A surfeit of Ostrich (with a side order of philosophical debate...)

Hello again!

And so it is back to late July once more, and to my arrival on the Baz Bus the morning after my ill-advised drinking session in Stellenbosch. I apparently looked almost as healthy as I felt (caused more by the extreme lack of sleep than by the quantity of alcohol consumed, as I'd actually been rather closer to sensible than usual in my drinking habits and consumed quite a bit of water inter-mingled amongst the beers), so the rest of the bus were fairly understanding when I nodded off almost immediately, my long practice at dozing on moving vehicles being put to good use.

When I resurfaced, around lunchtime (or what would normally pass for lunchtime - we'd been informed that the lunch stop was at 3pm...), it was to see one of the daftest movies I have ever seen, called "How High?". It's an incredibly silly and deeply politically-incorrect comedy centring around dope, and two boys from the 'hood who, in deeply improbable circumstances, end up in an Ivy League university. Utterly ridiculous, and I frequently found myself thinking that I shouldn't be laughing, yet giggling away hysterically.

The 3pm stop, as it turns out, was my stop anyway. It was in the generally unexceptional town of George, one of the largest yet least-visited along the famous Garden Route in South Africa's Western Cape province - the latter probably due to its being inland rather than on the coast. At any rate, this is the transfer point to get the shuttle up through some amazing mountain scenery to Oudtshoorn which is, as I mentioned in my last post, the Ostrich Capital of South Africa. Originally, in the 19th Century, the beasts were farmed for their extraordinary feathers, but these days it can be as much about their meat and leather. Our driver for this section of the trip was a garrulous old chap named Moses, who happily informed the girls in the bus that they ought to cook the boys breakfast the next morning, in exchange for the boys keeping an eye on them that night. He then attempted to persuade the German boy sitting next to him to sing us all a song. Quite a character was Moses, but really rather endearing.

My home for the next couple of nights was to be the Backpackers Paradise, which wasn't actually as much of an exaggeration as it might initially seem - it's a really nice little place, which I can definitely recommend to any of you who make it down to that little corner of South Africa. It being by now late afternoon, I trooped back into the centre of town (despite Paradise being near the edge of town, this only took about 15-20 minutes or so) for a drink along with the aforementioned girls who'd come in on the bus at the same time. Two pairs of girls travelling together, and I am ashamed to say that (due to losing my original bloody notebook in Pretoria and then having to reconstitute it several weeks after the event) I can only remember the names of one pair: Clare and Charlotte. I remember the other two had met each other at Portsmouth Uni, and that the taller one was a fan of sailing - hell, I've even got photos of them sitting on ostriches (don't laugh!), but can I remember their names? Can I bollocks...

Anyways, that evening most of us had decided to participate in the meal deal offered by the hostel: an Ostrich braai. In case I didn't mention it before, the braai is the South African word (originally from Afrikaans) for the barbeque, and the practice occupies an even more hallowed place amongst South African culture (especially among males, and among Whites) than it does in Australia. The Saffirs are really rather fond of their grilled meat, and lots of it, though with a refreshing focus on marinades and salads which I haven't always found amongst Aussies. Anyway, in this case the meat in question was the ubiquitous (at least in Oudtshoorn) Ostrich. And very nice it was too - a healthy slab of steak and a portion of Ostrich wors (sausage - boerewors or "farmer's sausage" is a staple of braais all over SAfr, and usually rather a tasty one, a bit like a slightly spicy version of Cumberland sausage back home), with oodles of salad. And yes, I did say "healthy" - ostrich meat is incredibly low fat (especially for a red meat) and near enough cholesterol-free, a little bit like kangaroo but without the heavy taste of skip-meat.

So, a pleasant meal was had by all (apart from the token vegetarian - SAfr is often not the best of countries for those not fond of lots of meat), and then we ended up sitting around discussing various things - after my over-exertions in Stellenbosch I was glad to stay near-enough alcohol-free (I think I had one beer with the dinner...) and just chill out and chat with fellow travellers. One of these was just how creepy one of our fellow travellers was - a middle-aged German guy called Eilert with a handlebar moustache that belonged on a 70s pornstar, who had immediately (and peremptorily) closed the window in front of me on the minibus up whenever I opened it slightly to try and stop those of us sitting in the back from collapsing of heat exhaustion. In case there are those out there who think I am being overly harsh, it is worth noting at this point that various other people I met along the way who had had the pleasure of his company expressed similar opinions. Another was an extended discussion of countries and nationalities, sparked by my questioning to what extent Wales counts as a country...

Now, before various of you out there (Rhiannon probably principal amongst them) set fair to lynch me over this, I should probably explain myself [those not wishing to be party to one of my more obscure arguments, even over cyberspace, can safely skip the next few paragraphs!].

Partly as a result of my studies of history (principally that of 19th Century European nationalism) and partly just because of my long pedantic streak, I tend to think in terms of Nations and States rather than "Countries". This is on the basis that a Nation is a group of people of similar backgrounds, languages, beliefs or whatever who think of themselves as a common group. A State is a geo-political entity with a government, a recognised territory, etc etc. Hence, a group such as the Kurds, who are spread over the border areas of Turkey, Iraq and Iran (amongst other places) are a Nation, but do not have a State. The Catalans and Basques, both of whom reside in the border countries of Spain and France, are Nations but do not have States. On the other hand, Belgium is a State even though until 1830 there was not really any concept of "a Belgian" - the country consists of the old provinces of Flanders (which is home to the Flemish, who are historically culturally similar to the Dutch) and Wallonia (home to the Walloons, who are similar to the French), and the Flemish and Walloons could each be thought of as a Nation. South Africa is a State containing groups of people who would identify themselves as being Xhosa, Zulu, Afrikaner or various other National groupings.

The central point here is that Wales is not a State. Neither is England, or Scotland, or Northern Ireland. The English, Scots, Welsh and Irish are all Nations, but there are only two States on the British Isles (in case there are any easily offended Irish out there, I use the term in its geographical sense, not in any political sense - and Ynys Prydain, from which the word Britain derives, is of course an old Celtic term for the largest island in the group): the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and the Republic of Ireland (or Eire, if you prefer). Hence, in a strictly international legal sense, the fact that I am English (and I do consider myself as such) would not be recognised - I am a British Citizen, as that is what my passport identifies me as. The Government which controls what happens in the state to which I belong is the British Government, never mind that it meets in Westminster in England. Hence, as Wales is a Nation but not a State, I would argue that the rather woolier term of "Country" (which is more often associated with a State than a Nation) is not really applicable.

Obviously this gets complicated somewhat because a lot of the way the British now associate themselves with their separate Nations is tied in with sports, and the fact that there are separate Football and Rugby teams for the Home Nations. The simple reason for that is that we invented the sports, so we gave ourselves the right to have individual teams - no other country gets that right (for the same reason, the British are ridiculously over-represented on the governing border of FIFA, the world body in charge of Football). So there are separate football teams for England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, each also with their own governing Football Association (though, with our usual breathtaking arrogance, England are the only nation that feels no need to call its body anything other than "The Football Association", without any reference to England). And there are separate rugby teams for England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland (there is no north-south divide in rugby, intriguingly, which is why there is a separate anthem, "Ireland's Call", just for their rugby team and no reference to either the Republic or the North).

This would also help explain why there is so much confusion as to our nationality when we travel abroad. The Americans (and, to some extent, the Canadians and South Africans) tend to use British as a term for many of us, but will often use England and English interchangeably with Britain and British (much to the disgust of our Celtic cousins). The Aussies and Kiwis tend to distinguish us as our separate Nations as individuals, but will also often use England as a virtual synonym for Britain. Either that, or they assume we are actually separate countries, and worry if they'll need a visa to go up to Scotland. And when talking to people who don't have English as a first language, a lot of this flies straight over their heads and they automatically use whatever their local translation is of England and English to mean all of us. When we can't always agree amongst ourselves what label is the right one, we can't really blame anyone else if they get confused...

[Those not interested in my philosophical musings on the nature of nationalities and the like can now rejoin the rest of us]

It was actually a remarkably civilised discourse, but I think I confused Charlotte and most of the others a bit (especially when I brought the Kurds and the Catalans into things...). Made for a rather more civilised evening than just sitting around and drinking beers, anyway. The above section kind of puts down things that I've discussed with various people when travelling over the years - I guess I can sort of use it as an aide-memoire for the future. Anyways, eventually it was time for bed, as most of us were getting up pretty early in the morning to see the sights of the area.

I, along with the two lasses whose names I can't remember (though, now I come to think of it, I think one of them may have been called Gemma?), creepy Eilert, another German lad called Mario and a couple of Koreans, was heading up in Moses' ever-present minibus to the Cango Caves, which are slightly north of town. Although, before this, there was the small matter of breakfast to attend to, in the form of scrambled ostrich egg. Though obviously not a whole one - you can get about 15 or so people's worth of scramble from one egg. Tasted a lot like normal scrambled egg if I'm honest, particularly when eaten in my favoured form: on toast and Marmite (one of the joys of travelling in Africa, they have actual proper Marmite! - my supply from there has now sadly run out, so I'm back on Vegemite again...). Although the cooker seemed in a bit of a mood, so I ended up running late, arousing Moses' ire.

Eventually, very slightly late, we were off up the valley towards the afore-mentioned Cango Caves, which are a set of really quite pretty holes in the ground that were found 150 or so years ago by a local farmer. Unfortunately, they were not always looked after in the best ways, with concrete layed down for floors, hooligans breaking off sections of stalactite and stalagmite from some areas and (in an act of breathtaking stupidity) another entrance cut out of the rock during the high tide of apartheid, so that there would be separate entrances for Whites and non-Whites. This extra entryway started drying out the caves, changing the climate therein irrevocably. In terms of the actual sights therein, the Caves were pretty but not spectacular - not a patch on the Postojna caves in Slovenia, for example. There was also some dodgy lighting, particularly the red lighting for a rock formation christened "Neville the Cave Devil" (alongside some blue lighting for "the wings of an angel" and "the family bible" in the "Heaven and Hell cave" - and no, I'm not making this up!). We only did the Standard Tour, which took in most of the more easily accessible sections. There's also an Adventure Tour, which goes down into some of the deeper, tighter parts of the cave, but given my mild claustrophobia I figured taking in sections such as "the letterbox" would not be the best of plans.

After finishing our hour-long tour, it was back in Moses' minibus to go down to one of the Ostrich Show Farms. There, we were informed about the wonders of Ostrich feathers, Ostrich leather, Ostrich eggs and Ostrich meat, before getting the chance to see some of the big, frighteningly dumb birds face-to-beak, walk through one of their nests on the leftover eggshells (which I can reliably report are more than strong enough to bear my weight) and then to sit on one of the beasts. Unfortunately, due to my larger-than-average size, I would not have an opportunity to ride on; the maximum weight for doing so was 75kg, and I haven't weighed anything like that for nigh-on 15 years now! However, with the ostrich standing restrained in a wooden stall, it was possible to sit on it. So I did. Very strange feeling, especially as you need to hold the neck "like a joystick" (albeit an exceedingly flexible one).

After this, it was back to the hostel, where I found out that the Quad-biking trip I had hoped to go on was not going to be running that day, so my afternoon was free. So I wandered into town to the supermarket, bought myself some food, and cooked up a nice batch of Chilli con Ostrich Carne for my lunch. Except that, because supermarkets never seem ready to sell meat in less than about 500g batches, it ended up also being my dinner. And the next day's lunch. Combine that with another Ostrich Scramble breakfast, and I actually managed to consume Ostrich as part of every single meal while I was in Oudtshoorn. I didn't have any more for a quite a while after that, unsuprisingly. And after this lunch, I settled in to watch the afternoon's game of Rugby. For the Tri-Nations season was upon us, meaning Springbok fever was once again gripping the nation (or at least parts of it).

Again, apologies to those intimately familiar with all this, but for those who don't know, the Springboks (or just the Bokke to their diehard fans) are South Africa's famous green-shirted rugby team (that's Rugby Union for any League stalwarts out there). They were also traditionally the pride of White South Africa, and totally dominated by white players (whereas Bafana Bafana, which literally means "The Boys The Boys", are South Africa's football team and the pride of the majority of the nation). This is now changing slightly, though there are ongoing arguments about whether there should be quotas on the number of players from particular backgrounds within the team - though players such as Bryan Habana and Breyton Paulse, the current Springbok wingers, are both Coloured and both demonstrably in the team on merit (Habana is ridculously quick!). The Tri-Nations is an annual competition in which the "Big 3" rugby-playing nations of the Southern Hemisphere (Australia, New Zealand and South Africa) play each other home and away.

Anyways, like most hostels in South Africa, Paradise was run by Whites and their friends who came round were mostly also White, so I got an introduction to the fervour that the Bokke inspire. Joining me in this was the second of the girls whose names I can't remember (who I am now thinking might have been a Caroline...?), and we both marvelled at just how worked up one of the local guys was getting. Whenever the South Africans managed a good move, he would bellow out "Oh Yes!" rather a lot, displaying a level of fervour that even I wouldn't generally associate with sport. Let's just say he seemed quite passionate, and leave it at that. At any rate, the Boks beat the Wallabies (Australia) for the second week running (they'd won a friendly the previous week) so the locals were all pretty happy.

That evening ended up being another very quiet one, sitting around chatting with the girls, and with some Dutch who had arrived that afternoon. Just as an aside, it is worth noting that there were so many Dutch and Germans travelling around South Africa, it often seemed more like a national migration than a few tourists! The next morning, it was time to pack up and get ready for the trip back down the pass to George, and another rendez-vous with the Baz Bus (after the Ostrich consumption noted earlier).

And that is where I will lay my metaphorical pen to rest once again, as this entry has got ridiculously long now (and somewhat off-topic as well!). Until next time, farewell!

Pat