Chapter 1 - The lost generation

I entered the train in Östersund, waved goodbye to near and dear and began the long journey to the south. The train is nearly full. There are more people are heading south, it is still a trip even though they are just going to Bräcke not that far to the south, well at least it´s some sort of transportation.

The train with all its wagons rolls into Sundsvall after a couple of hours. It is time for the trip’s first stop. It is also time for the trip’s first nutrition and that will be in the hamburger restaurant Max. It is a well known and documented fact that to travel wares you down. I stand in the queue ever so hungry. I reached the counter and ordered their largest hamburger. The puberty rascal taking the order gets something strange in his look. I climbed in rank in his eyes and he nods impressing in my direction as he punches in the order. A real man orders a real hamburger. He is of course not used to this kind of order. This is the locus of the lost generation. The puberty rascal is used to serve fries and latte medium at the best. It isn't strange that he is impressed.

In front of a green wall in Sundsvall.

The journey goes on to the next stop, Gävle. The big burger is still in the stomach and I don´t need another meal. I switch to the next train, the one going to the capital. I do aim a little bit in front of that and hope for a bull’s eye on the airport Arlanda.

In front of a red wall in Gävle.

Monday 20th of July

Chapter 2 - A desperate worker

The day is just 30 minutes old as the train from Gävle sneaks in under Arlanda and stops. I go up the escalator to the aeroplanes with tired eyes and a backpackfilled back. Arlanda is resting and a calm peace can be found. It is night outside and my plane will not leave until early tomorrow morning. I await the early hour in front of a computer, surfing a little and wonder about the existence.

An elderly labourer appears dressed in overalls and a reflective west. He isn't familiar with ones and zeros and asks me to assist him. The labourer turns out to be a truck driver and he needs a ticket to Denmark. One of his colleagues has broken both his legs as he jumped from the back of the truck. The labourer who is forced to bail in thinks that his colleague is an idiot. I managed to find cheap ticket to Kastrup, US$88 with Norwegian. The labourer brightens up; fortune smiles her biggest smile at him only to end up spitting him in the face the very next second. The man lacks a credit card, which made it impossible to buy the ticket.

What made the bad things worse is the fact that Norwegian doesn’t have any ticket counter at Arlanda so he is forced to buy a ticket from SAS for US$440. He took it all with ease. He had been around before, driven explosives through Stockholm, flown to some terrorist state in the Middle East and drove home a hi-jacked truck with an executed colleague by his side. Raw deal!

The sun climbs to the sky, as does my plane. I got the chance to show who has routine as it comes to check in. I checked in online and merrily walked past the check-in queue. The uneducated mob followed me like a herd of wildebeests. The poor sods were illiterate and were stopped. No check-in in this line unless you had been out on the internet first.

NETHERLANDS

I land all according to plans at Schiphol Airport outside of Amsterdam. This day’s first real walk begins. I walk and walk and walk, pass a passport control and I walk and walk and walk. Without using passport or map I find the right gate. The plane which will take me further south is big but not flashy. My seat turns out to be great, up ahead by a wall. A young American lady sits next to me. She seems fragile and inexperienced like a frost nipped rosebud, a real misjudgement from me. My trip seems cheerful and amateurish compared to hers. She has been flying for eight hours from the States, sat down next to me to fly to South Africa for what the pilot says will take eleven hours, just to jump onto another plane that will take her to Botswana to go for a six hour car ride. What was it worth to complain about changing trains in Gävle?

Like always on long flights I´m fed like a fattening pig. It is in vain to try to get a nap with the constant feeding without an end. Outside my window Africa passes with its deserts and jungles.

SOUTH AFRICA

Darkness has fallen over the African continent as I finally touch down. My American seat neighbour is at ease. She´s only got a short flight to Botswana and a six hour car ride left, almost at home, right? She offers me a chewing gum. I accept, hang on to my little backpack and leave the aeroplane.

I get to the passport check as the first one, got some questions, nothing remarkable, pretty easy ones, no need for a dictionary. The passport controller seems pleased and let me into his country. I am also first at the luggage carousel where my bag has spun forth. I grab my black bag, adjust my backpack and wanders out on the African continent where Jacques awaits me in his Opel.

We are going towards new horizons in a white Opel. Our ride in the darkness takes us past vineyards and shantytowns that are barely visible in the African evening. As we get to Jacques home, which is on the vineyard Lovane, I´m offered a dinner. I eat with a frisky apetite although I am filled with low nutrition aeroplane food. The dessert seem to be some African filth, but one have to follow the local customs and I shoved some brown pudding like mixture into my mouth. The taste buds cheers and the blood sugar level reaches new heights. Hallelujah, one can get religious for less. The pudding is delicious.

No peace and calm here. It is almost 22.00 according to Swedish time, which is the same as South African time. Jacques doesn’t want to spend time resting or sleeping. I haven’t slept for two days but who wants to be a weak person. We head on in the little white Opel to Stellenbosch. We drive around in the old student town until we found a parking lot which is guarded by countless of black parking attendants. Stellenbosch is a town filled with students just back for a new semester after the winter break. We strolled around aimlessly while Jacques guided me between pubs and restaurants.

I crawled into my bed an hour later. Jacques’ house is small but picturesque. He shares it with a German girl and a guy from Johannesburg. They are both young, both students and both lodgers at a vineyard which from now on will host a guest from Sweden as well. The house is cold, damned so cold. I shut the small airing window. That does very little about the chill. I sleep with my clothes on. I don’t want to complain about the cold temperature. I am after all from Sweden where heat comes from saunas and wood-fired ovens. A man should endure a bit of frost on the nose. I fell asleep unrocked. The first night on the African continent carries on so smoothly.

Tuesday 21st of July

Chapter 3 - The heroic efforts of the white Opel.

Dawn offers humid weather, no rain, but fog. I wake up to the sweet smell of freshly brewed java. Jacques entered with a cup of steaming caffeine kick. Both the heat and the caffeine kicks in and I become enough of a man to take a shower. After a good breakfast consisting of eggs, bacon and bread it´s time to embrace Kaapstad.

We´re leaving the vineyard in the white Opel. The highway is fast and efficient and we soon approach the big city. Along the road we can see a lot of unmotorised people on their way to a new day of unemployment and misery. Shantytowns and townships are being passed. The houses of the black population are just tin shacks, which has to be cold at night. Jacques claims that they don’t have to pay taxes for their “houses” and that things aren’t that bad for them, but one can’t help to wonder.

Fog lifts as we enter Cape Town. The white Opel rushes its German engine as the ride goes up towards Table Mountain. We soon had the city behind us. It turns out that the gondola to the top is closed off due to maintenance. The view is fantastic nonetheless. The city, the mountains and the sea add up like a postcard buffet. It is pretty as a picture and pictures will be taken.

Just below the Table mountain cable car.

Roberth and the Table mountain.

Cape Town

We don’t have time to be sentimental or struck by any other feeling that can be related to the beautiful view. Today’s schedule is packed like a filled wurst. Every minute counts. The white Opel’s germanic engine once more have to show its endurance and performance while we head for another top with a view towards Lion´s Head, a rock formation which with a little imagination resembles a lion’s head. We take pictures of the head before rushing downtown.

Cape Town´s centre flashes by as we search for a place to park the car near the castle. The castle is an old remain from glorious days, when the British argued with the Boers, war and devilry as usual as soon as Britons are involved. The castle offers a history lesson and a changing of the guards. A small canon is deployed on the courtyard and is prepared to be fired. Ridiculous is the word that crosses my mind, how could the British be chased away with such toy guns. But the bang that follows is impressing, a bang that make me think back to my younger years with fire crackers.

Change of guards at the Castle of Good Hope.

Nice colours in the malay part of Cape Town, Bo-Kaap.

It is an hour later and we are at Waterfront, the city’s harbour district. Here it´s hustle and bustle. An ice cream is eaten and a trip on South Africa’s oldest steam ship is made. The old steamer barely makes it around the harbour area, but we get ourselves some sightseeing. Around us fish begging seals are swimming. I wouldn’t even give them tiny fins of fish if I had some

Our captain tells us about the old concrete warehouse which spoils the look of the otherwise beautiful harbour scenery. The enormous hump of concrete has become a cultural landmark and should not be demolished. Both Jacques and I find it hard to hide our surprise. That this abomination of a building, this shadow of a house resembling object, this failure in concrete should be considered a landmark amazes us.

The waterfront has a lot to offer the two pedestrians. Statues of Nelson and the boys, singing and dancing tribal people and a handicraft market make the trip enjoyable but the white Opel awaits us. A lot remains of the daylight, so there is no time to rest. The heat is reaching the 15-degrees region. The sun warms up the chilled torso and gone are the memories of the cold night.

Desmond Tutu, Roberth Nordin and F W De Klerk, three great men!

The white Opel strives on along M6, a magnificent road that meanders along the coast first to the west and then towards south. The mountains and the sea make an outstanding view while the road tempts the Opel for some rally. We make a stop at Sea Point, a place most common for beach guests with cocktail glasses in their hands. Nothing happens here during winter but that doesn’t stop a tough guy from the north to dip his foot in the sea. The Atlantic turn out to be grumpy and chills my meat to a level of pain.

M6 heads south and we follow its stretch. We made a new stop at Hout Bay, the fishing village is known for its seafood. We have lunch/dinner in a famous restaurant building with an associated store. Fish & chips are on the menu. None of the food gets a chance to cool. There is a dead halt at Chapman´s Peak, 5 km south of Hout Bay. M6 has gone up mountain without leaving the coast line. The sad thing is the fact that stones have fallen and are in our way. Our trip is stopped. The view is amazing. The sun sets in the Atlantic and we begin our journey home. We take the same way back to Hout Bay. After that we turn northeast towards Stellenbosch. We drive into a vineyard not far from Jacques place before today's duties are over for the Opel. The vineyard is called Spier Wine Estate, an ancient lineage yard that is spoken about with respects among the wine sippers. Spier isn't just grape farming they also produce the noble intoxicants. The vineyard also houses breeding of cheetahs, and also the goal of the evenings exercise, a restaurant.

Roberth putting his feet into the icecold water of the Atlantic.

This is where Jacques lives.

Our sandals are still wet from the dip in the Atlantic; we are therefore entering the restaurant barefoot. The restaurant is an experience that speaks to the cave man deep within us all. The African feeling of wilderness and ethnic aboriginals is total. Here and there are fires lightening bar counter after bar counter. Tribal people from the African continent perform with drums and dances. Totally amazing. But the prices are as high as the decorations hanging in the trees so we settle with some glasses of wine.

The evening is late and the chill is returning. My feet are cold and numb as we drive the final hundred metres to Jacques place. We consume the remains of yesterday, discuss irregular things with the residents, make up a doubtful fire that fades away and we make up plans for tomorrow. The cold temperature hunts away the sleepiness, but is eventually time to hit the sack. The white Opel awaits us outside.

Wednesday 22nd of July

Chapter 4 - Among hostile penguins and begging baboons

I am once again awoken by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The mug of coffee is smoking like a Polish coal factory. The low temperature in the room is unbearable, merciful but who am I to complain, I take it with a smile as the northern guy I am. Still I can’t help to think that I will sleep in this chill for the next three weeks. Will I ever defrost?

We head south with a proper breakfast in our bellies. We travel fast along the highway, carborne as we are. We travel on the highway together with other tired motorists. Yesterday we took a close look of the west part of the Cape Peninsula. Today we will travel through the eastern parts of the coastal region together with the M4 road. Mountains, sea and small fishing villages create beautiful sceneries that constantly pass our windscreen. Nature´s untamed elements is tried to be controlled by the small fishing villages that lies in the bays. We make our first stop in Muizenberg. The village is picturesque but not enough to pay our attention. Instead we board the commuter train to the south. We get off fifteen minutes later in the village of Kalk Bay. Kalk Bay is a sleepy village which offers walkable streets and a small café situated in some old train wagons. It is no doubt that this day’s second meal is being eaten at this cosy cafe. Scones and coffee have been eaten before we head back to Muizenberg.

Roberth and Jaqcues visiting a Kalk Bay café..

Kalk Bay

We follow the M4 faithfully. The road winds persistently southwards through small villages like Glen Ridge and Froggy Farm. Simon's Town is also one of the villages we are slipping through. The village has a strong military flavour. Since centuries, the South African Navy had its home port right here. Merry mariners are seen wandering around the narrow streets. After Simon's Town buildings begins to decrease and the barren vegetation starts to take over the postcard views. Strange signs warning of the primates show up while the traffic thinned out precariously. We continue relentlessly south, despite these ominous signs.

A group of baboons on the road.

We spot the first baboons a couple of kilometres south of Simon´s Town. Jacques is unwilling to slow down. The baboons are not to be trusted but we stop reluctantly by the monkeys. Jacques warns me to get out or even open the window. They are nothing but aggressive beggars. Several others stop by the (as it seems) lazy primates and feed them, a thing that is strictly forbidden. I take some nice pictures of the herd before we head on to the south.

Where the M4 is ending the barren landscape begins for sure. But we will not hesitate in any way. With the same firmness and decisiveness as the Boers had with the annexation of this country we drive on. A barrier stops us for a moment. We pay an entrance fee to the reserve Cape of Good Hope Reserve. Now the road is just a narrow little tract that splits the windswept scrubby landscape. No villages or other signs of civilization in sight. Not even the primates seem to like it here.

Cape Point

Roberth at Cape of Good Hope

We finally reached our destination, Cape Point. A rock rises towards the ocean heading/stretching south and I can see a poor little lighthouse at the top. We will not get further south with the car. All we can do is to park it and start to walk towards the lighthouse. Rough winds and heavy showers of rain tells us that humans are just tiny, pointless beings with the same value as the primates we left behind us. Mother Nature is merciful to us and allows us to gaze at an amazing view over the ocean and the rocks. We are cold and wet but not beaten. Our journey carries on the Cape of Good Hope there the waves sweep in over the rocks like small tsunamis. The ocean is furious but Jacques assure me that Mother Nature is in a good mood. If the ocean had wanted to really mess things up it would have sent in bigger waves.

The trip back to Stellenbosch is on a beaten track along the M4. We stopped by at Boulders Beach in Fish Hoek. We are not going to take a swim. I’ve already tried the Atlantic´s cold water, seen its rage and been battered by its winds. What catch our attention are birds, penguins to be precise. They are located on the beach in flocks and don’t seem scared at all. But all hell breaks loose as I approached a hole that seems to be someone’s home. They attacked me and I am forced to retreat. I still feel sorry for these birds that must be considered a poor mistake by Mother Nature. Birds without wings are like elks without horns, fur and legs. But I guess if there are some birds that are allowed to exist it must be the penguins. They don’t shit you in head and they don’t mess things up for us up in the north.

Roberth meeting penguins.

With some hours of daylight left we´re getting closer to the wine district of Stellenbosch. We drive into a vineyard with the aim to get us some nutrition. A classic South African dinner is being set, eaten and washed down with a carafe of white wine. The culinary taste sensations are soon shown. The wine has a perfect sweetness and an after taste that tells the torso it will need more of it. Wine testing is also included in the dinner. It doesn’t matter if the stomach is filled with local culinary. There is, as a wise man once said, always room for more wine.

We get over to the wine testing area. An Afrikaans-woman turns up at the bar and serves us glass after glass of wine. Delicious tasty wines flow down my throat. I can’t understand what she is saying about the wines, but who cares. The best thing with wine testing is that you take part at your own level. I keep it at a drinking level without pleasing the intellect.

The journey carries on but not to Jacques little nest. There are still some hours of daylight to be taken care of. We drive by Stellenbosch and around Hottentot Holland Nature Reserve and take aim for the village of Franschhoek. The village is a French remain from some forgotten settler civilisation that most likely originated from France. The wine is paying attention and I need to empty my bladder. No problem says Jacques and stops. A pee along the road works here as well. I start to think of the precautions I heard about this country as the flow of urine hits the ground nice and easy. Whatever you do don’t ever stop by the side of the road, especially not after dark. I look around in the shadows; the sun disappeared half an hour ago. A pick-up passes by on the road and at its back are some black workers. They scream something to me but I can’t understand what. The bladder caves in and we can carry on.

Franschhoek is a pleasant place with vineyards here and there. It is dark so we can’t see much of the village. We stop by a butcher and buy some dried meat from animals that use to stroll the savanna as they don’t hang around in the butchers place. We end our visit to Franschhoek with wildebeest meat in our mouths and head towards Stellenbosch. This evening is like the earlier ones cold. The blue coloured liqueur in the Celsius measurer tells me that it is around +10 degrees, and this is the indoor temperature.

It turns out that Jacques works for Kulula Airways, the airline company that I will fly with early the very next morning. New possibilities open up, Jacques phones his buddies at the company, a phone call that renders me a nice seat at the plane. A small problem suddenly appears. I am flying to Johannesburg and my plane will land at the airport Lanseria which is in the outskirts of the city. There isn't much I can do about it now. I get in contact with Christer and Peter for consultation in the matter. A layman might feel panic and anxiety in such a situation. But it is just a piece of cake for guys that have been around before.

One of the residents who was from Johannesburg brings forth his big map over the city. The map is huge, enormous. If this is due to the fact that the city is huge or the map drawer is nearsighted remains to find out. We try to locate the hostel I will be staying at. It turns out to be impossible, almost as impossible as to fold the map properly. We can’t even find Kensington, the part of the city where the hostel is supposed to be located. This isn't promising news for the day to come. I will now for the third day in a row let the chill grab my torso and rock me to sleep. Tomorrow is new day.

Thursday 23rd of July

Chapter 5 - Birthday and reunion on the South African high plateau

It is early, it is cold and I would have used a revolver if Jacques had brought one. The coffee warms me up and chases away the mists in my mind. It takes until the airport until I become a human being, or at least something that resembles a human being. It is full speed ahead at the airport. Jacques parked his car at the parking lot for employees. We catch an employee from there to the main building. I feel almost like I am one of the employees, one in the staff, like I was a captain that would fly one hundred stewardesses to Bahamas for a cocktail convent, there it turns out that I am the only male there.

Jacques wakes me up from my daydreaming and shoves me through the South African crowd of people to the check in counter. It turns out that the airport is undergoing renovation and I soon find myself standing in a large tent waiting to board the aeroplane. I find out to my surprise that the tent is warm. Minutes of pleasure passes by as my body gets warmer, defrosts. But nothing lasts forever. The plane takes off and I am up in the air. I can see from the air that Lanseria is in the outback far from houses and heavy mine industries. Chill once again hugs my torso as I disembark the plane. I move in haste into the small airport building to get away from the cold weather. All is in vain, it is just as cold inside. I look around, terrified, and realise that this airport is small, so small.

I managed to catch a taxi that cleaned me out financially but there are few other options. I just have to enter the fancy Mercedes and let it take me to Johannesburg. The city is huge and I am glad that I am not driving. The driver, a black man from Sun City navigates with a steady hand through the big city. He thinks that there is nothing dangerous in Johannesburg, not for the black man and neither for the white man. This one like so many taxi drivers around the world discuss politics. The government must act or there will be riots. I sit in the back of taxi and agree with him, hoping that he will take me to there I am going.

We stop by the hostel Ghandi Backpackers Lodge after one hour of political discussion. The hostel like everything else here in Johannesburg is a fortress, an impenetrable fortress. I showed my face in the camera and I was let inside through the massive plate door and heavy gate. I am at once met by some barking dogs that at first scared the living daylight out of me. I soon realised that they are soft dogs that totally lack any killing instincts. I can’t help to wonder what purpose they have.

A feminine German man in a scarf greets me and I am installed in the ice cold room. I no longer have any illusions about warm rooms so I take it all with ease and sit down in the bar which has an internet connection. The cold in the indoor bar drives me out in the open area that is a part of the hostel. The sun is shining and the bottom of the pool is being cleaned by a submarine vacuum cleaner which seems to live its own life. The few rays of sun which hits my face manage to warm up the tip of my nose for a short while. Suddenly I hear some squeaking from the small barking dogs and the plate door swings open. Peter and Christer enter with filled backpacks. A new phase of the trip has begun.

Ghandi Backpackers Lodge, Johannesburg.