It’s official. I am a wimp

Durban, South Africa

So it’s official. I am a wimp. At least I try to pretend I am not, but I am. It’s Africa, you see, South Africa in particular. It seemed such a good idea at the time. A couple of days off after a conference, a long way home, so why not stop by a tourist sight and soak up a holiday atmosphere for a short while?

But then I chose the wrong time, with Durban being in chaos, crowds lining the streets, demonstrations everywhere, and even a couple of poor fellows having their heads chopped off. It was not a good time to be in Kwa Zulu-Natal. The locals were having a go at foreigners, not overtly Brits like me but certainly fellow Africans who had entered South Africa in order to set up a new life. So shops and restaurants owned by foreigners were being looted while people were being attacked.

That was the atmosphere around me as I climbed into the Toyota, registration number SHAKA01. Shaka was the king of the Zulus in the middle of the 19th century and was not known for his kindness to fellow man, and certainly not to non-Zulus. So we headed north, with a touch of west, Rudi my driver giving me maximum worry with his stories of violence throughout South Africa. To listen to him you would have thought the whole place was falling apart. Actually it might well have been doing exactly that.

The moment a local starts talking in such a way you begin to see danger around every corner. That said, there do appear to be risks as a white person being ferried in an upmarket Toyota through some of the more remote Zulu villages. The main roads were fine but at one point we came to a road block, manned by a dozy policeman whose job was clearly to stop traffic going along a section of road, but also to not tell them an alternative. Rudi resorted to his manifestly well-honed initiative, turning us this way and that, eventually taking to an ill-defined dirt track that wended its way past and through assorted Zulu villages. This was seriously remote South Africa.

That was when the killer looks started, from almost any local we saw. Killer that is until they spotted the number plate. Instantly the murderous stare was replaced by a big white-toothed smile, followed by a thumbs-up sign and through we were waved. SHAKA01 had won the day. But I was worried, I admit to being so. It is difficult not to be nervous in rural South Africa when they are beheading foreigners only 45 minutes away.

So it was with considerable relief that Rudi deposited me at my next destination, somewhere called Fugitive’s Drift. This must be one of the most magical places on Earth. Miles from anywhere, connected only by a temperamental satellite internet and without the least trace of mobile signal save on an exceptional day. But my nerves were tested again. Shown to my room, well more like cottage, I instantly saw the gap beneath the external door; perfect access for any creepy crawly, snakes in particular. There are plenty of poisonous man-killers in South Africa. As if to confirm my first impressions, the contents of my wardrobe said all – there stood some spray called Peaceful Sleep for wayward mosquitoes and beside it something called a Supersound Personal Alarm. This was a small pressurised canister that allowed you to summon help. What is it about these little red buttons? How desperately I wanted to press the thing to see how loud a noise it could produce. I dared not in the end, for fear that a ton of armed security guards might come running.

There were also two knobkerries hanging by the door, making the place look instantly serious. I looked around, under, past, behind, even through if I could, almost every item in my room. My worries were not helped by the large hairy spider lying motionless only a few centimetres from the double bed pillow, although the thing instantly disappeared when I prodded it with one of the knobkerries. They do that, spiders, at least some do; they just disappear. One minute they are there, the next they are not. Blink for a nanosecond and they have gone.

So I went to bed in my newfound destination, lights out, knobkerrie nearby, Supersound Personal Alarm next to my left arm on the bedside table and insect spray at the ready. It did not take long for the enemy to attack.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”, sounded just beside my right ear. I knew that sound. Plenty of journeys to the tropics had taught me well. At least I had been trained how to recognise a mosquito. I had not been trained how to kill one in the dark, in Africa, in bed, hungry, terrified of a hidden spider, and when the pest was in full flight. What weapon to use? I opted for the knobkerrie, although Heaven knows why. Hitting a mosquito in the dark with what is basically a club is nigh impossible. I missed totally, although did shatter the glass of water by my bedside and spent the next 15 minutes cleaning up glass fragments from the stone floor. What an idiot. Why had I not used the spray? Heaven knows. The answer was because I had panicked. Me, the ex-Army, so-called roughie-toughie, lying trembling beneath a white linen-covered duvet. Alone in Africa with all manner of madnesses going through my mind.

Having allowed the mosquito to fly free, and having cleaned the floor, I made it back to the horizontal and took cover under my duvet once more. Lights out, knobkerrie in right hand, mosquito spray in left, I was ready for anything Africa might throw at me. I waited. For a brief moment I felt sleep trying to take a hold. Then…then…then…what was that?

Yes…shhhh!...wait…listen, my head cocked to one side. Whispers and movements on the steel roof… maybe not…under the bed…what!...maybe not… just outside the door. It had to be a snake. Bloody hell!

Lights back on. Nothing to see. Lights off. Another rustle! Torch on, scanning the floor. Nothing but dust and an old tissue to see. Come on, come on, come on! Stop panicking! Grow up! The gap under the door? Anything creeping through?

So up I got once more, identified a rust-coloured blanket rolled up on a nearby chair, and picked it up in one swift movement. I then folded it lengthwise and stuffed it under the door. There! I was now hermetically sealed. At least as hermetically sealed as you can get at night in a rural African cottage.

Sleep escaped me, of course, right through until dawn as I never did find the spider, or the beasties that had clearly decided to spend all night frolicking on my roof. Meanwhile my grip on the knobkerrie and spray was so tight that I had blistered palms by breakfast. It was not a good night. Rural Africa could only get better.

It’s official, you see. I am a wimp.