Inadvertently, In South

By Sara John

“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 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.

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.

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.

1 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. 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?

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.

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.

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.

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).

2 windows revealed a whiteout with an occasional movement from right to left of heavy snow in blizzard like conditions. Do not worry, I said to myself, it is nothing to do with you, all the people working here will know what to do. They will be keen to get pesky passengers underway on time, they will prefer not to clog up the airport with stranded planes, this must happen all the time in Archangel, Helsinki and Saskatchewan. My optimism failed to convince me. Flip, flip flip went all the horizontal flaps. The word Delayed Delayed Delayed Delayed appeared alongside all the flights for the next couple of hours. I was resigned to a long wait still telling myself that I was at one of the world’s largest airports, I just had to be patient. Then along came a pleasant young, almost boyish one could say chap, asking if I was me. I nearly said I was someone else, I felt a wave of delicate disappointment sweeping over me. Goodbye Gregory Peck, hello a very boyish Hugh Grant, hence my choice of alias to protect the innocent. Hugh turned out to be a very nice man; well travelled in Africa; a background in broadcasting; articulate; a familiar type with a lovely broadcasting voice; a real chum. It was now dark outside. It was still snowing heavily. No planes were landing or taking off. Needless to say there was no one to ask, no one in uniform at all, not even a cleaner. All our enquiries at check in desks came to nothing. We waited. It was still Thursday. Hours later, at about nine o’clock we were called to the Lufthansa desk to check in. By 9.45pm we were all seated in our plane which was totally covered in thick snow and ice. The sound systems had been left switched on and we were all treated to a very angry German pilot bellowing instructions in German to ground crew who had the impossible job of clearing snow and ice off the plane. The snow was falling too quickly and too heavily to permit the pilot to announce that the conditions were safe to fly to Africa. Temperatures were well below freezing. There was an announcement from the Captain asking us all to leave the aeroplane, take our belongings with us and present ourselves at the Lufthansa desk. It was about 10.30.pm We did as we were told and were pleased to find that Lufthansa had arranged for all the passengers to reach their destinations via other airlines on other routes. Hugh and I were issued with tickets to Frankfurt, leaving in about half an hour. We were also given vouchers to stay at the Sheraton Hotel there with even more vouchers for meals the following day (it was still only Thursday!) And, yes, tickets to fly on to Johannesburg late on Friday with a connecting flight to Windhoek landing there at noon on Saturday. We trudged to our next flight, we had been on one already but it had not got off the ground. By this time the snow was just wintry rather than Antarctic. We were very tired but glad of each other’s companionship. Enquiries about our luggage, last seen hours and hours ago, were met with blank stares. We were still at Heathrow and it well past my bedtime. We flew as instructed with Lufthansa to Frankfurt. It took about an hour. On arrival we were directed to a long, long walkway to the adjacent Sheraton Hotel. At least we were under cover. They were expecting us and we had two adjacent rooms. The rooms were about the size of British Home Stores, as once was. With four megalomaniac sized beds in each. Maybe they had lots of rock groups staying there? Then a little knock on the door and an apologetic Hugh asked if I could make sense of the taps in his bathroom. I went next door and we, eventually, worked out how to turn them on and off. To get them on you had to stand in front of them and wave your hands about. To turn them off you had to move your hands like an orchestral conductor’s final movement after the music has finished but before the applause. I did not go near the shower, neither did Hugh. Using the loo was another challenge. Don’t ask! FRIDAY Next morning downstairs in the glorious hotel, we were in a different world. A world of plenty, luxury, first class service and laid out buffets that defied description. And that was only breakfast. We had all day to explore Frankfurt Airport. The sheer quality of the goods in the hundreds of shops on the concourse, the selection of pastries, buns, confectionery and everything else! We could use our vouchers for coffee and cakes, for our lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner. Our flight that evening was within walking distance, we were warm and dry, we cheered up and decided the worst was over. In good time we went to the Lufthansa check in for our overnight flight to Johannesburg. The journey went well, we were comfortable and able to sleep as the plane was half empty. As I awoke the sun was just rising in my first African sky, bigger than any sky you will see anywhere else in the world. The images are still with me. SATURDAY At last, we landed in Africa. It was Africa, but it was the Africa of apartheid. We were in the Republic of South Africa in Jo’burg as the locals called it. Coming down the steps of the plane, with just our hand baggage we saw our connecting flight waiting close by. We had been previously advised by Lufthansa staff that all we would have to do is walk a few yards and board the plane alongside, all ready to take off for Windhoek. We were happy at last to be on the last leg of our lengthy journey. As we went to join our fellow passengers, suddenly our way was blocked by two armed emigration officers with two of the biggest dogs I had ever seen. Why we were apprehended we had no idea and were never told, but we were aware that we were probably the only two British nationals present. “You come with us,” they said, “you are illegal entrants.” They spoke English with a spitting Afrikanns accent, once heard, never forgotten. Our shared consternation was palpable. At this point the loud speaker system was calling our names, prefacing its announcement with, “Last call for flight to WindhoekB..” The officers escorted us into the Emigration Building, reminding us we had no visas to be in South Africa as we heard the roar of the engines of ‘our’ plane to Windhoek taking off. With our seats empty. They asked for our tickets which we handed over reluctantly. Then, before our very eyes, they tore our tickets into shreds, letting the pieces fall onto the counter. With obvious delight, they snarled, “You will not be needing these anymore.” To be continued next month.

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