The Captain's Journal: November 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
On entering the building that’s still somewhat resplendent, albeit in its faded glory I espy at the end of the terrace a famed gunrunner known to his pals as Panama Jack. Now if you have never been to Panama then you won’t know Jack. Fawcett.
Taking a small mirror from my waistcoat pocket I apply a liberal lashing of my patent pomade to my hirsute upper lip and step tentatively toward the bar. Here goes... Fawcett.
Leaving the Goan coast behind us. We wend our weary way toward the foothills of the Western Ghats...
Both communication and supply lines are stretched to the limit. Will attempt expedition update on our arrival at British base in Ooty.
Fittums! There is talk of freezing precipitation on the British Isles. Base in Ooty uncomfortably warm today.
Ooty Club: God knows how the world is shrinking. Picking up a three week old telegraph I read the terribly sad news that old Blinky Blenkinsop has failed in his bid to solo the Eiger! It is rumoured he lost two of his trusted sherpas in the attempt! Terrible shame. What?
I say! My wax may be reviewed soon by the Moustache Mafia. And they seem to know their onions!
Today we are leaving (Ooty) where we all had a chance of a decent nights rest, were able to resupply and had an opportunity to catch up on news and read telegrams of support from our patrons and loved ones back in Blighty. I was delighted to open a food parcel from Fortnums, which contained amongst its delicacies my preferred anchovy paste. Tip Top! C.F.