I have decided as something has gone wrong and Dandan is unable to post to his blog, to paste all his emails here. I will delete this posting when he is back in UK and can put his own blog back together
with photos. But in the mean time.. please read this first... Dandan's blog
Click here now!!!Please read this first, I know it seems long, but its enthralling and has put me off cruising, which I never wanted to do anyway, for life. But you must read that first, its like a chapter one of his story!
Chapter 2"Hi Everyone this will take you up to Christmas eve,enjoy. Hope you all had a great christmas see you in the new year
Into the Southern Hemisphere Tuesday 12th we sailed along the coast of Ascension Island a bleak looking piece of rock, bristling with dishes, aerials, domes and an enormous runway capable of handling the biggest planes available, as befits the premier American base in the region. Having clicked happily away, photographing all this diverse military hardware as it paraded before me, I am expecting to be arrested on arrival back home, or at the very least offered a leading role in the next bond movie.
Wednesday 13th, at last a day dawned fair, the sun a golden disc climbed from the sea into a cloudless blue sky. Its rays warm at first. soon became hot, though a gentle warm breeze made for a glorious day as the ship crossed the equator, or line as the seamen call it, and entered the southern hemisphere. Here we gathered around the ships swimming pool. Whilst two teams, one representing Artemis and the other King Neptune, did battle to save the ship from the dastardly deeds, Neptune and his cohorts from the depths of the ocean, visit upon the unwary, ill prepared or disrespectful voyager.
Two young crewmen who had not previously crossed the line were brought out, handcuffed, gagged and bound to a stanchion. Nubile young ladies appeared and began to douse the helpless victims in gravy, custard and other noxious substances, before throwing plates of cream in there faces. Buckets of ice cubes appeared and were with great ceremony, poured down the sitting victims trouser fronts, remaining trapped there and freezing there assets, much to the delight of countless women passengers. Sadists these older ladies, glad I wasn’t the victim, didn’t fancy it at all. The price for the young of breaking out on there own, can sometimes painful I suppose. Eventually of course Artemis emerged victorious in the nick of time, the young victims escaped helped by their tormentors and all was well with the nautical world. Except the weather changed, the sun disappeared, winds picked up, driving cloud and rain squalls across the ship and it stayed this way until we reached St Helena.
On top of this Anne’s back which had seemed to be getting better, was now extremely painful and as the landing at St. Helena was by Ships tender it was obvious that Anne could not make it. So, it’s back to the hospital. The Doctors, now very concerned had taken advice on the x-rays from medics ashore and although the quality was not good, it was felt nothing was broken, a course of steroid tablets were prescribed. And while Anne, settled down in the cabin, to read. I jumped a tender and headed ashore.
The approach and harbour area of St Helena give the impression of a brown, inhospitable, rocky environment. I grabbed a taxi, did a deal for a quick one and a quarter hour tour, and was soon off, stopping on route for photo opportunities as they appeared. It soon became evident that first impressions were wrong, although the island is of volcanic origin and therefore hilly it is by no means brown, but green and tropically lush. Her size, a mere 47 square miles, precludes Helena from being self supporting; she therefore imports the majority of her food from South Africa by ship. But grows enough corn to feed the cattle that supply its milk, potato is also farmed, and everywhere the flax plants that provided the raw material for rope and string making, once the principle income provider, and export from the island, grows wild in the hedgerows.
But mostly it is a riot of plants, trees, and flowers, many of them catalogued by Charles Darwin on his way through on the Beagle. And the island is surprisingly ranked in biological importance alongside the Galapagos Islands. Coincidently one of the inhabitants, I was able to photograph, was a two hundred year old tortoise, roaming free in a meadow next to the governors house. Wouldn’t you know that some stupid woman from the ship thought it amusing to plant her foot in the middle of the tortoises back and get her husband to” take a picture”, like the big game hunters of old, real berks some of these old women, it is so difficult not say something, but not worth the trouble it would cause on board.
Situated 700 miles from Ascension Island and 1200 miles from Africa it is one of the loneliest islands in the world, with only the odd ship breaking the daily routine of the islanders (who call themselves Saints). Consequently they love visitors, are warm, friendly and very proud of there Englishness, being are a crown colony, and about 70% of there budget comes from the U.K
My taxi driver like many of the islands men had spent time working for the Americans on Ascension and the British in the Falklands earning the money to buy his cab and indeed many of the bigger houses on the island are owned and financed by people who do exactly this.
The houses themselves are bright and gaily coloured and apart from the vehicles it is very much an island where time has stood still, a fun place, a glad I came here sort of place, made so, as much by the people, as the scenic splendour of there rocky home.
Of course you cannot leave St Helena without talking about its most famous guest. Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled here by the British, for the last six years of his life, guarded by 3000 troops and eleven ships, he lived in regal isolation, at war with a vitriolic and mean spirited governor, who jealous of the man he held captive was as disingenuous as his powers allowed him to be. Napoleon finally died of cancer, was buried on the island after having his heart cut out, until finally being returned to France 19 years late
All too soon it was time for me to return to the ship, a unique and enchanting place St Helena, I watched from the stern as she receded and slipped below the horizon, sad that my trip was so brief, impressed by her lovely people and hopeful that one day I might return and do her justice. But Artemis turned her nose to Africa, Namibia awaits.
Sunday the 17th The tablets have worked a miracle, Anne is as free of pain and more mobile than I have seen her in fifteen years, she has only been given a few though, they are dangerous. Anaesthetic patches have been ordered from our next port of call, something else to try. Life is never dull
Weather still gloomy and overcast, sun worshippers not happy, but we press on.
Tues 19th we nosed our way into Walvis Bay Namibia, Its early morning, the sands of the desert reflect the light from the morning sun, flat lands, unimpressive when viewed from the sea, no Africa smell here.
A shuttle takes us into town about 4km, again nothing much to see a few supermarkets, and the desert encroaching into the town. I left my glasses case which contained some notes I had made, on a bench in a small shopping mall, returning twenty minutes later not expecting to find it, a young man sitting on the bench says security has it and a uniform walks over and returns it to me, reckon I would have lost that in England, one up to Africa. Anne bought some bits and we returned to the ship, lunch and then off to take a tour.
This was desert like I hadn’t seen before, large 170 foot high sand dunes marching alongside the arrow straight, up and down road. Dune number seven is commercialised, Quad bikes buzzing around, people climbing the dune and skimming down on a piece of old carpet, lino or board, looked great fun. One dad buried, his head sticking from the sand as an army of kids shovelled away, shouts and laughter, black faces beaming, white teeth, this is Africa. Take my photos, climb back on the bus and away.
The road leads deep into the dessert, magnificent nature, harsh even under the overcast sky, the dunes becoming starker as we move inland, leaving behind the coastal cloud, the early afternoon sun really gets to work, driving up the temperature. Mans encroachment is evident, if not in the sand covered road that causes each vehicle to tow a cloud of white swirling dust behind it, then in the march of the telegraph poles along the road. Then a new phenomenon appears, a pumping station pushing water from a river deep underground through a 12” diameter pipe that joins the road and the poles journey across the dessert, mile after mile they run parallel, dwarfed by the vastness of the unending sand.
We see a small heard of Antelope and some Ostrich in the distance, nothing else moves, but the occasional vehicle or road workers.
Finally we too stop, and the desert reveals another of nature’s miracles, the prehistoric Welwitschia Mirablis plants described by some as a wilted lettuce, it only has two leaves in a lifetime that can last for over 500 years. these leaves meander and twist around themselves forming a plant perhaps six foot in diameter, each leaf is in different stages of repair along its length, dependant on the ravages of time, but seemingly able to sustain life along the whole leaf, despite its damaged parts, it survives here in the hostile dessert landscape, as it has done since long before man walked the earth.
We turn back towards the coast and enter a different land again, an area of eroded valleys and hills known as the lunar landscape, though 20 miles inland it is covered and sustained by the sea fog that rolls in with the cloud cover and provides the moister that feeds the many types of lichen that thrive here. We stopped at a viewpoint to take our photo’s and ate from a tasty buffet laid out in tents, Asparagus is apparently grown in Namibia, at any rate the platefuls provided here with dips were delicious, although I gave the wine a miss, dehydration is easy enough out here without chancing your arm.
The Namid Desert runs all along the Namibian South West coast, is four times the size of the UK and believed by many to be the oldest desert in the world, much older for example than the Kalahari that lies in the east of Namibia.
The people, difficult to tell as we didn’t meet many, certainly the taxi drivers have to be treated with caution; we had to bail out a very old couple who had been charged £10 pounds, for a ride we had negotiated down to less than two. We gave them some South African rand, told them to tell the drivers they had no dollars and when we later saw them on the ship they were well pleased with there own newly learnt negotiating skills. On the other hand as I said earlier my glass case didn’t disappear. What this had to do with the security, and what security actually means I don’t know.
The journey back to the ship through the dunes made the desert look different again; the setting sun low in the sky highlighted some parts of the dunes, whilst casting shadows on others, and the wind has sculptured each dune differently. Convex and concave walls looked eerily beautiful in the differing light as the suns angle changed. Some magic photos were there for the taking, but unfortunately tour buses, like time, wait for no man, when there is a ship to meet. So the camera stayed in its case and we made the deadline
The roads had bounced Anne around somewhat and her back was again hurting, but a new pill regime and the anaesthetic patches were waiting when we boarded the ship, I applied them as directed and within the hour she was comfortable again, So it would appear we have it under control..
Next day found us still in Namibia in a port called Luderitz. Here was our first real taste of the dark side of Africa. Firstly our berth had been let out to someone else, so we had to drop anchor one and a quarter miles offshore and land by tender. Having paid a pilot to bring in the ship this far, we were now delayed a further couple of hours as the local authorities wanted a paid pilot on every tender, blackmail, extortion,you name it. Eventually a deal was done, money changed hands and the crew got on with the job of running us ashore. This is the real African problem up front, graft and corruption rules. The likes of Nigeria, Zimbabwe and Kenya are just the tip of the iceberg, it is endemic across the continent, we will return to this later.
Luderitz is a town of many languages, Afrikaans, local dialects and several European languages can be heard on the streets although the official language is English. The town itself has a sort of old worldly feel to it, reminiscent of my youth. Not that the architecture is English the town in fact having been founded by the Germans and the influence is there to see. Incidentally they also set up one of their infamous concentration camps here imprisoning the men women and children of the indigenous tribes over a seven year period starting in 1900 a role play and taste of things to come elsewhere perhaps, as 80% of the inmates did not survive imprisonment.
We browsed a bit found Anne’s magnets and then retired to a good restaurant overlooking the harbour and had lunch. Prices are incredibly cheap here adding to that oldie worldly feeling, many of the shops display old fashioned tin signs advertising, I would imagine, long defunct products, at least I had not heard of them, though some like the ubiquitous Coca Cola are still obviously household names. Lager at 80 pence a pint would no doubt interest some.
We idled an hour and a half away chatting to some White Afrikaans desperate for the future of the land of there birth, where they had also raised families. The belief that the death of Nelson Mandela who they think has performed miracles, will lead to an uprising and bloodbath, on the Zimbabwe scale seems well established among white South Africans, of all persuasions, coach guides I talked to, expressed the same views. These are all old hands and seemed resigned to a continent, weakened by the Aids epidemic sweeping the country and the graft and corruption at all levels of society, falling into disarray and into the hands of some despot dictator or other. Once again it seems the UK in particular and Europe in general, will pick up the bill as the whites dust down the E.U. passports they have kept for a rainy day and head out, leaving most that they own behind them. Many of the youngsters have left already. Pity then, that economic mercenaries, like Peter Haine, born in Kenya of white stock, sometime South African, and now busily trying to scheme the assimilation of Britain, the country he currently professes allegiance too, into a European partnership the majority of its people don’t want. Doesn’t pack his bag, return to his roots and help in the fight to save the Africa, he used to confess to loving. No chance of course, whilst there are richer pickings in Whitehall
Lunch finished we joined our coach for a ride out to a ghost town. The Namib Desert here was different again from yesterday, much rockier, with sharp ridged shale protruding from the sand. Patches of greenery much in evidence, again watered by the coastal fog and the rain from the night before, this is the rainy season. We crossed this inhospitable belt of rock on a fine new road; it must have been a nightmare on foot or horseback before roads. The sharp rocks would make short work of leather or hoofs.
Kolmanskop the ghost town was a thriving community built in 1908 as diamonds were literally being picked up here, expanded to its peak by the 1920s and gradually declining with the diamond stock, until its abandonment in the 1950’s as the miners moved on to the mouth of the orange river and new finds. Now substantial old houses, a testament to the former opulence of the area have been reclaimed by the desert and lie soulless, like a western movie set, gradually disappearing beneath the wind blown sands. Ludicrously perched in the sand is a bathtub, once part of an adjacent house, now derelict, it walls pushed over by the weight of sand pressing against them, the floor collapsing as they went pitching the tub, once someone’s pride and joy I expect, out into the desert. I wonder how and from where it had travelled, in those far off days to get here. One of our guides once was born here, how sad it must be visiting your former home on a daily basis as it falls apart.
Luderitz apart from being oldie worldly is also substantial port and the gateway to much of central Namibia. It will have a crucial role to play in the development of this country, though much of it is desert and sparsely populated. Its people badly treated over the years, have I think more testing years ahead. I wish it well.
On board we prepare for dinner as Artemis, stows her boats, sounds her horn and heads for the open sea and a 36 hour run to Cape Town.
5.30 in the morning, dawn just breaking, the sun rising low over the land, its rays dancing across the calm sea, ripples flashing gold and silver, reach out towards the ship. Through the haze, outlined against a blue sky, can be seen the classic view, table mountain, the lions head and signal mountain. We creep on in an almost silent world; the engines muted the sea gurgling at the bow, quite a change for this trip. What hasn’t changed is Africa, despite prior arrangements and us meeting our laid down deadlines, the captain is informed that the pilots have decided not to come out until the new shift starts at 8 O’clock, he sounds well peeved on the tannoy. We creep closer and wait. I put my camera away and go down for breakfast.
8.45 we enter the harbour; the haze has gone, though Table Mountain now sports a table cloth, a flat cloud that lies horizontally across the mountain top, no sign of the wind that is supposed to blow so often here, instead a gentle breeze flutters the flags, the sun shines and all is peaceful. As Artemis ties up and lets its passengers stream down the gangplanks and away. We jump the first available shuttle coach and head to the waterfront, magnets and hand made chocolates purchased I settle down with a friend for a coffee at an outdoor café overlooking table mountain, marvellous. Our waitress a tall, willowy, graceful, Zulu girl, with a superbly boned face, that lights up when she laughs, which she does all the time, as we chat, tells us with pride about her city. But warns us of the dangers for the unwary tourist, she really was a joy.
Anne returns from clothes shopping to join us, we wander back slowly taking in the sights, the stalls, the street performers, I even buy a CD from a troupe of percussionist playing on home made drums and instruments.
Reluctantly we return to the ship, swap coaches and head for the cable car, and a ride up Table Mountain. As we queued, from nowhere came a gust of wind, plucked my much travelled Tilley hat from my head, sending it over the railings and down the mountain side. Disaster, consternation, my hat, must have it, how can I get down, probably ok, how do I get back, with difficulty, god will these arms pull this fat old man back up. Anne panicking says leave it, we will get another one, you’ve got another one, don’t be stupid, leave it. Me reluctant I like that hat. It cost 50 quid. Meanwhile a young South African man, early twenties, standing behind us, quietly removes his back pack, vaults the railings, scrambles down and returns hat in hand. He is quiet, casual, and understated, class, well done, thanks, he smiles, “no problem, have a good trip enjoy Cape Town” So within hour’s South African youth, black and white has impressed me, there has to be a future for a country with such young people, I do hope so
The ride up the mountain is great but uneventful the cars with there revolving floors give a panoramic view of the city and surrounding areas, lovely views, lots of photo’s, more magnets at the top, a cold drink on a by now scorching day. After an hour, we do the return journey to the ship. Rest for a while, send text messages to the kids at home and at 6.30 catch another coach.
This one heads up Signal Hill, so named as this has been the early warning observation post, since the earliest settlers arrived. Here for a couple of hours we drink Champaign, eat oysters and canapés; enjoying the views as the setting sun, brings another stunning day to a close.
9. O’clock. Finds us back at the waterfront, illuminated now, and crowded with people sitting out, eating and drinking, enjoying the entertainment and the balmy evening. We head for the Victoria and Alfred Hotel,( yes that is right, her son not her husband), and settle down to a memorable meal, of crab cakes, huge lobsters, and sweets to die for, all washed down with South African Wine and coffee. Then an after dinner stroll back through the late diners, before catching the last shuttle to the ship, where a deck party was in full swing as we weighed anchor and sailed out of the harbour at midnight. Bound for Port Elizabeth
Just three days to Christmas now, we have sailed 6650 nautical miles since leaving Southampton on the second of December.
We arrived at Port Elizabeth on a Sunday that was also Christmas Eve it was shut, that was it really. . Christmas will follow next post"
I bought this toaster in Spalding, England before I moved to Wales, but there is something about it that seems to fit in with Wales.
