So bloody good for them. And even better for them when they disclosed their views on the “European Experiment”, the Euro, the Greeks and Mr Berlusconi. Because these views could have been scripted by Brian. And this made him think. And what he thought was that of all the nations in the world we could choose to pick a fight with, Germany should be almost at the bottom (with the likes of Denmark and Sweden). And the reason for this is that Germany is full of people just like ourselves (only they generally have more manageable hair and we have more irony in our make-up). But somehow, despite this intense affinity (and a borrowed royal family), we have managed to have a serious go at each other – and not just on one but on two occasions – and when we have on our doorstep a far more obvious candidate for our pugnacious nature – and one that’s generally a great deal easier to beat. It must, thought Brian, be their leaders – like that Fuehrer chap – who was clearly far too persuasive in all the wrong ways. Just like Julius Malema…
So that was South Africa, China, India, Pakistan, Germany and France sorted out, and all within the matter of a few hours. Brian sometimes amazed himself. However, at other times he was a little more pedestrian in his achievements, such as when he was attempting to put his suffering into some sort of perspective. It wasn’t, he kept telling himself, like drawn-out childbirth (surely?). Neither was it like the proverbial red-hot pokers or even anywhere close to the mental agony one can undergo at the hands of someone like Russell Brand. But even so, it was pretty awful. For he was now back in his bed again, squirming and wriggling in an attempt to relieve his discomfort – and mostly failing. This back was not getting any better, and now he just couldn’t wait to get to Ghanzi in the morning – and then onto a doctor’s couch. As long, of course, as the doctor wasn’t a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine…
27.
Brian’s boots had come to the end of the road. More precisely, they were both losing their soles, and therefore, in homophone terms, they would soon be meeting the fate of Vladimir Putin – and in practical terms, they would soon be unusable as footwear. Brian therefore decided not to abandon them as such but to leave them in the tent and to tell KB that he’d done so. That way he was pretty confident that they would be granted a new lease of life. The locals, he was sure, would be far more resourceful than he was, and would quickly find another road for the boots to walk, probably with the aid of some super-glue and some stitches. KB certainly looked pleased, and subsequently gave Brian and Sandra a very effusive send-off from the lodge, which more than made up for the lack of any sort of send-off from Morlin.
Fifty rock-and-gravel kilometres later (and with Brian in his sandals(!)) they were back in Ghanzi – and looking for a doctor. It didn’t take them long to find one. In fact, they found two: the two locally-renowned physicians whom Jacob had told them they would find, and in the exact location that he’d promised. This was a little cul de sac in the settlement with a row of one-storey buildings to one side, one of which housed a pharmacy, and two of which, to either side of the pharmacy, housed a doctor’s surgery. This trio of enterprises represented one of the most convenient concentrations of consulting and concomitant concoctions that Brian had ever encountered. He was immediately consoled albeit a little confused. Which of the doctors in these two surgeries should he choose?
Well, having left Sandra with the Land Cruiser – under a thorn tree to provide shade – he wandered past the open doors of both surgeries and inspected the contents of their waiting rooms. The first contained three waiting patients; the second none. This could have indicated that the doctor in the first surgery was better than the one in the second – or cheaper. But, as far as Brian was concerned, the primary criterion in choosing between the two was their availability. So, no contest. He walked into the second of the medical emporia.
Good decision. Details taken by medical secretary, details passed on to doctor in his consulting room, consultation conducted (thoroughly and amiably by a middle-aged sun-stained South African guy), prognosis made (allergic reaction), prescription delivered – and out and into the next-door pharmacy – all within fifteen minutes and at a cost of only 150 South African rand (say £15). Similar speed and economy within the pharmacy (five minutes and 70 rand) – and then back to the Land Cruiser and ready to go. Crikey. If only it was this immediate and this simple in Brian’s regular surgery back home. There, one generally spent far more time waiting to be seen by a member of the medical profession than one did being seen, and often even longer than the surgery’s own dispensary took to dispense any necessary medications. (What do those dispensing chemists do that takes them all that time? And if it’s all about multiple record keeping – of what they’ve dispensed – why hasn’t the record keeping been simplified? It would save the NHS billions every year… )
However, this was Botswana, where you can choose private medical treatment that is both efficient and affordable (at least for travelling lower-end plutocrats) and where it is a straightforward matter to administer antihistamine cream at the side of the road. One simply pulls off the main drag out of town, pulls off one’s shirt, and one’s wife smoothes it on one’s back, confident in the knowledge that humanity is so thin on the ground around here that no one will observe what is happening. And so Brian at last had a little relief from his suffering, as well as the reassurance that there was nothing seriously wrong with him. It was just an allergic reaction, and it wouldn’t kill him. Furthermore, he could now look forward to some further relief when he was finally able to take the antihistamine tablets that he had also been prescribed. These apparently made one drowsy and were not to be taken when one had a drive ahead of one. Especially a drive along another long straight road that went on for two hundred kilometres and that passed from one county into another (Botswana into Namibia) and rejoiced in the name of the Trans-Kalahari Highway.
Yes, Brian and Sandra were now on the A2, a road that runs west to the border of Namibia and that, as well as forming part of that lyrically-named highway, constitutes an important section of a route linking far away Johannesburg with Windhoek in Namibia. It also provides a home to quite a few donkeys – and to what is nothing less than a despicable trap…
Now, here it is necessary to recapitulate the nature of Botswanan roads – and to comment on their speed limits. So, to start with, it can be stated, without fear of challenge, that most of the roads, at least in the northern half of Botswana, are long tarmac strips, with no bends and very little traffic, running through a countryside that is empty of everything other than donkeys (and a few other domestic and not so domestic animals). Towns are as rare as a rational jihadist, junctions are as exceptional as an exemplary executive, and even small settlements are an unusual event. There are no more than a handful of these rural “hamlets” actually “on” any of the roads, and even this handful is only “on” them in the sense that one can glimpse a few roundels in the distance. Nowhere do these tiny villages come close to the thoroughfares that skirt them. However… their existence is acknowledged and it is acknowledged through the imposition of a lower speed limit. The normal limit of 120 kph is cut to 80 as one approaches a settlement and then to 60 when one is in it (that is, when one has sight of the roundels set back from the road).
Brian had found no problem with this arrangement. With so many animals on and about the roads, 120 kph was often difficult to maintain anyway, and even if one had reached this speed, slowing for a village was such a rare event that one could hardly resent it. Accordingly, Brian had been a paragon in his adherence to the speed limits in a way he could never claim to have been in the UK. So, when he was nearing the Namibian border and approaching the last village in Botswana, a place called Charles Hill (!), the last thing on his mind was a speeding infringement. He was much more focused on finding maybe a service station in the place – and any signs of a border post. So much so that, although he noticed the 80 kph sign and took his foot off the accelerator, he did not notice the tripod-mounted camera half a mile down the road. No, he
only noticed that when he was waved down by a lady policeman and instructed to pull in to the side of the road.
Bizarrely, on this virtually empty road, there was soon another vehicle with him, a minibus driven by a Namibian guide and, like the Land Cruiser, with a Namibian number plate. Well, it transpired that by letting the Land Cruiser’s engine slow him down rather than using its brakes, Brian was still rocketing along at 92 kph when he passed the 80 kph sign, and although thereafter (as shown by the recording on the camera) he was below the speed limit, he was still technically guilty of speeding. The Namibian guide was in precisely the same situation. But whereas Brian just fumed and sulked like a teenager, this Namibian chap went ballistic and even used his mobile phone to speak to his lawyer in Windhoek. But it was to no avail. He, like Brian, was stuffed with a fine, equivalent to over forty pounds and payable on the spot. And what was not a piece of genuine law enforcement but a mean, spiteful scam, designed to relieve visitors to Botswana of a few more pula just before they left the country, had worked yet again. Brian wondered how often they did this and whether the police here ever did anything else. He also thought that it was a terrible act to perpetrate on a couple of visitors to one’s country, particularly when those same visitors had spent a friggin’ fortune here already. It would have been better to have added it to all the bills in the first place: VAT X%, Botswanan Police Force Levy Y%. That way, they could even sting the visitors to Botswana who didn’t arrive here by car.
So, as may have been sensed already, Brian was now in a less than sunny mood. He wanted only to be back in Namibia and beyond the clutches of Botswana’s suspect constabulary. He did not want any delay in that country’s border post, no unscheduled events there, and certainly not an instruction to move down the counter to talk to another individual after his normal cross-border business was done…
Yes, he and Sandra had arrived at their last Botswanan border post for this trip, had completed all the usual forms and registers, and had now been instructed to move further along the counter to do something else. Brian’s initial thought was that sulking in police custody might be a crime in Botswana, and that he might now be facing another fine or something even worse. But then the chap who was waiting for them at the end of the counter smiled, pushed a questionnaire in their direction and announced that he was a representative of Botswana’s Ministry of Tourism – ‘and would you mind taking a few minutes to fill out this questionnaire on your visit to our country?’!
Now, it wasn’t this chap’s fault, but Brian could not prevent himself from acquainting him with the knowledge that he was now addressing a visitor to his country who was more than just a little pissed off. And that this said visitor was in this state because he had just been robbed by his state – and by, in particular, its less than honourable police force – and accordingly he was not in any mood to fill out any questionnaires. Furthermore… if the Ministry of Tourism wanted to enhance Botswana’s reputation as a holiday destination, then it would be well advised to station its operatives not in this border post but half a mile down the road, where they could observe the egregious behaviour of their uniformed colleagues and possibly take some steps towards stopping it!
Brian should have made his point more deliberately and more clearly. He tended to become incomprehensible, even to Sandra, when he worked himself up. And, as he left the border post, he wasn’t really sure that the man from the Ministry had actually got his point. But so what? Just one more set of border formalities to deal with – on the Namibian side – and he, his wife and their Land Cruiser would be back on “home soil”, back to Namibia and approaching the end of his loop.
It was done. A simple transition into Namibian real estate and just a little more of that Trans-Kalahari Highway until they were at their last lodge of their trip – and Brian could pop down his throat a couple of those doze-inducing antihistamine pills.
It was called “Kalahari Bush Breaks”, and it did exactly what it said on the tin. It was set in a huge expanse of the Kalahari bordering Botswana, it was surrounded by genuine Kalahari bush, and it offered breaks to anyone who was attracted to this sort of environment. Which, on this day, comprised Brian and Sandra and two Germans who were sunbathing by the lodge’s pool – and were initially less than communicative. Not an accusation one could make of the lodge’s matriarch, however. This was Elesebe, who was a Namibian German, and a middle-aged and self-assured woman – and a good greeter: chatty and affable, but very aware of her guests’ desire to get to their rooms without further ado.
These were in three semi-detached chalets set around the edge of an enormous main building, which housed the normal eating and drinking facilities and, like the chalets themselves, was gloriously thatched. Brian and Sandra entered their room and discovered that, although it was spacious and quite attractive, there was an unnerving amount of leather on display. It was all supple to the touch – and stained burgundy red – and it was draped across the bed, across the bed’s headboard and across the top of the windows as a sort of pelmet. It was mildly creepy, but did provide a flavour of the rest of the lodge. (Which was a flavour of meat, meat farming and meat “products”.)
Brian would discover this later, just as he would discover that antihistamine tablets do make one drowsy. Heck, it was all he could do to drag himself outside for a restorative lager (after all those police perturbations) and take in the view from the lodge and the abundance of birds in its grounds. These included those groundscraper thrushes again, a few violet-eared waxbills and some marico flycatchers, all of which were committed to Brian’s memory just before he retired to the room again and there fell asleep. Sandra let him doze on, until his automatic pre-dinner drink alarm went off in his head and he rose with a start – and with a resolve not to take any more of those bloody pills until he was back in Blighty. He wanted to enjoy what was left of his holiday, not sleep it away entirely. And that enjoyment could commence again soon – on a seat in the bar.
Here, Brian and Sandra were thrown into the company of the sunbathing Germans, who now had their clothes on and had deserted the sun. Indeed, the sun had deserted them. It was now cloudy outside and a wind had blown up that threatened a storm. Consequently, Elesebe had informed all four of her guests that their dinner would be served inside – where they could all revel in the “meaty” atmosphere of the lodge. It really was like this. Leather and skins everywhere, hunting and farming paraphernalia scattered around – and a disconcerting collection of dead animal parts. Yes, this was taxidermy capital, with a range of stuffed animal heads on the walls of the bar – and of the dining room – ranging from baboons and springbok right up to a giant eland and a ruddy great giraffe! And to be clear about this last chap, we are talking here about a giraffe head that was still connected to the whole seven feet of its supporting giraffe neck. The taxidermist responsible must have needed a stepladder to do it.
However, the diners, when they’d been seated at the dining table, were soon able to ignore this gallery of the grisly and to set about their food and a little exploratory conversation. This revealed that Helga and Gunter (for those were their names) were well-travelled Germans who, whilst a little younger than Brian and Sandra, had been to a number of places around the world that their English companions had yet to visit. Furthermore, on this trip they had driven around Namibia – and had picked up three punctures on the way – and had actually got stuck driving around this lodge! For earlier in the day they had decided to take the 4x4 trail that ran off into the distance from the lodge and only returned to it after a twenty-kilometre loop of demanding driving – to find it too demanding for their own (Nissan) 4x4. They had to be rescued. (And Brian and Sandra would have to try it tomorrow. It was a loop!)
But this was still today, and it was still time to engage with these two Germans at the table – which Brian did by bringing up the subject of Angela Merkel.
He congratulated them on their choice of leader. She was ‘good material’, he observed, and was doing an amazing job
under impossible conditions. And if only she’d embrace the unavoidable truth that an artificial currency cannot be sustained indefinitely and realise that her desire for “more Europe” actually equated to a “more dysfunctional Europe”, she would also be able to demonstrate how “good material” can be woven into something outstanding. In her case, into a truly inspired Chancellor who would be remembered for her foresight, her bravery and her plain common sense.
Helga and Gunter agreed, but then made the mistake of asking Brian about British politicians and, in particular, about those two gentlemen who occupied Downing Street for the opening years of the Twenty-first Century. What, they enquired, would they be remembered for? Well, inevitably, Brian answered this question dispassionately and objectively, putting aside any of his personal political inclinations – and starting with a description of the two leaders in question.
The first, he explained, was an odious, shallow, narcissistic, reckless, deluded, self-important seller of snake oil, who had no more idea of how to run a country than Popeye did. Whereas the second was an embarrassing, shambolic, rude, equally deluded, muddle-headed bully whose “towering intellect” was no more than the combination of megalomania and arrested development, and whose communication skills were right up there with those of a tin of pineapple chunks at the back of the larder. And then, having painted this impartial picture of each of the protagonists, Brian then invited his audience to place them in a drama, and this drama would centre on their role as the commanders of the ship of state…
Strip Pan Wrinkle Page 24
