Stormy Rivers

G'day once more. Story time again. So, back I go to South Africa, and to Storms River Village, where the Baz Bus is arriving at the Tube'n'Axe backpackers lodge...

So, the 3 remaining members of our little family from Plett (Patrick, Kate and myself) had arrived at our next stop, one of South Africa's slightly more "out-there" hostels. The thing being, Storms River Village is probably about the same size as the little hamlet of Caldecote, where I live back in England. And that's before all the redevelopment we had in the last few years. Apart from the presence of a hotel, there really isn't a lot to Storms River. A tiny local shop. A scattering of houses. And, bizarrely, two backpacker hostels. All this tourist development only starts to make sense when you consider Storms River's location, at the edge of Tsitsikamma National Park, an expanse of forested hills rolling down into the Indian Ocean, split by the Storms River. And the backpacker section makes more sense when you realise that Storms River is roughly the same distance from Bloukrans Bungy on the East that Plett is on the West, so it picks up a lot of trade from thrill-seeking enthusiasts who get a kick out of jumping off bridges.

In any case, we were joined in our disembarking at Tube'n'Axe by two more English lads - Mark, from Kidderminster by way of Manchester, and Grant, an East London boy and proud of it. We were to find that there were only actually a handful of other people staying at the hostel (which isn't that massive anyway), but considering we all got on rather well, this wasn't really an issue. Having dumped our stuff in our rooms, we wandered off through the darkness up the road to the hotel, which was basically the only source of food anywhere in town at this time of day. Despite being slightly more expensive than your average backpacker fare, it was actually still really good value, and very pleasant food.

Then it was back to the hostel, where I indulged myself in a few pints of "Forries" - the Forester's Lager brewed by Mitchell's brewery in Knysna, one of the only beers in the country not brewed by either South African Breweries (SAB - the brewers of that sorry excuse for a beer called Castle, amongst others) or Namibian Breweries (responsible for the excellent Windhoek Lager). I also indulged in a long, rambling conversation about football, given that it was only a week or so to the start of the season and I had a couple of fellow True Believers on hand to talk with. There's something quite comforting about finding fellow fans who are distraught after several months not watching 22 men chase a ball around a pitch...

Eventually, though, probably around 11pm (shocking!) when only Mark and I were left talking football (and astonishingly not coming to blows, despite his support for the bastion of evil in the footballing world that is Manchester United), the nice bar-lass Rachel closed up and we all headed for our bunks. The next morning I assume dawned bright and clear, but I had no view of it myself, as I enjoyed a leisurely lie-in. Patrick, Kate and I had booked to do "foofie-slides" (more on this later), but not until the early afternoon, and Grant and Mark were off late morning to throw themselves off the big bridge. Just another average day in Storms River.

So, what, I hear you ask (or at least, the more ludicrously enthusiastic or masochistic among you) is "foofie sliding"? Well, it's also known as zip-lining. A foofie can also be called a Flying Fox. But, in my long-ago childhood (pass the zimmer frame...) I used the term Aerial Runway. Although that usually referred to something going 10 or 15 metres across an adventure playground, and usually relied on the child involved hanging onto or sitting in a tyre or such like. I'm guessing in the current litigious culture we have in the UK, they've probably been removed from anywhere around children, on the grounds that someone might fall out and sue the council or whoever's responsible for them. In any case, these babies, sighted in a local gorge, were steel cable lines, considerably longer than 10 or 15 metres (I think the longest was about 120...), and involved safety harnesses and braking mechanisms on the handles. And, truth be told, they were really rather fun. Apart from the general discomfort caused by wearing the safety harness - somewhat similar to a climbing or abseiling gear, they run through between the legs, and can be slightly uncomfortable when one's full weight is applied through them. And I think that's enough said on that matter. In any case, it made for an hour or so of great fun, as we zoomed down these lines at not inconsiderable speeds, with gorgeous views over the trees, pools and waterfalls in the gorge.

After all that, it was back to the hostel, where we were reunited with a madly-grinning Grant, who seemed definitely to be more a part of the Patrick school of thought on the experience ("Awesome!") than the Kate one ("Awful!"). Mark, it turned out, had also enjoyed the experience, but had popped along to the other hostel (the Rainbow Lodge) to connect his MP3 player to their computer and copy a bunch of music from my player. To pass the time, Patrick, Grant and I had a bit of a kickabout with a football out on the front lawn of the hostel, and were joined in this by a truly extraordinary local dog - he not only ran to fetch the ball, but would intercept passes, dribble the ball along using his head, and even go for headers. Oh, and despite the very warm weather, he was still haring around when we gave up the ghost and sloped back over to the hostel. We decided to christen him Becks.

After our exertions, and Mark's return from the other hostel, we decided to pop into town and get food to self-cater our dinner that evening (nice as the hotel food was, it wasn't really in a backpacker budget), and then got settled in for an evening playing games. And yes, mother, that does mean drinking games. One of these, though, was actually one of the more interesting thigns I've played, as we'd commandeered what appeared to be a board-game or party game of some kind, called Scruples. This worked on the principle of having various cards outlining moral dilemmas, and people had to answer with "Yes", "No" or "Depends". Unfortunately, there was no sign of a board or any kind of rules, so we made up our own game to go with it. Each person took a turn to pick a card, read it and then put down either a "Yes" or a "No" card, face down, to indicate what they would do (we decided that "Depends" was a bit woosey and would only make things too complicated). Having read the card out loud, all the other players had to put down a card indicating what they would do. The card-holder would then reveal his/her answer, followed by everyone else. Anyone who chose the opposite option from the card-holder had to take a drink. Unless nobody picked the same option, in which case the card-holder had to take a drink for everyone. It was actually quite a fascinating game, as we got insights into what each other would or wouldn't do, whilst also having a laugh - some of the dilemmas used were horrifically politically incorrect, but others were quite subtle.

In the midst of this, we cooked a very nice pasta bolgnaise, and also played a few other games (21 being the main one). As the evening went on, Grant (I think) suggested another truly evil game of cards that he just called "Crossing the table", which was more about luck than anything else, and resulted in Patrick and Kate having to consume quite a bit more booze while Mark and I got off lightly. And then we ended up on that most evil of drinking games, as mentioned earlier in these chronicles, I Have Never. This resulted, as it usually does, in finding out things we would never have guessed (and might have preferred not to), but is notable primarily for the bizarre moment when Patrick, having consumed beer to the point where his usually excellent English was relapsing pretty rapidly back to his native Dutch interspersed with a few of the more colourful parts of the English language, made the claim "I have never made it with a zebra!". And then looked astonished when none of us took a drink to indicate that we, in fact, had. And slightly upset when we pointed out that he now had to drink for all 4 of us.

The rest of the evening passed along in a pleasant haze, as w continued toe celebrate the fact that two more of the group had survived their bit of recreational near-suicide by sampling quite a bit of the shooter menu. One of which was a depply unpleasant concoction containing both tequila and tabasco sauce called a "Mexican Arsehole" (sorry, Mum...), which left all of us cursing both Rachel the barmaid, who'd suggested them, and Mark (I think) who'd agreed to get them. And then we got Springboks, and had to do "the Springbok dance" again (see the earlier entry from Malawi for details of this). Which all the boys found so utterly hilarious that we got Kate to take pictures of us doing so - I was tempted to post mine (which is spookily reminiscent of the children's book "Where The Wild Things Are") on here, but decided against it on the grounds that the gorge is a lot prettier than we were. But, in the end, it was time to call it a night again and stagger off to our respective bunks.

The next day was another beautiful sunny day, and my plans (at least until the Baz Bus pick-up in the evening) were to do near-enough nothing after we had said goodbye to Kate late-morning (she was headed back West again). Until I found that Mark had the latest Harry Potter book with him. So I actually spent the day nestled in the hammocks of Tube'n'Axe, devouring my way through J K Rowling's latest (which, unlike some people I've met, I actually rather enjoyed, though her habit of killing people off is getting slightly worrying). We decided, given how late the Baz Bus runs, that it would be easier to get food in Storms River and cook before joining the bus, so I also got to cook up a curry, which put me in a pretty good mood. Turned out we timed things just about right, as we'd only just finished clearing up from dinner when the bus arrived.

We then just settled in for the drive through the dark to our final destinations, for our little fellowship was to split (at least temporarily) - I was headed straight through that night to Port Elizabeth, while the rest of the lads jumped off in Jeffreys Bay, popularly known as J Bay, South Africa's primary surfing mecca. This was to be the last I saw of Patrick, as he (unsurprisingly for a surf fanatic) settled in for a week or two there. But Grant and Mark I would see again soon. That, though, will have to be the story for next time, as the internet cafe is close to closing and I must needs depart.

Until the next time, dear readers, adieu!

Pat