CHARLIE -
We leave the plane to find that we are in South Africa. It feels different. A bloke from the hostel picks us up and drives us to it. On the left, like in England. We arrive at Moafrica lodge. It is run by Anthony. He is blond, built like a rugby player and has an awesome south african accent which I immediately begin to try and imitate. He has various servants who run around doing things. Andrew is one of these, he is small, black and bald with a permanent grin to go with his unflinching desire to please. We quickly decide that we are going to spend our first day doing absolutely nothing. The surroundings are ultra-chilled, so we relax in them with beers. Jamie tests me on the knowledge of south african history that I accrued by reading the lonely planet guide on the plane. It turns out to be denser than my memory will accommodate. We meet a trio of canadian girls, and bundle up on the couch with them under blankets from our beds. They talk about how they push the skin next to their cuticles (the lighter bit of fingernail furthest from the tip) back to make their nails look longer. Jamie has long nails. I don't. But I'm fucked if I'm going to start doing this as part of my morning ritual. In the dormitory one of them starts doing yoga. I join in enthusiastically but then she accidentally lets rip an all-too audible arse expulsion, which kind of ruins the moment. She giggles and runs into the bathroom with her friend. I go to bed.
JAMIE -
Africa slowly emerged out of the lightly drunken haze of Thursday morning as our plane's cabin lights were switched to daytime mode and those passengers - including Charlie - who had been lucky enough to sleep arose for breakfast (and by 'arose' I mean 'opened their eyes and remained in exactly the same positions that they had occupied for the past half a day'). The end of the flight was uneventful and our collection at the airport only slightly complicated and delayed.
As we arrived at Moafrica hostel still celebrating the discovery of another nation that drives on the left, we were welcomed by our very amiable host Anthony to a lovely rustic retreat surrounded by flat, ruddy fields that were a far cry from the concrete throng that we had left behind us in London.
A plan of action for the day was quickly established: breakfast; power nap; lunch; swim; wander; establish internet blog; drink and relax. In the event, all but the penultimate, antepenultimate and preantepenultimate (yes it is: look it up) of these were accomplished and we met some friendly fellow hostelers including an Australian guy named Damien and a triad of Canadian girls who were kind enough to join with us in an embarrassingly girly sharing-blankets/big-soft-sofa/TV-watching snuggle diluted only (but effectively) by the fact that we were watching 'Bad Boys'. I must add here that while the predicament was potentially emasculating for Charlie and me it carried no such threat for the Canadian girls: not only were they, well, girls, but they were so utterly feminine in every conceivable shopping-crazed, Haagan-Daaz-eating, manicure-admiring, moisturiser-worshipping way that they made 'Sex in the City' look like fucking 'Goodfellas'. They were very sweet, though.
We booked stuff up, so: Johannesburg tour tomorrow; safari the day after. Woohoo!
We leave the plane to find that we are in South Africa. It feels different. A bloke from the hostel picks us up and drives us to it. On the left, like in England. We arrive at Moafrica lodge. It is run by Anthony. He is blond, built like a rugby player and has an awesome south african accent which I immediately begin to try and imitate. He has various servants who run around doing things. Andrew is one of these, he is small, black and bald with a permanent grin to go with his unflinching desire to please. We quickly decide that we are going to spend our first day doing absolutely nothing. The surroundings are ultra-chilled, so we relax in them with beers. Jamie tests me on the knowledge of south african history that I accrued by reading the lonely planet guide on the plane. It turns out to be denser than my memory will accommodate. We meet a trio of canadian girls, and bundle up on the couch with them under blankets from our beds. They talk about how they push the skin next to their cuticles (the lighter bit of fingernail furthest from the tip) back to make their nails look longer. Jamie has long nails. I don't. But I'm fucked if I'm going to start doing this as part of my morning ritual. In the dormitory one of them starts doing yoga. I join in enthusiastically but then she accidentally lets rip an all-too audible arse expulsion, which kind of ruins the moment. She giggles and runs into the bathroom with her friend. I go to bed.
JAMIE -
Africa slowly emerged out of the lightly drunken haze of Thursday morning as our plane's cabin lights were switched to daytime mode and those passengers - including Charlie - who had been lucky enough to sleep arose for breakfast (and by 'arose' I mean 'opened their eyes and remained in exactly the same positions that they had occupied for the past half a day'). The end of the flight was uneventful and our collection at the airport only slightly complicated and delayed.
As we arrived at Moafrica hostel still celebrating the discovery of another nation that drives on the left, we were welcomed by our very amiable host Anthony to a lovely rustic retreat surrounded by flat, ruddy fields that were a far cry from the concrete throng that we had left behind us in London.
A plan of action for the day was quickly established: breakfast; power nap; lunch; swim; wander; establish internet blog; drink and relax. In the event, all but the penultimate, antepenultimate and preantepenultimate (yes it is: look it up) of these were accomplished and we met some friendly fellow hostelers including an Australian guy named Damien and a triad of Canadian girls who were kind enough to join with us in an embarrassingly girly sharing-blankets/big-soft-sofa/TV-watching snuggle diluted only (but effectively) by the fact that we were watching 'Bad Boys'. I must add here that while the predicament was potentially emasculating for Charlie and me it carried no such threat for the Canadian girls: not only were they, well, girls, but they were so utterly feminine in every conceivable shopping-crazed, Haagan-Daaz-eating, manicure-admiring, moisturiser-worshipping way that they made 'Sex in the City' look like fucking 'Goodfellas'. They were very sweet, though.
We booked stuff up, so: Johannesburg tour tomorrow; safari the day after. Woohoo!
Charlie, I completely empathize with you regarding my brother's inability to move into a vehicle without constant shuffling, fidgeting or general retardedness - it's caused me much confusion over the years too. Sounds like you're both really enjoying yourselves though! Take some pics if you can!!!
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