25. - 31 Dec.: Kruger through Swaziland to S. Lucia

Again wake up at dawn and the adrenaline starts pumping. Breakfast is devoured faster than usual as we try and get back on to our vehicles and out to the lions. They probably have not moved much since last night and it might still be busy with their mating procedure. It usually goes on for a few days, 20 to 25 times a day. So the chances of seeing them in action again are reasonably high.

But first we need to check out, as we'll be leaving Kruget today. I take my packed bags out of the room and onto the balcony on stilts that overlooks a thick bush, and go back into the room to double check I did not leave behind any chargers, razors, slippers, hats etc. As I come out again and definitively close my room's door behind me, there come my three ladies of two days ago: they must have been waiting in the bush for me to appear and of course they make it clear that they are going to take my bags down to the waiting van. They hardly speak a word, and I don't either, but we all know what we have to do. OK fair enough, the sevice is worth twenty Rand. Once in the parking lot, we all leave our bags in the van and head out with the safari vehicles for one last tour of Kruger.

After the usual check-in procedure at the park's gate we tell the driver to head straight for the location where we saw the lions the previous evening and sure enough there they are, they have just moved across the road, a few meters, not more. However, unlike last night, when we were alone, there are lots of cars now. The word about "ngoni fagapagati" spread quickly. Not so the news about the British car being overturned I guess. No one seems to be in the least apprehensive when we later drive by a couple of elephants.

There are rules of the road in national parks, one of them being to keep a safe distance from the animals and not to get in between the anumals and a car who got there first, But not everyone respects the rules and there is not much the rangers can do: they have to power of enforcement. Too bad, they should. After a while it gets crowded. We are lucky to have gotten near the lions first, and keep a safe distance of a good twenty meters or so but soon a big white SUV drives in front of us. All it takes is one rude driver to spoil the sighting for everyone else. Most drivers are polite and line up behind the first to arrive at the scene of a sighting, but some must think that if they don't get ahead first, someone else will. Anyway, after a few minutes the lions move on and some thirty cars turn on the engines and disperse around the park. The magic of last night was not to be again today.

It's clear that the lions are not afraid of people but still: why not just move out some and get away from noise, polluted air and large obstructive vehicles? Apparently they enjoy the warmth of the tarmac as compared to the cool grass.

At about nine o'clock we must give up and head back to the camp. It's time to bid farewell to our rangers, get on our van and head South: we have to hit the coast at Saint Lucia by tonight.

Borderland

Swazi beauties

At around noon we go abroad. Yes, we do, as we drive into Swaziland, a small landlocked independent kingdom wedged between South Africa and Mozambique.

Our T.O. somehow was reluctant to get us here, they said we needed a special permit, then they said we would waste hours at the border, then they said it was not worth it. None of which is true as it turns out.

The country is famous for its polygamous king, who won't be among the friendly people we met along the way, and for lush green mountains, which we'll see a lot of during our five-hour crossing of the country.

Much of these mountains are covered in thick woods grown to make for timber, a major export and source of revenue for the country.

At a gas station I strike a conversation with a few youths who are loitering around, with seemingly nothing much to do. It is a holiday of course, and schools are closed. They speak good English, seem educated and are eager to strike a conversation with foreigners, of whom they must not see too many if one excludes South Africans.

Swazi timber makes good export

Arrive in Saint Lucia at sunset. It's a pretty posh vacation retreat for wealthy (and therefore white) South Africans, and there are many expensive cars with blond Afrikaans and English speakers to be seen. However we do see a lot of blacks with less fancy clothes and much less fancy cars around. Apparently they sleep and dine in the nearby townships, and only come to town for an evening stroll and a drink.

I would like to go and have dinner in one of these townships, but our driver steadfastly refuses to take us there. Too dangerous for us and for the van, and he would be in deep trouble with the agency's boss if anything should happen to either. Disappointing, I will have to try and find a way around this. Most South African live in townships, it would not make any sense to spend over a month here and not see one. I mean a black township. Of course even the exclusive pockets of white wealth that we have seen are strictly speaking "townships", that's just a name for an administrative division of the country's cities. But in the common jargon "township" has come to mean "black township" and also implies poor, dirty, unsafe. Or does it? Some South Africans even told me that Soweto is "no longer a township" because, unlike during the times of apartheid, it is now developed, reasonably safe, home to a growing middle class and a "must do" tourist destination. The borders of the meaning of township are changing. I'd like to find out. But not tonight.

We finally have dinner is at the "Ocean Basket", a chain of fish restaurants that is very popular across South Africa: good quality fish, informal but usually effective service, inexpensive. This restaurant is very busy tonight, this is a holiday town and the Christmas break is in full swing, but in ten minutes a table for twelve is available on the terrace and we can sit down with our driver. Most patrons are white but there are a few blacks.

Ocean Basket immodestly prides on being "the sole provider". Well... a bit ambitious perhaps, but I decide to take their word for it and order their "famed cape sole". It is perhaps not the sole sole around but is indeed quite tasty. The happy new year's eve dinner is made merrier by a few bottles of Sauvignon blanc from the Cape region. Maybe they are not the "sole" provider of good fish, but their formula is a successful one and they have opened shop in several other African countries as well as, for some reason which is not immediately obvious to me, Cyprus.

Back at the hotel we get a couple of bottles of bubbles and pop them at midnight. It's 2014!

24. - 30 Dec.: Alarms and mating lions at the Kruger National Park

I wake up just five minutes before 5:30, which is when my alarm was set to go off. I hear this happens to a lot of people. I am always amazed at how our body clocks can know when to wake up so as to save its owner the trauma of an alarm. Ever since I adopted my smart phone to perform this thankless function, I set the ringtone to a gentle Buddhist bells chime, so as to minimiza the pain. Still, when it goes off, it makes for the worst moment of the day. I suppose our body knows that it is not good to start the day at its most unpleasant, so it tries to avoid it by preempting the alarm. Well, one could argue it might actually be a good thing, as things would only improve after that. But waking up to an alarm is always a traumatic experience, bound to cast a negative shadow on the waking hours to follow. On the other hand, waking up just a few minutes early provides the immense pleasure of waiting in bed, yawning and stretching, aware there is still time before one has to get up. And I derive a sense of accomplishment in killing the alarm before it has a chance to go off at all. I hate the big snooze button, it is cruel torture, I much prefer the smaller "dismiss" option. So I am profoundly grateful to mother nature for having made us evolve over the last few million years to anticipate our own alarms. I can't explain how, also because we evolved over countless thousand generations while even the most ancient alarms are only a few decades old. Two game drives today: the first starting just after sunrise at 6 am and the second ending at sunset, at 6.30pm. With a one hour break for lunch. It's going to be a full day. We set off to a good start with a very full breakfast: sweet, savory, hot, cold, juices, you name it, it's there. Great, we'll need the energy to face rain and wind in our open vehicles.

It's not the best safari day of my life really. At least until we start driving back toward the camp. Then it becomes the single most exciting one, ever!

We are driving along a straight road, a bit sad and despirited as the weather has not given us a break and our sightings have been rather few and far between. OK well it'a part of the game, these are wild animals after all and Kruger is not a zoo, not even one of those super-managed parks where "wild" animale are more or less programmed to appear at artificial water holes.

It could be worse: today an English couple did have a close sighting with an elephant, but one which they wish they never met. They were on a self-drive tour just a few kilometers from us and met a single bull with a limited sense of humor. As they approached, it turned around and flapped its ears a few times. Elephant flap their ears when they are not happy with you being in their way, and it is usually not a good idea to try and argue with them. The Brits decided to stick around a bit longer and the next thing they saw was an elephant tusk piercing through their wind shield, while the trunk flipped the small car over as if it was a pancake.

I am a bit disconsolate and I try to protect my cameras from the sharp bullets of rain that are flying across our seats, pushed by the wind. Then all of a sudden Henry, our driver/guide today, a towering but boyish Xhosa in his early thirties, slams on the breaks and points to the right: a male lion on the grass, only a few meters away from the road. OK not a bad way to end the day, I think. But then Valentina sees a lioness, almost completely hidden in a bush. Ah ha! They are obviously a couple, says Henry, and turns off the engine. The other 4x4 with our travel mates arrives after a few minutes and stops just behind us. We wait. When lions mate, they do it many times every day, so we have a good chance.

Fifteen minutes or so go by and nothing happens. It's getting dark, we have perhaps another hour of sunlight. The other car decides it's not worth waiting longer and moves on. We stay put. Another ten minutes pass and the lion gets up. Now Henry is visibly excited and warns us to be quiet: they are likely going to mate.

 

 And sure they do: the male jumps on the female who got up and is walking around. He gently pushes her to the ground with his big paws and mounts her from behind. The actual penetration is quick, maybe fifteen seconds in all. No prelims, really. But then again they will have done it twenty times of more by night fall, so it's not bad. During the intercourse the female is crouching on the grass, and look straight into my camera, as if to say: "What, you have never seen a lion mating?" No, I have not, in fact!

Ngoni fagapagati!

Can't believe the lions keep going at it in front of everyone. Actually, come to think of it, all animals seem to be perfectly happy to do it in front of any other animal, except for humans. I'll have to do some research and find out why.

"Ngoni fagapagati!, Ngoni fagapagati!! Hahahaaaaaa" Henry can't hold back his enthusiasm as he explains in xhosa. "Ngoni" means lion and fagapagati is the F word which Henry translates by hitting repeatedly and violently his clenched left fist with the palm of his right hand...

The evening is a happy time. At first we don't tell anything to the others who left early, but when the time comes for everyone to show the day's pictures there are a few screams at the sight of the big cats embracing in amorous activity!

23. - 29 Dec.: Mbahoko Ndebele village to Kruger National Park

Breakfast and good byes to our Ndebele hosts. Even though this has been a brief and obvously superficial encounter, I will miss the casual smile of these ladies as they prepare breakfast for us. They are all by the door of the communal hall to wave us away.

We slowly make our way to the Kruger National Park. Our driver is Paul, a chubby white Afrikaans speaker who tries, really hard, to be funny and crack a new joke every five minutes. I can sense from his talk he really yearns for the days old South Africa, he rarely misses a chance to complain about the post-Apartheid system.

When we arrive at the camp we are welcomed by a row of colorfully attired black ladies who line up next to our parked bus. They don't really speak any English so it's not clear what they are there for and whether it's got anything to do with us. It did: they want to carry our bags to the rooms. In my case, my rooms is a good 300 meters away, a comfortable wooden construction on stilts. To get there, there is an easy paved path and I try to just grab my trolley and roll it to destination by myself. No way: they stop me and gesticulate profusely to make clear they are carrying my bag. Well OK they want to earn a tip, it's not really necessary as I could easily do it myself but I appreciate the effort and agree to let one of them carry my bag. yes, carry, on her head, as whe refuses to just grab the handle and roll it. I try several times to explain it's heavy and there is really no need to put all those 25 kilos or so on her spine but to no avail. Then as I grab my camera backpack another lady comes forward and very politely takes it from me and puts that, too, on her head. Allright, so we just move together to the room, where I give them a good tip, they smile and walk back to the parking lot to way for the next arrivals.

In the afternoon we go for a game drive from 4 to 7 pm. Cold rain is whipped against us by the relative wind as we are in open vehicles. We use special open safari vehicles. Our driver is Tommy, a friendly big guy who enjoys explaining all he knows about the park. It is cold and windy and before sunset we decide to head back without any major sighting under our belt.

Kruger camaleon

Dinner is at the huge buffet of our camp, lots of meat and veggies and of course South African wines. It's been a long day and the cold, rain and wind have taken their toll, so we all decide to hit the sack rather early tonight.

22. - 28 Dec.: Models and billiard at Mabhoko Ndebele village

Today we start with a walking tour of the village. One of the very few men in the village (where are all the others?) takes us around and explains a bit of the history and culture. The village is made of typical Ndebele whitewashed houses painted in lively colors in geometric patterns.

After lunch I stop and talk to a few teen-agers who are wiling the afternoon away by a house, seemingly a bit bored. They are all busy chatting away with their mobile phones. Sunny is 17 years-old and he tells me about school in Johannesburg. He enjoys the city but loves to come home for the holidays. He would like to come back and make a contribution to the village one day. He is going to be a nurse and there is a need for nurses here, he says. Yes, for sure, I think, and, if not a hospital, at least a first-aid facility.

After a while bid them farewell and take a walk around the village. At the bar it's quiet but a few elder ladies are having a good time. One is actually pretty drunk and starts a dance to the tune of the two huge loudspeakers that keep pumping hard rock into the air. Soon the Italian photographer girls join her (in dancing, not drinking, not as much drinking anyway) and it is a party!


Three teenagers catch my attention as they are busy with their cell phones, chatting away. As I get closer I realize they are on Facebook! Quite happy to meet me and take pictures together, only this time the older girl (maybe 20 years-old) asks my Facebook friendship so we can share pictures! I am honestly taken aback to be asked this question here, but maybe I should not be: the mobile network has gone a long way connecting people in Africa where land lines were too expensive.

As the afternoon moves on we ask a few ladies to wear their traditional dresses for us. They seem willing to do anything within reason for some extra Rand. Maybe even something not within reason. These dresses are simple and thick blankets with wide stripes of bright colors: red, yellow and blue. Some of them also show some jewels of various kinds. Some are simple ornaments, while others are clearly more elaborate and rich ones: perhaps those that every girl gets as a gift with her coming of age.

I am highly hesitant but in the end I get myself together and ask one lady with whom I have made acquaintance about finding a model to take some pictures with ahem ...only the blanket. And nothing else. She is a big woman and immediately offers herself as my model. She asks for 300 rand. How about 200? Ok 200.

She walks me to her house. It's a brick contruction with wooden door that displays some simple artwork cut in the top panel. She is a bit shy, or pretends to be, but smiles and clearly enjoys the unexpected attention. I try to explain how I want her to pose, so as to take advantage of available sunlight and compose her body against the door decorations with the interior of the house as background. She does not understand me, so I gently use my hands to move her body until I am satisfied. She is having a great time and clearly has to make an effort not to laugh! An elderly lady (her mother?) looks on from the porch.

Model for a day

I take a few pictures and just when I am done her niece comes forward and I ask whether I can photograph her as well. No problem. It seems the aunt model was waiting for me to ask her. 150 rand? OK. The young girl is much more at ease than her auntie. She quickly undresses and moves to pose. Her complexion is fairer and her skin smooth as silk. She wears some simple necklaces and understands enough English to pose exactly as I ask her to. She seems to have done this before, but I don't think of asking her. She has a rather serious expression hen we start, but switches quickly to a benevolent smile when I ask her.

Two other elderly ladies see all of this and do not wait for me to ask. They offer to pose for me. I thank them but politely decline: it's enough for the day! I am quite happy at having taken my first ever photographs of nude models and head to the bar for a beer. here I find most of my travel mates and several Ndebele ladies (but no men: where are they?) who are sharing snack and beer. One old auntie is particularly happy and drags several Italian ladies to the yard in front of the bar for a ...let's say freestyle dancing session.

But my day is far from over. After our usual buffet dinner in the communal house, we head back to the bar for an international pool match Italy vs. South Africa. Or maybe Italy vs. Ndebele? Or just Italy vs. Mabhoko? Well, no point discussing identities. Pasquale, Gianluca and I represent the green, red and white tricolor, though Valentina will come in and help at various crucial times in the match. The African team is made of various players who alternate at the cue and I can't honestly remember any of their names. We'll play American pool, solid vs striped balls and the black number 8 ball last.

We get started in earnest and Italy wins, just, the first set, while our hosts win the second. We are interrupted by dinner, but as soon as we are done we rush back to the bar for the play-off. It is a tight game, and in the end each team pockets all its balls and it's down to the black number 8. It's Gianluca who puts it into a corner pocket for an Italian victory which our friends acknowledge with powerful hand shakes and big smiles.

After which we all head outside and I order some beers which easily find their way around. We all celebrate together, it's been a fun game and a great couple of days here. My lady mama model is here and has no qualms asking me to buy her a beer. And then another. After I buy her third beer I decide it is time to wave goodbye to all and hit the sack.

21. - 27 Dec.: Soweto and drive to Mabhoko Ndebele village

Easy wake-up and breakfast in the business lounge to which I have been upgraded for no apparent reason. At check-in, on Christmas day, I had asked to what I owed this gift and the response from the charming lady at the reception was: "It's Christmas, so we thought we'd give you a gift!": Well thanks Madam, no point trying to understand any further. I am all by myself at 8 o'clock. Great cold and hot breakfast. Mostly English style but it's a true rainbow buffet, with lots of African fruits and some Chinese spring rolls

Then on to the airport with the hotel shuttle where I meet my fellow photographers from Italy. We'll be spending the next two weeks together trying to capture the beauties of this country.Their flight via Istanbul is ontime, we are met by our driver Peeter, a tall, blond and blue-eyed Dutch African, and after a few quick purchases of local sim cards we are off.

From the airport we drive straight to Soweto where we meet Jessica, our local guide, and stop for lunch. Actually I don't have lunch at all and instead use the time to walk around and mingle with the local patrons.

It's an easy and welcoming atmosphere on Vilakazi street, where both Mandela and archbishop Tutu had their homes. "The only street in the world where two Nobel peace prize winners had their home" boasts Jessica, our local guide. I suppose Marie and Pierre Curie, who got the prize in 1903, don't count because they were a married couple. Other than that, it sounds like a credible claim, though I confess I have not taken the time to verify it.

Mandela's home is a small construction but of course it carries huge symbolic significance for it is from here that he waged his struggle with Winnie in the 1950s and early 1960s, and it is here that he returned when released from prison in 1990. Tutu's house is nearby but can't be visited as they still live in it.

In one large restaurant full of patrons lunching and drinking in the rodside terrace, I fail by a split second to raise my camera in time to take the picture of a young waitress opening the metal cap of a bottle of Coke with her big white teeth, apparently that's how you do it here. I start snapping at families enjoying their lunch. Patrons are all blacks, except for obvious tourists, and by and large they are smartly dressed for the occasion.

Two big guys are having a chat and a
few beers at one of the tables. I ask to sit down with them and after our mutual introductions they start to talk about Italian soccer, which of course they know more about than I ever will or care. We then turn to politics.

They miss Mandela of course and are highly critical of the current president Zuma.They chuckle when recalling how the president was booed at the stadium during the recent commemoration of Madiba.

At about 3:00 pm everyone is done eating and we walk down the street and toward the monument to the rioters of 1976. Along the way we meet some Church officials intent on preparing for the Sunday mass, and stop for chat on the beauties of Soweto. It's one of the many churches that make for the kaleidoscopic panorama of South Africa's Christian religions.

Moving along the street, we head to the unmissable Hector Pieterson monument, celebrating the person whose death contributed to change the history of South Africa like few others. His sister was with him when he died and tells her story in this video.The monument has now become a place of remembrance like few others, with eveeryone taking their picture next to the large photograph from that fateful day.

On the way, we run into a group of locals, in their early twenties, who are having a few drinks at an improvised pic-nic on a patch of lawn. Their car is their bar and the booze moves around but they are perfectly sober and warmly welcome us to join for a sip or two.

Drive on to Mapoch (Mabholo in the local language) Ndebele village. Driver uneasy when we stop at a small village shopping mall to buy some South African adaptors. (This country has a unique ans bulky plug size that is incompatible with anything from anywhere else in the world). He urges us to hurry up and move on, especially, he says, as it's getting dark.

Orlando power station is now a playground

On the way out of Soweto we drive by the decommissioned towers of the old Orlando power station. Colorful graffiti mask the history of this obsolete and very polluting coal-fired plant, now transformed in an amusement park. South Africa is growing rapidly and needs more and more energy. This plant was shut down in the late 1990s however after fifty years of honorable service. The white government flirted with nuclear power (and even build half a dozen nuclear weapons, only to dismantle them before surrendering power) and one plant is still in operation near Cape Town.

Our village is hard to find, navigator goes crazy. It tells us to drive into the bush , then straight then it starts babbling away as if it had had a beer too many. We finally get to a small gate: our Ndebele village. We are home for the night.We are the only guests and it seems we might be the only tourists to have come this far for a long time.

At dinner, we are seated in what seem like a communal hall, just next to the large kitchen. After a while a few women come along and prepare a simple buffet of rice, potatoes and chicken, but there are no drinks. They must go and fetch those at a nearby "bar", a place that we will get to know rather well in the coming days.

After dinner in the kitchen

After dinner we ask for directions to the bar, which is actually unmissable even in the pitch dark dirt roads of the village: its huge loudspeakers make themselves heard a long distance away. The bar, a few rooms of bricks and mortar with neon lights hanging in a rather haphazard fashion, serves beer and a few soft drinks but no water. The beer is nice and cold, coming out of large refrigeratos powered by a diesel generator. There is a choice of two South African beers.

The main point of interest however is a red cloth covered pool table next door, which seems to be a magnet for most youths in the village. We are too tired today but we'll be here tomorrow!

20. - 26 Dec.: Johannesburg

Full day tour of the city with Lesley, an independent local guide I found online. We have had extensive correspondence before my arrival and I have detailed my priorities to her, though today being the 26th of December many of my points of interest are closed. I am disappointed to learn that the Museum Africa, the most important in Johannesburg, is closed. So is the Apartheid Museum, which acquires a special relevance now that Mandela has passed away. Oh well...

Leslie comes with her minivan at 8:30 and we are off to town. We proceed first to Rosebank Mall for the African Craft Market, a much ancitipated stop of my tour. My 4.25 meter high wooden Namibian giraffe, which I bought in Okahandjia in 1997, has long been waiting for company in my Brussels home's foyer. Here I was expecting to find her a mate - I mean not necessarily another giraffe, but perhaps a fellow savannah inhabitant to mark some continuity in the tangible memories of my African adventures. It was not to be. The market is very closed. Lesley is visibly upset because she had called them in advance. Well, so it goes.

Oldest gold mine in Joburg

It's drizzling a bit, which does not help uplift our morale in the wake of this useless trip to Rosebank. We then move to the first mine, not much more than a hole in the ground really today. What could be a green garden to spend time and remember the founders of this city is actually a haven for squatters. Rubbish and ash are everywhere, and a stench of urine does not encourage us to prolong our visit.

As we drive along Lesley points out various neighbohoods to me, some newer and visibly more affluent, some dirtier, poorer, sad really. The rich areas are mostly dotted with low lying contruction, pretty villas, lush gardens. Most of these are fenced and many are walled off with CCTV cameras and very unfriendly signs that warn of no trespassing and "armed response". Not many people are to be seen in the clean and well paved streets.

The poorer areas are mostly made up of large apartment buildings, criss crossed by dirty roads full of people moving about or just sitting lazily on the pavement, doing nothing in particular. Maybe because it is a holiday and there is not much to do in their small dwellings, just being together in the open seems the thing to do.

Mural art in Joburg

Mary Fitzgerald Square and Museum Africa, unfortunately closed. We walk around the square a bit, it is pretty desolate today. Some lively murals spice up the dreary concrete pillars of a road overpass. A few people move about aimlessly and after twenty minutes or so we decide it is probably safer to move on.

We then move to Main street a the pulsating commercial and financial center of Johannesburg. It is not pulsating very much today actually, yes, you guessed right, because of the Christmas holiday. But it is interesting to see the historical plates that dot the sidewalk, with pictures and text documenting the birth and growth of the city around the gold mining industry.

Lesley is especially fond of pointing out to me the few remaining mining machines that are now exhibited in public gardens and sidewalks. An old stamp battery figures prominently among them. It is an old machine that was used to extract gold by heavy pounding instead of grinding.

Mine shaft under the Bank

At the headquarters of Standard Bank, on Simmonds Street, we visit the mining museum. While digging for the contruction of this impressive building in the mid-1980s the earth moving machines uncovered a shaft of the gold mines of one hundred years earlier. It had been a certain colonel Ignatius Phillip Ferreira (1840-1921) who had first struck gold here in 1886, thouch he later lost all his money. Standard Bank which, coincidentally, also began operations in Johannesburg in 1886, decided to name this museum after the colonel.

Despite the holiday there is quite a bit of life at the Carlton Centre, a fifty-floor skyscraper we visit next. At 223 meters this has been the tallest building in Africa for almost forty years.

All offices are of course closed today but there is nonetheless a lively crowd in the large shopping mall that occupies the lower floors. The 360 degree view over the city is not to be missed and Leslie elaborates profusely on the history of the city as we walk around a full circle on the top floor, pointing at the various landmarks through the large windows.

We then go for lunch downstairs in a large shopping mall. Nando's chicken offers half a tasty bird and a pile of potato wedges for a very reasonable price. It is a local chain that's been very successful and is now expanding abroad. I'd like to do some window shopping, just to see what's on offere here but our stroll is cut short by a tall guy who starts folloing us mumbling some unintelligible nonsense. As we hurriedly make for the elevator and back to the garage, a security guards approaches us and asks if everything is OK. Unfortunately it seems that this sort of harassment is not rare in this once posh building.

One other venue that is open today, surprisingly, is the Constitutional Court! Lesley wants to take me there because of the significance of the adjacent women's prison. A somber place, but one that inspires hope: the grim facilities that once deprived women of their freedom, in some cases because of political reasons, are now closed and the Constitutional Court, supposedly, is the guarantor of the rights of all in the new South Africa.

It's been a long day and I spend te evening resting and reading in my room, not before another walk through the incredible casinos next door. It's a surreal view from my window: glittering lights from the casino contrast markedly with the black nught sky.

Next to the hotel, a large parking lot is full with the gamblers' cars. Every few hundred meters a parking guard looks after the vehicles: they are dressed in smart uniforms and gesticulate profusely to attract the drivers' attention every time a new car approaces. Smack in the middle there is a huge fountain with a larger-than-life statue of a Roman centurion and four horses galloping wildly into a ring of water jets...

19. - 25 Dec.: From wineland to Johannesburg

After yet another rich breakfast with Italian music in the background I spend an easy morning at the Auberge Clermont, reading, smoking a Toscanello and taking a few pictures around the vineyard. At about noon I am politely asked to vacate the room as they have to clean up for the lucky guests who will take my room in the afternoon. Oh well. Time to drive to Cape Town anyway, I have to fill up my tank, return the car and check-in for my flight to Johannesburg.

Easy drive to the Cape Town airport. I stop at a filling station just before the rental car return. A plump black attendant comes forward with a big smile flashing from his white teeth. (There is virtually no self serve station in South Africa because the fuel price, by law, must be the same as full serve.) "Hello sir how are you? Have you had a good trip? It's an honor for me to serve you today." He is extremely welcoming and works with alacrity and gusto. Well maybe it's for the tip, but no can't do that all that just for the tip. It's a sign of a positive attitude, of someone who is aware of being there to do something useful. He is in a talkative mood: after he inquires about my home city, he starts commenting on the latest Serie A exploits of A.S. Roma. (I always wonder why foreigners always refer to "la Roma" with its official company name.) He knows much more than me about Italian soccer. I can nod a few times when he mentions Totti but am totally impotent when he asks specific questions about defensive tactics of Italian players and the like.

He fills up my tank, meticulously cleans the windshield, checks my oil as well as the level of my wipers' water as if it were his own car. It's been a long long long time since something like this happened to me in Europe. I would like to give him a tip but I am extremely embarrassed to find out that I have no coins or small notes on me. I openly tell him so, thanking him profusely for his work. He keeps smiling and tells me not to worry, to drive safe and have a good trip.

After returning my car to Avis I make my way to the check-in counters to catch my flight to Johannesburg, the next stage of my trip, where I will meet my photographer friends for a couple of weeks of intensive digital shooting.
 
My flight is uneventful and by early evening I will check in at my hotel just around the corner from the airport of South Africa's economic powerhouse city. During the flight, which takes place around lunch time, which would normally be a huge Christmas feed, again I have the opportunity to reflect on the fact that this year I am free of Christmas celebrations. Not only of eating too much but also of giving and receiving unwanted gifts and putting up with crazy traffic.

In the last few years I have celebrated Dies Natalis Solis Invicti with my friend Massimiliano, with whom I share a healthy agnosticism and a romantic nostalgia for all things (ancient) Roman. This year I will miss that as well, maybe we can make up next time I am in Rome. It must have been a fun time in Rome the, this year-end period, to indulge almost without limit to celebrate the rebirth of the invincible Sun, when the days once again start getting longer.

After a light buffet dinner, during which I share the excitement of a cricket match between South Africa and Sri Lanka with a couple of tall black guys, I decide to take a walk in the lukewarm evening. My hotel is close to a large casino complex and I am curious to take a peak. There is a sort of outer ring to the complex, with kids and families, all kinds of restaurants and no smoking signs. As one approaches the inner rooms the first gambling tables appear. There are even electronic automatic roulette robots, where the wheel is encased in a glass cube and players place their bets through various buttons on the four sides. Weird...

Then one can go through some heavy glass doors doors, each bearing a sign to keep it closed at all times, into an inner ring where smoking is allowed and the most addicted players crowd around roulette and black jack tables. A sort of sancta sanctorum of gambling, with very serious faces and people (mostly men) often dressed in bizarre attires, jewels and hats. The croupiers, mostly women, are smartly dressed though they could do with a bit less make up in my view. A pub-style bar at the very core of all this is very busy providing cool beer and various sorts of alcohol to the patrons in between bets. there would be plenty of opportunities for interesting photographs, but somehow I get a feeling this would not be appreciated and I don't think I want to get into an argument with anyone in this crowd.

18. - 24 Dec.: Paarl wine tasting for Christmas eve

Lance with his pearls

Another sunny day in the wine lands. After a further breakfast with soft opera music in the background I head off to Paarl to visit Black Pearl, a small producer. The owner is actually American, and she has had ad adventurous life doing many things around the world before she settled in South Africa to make wine. I am welcomed by her father, Lance, who leads us though a selection of their cabernet/shiraz products. Quite good if a bit aggressive for my taste, especially since both are over 20% Shiraz, which is supposed to be a smooth, velvet-on-your-tongue varietal.

I then drive around a bit but most vineyards are not open for tastings because of the Christmas holiday. Black Pearl I suppose does not count, you are welcomed in the home of the owners, it's not really a commercial tasting operation.

But I find one that is open for business: Backsberg. Maybe because the founder is Jewish? I drive in with two young Frenchmen and we are welcomed by two ladies at the tasting counter. One of the ladies, very thin, her skin of a lovely hazelnut color, in her mid twenties, serves the wines for our tasting while the other is quieter and sits at the cashier. The two Frenchmen are a bit high and one of them makes repeated comments, in French, on the aesthetic characteristics of the serving girl and on how he'd like to take her out in the evening. Rather poor, well, taste on his part. Besides, she looks at him with raised eyebrows: maybe she speaks French and understood what was supposed to be a macho comment to his buddy? I hope so.

We go through the usual procedure: dry whites (sauvignon) more full bodied whites (chardonnay) lighter red pinotage and heavy caliber reds. Pretty good stuff, and I fall for the temptation of ordering some. These are easy wines: their philosophy is to make wines that are a pleasure to drink even for the uncomplicated taster, and I think they largely hit their target.

On the way home I pass by some slums, oddly located between lush vineyards. Metal and plastic corrugated sheets covered with plastic and held up, moreor less, with creatively positioned strings and wooden poles. No electricity, no running water, no paved streets. A sign on a shack, under a coat of arms with three big capital letters SFW, very improbably reads Die Stellenbosch-Boerewynmekerye (the Boer wine maker?).

A bit beyond, more poor housing, but this time small houses made of brics with electricity poles all around. Even cars parked by the road.

Die Stellenbosch- Boerewynmekerye

Easy evening in my room. I munch on some spicy Hunan food I received as a gift from Yan. Hunan food is supposed to be the spiciest in China and Yan assures me what she has brought over this time is nothing compared to what you can get at home. I of course believe her, and then again, I can boast Southern Italian descent so I am no chicken when it comes to hot chili!

I thoroughly enjoy this Christmas eve alone, and not just because of the Hunan food. It's the first time in many years I have no obligations. With dad's passing last June I can just consider this a normal day. I do remember, with a tiny bit of nostalgia, when I was a kid, believed in Father Christmas and waited for midnight so that we could open our gifts. I was often disappointed because my birthday is only one week before today, and thus I would often get only one gift. But still, it was a night to look forward to for the rest of the year. Ever since that ended, it became more an obligation than anything else. Maybe things will revert to the ancient tradition if I ever have kids. Let's see what happens...

17. - 23 Dec.: Wine tasting in Stellenbosch and Paarl

It was a Belgian friend of mine who strongly recommended I visit Beyerkloof when in Stellenbosch for a tasting of their great pinotage. This is a typically South African cross between Pinot Noir and Hermitage, and Ivo told me Beyerkloof was famous for it. Ivo is Flemish, Bruxellois, Belgian, European and, when it comes to wine, a real citizen of the world. I guess you have to be if you are Belgian and love good wines. There are maybe a dozen or os good vineyward in Belgium but not enough to satisfy a lifetime of oenological tastings. After learning the three official languages of his home country, as well as English, which is a sine qua non in the financial world where he works, he decided to pick up Italian, just for fun. He lives in Brussels and so we meet often to discuss the oenological merits of fermented grape juices from around the planet. He is one of the relatively few Flemish who still lives in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and of Europe that has progressively become almost completely francophone.

After the disappointment of two days ago, when Yan and I were bounced at the door because it was end of business, this time I make sure I get there during regular business hours, and after parking in the scorching sun I walk through the gate to the tasting room. It is a dark room, made even darker by a slick black counter on top of which an endless succession of glasses is filled with wines.  It is a bit noisy, which does disturb me as I try to concentrate on the aromas of the first whites that are served to me, but after all this is where wine lovers from all over the world come to have fun, and we should not take ourselves too seriously.

Prices are really attractive, but unfortunately local prices have little to do with what I would pay for the same bottles in Europe. It's not so much trasportation costs that weigh in here, as freight charges by sea are quite reasonable, it is tax. Excise tax and Value Added Tax to be precise. So an excellent quality/price ratio in South Africa (say 8 to 10 euro for an upmaket vintage red) becomes a think-about-it 25-30 euro per bottle when delivered to Europe. Nevertheless I request more information about having a few bottles sent to my address in Europe.

And by the way while I did like their Pinotage I thought their cabs were better: powerful yet velvet soft on the palate. Perhaps not the best to age for decades but easily enjoyable a few years after harvest. "Cabs" is South African short hand for "Cabernet Sauvignon", perhaps the most successful varietal in the world, originally from France but now universally used either alone or in the classical combination with Cabernet Franc and Merlot. The name? It was, they say, by chance that sometime in the XVII century some southern French vintner accidentally crossed Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc and realize the outcome was going to be a hit.

A most kind lady shows me a chart with final consumer prices for all European destinations, each taking into account trasnportation and tax. I can see that Switzerland is the best country to live in if you are going to import wine from South Africa to Europe. Belgium is not on the chart at all, and the lady can't really tell me why. I am very curious now and she goes and calls the manager, a blond very Dutch looking thirty-something that is more than happy to explain.

I am startled to learn that they do export directly to all of Europe except Belgium, because the local importer objects. I can't believe that of all European countries only the distributor to Belgium holds such blocking power but that's exactly it.

Well so much for sending Beyerkloof wines to Belgium. I shall have to buy it from the importer. Or maybe not, I don't like the fact that residents from all other European countries can order their wine from the producer except Belgians. As I think through my options for retaliatory action I continue to sip away and notice that most staff and patrons are white but there are a few blacks and colored in bith sides of the counter. I ask the lady who is serving me and she says rhe schools for sommelier and university agronomy are now completely mixed.

Ryno tells the Fairview story

My next stop is the Fairview estate, in the nearby Paarls region, just a few km away, where I enjoy wonderful tasting of wines as well as excellent olive oil.  Ryno is the somelier guiding me through the range. He explains that the olive oil is done in the Italian tradition and that is why it gets Italian names. I get my very own table in a spacious and airy room with high ceilings and mirrors. One by one Ryno proposes half a dozen wines which I have selected from the house's production.

Here they can and do export direct to Belgium though at a price, because of the notorious VAT and excise tax, of course. Final price is about double what I'd pay here but prices are so convenient that I can't resist ordering a couple of cases. And why should I resist anyway: part of the pleasure when I drink this wine in Europe will be recalling this wonderful time at the vineyard.

I then move on just a few hundred meters to another property by the same owner. It's called the Spice Route and here it's chocolate and wine matches that are on offer. It's a serene hillside with a farmhouse sitting on top. You can park and walk up a few steps to a huge terrace where the friendly staff will bring you the chocs and the wines.

The odd couple: wine and chocolate

It's almost closing time and the sun is gently dropping lower over the horizon but there is still plenty of time. I always found it difficult to match any wine with chocolate. In Europe my favorite combination is dark chocolate with Banyuls. A couple of times I tried a young Barolo, a combination I learned from Pierre Marcolini in Brussels at one of his tastings. Here I find that it is Syrah that is the best match for the intense flavor of Fairview's chocolates.

It's the end of the day, I am sorry it's over but it's been a satisfying experience. I have hardly eaten all day but the wines and the bits and pieces of bread have filled me for the day and I look forward to a quite evening in my Clermont attic with warm decaffeinated coffee and a good book.

16. - 22 Dec.: Franschhoek

I decide to take an easy day of rest at the B and B. Good breakfast in the yard next to my room. Again Italian music is playing softly in the background, though this time it's more opera and less 1950s.

Around noon I take a long walk with a coffee flavored toscanello cigar around the vineyards. It is sunny and 26 °C. An ideal day for meditation, rest, reading, backing up hard drives full of pictures and uploading some stuff online to share news with friends and family. Unfortunately there is no wifi in my room (I've become accustomed to take it for granted, just as hot water) but my MTN data plan works like a charm and I am connected to the world.

A plaque outside my room informs that Auberge Clermont was inaugurated in 1997, 140 years after founding of the current farm in 1857. But the roots of the Auberge go back at least another century and a half before that.

It was in 1694 that Abraham de Villiers received title to the land from the Dutch authorities and founded the farm he called "Champagne". Like many other properties in the region it has a French name, so chosen by nostalgic Huguenots to remind themselves of faraway France, their homeland they were never to see again. The farm morphed repeatedly over the following decades until it reached the current mix of vineyard and upmarket B and B.