The Sausage Machine

When I wasn’t packing or thinking about packing, my last few days in South Africa were spent playing a game. The soundtrack in my head was permanently tuned to that old Rolling Stones number and I couldn’t switch it off.

Down the pub – This could be the last time..  In the hammock – This could be the last time.. Driving the back road from Hermanus – Maybe the last time.. In the outdoor shower – I don’t know-ow. And on and on. Nothing escaped it. Annoyingly so.

Leaving the bus, Bot Rivier, and South Africa was proving to be every bit as much a wrench as it was leaving Hobo, the waterways and the UK. It has become home – another home – complete with friends and routines and rituals. It won’t be the last time though, only for now, I will be back.

But I was well and truly in the sausage machine, on my way and nothing could halt its progress. That moment when you just want to say “Beam me up Scottie” and magically appear at your destination. You know that it will spit you out in the end but not before you’ve endured the bit inbetween.

John is staying on a while, which didn’t help, but he was brilliant. He temporarily abandoned his projects so we could just chill and do whatever; this was my time. It was good to hang around the bus, make our plans and generally do nothing. It helped no end. Thanks for that John. x

The one thing I did want to see this time was The Waterfront and John duly obliged. On my last day we set off for Cape Town earlyish so we could do lunch there and have a look around. It isn’t John’s cup of tea really and, having  been there now, nor mine.  But it had to be done. It’s massive and there’s loads of shops and a craft market but, to be honest, I’d rather wander round looking at the boats and do the Aquarium. So that’s what we did.

You do get that nice view of Table Mountain though.

It had been a pleasant day but it was time to head for the airport. I remembered to take pics of the huge townships this time but they don’t show the scale. The best view is from the air.

Neither of us like goodbyes so I was tipped out in the drop off zone. (Or was it tipped off in the drop out zone?) To be fair he did have quite a drive ahead of him, parts of which you definitely don’t want to do in the dark, so best he pushed off sooner rather than later. Anyway, why prolong the agony?

I’d checked in online and decided not to carry hand luggage. Just check the bag in then, go through and head for the smokers’ lounge (you don’t get that at Heathrow) relax and await the inevitable. Overweight! Must be all the books John’s Dad had given me. Bugger. Re-packing drama of note and wound up with a bag to carry after all.

Eleven and a half hours in the air (same old same old), ages queing at UK border control (some sort of a go slow but the ranting Brits proved excellent entertainment and I did my level best to wind them up further), two hours instead of one on the shuttle bus to Stansted (went all round Hatfield), mega expensive taxi (by this time I would have sold my soul to get home) before the machine finally delivered me.

But the taxi driver was brilliant, carrying my very heavy bag across a very muddy field that I call dog dirt alley (obvious reasons). Right onto the boat. What a star.

Hobo. The river. Home.