It had to happen. After all the wonderful events and experiences of the previous 13 days, we had to have a total bummer. And then some.
After two fantastic days at Addo we checked out and headed to Dung Beetle River Lodge at the far southern end of the park, but our GPS took us down a terrible dirt road, and a second even worse dirt road which, while being a bummer, wasn’t the real bummer yet to come. These are the only people we saw during the whole 1 hour drive, and we’re pretty sure it gives an indication of what we were breathing in the whole time.
By the time we got to Dung Beetle the owner took one look at us and insisted we each have a beer on the deck overlooking the Sunday’s River and work on adjusting our attitudes.
We’d booked the Elephant Room, which had a fabulous balcony over the riverside deck, and while we had originally thought we’d head back into Addo, we decided it was impossible to top the previous day’s experience, so we opted to look around Colchester a bit.
The owner had suggested we drive to a park that led to the mouth of the river, and to the dunes along the ocean. We spent about 2 hours walking the beach and climbing the dunes, and we met some fishermen who were fishing for Kob in the rough waves. A perfect wind-down before we headed to Simon’s former school the next morning.
Our Botswana Travel Day started out well, with an early flight back to Jo’burg and a drive north to Maru-a-Pula, Simon’s school from 1973-1976. But not so fast. We suddenly discovered our flight was not at 11.20 but 10.35, so we really needed to leave Dung Beetle at 8.15 to be on the safe side. It was only a 30 minute journey to the airport, but we couldn’t afford to take any chances. We had booked the earliest flight so as to avoid driving in Africa at night, which everyone on God’s green earth assured us was a terrible, terrible idea. Deadly, in fact. So don’t do it. The photo below, which is an actual in fact HIGHWAY, is part of the reason why.
Breakfast at Dung Beetle only started at 8 a.m., so we packed and threw our cases in the car first, then threw some coffee and toast down our necks before bidding the owners a hasty farewell. The journey was easy; we dropped off the hire car, checked in, and were through security by 9.05 a.m. Now we had an hour’s wait, during which we regretted not having time for a full breakfast.
We arrived at Tambo airport in Johannesburg, and our miseries began. It took a full hour to get mobile, thanks to the slowest clerk in the Hertz inventory and an absolute ton of paperwork that needed to be processed to allow us to take the car into Botswana and not be stopped as car thieves (a common problem in South Africa), and then finding a car that didn’t have a built-in GPS, as those cars aren’t allowed out of the country. Since the photos we would have inserted here, had we taken any, would be us laying on the floor in a comatose state, I’ll just put up a nice picture of the fisherman from Colchester instead.
After an inordinate amount of back and forth, in and out, consulting the manager and talking to the office upstairs, our girl finally got us going. Only our car was at the FAR end of the Hertz garage, and then the GPS didn’t have the necessary adapter, and then the guy had to find the adapter, and then…. At one point, we thought it would be quicker to walk, but we gritted it out and finally got mobile nearly 2 hours after we landed.
We inevitably hit traffic around Pretoria, and then the snarl-ups along the N4 thanks to all the trucks that slow things down. We (foolishly) didn’t grab some water before we left, thinking there would be plenty of places to stop on the motorway (there weren’t; in fact, after Pretoria, there were none); we stuck with the N4 thinking it would, eventually, work out quicker (it didn’t); and we hoped that we would get through the border crossing before dark (we didn’t). Again, the pictures would have been sad, so here are some elephant butts instead.
We spent the next 4 hours dodging insane drivers who had no idea there were lines on the highway or oncoming traffic. The guy in the truck on the right-hand side of this picture isn’t in the oncoming traffic’s lane because he’s passing. No, sir! He’s there because he wants to get where he’s going faster, and he’ll just speed along in whichever lane is clearest at the time.
Even so, we thoroughly enjoyed the African landscape unfolding before us–flat, semi-arid territory broken only by occasional small, and very ancient, mountain ranges – and it was fun to see signposts for the likes of Rustenberg and Zeerust that really brought back memories of Simon’s time living in Gabs.
Then we hit terrible roadworks through Swartruggens, which really slowed us down, and then they had the cheek to charge us a R75 toll for using their highway. The police were doing car and truck searches further along, but they seemed to know what they were looking for, because they waved some cars through, including ours. Then we hit construction work. Then another checkpoint. Then more construction. Then the town of Zeerust, which was absolutely bizarre, with people walking everywhere, and our GPS routing us down some side street. Our chances of making it to Gaborone before dark were like the sun; quickly fading.
We eventually pulled into the South Africa border crossing at about 5.50 p.m., knowing we had a 7.30 p.m. dinner appointment with Andy Taylor at Maru-a-Pula, but also knowing we were only 20km away from the school.
And then we saw it: several miles of trucks backed up at Immigration and, while cars could pass through to the parking lot (where a billion cars were packed together randomly, as if their owners had just slammed them into Park and got out), we found ourselves at the back of a humongous line of humanity to clear South Africa’s immigration.
Just before we entered the parking area, we had passed a long, terrifying row of filthy, makeshift, tent-like structures where dozens of people were milling about, some of them selling stuff, some just looking menacing. We couldn’t help but wonder if they were waiting for people to park their cars, knowing they’d be in the building for a while and probably had suitcases in the car. We were certain we’d be robbed blind. This picture isn’t them, but it’s close enough. Had we taken the camera out we’re about 99% certain we would have been killed.
Once inside the building, there were no instructions and no helpful attendants. There were no forms, and no obvious International Visitors windows. After about 20 minutes, someone shouted, “South Africans right side, everyone else, left”, which sped up the process for ten of the two billion people waiting to get out of the country.
The queue we were in was for biometrics and pictures. The biometric system was new, and as each person used it the attendant said, “Press down. Harder. HARDER! Not like that, like this. Put your fingers here. Press. HARDER….!” And that 65 minute ordeal was just for getting an EXIT stamp from SA, and all the while, as we watched the sun set through the building’s tiny window, we had “Never, ever drive at night” running through our brains. These guys are part of the reason why:
We passed through the vehicle check to leave the country, having opened our car and our suitcases so the attendant could confirm we weren’t smuggling anyone out, or carrying a trunk full of contraband. Then we had to do it all again at the Botswana border post.
Oh, the agony and frustration at the lack of instructions/assistance/forms that needed filling out/any shred of human compassion. It took a full 2.5 HOURS to clear both sides, and pay P152 (the equivalent of $1.30) for our vehicle at the Botswana Customs office (“the blue building on the left” which we were supposed to find in the dark and which most certainly wasn’t on anyone’s “left”. We never did figure out if it was blue). At 8.30 p.m. and in pitch dark we drove across the border, missing 3 cows, a white goat, and 2 donkeys grazing along the highway. Welcome to Botswana.
Our GPS steered us through the sprawling Gaborone suburbs, which had been nothing but bush and a few dirt roads the last time Simon was there. We stopped at a gas station for water and a bag of Simba Mexican Chili Chips, having only split a chocolate bar for lunch and knowing we were WAY too late for our dinner appointment. 7 hours into a journey that should have taken 4 hours, we arrived at the school, and we were HUGELY grateful to be greeted at the gate by the security guard who was waiting for us. “Andy Taylor has long since given up and gone home,” he assured us as he conducted us to the school’s guest apartment, a spacious and wonderful setting with all we need for a 2-week stay.
Never, EVER again will we try to drive into Botswana. Never. And we are totally unanimous on that. And as a fitting PS to the day, after all that massive, time-consuming effort with the Hertz paperwork, not ONE person at either border crossing asked to see it!
Next blog: The Prodigal Son Returns.
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