Having billeted the men I grab a bicycle rickshaw and make for the docks, instructing the driver Johnnie to take me to the Foreign Correspondents' Club and make it snappy. Regards, Fawcett.
Rounding the Cape of Good Hope we land on the Peninsular and head north via the Twelve Apostle mountain range to Llandudno (shome mishtake shurely, Jones?) Thence onto the British Settlement of Cape Town where we will hopefully secure some much needed rest and gain an opportunity to resupply our command before venturing on. I am obliged to admit to being somewhat exhausted. Regards Fawcett.
Climbing higher and yet higher we leave behind us the Zulu nation and enter the Transkei and Xhosa country. On top of a rocky outcrop we all stare quietly out to sea, a private moment that’s only broken by Geraint Jones who, with a faraway look in his eye insists at the top of his voice that he can see Wales. Poor deluded fool, the man is quite obviously a veritable imbecile. What? Carry on. Fawcett.
The next morning we awake refreshed in our rondavels and after a stout breakfast of a maize based type porridge we consult the Isangoma and request some guidance. The Witch Doctor insists that we are AbeLungu ‘foam from the sea’ and having thrown his sacred bones and made his divination suggests in no uncertain matter that we return from whence we came. Grabbing the surgeon who has by now regained consciousness, we decide to a man to beat a hasty retreat and exit stage right. Good God whatever next? Fawcett.
Reaching an outlying village we are greeted by the tribal elders and grass skirted, bare breasted girls who perform the umQhogoyo for us, a dance that involves the frantic shaking of the upper body. Conrad Witplonker, the company surgeon, is so overcome by this spectacle that the poor dear has to be sedated and sent to bed with no supper. What a to do? Regards Fawcett.
Our party has arrived safely after a somewhat stormy passage at the Kwazulu Natal paradise of the Eastern Cape. We were greeted by huge smiles coupled with the incessant banging of the talking drums. However, having not slept for over 40 hours, our humour is short on the ground. Tomorrow we head south, deeper into the wild coast and the unknown. May God preserve us all! Fawcett.
Dear Chums. Having so recently returned from the most superb National Beard and Moustache Championships in Lancaster USA, I find myself obliged to set off in pursuit of adventure and am heading once again for far away shores. I leave this very day, bound for the most mysterious of continents and intend exploring the Wild Coast of Africa’s Eastern Cape. Rest assured faithful friends that I shall return replete with tales of derring do and wonders seen! Warm regards. Fawcett.