Getting Here

Feb. 3, 2008
Up early at 4 AM on Super Sunday to do the final packing, cup o joe, and load up Steven’s pickup truck for the dark trip to PHX Sky Harbor Airport and the beginning of the journey. Final weighings in the hallway, trying to get each of the five bags to heft in at just under 50 lbs, the int’l limit. Squeeze the final heavy items into the carry-on bag and off we go.

At the airport, smooth going. No problems, amazingly. So, we are on our way.

3 hrs to Atlanta on Delta, with the breakfast burritos we’d bought for the flight, like taking a train now, without the comfort and ease. Transfer via the tram to Pod E, international flights. Check-in proceeds, as the Delta woman at the counter announces repeatedly that each non-South African must show a passport to ensure that there is at least one full blank visa page. (Mr. Abbey Makena of the SA Consulate in LA had warned me that we did not, in fact, possess enough pages, so we (I) was sure that we were about to be bumped.) As it turns out, she is slightly distracted while scoping mine, doesn’t notice the faint stamp on page 19, my only sorta blank page, and she gives us the big red check of OK on our boarding passes. Whewwww! But my relief lasts long enough to realize that the SA Customs people will, in all likelihood, not be so careless, and the stress begins.

Feb. 4, 2008
We’d forgotten how long these flights can be. And, the prime seats we had selected through Expedia had been switched to shit seats in the middle section. Wonderful. Well, a mere 8 hours to Dakar, Senegal, an hour on the ground, and then another 9 hours on to Jo’burg, no big deal!

Did I say arriving at 8:30 AM? Well, that is a major mistake. It’s really 8:30 PM Mr. Hertz rental agent, and Mr. Gerhard Kotze, our real estate agent and friend for life, with the key to our rental house. In the JoBurg Airport, we wait at the end of the Passport line, me trembling. We arrive at the booth, the very dimly lit booth and I hand my passport open to page 19. The Customs lady stamps it forcefully, and whew, I'm through. We give two guys wearing fluorescent vests $15 and they take us around the 50-deep queue to the other side of the counters, where a friendly lady checks us in for our onward flight to Cape Town, all 5 huge overweight bags, with no question.

Incredibly, once in CT, our bags pop out of the stainless steel conveyer mouth, we load ‘em up on trolleys, and make our way to the car rental zone. The Hyundai Tucson is ready, and had been patient during the 12 extra hours it had waited for us in the lot. It’s a bit cool and cloudy out. Left side. Left side. Repeat the mantra. Drive on the left side.

How many times can one flick the windshield washer instead of the turn signal, you wonder? Maybe, say, 10 times in an hour and a half drive between the airport and De Kelders.

Gerhard and Alet, our buddies and neighbors, are semi-coherent and meet us after just a knock or two. Gerhard’s hair is a gray afro… appropriate. A few short meters down the street is the new digs. We fiddle with keys and shlep the bags in and collapse on the queen bed in the master bedroom. Home. Sleep. Stretching out.