Who wants to be a millionaire???

15 passengers, 1 driver and a baby, along with their respective mountains of luggage filled our van and the trailer behind. I leant against a stereo owned by the guy sitting behind me, at my feet was a car battery.

The Mozambique border was disorganized, you could walk around the foyer among the masses of people and out the other door without obtaining any documentation. In fact, one of my fellow passengers did. At the border posts when we were asked to show our passports though the window, he didn't have one. This sparked an enormous amount of discussion, that I couldn't understand. His wife with the baby was yelling and huffing and looking disappointed and then they started taking about 20 Rand. The whole bus was going through there pockets. There was 20 Rand in coins, which apparently wasn't going to work, then a battle to find change for a 50. Finally the driver took a 20 Rand note to the immigration office and we drove through the border. For $5 Australian, it appeared that the officer had let an unidentified person leave the country. If that was a bribe, to me it seemed a little light on...

When we stepped off the bus in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique, I felt a lot like a tourist that had just stepped off the bus. I was overly aware that I was going to be ripped off. There was no taxis, just cars, people grabbing me and asking how much I would pay for my fare. I only had Rand, and I hadn't figured out the exchange rate. I just walked around sulking, and telling them to leave me alone. Only problem with that stragety, as Joel pointed out, was that we actually needed a taxi. We found a taxi, and suprisingly it turned out, got a good rate, and got to our hostel early afternoon.

In Jeffery's bay, I had met Jon, an Englishmen who had been in South Africa for about 7 months. He'd done a game rangers course, and was then traveling with a friend who had since left, and there was still a few weeks before his flight home. I had mentioned quickly that I was heading to Mozambique at the end of the month for a few weeks and he was welcome to tag along. I was a little surprised to get an email from him , but with no idea what exactly he was getting into, Jon agreed to met me in Maputo.

I spent the afternoon wandering the streets of the city, through old Portuguese style apartments, trees, piles of trash and food scraps. People spoke to me in Portuguese, and I just strugged and smiled back. I tired to buy bread, bananas and orange juice, each time producing either far too much of the currency of ridiculously little. I was walking blind.

16 000 Mozambiqan Meticash is equivalent to $1 Aussie dollar. Being a little rusty on my 16000 times tables, I made a cheat sheet of the momentary denominations, which was gratefully copied down by the rest of the hostel occupants, who were also struggling with their hundreds of thousands. To make it really easy, the 500 and 5000 coins are the same size, the 20 000 and 200 000 meticash notes are the same colour, and all the money is so wiltered and tattered that it desintergrates in your hands and nobody really wants to accept it anyway. "Have a bit of respect" Joel argued. "That money has been through a civil war". I kept my ATM receipt that said I withdrew $1 000 000. I looked around a bit for an ATM that would give me a balance, but had no luck.

When Jon Finally arrived, also having suffered border delays, we joined Joel and John, another guy staying in our dorm, and headed down to the Maputo fish markets. Dinner there every night is early. The fisherman set out there catch at at 6pm. You wander through the markets, picking out your fish from the huge selection, spread across the tables. Red snapper as long as your arm, prawns the size of lobsters, garbage cans full of clams.

Despite all the people who were trying to grab our arms and had attempted to consult us on the quality of the fish, the accuracy of the scales, the price we should be paying and there personal opinions of the fish wives, when we picked our catch, we put our heads down and took it to the busiest restaurant.

From there the waitress took our fish, bought us some beers, and without consultation produced the most fantastic meal, having cleaned our fish, grilled and seasoned it. The noise from the market and the squeals of the children as they danced to music in the light outside the restaurants, were all in contrast to the silence at our table as we dug in and ate our decadent meal.

John spoke Portuguese, and impressed us by negotiating with a taxi driver to take us to a club for a really tiny price. Later, his Portuguese came in handy to argue bitterly with the driver when he dropped us off and increased the price three fold, but it got us nowhere.

The club we visited normally had live music, but on Saturday night, it was kareoke...... in Portuguese :) Jon and I laughed at the prospect of getting up and trying to pronounce the syllables in English, following along with no idea of the songs, but it was going to take a great number many more beers before that was viable.

I had just been saying to Jon "Yeah, Joel... nice guy.. bit quiet I think" when Joel crawled up on stage and belted out Neil Diamonds "Play it now", when I had to concede that perhaps I didn't know him that well.

Some of the local performances were fairly memorable as well. One of the guys, dressed in leather pants and long hair had come along by himself and wait eagerly at the front of the stage, only to get a little nervous half way through his song, and had to be helped along a bit by the guy running the show. After the kareoke all the locals got up for a bit of a jam session, which was excellent, but we'd all had a long day and had tried plenty of cheap local beer, and we had to head home before it finished. But in a city like Maputo, we could have been waiting till sunrise for that.

In the morning we headed for Catembe, a fishing village across the water from Maputo. Walking through the streets of Maputo in the morning sun was amazing. The buildings and streets still reminiscent of the Portuguese colony had fallen into disrepair. There are huge holes in street, and parts were the whole sidewalk has disintergrated into rubble. The streets are like living ruins, people passing between the apartment block, children looking out of windows, bright red flowers sprinkled everywhere from the trees above adding intense colour to the weather beaten concrete fences and pavements.

As we pulled into Catembe on the ferry you could see the colorful traditional style fishing boats scattered along the beach. It was such a beautiful morning, so we pent a while just relaxing on the sand, admiring Maputo's city scape.

We had been told the night before by some other backpackers that there was a good restaurant about 2kms up the road. The walk was really lovely. The village is only about 1 km away from a city of skyscrapers, yet there are people living in grass huts and working in the fields. It was warm and everywhere was green.

Once we came to the restaurant, I was a little taken aback by how luxurious the place was considering it had been recommended by backpackers, but in the local currency the food was still cheap.

perched above the beach, the restaurant was part of a luxury hotel. We took a seat on the balcony, complete with view of the skyline of Maputo, the beach, and the pool below. I felt almost guilty being there.

"What do you think everyone is up to in Austraila right now Courtney?" asked John as I tucked into a plate of prawns, calamari, and baramundi steak. I sat back, took in all the sunshine and the view.

"Its late on Sunday night, its winter, I suppose most of my friends would be cuddled up in bed ready for work tommorow" I said. The image of my friends suffering a cold winter brought me no delight, but the question made me realise that at that point in time, I wouldn't trade places with anyone in the whole entire world...

On correct pronuncation of Swazi Towns

The night before at the bar, Bob, an older Englishman, character and friend of the hostel owner, gave me a long speech on the merits and strenghts of womanhood, on the pain of childbirth, on women who can lift cars off babies and how ambitious and applaudable travelling across Africa by myself was. I tried to get a bit of fresh air by introducing myself to the cute boy across the fire. Joel, from Origen USA, had also come to Swaziland in transit to Mozambique. "Did you come to get your visa?" I asked.
"No I was going to get it at the border" he said.
"Oh no, you dont want to do that" I said, "Its 80 rand in Swazi and twice as much at the border. Also if you dont have your paper work the buses wont wait for you. There's no timetable, the buses leave when there full, so you could be stuck at the border all night" I explained. "The embassy is in Mbabane, the capital, its about 50kms away, im going there tommorow morning, you should come."
"Oh, okay. Um, i guess i should then" said a suprised Joel.
"This is what im talking about" said Bob, "Men would be lost without women, completly lost."

In the morning there was a bus load of backpackers leaving for Joburg, so we hitched a ride to Mbabane with them. I grabbed a map of Swaziland as i ran out the door. The embassy opened at 9, and it only took a few mintues to fill out our forms. "Come back at 2 oclock" said the women at the counter.

We walked into Mbabane, and looked for somewhere to have breakfast. Initally we tried to avoid the big American style mall and go somewhere a little more local, but all the so called resturants were actually just pubs full of drunk men at 9am. They were all really keen for me to stay, except they didn't serve coffee, so i couldn't share thier excitment. We ended up at the mall.

There was still a lot of time left to fill in so Joel suggested we try to find the really nice waterfall he had heard of in Ezulwini Valley, between Mbabane and Manzini, the other major city. "Ive read about the valley and theres no buses there, you have to negotiate with the driver to let you off half way, " i said. But we decide to give it a go anyway.

The word bus conjours something quite different in a westerners mind to an African. A bus in Africa is a white van no larger than the family people mover. Fitted out with extra seats, your often sat 4 or 5 across, 20 or more in a single van. For the sum of about 20 cents, you get exactly what you pay for. Pressed firmly against your fellow passengers for support, as the crazy driver zips around the streets without any acknowlegding any pedestrians, road signs, speed limits, or his oversized load. The destination is displayed verbally, there is a guy sitting next to the driver screaming it out the window. In South Africa, its something not many travellers, including myself, would dare to do. You might get stabbed, or worse. Outside of SA, its the only form of public transport.

In every city there is always an enormous parking lot full of about 100 minibuses and bus touts who yell and yell until there buses are full. It took about 15 mins to find a bus. It may have been quicker if we knew how to pronunce our destination, but we didn't. We were the last two to squeze into the back of the bus before it took off. We chatted to the people we had sat on top of, making sure we were on the right bus and we knew were to get off.

The bus dropped us in the valley and we walked for about 40 mins, taking a few wrong turns, and at one stage i had to leap into the air a few metres, as a baby cow crawling out of the bush startled me, but we finally found Mantenga Nature Reserve.

It was so nice to walk somewhere again. A month in South Africa had seen me catching cabs and avioding the streets for fear of being mugged. I had a nice round belly from the lack of exersize and the prevelence of bars in hostels. It felt great to be out in the open again.

Mantenga Nature Reserve is also home to the Swazi Cultural Village, which meant we had to pay to walk though to the falls. The cultural village is a collection of grass huts that no one really lives in, but by day employees come along dressed in character and play the part of traditional Swazi villagers that you can have your photo taken with. A bit like Disneyland really...

A few metres down the road, a little open air safari van came along and picked us up to drive us to the village about a kilometre down the road. When we got there the driver ushered us into an arena where Swazi performers had begun a song and dance. Dressed in traditional gear with one guy dressed as a lion, they performed "The lion sleeps tonight" and a traditional Swazi song which ended in a conga line were all 6 audience members joined in.

Two Dutch girls from our hostel had just finished looking around the village, so they joined us as we walked to the waterfall. It was a really beautiful area, a huge natural swimming pool, all we needed was a braai (South African BBQ) and a few beers and i would have stayed all day! Joel jumped and climbed around fearlessly on the rocks and ended up actually crawling along the wall and through the waterfall, while i lay down and enjoyed the sun with the girls.

Soon we realised it was ten to two, so we conseeded that we proberbly had to get going since we were half way across the country, and due to pick up our passports in 10 mins, but by this stage i was well acustomed to African time, and the situation didn't faze me. The girls dropped us on the main road, and we wandered along until we flagged down a bus to Mbabane.

At two thirty we strolled up to the gates of the embassy. The first thing i noticed was that they were locked. The second was the opening hours sign, which despite the fact i had spent 45 mins looking at it that morning i was yet to read:
Monday - Thursday 9hrs - 14hrs

But this is Africa. We smiled at the security guard sheepishly and passed our reciepts through the bars and he kindly went to find our documents.

Armed with a visa i had achieved everything I set out to do in Swaziland. We wandered down the highway towards Manzini, and figured we may be able to find some lunch at the markets there.

All the kids seemed to love Joel. As we walked we were followed by a small group of children who yelled and presented him with flowers. When we finally found a bus stop, one kid leaped off the seat to give him a big hug. "Heya, nice to see you too buddy" called a gracious but surprised Joel.

Behind us, despite the fact that we were standing on a fairly deserted highway, was a small stall of crafts.
"Hey Joel, did you say you needed a giant woodern sculpture of a head?" i asked.
"Well actually ive been thinking it might be nice to have with us while we wait" he chuckled. Eventually we got on a bus.

Manzini bus depot was even crazier than the one we had visted in the capital. Twice the size, it was also surrounded by a busy market, and it was very dramatic. Buses to every destination in Swazi, and bus touts determined to either take you there or marry you. We walked into a few resturants and cafes but despite the time and our hunger we couldn't quite bring ourselves to eat any of the food avalible, so instead we decided to head home.

Not so easy. I had a map of Swazi, but no idea where our hostel was. We walked around for ages being lead this way and that by different touts while we looked confused and offered "Matsapha?", or something we imagined as a similar pronuciation.

Eventually one guy assured us we were on the right bus, but a few kilometres down the road a fellow passenger told us that the bus actually went to Matsapha prision, which was a very different place to Matsapha.

I gave up. At that point i had no idea where we were going, but Joel had the map and seemed to be piecing it together pretty well, so i left him to it. After another short bus ride, a lift in a ute, a short walk, and yet another bus, a few hours later Joel managed to get us to the door of our hostel, exhasted but delighted at our conquest of the crazy local bus networks and Africa public transport.

Swaziland is the beer at the end of the day, the time to chill out after a month of travelling tense South Africa. Jumping around in minibuses felt like travelling in Africa should be, navigating the crazy depots, sitting on peoples laps, and mutilpe buses for every turn is how life works here. No timetables and no deadlines.

The whole day i was more relaxed than I felt i had ever been in my whole life. I didn't need to be anywhere, it didn't matter if i got on the wrong bus and ended up looking out the window at the worng mountain. I felt like i had really settled in to Africa, and that from here on, see more of how life really is here, outside of the backpacker bus networks and the organised tours. Im not even worried that ive just been bitten by my first potential malaria carrying mozzie....

Cold Mountain

I was bleary eyed and exhausted, and the last on the bus when I got off in the Northern Drankensburg, the mountain range that streches across Eastern South Africa.

As is the case in so many hostels across South Africa, the internet wasn´t working, most of the tours weren´t running, and the bar was not staffed, you had to enquire about a beer at reception. I was the only arrival that day, the rest of the hostel guests were in Lesotho. Colin, the guy at reception suggested i could spend the afternoon taking a walk on the property. The kitchen of the hostel provided a spectacular view of about 5 km of the mountain range, but the propety itself seemed to be flat farmland until the mountains began. "Is it scenic?" i asked.
"Depends what you'd describe as scenic," answered Colin uncommitteded. I wasn´t convinced and decided id rather spend the afternoon in bed.

Eventually Josh, an American I had met in Cape Town arrived and later Lauren from the US and Sanjata from Nepal. When the girls wanted to spend the next day walking the Apitheatureure track, and Josh and I wanted to go to Lesotho for the day we had a stale mate, as none of the trips would run unless three people are willing. I was the one that gave in and agreed to walk the amphitheatreure track.

However the next morning visibility was zero, so any chance of the vast views promised from the top were lost. But we climbed in the car and gave it a go anyway. As the mist cleared at some points through the drive, you could see the vast mountains and dams, the ground level evidence of a major hydro electric scheme that ran all over the area.

We drove higher and evidence of snow became thicker. Sentenial Peak carpark the ground was covered quiet thickly, and Colin our guide went discuss the matter of climbing the mountain with the guards.

As Colin was a trained mountain guide, the guards had no quams about our safety on the track, but more about our general mental state to be anywhere except by a fire somewhere. But Colin was keen. It hasn´t snowed on the Drankenburg for two years, and this was the first of an unusually early winter, bringing about much excitement for a mountain guide. We all had warm jackets, Colin especially approved of mine, "I just dont understand these people who set off to travel the world without a good raincoat" he said. He looked at me like i somehow understood him better now. But us girls were wearing jeans, and while a little walk was possible it unlikely that we would reach the top.

As soon as we began I froze, and was ready to run the track, but a meters away from the group you couldn´t see a thing. There had been a sign at the gates warning about theft of walking shoes during misty conditions. I dont think I could have faced bearing my toes and walking back in the snow. It snowed quite heavily as we walked along,snowdropsdrops like pelets hitting your face. My hands were painfully cold. In Melbourne my gloves had been lovely and warm, but the second i stepped out, i remembered i had bought them for $2 at dimmeys and they were no good for real cold.

Colin walked suspiously nursing a snow ball, the two other girls packed in defense. "Are you just going to stand there Courtney?" asked Colin.
"Yes, Im not prepared to get my hands wet, there cold enough" i argued.

When the snow balls flew, they tired to avoid me, an innocent bystander at first. That got boring, and about 90 seconds later i coped one pretty hard to the head. At a severe disadvantage to the snow bearing countries, my snowballs could do with perfection. Badly packed, with poor aim, they either disintergrated mid flight or disturbed no one as they flew off the thin track in no particular direction. But to my surprise, the snow was not wet. It was to cold for it to melt in my hands.

About 30 mins in Colin stopped us. "We have come quite far given the conditions, I don't know whether you would like to continue further?" This question was echoed by an enormous deafening clap of thunder. "Okay, so we are going to head back to the car now guys" called Colin.

We opted to spend the afternoon at a park at the bottom of the Berg, Royal Natal. The mist from the morning had cleared and i was taken by scenery so different to the Australian Bush. Hills and mountains were a patchwork of greens, and browns with highlights of burgundy which made the landscape seem magical.

Due to the weather we had been restricted to short walks, and we met Colin back at the car a few hours later. "Girls, are you sick of this disgusting weather yet? Your clothes are soaked. Can i take you back to the lodge and you can enjoy the lovely fire." And at that point I realised it had been raining all day.

The four of us were back at the lodge by 3pm, and with nothing to do we spent the afternoon investigating the cocktail menu. A rand a cocktail, $3 Aussie dollars, and a whole book of choices, we kept ourselves and the bartender busy well into the night.

In the morning we woke to the spectacular consolation for missing out on our walk the day before. On a crystal clear morning, every peak of the mountain was covered with snow.

We figured Lesotho would be knee deep in the stuff, but a couple of Americans had arrived the night before and were keen to join Josh and myself, so we headed out. As we drove through mountains, its was windy but the views of the peaks were wonderful.

Through the border posts, you could feel the change from the industrial Free State provence of South Africa we had driven through, to delightfully rural Lesotho. Goats and sheep wandered freely through the mountains, cows dreamily blocked our road every few hundred meters, to our delight, and our driver, Godfrey's, frustration. We past the Lesotho border post, a few abandon caravans, the area so remote, the border no longer operated.

The senery was bewildering. High snow capped mountains, and deep green valley. Despite the snow, Lesotho was a sun trap, and the day was very warm. Our first stop was the school, were a donation from our trip is made.

We were joined by a teacher of the school, Power, who once had also been a student there, the first primary school in the area. From the school we walked up to the San caves, where the original inhabitants of the area had left painting about 500 years old on the walls. About 20 years ago the paintings had told a lot about the lives of the bushman, about the animals they ate, were they hunted and finally about the Zulus who eventually drove them out of the area. But today, there's not much. Unfortunately, things like this in Africa are not easy to protect. Instead of paintings we saw the remainance of some red and browns lines, and the names and pictures of many a young child scraped in to the rocks, rubbing away all the history.

We visited other places in the town, the local Sangoma, or healing woman, the local store and a sheebee where we tried the local beer. I didn't understand what it was made of, but it was a milky colour. I sort of tasted a bit like Cotties Saline drink, but without the lemon flavour, so i suppose, sort of just milky and effervescent....

As we drove back, everyone agreed that while we were all terribly moved by the scenery of the area, its the African children that are always the most delighful part of the area. Thier presence is such a delight! Of course they are beautiful to look, thier deep eyes are so engaging, but aside from that they are about the most charming people you could ever hope to come across. Every child on the street will stop and wave at your car. When you wave back it always results in such delight and fun they all dance and squeall and laugh until they fall over. Then then they stand back up and wave again. I was standing around staring off into the distance in the village, when a little hand slipped inside mine. The little girl standing next to me didn't even look up. She just went on singing and drawing in the dirt with her feet.

Even the Africans themselves are enchanted by the glee every skipping child brings, and cant resist picking them up and throwing them in the air. Power, the serious and reserved head teacher at the school will change into a different person, his stern looks cracks, and a smile bigger than the whole world escapes at the delight of one child.

One night in Durban

I had spent a really long hot day lying by the pool, by myself (the only one in the hostel!), and when the bus arrived late afternoon I was more then happy to get on, just for something else to look at.

After we left we had a a few hundred kilometers of windy Transkei road as we left the rural district. The sun was setting, and from the hilltops you could see the effect the colours had across every part of the sky. The hills were spotted with mud huts, and the roads with the occasional cow meandering across our path. The bus driver was playing Paul Simon's Graceland album. Brett, the new Yorker smiled "When I was younger I use to listen to this album and think 'Wouldn't it be cool to listen to this in Africa'". I waved the Transkei goodbye in the last remaining light of the day.

I have no idea where we stopped for dinner, KFC in some town. Johnny our bus driver, a resident of Durban was ready to give us the low down over our meal.

Amy, another New Yorkian, and I would only be there for one night, very disappointing in Johnny's mind, and ours as we explained that we were desperate to try bunny chow. "Bunny Chow! Oh we can do bunny chow" smiled Johnny, "Wait till we get to Durban".

In Durban a few hours later we stopped at the first backpacker hostel, were the older man sitting at the front was staying. The others on the bus had told me that at the hostel they were staying at the night before he had requested that the live band playing stop there music at 11pm, because he was sleeping, even thought there set went till 12. Not a happy camper considering the chatty and friendly bus we were on.

Once he was gone, Johnny declared party time. He radioed in to the bus terminal explaining that there would be some delays in returning the bus, he had a Durban tour to conduct!

Last year the takeaway joint we arrived at won the Durban bunny chow award. Bunny Chow is native to Durban. The city of 3 million people, has the second largest Indian population outside Indian, making up a third of its residents. During apartheid the Indian workers were not allowed to be served in restaurants, so someone came up with the idea of hollowing out a loaf of bread a filling the centre with curry, which served as a cheap and quick takeaway. You don't use and cutlury, the curry is really thick, you just eat around the outside of the bread, sort of like you eat an icecream in a cone.

The takeway served three flavours, bean, chicken, and mutton (which i had seen all over South Africa and was relieved to learn is actually the word for lamb) and three sizes, 1/4, 1/2 or full loaf. My 1/4 bean cost 12 Rand, or $3 aussie dollars.

Everyone laughed and declared me typically Australian as I checked out my prize curry and declared "Great, but I could do with a big beer to wash this down with!"
"You should have said something!" said Johnny "Everyone back in the bus!"

We were off through Durban again, arriving at a divey pub in an industrial part of town, with a group of Indian men sitting out the front. "don't worry guys, this is my brothers place!" yells Johnny.

PJ, Johnny's brother, greeted us as we got of the bus with our chow. Inside the pub was empty, everyone was hanging around outside. We bought our beers at the bar, a long neck for 8R ($2), through a grate, much like a bank teller would use, passing the money though a small gap and receiving the beer wedged out through the metal bars. "Its not so nice in here, head on upstairs, and ill see you in a minute" said Johnny.

I lead the group causiously up the garden path to the apartment upstairs, through the back door and into the lounge room were there were about four guys watching the largest TV I had ever seen in my life. Despite being a little surprised by the seven white guys equipped with beer and bunny chow, you couldn't critize there hospitality as they ran around found us chairs, dragged tables in front of the TV for our dinner, introduced themselves and then eventually asked "So what are you guys doing here?"

We dug into our chow like true animals, no cutlery allowed, drowning the heat of the chilli with beer, but nobody even got close to finishing the massive meal that is chow. I had done everything I wanted to do in Durban.

Later back at the hostel we all had more beers and I chatted away into the night with a couple from New York, Brett and Jana. In the morning I pulled myself out of bed for the 7am bus to the Drankensburg.

High as the Transkei

It was a 9 hour trip to Mthatha, where most of our bus was to meet thier pickups. Everyone spilled out an climbed into a brand new air conditioned minibus, driven by some handsome young surfy type.
"Do i just go with them?" I asked the driver.
"Ummmm" he looked around "There he is!" he cried. I sat in the bus for a few minutes becuase I wanted him to be joking.

"Corney! Corney!" I heard the old man calling as he came up behind the bus. Most Xhosa people cant pronouce my name, theres far to much happening in the first syllabol. "Court, with a 't' " I explain, but they look at my like that's a little extravagent. And to be fair, I cant even pronouce the word Xhosa. You say the "Xho" by clicking your tounge to the top of your mouth, but finishing the sound by saying "-ho".

Rufus was driving a beat up land rover which today was not only going to hold me and my bag, but some large trees as well. I climbed amongst them and sat in the frount.

We set off and drove for some time before we stopped in a town which i couldn't pronuce either. It was amazing, exactly like i imagined a real African town to be. People everywhere. Different colours and patterns everywhere, and that was only the clothing. Rufus went to the store while a group of young kids accumulated in frount of the car, jumping around, waving, and laughing at me.

Rufus and i chatted, he corrected my pronuciation of Australia, saying he'd never heard of Aus-tral-ia, its Austria, but we bith seemed to be talking about the big island in the Pacific, so i didn't bother.

Further down the road, Rufus picked up a woman and her baby. "You are to long for the back" Rufus yelled to me through the tree, and i was, but i was going to fit better than the two of them. We had been driving for 2 hours now, so i figured it couldn't be much further.

About an hour later we drove up the driveway. I streached my legs, I was glad, it had started to get dark. Since the woman had joined us they had spoken only Xhosa, and hours of a windy bumpy road had left me disorientated, and i had a headache.

Rufus looked over at me about to get out my bag. "Oh, this isn't the lodge" he said. "Its just down the road a little more". I tried to console myself by saying that the run down shed we were standing outside of didn't look like the most welcoming bed, but at that point in time i would have slept anywhere.

Then another woman tried to get into the car. "We need her too" said Rufus. He moved the box of bread from next to me and balanced it on the gear stick, and the other woman climbed in. "How much further?" I asked Rufus.
"About one kilometre" he said.

The road got worse. My uncles took me four wheel driving on boxing day two years ago and they would have been impressed at the old man cafefully making his way down what seemed like a dried up creek bed, cascades included. There was an electrical storm brewing in the distance. After each bump, the bread would spill everywhere. The box came so close to hitting the baby everytime, i lay bent over trying to hold it in place from the back seat. Then the real panic started.

Where the hell am i, i thought. I am driving through the middle of nowhere with these crazy people talking so loudly. I am possibly 12 hours from civalisation, since that was the last time i saw it. I though, if anyone in Australia could simply get a two second flash of what i was doing now, pitch black sky with falshes of lighting, in a land rover with three Africans, a baby, a box of bread spilt into everyones lap and a large tree taking up all the space, what on earth would they think!!!

My headache was pounding. I was really losing my nerve. The driving just went on forever. We were getting bogged in the rain. Down hills, up hills, over hills. On and on.

Dave, the hostel owner who thankfully spoke English, could see my frustration. "I always ask people if they perfer to arrive by day or by night and everyone says by night becuase when they wake up they can see where they are" says Dave trying to console me. Where? In the middle of nowhere? i thought.

After a strong coffee and a beer I calmed down and chatted to the few other guests at Bunalunga. In the morning I would have to admit that Dave was right.

Bunalunga is a backpacker hostel 40% owned by the local Xhosa village, whos grass roofed houses are finely sprinkled on the surrounding hills. The lodge is fashioned in the same manner using mud bricks from the area, and is situated where the mouth of the Bunalunga river meets a streach of the Indian Ocean known as the Wild Coast. The greater area, from a few hours outside of Port Elizabeth to Port St Johns, was formally a homeland of the Xhosa poeple, known as the Transkei, set aside by the South African government for adminstration by the local people. During aparthied the area was entered via a border post. Today, as it always was, the area is rural and poor, and most poeple who live here surive on local agirculture.



The lodge is solar powered, and "rocket showered" an amazinf devise invented by a local guy in Cape Town, which promises "to put the fun back in showering". Its like a long flumem your pour a little parrifin in the bottom and light it. Then you turn on the taps. In a few minutes you have a boiling hot shower, complete with an exciting soundtrack as the fire whistles up the tube, which would lead you to believe you really where about to take off.

That afternoon one of the local boys took me on a walk through the village. The first things i noticed was the women, they are amazingly beautiful. They all stand perfectly straight, having balanced amazing weights on thier heads since children. I saw one woman carrying a sack of 5 pumkins on her head without even lifting her arms to balance them. They were coloured clay of there faces to protect them from the sun.

We went first to the house of a local healer, known as a Sangoma. She was a small woman who smiled softly at me. White beads around her head and ankles indicate her role. Her grandkids ran around, the eldest gave me a bowl of pumkin and mazie to eat.

As i understand it, in Xhosa communities people are either Christen or they believe in thier ancestors. The healer is a traadition from the ancestor religion. During the day, the anscestors live in the kwell, which is the enclouse use to keep the cows in at night. But during the night, they cane come into the home and communicate with the living througth dreams. Someone will have a dream about who should be a healer. In the village there was about 5 traditional healers. They use local herbs to heal.

Throughout the village there were many women preparing the ground to make sandbricks. The whole village is envolved making a few sandbricks each for a new house for a family. The bricks are dug out from the ground and left to dry. They build the house, adn then cover it again with mud to smooth it out.



The kids in the village love digital cameras. They all ask for there photo to be taken so they can see it in the back. They pull weird poses. When i took a photo of all the kids playing soccer they all rushed at me and forght to see themselves on the back of the camera. For 5 mintues i was completly surrounded by squelling yellings kids until the boys showing me aroudn the village came and beat them off with a stick. Then they all fell on the ground in frout of me rolling around laughing.

We visted the local Sheebee, ie the pub. Its simply a local hut set aside for the purpose of drinking. When i visted it was mostly older women. They asked if i had a husband. No, I said. "Ahhh!" They smiled, "A boyfriend!". No, I said. Oh, how old are you? they asked. 22. That was very strange for them so most of them didn't ask anymore questions. Except for the woman sitting next to me. She thought i was good. She was really happy i came to the village. Actually if i wanted, she said she would be my Mum, we'd better have a photo...



Dave had obviously been fairly ambitious to start start Bunalunga. Its not the sort of hostel you see so often across South Africa. The hostel, being enviromentally friendly, employing and contributing to the lcoal community, and finally helping the locals to begin small businesses like taking fishing trips, horse ridding and the little tour i had, seemed to have achieved all its goals. Two years since it had opened, it seemed remarkably successful. It seemed complete. I wondered what an ambitious person does once they are finished? I asked Dave what came next. He joked for a while about 5 storey grass huts and a small airfield, but eventally managed to answer.

I hadn't really considered how poor the village was. The people are happy. They smile and wave at your from the nearby hill laughing. The children are gourgeous, the little children will come and hold your hand. The young girls will look at your face and tell you with more sincerity than youve heard from anyone that your are beautiful. But the village has no medical clinic. With no proper road in and out they are cut off from the medicine and education the rest of South Africa recieves.

Dave has as many ideas for the village as he must have had for the lodge. Having worked with the community for years even before the lodge, he has a better understanding of what the community needs than any aid orgamisation that entered a community and tried to develop it in the next 5 mins every had. You couldn't fault any of his iniatives.

Night time at Bunalunga were wonderful. Fantastic home cooked meals, everyone sitting around on cushions chatting amongst the candlelight. Villagers hanging around from the day. One night a few children came down and Dave's wife Rojan helped them with there homework. The children were sitting out of the light. All you could see were thier smiles in the dark.