African Skies. The Garden Route, South Africa.
“Good evening this is your Captain speaking, due to the weather in George we will now be flying to Port Elizabeth.”
Quickly I do the maths, which in my travel addled-28hour-three transfer-flight brain is a bit of a struggle. It doesn’t look good. 20minutes by plane equals about 350km and that means either, a very long bus ride, or a very expensive hire car. I look out the window to see the storm that had prevented us landing at George, albeit by literally a few metres, disappearing rapidly behind us. Flashes of lightening laughing at me, sending me on my way.
Port Elizabeth is on the south coast of South Africa and we land at about 2030h. The captain informs us that he will fly us back to Johannesburg or dump us on the tarmac to fend for ourselves. I watch with a detached air of amusement as my fellow passengers dissect this news and, once again, review my options.
No bus till the morning, the hire car desk about to shut, I have to make a decision fast. Suddenly a pull on my jumper:
“Hi, name’s Charlotte, please come in with me on a hire car with these other two guys as they seem slightly strange to me and I feel a bit uncomfortable travelling alone with them but I must get to Knysna tonight to celebrate fathers day.” She pauses for breath long enough for me to wonder quite why I, a 6’4” 100kg guy with a sleep-deprived maniacal glint in my eye bought about by the wonders of economy class air travel, should seem like a safe person to be travelling with.
Nevertheless I don’t ask any questions and after a furious tussle with the luggage carousel I find myself ensconced happily in a very small hire car with baggage loaded all around me and even less legroom than the air seat that had deposited me in this strange state of affairs.
“ Ah well” I mused, “back on the road again, new people, new adventures, every twist and turn a new opportunity and the thrill of the unknown being a…”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Pardon?” I ask, my inner soliloquy broken.
“Do you believe in God?” my travelling companion Richard repeated from the front passenger seat.
I glanced across at Charlotte in the back seat, partially obscured by a huge suitcase to see if she had heard the question as well. She was looking nervously back at me.
Richard continued, “Because you know that Jesus Christ loves you and it is his desire to ensure that you are forgiven your sins so that you may enter the kingdom of heaven and sit along side God.”
The surreal nature of the moment suddenly grabbed me and I chuckled internally before locking horns in a theological dialogue which predictably enough was simply an opportunity for Richard to perform a 45 minute staggeringly-blinkered monologue about his route to Christianity and how he was certain that we were all going to hell as we did not believe the same as him. He seemed a little stumped when I likened Christianity and the bible to a large media-marketing corporation with about as much primary evidence as a bad edition of the Sun newspaper and shifted his attention to the driver, the guy who had gone and organised the hire car for us.
“Do you believe in God?” He bleated.
“I’m a Muslim.” replied Ahmed.
It was only later in the week that I saw how the single travel ‘mishap’ of being diverted to Port Elizabeth had set in a place a chain of events that led me to be seated at a table in a superb seafood restaurant in Knysna sharing a good bottle of South African wine and a seafood platter – that left even me beaten – with another person, bought together by a shared experience on the road.
The feeling of freedom spread through me and I realised I had returned to Africa. Back to the homeland, the cradle, the birthplace of humanity. It felt good.
Knysna town. Western Cape. South Africa.