Category Archives: Travel

The Great Shoe Search

Adventures, Gear, South Africa

A few years ago, I found myself in South Korea with winter approaching and no proper closed shoes. All the women’s closed shoes I could find seemed to be 6-inch heels – not ideal for snowy winter. So, with some trepidation, I did something I’ve never done before and spent a large amount of money on a pair of trail boots. The prettiest little boots in all the world. I’ve never looked back.

These boots have become my everyday shoes. I wear them to work. I wear them for walking. I wear them when I’m in the field visiting rural homesteads and looking at goats. I even wear them when I’m shopping or out with friends. Not that I spend much time out with friends. In fact, work and goats occupy most of the hours of most days. Which makes the boots ideal. They’re comfortable, functional and suitable for all kinds of weather, work and mud.

My boots have become something of a part of an identity. They represent a certain kind of life and a certain set of choices. Sadly, boots don’t last forever, particularly if you’re wearing them every day. Thus began the Great Shoe Search. I knew what I wanted but most South African shops don’t sell Korean hiking boots, so the trick was going to be finding an acceptable alternative.

It turns out I’ve become something of a trail-shoe snob. I am very particular about the kind of way in which I want the shoes to feel on my feet. I’m also rather fussy about the style. These are going to be work shoes so I’d prefer to avoid the headache of having to find clothes to match shoes in neon orange and pink.

The search has taken rather a while. This is partly because I live, at least most of the time, in a part of the world without a lot of shops. I took the opportunity of a trip to the Western Cape to scour the Somerset Mall but failed to find anything I liked. Now, having moved to Johannesburg (temporarily), I was determined to find a new pair of shoes. This was becoming somewhat urgent as my current boots were really beginning to come apart at the seams, which is particularly problematic because I appeared not to have any other shoes. I’m sure I used to, but I seemed not to anymore.

Determination finally paid off. I spent a morning in a shopping centre, visiting everyone outdoor store and every shoe shop that might possibly sell boots. No joy. Finally, I gave up and caught the train to another centre, where I repeated the process. I was close to admitting defeat when finally I came across a store that I’d heard might carry the same brand of shoes as my Korean boots. I walked in the door and there, right in front of me, was a pair of boots I’d seen on the internet and decided might work. This particular “model” hadn’t been available in any of the other shoe shops I’d been to. Now, here it was – on sale. I searched for my size and hurried to try them on.

They’re perfect. The perfect replacements for my pretty little boots. They’re less inconspicuous – more clearly boots.  But that’s okay. Perhaps it’s a good thing. I start a new adventure on Monday morning and now I can do so with brand new boots. In the meantime, I’m setting off for a long walk on a beautiful autumn day in the leafy suburbs to wear in my new boots.

Take-off

Adventures, Airports

Early morning airport. It’s still dark when I arrive. Inside the airport is bright and clean and quiet. Too early even for the airport annoncements. Too early.

A woman in a brown frilly dress and sparkly high-heel shoes walks by. Her eyes are dead, tired. A young couple struggles past – she pushing a loaded trolley, he in a wheelchair.

Downstairs, a man sits alone at a food-court table. Around him, counters are closed, neon signs are dark, chairs are still stacked on tables. He leans close to his laptop, typing furiously.

A man stands with his suitcase, staring blankly into the window-display of a still-closed airport bookshop. He starts as the shop clerk begins to roll up the security doors, and walks away.

Check in. A slow, empty space. So different from the chaos of families and groups and nervous first-time-flyers of the afternoon.

Security checkpoint is quiet. In the queue, a few people chat – acquaintances chance met at the airport. I smile thinking of similar chance meetings. Others in the line stand silent. Blank faces. Tired eyes. Hollow people waiting for the day to catch up with their wakefulness. Waiting for the day to begin.

A brightly lit restaurant offers coffee, greasy breakfast, muesli, yoghurt. Whatever it takes to get you through the day. To get you to the day. A day of work. A day of meetings. I stand, waiting for my take-away coffee and people-watch. Waiting.

My flight is called. A warning: boarding is about to begin. Waiting.

A man sits in the seats at the next gate, watching, tense. As if he is avoiding his own flight. His sandy hair brushes the collar of his casual shirt. Shorts and sandals. Unusual for the businessman’s 6am flight.

Two schoolboys sit nearby. Wide black and white ties, black blazers, school trousers. School uniform. Flying home for the break? One reads his book. One plays on his cellphone.

Next to them, a well-dressed, fashionable man. Not that I know much about fashion these days, but he is distinct; different from the standard dark-suited men. His shirt is tight, his hair spiked, he wears what must be designer jeans. He sits tik-tik-typing on his laptop, looking harried and rushed and self-important.

We wait.

Beside me sits a women in a red shirt and black skirt. Just a touch unstylish. A little messy. Perhaps some kind of lecturer? Later an overheard conversation on the plane: she is a recruitment specialist.

Boarding begins and I join the queue. Behind me, colleagues chat away in a mix of English and Zulu, laughing at some shared joke. Ahead, a good looking man with salt-and-pepper hair drags a black suitcase. It is one of the newer ones – a well-made hard case with a single handle, cabin-baggage size.

The line moves forward. We can see the plane. The sun has just begun to streak the overcast sky orange-pink. The line moves forward. I am with them, among them – these early-morning work-zombies. Flying to Johannesburg just for a day. Thousands of kilometres for a single meeting. The line moves forward.

The plane is cool and fresh. First flight of the day.  I slide into my window seat. A semi-regular seat. Today I sit in 23A. Last week it was 23F. They announce that the name of today’s pilot is Zooty. The plane fills up.

Safety demonstration. The same safety demonstration as every other time. I try to remember what it was like hearing that for the first time, the first time I flew (at least that I can remember) ten years ago. I can’t recall. I can’t imagine a time before these instructions were so familiar. I can’t remember how it was before travelling was so normal, so natural, so always.

We wait.

The plane taxis and picks up speed. That familiar lift, that moment of lightness as we take to the air. I exhale. The day begins.

As the sugar-cane fields and the silver sea drop away below me, I’m thinking of the next step, the next phase, the next adventure. A step, I hope, towards a life less ordinary. A life many airports away.

A year ago

Travel, Travelling in Africa, Why,

I woke up this morning thinking about Fort Portal. Uganda and the DRC have been on my mind a lot lately. I can’t believe it’s been a year. Not that Fort Portal was exactly a year ago. Exactly a year would have been, let’s see, I think Kampala? Wow, early morning Kampala, trudging through the still-sleeping streets with too much luggage to catch the Post Bus.

But Fort Portal, perhaps more than any other place I can remember, represents the edge of adventure. That night, the first night in Fort Portal, when we all gathered around a little table, over a beer, and had The Conversation about medical conditions and next of kin and emergency insurance information. On the edge of venturing into the unknown of the eastern DRC. That tension, than intensity. A plan finally coming together. The introspection. No-one really mentioning the emotions just below the surface, but all the senses heightened. The incredible awareness of anticipation.

The moments, the images of Fort Portal are particularly clear to me. Perhaps because it was a place I truly fell in love with. Perhaps precisely because of that anticipation. The brightly coloured selection of fruit at the little market. The honey shop. The cranes by the river. The goats on what looked like a sports field. The men with their bicycles selling huge bunches of green bananas. The aid-agency land-cruisers – a different selection to Gulu or Bunia. The bank, looking just like a small-town, farming-centre South African bank. The crazy statue of Sir Gerald Portal. The round building on the hill, the purpose of which was never discovered. The food – some of the best in Uganda. The cold beer. The cool evening.

The Rwenzoris in the distance a path not taken. Early in the trip planning, we had been considering hiking in the Rwenzoris. I’m glad we didn’t because the path we chose was incredible, but the road not take always remains. One day I would like to go back and explore the “mountains of the moon”. One day.

It’s been a year since an incredible trip with incredible people into the heart of a place so often maligned, ignored and misunderstood. SADC has agreed to send troops into the DRC to enforce whatever peace is agreed upon. Rumours continue to surface of Rwandan and Ugandan involvement. Perhaps one day it will all be over and the eastern DRC will claim its position as a truly magical place to visit.

Perhaps I’ll go back. Perhaps I’ll go somewhere else. Waking up in the early hours of this morning, I could taste, again, the cool, just-rained air, the hotel sheets, the mosquito net, the excitement of that morning in Fort Portal. The edge of adventure. The anticipation of wonder.