inadvertently, in south africa By Sara John Although, at the same time, a few tiny worries started to penetrate my well being: One. I was leaving a very well locked up house, with friendly neighbours close by. BUT, what if we had a fire/ flood/break in/squatters/outbreak of plague/large snakes burrowing under the house and emerging indoors? Or, all of those things? Two. I was travelling to unknown territory, with just two words of Swahili, Jambo Bwana, which I think means “Hello Boss” but it may mean “Hello European”, which, depending on circumstances might not go down too well. Three. What if Andrew had disappeared? Like in that film with Harrison Ford. What would I do? What if the CIA were involved?
“I will make all the arrangements, you will have nothing to worry about, leave it all to me.” Andrew’s enthusiasm was contagious. I trusted his judgement. It was the early 1990’s, and he, Andrew, my husband, was preparing reports on the restructuring of the broadcasting service in Namibia, (in my old atlas, still German South West Africa) following their recent independence from South Africa. It was near the end of his time there and we were planning a holiday in that wonderful country. The plan was for me to fly out to join him at the end of his project. I was an experienced traveler to foreign lands, alone, with a companion or with colleagues. I knew the difference between Casablanca and Canberra, Dunedin and Dundee, Florence and Freemantle. So I thought why not? What could possibly go wrong?
The ‘Sensible Person’ part of me took over. She, the sensible part of me that is, had not been totally convincing to the ‘Worrying About Things That Are Never Going To Happen’ part of me. But, I decided that it was statistically unlikely that any of these scenarios would take place! Even burrowing snakes.
The flight to Windhoek, the capital, would take about ten hours but with the added bonus of no time change. On the map the UK was in the same column, as it were, as that area of south west Africa.
THURSDAY Travel to Reading by train. It was snowing, but how many times had I left a very snowy Wales only to find on arrival a warm Spring day in London? That day, the first day of my adventure into the unknown, it was certainly not a warm spring day in Reading or London, or anywhere else in the country, probably not even in the Scilly Isles. Outside Reading Station I boarded the coach to Heathrow airport with plenty of time to spare and wondered what to have for my lunch when I arrived.
Andrew had promised to make arrangements for car hire, with the intention of visiting northern Namibia concentrating on wild life parks. There was hardly, as yet, a tourist industry there, but his numerous visits had gained him lots of chums, colleagues and contacts so advice and help was at hand. I made all the domestic arrangements and read up on all I could find, which was not much at all. This was, after all, pre Google! Nelson Mandela was still in jail. The UK had little, if anything to do with South Africa at that time, even important sporting fixtures, Wales v Springboks for example, were a thing of the past. Verboten. Under the current political system, both here and there. No one really knew anything about Namibia either. I waited eagerly for Andrew’s most welcome phone calls and updates.
My book in time was 2-30pm for a 4-00pm take off. I also wondered what my travelling companion would be like, it was a little like going on a blind date but without any obligations! My ideal companion, I decided, taking into consideration appalling weather, the unknowns of Africa, my lack of any useful foreign language, (I was going in the wrong direction for my sparse Welsh or my five words of the Gaelic) would be a mature, worldly chap who was frequently mistaken for Gregory Peck; a linguist and a doctor perhaps, wise to the world, and one who knew how to solve problems and deal with difficult situations.
All was going well with his project and a number of invitations for us, anticipating my arrival and the successful conclusion of his project, were landing on his desk in the Namibian Broadcasting HQ in Windhoek. So far so good. A few days before I set off, I had a phone call from The Thomson Foundation Office in Cardiff, who were co-ordinators of Andrew’s Namibia project. The Managing Director there, for whom I had done some work previously, was also a friend and neighbour, and he asked if I would deliver some important papers to a man who was travelling on the same flight as myself and was going to be running some courses for Namibian Television.
I found a table in the Buttery at the correct terminal where I could look around for “Hugh”, or a Gregory Peck lookalike, keep an eye on the flip flaps on the Flight Information Board and not look too conspicuous. I have found over the years, although it is much better these days, that a woman travelling alone, with lipstick and earrings and a nice handbag, may be assumed to be up to no good, thereby often causing too much interest (from gentlemen on their own) with a side dish of polite consternation (from other women).
I collected the package, arranged via Thomson where “Hugh” (not his real name!) and I would rendezvous at Heathrow Airport to make the transfer and travel together. It was February, very, very cold, and I was eager to witness that wonderful whoosh of warm, scented air that hits you as you are getting off the plane on arrival at an exotic destination.
While I was waiting for my contact, as they say in the Movies, I was looking out through the windows. I assumed that the blinds were down, on closer examination the
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Sara John - February 2020 page 1
Thursday, 30 January 2020 12:08 Magenta Yellow Cyan Black
