New Year's Day hair of the dog. The longest lasting bottle on the trip.
Not too far away was the lively resort we ended up in the previous night so we sought it out in the hopes of getting a bit of a bite to eat. For some reason the kitchen was closed (I think the island ran out of ingredients) but not to worry. Here we bumped into some vaguely familiar faces who seemed to recognise our faces as being vaguely familiar. It was eventually ascertained that these were some Afrikaans girls from Nelspruit (Chris's part of the world) who we'd been doing a jig with the night before. We remade our acquaintances and took a drop with them. The lasses were evidently struggling a lot more with the babalas than us and looked a right state. Créaturs. A few stalled conversations later we realised we'd better let them be and cope with their misery on their own time. With no grub coming to us we belted back to our campsite for to light up a braai and get some meat into us. I gladly did most of the driving on the island as I wouldn't have a chance to legally do so back on the mainland what with crooked cops (surely) looking for real driving licenses and legitimate passports and all that. And in any case it was mighty craic throwing that mighty machine around the sand.
The lobster gang. The cailíns were suffering no end after the eve of dancing and porter.
A relaxing braai of sosaties and mealies (corn on the cob) were welcome now as the heat was down and the light failing. Sosaties could be best described as generously packed meat skewers (or kabobs). Basically a load of steak stuck onto a stick. Lovely stuff, and you can't deny the certain elegance of eating meat off a wooden skewer. I've always found it sophisticated, don't know why. After digesting for a spell and shooting the breeze we headed back to the sokkie bar from the previous night. It would be our last night on the island so we decided we might as well spend it dancing and carousing with the other young holidaymakers. In any case I'd had enough karaoke to last me another decade or so.
At the bar, naturally, we found the whole joint closed. As a last resort a bottle of Paradiso rum was flinchingly pulled from under the seat of the Cruiser as well a bottle of raspberry pop drink to soften the blow. This acquisition soon drew a small crowd around our dimly lit picnic table, some faces familiar, other thankfully not. After some short spell a box of 30 Seconds was pulled out from some handbag (?) and plonked down on the table. This war-mongering boardgame just keeps on reappearing again and again. I've finally caught onto the fact that whenever public holidays roll around and three or more South Africans come together (with drink), a vindictive, heartless, bloody bout of 30 seconds is sure to ensue, tearing apart family and friends for the remainder of the vacation.
What happened next is not for the faint of heart, and is best mentioned but briefly. 30 seconds, wine, contrasting levels of general knowledge among friends, rum, backstabbing, tears, wine, reconciliation, friends, 30 seconds, plummeting levels of awareness and reaction time, taunting, tears, wine, friends again, horseplay, pool, clothes, wet cellphones, tears, friends, wine, 0500 again etc etc.
So with wet clothes and hair but having conquered all at their very own boardgames we retired to our own tents at 0530. Up in an hour for the ferry. Better knock back that malaria pill!
Hould her steady!
