Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 7: Stroh Rum and Gun

"You simply must visit Cape Town," Annalie insisted on numerous occasions. "You can stay with my cousin. She owns a backpackers there."

The term "backpackers" confused me at first. South African's used the term "backpacker" to refer to a certain kind of tourist – what Ammon called a traveler, but a "backpackers" (plural) was the place where they slept, in other words, a youth hostel. However "backpackers" could also be used as the plural of backpacker – in the traveler sense of the word.

I met her cousin during my week in Johannesburg, and despite having just met her, she offered to let me she stay at her backpackers (hostel) for free. So I decided to go to Cape Town. I could have flown, but Annalie recommended the Baz Bus – an unlimited hop-on/hop-off service geared towards backpackers (travelers). It was more expensive than a regular bus, but she said it would be safer since it provided door-to-door service, even if it did limit my choices of backpackers (hostels) and destinations. "And it's a great way to meet other backpackers (travelers)," she said. (See my confusion? But I won't keep translating and trust you can work it out on your own from here.)

So I took her advice and bought a ticket to Cape Town on the Baz Bus. It would take me several days to get there, and via a roundabout route – east to Swaziland and down the eastern coast of South Africa – but it was how a backpacker would travel. I was nervous, terrified even, to leave my new friends and venture out on my own, but I knew I had to go. I didn't want to overstay my welcome and it was time to be moving on.

When they day arrived, Annalie drove me to a nearby backpackers where I could catch the bus. We hugged goodbye and I thanked her again, before making my way inside to the reception area. I noticed an advertising brochure for the Baz Bus and leafed through it. A drawing of a hip backpacker with his long legs stretched out, hands behind his head, chatted with a drawing of an attractive girl. His backpack, surfboard, and guitar were all safely stored in a trailer behind the bus so as not to crowd the interior. I felt a twinge of excitement. Ample leg room! Pretty girls! This was going to be great.

What pulled up wasn't really a bus. Not that I'm an expert on buses or anything, but this was closer to a minivan. The driver stepped out, looked me up and down and held out his hand. I just stood there. He had an air of arrogance about him and a dislike for me that oozed from his pores. Finally he rolled his eyes. "Ticket?"

I handed it to him. He grunted and pointed at the trailer. Inside I saw several backpacks, but no surfboards or guitars. I struggled to lift my pack into the trailer.

An attractive girl from the reception area came over. "Need a hand?"

"No, I got this," I said, and with one final heave dumped the pack into the trailer.

"Just trying to help," she said.

"Thanks," I said, my tone defiant, "but I can lift my own pack."

She turned and walked away.

I hadn't really meant to say that. She was only being friendly, why did I have to feel like accepting help from a girl was an affront to my masculinity?

"What I meant to say was thanks for the offer," I called after her, but she just half raised her hand behind her back and muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "whatever."

When I climbed aboard, my heart sank. This wasn't like the brochure at all. There were twice as many seats as I would have thought possible to fit in a vehicle of this size, and as I scanned for a window seat, or a pretty girl, I noticed there was neither. It was mostly grimy, haggard looking guys, and one girl, but she had a mustache, so I couldn't be certain. It wasn't a Tom Selleck 'stache by any means, just a dozen or so wispy dark hairs, but it was hard not to stare.