Africa's not for Sissies

Chapter 19: The Garden Route

I was looking forward to the Garden Route, since every Afrikaner spoke of it with so much pride, and the next place we stopped, Port Elizabeth, marked its beginning. The transformation was gradual, but it seemed sudden to me, probably because I was bobbing in and out of conscious. I had an inflatable neck pillow, but it didn't do a very good job of holding up my head. No more rugged wilderness, dirt roads, and mud huts. I had left the "real" Africa behind and was back in the modern world. Shopping malls, restaurants, and lovely homes lined the paved highway. Strangely, for all my anticipation, I now felt disappointed. This wasn't so different from home. I guess this wasn't the Africa I wanted to see after-all.

I'd actually heard of Port Elizabeth, but not in a good way. I remembered reading about how Steve Biko, an anti-apartheid activist, was beaten to death by the Port Elizabeth security police. Being here made me to instantly remember that song about him.

"Oh Beeeko, Beeeko, because Beeeko. The man is dead, the man is dead."

"Do you know who sings that song?" Jerry asked.

I realized I was singing aloud. I'm not a good singer. "Yes," I said, "Peter Gabriel."

"Then why don't you let him sing it."

This got a round of applause from the other passengers on the cramped bus.

We stayed at a backpackers that literally straddled the sand dunes. It was a refurbished beach house that could have been a great place to wash away a few days. With its welcoming bar, pool table, and funky beach decor, this place had real potential as a party hostel – as evidenced by the many photos of reveling backpackers that adorned the walls – but not today. Jerry and I were nearly the only people in the place and the other guests, mostly couples, kept to themselves. I went for a jog along the beach, wandered around the desolate neighborhood, and went to bed early.

It was the first night in a long while I tried to sleep without the benefit of alcohol, and it wasn't easy. I tossed and turned for the longest time. Then I went for a walk. When I returned, I was surprised to find Jerry and a petite brunette girl sharing a bottle of wine at the bar. I walked up to say hello, and noticed they were both drunk. She seemed even drunker than him, judging by the way she slurred her words. I hadn't seen her before because, if I understood her slurring, she had just arrived.

"Did yuuu know he's from Holland?" she said, and touched Jerry's arm.

"I did," I said, "we've actually been traveling together."

"Good ferr you," she said, "and did yuuu know they closed all the McDonald's in Holland?"

"They did?" I said. I'd never been to Holland, but I knew they put mayonnaise on their fries instead of ketchup, thanks to Pulp Fiction.

"Yesumm. Seven years ago. And they put the last cheeseburger and fries in a museum? And you know what?"

"What?" I said.

"They still there! They haven't aged. What do you think about that?"

What I thought was that I was being fed an urban myth. I turned to Jerry, "Is that true?"

Jerry rolled his eyes and then flicked his eyes towards the door as if to say, Get lost!

I tried chatting with them some more, but I was too sober to participate. Drunken people say the stupidest things, and sometimes over and over ad nauseum. In any case, Jerry was clearly hitting on her and didn't want me there. I don't think they even noticed when I wandered back to bed. As I laid there trying to fall asleep once again, I wondered if I was like that when I was drunk.

#

I woke to heavy footsteps. I opened one eye and saw Jerry stumbling into the room. He sat down on his bed, which was adjacent to mine, and stared at me with a lopsided grin.

"What?" I said, opening both eyes, since he was clearly looking at me to see if I was awake.

He grinned wider. "Well, I finally got my shag."

"Oh?" I sat up. I was impressed. She was probably the only single woman for miles around. "Where is she now?"

"She's in her room. She threw-up."

"Oh?"

"She took one look at me this morning and then she threw up."

"Oh?" I felt like I should say something nice, but I honestly didn't know what to say.

"Well, look at me," he gestured to himself. His hair was standing even more on end and his eyes were even more bloodshot than usual. "Would you want to wake up with me?"

I thought for a minute. There was no way to answer this question. A "yes" could be interpreted the wrong way, and a "no" might hurt his feelings, so I said nothing, but I did look at him a little funny for asking. We checked out that day. I doubted he ever saw her again.

#

Our next stop on the Garden Route was Knysna. It was quaint, almost like a town out of an old movie. There were many wooden framed buildings with wrap-around verandas. I almost expected to see men in bowler hats and ladies in long skirts.

We were greeted at the front desk of the backpackers by an attractive young blond girl, who spoke with an Afrikaans accent.

"You must pick your beds," she said, handing us our keys, "and I'll send a girl to make them up for you."

We trundled off to a large, nearly empty dorm and dropped our backpacks next to a pair of bottom bunks. A few seconds later an elderly black women showed up with bed sheets. This lady was old enough to be the grandmother of the blonde girl who worked reception, but clearly she was the "girl" the receptionist had sent to make up our beds. I wanted to offer to make up my own bed, but her movements were so precise and methodical, I felt intimidated to interrupt her.

Afterwards, Jerry and I walked to the Knysna Heads or "The Heads" as they were locally known. The Heads were two towering sandstone cliffs flanking a deep turbulent channel that led into a lagoon, which was actually an estuary where the Knysna River met the tides of the Indian Ocean. It was home to more than two hundred species of fish, and much of the lagoon was National Parkland, so we decided it was worth a look.

Unfortunately, once we left the pretty sidewalks of town and the boardwalks and vacation homes that ringed the lagoon, it became a long and arduous walk along an unforgiving stretch of asphalt. There was no shade and the asphalt compounded the problem by reflecting the heat of the scorching sun. Before long, we were both itchy with sweat.

But the view from The Heads was worth it – frothing seas, rugged coastline, vivid blue ocean – the only detractor from its majesty was a story I'd heard: that during the apartheid era security police lowered detainees enclosed in bags from these cliffs to extract "confessions." We returned to the Backpackers late in the afternoon, both of us sporting faces like ripe tomatoes.

That night we partook in a pub-crawl with a few of the other guests, and returned to the dorm late at night. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard Jerry whisper, "Are you asleep yet?"

"No." I waited for him to continue, but there was only silence.

Just as I was about to drift off to sleep again, he whispered, "Are you asleep now?"

I opened my eyes. "No, and I won't fall asleep if you keep asking me if I am asleep."

There was silence for a moment. "Well hurry up and fall asleep. I want to have a wank."

I rolled over to face him. "You just got laid last night."

"That's why, after sex – "

"I don't want to know!" I turned my back to him, wishing I'd chosen a bunk that was far, far from Jerry's.

#

The next day would be the last time I would see Jerry. From Cape Town, Jerry was flying home to Amsterdam. I was sad to say goodbye. I hadn't known him long, but I felt like I'd made a friend. His year of travel and his adventures were coming to an end. I couldn't help feeling that mine were just beginning.