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Mon May 19 2003 (Cinsta to Kokstad)

We were up fairly early this morning, although we still managed to be behind schedule. The gear was packed and put into the car, then up to the main house for a breakfast of sausage, bacon and egg sandwich. Just what the doctor ordered and we had a superb view of the lagoon and beach, the weather was beautiful which is a pain considering it was so cool yesterday and today we're travelling. Our intention was to visit the Mandela museum in Umtata, although we realised time might be tight.

The journey was progressing fairly well, we'd found our way back to the N2, thankfully much easier in the light and had made it a little way past Butterworth. A few hastily constructed road works with accompanying flag waving people were scattered about due to a few rock falls. We came out of a series of bends and started accelerating up a long straight. Half-way up I was waved down by someone in the middle of the road who on closer inspection was a policeman. He asked me to get out of the car and go over to the other side of the road where he showed me a speed gun displaying 90km/h. I said I thought the limit was 120, which was a bit of a fib as I'd seen the signs. He told me it was 60km/h. I asked why it was so low in a vain attempt to make out that 50% over the limit wasn't so bad. Very bendy part of the N2 was the explanation.

He got out his fines table and read across the row for the 60 limit to find the 90 penalty. 600 Rand (about 50 quid). I swore a bit under my breath, then he asked to see my driver's license. I wandered back over the road to the car, where Emma and Sara were now standing around and looking a bit concerned. I showed him my paper license, and he finally realised I was English (or at least pretended he hadn't realised before). "Oh dear, this is a problem". I asked why and he said because I was not South African, the fine couldn't be paid here. Instead we'd have to go back to the police station in Butterworth.

He then took a look at my passport and questioned the name 'Darrington'. Yep, that's my surname. He then disappeared back to his car and came back with his ID. His first name was 'Derrington'. This seemed to lighten the air a little. He said we could pay now but he wouldn't be able to issue a receipt (hmm...). He produced his fines chart again and with all the patter of a market trader flogging bent gear said "600 Rand is too much, 500 is too much, 400 is too much, shall we say 300?". I snapped his hand off and scrabbled around my possessions to gather 300 Rand together.

At this point I thought we'd exchange a sly nudge and wink, I'd promise I'd never met him and we'd speed off into the sunset. No such luck. He wandered off again to his car and returned with a coffee table book showing photos of traditional South African culture. One of them was a Xhosa ceremony carried out by a group that he has something to do with (we couldn't actually work out exactly what). Some of the people in the photo were his relatives and he said he wanted to develop this into a business.

He was a bit full of himself it has to be said. He asked how old we thought he looked. I didn't say anything but guessed probably mid-forties. "I was born in 1959!". So that makes you 44, that's about what I thought. Nevertheless, we had no wish to wind him up now he'd hammered out a cut-price deal with himself on the size of the bribe ... erm, I mean fine. We all feigned shock that he could be that age when he obviously looked so much younger. "You see these two?", he pointed to his colleagues on the other side of the road. "I'm not saying I'm better than other people, but I can speak 4 languages and I bet they can't". Right, good to see the police force here has mutual respect amongst its ranks.

He rambled on for a while, repeating half of what he'd already said about himself. He also told us to look out for Mandela's country home along the way (we worked out it was the place that Ground Force did a special programme for a while back). Also Mandela and Mbeki's birthplaces were on the next leg of the journey.

After what seemed an eternity he let us escape. I wondered whether it would have been less stress just to go back to the police station and pay the full fine. We carried on, having a chuckle every now and again about what had just happened. We saw Mandela's house, much bigger than any other building in the area. The trip to the Mandela museum was abandoned due to lack of time, and we pulled into a service station near Umtata for lunch.

The sun was still beating down from a cloudless sky and the car park was roasting. We plumped for a table in the relative inner cool of the cafe. I fetched a copy of the SA Sunday Times from the shop and read the coverage of Sisulu's funeral whilst working my way through a minced beef and cheese toasted sandwich and Greek salad. We stocked up on water and headed off into another batch of the length roadworks. This time the waiting times were pretty severe, although it was nice to switch off the engine, crank down the windows and get a bit of fresh air through.

The remainder of the journey was passed with Sara and Em reading out snippets from the paper, with the odd moment of excitement as I had to slam on the brakes for a cow or goat wandering around in the contraflow. Towards the end of the day we passed through a few small but bustling towns built around the N2. They were fairly hectic places with people queuing outside ramshackle phone stalls, ad hoc markets and, strangely, loads of hair salons and funeral directors. The naming of these was somewhat off-the-wall including "Coffin King", "Good news funeral services" and my favourite, "Aah!!! Chittibunga!"

We made it into Kokstad with perfect timing, just as it was starting to get dark. Thankfully our hotel was just off the N2 and ten minutes later we were parked up outside our door. This place is like a motel, bit odd really. Anyway, no complaints from our side as we actually have our own bathroom and the place is clean, bliss after hostel living. The girls are in one room that has twin beds. I have swapped my slightly grubby bunk bed in the kitchen from the last place for a double bed with TV in my own room. My room and the bathroom have wall-mounted candles in holders with reflector mirrors behind them. This all seemed pretty weird until there was a power-cut and they transformed from quirky ornaments into the lighting system for the chalet.

At first we were glad to have TV and sat around flicking through the channels as if it was the first time we'd seen moving pictures. Then we realised that South African TV was just as bad as ever and switched the thing off. The girls showered and did a bit of laundry in the sink, Emma clubbing a cockroach to death in the process. Then they decided to use a small mobile oil heater we had in the room to dry their clothes. The thing was so hot you could hear hissing, and a bit later Emma was distraught when she realised her prized Loftus Road underwear had changed colour fairly drastically during their time at gas mark 8 on the heater.

We wandered over to the main block to get some food. On the way there were photos of people with prize fish. From the captions underneath it became clear that a family of Bastards were well known around the place - not sure if I'd stick with that surname if I was unlucky enough to inherit it. Gave us a cheap laugh anyway. We all plumped for the carvery, which we tucked into, with the stunning backdrop of the petrol station visible through the window. I was completely stuffed, but Emma and Sara somehow managed dessert as well. It was kicking out time at the restaurant so we headed back to the chalet / room, whatever would be the best description and crashed soon after.

Photos from today