Some more observations from a Cape Town railway commuter

If you want to see life, taking the metro is one way to do so. I don't mean Life, as in jet setting, bungi jumping, Big 5, scuba diving, sushi and 5 star cabernet. I just mean life, with a small "l".

This morning, I took up my usual seat by the window. I say window, but you have to understand that the perspex is so scratched and/or graffiti'd that they might as well replace it with masonite. Well, at least it lets some light in. The benches in the "old carriages" (they are all antediluvian, but some are just older than others) are arranged as three-seaters and two-seaters, facing one another in pairs. Not the most efficient seating pattern but there you are. I normally opt for a two-seater as they tend to be less of a crush, but the two-seater where I was, was downwind of the window, and the window didn't shut properly, so I went for the larger one. When we got to Muizenberg a man got in and sat beside me. He was so large (in all directions - very tall but also very fat) that he took up both seats. He wore shorts and a large teeshirt, strecthed tight over his somewhat pendulous gut. I tried not to stare in case he took offense and decided to throw me out the broken window - he looked as though he could easily have done so. I waited in interest to see what would happen. As normally happens, the train filled up fast at Steenberg and Retreat stations. Soon there was standing room only and the spaces next to the doors were overcrowded. Folk were standing in the passageway as well. Yet noone tried to edge into the third seat on our three-seater bench. I guess they felt they might be smothered, or else that a man so large must surely be sweaty and malodorous. Or maybe they thought that about me! He eventually decided to get off - at Mowbray I think - and I was delighted to see two people take up the space that he vacated. One often hears jokes told along those lines, but this was for real - he gave up his seat to two ladies.

Coming home I was treated to something different. I was in one of the "new" carriages - they have the seating arranged longitudinally along the sides, with more space in the middle. I found a seat near the end of the carriage and was getting out my headphones and Blackberry, planning on listening to a podcast or audiobook, when my ears were accosted by music. Of sorts. Three people were edging their way sideways down the center of the carriage, two of them holding hands. I think one, maybe two, of them were blind, and being led by the third. One had an electronic keyboard strung around his neck on which he was plonking out what we would call a "three chord wonder" - tonic major, sub-dominant major, tonic major, dominant seventh, repeated ad nauseam. The other two were singing - one an octave below the other, in unison. I know not what - it sounded like a scripture song or hymn, but I didn't recognize it. What was interesting was that there was little or no relation between the key being played in on the keyboard and the key the singers were belting forth in. They were in tune with each other, but not with the instrument. I expected it to correct, but it never did. They simply sidled their way into the next carriage and I didn't see them again. I should mention that such performances are not uncommon, although I haven't heard one quite this bad before. We quite often have duets - a blind woman led by a sighted man or vice versa. Some of them are quite good, even harmonizing. The lyrics seem invariably to be fairly simple three liners, sometimes in English, sometimes in isiXhosa, sometimes in a mix of the two. It makes a nice change to the usual hum of the wheels on the rails, the conversation and the occasional unwanted juke box. If I have some small change I am happy to throw it into the tin when it comes round.

Metro trains are by and large fairly reliable, even given what everyone says about them. At least that is my take. It may have something to do with the particular train I take or the line which I use - I gather the "central lines" are far less reliable than the "southern line". But all trains have problems now and then. I have been stuck on the London underground and the Washington metro more than once. So it was that at the end of a one hour trip on a hot afternoon we trundled out of Kalk Bay, past Clovelly, and crossed over the Silvermine River and then ... stopped. About 100m from Fish Hoek station, which was the terminus. And so we sat .. and sat .. and sat. In think for about 10 minutes. Now in London or DC when this happens the driver is very quick to get on the PA and tell everyone not to worry and what the problem is. Cape Town metro trains do not have such a facility. They have a PA at the stations but nothing on the trains. So you have no way of knowing whether you are waiting for a train to come past, or whether the engine is broken and in no hope of recovery. To make it worse, the doors are locked, pushing the emergency button does nothing (I didn't try but someone else did), and the windows are too small to get out. You could conceivably jump off from the gap between the carriages, but it looked decidedly unsafe and foolhardy and was almost certainly illegal. So we sat. Most of us, being on our way home, were not too stressed. We found another track to listen to on the iPod or simply carried on reading our books. There were however, two young ladies - they looked about 19 - who were incensed by what had happened. One in particular looked in the mood to commit murder. It was she who tried the emergency button. When nothing happened she stuck her head out the window and shouted very loudly, "Hey, driver, drive this f**king train, already!". Of course no one responded. She then threatened to do the jump, but her friend persuaded her not to. So she did the only thing she could - phoned her mother, and had a long and loud conversation with her about how useless Metrorail was and what an idiot the driver was. We were all very glad when the train eventually lurched forward again. I was still home by 6.30, in time for dinner.

Then there are the vendors. They hang out at Cape Town station - I haven't seen them anywhere else. They sell anything from newspapers to cold drinks, to sweets and chips. They move rapidly from carriage to carriage during the five to ten minutes before a train is about to leave, plying their wares, telling everybody what they are selling and at what price in a language which roughly approximates English. I haven't quite worked out how they manage to get onto the platform - normally one needs a valid ticket. There must be some sort of special dispensation for them. They perform a valuable service, but I do wonder what happens to all the litter. On the DC metro one is not allowed to eat or drink at all. In London one is. I like to munch an apple or banana when I am on the train, specially in the morning, but getting rid of the core or skin is problematic, and I usually have to take it with me when I get off.

For all the problems - torn seats, graffiti, dirty floors, dirty walls, dirty windows, lack of air-conditioning, breakdowns, cancelled trains, cable theft, and I could go on ... rail travel has a charm which even these have not robbed it of, and for now I am happy to be a rail commuter. It is definitely much greener, definitely much cheaper, and generally more convenient when it comes to parking and the like. I have now read 300 pages of Armstrong's "Holy War" and listened to a half a dozen podcasts as well. I am walking 15km a week just to and from the stations. Where is the argument then? And now we hear that our government plans to spend some vast sum of money of rail upgrades over the next 5 years, partly to create jobs. Wonderful, say I. Oil is about to run out, petrol prices can only go up, we don't yet have an affordable hybrid car, let alone an electric one. I'm all for it.

Becoming a rail commuting civil servant (again)

So this week I started a new job as a civil servant. I was one for the first 10 years of my professional life - 13 years if you count the army and my internship, which I guess you should - and then I worked in academia and for an NGO for another 11+ years. And from that you can probably work out that I am round about 50. In time I shall likely write a blog or two on the job itself, but suffice to say at this stage that I am reeling from the culture shock and having to adjust to what appears to be an extremely inflexible, intolerant and dehumanising environment. Perhaps if I had never left I wouldn't find it strange - but nearly a dozen years of doing things differently has made it difficult. Anyway, enough of that for now. Early days. Maybe they are having as much trouble adjusting to me as I am to them.

What I thought I would write about is some of the other aspects of this change. Bear with me.

My new office is in the centre of Cape Town, quite close to the central railway station. Road traffic into and parking within the CBD is a nightmare. If you can get parking, it is expensive. Years ago (12 to be exact), I used to take the train. I generally got the 6.30 out of Fish Hoek, which was an "express", as I recall - missing out a good few stations along the way, and taking just 50 minutes to get to Cape Town station. The monthly ticket for "Metro Plus" (1st class), cost about R230 I remember. That allowed one to use the train as many times a day as one needed to, get on get off, and so on. No question about it, the cheapest way to travel. Once in a while there would be glitches - trains not arriving, or just stopping in-between two stations for minutes on end, no explanations given, but these occurrences were fairly infrequent.

My first pleasant surprise was when I went along to my local station last Saturday to buy a ticket for the month of February. MetroPlus Fish Hoek - Cape Town monthly. Guess what? R240! I couldn't believe my ears. I asked the lady who sold it to me what time the earliest train was. "Oh," she said, "they start around 4.30!" I explained that I had somewhere around 6 in mind and she advised me that I would probably be best getting the 6.10. The next thing that happened was that I read an article in our local magazine, the Full Circle, about Metrorail. It was by Colin Jones, who I think used to be the Dean of St George's Cathedral. It appears he now lives in Lakeside and commutes daily to Woodstock. It made for depressing reading - clearly he was not enjoying being a rail commuter. But being of Scottish descent, I was not about to waste my R240 ticket so resolved to give it a try anyway.

I have had to adjust my waking hours. On my first day I was awake at 5 and out the door by 5.45. I don't think herself knew what had hit her. She offered me a lift to the station, but as it is only 1km (exactly - I measured it) and it wasn't raining, I said I would walk. I activated Endomondo (got to get all the mileage I can out of this) and then an audiobook through the Blackberry headset, and set off at what I thought was a respectable pace. My train was waiting for me, pulled up alongside platform 3 - I think it may in fact park there overnight. I found the three MetroPlus carriages - they are always the ones closer to Cape Town and got onto the second from the front. There was only one other person on board. I found a seat as far from the door as I could, close to a window and settled down - put on my specs, checked emails on the Blackberry, wrote one or two, and then got out my book, which currently happens to be one on the Crusades, by Karen Armstrong, called "Holy War". At 6.10 there was the sound of a whistle, a jolt or two and we slowly trundled out of the station headed northwards.

The first 5km of the trip takes you along the False Bay coast. The railway track runs between the Main Road and the sea, and it really is glorious. Unfortunately, the windows are so scratched or so dirty that it is difficult to see anything - I think they replaced all the old glass ones with perspex or plastic because of the vandalism. But on a good day you can open them a little and still see the blue waters and the rocks and, best of all, smell the sea. The trains could best be described as grimy and run down. I don't know how often they are washed or cleaned, but to me they don't look well cared for. Doubtless Metrorail would say they don't have the money or the staff, or they might argue that there is no point when the trains are constantly being vandalized - which is sad.

The trip takes 60 minutes, barring stoppages, which means one is doing an average of about 35 kph. Not exactly burning up the tracks, but if you took a car it would take as long or longer. The advantage of the train is that it is a lot cheaper, that you can read for an hour, and that it is definitely greener. As you get to Steenberg, Retreat, Plumstead and Wynberg, the train fills up. Soon there are no seats to be had, and often very little standing space.I suspect that my father, in the same situation, would have offered his seat to the first woman he saw standing. I am afraid I don't - not unless she is old or pregnant. I find it very difficult to read standing up, and I am taking the train so that I can read. QED. Go figure.

At the Cape Town end it is mild mayhem. In the bad old days there were two exits from the platform - on the West side was the exit for Europeans and on the East side for non-Europeans. They were entirely separate, in line with the apartheid philosophy. Nearly everyone was happy to see the end of that. Now we have one exit - the East exit is closed. So everyone bundles out and then careens along to try and get out first, bumping into people selling ticket holders, cokes, chips, passengers waiting to get on, security officials - the human wave just washes right over them. You can hang back for a while and it becomes a little more civilized - if you have time. Once you are through the ticket check and across the great concourse (which itself is an education - a bit like driving across the main road in the middle of Maputo - go one space, stop, go one space, stop ...), you get out into a large courtyard which borders Adderley Street and from there it is relatively free flowing. Cape Town pedestrians are of course famous for never obeying any traffic lights or traffic signs - in fact it is probably true to say that in the CBD pedestrians rule and motorists simply have to make a plan. I have never seen a pedestrian fined - where would they start?

I survived my first day. At four o'clock sharp the entire office simply emptied, which was an odd feeling. I remember this being a problem from my previous stint as a civil servant. I used to work on the 22nd floor of a building in Dorp Street. There were, as I recall, 6 lifts on each side of the building, 24 floors, and I don't know how many hundred civil servants working there. The majority of them left work at 4 sharp. The result was that if you were in the top half of the building, the lift never came, and you ended up taking the stairs - down 22 floors. Fortunately the reverse did not apply in the mornings. Anyway, at 4.30 I looked around and could not see a soul in the whole place. I very nearly could not get out, but eventually figured it out. Imagine having to spend the night in a government office!

Back at the station I found a train and a seat - the advantages of getting on at the terminus - and performed my ritual with the Blackberry and the book. The carriage filled up and soon we were on our way. This time our journey was enlivened by the musical talents of a blind person and her guide - they wandered up and down the carriage singing Jesus songs - the kind one sang in Sunday School all those years ago. In tune, quite nice harmonies, but I knew I didn't have any change in my wallet, and even if I did was not too keen to take it out of my bag. We haven't had any itinerant preachers yet - I recall them being rather trying. Talk about a captive audience. There are always the earphones if it gets unbearable.

So the reverse journey progressed and little by little the train disgorged its load, whilst picking up one or two extras here and there. The names all came back - Woodstock, Salt River, Observatory, Mowbray, Rosebank, Robdebosch, Newlands, Claremont, Harfield Road, Kenilworth, Wynberg, Wittebome, Plumstead ... I remembered them not only from those years as a civil servant but from my days as a medical student. It is summer right now and quite hot most days, although the south easter does cool things down. The trains are not air-conditioned and the only cooling option available is opening the windows. What is interesting, and quite pleasant, is the way the temperature gradually drops as one goes south, until by the time you get to Muizenberg you are starting to feel more comfortable - and of course there is that wonderful whiff of the sea again. Of course, it is helped by the fact that the trains empties, but it isn't only that - there is definitely as gradient. Retreat, Steenberg, Lakeside, False Bay, Muizenberg, St James, Kalk Bay, Clovelly ... we round the last corner with a screech of metal and Fish Hoek station is in sight. Another rugby scrum getting through the ticket check and under the subway. Endomondo on, Audiobook on and the final 1km walk home. At my door by 5.30 - remarkable - don't know when that last happened. In time for a run before supper. Half hearted attempt to watch some TV and do some work thereafter and then in bed by 9.30. Maybe I could get used to this...

Namibia

Namibia

I hadn't been up this way since I was up here wearing a brown uniform an carrying an R5 automatic rifle. That is another story but it ended with my flying out of Walvis Bay in a "Flossie" which as I remember was a large transport aircraft in which whatever passengers there were sat in sort of hammock-style chairs, arranged longitudinally in the fuselage. There was no inner skin to the aircraft, as one has in a commercial jet, which meant that it got really cold and that the noise of the engines was deafening. They did provide us with earplugs, I think. That was about a month before I "klaared out" - got my demob. And that was that - my third and last trip to Namibia. So when the opportunity arose to revisit Windhoek, I had somewhat mixed feelings, but decided to go.

For some reason I was booked on Air Namibia. I asked my boss somewhat nervously if he had ever flown with them. “Oh, yes”, he said, “cheapest way to get to Europe - via Windhoek on Air Namibia.” Suitably comforted, I forbore asking for a change in my booking. The flight left CapeTown at around 6 pm on a Sunday. Our plane was a small twin engine jet - an Embraer, I think. Seated about 30. I had a window seat on the right and an empty seat next to me, which was nice. We had a smooth take off and the captain warned us we would probably have turbulence later on as there was thunderstorm activity all the way from the Orange River northwards. He was right, but it wasn't too bad. The sun was setting in the west and in the East we could see these huge banks of cumulonimbus with frequent flashes of lightning illuminating them. Rather pretty I thought, although I was glad they weren't too close.

I fiddled on my iPad and wrote the odd email. Before long the captain was on the blower again to tell us we were commencing our descent. Not sure why they tell you - you can always feel it. Again we were warned that we should expect turbulence on the descent and again it didn't happen. To make up for it though, he dropped the aircraft onto the runway with such a jarring thud that I thought the wheels would fold. They didn't. It was raining lightly when we disembarked and to my surprise we were asked to walk through the rain to the terminal building - no bus being available. That was a first for me, though I didn't really mind - it wasn't very far. I filled in the inevitable immigration form and handed my South African passport to the immigration officer. She was in the process of quizzing me about my intended activities when a fellow from the WHO came bustling up, ascertained who I was and told the young lady that he would take it from here. I felt like an immune diplomat!

For some reason the international airport in Windhoek is about 40km out of town. I remarked on it to a colleague from Antwerp and he said that this is the modern trend. Can't imagine why. Takes over half an hour to get there. I thought maybe it was all the mountains around the city centre - it kind of lies in a ring of high hills, a bit like Blantyre, but then many cities have much larger mountains close to their airports, mine being one of them. I chatted to Lord Charles on the way in and it went relatively quickly.

We were staying at the Safari Court Hotel. From what I can make out it is on the Gobabis Road, near the University and Technical High School and right next to the old Windhoek airport (which is presumably no longer international). Also nearby is the Windhoek country club, where we would be having our meeting. The hotel is a solid six story building, actually quite attractive in a sort of monolithic way, with nice grounds and pool. The rooms are old - mine had a radio next to the bed with "preselects", and it lacked a safe, but otherwise it was comfortable enough. Small planes, and an occasional larger one buzzed in and out of the airport. They started early in the morning but mercifully did not go on late into the night. I made daily good use of the gym and pool, both of which were world class.

The mornings were crisp and clear - maybe it was my imagination but the air in Windhoek just seemed a whole lot clearer than in Cape Town. I could see the surrounding mountains clearly, even without my glasses on. In the grounds some small birds played - nothing spectacular but nevertheless rather special. I heard a lot of Afrikaans spoken, which made me feel quite at home, as well as a fair amount of German. Of course, the meeting was in English. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to go out and see the city.

What else can I say about Windhoek? It rained a lot. I think it rained every afternoon in fact. Thunderstorms with lightning. Bad enough to keep me out of the pool. We were told that rain in December is unusual but welcome. The food was excellent and the beer was world class - Windhoek lager and draft, Hansa Tafel-lager - we get these brands in Cape Town but it somehow felt more special drinking them in the town where they are brewed. I had roast oryx at dinner one night - a type of buck - very good. One new thing about the WHO meeting - one no longer has a morning break for tea or coffee and pastries. They are now called "fruit and health breaks" and those delicious pastries and muffins have been replaced by bowls of apples and oranges. The public health part of my soul was all tumultuous applause. The hedonist part was protesting loudly - "get a life!!!" The Internet connection was slow but reasonably reliable. The Namibians I met seemed uncomplicated, friendly folks, proud of their young democracy (older than ours come to think of it, by about 5 years). They sang their national anthem with gusto. We sang the African Union anthem as well – first time I had heard it. Not bad. The words are very idealistic and flowery, but hey, what’s wrong with a little naïve optimism now and then? They seemed to get the balance right – enough pomp and circumstance to keep the politicians happy but not so much that it got in the way of the workshop proceedings. I am not a fan of large meetings but this was a reasonably productive one.

Before I knew it it was my last night and I was clearing the cupboard and packing. Then the long drive back to the airport and a short wait for my plane. Everything went smoothly, although some of my European colleagues were delayed – the SAA plane from Johannesburg was late landing, late taking off and in consequence one of them missed his connection to Zurich. I told him next time he should come via Cape Town!

So that was Windhoek. General impression: clean, pleasant, well run. Should probably go back and visit it again sometime, with herself and the princesses.

Getting to the top of the hill and the concept of a parabolic life trajectory

Getting to the top of the hill and the concept of a parabolic life trajectory

This morning I ran, with about 10 others from my club, from Noordhoek to the viewsite at the top of Chapman’s Peak Drive and back. Tens of thousands of runners and cyclists will know this stretch well, because it is part of both the Pick ‘n Pay Argus Cycle Tour and the Two Oceans Ultramarathon. It is one of the most breath-takingly beautiful runs imaginable, with the mountain soaring up, vast and sheer and threatening, above you on the one side and the drop to the foaming white waters of the Atlantic on the other. Absolutely magnificent.

Of course, your legs soon let you know that you are running up a hill. You climb about 160m over the course of 5km, which is not inconsiderable, although I didn’t personally find it as heavy going as Ou Kaapse Weg, which I ran the previous Saturday. One of the important things about running up a long, steep hill is knowing where the top of the hill is, so that you can pace yourself and plan your run better. Which got me thinking about my own life …

As I recall from my Grade 11 mathematics, specifically the geometry part of it, the equation y=x  gives you a different graph to the equation y=x² and different again to the equation y=1/x. One gives you a straight line, one a parabola and one a hyperbola, as I recall. Most hills are not straight lines – they are either parabolic or hyperbolic or some combination – you trundle along for a good few km, climbing gradually and then you do a lot of climbing in a relatively short distance and then ease off again to climb the remaining meters more gradually - sigmoid. Of course, having made it to the top, you have the opposite experience going down the other side or, as I did this morning, going back down the same side you came up. The trick, as I said, is knowing when the summit is coming and when you have “made it”.

One hears some senior citizens described as being “over the hill”, which is usually meant in a derogatory sense, to mean that they are past their best, have lost some or most of their faculties or capacities, and are really not to be trusted with responsibility. In that sense, I guess none of us wants to be “over the hill”. But in another sense, I am greatly looking forward to being “over the hill” – in the sense that I can take stock of how far up I have climbed, can enjoy the view, can ease off on the throttle and just enjoy life for a while. It seems to me that far too many of us stick to a straight line (never easing off) or even hyperbolic trajectory (peddling faster and faster as the “target” approaches – usually retirement). As we approach middle age and then retirement, we fail to recognise that, as my similarly-aged squash partner said to me the other day, “there is now more sand in the bottom half of the hour glass than in the top half!”

I have made a conscious decision to throttle back, as I approach my 50^th birthday, to take a little more time to smell the roses, or the coffee or whatever. To listen to more music, to read more books, to walk and run and ride more, to spend more time with my loved ones, to spend more time in prayer and meditation. On Wednesday I start a new job. There is no guarantee that it will be any less demanding than my current job but here’s the thing – it will allow me at least two hours a day of uninterrupted reading time on the train into and from the city centre, and it will force me to walk for about an hour a day, to and from the stations at both ends. It will very likely mean an end to my global wanderings, or a severe curtailment thereof, and a bit more local travel. I spoke to a friend this morning who is turning 70 this year and cannot decide whether he should continue working or not – he is a financial adviser and is worried about selling his business and handing his clients over to someone he doesn’t know well or trust completely. I can understand that. On the other hand, he has already had one heart attack, is moderately overweight and must be a good candidate for a second one. Surely he can see the writing on the wall…

So this is my plug for a parabolic life trajectory. Give it all you have got for those first 25 years of your working life – that is the way we are designed. Make your money, travel your travels, take your chances, live life to the fullest. But then know when to ease off on the throttle so that you can enjoy the view. Recognise when you have reached the summit. Don’t be afraid of the trip down the other side. You may have to put in extra effort once or twice when the south easter hits you or you hit an unexpected incline. You may, indeed, have to put in more effort than others. You’re not paralysed – just free-wheeling – the engine is still running under the hood. But don’t keep gunning it right up to the last minute just so that you can have the biggest nest-egg in the family, or the suburb or the city. Your biggest nest egg is your physical, mental and spiritual health – look after that first.

As 50 approaches, I am really looking forward to being “over the hill” (the princesses would say I have been for years, of course). Or at least being able to see the summit for the first time.

Berlin revisited

Second trip to Berlin

Why would anyone want to leave sunny Cape Town where the temperature is 30 degrees Celsius and most of the sane population is on the beach, travel for 12 hours on overcrowded aeroplanes and then spend a week in a grey hotel in a grey city with grey skies where the night-time temperatures are negative and even during the day they struggle to get out of single figures? Not sure – next question…

Anyway, that is what I did. Part of my job. Life is tough.

Saturday

I have recently acquired an iPad, which I just love. One feature I use a lot is iTunes and specifically the podcasts one can download through iTunes and iTunesU. I have quite a backlog of podcasts to listen to now because every week more are added. My favourites are BBC History podcasts (did you know that Matilda agreed to marry Alfred after he had assaulted her in church and dragged her down the aisle by her hair?), Justin Breilly’s “Unbelievable” (basically a Christian apologetics program which generally manages, I think, to cover opposing views on religious and philosophical matters in an intelligent and reasonably balanced and fair way) and APM Krista Tippett’s “On being” (a somewhat similar program on faith, religion, ethics, philosophy, but much broader and not exclusively Christian).

Anyway I had an hour or so to kill before boarding at Cape Town so went to the SAA business lounge (despite the fact that I was flying Lufthansa – have recently been upgraded to Voyager Gold again), got something to eat and drink, sat down and plugged my headset into my ears (so I thought) and switched on a podcast – I forget which one. Funny, I thought, it seems very soft, so I found the volume control and turned it up to full. I was still struggling to hear it and it was only after a minute or two and some funny looks from my fellow travellers that I realised that my headphones were not in fact plugged into the iPad properly and that the podcast was blaring forth to all and sundry in the lounge – the reason that I thought it sounded a bit soft was that I had earphones in my ears. Embarrassing!

Sunday

Fairly uneventful trip. Landed at Frankfurt well before dawn and had the usual circus getting from one terminal to another through passport control and security before the boarding call, but somehow made it. It was dark and rainy when we took off for Berlin and dark and rainy when we landed. No snow this time. Tegel airport at Berlin (Berlin has more than one airport) is small and pleasant – well, small compared to Frankfurt and as pleasant as an airport can be. I think it has less than 20 gates and only 2 terminals, which puts it in the same league as Cape Town or Nairobi – manageable.

Having been here before I knew what to do this time. Weekly ticket (7-tage-kaart) for Berlin AB (i.e. you can’t use it beyond zone B, which is fine), cost me euro 27.20, which I paid on my credit card. All very efficient. Tried to buy a SA-European plug adaptor, but they didn’t have one. No great surprise. Found Bus 109 (“Zoologisher Garten”) which was on the point of departing. Validated my ticket and found a seat.

Found the Hotel Kurfürst easily enough. You have to get off the bus at Bleibtrau Strasse and then it is just a short walk up a side street. It is not a grand hotel – I gather it costs 60 euro a night for bed and breakfast and it advertises itself as being 3 star. But it is nice enough. This year they had me on the fifth floor. There is a very small lift which only goes as far as the fourth floor, and then one has to take the staircase. Odd. In fact there are many aspects of the hotel which are odd, but quite nicely odd. Maybe quaint would be a better description.

Once I had showered and stowed all my luggage I had a look out of the window. It was raining lightly but I figured I could bear it and didn’t want to miss the chance of a nice walk, so I took to the streets in running shoes, tracksuit bottoms and my US anorak. I switched on the GPS / Endomondo gizmo – I have discovered that it works even if the data connection is switched off – presumably communicates directly with the satellites, not through the cellular network. The rain got worse so I pulled out the jacket’s hood and must have looked like a bit of a weirdo but kept relatively dry. I walked down Kurfürstendamm and picked up a Café Latte Vente (the biggest one, €3.95) from Starbucks on the way, sipping it as I walked.

The zoo was open but at €12 a visit I wasn’t keen. Instead I took the path just after it which runs into the Tiergarten and on my map is labelled “Gartenuber” – not sure if that is the name of the street or something else. Anyway, it runs next to the “Landwehrkanal” and meets Katharina Heinroth Uber at what I think was the Botanical Institute – a large and grand but rather run down looking oldish building. I crossed the Kanal and headed into the Tiergarten proper. Something was really agitating the Endomondo voice-prompt – I had it on Autostart so that it would stop timing when I stopped (for instance at a traffic light) and start again when I restarted. She (it is a female voice) kept saying “Workout paused” and then a few seconds later “Workout resumed”. I eventually got tired of her and put her on mute.

In the middle (roughly) of the Tiergarten, where the major roads meet, is a large traffic circle called the “Grosser Stern”, in the middle of which is a monument called the “Sieges Säule”. The circle is very busy so they have two pedestrian underpassed with fine and massive marble gateways on either side of the “Straße des 17 Jun” – the main road which runs from the Brandenburg Arch west through the Garten. In the basement of the monument they have a small museum which details German National monuments in general – very interesting. It costs €3 to get in. You can then, if you have some energy and are not afraid of heights, climb the spiral staircase to the viewing platform which is about 15 feet above ground-level, or to the top of the tower, which I guess must be about 100 feet up. I did both. I am not good with spiral stairs or heights, but I looked steadfastly at the wall, and there were sufficient handrails and safety bars that I felt reasonably safe and did not throw up. The view from the top was worth it.

I then wandered up to the Arch (which is impressive but doesn’t quite compare to the Arc d’Triomf or Big Ben, I don’t think). On the way you pass the memorial to the 20 000 odd Russian soldiers who died taking Berlin. I think they might even be buried there. Odd that it should be in what was formerly West Berlin, but there you are. I walked a few blocks down Unter den Linden which is more a pedestrian concourse than a street really. Then I went north a block and doubled back up Dorotheastrasse to the Bundestag, which really is impressive – much more impressive than the Arch I thought. I could have caught a bus back to the Zoo but it was only a km or two and early so I thought I would just walk.

I saw a man “riding” an electric motorised three wheeler – looked fascinating and I was particularly interested because of our experiences with the bicycles. He was friendly enough to allow me to take a picture. A little further on I found what seemed to be a very tall steeple, complete with bells, but not church. It said it had been built by Mercedes Benz, and had a picture of someone playing what looked like an organ. The notice was in German and mentioned something about “Carillon”. Didn’t make sense at the time but I later figured out that he plays the “organ” which plays the bells. Must be quite something.

At this point I became aware that my bladder was filling or full and here’s the strange thing – the Berliners, for all their frightening competence and efficiency, had made no provision for me or people like me – not on a Sunday anyway. I found two public toilets and they were both firmly locked. What to do? In SA I would probably have just found a tree and relieved myself, but it was mid winter and none of the trees had any leaves. I imagined the headlines – “South African doctor appears in Berlin court charged with relieving himself in public”. As if to  confirm my fears, a patrolling police car came gliding past, all but silently. No that would not do. Rule number one when travelling abroad – do NOT break any law, no matter how trivial! To cut a long story short (pardon the expression, no allusion to gadgetry intended), I made it to MacDonald’s, not without some discomfort, and was so grateful that I promptly ordered and ate a Big Mac, large fries and large Coke (non diet), which the helpful packaging informed me pretty much wiped out the 800 kCal which Endomondo had told me I had expended on my long walk. Sigh …!

I was in bed around 5 and for the first time in many months slept right through till 5 am Monday morning.

Monday and Tuesday

The course is run at the DRK Kliniek, which I have just worked out stands for the German (Deutsche) Red Cross Clinic. It is an attractive complex of oldish buildings on Spandauerdamm, just past S Bahnhof Westend, about an hour’s walk from our hotel, about 20 minutes on the bus (109 then 45). Lovely old red face brick with large wood-framed glass windows and steep roofs. High ceilings – impossibly high – they must have been worried about ventilation and TB. I must do some research but I would think they are about 150 years old. The days started with a hearty breakfast back at the hotel – cereal, fruit and yoghurt or something which I was informed by my Belgian friend was “plattekaas” (very tasty but I expect rather cholesterolific as well as calorific), fresh rolls or speciality breads with jam, cold meats or cheese – there was a good selection of gorgonzola, brie, camembert, emmental and a few others – washed down with a couple of cups of good filter coffee. They were intense and long and the evenings were spent preparing for the following day, so not much to report. The weather remained reasonably polite with only occasional light rain and temperatures generally above zero degrees C. It was black before five pm each afternoon and we went back to our hotel in the dark. Most nights I worked till around 9 and then took a walk down Kurfürstendamm towards the Tiergarten to get my fix of a Latte at Starbucks. The shop-fronts on “Kur’damm” are about 50% of clothes and shoe shops. Just about all of them were having a “sale” but the sale prices were frankly ridiculously high – €700 for a suit, 400 for a jacket, 300 for a pair of pants or shoes and so it went. Nice to look at but there it ended. They were closed anyway. Food prices were less scary but still high – a light meal such as a pizza or salad or soup around 5-10€; a more substantial meal like fish or a steak €10-15 and the more expensive dishes towards €20 – about twice what we would expect to pay in Cape Town.

Wednesday night

The Faculty dinner. Much anticipated, particularly by me, since we were told it would be at the same venue as last year and for an entire year I have been telling everyone who would listen how wonderful the beer was there. Brauhaus Lemke, which is just opposite Schloss Charlottenburg, advertises that its beers are “frisch gebraut für Sie, direkt aus unserem Lagerkeller”, and that is exactly how they taste. It was a clear, cold night so we walked from the Institute to the restaurant, which takes about half an hour. We had booked a table and managed to get about 12 of us around it, on the broad wooden benches. What to drink? There was an impressive offering of beers – seasonal beer, weise beer, wheat beer, and a few others. I ordered a large (500mL) seasonal beer which duly came in a long slender glass, and appreciatively started to slurp it. It really is good. The edibles were more difficult. I do try and eat local specialities when I travel unless they are prohibitively expensive (like salmon), morally bankrupt (like veal) or simply unappetising (like eel or Brussel sprouts). So I went for curry-wurst, which the Berliners say is a Berlin speciality, but which I gather a number of other German towns also lay claim to. It came as a large plate of fries and about 10 slices of sausage, covered with a curry sauce. It was good and tasty. Not sure that it was very good or very tasty. Not sure that I would have it again in a hurry but at least I can say I have had currywurst. All the while the beer sampling continued. I tried a tall non-alcoholic wheat beer, then moved to a 4*100mL sampler (Bierkostprobe), which included Lemke Original, Lemke Pils, Lemke Weizen and Lemke Saisonbier. I decided I liked the wheat beer best so finished off the evening with a final small glass of that. We then walked back to the hotel and managed to stay on the pavement.

Friday

We finished up around 3.30 so I had the late afternoon and evening to myself. Most of the others were flying out that afternoon so I was on my own. Someone had found me the Classical Music page from a local newspaper – not sure which one – from which I learned that I had quite a wide choice – “Ben Hur” at the Berliner Dom, Puccini’s “Turando” at the Deutsche Oper, organ recitals at the Emmaus Evangelical Church, the St Marienkirche and the Sophienkirche Mitte, concerts with varied programs at the Groβe Orangerie, the Haus des Rundfunks (sic!), the Hochschule fur Musik, Bizet’s “Carmen” at the Komische Oper, works by Chopin, Glasunow and Karlowicz at the Konzerthaus, something called “Lust, Leid und Lied” at the Lichtburgforum, a “garagenoper” festival at the Theatreforum Kreuzberg, piano classes with a professor at the UdK Konzertsalle Bundesallee or a Mendelsohn violin concert at the UdK Konzertsalle Hardenbergstr. Quite a choice! In the end I went to none of the above. I decided to go to an organ recital at Nikolaikirche, which was advertised for 17h30 – no ticket price quoted. I Googled Nikolaikirche and discovered that it was in the Nikolaiviertel, near the radio tower and the Alexanderplatz. Quite a distance from my hotel but I figured out I could get there if I took an M19 bus to Bulow Str and then the 148 to Alexanderplatz. Ja well no fine. The buses were very crowded and we had some delay to allow a lady in a wheelchair to alight and later to disembark (de-light?), but otherwise all was going swimmingly. I arrived at the church at 5.25 and was a little surprised to hear the magnificent organ in full swing. I hauled out my newspaper and asked the lady at the counter, in very broken German, whether I was in the right place, showing her the advert. She told me the concert had started at 5 and was almost over. She also looked at me in a somewhat pitying way as though I was an escaped imbecile. I pretended to look at the books and CD’s on sale while I caught the dying strains of the recital – whoever it was was very good. The music ended and there was some faint applause. People started to move out. I tried to go into the body of the church to get a look at the organ and was sharply corrected in German by the usher – something to the effect of not being allowed in without a ticket (despite the concert having finished). I grunted in her direction and left.

As I was close to the radio tower (Berliner Fernsehturm), and since we had missed going up it last time I was here because the weather was so bad, I thought I’d check it out. Eleven  euro’s and about 15 minutes later I was on the observation deck a couple of hundred metres above the ground. The view was good but I am not sure it was worth 11 euro’s. It is quite nicely done with information boards around the perimeter every few meters, letting you know what you were looking at. The biggest problem I thought was that the windows are set at an angle – perhaps 60 degrees to the vertical so that you are looking out and down, if you know what I mean. All very well, but at night what happens is that the interior ceiling lights get reflected off the panes and it is well nigh impossible to get a decent photo. There is a bar on the observation deck level and a restaurant on the next level up – I had a look at the prices and decided that I wouldn’t be eating there anytime soon. I didn’t stay terribly long – maybe 10 minutes, but I wasn’t sorry I had come.

Back down at ground level I found the main road which runs into Unter den Linden and followed it roughly west, towards the Brandenburg Gate. There is an old-looking church right next to the tower called the Marienkirche. Last time we were here it was closed – this time it was open. I popped in and there were about four elderly folk milling around, looking like they were wanting to close up. The outside is beautiful old stonework, the inside spacious, with tall white plastered walls. There didn’t seem to be much else going on so I left. If I may be permitted a general comment, I haven’t found German churches terribly welcoming. Either they are firmly shut or else they appear to be geared up simply to fleece tourists. The idea that some visitors may be there with intentions slightly more spiritual than a desire to photograph the elevated pulpit, the high altar or the great organ doesn’t seem to have occurred to them. What would they say if I told them I had actually come to meditate or worse – to pray?! Are those words still part of their vocabulary? – they used to be! Perhaps I am being unfair.

I soon found Unter den Linden and followed it to the Gate. There was a keen wind blowing straight into my face and I was glad I had on a beanie and gloves. The zip of my anorak was malfunctioning so I had to hold it closed with my gloved hands which probably made me look as though I was bursting to relieve myself and clutching my crotch in consequence. WTF! From the Gate I followed the perimeter of the Tiergarten to the left, past some very fancy-looking office or apartment blocks, I am not sure which. To my right the Garden trees looked dark and somewhat ominous, yet there was a father pushing his toddler in a pram and another man walking his very small dog just meters away from the edge of the darkness. Fearless Berliners! You wouldn’t walk there if this was Cape Town!!

I passed the Sony building with its astounding architecture, but didn’t go in. I was heading for the Concert Hall where the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is based. I was on a mission. Last time I was here there was a concert with Sir Simon Rattle conducting and Yo Yo Ma on cello playing Shostakovich, I think. The cheapest ticket was 70€, so I passed it up and have regretted doing so ever since. This time there was due to be a performance of Edward Elgar’s “Dream of Gerontius”, conducted by Daniel Barenboim. I did not know the soloists’ names but I do know the music – I sang tenor in it myself once, many years ago (25 to be exact). I think it is a wonderful piece of music and I was very keen to hear it live again. The lady at the ticket booth spoke good English, which made a nice change. She told me there were still tickets, in the “G zone” – “Block Sonderpl, Reihe 1, Platz 4”, which I later learned indicated that they were “special seats” - and the cheapest was 30€. I did a quick calculation and decided it was worth it, so handed over my cash.

It was still early, so I went across to the shop to see whether there was anything affordable to buy. Some of the CD’s on sale made my mouth water, but the standard price appeared to be around 20€ and I figured I could get them cheaper back home. Pity. I made my way to an usher and asked the way to zone G. I am not sure whether it was just my imagination or if she really sniggered as she started explaining (in German) where I should go. [Maybe she thought I was asking about the G spot!]. Up this staircase, then up that staircase, along the corridor, up another staircase and then another. Hang on, I thought, how many staircases can there be? To cut a (very) long story short, the G zone seats are the highest in the house. There is a left and a right G zone. I was in “G-links”. Maybe you’ll get the idea if I tell you that we were just forward of the great organ along the left wall, and about three quarters of the way up the 32 foot pipes! I could see why they were the cheapest seats – for one thing you needed to be an trained mountaineer to actually get there. On the other hand, I was in Row 1, which meant that I had nothing between me and the orchestra except a piece of glass and about 50 feet of free-fall. The sound, when it happened, was beautiful. In fact, I wondered whether we didn’t perhaps have the pleasure of hearing a better balanced sound than those privileged folk who had mortgaged their houses in order to sit right in front of Herr Daniel’s podium. I guess I shall never know, since I very much doubt I shall ever sit there!

The “Dream of Gerontius” is an oratorio, built around poetry by Cardinal John Henry Newman, who lived in the 19^th century and wrote the poetry in 1865. It concerns a man’s dream of his own dying and of his soul going to face judgment. Needless to say it has a happy ending – Christ spares his soul and he goes to Paradise. The theology is a little, shall we say, heterodox, but the poetry is beautiful and the music is sublime. The solo parts are for the man and his soul (tenor), a female angel (alto) and the Angel of Agony – what a wonderful name! - (bass). The mixed choir are sometimes demons and sometimes “angelicals”, which must be a little disconcerting. It is set for a largish orchestra, complete with harp and grand organ. I like Elgar a lot. I am probably most familiar with his sacred choral music but I am also fond of his cello and organ concertos and his symphonies. I am not sure exactly why his music speaks to me, but it always has. So to me this was just superb – hearing one of the world’s finest orchestras under one of our best conductors perform some of my favourite music. I sat in my lofty perch and just soaked it up. I confess that more than once I had to wipe away a tear or two. I cannot see how anyone could not be moved by it, but clearly some were not – the fellow beside me disappeared at interval (or maybe he spotted an empty and better seat somewhere).

Too soon it was over. Herr Daniel and the soloists came back, and back, and back, were given bouquets, undying affection and tumultuous neverending applause and then finally left. We all moved slowly out – out into the cold of a windy, wintry Berlin night. A short walk took me to my bus-stop and after a mercifully short wait my bus appeared. Very soon I was back at Bleibtraustraβe and my hotel, it was then that I realised I had not eaten anything since lunchtime! I figured Starbucks would be closed – the one in the US near our apartment always closed at 9. The only nearby place open was the wurst takeaways on the opposite corner to us. I forget its name, but it doesn’t look like much – stuck away on the ground floor of a building which is being renovated, it looks a bit like any corner café in Cape Town or Johannesburg. But it isn’t. This place evidently got the prize recently for the best Currywurst in Berlin, which is saying something! It seemed that most folk were getting their wurst on a plate, swimming in the sauce. That didn’t appeal to me – too messy. I asked him whether I could have mine on a roll and he agreed. I think it cost me about 3€ and it was delicious. I washed it down with a Coke from the hotel room fridge and sank into bed thinking it had been a good day.

Saturday

Last day in Berlin. Woke late (7) simply because I could. Breakfasted late (8) for the same reason. My plane was only leaving for Frankfurt at 7 pm, so I had plenty of time. I checked out and left my baggage at the hotel, then headed down Kurfürstendamm to the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. This is the one which used to be very grand, in the days of Kaiser Wilhelm, I guess, but was all but flattened in the war, from the bombing and then the street fighting. Most of the church was destroyed but the entrance hall remained standing as did the steeple, except for it’s top half – it kind of got lopped off, leaving a ragged edge. In consequence it is sometimes compared to a carious tooth – just the shell with the ragged edge remaining. I have extracted teeth like that and it isn’t easy – they usually break up leaving little bits behind in the socket. Since the war they have built a magnificent hexagonal chapel with a fine new organ. The walls, which must be around 30 feet high, are constructed out of thousands of square glass bricks. At first glance they all appear to be blue, which in itself is nice – it gives a very peaceful ambience to the place. But if you look more closely they each have varying amounts of red and yellow as well – so the three primary colours. Allusions to the Trinity? – I wonder. Anyway, there was supposed to be an organ/violin recital there at 10 a.m. I got there around 9.45 and heard the organ was once again in full swing, so assumed that once again I had misunderstood the German way of announcing the time of a concert! As it turned out, the violinist had not pitched up and the organist was practicing – I think he was due to give a second recital on his own in the evening. So over the course of the next hour I sat and listened to him practice. Of course, I did not know what he was playing. Some of it sounded as though it must be Bach or Buxtehude. I recognised some Mendelssohn. At one stage he launched into some very loud avant garde piece which could have been Messiaen. He certainly put the instrument through its paces, and we heard not only the big diapasons but the bass pedal reed and the ranks of trumpets put to good use. When I had had enough I quietly left. It had not cost me a cent.

I decided to spend the rest of my time walking around the Tiergarten for a last time. It was a fine day, if cold and there were many people who clearly had the same idea. I went clockwise from the Zoo. The north border of the garden is the River Spree and I had a very pleasant stroll along its south bank for a km or so, until I got to the Bundestag – the German Parliament. It has to be seen to be believed. The old building, which is colossal and monumental (no other words to describe it) is flanked by these ultramodern geometric concrete and glass constructions. I have been told that after the Third Reich there was a feeling that never again would government business be conducted in secret, behind locked doors, and so many or most of the offices are glass fronted and had it not been a Saturday, I expect I should have been able to see everyone at their desks. I like the idea – I think we could do with some of that spirit in SA.

I passed the Hauptbahnhof – the main Berlin Railway Station – and after consulting my map realised with something of a shock that until 23 years ago, the place where a train was travelling out of it would have been invisible from where I was standing, obscured by that insane Wall! Couldn’t quite get my mind around it, but there you are. Politicians like that should probably be euthanized at birth, for the good of all – if only we could predict which they would be. Then back to Unter den Linden, through the Gate again, and this time a slow wander through the Garden, down many an “Allee” and “Weg”, past many a statue, some of people well known to me, some of folk I have never heard of. It was a lovely brightly sunlit balmy afternoon and I enjoyed my walk immensely. At last I fetched up back at the Zoo.

I made a short stop in a large sports shop and admired particularly some of their cycling gear and accessories, but the prices, even on “sale” were really high and I didn’t buy anything. I saved my remaining euro’s for a last Café Latte Vente and cheese roll and the Starbucks in Kurfürstendamm, drank and ate them while walking back to the hotel, retrieved my baggage from the reception lady, left a tip for the cleaner, and hopped on the 109 to Tagel Airport. En route I had to strip off several layers of clothing – those buses are superheated and I had my long underwear on against the winter’s day. Don’t know how Europeans and Americans manage – I find the central heating quite oppressive and it can’t be very good for either one’s health or the environment. OK that is my rant for the day.

At Tagel, I managed something I have never managed before – getting into the business lounge in a foreign country. This by dint of having recently been upgraded to Gold. Ah, the life …! Had a couple of beers while I sat and wrote this, and shall have to stop now as they are about to call my flight.

Did the same thing at Frankfurt and fulfilled another long time desire – ate frankfurters in Frankfurt! And then it was time to board the big beast for the very long haul back to Cape Town.

Sunday

After a long, hot but otherwise uneventful flight, back in Cape Town. Strong south easter taking the edge off a rather hot day. As ever, good to be back.

The organ and windows of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church 

 The Bundestag and the River Spree

The “Grosser Stern”, in the middle of which the “Sieges Säule”

 The Brandenburg Gate

Trees in the Tiergarten

The Hide

The Hide

The bricked path to the Hide leads under shady acacia trees,

alongside lush lawns, next to beds of colourful wild flowers;

I approach slowly, reverently almost,

Binoculars in one hand, iPad in the other,

My head covered by a New Balance running cap,

A Holiday gift from my colleagues.

All around are the strains of birdsong,

Nearby a kingfisher chants shrilly from his lofty dead branch;

Further off the water dikkops wail mournfully, quietly;

The bottlebird warbles from his bush down by the riverside,

Far off, high above the river, a pair of fish eagles call majestically to one another;

All the while the river flows, rumbles, rushes, washes, swirls, singing its own powerful song.

I slowly, unsteadily mount the creaking central wooden staircase ladder;

Uneven slanting steps cause me to lurch and sway and almost fall;

I grab the handrail and the whole Hide seems to rock.

The assembled watchers look round, frowning, disapproving.

I mumble an apology and tiptoe to a vacant place on the bare wooden benches.

The obvious regulars are quickly picked out – the brilliant red bishop, Egyptian geese,

Egrets, bulbuls, babblers, spur fowls, weavers, prinias, swallows, swifts …

No one is that interested in them and neither am I.

Ticked them all off long ago.

No, we are here to Wait and Watch.

Watch and Wait.

Watch for the Coming.

Wait for the Revelation.

Will it be today?

The minutes tick by.

The lowveld afternoon air hangs thick and heavy about us.

Birds come and go, but nothing new happens.

There is peace here, and quiet,

but it is an expectant peace, an excited quiet.

Something momentous may happen today.

Something new may be revealed.

Suddenly, a gasp.

Inaudible, but felt.

A Watcher has seen something.

We follow the direction of her binoculars to the reeds below.

Another gasp, a group gasp.

Someone says the words “cuckoo finch”.

We all reach frantically for our books or iPads and page or type furiously,

In-between drinking in the sight of this diminutive yellow-brown creature,

flitting around in the reeds below.

We envisage ticking it off, chalking it up – a lifer!

The old man in the corner is silent, calm, unfrenzied.

For a long while he just sits and observes.

Then he intones in a deep voice through his white beard:

“Weeeaaaavvvvverrrr…..”

A groan, felt but not heard.

We return to watching and waiting.

Perhaps this is not the day, not the hour.

We must remain faithful.

Revelation could happen at any time.

Devotions over, we make our peace and leave quietly,

Singly or in twos and threes.

Out into the hostile world of the unbirded,

Those lacking our magnificent obsession.

The stairs creak again under the load. The structure sways.

The last watcher leaves and the Hide lies empty, deserted,

Maintaining its own watch.

oooOOOooo

London in the autumn

Wednesday night, Thursday morning

Years ago I would not have considered doing this - flying 12,000 km for 2 nights. When these trips came up I would always find an excuse to tag on a few days at the beginning or the end of the work part and go and visit friends or family. I have stopped doing that for 2 reasons. One is that working on contract I no longer have the leave. The other is that I was just spending too much time away from home. So here I am 34000 feet above the Mediterranean coast on my way to London for a meeting which will probably not take more than 3 hours, 5 at the outside. And yes, I know that I will get into trouble with the carbon emission police. My only defence is that if we don't do something fast about certain infectious diseases then it won't matter how much carbon dioxide is in the atmosphere because we won't be around to experience it - and that is why I am in London. Another, much weaker, defence is that SA220 would have gone anyway, regardless of whether I was on it or not - but that is really no defence at all.

We are in the new SAA airbus 330-200 which I must say is a lovely plane. So nice to be the first or one of the first to use a really good piece of equipment before it gets broken. Feels like Christmas morning! Each seat has a screen which actually works. There is a great navigation program. The movies work. The coach class seats seem to have a little more room between them and when they tip back the sitting part moves forward a bit, like the seats in business class do. This is an overnight flight - we left Cape Town around 8 last night and it is now 6.30 South African time, 430 local. In a few minutes they will likely switch on the lights and serve us a half edible breakfast but right now it is still dark in the cabin and most folk are snoozing. That is the other thing - the flight is half empty. I realize that is not good for the airline and probably not good for prices or the environment, but it meant that the seat beside me is empty. In fact one person in the middle block has four seats to himself and is stretched out with more room than British airways business class. Maybe that is what happens on a Wednesday night.

When I awoke and looked out the window just now we were just approaching the Algerian Mediterranean coastline. The moon is full and just setting in the west, reflected off the sea and the night cloudless. Quite pretty. There is a bright planet just below the moon which my astronomy program on the iPad tells me is Jupiter - who would have thought? Now we are over Barcelona, actually Reus, approaching Andorra and the Pyrenees - I expect that may give us a little turbulence. Then north west, passing between St Giron and Tarbes, between Bordeaux and Perigueux, (don't you just love these names?!), Niort and La Rochelle, Nantes and Angers / Saumur, Rennes and Le Mans, Cherbourg and Bayeux, and then on across the channel to London. We seem to have deviated east from the direct course - maybe we are too early - I know there is a curfew until 6 am local time on landing at Heathrow.

I watched a really strange movie last night while I finished a small bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and before sleep overtook me. It starred Brad Pitt and Sean Penn and was directed by someone called Terence Malick. It was called The Tree of Life and was noted to be "2011, Drama, PG13, 138 minutes. ... An impressionistic story of a Midwestern family in the 1950's. The film follows the life journey of the eldest son, Jack, through the innocence of childhood to his disillusioned adult years." It starts with a quotation from the book of Job - "were you there when I laid the foundations of the earth..." and so on, then goes to the death of his brother in the war, presumably Viet Nam, and how it affects his mother. Then it cycles back to Jack's own "creation" with lots of impressive imagery of galaxies being born and volcanoes erupting ... all very interesting but I wasn't sure that I got it. And then the story itself - his overbearing, manly father who goes to great lengths to raise his boys right, his beautiful mother for whose love and attention he has to compete with both his brothers and his father, his near idyllic youth in this country bumpkin town where his dad works and where his family lives. As the blurb warned, it ends in disillusionment with his father getting retrenched when "they" close down his factory, selling up the house and moving to the city, and Jack the adult searching restlessly in the board rooms and skyscrapers which now define his existence for what he has lost. I probably need to watch it again, perhaps on the big screen and at a time when I am not tired and have a clearer head. As I said, enjoyed it but wasn't sure I "got it".

We are supposed to land shortly after six a.m. At this time of the year I expect it will still be dark. My plan is to get through immigration and customs and go and leave my bags at the hotel, en head into town on the underground, to Euston station, and then take the train to Leighton Buzzard where I am meeting my uncle and aunt, and possibly my cousin, for lunch there or up at Milton Keynes where they work. I have with me a small packet of goodies for my uncle - six copies of my grandfather's poems and a used music edition of the Presbyterian hymnal. What is special about them is that you cannot get them in the UK. In fact you probably can't get them anywhere else. So I feel as though I am actually earning my pub lunch today...

We have just descended a level and are continuing to do so. Just passing over Cherbourg now. Have to switch off.

Later:

Well we had a smooth landing but had to wait for about 15 minutes on the apron because the "other airline" (never discovered which one) aircraft had not vacated our parking space. Irritating but not the end of the world. Well, not for me anyway - I didn't have a connecting flight to catch. And anyway, we were about half an hour early. Passport control and customs was a breeze. Some American colleagues who arrived later told me they stood in the "non EU" queue for over 2 hours - when I went through neither the EU nor the non EU queues were more than about 10 people. Strange.

I've done this routine a few times now so pretty much know my way around. Terminal 1, central bus station, find the U3 bus (they had changed the station), get off at the Hong Kong restaurant and walk the remaining few hundred metres to the Sheraton - fortunately it wasn't raining. Last time they gave me the gears about arriving early - this time they didn't - they were only too happy to usher me into Room 1409 (I later discovered they charged me an additional 40 pounds for this privilege) which, it turned out, was conveniently close to the front desk - always an advantage in this day and age when one's magnetic door key needs to be reset every time it comes within a mile of your blackberry case! I unpacked, showered and changed, and headed out to see my uncle and aunt in Bedfordshire.

This routine I have pretty much got taped now. I bought my ticket shortly after the end of peak time (9.30 am), which meant it was cheaper, Heathrow to Leighton Buzzard return. I think it was about 20 pounds. Then onto the London Underground, headphones in and turned up to maximum volume (I have learned), and so to Euston. I cannot quite recite the Piccadilly Line (to Cockfosters!) stations off by heart but just about. Heathrow, Hatton Close, Hounslow West, Central and East, Osterly, Boston Manor, Northfields, South Ealing, and Acton Town. I love the names and found myself thinking that each of them must have a story and a history attached to it - must have a look in Peter Ackroyd's book. Hammersmith, Baron's Court, Earl's Court - who were the Earl and Baron, I wondered. Gloucester Road, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner and Green Park. Was there a special bridge over the Thames for Knights of the Realm? Is the park named for its colour or after a Mr or Ms Green? Piccadilly Circus. Circus? WTF! Leicester Square. I got off at Leicester Square and made my way through tunnels to the northern line and thence past Warren Street and finally to Euston Station. Getting from the tube to the over ground midlands trains is quite a challenge. The main thing to remember is not to stop in the middle of the passage or concourse and look at the notice boards - not if you don't want to be roundly cursed by commuters in a hurry or simply bashed into.

I found my train and found a seat. The midlands trains are clean, comfortable, quiet, fast, air-conditioned - somewhat in contradistinction to the tube. Soon we were (it felt like) flying north west, through suburban London, and then into the countryside. I spotted the Grand Union Canal a few times, but the rest was pretty much a blur of hamlets, villages, fields and cows, and an occasional ruined castle. Across the aisle from me two young ladies were discussing their hair, their fingernails, their boyfriends, their girlfriends' boyfriends, their parents, their religion ... and then one of them said something about Bafana Bafana, which made me sit up and take notice, but I couldn't work out the context. Before I knew it, the lady on the PA was telling us that Leighton Buzzard was next. I gathered my stuff together and went and stood at the door. Now these are high tech trains - you don't wrench open the doors like you do in Cape Town (and usually your shoulder at the same time). You push a button and wait for the electronics to open the door for you. When it doesn't, you push it again - and again - and again ... eventually it did open, but not before I had got myself into quite a state. The lady on my left commiserated and said it always freaked her out as well.

I was a little early for my uncle so took a short walk around Leighton Buzzard. There is a fairly attractive but not particularly ancient looking parish church quite near the station, which is being renovated. There was a railway hotel which I think just have been burnt down and is also being resorted. It reminded me of a song by Mike Batt which I have always liked, whose lyrics go something like "I knew the Savoy would have suited you well, but the best I could do was the Railway Hotel". Some pics below.

Ancient Uncle arrived on time with an even more ancient friend, whom we needed to drop off at his home, then we went and fetched my slightly less ancient aunt, and headed to Milton Keynes for lunch. Before we left I handed over the books I had brought and they gave me some goodies to take back to SA for my even more ancient mother. Why Milton Keynes - well, there was a possibility that my cousin might join us - in the end he didn't but that was why we chose MK. We lunched at Camperdown, which is an establishment, as I understand it, for mentally handicapped people, where they live and where they are employed. Our watrons were such people, although the manageress wasn't. The menu is vegetarian, and the veggies are grown on the estate. I had a lentil pasta main and a hot pudding with custard, washed down with a local beer called "Cock and Bull", which was really nice. I found the whole experience delightful and was glad we had come here. We ended it off with a short walk around the estate - very pretty, particularly the trees in the autumn colours. They dropped me back at the station in time for me to catch the 5.43 to Euston. This was much more crowded than the train had been coming north, but I still got a seat and was fairly comfortable. The tube, in contrast, was another matter. Two trains came and went before I could even get on to one. Then it was a case of pull your stomach in, try not to mind the invasion of your personal space and hold on tight. It was like that all the way to Acton Town - that was the first time I was able to sit down. I got back to the hotel around 8 and went across to the MacDonalds (where I am sitting now) to catch up emails.

Friday

Most of Friday was taken up by the meeting, which was ... a meeting. In the afternoon I decided I would try and run around Heathrow - I was feeling rather bloated and needed some exercise. I didn't realise quite how large the airport is - I got about one quarter of the way around and decided that would do, so turned around and returned. The total distance for the run was about 8km. What is unusual about Heathrow (I think) is that it is plonked in the middle of suburbia and even farmland. The northern runway runs fairly close to Bath Road and the northern perimeter road, both of which are accessible to walkers and runners, so you can watch (and hear) the big birds landing and taking off, which I enjoy.

We met at 7 pm for dinner. The plan was to go to our favourite watering hole, called the White Hart, just down the road, and have a meal together. The vehicle which had been hired wasn't quite large enough, so three of us walked. It was cold but pleasant enough. The White Hart is a traditional and I think quite old English Pub. I have had a meal inside before - it is very small and crowded. But they have an outside section, which is more open. Long wooden tables with radiant gas heaters and provided. They had a little trouble getting ours to work but finally it came together and we sat down. I ordered a glass of London Pride Ale, which got refilled twice during the evening. I always try to eat local specialties, so went with what was billed as Traditional English Bangers and Mash. It was GREAT! Who needs fancy cuisine?!

We stumbled back around 10 and I fell into (or more correctly onto) my bed with the TV on, full clothed, only to wake in the small hours with a rather dry throat.

Saturday

My plane only leaves around 8pm so I had the day to do with what I liked. I thought about going into London and shopping but didn't feel like the tube, so finally went for a long (very long) walk through some of the local villages - Harmondsworth and West Drayton. I have investigated the former before, but not the latter. It is lovely - very pretty indeed. I wandered through fields, parks, past old churches and an old building labelled "Drayton Hall" which I presume was the original manor house. I walked  next to streams, copses, mounds, lakes - one would never have guessed I was only a few km from one of the largest and busiest airports in the world and within the municipal boundaries of one of the globe's largest mega-cities. In the end I walked about 21km over 4 hours - I know this because I had Endomondo running. I discover that it works even if your data services are not on - presumably it doesn't need them to pick up the satellite signal, which I guess makes sense.

Right now I am killing a little time, but shall shortly have to get my act together and head across to Heathrow 1 and start the usual circus of checking in for my flight. Give me patience!

Sunday

The flight back was fairly ho-hum. I got the timing right for once - I cannot count the hours I have spent wandering aimlessly around the Heathrow 1 shops waiting for the information to go up on which gate to go to, because I have checked in too early. Airport shopping malls irritate me at the best of times. There is something not right about imprisoning large numbers of people for hours on end in these overheated, overcrowded complexes in the hope that they will spend their every last penny on items they neither need nor want out of sheer boredom and desperation. I don't believe for a minute the duty free lie - probably one of the biggest hoaxes in the history of commerce - it seems pretty obvious to me that the shops hike their prices to make up for the fact that one is not paying sales tax or VAT or whatever. And not to be too hard on the shop owners - i expect they have to do that because of the exorbitant rents charged them by the airports authority. Why is there never a Marks and Spencers or a MacDonalds? Presumably because one would spend too little money there, or heaven forbid, actually find something one wanted....

This time my flight left at 8.10 p.m. and so I tried getting to the bus stop at 5 which turned out to be about right. I missed two buses because I wasn't alert enough and didn't signal my desire that they stop, but eventually a number 76 came rolling by and we stopped it. As long as you are 3 stops or less from the terminal the trip is free. I have been told this is because there is no pedestrian access to the airport and so they had to come up with a compromise. I was soon as the central bus station and made my way to check in. Passport control and security was short and sweet. I still had about an hour to wait in the shopping concourse but that was fine. I tried to find some liquorice for herself and couldn't, not even at Harrod's. Nothing else grabbed me. I need some black work shoes but wasn't tempted by those on offer at Clark's, which seemed to start at about £50 a pair, or those at Timberland which started at about double that. I had some heavy coins I wanted to be rid of, so ended up using them at a slot machine in exchange for a bag of wine gums and a bag of chocolates. The board finally informed us to make our way to gate 33, which is about the longest walk one can have from the central concourse.

I was delighted to see that our plane was the same new Airbus 330-200 we had come on. The pilot later informed us that it had come off the plant in Toulouse on July 2nd this year. Very new indeed. The flight was not as empty as the outbound one, but still empty enough and I once again ended up with an vacant seat next to me, which was nice. I had a Windhoek light beer, and then a glass of Pinotage with my meal, which was a reasonably edible beef and potato stew. I have now learnt that the deserts are best avoided and I even resisted the temptation to eat the butter with my roll. When the lights were down I had a look at the entertainment on offer. I went for one of the foreign movies. Something called "El Hombre De Al Lado," ( the man next door) with English subtitles. It was billed as drama, not rated, 110 minutes, directed by Mariano Cohn and Gaston Duprat, 2010. It stars Rafael Spregelburg. The blurb said "Leonardo lives with his family in an architectural wonder. One morning, he wakes to an irksome noise and is appalled to discover that workmen next door are constructing a large window that faces directly into his home." I think it is set in Argentina. I enjoyed it, but shall have to think about it for a while before I figure out what it was actually about....

Now we are cruising down above the coast of Namibia, probably just around Walvis Bay and Swakopmund, which brings back memories from long ago for me - different era, different me, different life. When I open the window the Atlantic looks impossibly bright and blue. I guess a few days of the cloudy skies and muted light of West London has left my eyes overly sensitive. In another sense, though, Africa is stark. There is no mistaking reality here. I was looking at some of the building complexes along Bath Road yesterday - ugly factories or office blocks, but with well-maintained, manicured embankments and fine wrought iron fences between them and the road, which somehow muted their ugliness. Cape Town has lots of ugliness, but it is by and large in your face, in your front yard ugliness - there is little effort made to hide it or mute it. Driving in from the airport to the city centre you see it on both sides of the road - urban slums. Driving around the city you see it at every intersection - beggars. On a still winter's day you see it hanging above the city - brown haze. Open any of our newspapers and it will be on the front page - gang warfare, murders, rapes, hijackings, corrupt politicians - ugly, ugly, ugly. But at least the dirty washing is out on the line for everyone to see. We got a glimpse of England's dirty laundry with the "hoody" riots a few months ago. Countless English people seemed to be asking themselves, their neighbours, their members of parliament, "Where did all this ugliness come from?" and then we had the interminable communal navel gazing rumination about education and alienation and listening to young people and so on. Visiting London now, I saw no sign that they had ever occurred, although admittedly I did not visit Croydon or any of the other worst affected areas.

We have just flown over the South African border. It is good to be home. Much as I am coming to love England and London, and I am, it is good to be home.

Later still

There were two layers of cloud as we descended. I heard later that there is snow on the Helderberg – in November! The first glimpse of the ground I got I recognised as Long Beach. Odd. Moments later we got through the lower cloud layer and I looked out my window to see Simonstown harbour. The captain took us south a few more km, affording me an excellent view of Cape Point from False Bay, and then we made a graceful arc to the left. Once we levelled again I could see Hangberg and Kogelberg and the Hottentots Holland mountains. Then it was a slow glide over Khayelitsha and Mitchells Plain, and a surprisingly quiet and smooth northerly landing. Passports, luggage and customs done, I emerged into the Cape wind and felt again that it was good to be back.

 The Railway Hotel at Leighton Buzzard

 The church and park at Leighton Buzzard

 The Green, Drayton West

 The Gate House, next to the church at Drayton West

 The church at Drayton West

A somewhat anachronistic pub on Bath Road, very close to Heathrow