”

“That’s what I said, bong tardy.”

“You’re saying frigging bong, its bang. Bang tidy. Not bong-tardy.”

“Bang tardy.”

“Jesus Christ, that’ll do. How hard was that?” commented Dean to me, wishing he hadn’t even bothered. “These lot are supposedly at university. Do they not teach you English there?”

“I said it just like you!” protested Lily. “What kind of shitty English accent is it you guys have anyway?”

“That’s Cumbrian lass, now shut thee mush.”


“Never you mind, now get the drinks in.”

With Ada having sat on my knee for the past hour, unfazed by the semi erection I’d struggled to conceal under my belt, I thought it was now or never to see how interested she actually was.

“Your hair feels nice lass,” I said, patting her afro. “It feels like an old man’s beard.”

“You cheeky prick!”

“What? It’s nice, I like it.” I repeated, stroking it a little more. “I wouldn’t wanna be the one that had comb it mind. I’d need a bloody wire brush.”

Receiving a smile along with a sharp nip to the inner thigh, not a million miles away from where my gonads were gently throbbing, I couldn’t help but think I was in.

“Here, I’ll show you some of Keith Lemon’s world tour on youtube. If you don’t find it funny I’ll buy you drinks all night. Deal?”

“Deal,” replied Ada as she led me by the hand to the hostels PC.

Thankfully Keith didn’t fail to raise a smile, much to the relief of my wallet. And at full volume, he managed to bring cheer to most of the hostel patrons too.

When those that had gathered to watch buggered off back to the bar, I seized the opportunity to plant a big, fat kiss on Ada’s voluptuous black lips. I wasn’t head butted or looked at with disgust, so I took this as a positive sign to carry on; inevitably evolving my semi into a full on stiffy.

“What’s that?” asked Ada being cute as my wand began stirring under her buttocks.

“That would be my growing penis,” I replied bluntly, too tired to beat around the bush.


“I wouldn’t go as far as to say nice, but it occasionally does the job.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Indeed. Would one care to come and have a look at the dorms?” I chanced, hoping that Ada wanted to continue this delicious spot of amour.

“By ‘dorms’ do you mean that thing I’m sitting on?”

“Heavens no,” I fibbed. “What kind of guy do you take me for?”

“You don’t want me to answer that. Come on then, let’s see these ‘dorms’. But I can’t stay long.”

“That suits me just fine.”


The dormitories at Black Mamba were very smart for hostel standards. Tease and his manager Darren had crafted the excellent bunks themselves – each bed having a comfortable mattress and fresh, clean sheets. This was a real rarity on the budget traveller circuit. Usually the sweat stained foam mattresses feel as if you’re sleeping inside a dirty hotdog bun.

It was almost pitch black as Ada and I descended into the dorm. Gentle snores emanated from the throats of a few other travellers as we tiptoed in, one of which I assumed belonged to Danny, and another to the annoying Dutch bloke Anusa had befriended on the bus.

“Which is your bed?” asked Ada.

“Shhh, I don’t wanna wake anybody up. It’s that one.” I whispered, trying to be considerate whilst directing her to the clothes covered mess in the corner.

“Ok, I’ll be as quiet as I can.” She replied, before dragging me under the sheets.

The next fifteen minutes proved a somewhat erotic affair, much to my pleasure. A good amount of kissing and cuddling ensued in that dark bunk. Soon to be followed by a spot of licking and tugging.

As our lascivious encounter came to a climax, I felt as if I’d short changed my companion slightly. It seemed ungentlemanly of me not to offer my services at this point.

Better late than never.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to return the favour?”

“No, it’s fine, honestly,” replied Ada. “I’m cool. Let’s just lie here.”

“Erm, well, thanks then. You can come and watch me wee if you want?” I proposed as I nipped to the bathroom.

It turned out Ada wasn’t a fan of voyeuristic urination. She could have been for all I knew though, so it was certainly worth throwing the offer out there.


Danny had decided to visit a few extra places along the South African coast where he could learn to surf. He left early the next morning, well before Dean and I had even considered surfacing.

We thought Danny would’ve at least said goodbye to us before he left on the Baz Bus. Yet we figured he’d either done so the night before while we were drunk or simply failed to wake us up. Not thinking much of it, both Dean and I hoped he had a good time wherever he ventured to. We, on the other hand, loved it way too much at Black Mamba’s to leave just yet and booked in for an extra couple of nights.

Later that day, as we suffered in silence from yesterday’s drinking binge, I sent Danny an email berating him for the lack of an emotional farewell. It was all done in jest, but when neither Dean nor I heard back from him during the rest of our stay at Black Mamba we began to grow a tad concerned.

As I played around on the PC one time, checking to see if I had anything in my email account, Darren – the hostel’s manager – returned after being out at a meeting.

“Alright mate?” asked Dean

“Not so bad. I’m tired though. All because of that fucker over there!” replied Darren pointing at me.

“What have I done?”

“It was you and that bloody chick last night.”


“I heard it all unfortunately. Every last suck”

“How?” I asked, before it dawned on me who had actually been in the dorm. “Oh shit. Was that you on the opposite bunk? I thought it was that weirdo Dutch guy.”

“It was me sadly. Until I moved and slept on Tease’s floor that is.”

“Sorry dude,” I said panicking. “I wouldn’t have gone down there if I knew you were in the dorm also.”

“Yes you would,” replied Darren. “I fucking would have too. You would have been stupid not to. She was nice man. I dropped her off in Durban this morning.”

“Ah, so that’s where she went.” I replied, thankful he wasn’t overly irked. “So were we really noisy then?”

“You weren’t so bad, apart from asking her if she wanted to watch you piss? That was a new one on me. It was mainly your friend though. All I could hear was her slobbering all over your nuts.”

“Ha ha, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was mate. But sod it, it’s all good fun. I’d have watched if I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” joked Darren. “You two fuckers look ill by the way, you’re having a shot.”

Had I not kept him awake with my late night antics I would have kindly, yet firmly, declined this suggestion. But as I had, I reluctantly consented. Darren and Tease came back from the bar with two tall shot glass filled with a sickly brown potion that smelled like something you would paint on a garden shed.

“What the frig is this?” asked Dean, grimacing at the fumes being emitted from the shot.

“It’s called Stroh. It’s 80% proof so good stuff,” replied Tease.

“Brilliant. It sounds it.”

“Come on boys. This will sort you out. After three; One, two….”

Dean and I downed the noxious brew and instantly began to spasm. The Stroh coated the inside of my mouth and clung to the full length of my throat like an evil, sadistic version of an antacid advert.

The burn and taste of the strong rum was almost unbearable. There was no way we could throw up and give Darren and Tease the satisfaction they wanted though. Suffering in silence, Dean and I attempted to look unfazed.

I was pissed again off that one glass. Not a nice drunk however, more of a befuddled, anxious drunk. A drunk I felt was better slept off before the merciless bastards made me do another shot.


On our last full day at Black Mamba a few of us caught a lift with Anusa into Durban’s city centre. Driving through a squalid, down trodden part of town called The Point, Anusa warned us to steer well clear of this area when exploring because of its dangerous levels of crime.

Ironically, having driven out of The Point for less than a minute, we came upon a ridiculously grand development called Usharka. It was such a bizarre contrast to be cruising through one of the roughest, most perilous areas of the city one minute, and then the next you are in one of the safest and most affluent.

Monica wished to visit the aquarium at Usharka but neither Dean, Ella nor I could be bothered. Instead, the four of us meandered amongst the expensive shops and amusements within the aquatic complex. We then watched some traditional African dancers stomp and jump along the pretty esplanade, before ending up sat outside an exclusive bar with a bucket full of beers.

I really didn’t fancy drinking again once the alcohol hit my stomach. And neither did the others particularly, so once we finished our bucket we went for a stroll in the hope of finding Victoria Street Market.

The idea of being energetic in the midday heat soon lost its appeal for Monica and Ella. They fancied taking a minibus to the market instead. Looking at the map in my guidebook however, I figured it would be pretty easy for us to get to there on foot. We had no idea which of the reputedly dangerous minibuses travelled the route, and the risk of being pickpocketed or lost didn’t seem worth it to me.

Getting my way, we set off walking along the beach front before cutting across the car park of a derelict hotel. Turning left, we proceeded towards Durban’s centre. All of the street names matched the map I was referencing, and according to my calculations all we had to do was keep heading north and we’d soon stumble across our destination.

Five minutes’ walk along Pine Street, having reached the brow of a small hill, we came across an altogether discomforting scene. The attractive, safe feeling esplanade to the south was rapidly replaced by poverty stricken, pot holed streets housing an array of very dubious looking characters.

Unperturbed enough not to turn back, we continued on towards the market. Dressed in our expensive, brightly coloured clothing and carrying all our valuables, we stuck out more than Pinocchio’s conk would’ve had he chosen a career in politics.

It was necessary we pass a dozen young black men, all dressed in grey, tattered rags squatting on the pavement. They were gambling with dice for a stash of notes piled at their feet.

“Shitting hell,” urged Dean as we neared a crossroads. “That looks like the place Anusa said to stay well clear of. The Point or whatever it was called.”

“It is,” confirmed Monica. “I recognise that red sign on the right. Nice one, Jordan.”

“If we carry on it might be ok.” I replied, hoping I hadn’t led us into any danger. “Come on, let’s stop fucking about, those lads are all staring at us now.”

We crossed the road and Dean and I stood outside a corner shop while Monica and Ella went in to get a drink. As we waited, discussing how it probably wasn’t all that dodgy after all, a car swerved to the side of the road and pulled up next to us.

“What are you doing here?” a concerned looking woman in the driver’s seat asked. “You need to get out of here now.”

“We’re going go to Victoria Street Market. Is it far away?”

“Yes it is. Look, you honestly need to get out of here before something happens to you. This is a very dangerous place for you to be in.”

“Shit.” I said to Dean, looking into the shop. “What are those bloody women doing in there?”

“Get a taxi if you must. Just get out of here quickly” reiterated the lady.

“Any chance you could give us a lift?” Dean asked cheekily.

Conferring with her elderly passenger, the South African lady ushered Dean and I to quickly get in. The girls eventually exited the shop and crammed into the back of the small white car too. As Ella perched on Monica’s lap, the car speed northwards no sooner had she shut the door.

“What were you doing in The Point?” the old woman in the passenger seat asked.

“It doesn’t matter Mum. They are ok now.”

“I thought I could get us to the market on foot.” I answered sheepishly. “I don’t like the look of minibus taxis. They seem dodgy.”

“Some taxis in Durban are fine. Just be careful on the shared ones,” replied the younger of the two women.

“It’s the bloody Nigerians mostly.” chirped the mother.

“It’s not just Nigerians that are dangerous Mother. The Zimbabweans cause trouble in the taxis also, and we have a lot of criminals of our own too.”

Thanking the sympathetic women profusely, we alighted on Victoria Street and made our way into the market.

After all that drama, the place was a complete waste of time and energy. I’d expected a vibrancy of life here. Spices, colourful produce, music and happy vendors. But the covered market was practically dead upon our arrival and subsequently held little appeal.

Although quiet, I was still very much on edge after our recent scare, nervously eyeing anybody who came near us in the market and surrounding streets. All of us felt similar, with the exception of Monica perhaps who was constantly in her own little world, so we left ten minutes after having arrived

This time the girls got their way and we caught a taxi safely back to Usharka. Luckily the driver was a friendly South African native. And not a ‘bloody Nigerian’ the lovely old xenophobe had warned us against earlier.


Returning to the hostel, we walked into a right old hoo-ha as both Darren and Mandy – the peculiar South African charity worker – stormed around the place exchanging nasty looks and comments.

“I’ll eat him for breakfast!” fumed Mandy repeatedly, making herself look an idiot.

It transpired that after a little snooping around, Darren had uncovered that Mandy was a con artist who went around the country scrounging free food and lodgings from gullible hostel owners. What she told us all regarding the artists and scouting out potential accommodation options was all a pack of lies. Tease had been giving her a free room and meals, as had it been true it could have been a good business move. Unfortunately for him, it was a load of old bollocks.

I had seen cracks in Mandy’s pious façade when Ada and her friends had been present. She would regularly sway over and fawn for mine and Dean’s attention as we chatted up the girls. When she didn’t get it she’d attempt to cock block us both by telling Ada, Lily and Ella that we were ‘naughty boys’ and ‘sleazy’ and to stay well away. Both these comments had undertones of truth perhaps, but it really wasn’t her place to broadcast them.

Personally, I’d pissed Mandy off the night before when she’d asked for a kiss on the cheek. Not keen on the way she leered at me, I had stuck my tongue in her ear instead. I’d realised by this point she was a bit of a twonk, so her ignoring me for the remainder of the night was a welcome relief.

Mandy proved herself to be a crass, humourless bullshitter. And watching her get forcibly evicted the following day proved very good sport indeed.

Categories: Chapter 3, humour, The Jo-burg - Delhi Express, travel | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Manchester – Johannesburg – Kruger NP


The Jo’burg – Delhi Express

A tale of normal blokes looking for fun and adventure
Chapter One

“What the bloody hell is this thing Blair?”

“That’s a chickpea Dean.”
“A what?”

“A chickpea,” I answered, inspecting the golden orb balanced on my friend’s silver fork.

“Is it chicken or a pea?”

“Erm, a bit of both possibly,” I said, knowing if I told the truth he’d more than likely leave his dinner.
“Champion!” replied Dean, eating my little white lie and the rest of his curry in four hearty mouthfuls.

The Emirates flight from Manchester to Dubai had been a treat from start to finish. The initial trepidation shown by my two travelling companions and me as we splattered along a soggy

motorway to the airport had all been left behind in gloomy England. Nervousness and fear was washed away by the airline’s regular supply of wine, and in its place developed a much welcomed sense of joviality and excitement.

Arriving at the sparkling Dubai International Airport things took a turn for the worse. The long wait for our connecting flight to Johannesburg was miserable. Hungover and groggy from our greedy alcohol consumption on the plane, the three of us needed greasy food more than a bratty child needs a good slapping.

Drifting in the direction of Burger King, we each placed an incorrectly named value meal on our visa cards. The flame grilled offal filled a gap that the chickpea curry evidently couldn’t and once our bellies were completely satisfied we made our way to the boarding gate.

While Dean was lacing himself with aftershave samples in a duty free shop, I joined Danny – the second of my two travel companions – in making the acquaintance of a girl we’d spotted tinkling on her laptop.

The amiable young lady was a South African national called Irene. She was returning home after working on a cruise ship for a year in the Caribbean. I really enjoyed talking to Irene for those first few minutes. She seemed bubbly and energetic, and had a sharp sense of humour to boot.

As we spoke, I struggled terribly to avert my gaze away from Irene’s chest. I literally had to concentrate on maintaining eye contact at all times. For once in my life however, this bosomy interest wasn’t due to being a class-A pervert. Although a finely shaped pair of breasts they appeared to be, I was in fact ogling Irene for far grislier reasons. The poor girl had huge areas of scar tissue spanning from the top of her neck, down both arms and deep into her cleavage. It looked like some sort of burn rather than birthmark, most probably from scolding. Whatever it was though, it had made a mess of an otherwise attractive girl.

One generally tries to avoid asking people they meet in airport terminals what exactly had disfigured them. And Irene wasn’t overly forthcoming in enlightening us on this particular subject either. She was pretty keen, however, on showing us that she was an ardent admirer of inebriation. Asking us all to join her for a drink, Irene claimed to have a stash of miniatures in her bag she’d nicked from the previous flight.

Following her lead, we purchased a can of coke at a nearby bar and watched Irene top up her can with the pilfered liquor. Dean and I sat waiting with thirsty expectation. We hoped the hair of the dog would chirp us up a tad and bring back some of the happy banter we’d shared earlier.

Unfortunately, we would be waiting a long time, as it soon became apparent that Irene preferred keeping her alcohol all to herself, just as she had the tale of her skin mutilation.

“Are you guys not getting a drink?” she asked as we observed her downing the whiskey and coke.

“We’ve got one?” responded Dean, pointing to his ready and willing can.

“I didn’t mean just coke when I asked you to join me you know. I really dislike drinking alcohol on my own.”

“Share your free booze then you tight cow,” I said under my breath, annoyed our new pal wasn’t in much of a benevolent mood.

“We can’t afford airport prices,” we hinted, but it fell on deaf ears.

“You guys are boring.”

“And you’re a selfish bitch,” muttered Dean.

Not keen on paying over a fiver for a drink, we sat at the bar sipping our cokes as Irene steadily got pissed. Not having to act all grateful and courteous now she wasn’t willing to share her stash, we began guiding conversation from sociable chit chat into a more preferable set of topics.

“Did you get much on these Caribbean cruises then Irene?”

“Much of what? Money?”

“Cock,” answered Dean bluntly.

“Do you mean sex?”


“That’s a bit of a personal question, don’t you think?”

“Come on Irene,” I said, too slow to realise the incredible quip I could have sung from it. “We’re all friends here.”

“Erm, I would say I got my share then. Why?”

“We are just curious. What type of lads do you usually go for?”

“I don’t really have a type. But not South African I can tell you that,” she stated sternly.

“Why not? I bet there’s loads of decent looking lads in South Africa.”

“They’re all dirty players. You can practically smell the AIDS on them,” she spat. Not literally, but it wouldn’t have been any less offensive if she had.

“Fucking hell. You can’t say that,” I responded, dribbling coke all over the table as I attempted to suppress an inappropriate laugh.

“Why not? It’s true. I’m a black woman from Free State. All of the guys I know around there just fuck and fuck and fuck without ever using a condom. They don’t care what they pass on, so why should I care about them?”

“Fair enough I guess. You obviously know the place better than we do. It just sounds a bit harsh that’s all.”

“So is getting AIDS off some sleazy guy who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

She had me there. One nil to Irene.

From the sexy little conversation that had turned slightly sour (it’s all that dashed AIDS’ fault) Irene strangely warmed to us. She was pretty drunk by now, clearly having caned a few whiskey’s before we’d begun chatting. And in her growing drunkenness it seemed as if Irene’s affections for me were evolving at a similar pace.

My hangover was in full swing at this stage, and since she’d been too tight to alleviate it with one of her pilfered drinks, I was in no mood to humour Irene’s advances. Having found a much fitter South African girl to socialise with, we attempted to fob her off once on board the plane.

The flight to Jo’burg proved nothing like the earlier journey from Manchester to Dubai. Gone was the bonhomie and mirth. Insomnia, back pain and headaches were the predominant factors this time around. Couple this with fighting off the affections of a drunken, judgemental black woman and the flight soon become an experience I couldn’t wait to end.

Before embarking on my trip to Africa I’d had the bright idea of watching a variety of films on the region. I’d hoped to get a better perspective on what to expect upon my arrival and this form of media was the most accessible. It just so happened, the majority of this unwise selection ended in a spot of genocide. With such a pursuit being something very few of us are keen on being a part of, I was a little disturbed to say the least.

Another slightly less aggressive, yet still utterly terrifying programme in my pre-arrival viewing was a documentary by Louis Theroux. Set within Johannesburg, the show focused on the panic and despair afflicting many parts of the city due to poverty and gang culture. Watching this a few hours before setting out for South Africa really wasn’t the cleverest thing I’d ever done. It had completely the opposite effect to what I’d hoped. I wanted to be put at ease by my new surroundings. Not panicked that I was going to get robbed at every turn by a machete wielding madman.

I was genuinely scared about the initial section of our trip. Perhaps it was the not so welcoming locals on Louis’ documentary threatening to cut someone’s wife’s face off. Or it could have been their intent on putting a baby in the microwave should a parent not hand over their valuables when requested. Whatever the reason, it was fair to say that upon arrival into Johannesburg International Airport I was considerably ill at ease.

Another worry concerning this particular segment of our new adventure was the fact that I’d had no say in its organisation. And for a control freak like me, this was not comforting whatsoever.

In normal life – or should I say in everything except travelling – I do my utmost to avoid any form of responsibility. I hate it. Responsibility is just another word for burden in my book. Conversely though, when it comes to my trips abroad, I like to be in full control for the majority of the time.

My pal Danny had taken the reins for the first section. He had organised for us to stay with an old friend of his for a few days in one of the city’s northern suburbs. All I knew was that the guy’s nickname was ‘Trigger’ after the Only Fools and Horses character. When I’d asked why this was, I was told to just wait and see.

Having collected our backpacks – Dean’s festival going sleeping bag receiving a thorough sniff by a drug hungry beagle – the three of us then made our way into the airport’s arrivals hall. For ten minutes we stood in a tired and confused state, doubting the reliability of Trigger actually showing up. Or I did at least – Danny on the other hand seemed quietly confident.

“Do you think he’ll definitely have remembered us mate?” I asked tentatively, trying not to sound too much like an ungrateful arse.

“He’ll be here sooner or later. Knowing Trigger he’ll have got lost in the car park,” answered Danny. “Here is now, look. That big, numb sod over there who looks like Postman Pat.”

Sure enough, a six foot four version of my childhood’s favourite postie bound towards us, smiling warmly as he approached. Manly handshakes exchanged all round, we set off towards the car park Trigger had just been lost in.

Arriving at Trigger’s truck, we threw our luggage into the back. The thud of our bags as they hit the corrugated metal was shortly followed by a loud slap of skin against skin. Turning around, Trigger was stood with his head in his hands looking distressed.

“Fuck!” he uttered, shaking his noggin in disbelief.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve locked the bastard keys in the truck.”

“I told you.” said Danny, looking at Dean and me with a big smile on his face. “Now you know where Trigger comes from.”

Twenty minutes of farting around later and Trigger finally managed to break in. He’d opened a small window with a piece of plastic removed from the roof racking before forcing his large self through the tiny cavity with a succession of grunts and heaves.

It was a forty minute drive from the airport to Trigger’s house in the suburbs. The ride seemed to take far longer however. I was on edge every time we stopped at a set of traffic lights and feared something dangerous may suddenly occur.

Large groups of Africans congregated at the lights, doing nothing more harmful than trying to hawk their wares. Yet I was adamant that one may pull out a gun or grab our gear from the back of the truck at any second.

Had I not watched the aggressive documentaries regarding Johannesburg’s dreadful crime statistics then I wouldn’t have been like this. Trigger assured me there was nothing to worry about, and he was right, but I was still relieved each time we pulled away and eventually rolled into the garage of his well secured bungalow.

The house Danny had organised for us to stay in was fantastic. Each room of Trigger’s lovely abode was spacious and very nicely decorated. The bungalow had a huge garden too, complete with specialised barbecuing area and even its own swimming pool.

The four of us had a quick brew together before Trigger went back to work for the afternoon, kindly giving us the run of the house. We didn’t do much running mind. Dean and I went and crashed out on our big shared bed, whilst Danny snuggled up on the sofa for a few hours of well needed rest.

That evening – our first in Southern Africa – Trigger and his lovely wife Kerryn drove us to their local pub. The ridiculously cheap beer flowed in abundance. Every time our sweating glasses of crisp Windhoek lager looked as if they were likely to expire, an efficient waiter would glide over and drop another round onto the table. It was unusual for us Brits to experience such service, what with having to endure the drudgery of going to the bar for oneself and all. It certainly made a welcome change being looked after so well.

Trigger’s local pub proved to be great fun. We became well acquainted with our gracious hosts that evening, receiving a glimpse into the lives of South Africa’s more affluent residents at the same time. Some of Trigger and Kerryn’s friends had joined our party midway through the night, although they’d acted responsibly by heading home before they became totally plastered. We, on the other hand, weren’t so astute, with Trigger driving us back to their place in approximately half the time it took to get to the pub four hours earlier.

Drink driving in South Africa, we were soon to learn, was a lot less frowned upon than in many other western countries. The locals claimed driving under the influence to be a much safer option than taking a taxi. This was due to the likelihood of the cab driver subsequently mugging them. Whether the countries road safety statistics would concur with this precept I don’t know. But nevertheless, drink driving was something South Africans readily seemed to accept.

Stumbling into the kitchen, we attacked the household’s stock of booze before some bright spark decided it would be a great idea to go in the pool. Just so I wasn’t the odd man out I had a quick splash, but being of sensitive stock I found the water far too cold for my liking. Standing back instead, I watched the other plonkers back flip and wrestle into the night as I shivered my little tits off under a towel.

When the rest of the boys began feeling the chill we ventured back into the kitchen. The five of us then began warming ourselves up, starting with our throat and lungs first by tackling a giant bag of weed. None of us smoked regularly, and consequently, just as many could roll a decent joint. Trigger’s overflowing bouquet was the most acceptable effort, and before long we were all well and truly buggered off it. Although some of us were more reluctant to admit it than others.

“It’s not done anything to me,” slurred Danny. “Its shite is this weed lark.”

“If it’s shit then why have you got that dopey smile on your face?” asked Kerryn through the smoky haze.

“What smile?” replied Danny, trying his best to suppress a Cheshire cat like grin stretching lazily from ear to ear.

“That one you daft fucker!” said Dean, pointing at his beaming countenance.

The rest of us were in stitches at this point. The marijuana and Danny’s denial had well and truly given us all the giggles. He too followed suit soon after, rolling around on the floor in fits of uncontrollable laughter whilst still trying to profess his resistance to the drug.

For a good quarter of an hour none of us could stop laughing. I’d tried weed before, and only once had it had a similar effect. The other occasions it had made me feel like a paranoid sociopath, so this shared joviality was a welcome change.

Eventually we dragged ourselves into the living room and put on some music. Trigger and his Mrs passed out on the sofa shortly afterwards, closely followed by a still grinning Danny. Dean and I sneaked back into the kitchen at this point in order to sate our newly arrived hunger. Feasting on roast chicken and salad cream sandwiches, seasoned with what was left of the bag of weed, we filled our guts before thinking it best we head to bed also.

The next day I awoke feeling terrible. Trigger had somehow managed to crawl out of bed in order to oversee the guys working for his construction company. Dean, Danny and Kerryn had also surfaced and were discussing the plan of attack for the day ahead.

“We’re fancying the Lion Park Jord’, are you up for that?” asked Danny.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a park with lions in it.”

“Not really then, I’ll wait here for you,” I replied, groggily. “I’ll hold the fort and keep an eye on the housekeeper for you.”

“That’s not happening. The housekeeper’s fine and you’re coming with us,” said Kerryn forcibly enough for me to know she meant business. “We’re setting off in quarter of an hour, so go and get ready.”

It’s highly unlikely I would’ve shown any enthusiasm at the idea of visiting a glorified zoo even if I’d woken up feeling tip top. Considering my brain felt as if it had just been punched by a kangaroo then, it’s fair to say I really didn’t fancy the Lion Park whatsoever that morning.

Pulling into the car park of the enormous grassy complex, we bought our tickets before proceeding on foot into the grounds. Having checked out a few hyenas that looked about as happy to be there as me, the four of us then made our way to the giraffe enclosure. A solitary old man was hand feeding the beautiful critters as we approached. Witnessing the animal gently lap at the food from his upturned palm, I instantly perked up.

Although I’m not overly enamoured by most animals – quite unlike Dean who loves the tempestuous bastards – I do really like giraffes. Giraffes, goats and the occasional dog. The rest are either boring, annoying or dangerous. There’s a look of confused serenity in giraffes that I love and can certainly relate to. They’re so wonderfully amiable it’s impossible not to like the lanky buggers.

Danny bought a bag of giraffe food from a nearby vendor. It looked like Shredded Wheat mixed with rabbit shit, and smelled rather similar to the latter too. We each grabbed a handful of the stinking feed and made our way to the fence. Tentatively handing some of the brown mixture to a gorgeous youth with its head stuck through the posts, we quickly moved on when a greedy ostrich started sticking its powerful beak in.

Climbing atop a wooden platform, the four of us cautiously held out lumps of shredded excrement as a lure. Once they saw what delights we had for them, the graceful adult giraffes gently lumbered over. They were magnificent beasts, far bigger than I’d expected. Their massive heads alone were the size of my torso. The beautiful animals slowly took the food from our palms with their customary easy going style. Emboldened by their lack of aggression – and wanting to show off somewhat – Dean and I then placed some of the coveted feed on our tongues for the giraffes to tenderly lap off. As their foot long black tongues tickled against our own it was a struggle not to recoil in fear. We were a long way from any teeth though, so we maintained our poise until the giraffes had eaten the lot.1917193_191843277512_3942822_n

Getting French kissed by a local on the second day of our adventure was something we were both exceedingly proud of. Travelling is all about new experiences, and we gleamed from that brief encounter that bestiality is a totally underrated pursuit.

An affable young attendant invited us into the enclosure she was cleaning once we’d had our fill of snogging the giraffes. Within the fenced environment lay six young lion cubs. They were awesome little creatures, although slightly overzealous with their playful biting. Even when they were attempting to lacerate our forearms, the cute cubs were far nicer than the nasty garden shitting felines adored by women with loneliness issues back home. All they are fit for is testing out a new catapult.

Meerkats and a pit of sad looking crocodiles were also features of interest within the park. We didn’t hang around long at either of these enclosures mind. Our priorities lay with the big boys that gave the park its name.

Heading back to the car we began our drive into the lion’s den. It was all a bit eerie within the fenced arena. It wasn’t a huge space, just enough room for a car to do a comfortable circle before heading back out to safety again.

All of a sudden I became incredibly nervous. As we approached the resting cats, a male lion the same size of Kerryn’s car yawned directly beside my head. All that separated us from this terrific mass of teeth and muscles was a thin pane of glass. The knowledge that one small swipe from its dinner plate sized paw and the lion could open our vehicle up like a tin of sardines was more than a little disconcerting.

The lions we inched by were magnificent looking creatures – utterly terrifying and breathtakingly handsome at the same time. You really wouldn’t stand a chance with one of these monsters. Hence the reason I wasn’t overly keen on spending too much time in the enclosure.

After an unexpectedly enjoyable day in the Lion Park, our second evening in Jo’burg was to be spent continuing the gaiety with a couple of Trigger’s friends.

Rowan was our host Kerryn’s older brother and a really nice bloke. He was very down to earth and chatty, and had a way of making you feel well at ease with him.

Luke, who was engaged to one of Kerryn’s cousins, was an absolute mountain of a man. He made Trigger, Danny and Dean – who were all pretty well built lads – look like three malnourished refugees from a Sudanese village. As for myself, Luke made me feel about as manly as a used tampon. Despite his intimidating bulk, he was an incredibly nice guy too. Both Luke and Rowan were extremely interested in our forthcoming trip, firing off question after question with affable curiosity.

The Monte Casino complex was a giant Spanish themed mall, hotel and casino. It was a stunning place, much like the rest of Johannesburg we had seen to date, and was to be our first port of call for the evening.

Trigger had borrowed his father-in-law’s fancy BMW convertible and sped us through the quiet northern suburbs and down into the Casino’s claustrophobic underground car park. Luke and Rowan were in hot pursuit, racing in behind us before we all made our way to The Meat Co’ – a popular franchise of restaurants for the carnivorously inclined.

After our giant rump steaks we strolled the complex a little. The European feeling resort was lovely to walk around, although it couldn’t have felt any less African if it tried. This wasn’t exactly what we’d come to the vast continent for, so I was glad to climb back into the swanky BMW and break most laws of the road until we reached a supposedly more local bar called Billy Bums.

Billy Bums, it transpired, wasn’t a particularly African experience either. The blue neon lighting and the arrogant bar staff weren’t much to our taste. And the same could be said for the sexual orientation of the majority of its clientèle. We must have arrived on a gay night or something as there were dudes kissing each other on most tables.

We shouldn’t have all been so surprised at this revelation. The pub’s name ought to have been a bit of a giveaway really. Any bar with the word ‘bum’ in its title should automatically be a cause for doubt. I’m not homophobic, and have no issues being in gay bars, but Billy Bums felt seedy and lacked any sort of character whatsoever. Drinking up quickly, we soon departed and said farewell to Rowan who had work in the morn. The remainder of us then headed over to Manhattans, a massive club a few miles away which Luke just happened to manage.

Avoiding all queues, we weaved our way into the colossal nightclub and straight to the bar. Luke, our now courteous host, provided us with complimentary beers and told us to go nuts on whatever we liked.

I was stuffed after the steak and struggled to take advantage of Luke’s generosity. Preferring to substitute my drink for a less gassy beverage, Luke returned with a couple of vodka Redbull’s. Two more of these caffeine pumped babies in my guts and I was rocking, hitting the dance floor with Dean while the others chatted to Luke’s fiancé who worked behind the bar.

“Have you seen these two?” I shouted in Dean’s ear, referring to two bouncing beauties flitting around us. “I can’t work out whether they’re keen or not.”

“Aye, I’ve clocked them,” replied Dean, shimmying to the beat. “Fit as fire. Go in for the kill Blair.”

“No chance,” I said, trying not to look too desperate with my creepy sex stare. “I’m not pissed enough yet. Give it a while and we’ll see if they show more interest.”

Dean and I danced to the terrible cocktail of music, waiting for a sign from the two local sirens to show that a move from our party wouldn’t be rebuffed.

I hate rejection. It sucks. Some people can get spurned twenty times in a night and still keep plugging away for a little romance. If I get turned down once then that’s my confidence down the plug hole for a good three weeks. Not being the most self-assured in these situations then, we struggled to pick up the kind of confirmation we were looking for and spent most of the night dancing together like a couple from Billy Bums.

If I had been a betting man, I would say the two sexy little crackers were quite keen on Dean and me. Their firm little arse cheeks bounced and bobbed very close to the vicinity of our crotches for most of the night, just neither of us had the balls to do anything about it.

Trigger and Danny joined us all on the dance floor a bit later on. Trigger’s enthusiasm soon waned however and suggested it was time to go home. He had work in the morning and understandably wanted some rest.

Dean and I couldn’t help but look disappointed at the idea of calling it a night. This in turn caused Trigger to suggest we stay in the club and Luke would arrange us a taxi back later on. We were both very eager to do this, yet at the same time we would have felt like prize twats deserting our host on the second evening. Therefore we followed Danny and Trigger out to the car before remembering the sweet behinds on the two unapproachable nymphs back on the dance floor.

“What do you reckon mate?” I asked Dean as we stood beside the club entrance.

“I think we should stay,” he replied eagerly. “We need to find some testicles and get stuck into them birds.”

“I would feel a bit of a prick on Trigger though. Plus how would we get in? His house is like Fort Knox.”

“Hmm, I dunno. I could definitely do with a bang though, I know that.”

“It’s a toughie. That short lass in the blue dress was incredible, and I’m sure they both liked us a bit.” I added, weighing up the options.

Dean mused also, yet knowing him as I did, I was certain his party spirit wouldn’t allow him to be the one to say ‘let’s definitely go home’. He knew fine well that the most sensible thing to do would involve getting a lift back with Trigger, but until I suggested it, we were at a stalemate.

“Here,” said Dean. “Does this help make your mind up?” and with these words he inexplicably stuck his fingers down his arse crack before wiping them under my nose.

“You filthy twat,” I said in disgust, trying to wipe the sour poo smell out of my moustache. “As it happens, yes it does. I’m certainly not going back in there smelling like your anus. Come on dickhead, we’re gonna have to go home now.”

Dean’s only way to call it a night was to give me a horrible Shitler moustache, forcing my hand into making the boring decision to retire early. At that moment I genuinely wished he was a more normal human being. Six more months of this palaver at the end of a night out was a very daunting prospect indeed.


The five of us wedged ourselves into Kerryn’s tiny car, sharing the already limited space with mountains of equipment and supplies. A cooking pot up your arse and a cool box smacking against the back of your head is hardly the most comfortable way to travel Africa. Yet that was to be my plight during our long drive towards the Kruger National Park.

All three of us lads had over packed considerably for the trip; an idiotic feat which I always manage to achieve. Gradually I’ve become better at reducing the amount of unnecessary crap I take travelling, and maybe by my twentieth trip around the world I’ll have finally mastered what I do and don’t need to bring along.

Danny had taken the over packing to a different level though. His backpack made mine and Dean’s look like the book bags of a couple of primary school children. He had absolutely everything in there – a gadget or tool for all occasions. Not that he knew what to do with it all, informing us quite openly he had ‘all the gear, but no idea’.             My legs had buckled trying to lift the big, black army style backpack onto an airport trolley, let alone carry the bastard on my back around Africa and beyond. It was like trying to give a piggyback to Ray Mears – potentially very handy in a time of need, but fucking torturous on the spine. If we’d crash landed somewhere inhospitable I’d have praised Danny for being so fantastically well equipped. But when a full set of army mess tins are jabbing you in the ear for six hours, unnecessary implements can start to get on a person’s tits pretty quickly.

Despite it being uncomfortable, as we left the elevated Highveld on which Johannesburg lies and approached the escarpment – a relatively steep descent into the Lowveld – we were rewarded with incredible views. The car cruised down huge valleys of lush verdure and jagged rocky precipices before arriving on the vast, arid plateau below.

Making a pit stop to fill the tank which had been straining under our considerable weight, we took the opportunity to load up our grumbling bellies also.

The burger chain Wimpy was omnipresent throughout South Africa, especially the roadside services, and it was here that the five of us piled in and stared confusedly at their non-too appetising menu. Being a tight fisted miser I opted for their cheapest meal before standing back as Danny and Dean subtly took the piss out of a guy serving us named ‘Farter’.

Receiving my food from the cheerful Farter, I then took the brown bag of warm goodies outside and sat in the hot Lowveld sun.

Kerryn and Trigger – clearly Wimpy connoisseurs – had chosen very tasty looking toasted sandwiches to dine upon, whereas Dean and Danny played it safe with fries and a milkshake apiece. Both of these were choices I was very soon to envy.

My burger had the texture and pallor of a drowned sailor. It was basically a grey, sweaty patty of death and as appetising to eat as Popeye’s arsehole. I was starving though, and ate half regardless of its foulness before throwing the rest away in disgust.

Forty minutes later, as the car gently chugged along a quiet stretch of motorway, I began to feel an all too familiar gurgle in the pit of my stomach. Before long this worrying rumble evolved into irregular summersaults and contorting spasms deep within my guts. This was shortly followed by hot flushes and cold sweats. I felt panicked and weak, and was barely able to answer Kerryn when she asked if I was ok.

“Pull over Trig’, Jordan doesn’t feel well at all.” she shouted from the back seat.

“I can’t pull over here, can I? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“I didn’t mean right here, just when you can.”

“Ok, just stop barking orders at me.”

“Jesus, I was only saying. It’s not nice when you feel shitty is it.”

“I know that Kerryn, just give me chance to find somewhere decent. There’s a pub coming up soon, we can pull in there.”

The realisation I was merely half a fart away from shitting in my knickers offered me no end of humiliation. And the fact that my dodgy belly had caused a minor disagreement between our hosts incited even more discontent.

My shame was alleviated slightly when we finally pulled into the country pub car park. I rushed through the bar to the gents toilets like a cheetah, making it just and so to the lavatory before exploding.

My hatred for having weak bowels is immeasurable. Ever since I got food poisoning on a night bus in India and had to stick my bum out of the window and let fly I’d been paranoid about crapping myself on long journeys. Mostly it was a psychological pressure I brought upon myself. But in this instance, it was definitely Farter’s rancid burger that had got me.

Three trips to the little boys room later and I was suitably empty. I didn’t feel particularly great, but there was nothing left in me to be squirted out. So, ready to hit the road again, we set off towards to Phalaborwa, home to the northern gate of the Kruger National Park.

After a long day of driving in the cramped little car we arrived at Phalaborwa around half past five in the afternoon. My untimely poo stop had held us back slightly, yet we’d made it to the park before the gates closed for the night.

Or so we thought.

Kerryn entered the gate’s reception to buy our passes alone. As she was the only South African national amongst us she hoped to get our tickets at local prices.

Returning to the car ten minutes later Kerryn was visibly flustered.

“That bitch in there says we’re too late to go into the park.” Kerryn whimpered as she approached the driver’s side window.

“What?” said Trigger, beginning to share his wife’s concern, “They said we were ok until six o’clock when we called?”

“I know. I said that to her but she wouldn’t listen. She says it’s going to be too dark and dangerous to enter the park now.”

“Did you show her all the reservations and stuff?”

“Yes. I even rang the camp in front of her who said it was fine. It’s just her being a jobsworth cow. Will you come and have a word Trig‘?”

Answering in the affirmative, Trigger stormed into the reception with Kerryn while we three lads sat in the car like their useless children.

I felt responsible. If I hadn’t been on the brink of shitting myself two hours earlier then we would have arrived in plenty of time. Danny and Dean appeased my guilt slightly by saying I shouldn’t feel bad, reiterating that we had still got there well before the time the park rangers had advised on the phone. It helped, but I still felt like a giant tit.

Ten minutes later the couple returned. Trigger informed us that the only way we were going to be able to enter the Kruger that evening was if we paid a thousand Rand – the equivalent of about £80 – for a ranger to give us a guided escort to our riverside camp. It was either that or we cancel the booking and stay somewhere in the town of Phalaborwa, missing out on an early morning game drive.

Opting to pay the money, we were ushered towards a special section of the car park whilst waiting for our escort to arrive in his truck. The night soon drew in. The five of us sat alone in the desolate space, sipping on warm bottles of cider and kicking stones around to quell the ennui.

“You cannot be here outside your vehicle,” urged an armed guard who sprung from the darkness.

“We’ve just been told to wait here?”

“It is not safe,” warned the guard, “leopards have been seen stalking this area for the past two nights. Please, follow me.”

Moved elsewhere, our guide to the camp arrived an hour or so later. Kerryn joined the guy in his truck so we in the back could have a bit more breathing space.

Just as both vehicles were pulling out of the wired compound the guide’s truck came to a hasty stop. A giant elephant, illuminated in the hazy glow of the truck’s spotlights, slowly trundled from one side of the road to the other before disappearing into the blackened bush. It was an immense sight. And we hadn’t even entered the park at this point. I’ve seen and ridden on plenty of elephants in all my travels throughout Asia, but they were nothing in comparison to this monolithic beast. It was huge. And utterly terrifying too.

We hadn’t been driving to our lodge for ten minutes before the guide’s truck ground to a halt again. In his beaming headlights this time was a Scooby-doo sized hyena stood looking at us in the middle of the road. Head down and jaws open, the angry looking creature oozed aggression. A few seconds passed before it too slinked into the darkness.

More elephants crossed our path later in the ride, as did large scorpions and a few other not so impressive creatures. Each time one made an appearance our guide, whose sole purpose was to escort us safely to our camp, stopped for a few minutes to give information to Kerryn who would then relay it back to us over the phone.

The rate the darkness enveloped us, and the unchanging, monotonous confusion of narrow roads within the Kruger would surely have resulted in us being lost for the night. This was a scary thought considering the abundance of killer animals the national park housed. As well as saving our party from a night of bewildered terror then, the guide had basically given us a night safari too.

Arriving at the camp an hour after setting off from the gate, we picked up the keys and drove to our two bedroom cabin. The food and drink which had been sweating in the boot all day went directly into the fridge, before Trigger and Kerryn cooked dinner as Dean, Danny and I sat out on the porch drinking cider.

Looking out into the darkness we listened to the sounds of the park at night. It was a wonderful feeling out there amongst so many of the world’s largest animals. Being close enough to hear them call out to one another was a very humbling and surreal experience.

After dinner the five of us sat enjoying Trigger’s tales of previous Kruger visits before deciding to crack open the red wine. Just as Danny was heaving the reluctant cork from its snug hollow an almighty roar filled the darkness around us. Looking at one another in wide eyed horror we listened again as a second low pitched growl clattered into our ear drums.

“What the frig was that?” I asked, feeling another loose stool brewing all of a sudden.

“A lion I think,” answered Trigger.

“It could have been a leopard or a…….” added Kerryn, before being interrupted by a third spine chilling cry from the shadows ahead of us.

“That one was a hippo. I’m sure of it,” said Trigger looking confident. “The first two sounded like a lion, but I’m sure that’s a hippo. Let’s go and have a look.”

“No thanks,” I replied, inching back towards the door.

“It’s alright you soft fucker. We’re fenced in.”

“You say that Trigger,” commented Kerryn. “But didn’t Dad say that last time they were here a leopard had gotten into the grounds and killed one of the resident dykers?”

“It did what?” Dean asked incredulously, before learning a dyker was a sort of small deer and not a local lesbian.

“It killed a dyker. That was ages ago though. Come on, grab your torches and we’ll go for a look. There’ll be nothing in here so don’t worry.”

All of us collected our torches and tentatively edged towards a hide at the bottom of the camp. A low, flimsy looking electric fence was all that separated us from the life filled river. As we neared the hide I pushed myself to the middle of the pack, not wanting to be picked off at the back by a ravenous cat of sorts. I didn’t get too close to the front either, just in case there was something equally deadly lying in wait.

Another blood curdling roar filled the night sky just as we neared a felled tree that’s flaying roots looked terrifyingly like the ragged mane of a daddy lion.

“Nope. Bollocks to this. I’m off!” I said, scurrying back up the banking and into the heady sanctuary of the red wine. The others laughed at me like I was a coward, but sod that for a lark. They could get mauled all they liked, I much preferred the idea of staying in one piece and getting tanked up.

The shrill cry of my cheap alarm filled the wooden cabin at four in the morning. I had slept soundly once the sheets and underneath my bed had been checked three times for spiders and other nasty critters. Had anything actually been present it would have been destined for a flip flop to the head. Yet I wouldn’t have slept a wink all night for fear of reprisal attacks from their pals.

Languidly we streamed out to the car one by one, clutching our pillows and blankets as we went. Trigger had lowered the seats down in the back to produce a bed like viewing deck. It was a fine idea, but one that didn’t work unfortunately. Within ten minutes of setting off, everybody in the back had neck ache from straining to see out of the windows in our reclined positions. It was too late to amend it though – we were out in the inhospitable wilds at this stage so we simply had to grin and bear it.

The reason why we’d set out so early was to hopefully catch sight of some nocturnal feeders. Predominantly lions, as they usually slept all day having returned from a kill, hiding beneath the shade of trees out of sight from the road.

As it happened, we saw no lions, or cats of any kind for that matter. What we did witness a vast amount of though were very repetitive impala, springboks and other deer like creatures. I was awful at spotting these still, however boring and pervasive they were quickly becoming. Dean was great at finding the wild animals mind – the majority of which I couldn’t even see after having people point them out to me. My ineptitude was embarrassing.

I fared a little bit better on the animal sighting when I decided to put on my spectacles, feeling a grandiose sense of achievement when I made my first spot.

“There’s something!” I said, pointing in between two large trees off in the distance, “It looks like a giant camel. Hang on though, it might be a tree actually.”

“No, that’s a kudu,” Trigger confirmed. “Good spot.”

Good spot indeed. Filled with smugness I was desperate to locate more animals, the more dangerous the better. Sadly I didn’t achieve this – not before anybody else anyway – and consequently felt a touch retarded for being so completely useless.

Thankfully nothing was spotted within close proximity when Trigger took the small Toyota up a steep incline and got it stuck on a protruding rock. No amount of wheel spinning would set us free so there was only one option. Get out and push.

We managed to break free without being stalked by either an animal that wished to maul us or by a park ranger who would have enjoyed fining us. Ploughing on past enigmatic baobab trees and the iconic flat topped acacia’s we continued our morning safari.

On the way back to camp Danny saw an elephant up ahead with a stick hanging from its mouth. Legs widely spread, the beast looked like a toothpick chewing mafioso. As we neared, we realised it was a mother elephant with a calf nervously playing behind her knees. The mother was clearly uncomfortable with our presence, flapping her ears and raising her trunk wildly in our direction as if flipping us the finger.

The two elephants had the makings of a beautiful vision – a sight filled with maternal majesty. Unfortunately, the only maternal thing I had in my mind was when I found myself screaming “MOTHER FUCKER!!” over and over again.

What could cause an expletive at such an exquisite display of nurturing love? Twenty stampeding elephants hurtling through the bushes would be the answer to that little query.

Just as Trigger had killed the engine for us to take photographs, the rest of the herd arrived to assist the mother who saw us as a camera wielding threat. All of them besides the mother and calf charged at our tiny car with menace, knocking down trees and bushes like they weren’t even there.

“Go Trigger, fucking reverse!” cried Kerryn from the back.

“I’m trying” replied Trigger, stalling the car on his first attempt.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I whimpered, watching as the cloud of orange dust and elephant muscle poured forth.

“Get a bloody move on!”

At this point the herd were rapidly making ground on us. Five ton elephants spewed from all angles of the dry shrubbery intent on crushing the silver car with their enormous mass. Our only option to avoid getting trampled and gored to death by their fearsome tusks was to retreat the way we’d come.

Trigger finally managed to start the car and we steadily began to get some distance between us and the angry mob. One enormous angry elephant would have been bad enough. But times that by a herd of twenty and I think you will agree my terror wasn’t without foundation.

“Faster, please faster!” I urged Trigger, honestly fearing that if my bottom got any slacker through unprecedented fear then my underpants were shortly going to become a very unpleasant environment again.

Eventually, enough of a void between us and them was created before the elephants were suitably satisfied. We were no longer a danger to the calf, so they swanned off to do whatever it is giant African elephants do at that time of a morning.

The relief I felt was immeasurable. I’d genuinely felt my days were numbered.

Unfortunately, the only way back to camp was to pass where they had all charged from. Not knowing how far away they would be, Trigger put his foot down and sped us along the narrow paths and into the sanctuary of our hopefully safe resort, happily all in one piece.

Once settled back at the riverside camp, it was unanimously decided that the best way to celebrate not dying was to have a boozy barbeque for breakfast. Sipping on chilled bottles of Windhoek lager, Trigger cooked up perfect steaks on the barbeque while Kerryn fried eggs and mushrooms in the cabin’s kitchen. It was a fantastic breakfast – a textbook way to go about a manly morning of big game hunting. It was all very Hemmingway like, except in this instance, we were the ones most at risk of spewing blood and not the wild beasts.

Having made good headway through our stock of alcohol, the five of us set out in the car again for another game drive in the early afternoon. I would’ve quite happily not gone out for a second time. One, because I was admittedly petrified of another Jumanji like episode. Two, because my guts were still going ape-shit from Farter’s Wimpy burger the day before. And three, due to the fact I was pretty much over the whole safari thing. There’s only so many deer and zebra a person can see before it becomes dull. And as much as it had been quaint in the morning, at this point, the idea of searching for more fluffy tailed critters in the hot savannah filled me with nought but irritation.

We did end up seeing some lovely giraffe and wildebeest on the drive, but it was a long, tedious, hot afternoon in the cramped car all the same. One positive that sprung from the afternoon game drive was visiting one of the bigger Kruger based camps. Our booze stocks had depleted dramatically after our excellent breakfast so we took the opportunity to stock up whilst at the exclusive resort and enjoy a few on the drive around.

I was pissed by the time we’d driven back to our own camp, as were Dean and Kerryn. Unlike those happy souls though, I felt dreadful along with it. The previous day’s food poisoning had flared up somewhat and I was reduced to a drunken, stomach holding mess as I dashed into the cabin.

We’d brought from Jo’burg all the ingredients for a South African delicacy known as a Potjie. This included chicken, bacon, garlic, onions, cream and a whole load of other equally delicious items. Sadly, with my belly becoming more rebellious than 18th century France, I spent the entire evening sat on the toilet. I don’t know what was more painful – my cramping sickness, or the fact I was missing out on the wonderful smelling stew being devoured by all on the veranda.

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