The November Travel Book
Rainbow Diary, A Journey in the New South Africa by John Malathronas
As you might have guessed from the recent editions of our top five traveller reads, we're big fans of the John Malathronas travel titles. In honour of this and an upcoming interview with the travel writer himself, we're serving up the first chapter of Rainbow Diary – A Journey in the New South Africa. Enjoy.
Rainbow Diary
Copyright © John Malathronas, 2005
Chapter One
Tina Turner: Pretoria
My feelings for you, Hank, are like a bowl of fish-hooks
Meryl Streep to Leonardo DiCaprio in Marvin's Room
1. A long, drowsy Thursday
The South African Airways pilot on the Tannoy was one of these Afrikaners who speak in paragraphs, not sentences: ‘And now we leave the realm of the stars and descend to Johannesburg International where the temperature is twenty-five degrees. Remember I predicted twenty-five? Well, I was right! We are landing in the glowing sun having made a crossing from the cold and windy Europe over the whole of the continent of Africa, and the crossing was good. I hope the last bit of turbulence did not disturb too much that Indian lady who was terrified earlier. I hope she feels better…'
‘A few of my drivers are like this,' said Jane, my next-seat neighbour. ‘Once they start, they can't finish. They like the sound of their own voices.'
‘… you can see the patches of blue amongst the green grass of the gardens below. It's swimming pools. Johannesburg has a greater concentration of swimming pools per square kilometre than Los Angeles…'
Jane was an ex-English teacher from Derby who had settled in the Western Cape, leading specialised flower-photography tours, and I was a drunk and dozy British tourist. During the overnight flight, Jane had suggested I tried Amarula liqueur which is a bit like Baileys with berries. ‘Elephants love it,' she'd said. ‘They eat the semi-decomposed fruit of the marula tree and turn tipsy.' Hell, if it can finish off an elephant, I'll have five, please.
‘… but it's time to land. I always ask for the music from the Chariots of Fire or one of Beethoven's symphonies to play while we are descending, because this is what we all deserve.'
When our pilot finally paused for breath, the passengers applauded.
‘Is this the end of your trip?' Jane asked as the low Cs in Beethoven's Fifth made the plane doors rattle more than any turbulence we had experienced so far. I hope our Indian lady had a strong constitution.
‘Sort of,' I said. ‘I'm staying in Pretoria. I'm being picked up at Jo'burg airport. And you?'
She made a long face. ‘I won't be home for another eight hours. I have a connection with another flight to Cape Town and then I have to drive to the Karoo.'
The Karoo?
‘I live in a small town called Prince Albert, quite, quite far from Cape Town.'
I couldn't hide my surprise. They named a town after a penile piercing?
Jane thought I was impressed. ‘I love the Karoo. It's so quiet, so empty, so clear. Try to make it there, at least to Oudtshoorn. It's the centre of the ostrich trade.'
I yawned. If all had gone according to plan, Jaco would be waiting for me outside.
When I decided to go to South Africa, everyone and his guidebook was against the idea. At best I would be robbed upon arrival; at worst I would be ritually sacrificed and my entrails used for witchcraft. I'd have to carry an Uzi on my shoulder to walk about and drive a Challenger tank to avoid carjacking. I laughed off the first warning, but by the time I read The South African Handbook's comment on Jo'burg safety (‘We recommend you stay in Pretoria'), I thought, ‘Dammit, they might be right,' and followed their advice.
After passing through customs brandishing my bar-coded visa (they have computerised immigration in South Africa), I spotted the sign with my name on it. The guy who was holding it was Jaco, agent for Ulysses Tours: tall, blond and horribly, horribly healthy.
‘Where are we going?' I asked as we found ourselves driving on a busy motorway, more of a German autobahn than the usual Third-World, unmaintained – and frequently, because of Nature, unmaintainable – B-road.
‘Brooklyn,' Jaco said.
I tried to find Brooklyn on my map of Pretoria. It wasn't in the centre. It was far to the right. If it was further to the right, it would bump into Pik Botha himself.
‘Is there public transport?' I asked innocently.
Jaco looked at me unmistakably in the negative. I cowered.
‘It's one of the best 'burbs,' he said. ‘You'll like it.'
By then we had reached Pretoria which consists of miles and miles of avenues of flowering jacarandas, all 70,000 of them imported from Rio de Janeiro in 1888. In October they were in full bloom, shading the street with their branches and cloaking the pavement with their exquisite mauve flowers. In the colour spectrum of this new Rainbow Nation, Pretoria must occupy the magenta end.
My B&B was on Duncan Street and nothing had prepared me for the sight. I said goodbye to Jaco and greeted the owner, Martin, a softly-spoken, silver-haired Afrikaner; he had turned on Maria Callas who was singing ‘Casta Diva' in the living room. Bellini's marvellous aria matched the ambience: a central, hexagonal, domed hall was surrounded by doorways which led to the kitchen, the office, the veranda, the garden and the living room. On the sixth side, an art deco spiral staircase led upstairs to the three guest rooms. In my London flat you can just about swing a cat around; in my double bedroom in Brooklyn you could swing a medium giraffe. I nearly pinched myself, but I thought that would wake me up and I didn't want to. I explored my environment: parquet floors, thick stinkwood furniture and a balcony overlooking the garden, where stone fish and amoretti spewing fresh water decorated the 35-foot swimming pool. Below me, in the stoep, there were four tables and fourteen wicker chairs under colonnades covered by large red velvet curtains.
Martin was keen to chat and offered me a drink. I declined as politely as I could. I needed to sleep and within minutes of lying down I was gone.
Rainbow Diary – A Journey in the New South Africa by John Malathronas is published by Summersdale (paperback; £7.99). It is also available through amazon.co.uk and all good booksellers.
