Kinky running

I have a new running partner - the Revered Hungry Kink. Kinky for short. Kinky and I go back a long way. Ok, maybe I should rephrase that - we have known each other for 35 years. We went to the same school. I was a day boy who lived just up the road with my parents. He was a boarder whose parents lived far away on a coal mine near Witbank, arguably the smelliest town in the country. I was into rugby and music, he was into wildlife photography. I was in the geography and biology class, he took art and history. Seemingly not a lot in common, but we became close friends at school and ended up spending a week hiking the 'berg together with Nobleman Shittier, and subsequently a week hiking the Wild Coast. Good times. His folks were real salt-of-the-earth South Africans. His Dad had worked his way up from being the office messenger to the mine's financial manager. He gave the three of us a lift down to the Drakensberg for our week there. I remember putting one of my Genesis tapes into the car's radio cassette player. The old boy tolerated Peter Gabriel and co. for about 20 minutes and then announced,  in inimitable South African style, "OK, let's have some white man's music!" as he turned on the radio. Priceless.

The kink studied to be a metallurgical engineer at Wits. I visited him a few times in res, played the occasional game of squash when I was up in Jozi, saw him once in a while. Then we kind of lost contact. I heard he had been G5'd out of the army because of having had one fit, ? epileptic. It never recurred but they didn't want him holding an R5 so he wasn't required to join the engineers' corps. I think he got a job on the mines or with Iscor, well paid, somewhere in the old Transvaal, but am not sure. As I said, we lost contact.

Then a few years back I was shopping at Blue Route Checkers with my two kids and this tall, thin bald guy comes up and says my name with a question mark at the end. I must have looked blank or stupid or both, because he then told me his. It was the Kink. He had moved to Cape Town and was living in Claremont. I asked him what the @#$% a metallurgical engineer was doing in Cape Town, to which he replied that he had given up being an engineer and was teaching science at a well-known private high school for boys in the mother city. He said he had had to take a 2/3 cut in salary but had never been happier.

Over the next year or so he introduced me to the art of restoring and maintaining vintage BMW motorcycles, invited me to his 40th birthday party (all I recall was that he wore a very strange wig and black tights) and promised to take me hiking up Du Toit's Peak. He also underwent surgery on both knees for shot ligaments. Then he disappeared again, chasing some woman to the UK, intent on marrying her. That too failed, and the next I heard from him was an email with a picture of him riding a very large Ducati, somewhere near a Norwegian Fjord. He does that - a few years later he sent me a similar shot from the Caprivi strip.

This is getting to be a long story so I will cut it short. The romance failed, he returned to Cape Town and his job at the boys' school, and he moved to Glen Cairn, where he had bought a rather run down but very well appointed bungalow with the most glorious view of False Bay. He proceeded to renovate the place over the next year, mostly on his own.

Given his knee issues, I was rather surprised when he told me he had started road running. "What about your knees?" I asked. He said he had read "Born to Run" by McDougall, had learned how to run on his forefeet and this had sorted out all his knee and ankle issues. Well it seemed to work - his times are substantially better than mine.

So that is the Kink. We now belong to the same running club (he had other motives for joining - his girlfriend is a leading light there). We run most Saturday mornings unless there is something else more urgent. Whereas the Handsome Masha and I discuss politics and philosophy on our runs, Kink and I talk about the old times and the old school, the quality of refereeing in the Rugby World Cup, motorbikes, and the like. Thank God for good friends.

Uganda

The Pearl of Africa. Uganda. I expect the country was pretty much unknown in the West for a long time, except to those in the British colonial services whose job it was to administer it and to those who had business interests there. Next year, Ugandans celebrate their half centenary of independence from the British, I read in a local newspaper - so that would be 1962, I guess. Then Big Dada Idi Amin arrived and suddenly Uganda was on the map - but for all the wrong reasons. My friends here still talk about those years - they were children at the time and they talk of the time, "towards the end" when you weren't safe in your own house at night. Came dusk, families would leave their houses and sleep in the bush, for fear of Amin's soldiers. You see the trauma in their eyes, and the deep sorrow. They tell you quite openly that the present government, under President Museveni, is not perfect, but they always add that nothing comes close to being as bad as the way things were under Amin.

And of course there was the Israeli special forces raid on Entebbe airport - the airport where I am sitting right now, even as I write this. The details of what happened are available in books, on websites and in at least one film. By all accounts it was extremely daring and well executed. One Ugandan friend told me that it only succeeded because their radar systems at the time were faulty and that ere is no way it could happen now. I wouldn't know. My observation is that it dented the national pride somewhat, even if it did occur during the tenure of a much hated dictator.

We flew in on Sunday evening on the direct flight from Johannesburg. I have taken it before and enjoy it because it is relatively short (4 hours) and because it seems invariably to arrive just as the sun is setting. As one is virtually plumb on the equator here, I guess that makes sense - sunset at 6pm and sunrise at 6 am all year round, or so I have been told. If you are lucky and there is not too much cloud around, you get some beautiful views of Lake Victoria and it's myriad islands as you make your final approach to Entebb airport, whose runway is right next to the shore.

Uganda is one of the countries where South Africans do require a visa, but you buy it for $50 when you arrive. The whole operation is quite efficient - that is, they have worked out how to relieve foreigners of $50 quite efficiently. Apart from handing over the money, the only other requirement is that you fill in one of those tedious but much loved by African bureaucracies immigration forms - yellow in Uganda, blue in Kenya, but all much the same - and smile politely as you say Habari and Asante. Oh, and they take digital scans of your finger prints on entry and exit, I guess to make sure it is the same person who comes and goes.

I am traveling with a colleague from Cape Town. It is his first trip, so I was able to provide some advice and information on what not to do. Don't mention the raid. Don't eat the salad. Don't walk in the road. Don't drink the tap water. Don't take pictures of official looking buildings. Don't give the presidential cavalcade the finger when it comes past - the basics of survival in Kampala. We collected our bags, cleared customs and found our shuttle driver. We were booked into the Metropole hotel, one of many in central Kampala. The distance from Entebbe is about 25km, I think, but it can take anything from 45 minutes to 3 hours to get there, a bit like Nairobi. The traffic is legendary. I was trying to describe the "jam" outside our hotel to a friend in an email and eventually resorted to "imagine all the cars on the N1 in rush hour trying to drive along Main Road from Muizenberg to Fish Hoek." The point being, for those not from my neck of the woods, that the N1 is a three lane highway, and Main Road is a single lane road which has been under construction / repair for over 3 years now. Picture that and you have, I think, a pretty good picture of Kampala in a "jam".

Our trip that evening took us about an hour - there were no major "jams". We sped along at a reasonable rate, dodging the odd motorcyclist, minibus or pedestrian. Traffic etiquette seemed to be fairly similar to what I have observed in other major African cities such as Maputo and Nairobi - size counts, pedestrians and cyclists have no rights, motorcyclists have half rights, driving on the pavement is allowed, pulling out in front of oncoming traffic is ok as long as you do so purposively and flash your lights, likewise overtaking on a blind rise ... you know, the usual stuff. I glanced across at my colleague to see what color his knuckles were and whether he had chewed through the seat belt yet and was surprised to see that he was fairly calm. When I asked him, he said that he had been driven around Rome a few times and that this was fairly tame in comparison! I guess the difference is that in Rome the average age of the vehicles is about ten years less than in Kampala and the roads are in better nick.

Our hotel, the Metropole, is what they call a boutique hotel, whatever that means. I could not fault it, except that it had no swimming pool. It is right next to the Uganda golf club, and close to the centre of town. My room was on the third floor and looked onto the course, separated from it by a stream with some very tall gum, banana and other trees on it's banks, which were the playground and possibly homes of several bird species - we heard or saw kingfishers, marabou storks, cuckoos and a number of others. The room was spacious and clean with a small balcony. I did not pay for the trip but was told the rate was $120/night for bed and breakfast, which is, comparatively speaking, not bad at all. At check in we were given a note from our American colleagues to say that one of them had gone to bed, the other was on the patio. We found our rooms, unpacked and made our way to the patio, which was on the first floor, also overlooking the golf course. We found our colleague, who was doing emails on her iPad, joined her table and ordered some beers. I remembered from my previous trips that one of the Ugandan beers is called a Nile. Someone once told me that they use the water from the Nile at Jinja to make it, but I have not been able to confirm the theory. Having been to Jinja and seen same water, I hope that it is incorrect! Another is called a "Club" and there is a third, whose name I forget now. Then one can also get Kenyan beers, for example Tusker malt or Tusker lager. They all come in 500ml bottles, which is 50% more than our standard pint or can in south Africa. They were surprisingly cheap - 4500 Ugandan shillings each, whichbis about $1.50. My colleague asked me which I suggested and I gave him my standard line: "there is no such thing as a bad African beer" which is probably not true, but I have always enjoyed sampling the local brews. A liter of beer each later we headed for bed. The most momentous decision to be made was whether to close the door and run the (rather noisy) air conditioner or leave the door open with just the screen door closed, and the air conditioner off. I opted for the former the first night but changed after that.

I woke to the shrill calls of the kingfishers in the trees. I thought briefly about going for a run but decided against it. Instead I had a leisurely shower, dressed and made my way to breakfast. I wore a tie and jacket, not sure how formal our meetings would be. Breakfast was a simple affair but quite pleasant. The coffee was strong and local, and what else matters?! I had some cereal and fruit, to assuage my conscience, and some toast and jam to fill a gap or two, but decided to skip the cooked offerings. I generally avoid red meat when traveling in Africa because one is never really sure what one is eating, and because I have had some really nasty sausages in my time.

The days were full of meetings, the details of which do not matter. Lunch was provided and consisted of banana (plantain), steamed in its own leaves, together with rice, beans and spinach, all of which i enjoy. I avoided the chicken option. Evenings were spent on the patio having extended sundowners and eating from the hotel kitchen. I had some excellent tilapia fish from the lake - tikka one night and red curry another. I think that if I lived in Kampala as an expat I might well get into that particular groove.

On the second morning we were picked up (or "picked" as they say in east Africa) by our host's driver in an elderly Land-cruiser. The traffic was particularly bad and we were concerned (as was he) that we would miss our meeting at 9 a.m. Accordingly, he hung a right and went careering down a side alley, up another and soon we were climbing one of Kampala's famous seven hills via a rather rudimentary looking mud track. I was sitting in what we used to call the "dog box" - the back section. Next moment we all heard a loud hissing noise from the back left tire and we ground to a lopsided halt. Puncture! We all got out and stood around making helpful comments while the driver changed the wheel. Then it started raining. To cut a long story short, we were offered a lift by the driver of another Land-cruiser who just happened to be taking the  same short cut. It did however allow me a few minutes to explore the area and take a few pictures - see below.

On our second afternoon there, we had an hour or so in hand and so decided to try and burn some calories by going for a run. Not having a map, we opted to try and run around the golf course, which looked fairly sizable. We found a path which took us straight across it and followed it, looking out for flying golfballs as we ran. It took us to the main road which ran along the far side of the course. The pavement was not very wide, a bit broken and quite crowded, so we decided to run along the fairway, parallel to the road. Bad idea. A security guard came running after us, clapping his hands and motioning us to get off the course. So pavement it was. At this stage we were adopted by a stray dog, about the size of a Dalmatian. She ran with us for the full half hour and only left us when we disappeared back into our hotel. The course is long and narrow - I expect most golf courses are. The area around the bottom was taken up by a hideous hotel with a revolving restaurant on top of a tower - "soos 'n puisie op 'n perd se poephol" as they say in Afrikaans. Also a shopping mall called Garden City, but sans anything even vaguely resembling a garden. We were glad to leave the thronging main road and get back to the Metropole.

We attempted a second run the following day. I had consulted google maps, which was probably a mistake. I was sure there was a road around the top of the course which, if we took it, would spare us the bit past Garden City, dodging motorbikes and four wheel drives. We couldn't find the road so consulted a security guard (every second person in Kampala appears to be a security guard). He told us to turn left here, right there and so on. We ended up in a somewhat dodgy looking area and scrambled our way past shacks, over seriously muddy dirt roads until we found the main road again. Nothing like a bit of cross country. We had had enough, and my colleague's knee was playing up so we called it a day.

On the Tuesday night our hosts took us to dinner at an Indian restaurant. I gather it was north Indian. I think it was called something to do with New Delhi. We sat under a gazebo on a manicured lawn. The air was warm, there was no wind and no rain. I had bought myself and was wearing a very bright, collarless, patterned shirt, which I was assured was "traditional Ugandan" and a likewise traditional floppy brown hat made of "bark cloth" - looks a little like felt but rougher and drier, and is made from the bark of one of their trees - from the shop at the hospital which sells for the HIV infected mothers who bring their kids there. We sat and chatted, sipped our drinks, ate our Dahl and a good many other dishes - I know there was vegetarian, fish, goat (which they call mutton in Kampala, our host told us), and chicken. It was a delightful meal and evening and I thought I could get used to this...

This morning we were up at four to leave at four thirty. We had been advised that traffic to the airport was not something to take lightly, so we gave ourselves a reasonable cushion. Our plane was at 7.25. As it turned out, it was as well that we did. There was no problem with the traffic but the credit card machine at the hotel was giving hassles which took about 15 minutes to sort out. Always something! The drive itself was fairly uneventful - we just stopped once and that was to refill the windscreen washer bottle - the roads were very muddy after the rains. I was told that it has been raining just about every day since May which is very unusual and is confusing the farmers and ruining the cotton crop.

We were at the airport by 5.30. Check in, security and immigration were surprisingly hassle free. We made a brief sortie into the "duty free" to pick up some overpriced Ugandan coffee for my colleague, were declined entrance to the business lounge (one has to be Voyager gold) and finally sat down in the cafeteria just in time to be told to get up and go to the boarding gate. More scans and security checks and finally we were on board. Last minute SMS to herself, cell phone off, doors closed, safety video over and then we were hurtling down the runway. We seems to take forever to get airborne but I expect the pilot knew what she was doing. We rose above the lake and I looked down on an array of huts and beaches and little fishing craft and realized that this was the real Uganda, not the comfortable hotel, fancy restaurants, golf courses and erudite company I had spent three days enjoying.

Now we are cruising somewhere high above Tanzania, I expect. Soon we'll be touching down in Johannesburg and then on to Cape Town. I don't know when exactly I shall be back in Uganda. I would like to return and perhaps take a trip to some of the national parks which seem to be mainly in the West of the country, along the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I would like to bring my family and introduce them to the "Pearl" and to some of the nicest, warmest people I have the privilege of calling my friends. Maybe, one day ...

Mozambique and Johannesburg

Mozambique  - September 2011

I am not sure how many times I have visited Moz. Somewhat less than ten times, somewhat more than five. About half of those have been trips to Maputo and about half have been trips through Maputo, to places further north. I find it a fascinating country, if a little depressing. My first trip was about five years ago. I went with a small team of south African academics to assist the Mozambiquean government with some short term training. We stayed at a modest hotel in downtown Maputo. It was a moderately successful trip, although the project we were training them for subsequently never happened, and I learned a few things in the process. One was about dress codes in Africa. Bottom line here is that whatever you wear will be wrong. I assumed that it being a government function, I should wear a suit. I arrived to find that everyone from their team was in jeans and tee-shirts! (I have had it the other way around as well, which is one reason I tend to err on the side of caution). The second thing I learned was how poor the country is or was. We tend to forget that our neighbor went through 16 years of brutal civil war, from which it is only now recovering. I don't pretend to know much about that war, other than what I have read and heard, but it is not difficult to see the effects of it - in short the infrastructure was (and still is) falling apart. My boss swears that when the Portuguese left in '75 or whenever, they were so pissed off that they poured concrete down the sewers. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. It makes a good story and I guess I might have as well. Maputo certainly had and still has sewer problems...

I find that Maputo is a city of contrasts. On that first trip I remember taking a walk through the city centre and being astounded to find multimillion rand mansions belonging to some business tycoon or politician and right next to them open sewers, stinking to high heaven, or a ramshackle old house with broken windows and roof and yard rank with weeds. None of the traffic lights worked, it seemed. Major four-lane arterials intersected with other large roads and the intersection appeared to be nothing more than an elaborate stop-go system, whose rules it was almost impossible for the uninitiated to fathom. As far as I could see, the trick was to wait for a gap and then proceed slowly but purposefully as far as the first lane, wait for a gap in the second lane and so on until one had inched one's way all the way across. Even as that was happening, others were inching their way from east to west, west to east and south to north. The other remarkable thing was that I never saw an accident happen, although I don't doubt they occurred when I wasn't there.

This trip was short. we flew in on Monday and out on Thursday of the same week. All of Wednesday was taken up with a meeting and all of Tuesday with a trip to a field site some 100km to the north. So there wasn't much time for anything. We couldn't get on the direct Cape Town - Maputo flight and had to go via Johannesburg. We had one or two vaguely amusing incidents en route. I was in the company of the Handsome Masha, who is always good for a wry comment, usually socio-political in nature. There was a long queue at the passport control in Johannesburg airport - not a huge problem, as we had a fair amount of time before our connecting plane was due to leave, just mildly irritating. They had us snaking back in about five layers, for one immigration officer. That would probably have been fine but then another officer came, and the traffic director decided, in his wisdom, to re-engineer the "snake", with the result that about 20 of us were left in an island, not quite knowing where to head, and the rest in the main queue, wondering if we were about to gate crash them. Of course tempers got frayed, people argued, folks disobeyed instructions and climbed under the railing (I did) - it had the making of a good old mudsling. The turning point came when a South African white guy said rather loudly, "Well, welcome to Africa!" - an inflammatory remark at the best of time. The black guy behind him went off pop. Turned out he was Nigerian. He started screaming at him, "What gives you the right to say that? How can you say that? Nigeria is in Africa and this doesn't happen in Nigeria! We don't do things like this!!" The rest of us pretended to be British and discussed the weather or looked out the window.

Maputo has a new airport, built partly by the Chinese. Not sure how "partly". It is a modest airport by international standards, but certainly a huge amount better than the one they had before. I emerged from baggage reclaim and customs into a light, airy, spacious and surprisingly cool entrance hall and made my way to the three cash machines against the far wall. The first did not work. The second was out of money. The third had just swallowed an American gentleman's cash card. I retreated, deciding to rather wait for the hotel (which as it turned out didn't change money). There was a large and rather weird wooden sculpture in the arrivals hall which I photographed - maybe you can interpret it.

We stayed at the Hotel Avrin. It lies along the estuary, rather than the coast proper, surrounded by government ministries. As a hotel I guess it was above average - large rooms, most of the mod cons, marble everywhere, also lots of expensive looking paintings and sculptures, many of them African. The room rate was about R1000 for bed and breakfast, which always sounds like a great deal when you are having to pay it yourself, but internationally is nothing unusual. We found our rooms and agreed to meet later. Mine was on the second floor, facing the mouth of the estuary. I unpacked, showered and changed, and then went for a walk along the waterfront highway, with a friend. There was a light sea breeze, it was late afternoon and the sun was setting over the river, everywhere were sellers of cashews, crisps, cold drinks, beers (yes, on the pavement) ... young people everywhere, lots of rather lousy music blaring from parked cars' hi-fi's. But there was a festive atmosphere and we enjoyed the walk, ending at the ferry docking station.

Back at the hotel we met up with the Handsome Masha and one other colleague, and decided we would walk to the waterfront restaurant, where I had been on a previous trip and where I had had great seafood and listened to some wonderful African jazz music. The walk is about 10 minutes and we decided it would be fine. Wrong!

We had not gotten more than a block from the hotel and were just passing some or other ministry, when we were hailed by a soldier or policeman, I am not sure which. He wore a green uniform, had no name badge, but did have a large automatic weapon suspended over his shoulder. He asked to see our passports. Now I had never been told I must carry mine, and never had such problems in the past. In fact my practice is to put my passport straight into the room safe as soon as I have checked in, because the LAST thing I need when traveling is to lose my passport. So it turned out that one of us had a passport, two of use had drivers licenses and one had no identification. Three of us were South African and not required to have a visa and one was American, who had one. The soldier was not interested in the licenses - he wanted to see passports and he particularly wanted to see our American friend's visa. He would have to take us to the station, he said. We would need to pay a fine - I think he said 3000 meticals for each of us. That is about 1000 rands each - a lot of money. Well, if that was the law, then we would have to go to the station and pay up. I think we were resigned to that. And then he played his trump card - if we paid him, then it would be about half that and we wouldn't need to go to the station. Why didn't we just help each other? In other words he wanted a bribe. It is interesting to me that the three South Africans hesitated and looked like pushing back, despite the AK47. For one thing we didn't have the money on us. But on another level, I think we are just so bloody sick and tired of this sort of crap back home, that we weren't going to give in that easily, so we thought. Our American friend and colleague, on the other hand, reached into his wallet, found R500 and handed it over! The man's eyes lit up, but clearly he wanted more. He looked at me and asked why I didn't help my friend. I showed him my wallet which was genuinely empty - I intended using a credit card if I needed to pay for dinner. I don't know how long it would have gone on or where we would have ended up, had not another soldier approached from across the road. Quickly, the man's manner changed. "I am freeing you!" he said, with a certain amount of pomp and pretense at magnanimity. "My name is Rashid!" and he held out his hand to shake on it.

We were just glad to get out of there. I shook his hand and said "Thank you so much for your help, Rashid" and held off adding "You disgusting lowlife piece of shit!!", which was what I was thinking, and even managed a smile while I looked at him, all the while feeling only loathing and hate. I don't loathe and hate many people, but this man aroused in me those feelings in plenteous quantities. The others did likewise (shook hands that is) and we made our way slowly back to the hotel. I said to the American "I apologize for my continent!" "No problem," he said, "I have had far worse things happen to me in Washington, which is why I always carry enough money on me to pay a good bribe. That guy didn't know but if he had really pushed us I had 500 dollars hidden in my underpants!"

That night we ate in. We were one of only two parties in the hotel restaurant. The food was mediocre, the wine was from Chile and okay, and the prices were ridiculous. But at least we were safe. My American friend had not been to Maputo (or Lorenco Marques, as he called it), since the seventies. Mostly what he remembered were the prawns which were "as big as hot dogs!" and he was determined to find them again. That night the prawns were small - maybe an inch long. The next night we ate in the same hotel restaurant and they were maybe two inches long. It was only on the third night, when we finally succeeded in getting back to the Waterfront restaurant, that we got the real thing - three inch long tiger prawns. My friend thought he had died and gone to heaven! Had things worked out differently, that might have been truer than he wished.

I was awakened each morning by a rather tinny rendition of reveille played over the loudspeakers at the Ministry. Heaven only knew why. Presumably they were summoning the troops and running up the flag. Maybe they hadn't heard the war was over. Other than that, we didn't see the men in green again, not even on our trip up the N1, which is notorious for road blocks. I did speak to a Mozambiquean colleague, who happens to be well connected in the government, and he confirmed that no such law exists and that this fellow was simply chancing his arm. He also said that a night in a Mozambiquean jail is not something you want to court.

I don't want this to sound like a wholly negative blog about Mozambique because of one man's greed and immorality. The vast majority of my experiences in the country have been positive. Also, I know that many tourists have had far worse experiences in my own country. I have had friends and colleagues mugged in Paris, Rome ... you name it. Nowhere is immune, not even Saudi Arabia, I expect. I just mention these things because they kind of burst my bubble and altered somewhat my possibly naive, rose-tinted view of Africa. I shall be a little more careful in future, and carry my passport. I recounted this experience to my running partners yesterday, all of whom are South African, and they all said they would have called the soldier's bluff. well, they would wouldn't they - they didn't see his face or machine gun.

So that was Moz. I don't think anything else of importance happened. On Thursday we made our way back to the airport and via Joh’burg back to Cape Town. It was mildly irritating that no direct flight was available on either day and as a result our trip home took all day, whereas the direct flight takes a mere two hours.

Johannesburg – October 2011

Ten days later I was on a plane to Joh’burg for a 5 day "training" - I was being trained to train others, so called "train the trainer". The content of the course doesn't matter - it was OK, but a little tedious. It was all arranged pretty much at the last minute, I suspect because the Department suddenly discovered that it didn't have the required numbers. I flew up with some of the provincial program staff and my Cameroonian colleague, whom we affectionately refer to in the office as Lord Charles or Prince Charles, because he once let on that he has Royal Cameroonian blood. Charles is an academic physician and an accomplished researcher. He speaks not only his native Cameroonian language but English and French and something he calls "Pidgin English", which he says is spoken all over West Africa, but with regional differences. I asked him whether I, as a native English speaker, would be able to understand it and was told I would not.

We were booked into the Airport Grand Hotel, which one would think would be grand and near the airport. Well, it was not very Grand, and was near the nether end of the airport rather than the business end, if you take my meaning. The hotel is about 500 meters away from the south end of the eastern runway with some predictable and rather dramatic consequences. At peak hours, incoming planes come in low over the hotel before touching down. I found it fascinating to watch them, wheels down, listen to the engines throttling down, feel the walls and windows shake when the really big planes passed over, listen to the Doppler effect on the engine whine. I remember my Dad saying once that in London during the Second World War, they used to listen to the drone of the V2 rockets ("Doodlebugs"). As long as the engines kept whining they knew they were ok. It was when the engines stopped that they panicked. Once the rocket was overhead, they also relaxed, since even if the engines cut, it would continue going forward as it plummeted. Terrifying. But the planes, I found exciting. I even found a pub with an outside first floor deck called "High Fliers" from which one can "plane-watch" over a sundowner.

The hotel is officially in Boksburg, which is now part of the Ekurhuleni Metropole, what we used to call the East Rand in the bad old days of apartheid. I racked my brains to remember whether we had ever gone to Boksburg. I did remember that it was the site of the first Hypermarket. Imagine that - we would drive 50km to go to a Hypermarket! Nowadays I won't even drive ten. I bought my first and only Venter trailer from their depot in Boksburg. I spent an incredibly stressful and unhappy three weeks in 1989 as the medical officer assigned to the military detention barracks in Boksburg. Lastly, I do remember that when I was very young we used sometimes to drive out to the airport (called Jan Smuts Airport in those days), to watch, from the open air veranda, the planes landing and taking off. I think we saw the Concorde there when it visited, and the first Jumbo jets. Other than the above, I don't think I ever visited Boksburg. I mean why would I have? It was very Afrikaans, very flat and very ugly, in my opinion. "My" part of Johannesburg was hilly, leafy and pretty with blooming jacaranda trees and majestic old oaks.

The hotel, with the exception of the noise, was OK, as hotels go. Nothing more, nothing less. I must say the food was good and a little over the top. The only real negative was that there was no gym. There was a swimming pool in the central courtyard, but not big enough to get much exercise, and too cold anyway (I felt it). So I had a problem - the prospect of five full days of sitting listening to presentations, interspersed with meals which I really didn't need, but which I couldn't resist and which I felt morally obliged to eat since they had been paid for ... What to do? I had a look on Google maps and discovered that even though the hotel itself is on a main road and in something of a commercial and even industrial area, there is a residential suburb right behind it. I decided to throw caution tto the winds and go for a run on the first morning. At six a.m. I made my way past the security boom, clicked "start" on the Endomondo program of my Blackberry, clicked the start button on my running watch and set off at a good trot down the road, in the direction of the runway. After two blocks I turned right and ran along Viewpoint Road, which runs parallel to the R24 highway. I was surprised at the houses, several of which would not have been out of place in Houghton or Bishopscourt. The majority had, not unexpectedly, high walls or fences, topped by the ubiquitous electric wires, guarded by monstrously large dogs. But every so often, these were punctuated by old style small holdings, with low wire fences, lots of trees (plenty of syringa's in bloom, putting forth their pungent scent, but also palms and others), manor houses, some of them thatched, cheeky fox terriers poking their noses through the chicken wire... quite charming establishments in their own way, though one couldn't help wondering about security and how many times they had been burgled. Sad.
The sun was just rising. A few locals were out walking, singly or in pairs, some with dogs. Early birds were leaving for work. Diesel engines were idling at a trucking depot. The air was crisp but not cold. A peacock was calling from one of the small holdings. It was actually very pleasant and I found myself envying the worthy citizens of Boksburg their flat terrain and windless morning!
I was so happy with my run that my enthusiasm clearly affected Lord Charles. He went out that same afternoon and bought himself some running shoes at the East Rand Mall and the next morning he joined me on the run. Now His Excellency is new to running, and a little overweight, so we had to walk once or twice, but it was a good opportunity to chat and we both enjoyed it and made it a daily commitment for the rest of the week.

Other than that not a lot happened. Before we knew it, it was Friday and we were preparing to leave to return home to Cape Town. Would I go back to Boksburg if invited, or if I won a week there in a lottery - probably not, but hey, it was okay for a change.

Ezeebikes

Ezeebikes

My kids are convinced I am having a midlife crisis. Perhaps they are right. I have probably spent more money in the last year than in the previous three. On the other hand, I thought midlife crises were supposed to be about Lamborghini cars or Harley Davidson motorbikes or Caribbean cruises. Mine has so far consisted of upgrading to a 40 inch flat screen television (my excuse was that I could no longer read the cricket and rugby scores from my arm chair, even with my spectacles on), having the house repainted inside and out (it needed it: Cape Town is not kind to paintwork), fitting new security gates to the front and back doors (hey, we live in South Africa), having new blinds fitted in the lounge and granny flat (the previous ones were see through at night) and having a shelving unit fitted in the computer room (we have four computer users and two desktop computers, so the space needed some organizing). Is that a crisis - I think that most of it could be classified as running repairs or simple maintenance.

Perhaps our one indulgence has been the bikes. We realized a while ago that with three drivers and soon four drivers, each with his or her own life to live, we would need to have more than two transport options. Currently we have the "small car" (Peugeot 107) and the "big car" (Hyundai Getz). What to do? Well we could buy another car, and we almost did. We even test drove an absolutely scrumptious Hyundai i20. Somewhere inside my rational self, however, something kept saying "sooner or later oil will run out or become so expensive you won't be able to afford petrol. Why on earth are you buying another fossil fuel burner? Go green, for heaven's sake (or at least for earth's sake)." So I started researching hybrids and electric cars. All very fascinating, but the bottom line seems to be that a hybrid car will cost me three times what I paid for the Peugeot and return a consumption figure not very different, and an electric car will set me back even more, and will not be available in South Africa for about 2 or 3 years. That doesn't help us. So we made do with two cars for a while and seemed to be getting on okay. Once in a while one of us would use public transport - not the most wonderful experience in Cape Town, but certainly a whole lot better than in most other parts of the country. Even so, the trains are unreliable, unclean and sometimes unsafe. On the positive side, they are relatively inexpensive.

Then I started thinking about criterion number two - the need for exercise, the ever present battle against the expanding waistline, the prospect of one's slaved-for retirement being obliterated or at least ruined by degenerative conditions like coronary artery disease, diabetes, osteoarthritis or, perish the thought, cancer. Fitting in the runs and gym sessions never gets easier. Who wants to go and work-out after a 10 hour stint in the office? Who wants to get up early in the morning for a run when you only finished your work after midnight the night before? Not me! But how about if getting to and from work were your exercise? Could that work? Well it might, the biggest caveats being Cape Town's weather (but the Dutch manage and their weather is absolutely dreadful) and the distance (I live about 30km from the office). Maybe riding 30km over a mountain pass at 5 pm after a hard day's work might not be the most attractive option imaginable...

These were the thoughts which were swirling around in the whirlpool I call my mind when I came across the Ezeebike website. The machines looked really interesting and the prices, though a good deal more than one would pay for a banger from Makro, were nothing like what I hear serious cyclists are paying for their steeds. They featured a story about two cyclists who had taken their Ezeebikes all the way from the Caprivi strip in northern Namibia to Cape Town, a distance of perhaps 3000km. Sounded enticing. On the spur of the moment I filled in the "contact me for a test ride" section and then forgot about it. A week or so later I got an email from a fellow in Blauuwbergstrand, inviting me to come and try one. Herself and I duly made the trip one fine Saturday afternoon. We were shown how to work the bikes and allowed to take a 20 minute ride around Big Bay, which is one of the prettier parts of Cape Town's northern suburbs. We were blown away! (not literally, I am happy to say). Two weeks later we proudly took delivery of two demonstration models - a "Sprint" for herself and a "Torq" for me.

Maybe I should explain how they work. Under the seat is a large battery. It makes up about a third of the price and quite a bit of the weight. You charge it from your domestic power supply and it takes about 4 hours if the battery is totally flat. On the handle bars is a little indicator which tells you how much charge you have - no numbers, just green, yellow or red - thankfully designed for the technically challenged amongst us. The right handle grip is the "throttle". If you switch on the motor and twist the grip, the bike leaps forward - you actually have to be quite careful. The motor itself is inside the front wheel hub. Don't ask how it works - it was explained to me and I think I understood at the time, but I have forgotten the details. I do know that it delivers a maximum of 250 watts which is enough to propel you at around 25kph on the flat if you don't pedal at all, but small enough that it doesn't need to be licensed as a motor vehicle. The range is said to be around 30km, but it obviously depends on the number of hills, how much you weigh, how much you pedal, the wind speed and direction, etc. All fairly simple and straightforward. Ezeebike are made in and imported from China, but are sold in Europe and the USA as well, as far as I understand.

My biggest frustration was that, having taken delivery of the bikes, we did not get a chance to ride them for at least a week. There was too much else going on, much of it rather tedious stuff. Eventually we decided that we would ride to Simonstown and back, a round trip of about 16km, on Saturday morning - we needed to be there for a soccer tournament which the princesses were playing in. Saturday dawned bright and reasonably fair. The forecast was for intermittent showers and a fresh westerly wind - the end of a cold front which had just passed through. We packed a bag with warm tops, apples, juices and the like, and set off. Central Fish Hoek is not terribly hilly, but there are some fairly challenging little slopes which can make for uncomfortable moments in the saddle. So imagine coming to one of them, and instead of having to change down to first gear and pedal hard, even stand on your pedals, you just carry on pedaling in the gear you are in, and turn the throttle far enough to allow you to do so. You hear a faint whine from the motor, you feel a surge of power like your father is pushing you on your first bike, and you smile beatifically as you whizz up the hill. Bliss! This is how cycling was supposed to be. No pain!

I won't bore you with a blow by blow account of every kilometer and gear change - it just got better and better. After the soccer, on the way home, we decided to ride over the Glen Cairn Expressway instead of just taking the coastal road straight back to Sunny Cove and Fish Hoek. I have both ridden and run up that hill. It is about 3km long and I guess you rise about 120m, (according to the trusty Endomondo, from 39m to 166m) so an average gradient of about 1:25, which may not sound like much but it is tough. Add to that a headwind. The long and short of it is at it was an absolute pleasure. I managed to maintain a speed of 20kph going up, with a fair bit of throttle, I admit, and felt exercised but not sore or exhausted when I arrived at the top. From there we had a gentle ride down into the Valley and so on to our home.

The next challenge is Boyes Drive and after that the ride to work and back. But one step at a time. For now I am happy to be an Ezeebiker and optimistic that I may have found a mode of transport which is green, healthy, cheap (relatively) and fun. I expect there may be a few more blogs on the subject coming ...