As the multicoloured South African Airways jumbo taxis along the runway at Heathrow's Terminal 1, the night sky is set alight by flashes of purple, green, white and orange. Four thousand feet above London, Anna remembers that it must be Divali, the Indian festival of light...
The stars shine brightly over the beautiful black emptiness of the Algerian desert and Mali...
Sunrise over the coast of Angola...
I'm listening to Miles Davis' Seven Steps to Heaven as we fly over the sun-drenched Namibian coast, we'll soon catch a glimpse of Table Mountain...
We pick up our car at Cape Town's small international airport. The staff are warm and helpful. "Lock your doors and you'll have a great time" says the woman at the counter before handing us the keys...
I'm tired but excited as we drive onto the highway towards Cape Town. The plateau of Table Mountain appears in the distance, the townships sprawl endlessly either side of the motorway, two massive powerstation chimneys on the right, the skyscapers of downtown Cape Town to the left. Groups of men and boys walk along the busy highway. The car radio gives us our first taste of Afrikaans and Xhosa...
Cape Town is deserted when we arrive. It's Sunday. We're looking for New Church Street but end up in Church Street. A tall, friendly priest helps us out and we make our way to The Backpack. Exhausted we crash out and wake up four hours later happy to take in the warmth and colours of an African spring afternoon...
And over the next two weeks we meet smiling, happy people, read about the HIV/Aids tragedy and shocking crime rate and poverty, share the landscape with kudus and proteas, quiver trees and halfmensch, jackass penguins, zebras and vervet monkeys, guinea fowl and black-backed jackals, baobab trees and springbok, friendly elephants and dangerous buffalos, meerkats and the funny warthogs (known as Catholics because they kneel down while grazing). We drive through the desolate Karoo, run on the beach at Plettenberg Bay, taste south african pinotage and merlot, try the excellent Cape Malay bobotie in the village of Uniondale in a restaurant called Zeru, rest in friendly B&Bs which serve sumptuous breakfasts, share the Cango caves with a bus-load of middle-aged German tourists, cook our own braai on the edge of the ocean at Storm's River, kayak with the mating and frolicking south right whales in Hermanus and visit the District Six apartheid museum in Cape Town. At the Tsitsikamma national park I am considered Italian because 'our system doesn't recognise Malta'. We drive to the Cape of Good Hope where we meet our own Nelson Mandela painting road signs. At Stellenbosch we spend an hour discussing South African music and Europe with the white owner of the small shop who comes from KwaZulu Natal. We're enchanted by the gospel voices of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and discover wonderful Freshlyground. While we're in Cape Town we hear of the tragic death of the beautiful singer Lebo Mathosa at the age of 29. At Oudtshoorn we learn of the passing away of apartheid leader PW Botha at the age of 80.
We wake up singing every morning, the beautiful open spaces, smiling people and long, never-ending roads giving us a complete sense of freedom and happiness.
At the airport, a porter with kind eyes helps us with our bags. We thank him and give him the usual 20 rands. We wonder where we can dispose of a dress and two t-shirts which didn't fit in our bulging backpacks and he accepts them happily - for his daughter or wife, we think. Anna offers him a Halls pastile which he accepts with another smile but puts it in his pocket. Anna is sure he's saving it for his son.
¶ 8:05 AM
