August-Inspiration

Ek het lanklaas ‘n artikel in Afrikaans geskryf, maar gelukkig het ek nou die perfekte onderwerp vir een.

29-30 Oktober het ek ‘n studentesimposium in Bloemfontein bygewoon.  Dit was die eerste keer wat ek so iets bygewoon het, so ek gaan nou my tyd neem om dit oor te vertel.  My studieleier het my eintlik al maande voor die tyd aangesê dat ek moet inskryf, so dit was al iets waarvoor ek al lank gewag het.  Die simposium word deur die Suid-Afrikaanse Akademie vir Wetenskap en Kuns (SAAWK) aangebied.  Dit word jaarliks gehou en bring nagraadse studente vanuit feitlik al die wetenskapsvelde¹ bymekaar om na mekaar se navorsing te luister.  Dit is die enigste van sy soort wat eksklusief in Afrikaans aangebied word.  Ek dink ‘n meesterstudent is altyd huiwerig wanneer hy of sy aangesê word om vir iets in te skryf, maar ek het gereken dat, indien niks anders nie, ek ‘n gratis “vakansietjie” na ‘n “nuwe stad” sou kry!

Die vorige keer wat ek in Bloemfontein was, was ek 6 jaar oud gewees.  Ek onthou dit glad nie².   Dus het ek hierdie besoek as my eerste³ aan die Stad van Rose beskou.

“Weet jy wat sê mense ook van Bloemfontein?”
“Nee?”
“Dat ‘n mens twee keer daaroor huil: een keer wanneer jy daarnatoe gaan en die ander keer wanneer jy daarvan af moet weg gaan.”

Ek is in die baie bevoorregde posisie om ‘n vriendin te hê wat tans in Bloemfontein bly; ‘n baie gawe vriendin wat my toegelaat het om by hul te bly vir my tydjie daarso.  Ons kom al van skooldae af saam, so dit was ‘n idiale geleentheid om mekaar weer te sien en op te vang.  Sy het my by die lughawe kom optel en ons was sommer dadelik soos twee ou vrinne, selfs al het ons mekaar lanklaas gesien.

Haar familie se huis was regtig iets besonder.  Die hele familie is kunstig en hul kunswerke pronk orals.  Die huisie is knus en sekerlik ‘n hele paar dekades oud.  My gunsteling deel van die huis was egter die tuin.  Ek het die geluk getref dat die re”ens kort voor my aankoms begin het.  Wat my dus ingewag het was ‘n sag, groen grasperk wat hoofsaaklik omring was deur volblom roosbosse.  Daar was ook ‘n lapa met stoele en hangmatte: alles element wat ‘n atmosfeer skep wat die hele buitewêreld uitsluit sodat daar net rus, vrede, die honde, die kat en familie is om op te fokus.

Daardie eerste aand was daar ‘n spesiale openingsfunksie vir die simposium: ‘n geleentheid aangebring ter herdenking van die 100ste bestaansjaar van die SAAWK.  Hiervoor het ons na die Boyden-sterrewag buite die stad gegaan.  Die simposium het amptelik afgeskop met ‘n lesing… een waaroor ek nogal baie verras was.  Dit was aangebied deur ‘n professor van fisika van die Universiteit van die Vrystaat en het ‘n apologetiese benadering tot kosmologie geneem.  Hy het geargumenteer vir ‘n middelgrond tussen extreme evolusionisme en extreme kreasionisme en dat ‘n mens nie net in een kant van ‘n argument moet vasstaar nie.  Hierdie aanbieding was die uitvloeisel van die professor se eie werk van die afgelope tyd om sy geloof en sy werk as wetenskaplike te vereenselwig.  Natuurlik was dit ‘n baie kontroversiële onderwerp en hy het gehoop dat die praatjie tot gesprekvoering onder die studente sou lei.  Ongelukkig was die praatjie nie (onmiddellik) vreeslik suksesvol in daardie opsig nie: van die studente het die bloot afgemaak as bog.  Ek (en ek is seker ‘n paar ander studente ook) het dit egter baie waardeer en heel interessant gevind.  Na die praatjie was daar ‘n baie lekker vingerete gewees⁴ en daarna het ons die sterrewag ‘n bietjie getoer.  Ek het eerste die rooi 13″ refraksie-teleskoop⁵ gesien.  Daardeur het ek vir die eerste Jupiter as meer as net ‘n spikkel in die lug gesien: mooi duidelik, grys en met drie van sy mane wat bo hom gepronk het.  Dit was pragtig!  Dit verg baie min vir ‘n persoon om sy of haar hart op astronomie te verloor.  Ons het ook die maan van ‘n bietjie nader besigtig.  Daarna het ons die 1.5m teleskoop gaan besigtig en uiteindelik die nuwe 16″ robotiese teleskoop.  Teen die einde van die aand was ons redelik moeg gewees en het ons na ons onderskeie blyplekke teruggekeer (sommige van die studente moes nog hul skyfies gaan voltooi het!).

Die volgende oggend vroeg het ek saam met my gasheer se pa ‘n geleentheid na die universiteit gekry.  Na registrasie het ons weer ‘n lesing gehad: hierdie keer oor patentereg.  Ek het egter nie veel daarby gebaat nie (ek het geleer dat Suid-Afrika het nie sagtewarepatente toelaat nie—iets waarteen ek in elk geval fundimenteel gekant is).  Daarna was ons in drie groepe verdeel en is verdaag na ons onderskeie lokale, waar daar vir die res van die dag aanbiedings gelewer is.  Ek was in die “fisika en IT”-groep wat in die senaatsaal—’n waardige en swaar kamer van leer, sigare en konjak—vergader het.  Die fisika-mense het afgeskop.  Die eerste praatjie was vir my goed gewees, maar ek het geskrik toe die aanbieder byna met die eerste vraag gekelder is.  Ek het besef dat die praatjiebeoordelaars hierdie geleentheid baie erenstig opneem en hul kennis hopeloos té divers is.  Ek het ook begin kriewelrig raak oor ‘n ander rede: ek het gedink my praatjie is hopeloos te kort.  Ek het nooit voor die tyd my praatjie behoorlik geoefen nie.  So het, tussen deur aandag gee probeer dink wat ek kan bysê om my praatjie uit te rek.  Op die ou end het ek aan genoeg goed gedink om my praatjie met twee skyfies uit te rek.  Gedurende die middagete het ek probeer om hierdie skyfies by te sit, maar ek het nie my LaTeX-kode saamgeneem nie en kon dus nie.  Ek sou dus die tyd wat ek op ander skyfies spandeer het uitrek om die addisionele goed te sê.

Dit was bestem dat ek laaste in ons groep sou praat.  Gelukkig is laaste ‘n plek waarmee ek baie goed vertroud is.  Ek weet nie of dit so beplan was nie, maar die praatjies in my sessie het rofweg van groot na klein geloop: eers die astro-fisika en golwe en goed en daarna materie strukture en molekules.  Die beste praatjie, wat my aanbetref, was van ‘n vrou wat ‘n spesifieke sterregroep bestudeer het.  Ek gaan nie in die besonderhede ingaan nie, maar ek was beïndruk met die wetenskaplike metode wat sy uitgelê het en met die resultate wat sy verkry het en haar gevolgtrekkings.  Die fisika-praatjies het die hele oggendsessie geduur.  Na middagete het die “IT” sessie begin.  Ek moet bieg dat die kwaliteit van hierdie praatjies vir my nie so goed soos die vorige sessie s’n was nie.  Dit was hoofsaaklik weens die merkbare swakker taalgebruik van die sprekers (die fisika-mense het hulself in hierdie opsig goed van hul taak gekwyt).  Van die woorde wat ek daar gehoor het was werklik walglik.  Uiteindelik het my beurt aangebreek.  Ek voel ek het goed gepraat, maar ten spyte van my vrese dink ek het ek op die ou end oor my tyd gegaan.  Dit was moeilik om die gehoor te lees: ‘n handjievol mense het ingekom om na my praatjie te luister, maar ek het omtrent die minste vrae van al die sprekers gehad.  Nadat ons verdaag het, het ek egter met ‘n paar mense gepraat wat gesê het dat hulle baie van my praatjie gehou het en baie geïnteresseerd was.  Na ‘n kort breuk het almal weer saam vergader, was die bedankings gedoen en die pryse was uitgedeel.  So het ‘n baie lang, maar interessante, dag tot ‘n einde gekom.  Terug by my gashere was ek te moeg om nog die aand iets verder te doen, so ons het maar ontspan en ek het vroeg bed toe gegaan.

Wat ek teen die einde van die dag besef het, was dat die vreemdste ervaring van die dag nie die feit dat al die dag se praatjies in Afrikaans was nie, maar juis dat daardie feit vir my nie vreemd was nie.  Die hele dag deur het ek tegniese praatjies in Afrikaans gehoor met tegniese terme in Afrikaans.  Tog het ek nie ongemaklik daarmee gevoel nie.  Dit gee vir my hoop vir my moedertaal.  Die simposium is die enigste van sy soort in die land vir wetenskap in Afrikaans, maar dit werk.  Die taal is jonk, maar nog nie verouderd deur vooruitgang nie.  Ek glo dat met harde werk hierdie taal nog lank met ons sal wees.  Dit ís vir my ‘n mooi taal en ek sal graag meer tyd daarin wil spandeer.

Die volgende dag het ek en my vriendin beplan om opsy te sit sodat sy vir my ‘n bietjie deur Bloemfontein kon wys.  Ongelukkig kon ons nie die hele dag hieraan afstaan nie, want sy het ‘n eksamen gehad wat sy oor twee dae moes gaan skryf en nog voor moes leer.  Bloemfontein is meer ‘n baie groot Karoo-dorp as wat dit ‘n stad is.  Die strate is breed en die ou deel laat ‘n mens nie twyfel dat dit as ‘n nedersetting begin is deur ‘n groep boere wat landin gevlug het agter oopte en vryheid aan nie.  ’n Mens kon ook ‘n aanvoeling hiervoor by die Boeremark kry: ons eerste stop vir die dag.  Die Boeremark is ‘n fantastiese markie waar ‘n mens baie interessanthede en nuttighede teen goeie pryse kan vind.  Daarna het ons na die waterfront toe gegaan.  Ek is baie skepties oor enige iets wat ‘n waterfront genoem word en nie langs die see is nie; of ten minste langs ‘n baie groot meer.  Maar vir ‘n paar jaar lank nou al kan ek nie meer vinger wys nie, want die Tygerwaterfront is gebou rondom ‘n groot artifisiële gat.  Die water daarvan is omtrent (soos ek gesien het) vergelykbaar met dié in Bloemfontein.  Die waterfront bestaan hoofsaaklik uit ‘n groot, generiese inkopiesentrum.  Dit is ‘n hartseer herinnering dat selfs hierdie stad, hierdie dorp waar daar nog so baie Afrikaans gepraat word en waardes vanuit ‘n langvergete verlede nog bestaan. nie kan ontsnap van Geld nie.  Dit sal altyd inhaal en verniel en afbreek net sodat dit weer kan opbou en eenders maak: altyd nog ‘n inkopiesentrum met wit teëls en nagemaakte marmer, altyd nog ‘n chic uiteetplek en nog ‘n kettingwinkel.  Altyd eenders: bring die beskawing na dié wat hierdie nie het nie.

Ek was egter wel bly om laatmiddag uit te dorp te kon gewees het.  Dit was daardie dag een of ander rugbytoenooifinaal en vir ‘n kort tydjie daarna was ek vanaf my gunsteling kleur, oranje, afgesit.  Mense is bloot nie só fanaties oor rugby in die Kaap nie.  Dit is iets waaraan ek glad nie gewoond is nie.  Ja, ‘n mens weet van die Bloubulondersteuners en hoe mal hulle tekere kan gaan, maar ek het nie die see van oranje jagluiperds verwag nie.  Ek hou in elk geval nie van rugby nie en het die middag rustig by my gashere deurgebring.  Die bure het my egter min-of-meer op hoogte gehou en teen die aand was alles rustig, want die Cheetas het die onderspit gedelf.  Op daardie stadium was dit al skemer en het dit liggies begin donderweer.  In die Kaap is donderweer baie skaars en ek het dit gewaardeer om dit so ‘n bietjie daar anderkant te ervaar.  Somerreën is egter iets wat vir my heeltemal volksvreemd is: ek ken dit nie regtig nie en glo nie dis reg nie.  Reën moet in die winter val wanneer die KOUD en NAT is en in die somer moet die SON skyn wanneer die WARM en DROOG is.  Tog… tog was daardie middag vir my vreeslik lekker.  Ek het buite onder die lapa gaan sit en gekyk hoe die groot reëndruppels op die nuwe tuintafeltjie val.  Bo my was daar ‘n fantastiese reënboog.  Vir ‘n tydjie was ek verlore in alleenheid: ‘n suspensie van tyd in rustigheid en stil vrede.  Aantreklik?  Ja, Bloemfontein kan aantreklik wees, net soos ‘n boernooitjie van die ou dae met die ou dae se waardes.  Wie sal nie na haar toe gaan nie?  Haar nie wil leer ken nie?

Die volgende oggend het ek saam met my vriendin na haar kerk toe gegaan.  Dit is deel van die NCMI-groep, wie ek glad nie ken nie, maar dit het vir my na ‘n goeie en heilsame kerk voorgekom.  Na jare wat hulle in ‘n skoolsaal kerkgehou het, was hulle uiteindelik besig om ‘n kerkgebou te bou terwyl ek daar was.  Die fondament was alreeds gelê, maar die mure was nog nie op nie.  Ons het dus onder ‘n tent op die kaal sement kerk gehou: werklik ‘n interessante ervaring.  Na kerk (ons moes dit egter ongelukkig effens kortknip) het ons direk na die lughawe gegaan.

Wie wil die boerenooi nie leer ken nie?  Maar ek moet terug na die see toe gaan.  Ek moet daardie oopte hê en die vryheid van die berge en die heuwels.  Ek moet van die wingered af pluk en eet en ek moet regte stede en regte dorpe vereenselwig.  Dit was baie lekker in Bloemfontein en ek sal weer gaan; om die waarheid te sê, sien ek nou nóg meer uit na die res van die land verken.  Maar ek glo dat, aan die einde van die dag, is hierdie my huis en hier waarheen ek sal terugkeer.  Dit is nie kortsigtigheid of hardkoppigheid nie: dit is hoe dit is.

1. Die “kuns”-deel van die Akademie het glo hul eie ding wat hulle doen… [↩]
2. Dalk met goeie rede: dalk het ek gedog dis nog ‘n dorp waardeur ons gery het.   Meer as enige iets anders lyk Bloemfontein meer soos ‘n groot Karoo-dorp as enige iets anders.  Ek kon dalk ook geslaap het.  Dis egter vreemd, wat ek kan die gaan van daardie besondere vakansie onthou, maar absoluut niks van die terugkom nie… [↩]
3. Alhoewel, blykbaar, was my eerste toe my ma gegaan het vir ‘n sonar daar… [↩]
4. Die kos by die simposium was deurgans baie goed gewees! [↩]
5. Ek praat onder korreksie, maar ek dink dit het eens op ‘n tyd diens by die bekende Mount Wilson sterrewag gedoen. [↩]

This guy has an occupation I wouldn’t mind having!

To see photos of the trip, go to:

• http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=131535&l=32df5&id=822240225
• http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=136672&l=142d5&id=822240225
• http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=149645&l=7cf6a&id=822240225
• http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=149666&l=479bf&id=822240225

These are four photo albums (arranged chronologically) hosted on Facebook which is accessible to everyone, even if you don’t have a Facebook account. If these links stop working, please contact me and I’ll see what I can do.

Although the wheelchair was responsible for a fair amount of problems, at many times it was a very useful asset to have.  When we first travelled to London to meet up with the UK tour group, we bought train tickets at Cambridge station, but being ignorant of first-world public transport systems, was not immediately sure where exactly we would use it.  No matter: we had a wheelchair!  So a friendly attendant at the train station came and opened up the gate for us without us having had to use our tickets.  The same was true for coming back: although we were wise to the system by know, as we (read: the wheelchair) approached the gate, it open magically.  This meant that we had completed a round-trip from Cambridge to London and back without having used our train tickets.  And the tickets were valid for a month.  The implication?  A saving of £35.50 (≈ R600) when I returned to London!  I was on my own now, so naturally I had to give up the “to” portion of my return ticket.

I had been in London three times before: when we landed, when we left on the UK tour and when we returned from the UK tour.  On non of these occasions were there any real time for sight seeing.  With our holiday nearing an end, it was time to change this.  I left my parents behind to go and explore London on my own a bit while they recuperated from the continental tour.

I arrived early and procured an underground travel pass.  Unfortunately, for some reason, I chose the “off-peak” option, which was cheaper, yes, but limited my travel times.  Still, I hung around a bit at King’s Cross station, having tea and breakfast until peak time passed.  I then bordered the underground to my first destination for the day.  Although I would have liked to have visited Warwick Castle and Bletchley Park, both of these are well outside of London and there wouldn’t have been time to do them and London.  Being a two-week veteran of international touring, I figured that I should not aim too high there either.  I planned to only go to three places: the Imperial War Museum (IWM), the Cabinet War Rooms and the Tower of London.  I arrived in London early in the morning, so this was doable, right?  Unfortunately, as is so often the case with me, I did not get to all of them.  In fact, I entered the IWM, forewent lunch, and emerged in the late afternoon when everything was closing.  But, what a place!  The foyer is filled with machines of war: tanks, Jeeps, howitzers, rockets, submarines and aeroplanes.  When I eventually got passed this, I discovered a plethora of information in the exhibitions.  I first went into the D-Day exhibition and when I was done with that, I had already been in the museum for more than two hours.  Knowing that time is pressing, I simply couldn’t bring myself to miss out on the World War 1, World War 2, Holocaust and Espionage exhibitions¹.  So, I consider the day well spent, because it is such a terrific place I could just get lost in (although I would need someone there with me to remind me to eat).

At the IMW, I came face-to-face with my nemeses again: school groups.  It seemed like half of the primary schools in London has converged on the IWM; and then there was the regular patrons as well.  But, I am thankful for them for this: helping me see how young people take in history.  Of course I was in primary school myself some years back and know what fun excursions can be.  They are not learning experiences, but mandatory time to muck about with your schoolmates outside of the class environment.  And the generation I saw that day did justice to this paradigm.  Even the “well-behaved” ones: do they realise exactly what they are seeing when the gather around their teacher to draw a picture of a German V2 rocket?  How far from these children’s minds are the atrocities of war?  Specifically a war that has ravaged their city 65 years ago?  That is not a long time ago: most of their grandparents lived through it.  And that is the other face I saw that day: the one of elderly people being accompanied by their teenage descendants.  I would try to get close to these rare couplings and try and eavesdrop, yearning for the stories they are sharing with their grandchildren.  There was an old man and his grandson whom I saw at the end of the Holocaust exhibition.  There was also a Jewish man with two adolescent boys in the World War 2 exhibition, but I could not understand them, as they were speaking Hebrew.  But these weren’t cases of children being dragged to the museum against their will or even being punished to have to listen to grandpa’s stories: they wanted to be there, they wanted to learn and they wanted to hear.  This was something very touching for me.  War is only waged by a few people: everyone else is simply caught up in the middle of it.  I still find it hard to believe that WW2 was raging a mere 65 years ago.  It is something we can still touch, because we still have people amongst us who can tell us about that time.  While visiting my history teacher from school after I returned, she told me about something she had seen in the IMW: three men together in the foyer looking at the Sherman tank.  It was clearly a grandfather-father-son group.  The boy was excited about seeing a real-life tank and was running around, presumably making fighting noises.  The father was amazed at seeing this object which played a significant part in his father’s life.  As for the grandfather—tears started rolling down his cheeks as he said “It looks just like the one we had!”.  History we can touch—I don’t mean old buildings or pots presented to us by archaeologists or WW2 tanks, but rather we can touch the flesh of the people who lived through it and listen to their voices—is a powerful thing… it is almost sacred.  We must learn from it.  But being the younger generations it seems inevitable that we shall push forward with our ignorance and stubbornness to learn from our elders and repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: if you don’t want to just tour the “face” of a city like London (see the Tower of London, move on, see Westminster Abbey, move on, see Buckingham Palace, move on…), you are going to need two or three weeks per city to get everything done.  We proved that you could tour through western Europe in a week, but every place has a story to tell and you could spend several years learning everything.  It was late afternoon now and although rainy weather had persisted throughout the day, a special kind of rain fell: that which accompanies you home from work and makes you extra glad to be home when you get there.  But I had no home in London, so I did the second best thing late afternoon rain is best for: I met up with a friend.  She and her boyfriend had travelled to London together in search of experience and adventure.  I knew they had been through some good time and some rough times, but it was good to see that she hadn’t really changed.  We chatted for a while, mostly about her experiences in the UK and my adventures on the holiday.  Afterwards, we departed together to the underground.  She pointed out some sights; we passed right by St Pauls Catherdral (another must I missed out on) and she accompanied me for my very first stroll over the Millennium Bridge.  All in all, it was great to see her again.  But I still got a feeling that something was wrong… which was confirmed a couple of weeks later when she broke up with her boyfriend.  They had been dating a while before they decided to go overseas together, but this again proved that such a step drastically test a relationship.  As far as I am concerned, going to live overseas with someone is a decision which is either going to make or break a relationship in the long run.

I may not have had a home in London, but I did have lodgings in the form of an old school friend: the infamous Djiaak.  After school his family moved to Johannesburg and he went to the university there, so I only saw him a handful of times since then.  We had kept more-or-less in touch and I thought it would be nice if someone “from the old country” visited him.  We went to a pub before going to his flat, but couldn’t stay out too late, as he had work in the morning and I had to get ready for day two in London.  After two-and-a-half weeks of being away from my friends, it was nice to meet up with some friends again whom I had seen even longer last.

For day two in London, I had to return to King’s Cross station, as my parents would be joining me for the day.  The reason for their coming to London was twofold: they wanted to see London, of course, but R&J also treated us to tickets to go see Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty’s Theater in London.  We again decided to go on a guided bus tour of the city.  There are only two cities in the UK which has a population of over 1 million people, and one of them, London, is also the largest city in Europe.  My first impressions, however, was that this wasn’t the case: Paris had felt bigger.  I think the difference is that the main tourist attractions in Paris is much more spread out than in London: the bus tours completed their routes relatively quickly.  Our first stop was the London Eye, which my parents decided to go on.  Before we left South Africa, I was advised that this is largely a waste of time (although my parents did enjoy it), so I set off across Westminster Bridge to have a gander at the Houses of Parliament.  I then realised that Westminster Abbey is right behind the House of Parliament, so I went in there, although I couldn’t take my time in there, as I didn’t want to keep my parents waiting.  Although I did tell my parents to give me a call when they were done, you don’t really want your cellphone to go off in what effectively is a very elaborate crypt.  I was surreal to walk past (and on top of) the final resting places of so many English noblemen and noblewomen.  Kings, queens, princes, dukes… their earthly remains separated from me by but a slab of marble.  It is a fantastic place, but the question of desecration did arise within me: people are buried underneath the floor and thousands of people mill through there every day.  I wish I could have taken in more, but I had to leave and meet up with my parents again.  After lunch we rode around on the bus again a bit, over Tower Bridge and getting off at London Tower.  The ideal would have been to go in, but from my experiences the previous day, the fact that it was getting late, and the amount of people queuing to get it, we decided it was not going to happen for us today.  We then just walked around and took in the sights.

Being concerned that we would be late for the show, we then left for Her Majesty’s Theater.  It show was simply amazing… I now fully understand its success and longevity.  The acting, the music, the effects, everything was just spectacular!  I was concerned that I only had a t-shirt and jeans with me to wear, but that didn’t prove to be a problem.  Still, it was a very stately affair and I appreciate the opportunity to have seen such a fantastic show?  Afterwards we still had to return to Cambridge by train.  And guess what?  The gates were opened for us and we did not have to use our tickets.  My parents also didn’t have to use their tickets that morning, so after two trips to London, we could present R&J with two-and-a-half return tickets to London which only expired in two weeks’ time.

There is something about London which I wish to comment on.  London prides itself as a cosmopolitan city, but Paris felt much, much more cosmopolitan.  Everywhere I went in London, I heard foreigners: Americans, South Africans, but hardly any British accents.  Tourism alone doesn’t make for a cosmopolitan city.  In Paris, sure, you can find tourists if you go to the tourist attractions, but when you see people who came from another country, they likely live there and are not tourists.  People go to London to make quick money and then want to return home.  In fact, there are so many foreigners in London, that if they were to leave all at once, the entire economy could collapse.  But I believe many people who go to London for work eventually want to return home.  In Paris, people are often unable to return home due to the circumstances under which they came to Paris, so they are eventually absorbed into Paris.  This makes Paris, for me at least, feel much more like a melting pot of cultures.

The following day was our last full day before we were due to return to South Africa.  We spent it by shopping, resting and packing.  That evening we went to see another show with R&J: a local production of Oliver.

And so the day came we had to leave.  Its been fun.  So long, and thanks for the fish.  We finished packing and had breakfast with R&J before they took us to the bus stop.  They have a policy: no goodbyes at the airport.  This is something I can understand: hellos are happy things… goodbyes, not.  So we said goodbye, swallowed our lumps and turned our attention to the excitement of getting home.  Touring is fun and exciting, but there comes a time for everyone, I think, when they have had enough and really just want to go home.  Maybe they want to return to their old routine, maybe they want to share their experiences, or put what they have learned into practise, or they want a chance to rest and save up for the next trip, or just want to see their family and friends again.  Whatever the reason, you want to go home.  Admittedly by this time I was tired of lugging all the luggage around… no doubt it did much to refine my Herculean physique, but enough is enough.  So, it was with great anticipation we hauled in the bags to the check-in area… only to be told our flight has been delayed… for 12 hours.  Not too worry, they would put us up in a hotel—a nice one!  But it was still another day of dragging bags around, packing and unpacking… needless to say, we weren’t thrilled by the news.  No-one was.  Our flight was due to land on Sunday and now would only land on Monday.  This was a problem, as people had to return to work and school on Monday.  Yes, some of our fellow passengers got very verbal and very distraught.  I had no concrete commitments which could be affected, my father is retired and my mother soon got over worrying about work.  So we set off for our hotel, which turned out to be a very, very posh one.  It was the first hotel where I had a room of my own and may very well have been the most comfortable one we had been in.  But I did pity the poor staff.  You see, our flight was a direct flight to Johannesburg, which means it would have been full of South Africans.  Of these South Africans, a healthy amount of them were Afrikaners.  Even for a hotel in London (a city which is saturated with South Africans), the concentration of South Africans must have been overwhelming.  Everything was arranged on short notice, of course, so the hotel people were caught on the back foot.  That night, we dined like kings, along with the honoured guest.  But by the following morning, the hotel staff had composed themselves and we were ushered into a our own dining room for, frankly, a very plain breakfast.  I’m sure they were glad to see us go.  The advantage our original flight would have had the advantage of being a night flight, so we would be able to land refreshed from some sleep.  Now we were flying through the entire day, so now at least I can say I’ve stayed awake through a transcontinental flight.  This meant that when we landed in Johannesburg, it was night and there were no more flights going out to Cape Town, so we had to spend another night away from home—this time in a small B&B.  But we got up early and a few short hours later, we were home.

And so my story ends.  What is left to say?  Is there some insightful conclusion I can reach?  Some profound piece of wisdom I can share?  No, there is nothing earth-shattering I can say.  This summary of the trip, as far as I am concerned, is a rather dismal attempt at conveying what I experienced.  Words are meant to convey information, not experiences.  Therefore, all I can say is this: go.  Go there for yourself; see, smell, touch, taste and feel.  Laugh, cry, be excited, be energised, be exhausted, be humbled and be amazed.  Go and experience.

1. I was dissapointed that there wasn’t an exhibition on the Anglo-Boer War.  It was, after all, one of the first wars to receive modern media coverage.  But the whole business left an unpleasant taste in the mouthes of the British, I’m sure. [↩]

After several days of living amongst the French, I was excited about the prospect of Switzerland, partly because I actually knew a little bit of German. I had actually had it as a subject at school and even though that was a long time ago, I was eager to see if I could hold my own between the German conversations and signs. Granted, I knew that Swiss German is very, very different from the Hochdeutsch you learn in a German course, but I was still confident I would cope. The thing is, our initial experience of Switzerland was mostly in French. People tend to think of Europe as a continent of blocs: the French bloc, the German bloc, the Spanish bloc, the British bloc, the Italian bloc… Certainly all these cultures are distinctive, but they are not necessarily confined to political borders. As is quite natural, the borders of European countries are not black-and-white, but rather flows from one culture into another; like an interpolation from one high-density “traditional-view” cultural centre to another. These patterns are natural results of human migration, both ancient and modern. But I consider countries like Switzerland and Belgium to be “border” countries: where they meet the lines are blurred the most, thus creating the much starker contrast between, say, France and Germany. Switzerland is predominantly German, but it was interesting to see the strong French influence there was as well.

To be quite honest, I am still not sure whether the Rheinfall is on the German or the Swiss side of the border. It is probably right on the border, but I’m not sure from which side we approached¹. Anyway, the Rheinfall was our first stop for the day and is a huge waterfall on the Rhein river. This was my first experience of such a large waterfall and it was breathtaking to stand there underneath and be dwarfed by the thundering rapids.

We then entered the Schwarzwald: the Black Forest in Germany. I had imagined the Black Forest to be even more sparsely populated than it in fact is, but the forest is still impressive. Curiously it is very green and not black. The “black”, of course, refers to the darkness inside the forest due to the dense canopy. Of course we only stuck to the road so could only glimpse into the Black Forest from the side. Our journey took us up roughly along the western German border and we passed through the cities of Freudenstadt, Baden-Baden, Mainz and Köln. Our stint in Germany was mainly a driving one and we never really stopped to explore cities, with the exception of Rüdesheim. We stopped at a magnificent shop which specialises in cuckoo-clocks and I nearly brought one home with me. We also stopped by the Loreley statue and took some pictures, although we did not go up close due mainly to time and the wheelchair issues. We then continued up along the Rhein and were treated to spectacular castles all along the hills. Well, I don’t think they are technically castles, as castles are, by definition, defensive structures. These medieval marvels were ill placed to survive a determined assault, so I suppose they are more akin to the French Château than a castle in that they were stately homes of the landlords. Either way, the were beautiful and something worth reverence and respect.

Our journey through Germany took us nearly two full days of hard driving. By the end of the second day we stumbled into the Netherlands. We were all tired at this point, but R&J decided that they wanted to show us a town called Deventer, from where our ancestor originated before moving to Germany and finally ending up in the Cape of Good Hope. Afrikaners are descendants from many European cultures such as the French and Germans, but we are mainly of Dutch heritage. The Netherlands is therefore typically considered some sort of “fatherland”. As a history aficionado, I was infatuated by the Netherlands for a long time, but outgrew this fascination over time. Still, deep down, I think the Netherlands was a sort of highlight for us, because despite their wayward modern attitudes, from them our culture came to be.

Recounting my first impressions of the Netherlands is in order. I found the country to be dirtier than the previous European countries we had been in. Literally and figuratively. On the outside, I immediately noticed the garbage laying along the road and in the streets of the towns. This sort of reminded us of home, but was not what we had come to see. By the time we arrived in Deventer, it was late and the sun was very low down in the sky. We drove around a bit until we saw an intriguing church tower in the distance. We decided to go and take a look before leaving for our hotel, which was on the other side of Amsterdam. Not having a map of the town, we stumped along through the streets in the car into what seemed to be more or less the correct direction. As we neared the centre of town, the traffic had built up and we noticed all the cars were turning left. For some reason we thought the might be going in the direction of the church or following some main artery which would lead us to the church, so we turned left; into the red-light district of tiny Deventer. Please picture it: my brother, his wife, my parents and I, in a car, face-to-face with window displays of what is on offer for tonight’s entertainment. Gears were changed and we were out of there faster than most of the eager shoppers were to get there. The shock did provide for some comic relief later on, however, as we continued in the dark to our hotel “just outside of Amsterdam”, which turned out to be a half-hour’s drive from the capital through flat countryside populated by geese, sheep and cows. Our fears of ending up in Belgium were dispelled soon, however, as we reached our hotel and collapsed exhausted into our beds. After two days of hard driving, we would spend the next day only in Amsterdam, so it was a bit of a breather.

We arrived Sunday morning at Amsterdam to explore the (in)famous city.  It struck me how quiet the city was when we arrived, but the hustle and bustle picked up a little later on.  We first boarded a boat tour which took us through the city’s famous canals.  It was incredible to see the 17th century homes built along the canals: clearly, trade was very lucrative and many Dutchmen did extremely well for themselves (dare I say, even compared to today’s standards?).  Afterwards we split up and I walked around the city a bit.  I started feeling peckish and stumbled upon a square surrounded by pubs and restaurants.  I found myself a pancake shop which was nestled in a sports bar and settled in for a huge savoury (spicy chicken) pancake.  The people from the sports bar were handing out little booklets which, in addition to being advertising for the bar, was also a little “welcome to our city” book.  The Dutch have a very strange mindset: it seems like nothing is taboo.  It is no secret that they are a very liberal nation, but the contrast of advertising the Anne Frank house on one page and the red-light district on the next did not go unnoticed for me.  I was hoping to meet up with someone whom I had met at the previous GeekDinner, but she was in Untrecht and the opportunity didn’t present itself for us to meet up.  Still, it would have been interesting to discuss what I had seen and experienced.  For instance: the sex industry is obviously heavily geared towards men, so what is it like for a girl to grow up in a society which (seemingly) objectifies women so much more than nearly anywhere else?  Where sex tourism and sex trade have become pillars of the society?  Do the Dutch notice this, or do they simply not care?  The real value of the booklet, however, was the back page, which contained (as I would later realise, crude) map of Amsterdam with places of interests for tourists highlighted.  After discovering an amazing Australian ice cream shop, I set off for the Anne Frank house.  I thought it would be very cool to rent a bicycle for the trip, as the bicycle (after weed², boobs and water) is the quintessential symbol of Amsterdam.  There were bicycles everywhere: the infrastructure was specifically adapted to separately cater for motorists, cyclists and pedestrians.  The bicycles were so numerous that they could have been used as a biblical metaphor for infinity.  But the bicycles weren’t flashy: the were modest and oldish.  Most of them looked the same.  This is the key: in a city were there are more bicycles than people and everything looks the same, why would anyone bother to steal a bicycle?  Unfortunately the shop I went to only rented out bikes for a whole day and I didn’t fancy paying the full price for the two hours I would use it.  So I set off to the Anne Frank house.  I had not planned this and neither had I read her diary, but I was still excited by the prospect of seeing this piece of history.  The house is next to a church and outside the church there is a small statue of her.  It was also there that I noticed how beautifully crafted the lamp posts are.  In fact, like the rest of Amsterdam where I had been, it was beautiful outside the Anne Frank house.  It struck me that most of the building around me had lived through the war and I found myself wondering if it was as beautiful back then.  Could the people of Amsterdam have appreciated the beautify of their own city while it was in the hands of the oppressors?  Probably—Anne Frank, at least, realised this, and her heart broke for not being able to go out and experience her city.  Even peeking out of a window was a game of Russian roulette.  Apart from it being mildly crowded, the trip to the museum was a good experience.  I had previously been in the Cape Town Holocaust Centre, so I knew reasonably well what to expect, but my heart always breaks anew when I hear the stories.  After that I met up with my family and we headed back to the hotel.  The next day we would continue on to Belgium after stopping at Delft.

Delft is a city in the Netherlands which is world-renowned for the prowess of its inhabitants to package hand-painted porcelain for international travel.  Oh, and its hand-painted porcelain.  It was now Monday and we arrived early in Delft.  I had thought that things would pick up quicker than it had on the Sunday morning, but I was wrong.  It seems as if every area has one day where it takes things a little slower than on other days.  Delft did so on Mondays, as close examination of business hours posted outside coffee houses revealed.  Most shops would only open close to lunch time, while on other days of the week they would have been open by that time we were there.  We found one quaint little coffee shop near the town square and were pleasantly surprised to find a familiar face on each table: a bottle of wine from the Western Provence!  We drank our beverages and I conquered an uitsmyter (terwyl die res uitgesmyt is) and then moved on to the town square.  We allocated an hour for ourselves to walk around, admiring the beautiful church and snooping around for bargains.  Although Delft is actually world famous for their porcelain, it struck me that their tourist shops had a very low self-esteem, as even they sold a lot of Amsterdam paraphernalia³.  Back on the topic of Amsterdam: really, it was sad that 90% of their tourism focuses on drugs and sex.  Amsterdam is actually a very beautiful city.  I was shocked when I returned home and found people—not my guy friends—expressing disappointment that I had not travelled to the red-light district to have a look around.  Anyway, it was fun bargain-hunting in Delft, which was just as beautiful (had I not known we were in Delft, I would have guessed we had returned to Amsterdam).  Afterwards we went to Kinderdijk⁴, here all (well, many) of the windmills are.

We then pressed on to Belgium, which was another country we were very much looking forward to seeing.  Everyone I had spoken to before the trip who had been there had praised the beauty of Brugge, so I was very keen to see it.  I don’t know whether I was getting tired at this point or whether it was the miserable weather (it was fine in Britain, but now it was just a nuisance), but I did not quite get the quick I had hoped I would from Brugge.  Don’t get me wrong, it is a beautiful city: I simply didn’t make an emotional connection with it as I did with Edinburgh.  I actually hoped I would.  Perhaps the anticipation also spoiled it for me a bit.  And I shall hold out for the day the blinders are lifted from my eyes and I peer into the distinctive soul of Brugge I know is there.  But I fully concede that Brugge has marvellous buildings; had we not been pressed for time, I could easily have wandered around for hours looking at all the buildings, statues and churches.  Another regret of mine is that I missed the opportunity to try genuine Belgium beer, but—but—we did stop at a speciality chocolate shop.  Oh, had I known what lay before me.  Yes, they looked beautiful, layout in a clinical environment and treated by the chocolatiers with care a neurosurgeon can only dream of.  Yes, all looked and smelled brilliantly.  Yes, Belgium is famous for its chocolate, so one would expect it to taste rather nice, wouldn’t you?  The thing is, when you bring a piece of that chocolate to your mouth and you proceed to desecrate it with our teeth and tongue, time stands still, your heart skips a beat and, somewhere, a cherubim reaches climax.  Yes, it is that good.  My quest for the best chocolate in the world has come to an end and I may now continue with other pursuits, knowing that there will always be a tiny country in western Europe to which I can return to find chocolatey perfection.

We spent the night in Brussels.  I don’t really know anything about Brussels, except that it is the capital of the EU.  We only stayed there and did not explore it at all.  It was only after we had returned from our holiday that my history teacher shared a narrative with me by a travel writer who described Brussels as a city which is without the love of its people.  New York, Paris, Cape Town… all across the world, you’ll find cities who are populated by zealots, who wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world.  For its inhabitants, Brussels is functional.  It is not your dream car, nor your first car, nor even the rental which takes you through Western Europe for the first time.  It is that car you get for a day or two while your real car is in for a service.  This was a haunting thought for me.  There are strange attitudes in Belgium.  I had know there were two camps in Belgium (the French and the Flemish) and that they want to partition the country, but I did not realise how strongly they felt about it until I was there.  Flemish is closer to Afrikaans than Dutch is, so I confidently communicated in my mother tongue.  But if you were in the French part of the country and you addressed someone in “Flemish”, you got a very cold stare which only a Frenchman can muster.  You would be better off standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe asking a local whether this was the Brandenburg Gate in a heavy American accent.

The next day was our last in continental Europe and we effectively sprinted towards Paris.  The reason was simple: we would only reach Paris by the afternoon.  The later we arrived in the afternoon, the worse the traffic would be.  I knew traffic in Paris could be bad, but until you’ve been stuck in a Parisian traffic jam, you won’t quite be able to comprehend what it is about.  Intersections are as thoroughly packed as their parking spaces, except that everything is happening in two directions now and people actually want to move, not remain stationary.  Unless you drive with the right amount of gusto (which is a lot), you are not going anywhere.  This is doubly bad for you, because not only is your dinner going to get cold, but the people in front and behind you, to your left and right and diagonally across from you are going to be furious with you for effectively become a road obstacle.  As passengers, my parents and I actually quite enjoyed watching the chaos, but for the driver and navigator it was no laughing matter and we did well to muffle our ignorant glee.  The good news is that we reached Gare du Nord in good time and, with a little help from the wheelchair, booked in several hours prior to our train’s departure, giving us time to relax, wind down and reflect on the adventures of the past few days.  Late that evening we were back in Cambridge and the prospect of sleeping until late in our familiar beds was definitely something to look forward to.  And we deserved it: we had, after all, effectively covered over 3000 km in one week… not too shabby, wouldn’t you say.  For me, however, this was not meant to be.  You see, early the next morning, I was going to London.

PS I forgot to mention this earlier, but what amazed me was how many pharmacies there are in Europe.  At first I thought this phenomenon was local to Paris, in which case you would be able to explain it away on STDs.  But in all the major European cities, you find a bright green cross staring down at you at every second corner!  I kid you not, its incredible!  Why?

1. My O₂ SMS notification welcomed me to Germany and there was a World War 2 memorial to fallen German soldiers, but there were also many Swiss flags about, so confusion abound. Swiss pride, by the way, is very strong, and we once turned into a street with many Swiss flags and banners. It looked familiar a sight, but the black swastikas were replaced by white crosses. [↩]
2. The booklet explained that narcotics such as marijuana aren’t, in fact, legal in the Netherlands, but is merely tolerated.  I wonder why the police would have such a relaxed attitude towards these drugs… [↩]
3. Cliché ganga-themed t-shirts and t-shirts akin to: “Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go to Amsterdam”. [↩]
4. On our way there we passed a town called Nieuw-Lekkerland, which we thought was kind of funny. [↩]

For the second leg of our holiday, R&J took leave from work for a week to guide us through western Europe.  Well, they actually had to go back for two days, but for the bulk of the trip they would be our guides.  The idea was to rent a car and drive through Europe and try to work in a “best of” as far as time would allow us.  So, think about that for a second: ten days to see Western Europe.  Except for Iberia, we pretty much had everything on our schedule: France, Switzerland, Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium.  Ten days.  That is quite a tall order, but we were too excited to think of the practicality of it all.  We started off in style, taking the Eurostar underneath the Channel right into Paris.

So, Paris.  Before we left I had a less than positive attitude towards the French.  in short, I dislike them.  I guess growing up in a culture heavily influenced by the British and American media would do that to people.  And this was despite reading C’est la Folie, and excellent book my brother recommended which deals with an Englishman who moves to rural France in an attempt to learn to become a hero and a real man.  Sometimes you just make up your mind about something without any justification, which is wrong.  It is not easy to change how you feel towards an entire people, but I was wrong about a lot of things.  One of the things that struck me about the French is how friendly they are.  On several occasions people offered to help with my father’s wheelchair.  But, I learned that this friendliness comes at a price: you have to make an attempt to slot into their culture and not except things to be done your way simply because you are a tourist.  When we arrived in Paris, I knew the phrases for “hello” (bonjour), “goodbye” (au revoir), “excuse me” (excusez-moi), “please” (s’il vous plaît), “thank you” (merci), “do you speak English?” (parlez-vous anglais) and I could count to three (un, deux, trois)¹.  Parlez-vous anglais is strictly a last resort².  But the point is that I doubt whether there is another culture where the knowledge of the words of “hello”, “please” and “thank you” can get you quite as far as it does in France.  If they can see you are attempting to make concession for them, they are very accommodating.  I think common courtesy is very important for the French.  The people we dealt with left a very good impression on me.

So, Paris.  We totalled nearly five days in Paris, which could very well mean that I spent more time in that city than in any other on the entire trip.  The first thing that struck me about Paris was the imposing neoclassical architecture, which is not limited to a certain area, but can be found throughout the “old city”.  At the start of the 19th century, most of Paris were slums.  In the middle of that century, Napoleon III ordered Georges-Eugène Haussmann to redesign the city; in the process, the medieval city was destroyed and replaced by the distinctive Parisian cityscape we know today (sanitation and transport was also greatly improved).  I would guess no other city like it exists in the world.  There are monuments everywhere, wide, tree-lined streets, and all the buildings seem deliberately resplendent.  In every street and alleyway there is something to marvel at.

We first went to our hotel and then went to buy some food for lunch, which we proceeded to eat along the Seine river.  It was about this time when I saw my first two Parisian rats.  Unlike Remy, these we Laurel and Hardy figures: one was fat and scampered away quickly.  The other one was not so much tall and slender as it was levelled with the asphalt.  Still feeling antagonistic towards the French at this stage, I thought this would be the turn-around after the initial awe I was nursing.  Thankfully, this was not to be, as the most famous Paris landmark soon loomed in the distance³.  You see thousands of pictures of something like the Eiffel Tower every year—you grow use to it just like the mundane landmarks in your everyday life.  So, you wonder to yourself: after all the exposure I have had, will seeing something like the Eiffel Tower for real really have such a dramatic impact?  The answer is yes: a thousand times over yes.  There is something humbling about approaching such a landmark on foot and seeing it slowly grow as the horizon expands behind it.  What struck me most about the Eiffel Tower was its colour: its periwinkle hue was not what I expected, but I really liked it.  Before we actually reached the Eiffel Tower, we took a detour on a sight-seeing boat down the Seine.  This was just a little teaser, as we saw many of the things which we wanted to get to later, but we couldn’t quite reach out and touch it yet.  For example, I saw the Notre Dame for the first time, and it was just as imposing as the Eiffel Tower was (although the Notre Dame was the colour I had imagined).  On this boat ride we passed underneath splendid bridges and saw theatres, monuments and museums.  As we listened to the commentary being drummed out in at least four different European languages, it became clear to us just how saturated Paris is with Place of Significance… and we were only seeing what was along the river!  Far away still lay the Louvre and the Champs-Élysées and the Sacré-Cœur and…!  Back on land we finally approached the Eiffel Tower.  It should be mentioned that we hold a special regard for this monument, as it was underneath the Eiffel Tower that R&J got engaged.  You don’t often see the underbelly of the Eiffel Tower on photographs and for some strange reason it reminded me of the end of Evolution.  It was summer, so it is needless to say the place was crawling with tourists.  We decided not to go up the Eiffel Tower with the guarantee that the tour Montparnasse gives a much, much better view of Paris. It was also here were I first saw the Roma—or, “Travellers” in the politically correct term⁴.  Primarily girls go around to all the tourists, asking them if they can speak English.  If the tourists reply in the affirmative, the girl hands them a piece of paper whereby some authority decreed that it is OK to give them money.  They are not confined to the Eiffel Tower, but are prevalent at all the major tourist attractions in Paris.  When we were done, we returned to our hotel, because the next day was going to be a big one.

Disneyland has a special place in the hearts and minds of my family. My immediate family and I, however, had never been there. It was my mother’s Big Wish to see Euro Disney, believing that she would never get to see the original Disneyland in Orlando, Florida. I had some reservations about this expedition, to be honest. The reason being that my ex-girlfriend also had a huge affinity for Disneyland. After months of real and concrete healing, some things still tend to get to me. But, there was a Greater Good at stake, so there was no choice but to persevere. To be quite honest, Disneyland was, in fact really fun. The only real hiccup was a set-back with my father’s wheelchair. We had thought that the wheelchair would allow us to skip the long queues, but our first ride (Thunder Mesa) wouldn’t allow us to cut ahead without some sort of pass which had to be issued somewhere at the gate. Apparently this was “unprecedented” in my circle of Disneyland veterans, but I believe this measure was implemented after some incidence of fraud was detected⁵. Thunder Mesa was a huge success, not simply in the fact that it was fun, but that we got my parents to ride it. That was my mother’s first—and probably last, if she has a say in the matter—in a roller-coaster. I’m proud of her doing it, even though we did somewhat lead her into the slaughter (al be it very quietly). Still, apart from some dizziness, she got away unsaved. We also went on all the cliché rides, such as Pirates of the Caribbean and Its a Small World. We also split up at one point so that everyone can explore a bit. I headed straight for the Indiana Jones ride, the thrill of The Crystal Skull still fresh in my veins. Heading in I actually thought I noticed or overheard something about a two-hour wait to get on the ride, but I pressed on. The problem with that ride is that it has a very, very long and winding entrance. It is filled with many props and shrubbery, so unless you have been there before, you have no idea when you will get to the front. I walked through empty passageways for a bit until I came to some people. “Ah, this doesn’t look so bad.” I estimated a wait of about 40 minutes. 40 minutes later, the I passed from that section of the waiting area… into the next one. Suddenly there weren’t a couple of dozen people in front of my, but hundreds of packed, sweating, annoyed people in front of me. Some sensible people gave up at this point, but for some reason I pushed on. At one point an announcement came that the ride had stopped due to technical problems. This piece of straw broke many backs, and I decided to hold out due to the exodus of people in front of me. Eventually, after 135 minutes of waiting, I got to board the ride… which felt like a it lasted one minute. Don’t get me wrong, it was an awesome ride, but whether I had gone on the ride or not, I would have wasted much time which could have been spent exploring another part of the compound. After a long and eventful day, five tired souls boarded the train back to Paris.

For the next two days, my parents and I were left alone in Paris. The leave of R&J only started two days later and they were forced to return to the UK. We were left with ample maps and advice, though. Unfortunately I am ashamed to admit that one day completely went to waste. Our excuse was that, after a week of hard travelling, we were tired and needed excessive amounts of sleep. But the next day we were back in full force with a day planned to the brim. We would tour Paris using a sight-seeing bus. The bus route did not pass particularly close to us, so we would have had to take the metro or a taxi there. This plan sounds simple, but I was hoping to slip away to les catacombes de Paris: my Big Wish. I would send my parents off to get on the bus, go to the catacombs and then join them later at another bus stop. After 40 minutes of trying to phone for a taxi, however, the friendly hotel receptionist had to give up. The metro? No, my parents refuse to take on the metro on their own. So, relaying on two decades of watching people hail cabs in the movies and on TV, I led my parents into the streets of Paris to try and find a taxi. This was a fruitless endeavour, however, and I very nearly swore never to get angry at South African taxi’s again, because at least they are available if you need them. Eventually we had to give up. By this time it was too late for me to still do the catacombs, so we boarded a metro train to one of the tour bus stops. After all that running, it was nice to sit back and listen to the commentary trying to keep up with the bus driver as we drove through a city filled with history and heritage. At the stops for the Sacré-Cœur and Notre Dame, we got off to explore the legendary landmarks in more detail. By this time, trying to put into words what I saw and experienced is a really daunting task: I don’t want to loose my audience by repeating what I had said many times before, but these places were really incredible. The design and detail these places so famously boast on their outside continues on the inside, but to walk up to these places and see their Gothic patterns come into focus as intricately carved statuettes depicting stories, events, peoples—indeed, even cultures—long since passed, is breathtaking. They are beautiful and the best I can do to describe them is to urge you to go there and see for yourself.

Our last stop for the day was to be the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe. Unfortunately, as we turned into enchanting artery of Paris, we were stopped by some big men with even bigger guns. While we looked out to a uncharacteristically deserted Champs-Élysées, some words were exchanged before the driver changed direction. You see, this was the day French president Sarkozy took over the presidency of the European Union and there was something special to take place at the Arc de Triomphe, so we regrettably had to skip this landmark. The driver apologised profusely; it wouldn’t have helped to get angry anyway, because, in life, these things tend to happen from time. By now we were tired and as we passed through the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, we effectively completed the bus tour. After a very short stint of trying to hail a taxi again, we took the metro to the hotel. Truth be told, that was a trying day for everyone. Tel voyage. Dusk was rapidly approaching and I decided to head off to one last Parisian experience. Our hotel was not too far the tour Montparnasse, so I walked there, absorbing residual Paris life the passers-by shed along the way. The Montparnasse Tower is the tallest structure in the old part of the city. Its erection angered so many people—who thought it ruined the cityscape—that it was made policy that no other skyscraper would be built in the old city. The Eiffel Tower draw similar critisism, but it is unlikely that the world would warm to the Montparnasse Tower as it did to the Eiffel Tower. Still, the Montparnasse Tower plays a crucial part in tourism in Paris: as the tallest structure in the old city, you can see all of Paris (that matters) from the top. The top floor is conveniently owned by a company which pays homage to the words of writer Guy de Maupassant. On the top floor there is a restaurant and almost 360° of windows, with informative posters all around detailing the current view. After looking around a bit and realising that you can’t even afford the tea in the restaurant, one then heads up to the roof. If you thought it looked good through the top floor windows, you are pleasantly surprised when you are no longer looking through glass, but standing there, alone in the wind. Of course there are other people there around you, but the majesty of the Parisian cityscape diminishes them into obscurity. In fact, it very nearly diminishes you into insignificance. I walked around the edge of the roof, tracing our day’s journey: the Sacré-Cœur, the Champs-Élysées and Eiffel Tower… I was there. It was not a dream. And standing there at 210m wasn’t a dream either: my dreams aren’t as breathtaking. The next day we scrambled back to Gare du Nord, where we would meet up with R&J again. It was time to leave Paris and start our European tour.

Before moving on, I would first like to make some observations about Paris. When we arrived, the taxi ride from the train station to the hotel was my first experience of right-hand driving. Being an avid GTA player, I thought experiencing right-hand would not be so strange. After all, I have, on a couple of occasions, found myself driving on the right-hand side, not because of some mischievous prank, but because it simply felt natural (and I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing). Yet being in a culture of right-hand roads was strange and it actually did take me some time to get use to it, although, thankfully, I did not have to drive in Parisian traffic. France doesn’t have laws governing driving as much as drivers have an understanding with one another: get the job done. Opportunistic driving is the norm in aid of peak efficiency. The parking problem is solved by truly expert parking: the cars are packed so tightly as to resemble Aztec masonry. Knowing that this is possible, my dismay about parking in Stellenbosch grew, for in a town which is notorious for its parking problems, people still choose to park with half car lengths between each other. Heaven forbid that some filthy middle-class person’s clothes touch my Hyundai or Ford or Fiat. The girls of Paris are well and truly very, very beautiful. I cannot comment on their personality, however, but there are some outward flaws which make them less than ideal. First of all, they all appear to be suffering from an eating disorder. The next time I go to Paris, I want to go armed with the knowledge of the French phrases for “please go eat something” and “get a room” (I do not object to public displays of affection, as long as it doesn’t escalate to full-blow foreplay). Secondly, everyone, everyone, in France smokes. Smoking is a huge turn-off for me; to the point were I can sometimes image a beautiful girl who is smoking as some fallen angel. So, the conclusion is this: local is still lekker

We started our southward journey through the French countryside. R&J treated us by keeping off the highways and sticking to back roads. This meant we would much more clearly see experience the country as we passed through small villages and Burgundian vineyards. It was on this part of the journey that we learned something about the French we had never know. The Italians and Spanish are famous for the siestas: a short kip at the hight of the afternoon. The French have something similar, but not to be outdone by their neighbours, they take off the entire afternoon. Between about 13:00 and 17:00, everything is closed shut. We passed through entire villages seeing no-one: the windows were closed up so tightly that some of these towns, along with their rustic buildings, looked like ghost towns.

As for dining, we bought our food from supermarkets and then had to hunt for picnic spots. There, we enjoyed baguettes, croissants, wine and cheeses from the local area. It was decadently delicious

Our path skimmed passed Dijon and Lyon and finally we approached the Swiss border by Genève. Switzerland, as a non-EU country, still maintains border posts. Traffic between it and its neighbours are free-flowing and generally they don’t bother too much with checking on peoples and vehicles. We saw this as they waved car after car in front of us through. We it was our turn, a man with a single tuff of blonde hair on his head (whom I dubbed Tintin) came up to us and asked something in French. This was a reasonable assumption on his part, as our rental car bore a French numberplate. When we failed to respond in fluent French, we were pulled of and cross-questioned about what good we were carrying. Of course we had nothing to hide, but this discrimination was annoying, as car after car behind us were waved through. We were eventually joined on the side of the road by a car full of Indians who then underwent similar scrutiny. We were then asked to open the boot, as a full search of our luggage was imminent. “This is ridiculous. They have never done this before. Just watch: as soon as they see the wheelchair in the back, they are going to let us go.” A minute later we had cleared the border and were on our way to Lausanne where we would spend the night. So, here is a top travel tip: if you ever want to smuggle something across European borders, just hide it a wheelchair. It is acceptable to discriminate against foreigners, but not the disabled.

The next day we travelled through Switzerland. Switzerland has a lot of mountains and lakes. This is no surprise. What is a surprise, however, is how majestic the two look. The lakes, especially, we enchanting: looking into the deep turquoise waters was like staring deep into the eyes of some soul mate. Even at the hight of summer the mountains were snow capped, though it wasn’t cold. The distinctively Swiss homes were large wooden structures decorated with indescribably beautiful flowers all along the windowsills. In the Swiss country, it seems as if time stopped when the Swiss federation was formed: they had reached the zenith of happiness and had no desire to deviate from their way of life. But can you blame them? I’m sure many people who have toiled their lives away could not have imagined heaven as beautiful as this. Our first stop was Fribourg. We wanted to go on a boat ride on the lakes there, but after four days of perfect weather in France, the thunderstorms started rolling in. Luckily conditions improved by the time the endless mountain passes took us along the lakes. The next stop was Interlaken, where I joined the Swiss army. We passed Zürich and spent the night in Winterthur.

1. Before we left some of my friends tried to teach me some swear words, assuring me that I would need them if I would want to deal with the French.  I am glad to say that was not necessary, despite the negative attitude I developed towards their taxi companies.  By the time we left Paris I had also picked up the word for “good evening” (bonsoir). [↩]
2. France and Germany are especially big on national pride and you will find less people who are bilingual (or at least who can speak English) than in many other European countries. The French especially dislike the English, so if you know a language other than English, it might be well worth the while to drop a sentence or two to indicate that you are not English.  Once we got to the Netherlands and Belgium we found many more bilingual people, although then it mattered less, as we could understand the native tongues. [↩]
3. We got a double treat as we passed a scaled-down replica of the Statue of Liberty.  The Statue of Liberty was a gift to the USA from France, and clearly they want people to know this.  But I’m guessing the real Statue of Liberty will look much more impressive than what we just so happened to pass by in Paris. [↩]
4. “Gypsies” for those who do not know, although that is a politically incorrect term.  Their dark complexion first made me think the were Indian.  I later learned that the reigning theory is that they are descendants from people who travelled to Europe from the subcontinent, which sort of supports my initial conclusion. [↩]
5. “That was so cool! What ride should we do next?” “Pirates of the Caribbean! But this time I want to be in the wheelchair!” “Ok, ok, just make sure no-one sees us switching…” [↩]

Scotland. The land of lochs and kilts, of bagpipes and sword dancing, of caber tossing and haggis, of majestic highlands, flowing lowlands and deep fried Mars bars. Our passage into this ancient realm was marked by a large upright stone with the word “England” on one side and “Scotland” on the other. Underneath the “Scotland” stood a man in full tartan dress uniform playing his bagpipes. The English side had no such representative—perhaps they can get someone to sit there and eat fish and chips?

As we drove to our first Scottish tourist trap, I thought about these people: their long and proud history, their deviant lust for freedom, their pride and their and foolhardy bravery. After all, an old Scottish proverb goes: “twelve highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion”. As we drove past our first pockets of Scotsmen, I thought to myself: in a fight, if I had to, I could take them. The truth is that these people are just like you and me, and expecting anything else would be like expecting to see lions and zebras walk around in South African cities. Yes, their have their own culture and it shows very strong; that is what makes them Scottish. They are, in fact, quite a progressive people¹ and to culturally generalise them would be an injustice. Perhaps it is true that they have been living in the shadow of Britain a little too long (well, not nearly as long as Wales, but that’s ancient history as far as I am concerned).

Scotland is a very beautiful place.  We only drove through the lowlands, but I suspect that the highlands would look similar to the Welsh countryside, as a map showed it sparse in human settlements.  And, yes, there were lots of moo-cows.  And moo-sheep.  Lots and lots of sheep.  In past centuries Britain owed much of its wealth to wool.  And the Scots are famous for their wool products.  But we pressed hard to reach our only significant stop in Scotland: Edinburgh.  I was in Edinburgh only a few minutes before I fell completely in love with it.  Ever since we had landed, they sky had been filled with heavy clouds and occasionally some rain would fall (in fact, this weather would persist until we set off on our continental tour).  Some would think that a miserable atmosphere.  Edinburgh was no exception and the skies looked ominous, if nothing else.  But I loved it.  For me, the atmosphere was invigourating.  While sadly reinforcing the negative stereotype of British weather, it did lend a sense of “being in Britain”.  But it was just the sky: the architecture of the buildings where by far the driving force for my infatuation.  I would later be able to draw a crude comparison between the buildings in Edinburgh and Paris, but for me, now, there was nothing like Edinburgh anywhere else.  The city seemed spirited and I could immediately picture myself living there for at least two years.  Again, words fail me.  Sometimes a lover finds the adequate words when baring the truth and digging deep into the essence of love, but most often we are stuck with feelings which we, frustratingly, cannot accurately put into words.  That is how I feel about Edinburgh: a lady who has caught my eye, to whom I wish to profess my love, but of whom I know so little and can know so little, because she is so far away.

The main attraction of the tour was, of course, Edinburgh castle.  It is like a Titan, guarding the city like zealous hen watching over her brood.  From a medieval point-of-view, it was a massive fortification and the task of assaulting it must have seemed dishearteningly daunting.  Still, it has a bloody history and did not remain unconquered.  From the top you have a jaw-dropping vista of Edinburgh stretching out in all directions.  But on the inside, there are a handful of objects which seems to be the most powerful man-made objects in Britain: the Scottish crown jewels.  As part of the Acts of Union of 1707 (which united the kingdoms of England and Scotland into the kingdom of Great Britain), it was agreed that no English monarch may wear the Scottish crown jewels.  So, they remain (under very strict guard) in the throne room in Edinburgh castle, as if beatified.  Our guide at Edinburgh castle shared that his father, for the most of his life, was the person officially in charge of cleaning the Scottish crown jewels, making him one of the few people alive today to have ever touched the regalia.  Edinburgh castle is a magnificent city crowning a gem of a city… really, I can’t say any more, because it is an experience.

There is just one Travel Tip I feel obliged to share: as being the designated person who had to push my father around in the wheelchair (whenever I wasn’t running around scouting if we got lost) on the trip, I can say that Edinburgh was the most wheelchair unfriendly city of all the cities we visited.  This is mostly due to the many cobblestone streets.  So, if you have to travel to Edinburgh with a wheelchair, it is possible, but please please make sure it is a strong, solid and sturdy wheelchair.  They may not be cheap, but they will be worth it.

As far as hotel experiences go, the Edinburgh Hilton did not impress as much.  It was a four star hotel, but later on in the holiday I would stay in two stars that were more luxurious.  I guess part of the problem is that the building is very old.  Our room was comparatively OK, but other people in our party complained about windows getting stuck open and all other forms of hospitality no-no’s.  Another problem is that I guess we stayed on the “wrong” side of the road.  The Hilton is actually split over a couple of buildings with a road running between them.  The next morning at breakfast we had to wait for our food to be ferried from across the road, so I guess we were in the low(er) priority building.  But, no matter.  All I really remember about our stay there was that I had to get up at 3:00 to go use the bathroom, only to see the onset of dawn   It was very difficult to get use to the long days over there.  Here, you stay up until after the sunset regardless of the season.  Over there, in the summer, if you are up when the sun goes down and you need to get up early the next morning, you are in trouble.  But the evening itself I spent at a “Scottish Caberet” which was organised by the tour as an “optional extra”.  It was a culturally rich evening with people from all over the world attending a quintessentialal Scottish experience.  The food was good, the wine went down well and the company very friendly.  That was my first real attempt at “bonding” with some of my fellow tourists.  The highlight of the evening, supposedly, was the haggis, which was brought out with much pomp and flair.  Everyone was given a small piece to try.  To some of my countrymen’s shame I refused my piece, still baring scars from experiencing “afval” at home.  Those who did taste it said it tasted like spicey sausage, which I could have guessed from looking at it.  Unfortunately I shamed myself in another way by culturally misrepresenting myself at the start of the evening, but I am not going to live through that again by recounting it here… (no-one noticed, so its only embarrassing personally).

Before we left Scotland, we stop by one last Scottish tourist trap and stocked up on trinkets.  My mother had the stated goal of collecting fridge magnets of all the places we went to visit and to create a collage when we get back home.  The idea worked pretty well, as the different flavours of fridge magnets gives the collection a vibrant distinctiveness.  It was with a heavy heart that I saw Scotland dissapear into the distance behind us; in little more than 24 hours it had managed to crawl into my heart.  But ahead lay another exciting leg of the journey: the Lake District.  The lakes are not the lochs²; those are in Scotland and the lakes are in England.  Near the north-west border with Scotland.  At the lakes were the second optional of the tour: a boat and train ride.  The lakes reminded me very strongly of North Wales as lush forests covered the hills.  Especially Grasmere (home of William Wordsworth) made a big impression on me as sheer green seems to have elegantly enfolded a rustic old stone town.  And it is not a monotony of green either, but rather a plethora of shades, occasionally speckled with purple or pink of yellow.  The only difference from North Wales was a huge mass of water in the middle.  South Africa does not have large (natural occurring) bodies of water inland, so this was also my first lake experience.  It turned out that we were in the middle of a nature reserve; the towns were under strict regulations regarding expansions and, I would believe, emissions and the like.  We boarded the ferry and set sail on the lake and at the same time ran into the nastiest weather we had had yet.  An icy wind swept over boat and the clouds sometimes made it hard to see the shore, but it generally wasn’t a problem for the lush green banks to stand out clearly.  There were even a few large buildings I guessed to be lodges.  When we got back on land, the weather had cleared up a bit and we boarded an old steam locomotive.  Our destination was an old train stop which housed a train which looked suspiciously like Thomas the Tank Engine (the local gift shop also sold a lot of Thomas the Tank Engine merchandise, so I wonder whether that was the point of origin for the story).

We arrived at the next hotel in Liverpool relatively early and some of us decided to go and find a pub and have a drink.  By this time we were a posse of two groups of South Africans³ and one New Zealand.  First we went in the wrong direction (why wouldn’t there be a pub by the docks?) and then we stumbled into a place that seemed nice enough, but the locals clearly didn’t recognise us as “regulars”.  There I had pint of Guinness, mostly just to say that I did it.  But it wasn’t too bad—I like Marmite, so I guess I have most of the strange tastes of Britain nailed down.  Back at the hotel… aah, the hotel.  The setting was completely different from Redworth Hall, so you can’t draw a clear comparison between the two.  But, what I saw, I liked.  It was the Thistle Hotel in Edinburgh, just across from the Liver Building⁴).  I’m sure there was a grandeur about the hotel which escaped me, but what I experience, I savoured.

The next day would be the last of the bus tour.  We headed to Chester, where we looked at the architecture of some buildings (we had been in Chester before during the Wales-trip) and then headed off to Wedgewood.  Wedgewood is… famous… for… its porcelain.  Yes.  The next stop would be the last before London: Stratford-upon-Avon.  Stratford-upon-Avon is where William Shakespeare was born and where he spent a good deal of his life.  For a person who some people doubt ever existed, they managed to erect a museum at his birthplace around the scant details history recorded about him (apart from the literature he produced, of course).  The museum was good enough and it had a beautiful garden, but I also had my first brush with school groups—a plague which would later return.

On the final stretch to London we passed World War II airfields and the estate of the Duke of Marlborough before rolling into London.  Our journey was not over yet, however, as we still had to get back to Edinburgh.  Back at the Thistle Hotel it was clear that some black tie event was on somewhere and for the life of us we couldn’t find a taxi to take us to the train station.  With our tour director leading the way (coincidentally he was also going to Cambridge) we hobbled along on bus for a bit until we managed to track down a taxi.  Finally we got on the train and a little later we were in Cambridge.  We spent the evening with R&J before going to sleep in familiar bed (well, at least beds which had known our heads before).

For the duration of my trip abroad I had a companion with me: John O’Farrell.  He reckons himself somewhat of a humourist and had written several books to that effect.  Before I left for the trip I was given the advice to get a book which is a light read, but which I wouldn’t mind losing.  At the bookshop at Cape Town International, John O’Farrell’s An Utterly Impartial History of Britain who the tender for “book to accompany me on my first overseas trip ever”.  As I have said, I am a history buff, but have never made a study of the history of Britain in totality.  O’Farrell’s book doesn’t take the subject too seriously, but the facts are accurate, so it was a laughing and learning experience.  It was nice to see patchwork of things I know about the history of Britain come together, al be it in an utterly impartial way.  But the book did help me prepare for my journey by slipping me a few facts before they actually came up.  For instance, I learned about Boadicea, whose statue I was able to recognise when I was in London.  Perhaps, hopefully, one day I can make a more earnest study of this history.

The next day was a rest day for us, as the day after that would see the start of another tour: the continental tour.

1. Scottish inventors and innovators largely drove the British industrial revolution, which in turned spurred the industrial revolution in the rest of the world. Today, Scotland has a thriving IT industry. [↩]
2. I was hoping to see Loch Lomond, but our tour didn’t take us near it.  So, something to look forward to next time… [↩]
3. I know, I know, I KNOW the whole point of travelling abroad is to not rub shoulders with your countrymen, but it worked out like that, OK?  I wasn’t going to shun them just because of that.  Besides, I think I avoided enough South Africans in London despite the ones I specifically went to meet. [↩]
4. Why is it called the Liver Building when it is in Liverpool?  For those of you who don’t get it, they have different pronunciations for Liver-… (LIE-ver vs Livver [↩]

On 21 June 2008 we landed at London’s Heathrow International Airport. What was amazing was that the previous day had been the solstice, so back at home we experienced the shortest day and longest night, while in the northern hemisphere the sun reached its zenith of zeniths. At home, the solstice does not signal the middle of winter but, rather, that the winter is only now beginning: the rains become more frequent, the winds become stronger and snow tops the mountains in the distance. So we were escaping this and would do without three weeks of the brunt of winter. As a summer person, I was pleased and looked forward to the awe of disembarking in the peak of summer; like switching on a light in a dark room. It was spectacular to descend through the clouds and to see the glistening tarmac of the Heathrow runways and little men wearing bright yellow and orange bibs begrudgingly waving the Boeing 747 into its parking spaces. This first impression of Britain did little to dispel our preconceptions of the weather there, but we were happy to be there. The flight was long, the seat uncomfortable, but we had finally arrived at the dream. We got off the plane, went through passport control and finally entered the arrival lounge and were greeted by my brother and his wife, R&J¹. The scene at terminal three wasn’t exactly like something from Love Actually, but I think that was due to half of everyone there having stiff backs. Still, families were reunited and globe trotters were home at last. I did not have the luxury to pass by everyone in slow motion or have a peek at the events leading up to this day, but the energy at the arrival lounge of a large international airport is always a happy one. And we were a family reunited. We weren’t at our destination yet, as the road to Cambridge still lay ahead. We got some refreshments, loaded our luggage into the car and set off. To beat the traffic, we bypassed the major sights of London, but this wasn’t a concern as we would be returning to the city later. It might have been a sensory overload, as my parents and I were fixated on the mundane, everyday things about the lives of Britons which were different from our own, whether it was a strange road sign or a different average car colour. We learned about ring roads, for instance. What a brilliantly simple idea! Although it won’t work in Cape Town as half of the ring road would have to be underwater.

We finally arrived at Cambridge. Truly, a new favourite for me. To try and describe the city with my limited experience and being so disjoint from its cultures, traditions and histories would be fickle. The soul of the city is its historical university, which is made up of many splendid colleges. These Gothic buildings were my first exposure to classic European architecture—and they did not fail to impress! The rapid transformation the world has undergone in the past two-hundred years seem to not have impacted this medieval town negatively, as tarmac lives alongside cobblestone and 16th century chapels² cohabits with 1980′s row houses. While it could be argued that Britain was spared the brunt of destruction caused by the Second World War, much was lost during the Germany areal bombings of Britain. But Hitler admired the college buildings of Cambridge so much that he ordered Cambridge not to be bombed, hoping to make it his seat of power should Germany conquer Britain.

Yes, I am a history nut, but can anyone escape the glorious presence of history that hangs over a place like Cambridge like early morning mist? You become saturated by it as it soaks through your clothes, your skin, your flesh and your soul. Sometimes it feels surreal, but when your time is limited, you cannot afford to live in a dream, but must push on to explore.

At the lovely little home of R&J, we met three legendary figures: a small, every-so-friendly crème brûlée cat and two large, woolly beasts who were also very friendly, not to mention excited. It was interesting to see the hierarchy which R&J so strictly enforced on their domesticated herd. Outside was the domain of the huskies: there they pretty much to as they pleased as long as they could find a way to circumvent the wall or fence. They were allowed inside, but only as far as their baskets which stood by the door. They never tried to venture any further and didn’t even seem interested in doing so. The reason is that the inside of the house belongs to the cat; a frail but loving creature who apparently wouldn’t be able to survive the wild, let alone suburbia. The house itself is warm home as only R&J could make it: it is filled with books of pictures and memories of where they have been and where they are aspiring to. After a cup of tea, we set out on a walking tour of Cambridge. Up until now, I had only glanced a couple of colleges, but now, walking down the river Cam towards the university-part of the town, the awe of it all started to hit me. Our first stop was by the bridge which stands now where the original bridge over the river Cam stood. From there we took a punt down the river. For those who do not know: a punt is a flat-bottomed boat which is steered by a man with a long pole, much like gondolas. This is the proper way to see the famous colleges of Cambridge: St. Johns College, Clare College, King’s College, Trinity College… everything was so… grand! Afterwards we strolled around for a bit, passed by St Mary’s Chapel and through the market, before returning home.

At this point I would like to digress slightly from the story and discuss how certain people view Cambridge University. Many people think of it as snobbish; some caution you not to get fooled by its grandeur while others still would rather not have you have anything to do with it. I am not speaking of inter-varsity rivalries like we all know, but of people who are only aware of the mystical aura of Cambridge which some people wear like a Halloween mask. The problem is, of course, not the institution, but of the attitude of strict subset of those involved with the university. Whether it is Cambridge (which is factually one of the best universities in the world) or Stellenbosch (which some people now consider a shadow of its former self) or some community college, you will always find those who are attending it who think themselves better than others. I have witnessed Stellenbosch and I know that many Cambridge/Oxford/Harvard/Princeton graduates think themselves the cream of the crop. Its a shame, as a blemish of their character sours so many people’s perception of these institutions. But are these institution deserving of their otherwise perceived honours? I believe so, as they have… well, to say “produce” would be incorrect, but, rather, helped shape some truly great characters. I’m not talking merely famous, because some famous people are jackasses as well. But the history, lineage and raw academic standards of these institutions are deserving of respect. And if some aspires to attend such a institution, it is not necessarily to prove himself or herself better than you, but maybe, just maybe, for pure personal enrichment. As always, we love to generalise, because that breaks the world up into a finite amount of manageable pieces, but the truth is that we need to consider each case, each person, individually. This may not actually be practically possible, but bare in mind that there is a story behind the face.

The next morning we all got up and strapped ourselves into a time machine. Whether we were travelling to a place less than a decade away, or hundreds of years away, or even which is timeless, we set off for Wales. North Wales, to be exact: the place where life in Britain started for R&J. Wales isn’t a place which time had forgotten, but it is not frequently thought of either.  Before humans dominated the British landscape, it was mostly forest.  And this is what I shall remember from Wales: how completely green it was.  Many people, especially Britons, associate Wales with farming and mining, but it still has many vibrant and beautiful forests.  After the forests came man who built wooden and stone dwellings.  Wood has the annoying property of eventually rotting away.  But the stone remains, as well as the many little towns they make up which dot the Welsh countryside.  After every ten to fifteen minutes of driving, we came across another little town just as quaint as the next.  They really look like medieval hamlets; only the cars passing through them break the illusion.  Eventually our day-trip to Wales came to an end.  Throughout our holiday, we covered an immense amount of ground in a little time, as you will see later on, but the story of the Wales day-trip impressed early on.

The following day saw the start of our bus tour through Britain.  We would do this without R&J, as they were working people.  The bus tour was a rather last-minute arrangement, but as with most things on the trip, a resounding success.  It was a reasonable price for a short, but comprehensive guided tour.  Without it, we would have been left to our own devices to explore the British countryside; and I think that we would have missed out on many things if that happened.  The plan for the tour was as follows: London, Cambridge, York, Darlington, Jedburgh, Edinburgh, Gretna Green, Grasmere, Liverpool, Chester, Wedgewood, Stratford-upon-Avon, London.  That is quite a mouthful for four days!  Because we were based in Cambridge, we actually hoped to be able to join the tour there, but the tour company would have none of it.  The driver and tour director later told us that there would have been no reason for them not to pick us up in Cambridge, but c’est la vie.  So, at 4:30 (am!) on the day after the Wales day-trip, we boarded a train to London.  There, we located the Thistle Hotel from whence the tour would commence.  London wasn’t actually on the programme, though.  While we did drive through Westminster (and thus glimpsed the Buildings of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and the London Eye), we set off for our first stop: Cambridge.  So, 11:00 we arrived where we had started.  But that wasn’t so bad, as we got to know the tour director and sat through his introductory speech(es).  And we got another chance to wander through the majestic Cambridge.  The colleges were closed to the public as it was exam/graduation time, but I was able to go into the Kings College Chapel.  Like I said, it can easily be mistaken for a cathedral and I was stunned by the beauty and grandeur of the place.  In all the chapels and cathedrals I went into on that journey, I felt a distinct sense of hallowedness.  Some might argue against that as the institutions associated with these cathedrals and chapels were, and still often are, prone to corruption and falsities, but there is some magnificent there: like a lingering remnant of every earnest prayer offered there over the centuries.  I was also sad to see the vandalism: centuries of vistors with contempt for the significance of everything have left their mark next to (or one) the carefully crafted sculptures that adorn the chapel.  There were few other people there and I believe at one time I was alone in there.  The echo’s of one’s footsteps and the light coming through the stained glass windows… its something truly spectacular.

We then set off for York.  At Heathrow already I acquired a deep admiration for and jealously of professor Higgins for his ability to understand the woven geography of the English dialects.  By eavesdropping on idle banter he would have been able to identify a person’s county, town, or even district, of origin.  My ear is not nearly as trained to pick up the different dialects; let alone associate someone with a contour on a map.  But I know they are there and sometimes you do discern between two dialects.  It all comes with time and exposure.  Unfortunately, time is something I didn’t have on this trip, but I could appreciate our tour guide’s knowledge of the land, its tongues, history, traditions and quirks.  In York we strolled around looking some Roman ruins before passing Yorkminster cathedral on our way to the Shambles: a little passageway which preserves the medieval style of urban building.  The house would lean over at the top, sometimes so much so that neighbours across the street could exchange goods through their top-floor windows.  Many hooks remained on the walls to remind of the practise of slaughtering livestock (I think the Shambles were a butcher’s district some time).  I then returned to Westminster cathedral.  There I found an old Roman column which had been dug up some years earlier.  I also found a statue of Constantine the Great—the first Christian Roman emperor—who was in York when he succeeded to the Roman throne³.  Inside Yorkminster I was hit with the same awe I had experienced in Kings College Chapel.  While Britain is not famous for its stained glass (rather look to the Germans), the best stained glass in the island can be found in Yorkminster.  It was busier in there than in Kings College Chapel, but I again found myself alone for a short while in a domed wing of the cathedral and was stunned by the glass and the fact that even your breath seems to echo there.  I am going to say this many times still, and there are only so many different ways of saying it (so I ask you to bare with me), but it was magnificent.  Outside I also found a memorial to the yorkshiremen who had lost their lives during the Anglo-Boer war.  It was strange to see a memorial for “the other side”, but even (especially?) in war there are two sides to every story.

Our day was suppose to come to an end in Darlington, but after we left York our tour operator informed us that there was a problem with our hotel that night and that we needed to find another one.  During that holiday I learned that while problems in the tourism industry can be excruciatingly frustrating, it more often than not leads to lavish apologies.  On the first evening we were suppose to spend the night in our only 3 star hotel of the tour (the others all being 4 stars), but we ended up in a not-so-little 4 star country estate-cum-hotel called Redworth Hall.  This would be the first time I spend a night in a hotel, and boy was I spoiled!  The bar was set very high for future hotel experiences.  So, what can I say?  I was large, it was pretty and it had amazing grounds.  Even third-day fatigue couldn’t stop me from exploring the grounds.  Well, the front part at least.

As far as I was concerned, the following day would be the highlight of the tour.

1. Not to be confused with my married friends J&R. [↩]
2. Cambridge does not have a cathedral, although places like Kings College Chapel could easily be mistaken for one. A cathedral has traditionally been a pre-requisite for settlement to be dubbed a city in Britain (and Europe, I believe), but an exception was made for Cambridge and it was declared a city in 1951. [↩]
3. In a manner of speaking, but lets go into Roman politics now… [↩]

From the onset of my recent overseas holiday, I had planned to pen document the journey. Initially I thought of writing about my travel experiences as I go along: after every “phase”, I would take some time and write about what had just happened and what I had just seen. Unfortunately I had little time for myself and the little time I did have, switching on my laptop to recount the past few days’ events came second place to getting some sleep. Travelling is not a restful activity. But while in another country, late nights and early (very early!) mornings bother you much less than at home. It just meant that I missed my first self-imposed deadline. And then the second one. And then the third one. And then I abandoned the idea of writing-as-I-travel; I can always write about the holiday in its entirety when I get home. So this is what I am doing now—nearly a month after being back. But, better late than never, right? There are merits in both writing about experiences in real-time and retrospectively. Hopefully I shall now do justice to the merits of the latter.

It should be noted that, if I had to put down all my experiences, it would take me months of non-stop writing—something I wouldn’t necessarily mind, but which I practically cannot do.  An experience such as this also gains distance very quickly: but the end of the trip, the events at the beginning of the trip felt like a very, very long time ago.  But covering, what, about 5000 km in total, does tend to have that effect.  Therefore, even details I would have loved to include may allude me now until, one day long, long after this post has been finished.

* * *

The trip itself was planned over a six-month period. My parents and I had been putting this particular trip off (for various reasons) for about five years—in fact, my passport (which I pro-actively got specifically for such a trip) is nearly eight years old. But our time had finally come. The wheels were set in motion and soon there was too much momentum to turn back. To my shame, we didn’t play a big part in the planning the holiday once we landed there; the credit for that goes to my brother and his wife (who were our primary objective of the trip). But I believed everything worked out for the best. After having our hands held for our first trip, we now have experience and knowledge to build on for a next trip.

Due to my father’s physical condition (in particular, his difficulty with walking), we had decided to get him a wheelchair for this journey. Everyone knew full well that this would have significant benefits and drawbacks, but that it ease our journey overall.

At the start of W-Week, the reality of the trip had not yet fully sunk in for me yet. My mother was worried about not having everything ready in time, but I was confident that we had started early with our preparations and that we would be fine. So, it was business as usual for me, except for the fact that I had to work three days at Softmar in stead of two. The a day or two before our departure, the reality of it all began to sink in for me. I was annoyed that it had taken so long for me, but I suppose that if a rush was a prolonged experience, it wouldn’t have as much appeal for participants of extreme sports. The evening before we left I spent with some friends, and then gathered my things together and drove through from Stellenbosch back to my parents’ house in Bellville.

D-Day. I had yet to start packing and the million little considerations of deodorants and cellphone chargers made the rush to H-Hour feel like something from an Amazing Race finale… and we hadn’t even set out on the trip yet! But soon we were at Cape Town International Airport and sooner still we climbed above the winter clouds hanging over the Cape. Our ascent coincided with the perfect moment during dusk that highlighted all the little bumps of the top part of the cloud cover with magnificent yellow-red-and-black colours. It was like receiving a last little gift to remind us of home while we were in foreign lands.

A little while later we landed at Johannesburg International Airport¹. There we had our first classical international travel experience: The Delayed Flight. The Delayed Flight meant we were stuck at Johannesburg for an additional two hours. But Virgin Atlantic was kind enough to provide us with meal vouchers to compensate for our delay. Never mind that we had had supper on our SAA flight, but not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, we set out to have a very nice second supper. Later on in our flight VA flight, we would get served a third supper. But this was at two o’clock in the morning and I stubbornly refused as I tried to get some sleep. Our first international flight was a night one, so it passed us really quickly. All I really remember is that I was asked to trade seats so that a couple could sit together, which meant that I got a window seat (even though it only gave me a full view of the left wing of the plane)! And the Sahara. On both international flights, the Sahara was a splendid sight to behold. Its quite big, so you can’t easily miss it, but that was the first landmark which I recognised which told me that, at that very moment, I was very, very far away from home.

1. The official name of the Johannesburg International Airport is the O.R. Tambo International Airport, but that is a breech in the CODESA agreements and I do not acknowledge it. [↩]