I'd love to say it was fired by me at this continent which has given me a fair amount of grief over the past few months, but in actual fact it was by the South African authorities.
But before we get onto that, it is worth saying a few words about my last week in the far south west corner of Africa. Cape Town itself would be wonderful if it was just a little bit safer. It would obviously be a bit different if I was living there because a) I would not have to walk around on my own, b) I would not want to, and c) I wouldn't even consider doing so, because I would have a car. Having said that it is just such a mission getting anything done without being hassled by someone. And whereas in Malawi and Mozambique and other places they never wish you any harm, the guys who come up to you in Cape Town literally try and steal from you as soon as it becomes clear they are going to get nothing for free. I just don't like places where fear prevents people from doing as they wish; and that is one thing about South Africa - everyone, black and white, is scared.
Nevertheless, I managed to place myself back in comfortable, safe surroundings by embarking on a tremendously touristy tour with a group of American and Canadian tourists who had just been in Cape Town for a week. They were thus amazed by my stories of different countries, and the fact that I had seen many giraffes (I didn't tell them how giraffes just send me to sleep now. Ridiculous animals; they have that really long neck, yet spend most of the time eating off the ground.) and my whale-spotting ability earned me a kind of pied piper-like status.
However, this was quickly quashed when they became annoyed at me for throwing stones at baboons and ostriches they were trying to take photos of. I told them that I was bored of baboons and hated the noise they made, and that an ostrich once stole my dinner and attempted to break into my room so I was no longer very enamoured by them either. I think it was the final straw when I told them I was bored of Nelson Mandela now, shortly before having a doze whilst we stopped to look at a couple of Zebras ("Oh my Gaaaad! Is that a baby zeeebra!?!" said one particularly overweight yank). We didn't part the trip on the best of terms.
Not that I minded - I got my required picture at Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope and saw my first penguins in Africa, as well as a school of over two hundred dolphins, so it was all good times. And more importantly, returning to my hostel there was a good group of English 'lads' there as well as a few always-welcome cute Scandanavian girls, which meant we could properly test out the night life - supposed to be the best south of the Equator. Moreover, I was perfectly happy walking home in the early hours because there was no way I was going to ever have any money left for anyone to steal (although beers in clubs still only cost R20 - about £1.70).
So I ended my trip ridiculously hungover, just looking forward to seeing a few high intensity but low intellect action films on the plane back. I was all ready to part the country with all my nice memories (despite even being mugged by an ATM on my way to the airport, which managed to charge me R400 but only gave me R340, which clearly I enjoyed) but the immigration officials would not led me leave the country without showing me last one example of why their country is going to need an awful lot of hard work and time to get sorted out.
Being escorted to my plane by the police obviously helps, in that it means there are no queues to speak of. But it does mean missing out on duty free shopping, enjoying that last bit of leg room and a few minutes of analysing who you would like to not sit next to on the plane. But I didn't really mind missing out on those things, because it's not every day you get thrown out of a country.
I got thrown out because I had apparently entered the country illegally and overstayed my visa (I thought that was an impossible combination, but then this is TIA). Which I hadn't, it was just that the stamps in my passport have become so muddled by stamp-happy immigration officials that you couldn't actually see the relevant stamp. And the Mozambican customs just put their visa sticker over about four stamps, which was obviously helpful.
Apparently coming from Swazliand I got no entry stamp, and they refused to allow me to point to where the stamp actually was (merged with Zanzibar port authority and Namibian exit stamp) because I had broken the law and despite my assertations to the contrary, they informed me that I had no rights since I was now apparently a criminal. I think Habeas Corpus and the whole 'innocent until proven guilty' thing might not have got that far south.
I was a bit worried that I was to be refused boarding onto my flight, but had no such issues. After I had been taken to a side room (where I thought I was going to be beaten/mugged but it seems luck was with me at that point) where I was given a form to present at the South African Embassy in London (who will decide whether I am to be allowed back into SA) I was actually one of the first on the plane, which was cool.
The only real drawback from the experience is I have to pay quite a lot of money if I ever want to go back to South Africa. Which is no big deal at the moment, but there are some beautiful places I would like to go back to. But to be honest I think I'll just fly to Maputo and go from there. After all, I've apparently entered the country illegally once, so I should have no trouble doing it again.
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