Catching some early morning (0700) rays while memoir-writing before things become unbearable.
Back at base camp CCS was beginning to stir, the heat in the rooftent now becoming too much, evidently. Both of us feeling like newborns after our early night, and a hearty breakfast was surely in order. A glorious fry-up ensued, with several eggs and rashers per man. That skottel was the handiest thing ever to be brought along.
Mmm. Lekker fry up on the skottel.
Despite the hearty breakfast, the early morning scrub and the indulgent sleep there was still something gnawing at me, something missing. What was it? Of course - only day three of our strict course of anti-malaria pills and we'd completely forgotten them before hitting the bed the night before. Despite only a weeklong trek in Mozambique planned, the full course would last six weeks - how the hell were we going to remember EVERY night? Ah well, better late than never...
Thirty minutes later the two of us were doubled over with spinning heads, crampy tummies and incessantly salivating mouths. Strong stuff them pills. Back to bed in the heat was the only solution for another hour then...
It still being early morning it was high time to explore the island. We dropped the rooftent and dropped the tyre pressure down to 1Bar to cope with the sand. What an immense difference it made. After about an hour of codacting around the place on sandy byways we eventually found the "main beach" where there were at least some other signs of human life. Most were young families, South African of course, mostly from Pretoria or Joburg. "Vaalers", as they're known, a mildly derogatory term for the Transvaal folk (now Gauteng) who are as a rule flush with cash and live for nothing else but to make and flaunt it. Or so the stereotype goes in the more laid back Western Cape. Anyway that was our company, along with a few other young couples. We spent the morning splish sploshing and trying to keep all our skin submerged in the sea, for if you exposed a square inch to the sun you could just about feel it blister in the heat. Suncream seems entirely ineffective out here. Either stay underwater or stay at home.
And go home we did as the sun crept nearer its midday strength. Yet another nap was had to counter the massive dehydration after the hour or two in the direct rays. Before long it was lunch, one which turned out to be mostly liquid, and pink, in the end.
CCS with his bottle of lunch - the horrifically sweet, horrifically pink and horrifically popular sparkling pink rosé by J.C. Le Roux.
There wasn't much of a mood for grub in that heat and after our earlier difficulties with the tablets, so it seemed best to start the celebrations a little earlier than planned. The sugary bubbly rosé was flowing, accompanied the brutish Tipo Tinto - Paradiso dark rum, all diluted by some Black Labels which were slowly replacing water as our source of hydration in this beastly temperature.
Tipo Tinto. No explanation necessary.
Darkness wasn't long calling around and when it did we made our way to the beach bar attached to our campsite. We were a little early for the "buffet" so we helped Ilna (the tough cookie owner, pictured below) setup some tables, decorations, candles etc.
By 20:00 we were still the only ones at the bar so spent some time talking with Eric (I think) the local barman talking some nonsense or another.
NYE decorational efforts inside the lapa.
We had a fine time sampling the various local beers, including the impressive Laurentina range which included a stout, a lager and some sort of pilsner if I remember correctly. I'll be back for more of that you can be sure.
Early evening at the bar, the essentials at hand.
The guests and residents came out in dribs and drabs and I guess at the height of the banquet I saw around 25-40 people. I've had a quiet New Year's celebration before but this was becoming quite surreal. Things seemed to get even quieter if anything as we crawled towards 2011. The band kicked off at around 22:30 - a one man show with a keyboard for the backing track and he strummed his acoustic guitar every once in a while. His young wife and younger daughter were nearby for moral support I suppose.
Chris and the delightful no-nonsense Ilna, campsite/lodge owner in high spirits
At around 23:00 we were both shattered after the day's hard work and were in danger of nodding off before the witching hour. The solution was to take a stroll to the beach under the cover of darkness and pop in for a quick wake-me-up splash in the waves. Worked a charm and we were back inside the party zone by 23:30, fresh as daisies though dripping wet.
23:30 - Things really hotting up.
By around 23:50 the remaining partygoers had assembled by the bar. We were 15 strong by this stage - I don't know where the others fecked off to in the last hour. Things were getting chatty and tense waiting for the countdown. The band was playing Simon and Garfunkel or Rod Stewart or something to that effect and he was happy out on his stool. The talkers fell silent as 00:00 approached, "The Boxer" playing in the backround. Then, well, nothing. Some awkward coughs, some shuffling of feet. 00:05, still nothing. The wife hops off her stool and whispers into the band's ear. "OK" he says, "it's just coming up to midnight so lets all join in for the countdown!".
A fairly muted "10, 9, 8,..." followed, with the typical popping of corks and "wahey" and some two or three who knew Auld Lang Syne gave that a shot. A celebration like no other!
12:15 - The crowd is in full swing necking back the champers. Unfortunately the barman fecked off just after midnight leaving us without many options.
Mixing it up with the revellers.
With the night young and the bar closed we had to "make our own fun" as so often we had to do back in the hard old days of an Irish childhood. The one man band was approached to see if he had brought some sort of karaoke contraption with him, which thankfully he had. A request was put in for us: It's Raining Men. A witty one as we were the only two singles there and certainly the only men under forty. This was my first ever blast at the karaoke, and I can confidently say my last. We finished up with the BeeGee's "Staying Alive", Chris really getting stuck into it despite being unfamiliar with the song. At least I can now say I know the lyrics to that classic, which I doubt any of the readers can boast.
...God bless Mother nature, and she's a single woman too!
etc.
This debacle was gladly over and done with come 01:30. A great night out, one that'll surely not be repeated in my days. On the 100m drive home we heard or at least imagined we heard the makings of a disco dance. With heads stuck out the window and ears tuned to popular disco music (is that "hip hop" these days?) we FINALLY made it to the Lagamar beach resort. It took the bones of an hour on the sand tracks to reach this fabled source of the Nile, but what an absolute gem of a joint! A pumping bar, DJ, disco dance area on the stoep, swimming pool and the place teeming with wild eyed youth. How sad we arrived just as the young Vaalers were getting out of hand. We managed to nab one round before the bar closed to try enforce some form of crowd control. The music played still however and some sets were danced. We found some lively girls and tore up the floor to a few sokkie (or longarm) numbers, all of which contained references to the Springboks no doubt. A shame we arrived on the scene so late but I wouldn't have missed that most bizarre countdown earlier for all the sokkie treffers in the Free State.
At dawnish we were well and truly thrown off the dancefloor and naturally headed to the seashore for the first dip of the New Year. Glorious.
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Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man—no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around
Since I was born.
And now it's all right. It's OK.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.
Well now, I get low and I get high,
And if I can't get either, I really try.
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes;
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose.
You know it's all right. It's OK.
I'll live to see another day.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
Stayin' alive.
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man—no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around
Since I was born.
And now it's all right. It's OK.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.
Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
