The next part of Kevin’s story I uncovered by accident. On his Refugee Permit, I saw his address was listed as an orphanage. Which turned out to be in Johannesburg. I contacted them and they were most distressed to hear one of their children had died in such tragic circumstances. The director of the orphanage remembered Kevin and she had his file. She and his social worker had a conversation with me on speaker phone.
The official photo of Kevin from the orphanage
According to their file, Kevin was taken in on 17th May 2013. He was officially admitted 5 days later. He spoke little English and they had a translator help them put together his story.
Kevin told them he had no living parents. He had lived with his two uncles. Kevin said his uncles wanted him to sell drugs. He was brought to South Africa by one of the uncles. The story is vague, but we do know that Kevin lands up in South Africa alone. He speaks of being taken to a room where people are wearing doctor’s outfits. There appears to be a police raid. Kevin mentions a driver who was shot in the leg. The driver tells Kevin to flee. The next thing he is assisted by social workers, who place him in the orphanage. Kevin would be about 14 years old. At the orphanage, Kevin apparently learns to speak English quickly. But he frequently absconds – and is working for a man from the DRC.
A document in the file, written exactly to the day that he would take his life – 7 years earlier – Kevin expresses his wish to die. He tells the interpreter that he is tired of living. He has seen “too much things” in his life.
I’m assuming Kevin struggled to fit into routines. Or was perhaps being influenced by an outsider. He made the decision to leave the orphanage. To do that he had to provide an affidavit that he was an adult. Which he did. The orphanage had no choice but to release him.
There are two further notes on his file which relate to Kevin being admitted to hospital. He’s admitted to Thambo Memorial Hospital 28th May 2016 and to Helen Joseph Hospital 17th June 2016. Both instances record an issue with substance use. And both times Kevin absconded from the hospital.
There are three missing years for which I have been unable to account. He spent time in Gauteng. Possibly with family.
Kevin has an older sister who I’m led to believe arranged for him to move to Cape Town and stay in Joe Slovo township late 2019. He struggled to find work and apparently had to sell his smart phone to pay rent. Kevin was getting desperate. One afternoon in late January 2020, it seems he was standing at the end of Erica Road in Milnerton, exhausted from giving out C.V.’s, he was given a lift by a young man who would offer him a job the next day. A lifeline. A way out of his dire situation.
The person who offered Kevin a job was the young owner of a dog walking business in Milnerton, Cape Town. I met him and his partner – Tuesday 16th June 2020 (Youth Day) – when I went with Kevin’s brother, his wife, and my husband to collect Kevin’s possessions. Kevin had been sleeping in the garage and had not taken anything when he left.
Kevin out walking dogs
The appointment was for 11:00am. Kevin’s brother had asked this young man if he could pack up his sibling’s belongings himself so he might have closure. My reason for coming along was I hoped if we met in person, he would help me with Kevin’s story. He would hopefully know a lot more than I did.
Despite three polite texts to Kevin’s employer (8th June/11th June/15th June), and three to his partner, (same dates) asking if one, or other, or both of them – would meet me so I could help piece together Kevin’s life. There was zero response.
Hey, one of his employees had committed suicide. He might have been traumatised. I hoped that a one-on-one meeting, and almost two weeks later, enough time would have passed which would enable us to work together so I could tell Kevin’s story. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
This young man was late. Not a bit late either. No apology for that. He never expressed any condolences to Kevin’s family. Or even compassion. We were left standing in the street.
He went in – and came out – with Kevin’s possessions in a bag and placed it on the street in front of us. Kevin’s brother asked to be allowed to go to where Kevin had lived in the garage. This was declined.
Kevin’s brother explained there was a custom in his culture that required him to clean the space. A rite he wanted to do for Kevin’s family. The young man was unmoved. He turned his back and said – “I can’t entertain this anymore.” With that – he walked back into the property – and closed the gate. We stood outside in disbelief at the callous treatment we had just received!
Kevin had a way with dogs
Kevin’s boss had also kept someone (I think it was his mother) on a live call during part – or all – of the conversation. No idea how much she was listening to. Had I not heard her asking during a quiet impasse – “Is everything OK?”, we would never have known this was happening. And we most certainly, never consented to it.
My guess is that the next employee taking Kevin’s place was already living in the garage, and Kevin’s boss didn’t want us to know.
So, here’s what I know about Kevin’s time at the dog walking company. I spoke to customers who I made contact with via the Milnerton Neighbours Facebook groups. I followed up on people who had commented on my Facebook post. I found various bits of info online posted by the dog walking company. Kevin also kept a journal. Plus his family and friends had insight into his situation.
Kevin happy with dogs
It would seem Kevin worked for the dog walking company from late January/early February – until late May/early June 2020. The exact dates vary depending on who you speak to. Prior to that – according to the dog walking company’s Facebook page – he had been out of work and was desperate to earn an income.
From what dog owners told me, and according to the company Facebook page – services offered were – Dog Walking, Dog Training, Dog Hotel and Dog Washing. On a page called Pet Backers, this company claimed to walk 40 dogs a day. Dog owners told me they were charged R75 per dog for a walk. Dog walking services occurred Monday to Saturday. Just on the dog walking alone, the income could have been R3000.00 per day. My guess is, with the extras, the income could have been over R100K a month.
Here’s the rub. Kevin was paid – R500 a week – for a six day week. That’s R83 a day!
We know this is what Kevin was paid because this young man’s mother phoned Reverend Natalie after my visit with Kevin’s brother and said neither of us were to contact her son ever again. Apparently, her son was being made to look bad. Not sure by whom. She confirmed the salary to Reverend Natalie on the phone. Kevin’s boss also told the four of us in the street that’s what he was paid. And e-wallet payments on the phone showed Kevin’s weekly income.
Kevin kept a journal. He wrote his duties and hours in this journal. He started walking dogs from 06:00am to 09:00am during Hard Lock Down. After Lock Down was relaxed, he walked dogs until 10:00am. That’s up to four hours of walking – with up to 10 dogs at a time. Six days a week.
But that’s not all. After that, he had to feed the dogs, wash and fill bowls, pick up poop, fill holes, fix fences, put out bins, wash dogs . . . he actually said in his journal he had to “Give all”.
Excerpt from Kevin’s diary indicating his work hours
If he had spare time, he worked for family or friends of the dog walking company.
I believe Kevin worked long days. A friend of his said as much to me.
Every single one of the dog owners spoke of Kevin’s soft, gentle, nature. One woman said she asked him to be bolder when rattling the gate so he could be heard when he arrived. Kevin never did make more noise. He was described as a dog whisperer. He could apparently walk up to 5 large dogs on each arm. People stopped him in the streets to take photos of this feat.
Dog owners say their fur babies loved him. One woman said her dog did back flips when she saw Kevin. He would take them swimming at Milnerton lagoon. Throw sticks for them. And talk to them. They always listened to him. He never shouted or pulled his dogs. When he stopped and asked them to sit, they obeyed him. Even when people with dogs passed, the dogs he was walking were well behaved. He clearly had a way with animals.
Some owners indicated they were not satisfied with the services of Kevin’s boss. He wasn’t always reliable. Kevin was, they told me, the best thing to happen to the company. They also mentioned that the company had a history of dog walkers coming and going. The impression I got was vulnerable people would be employed and then eventually leave. Kevin’s suicide is what caused people to ask questions. To come forward and speak to me.
Kevin’s goals from his diary
People described Kevin as well dressed, good looking, bright, hardworking, and ambitious. A friend said he had hoped to get his paperwork in order and make enough money to move to Australia.
Some dog owners said their pets had gone quiet since Kevin had died. One woman said of her dog, “It’s as if she knows”.
Born 30th August 1999 Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of Congo
Died 4th June 2020 Cape Town, South Africa
Tribute by Karen Louise Fletcher
A young Kevin second from left
Let me start this by saying I did not know Kevin. His suicide had a profound impact on me. I wanted his story to be told – so I shared a Facebook post.
Which went viral – 2300 Shares. It got 241 Comments!
A friend of mine – Reverend Natalie Angela Barnard of St Andrews Presbyterian Church in Somerset Road, Cape Town – lives at the end of Monastery Road, a cul-de-sac in Sea Point, Cape Town. Kevin ended his life by hanging himself with a dog leash on the fence outside her house at 11:13am on Thursday 4th June 2020.
The Facebook post
Kevin had been in Sea Point earlier and reached out to a young man who was walking two Labradors past the house. This guy had a music ball and was playing with his charges while Kevin stood by. Kevin indicated he was in distress and needed help. Reverend Natalie went to look out the front door and saw the young man with the Labradors.
She didn’t see Kevin.
A neighbour may have been concerned, as it’s usually a very quiet street, and alerted crime prevention. It’s also possible that crime prevention was aware of someone with no purpose in the cul-de-sac as there’s a video camera looking out to that exact spot. They came past and chatted to the men.
I traced the man with the dogs. He said he was nervous of being near a stranger due to Covid-19. He directed Kevin to the local police station and left. Video footage showed him pointing in the direction of Sea Point, SAPS (South African Police Services). Crime prevention found this man later still walking the dogs, recognised him, and alerted him to Kevin’s suicide.
He has been struggling with agonising guilt at not realising the extent of Kevin’s anguish.
I also spoke to the crime prevention company. They said their guys had asked Kevin to move on. Kevin said he wasn’t moving. He had nowhere to go. They could call the police, beat him up. He didn’t care anymore. The security staff in the van opted to leave him alone as he wasn’t causing a disturbance.
About 20 minutes later, Reverend Natalie heard noise again and went to see what was going on. She saw the crime prevention vehicles were back. And what she thought was a man standing next to her fence. It was the body of Kevin hanging with his head to one side and his one leg slightly bent. Crime prevention phoned SAPS, who called the medics. When they were removing his body, she asked if they were sure it was a suicide and the medical officer said he was sure. Video camera footage had captured Kevin’s last moments which is how we know the exact time his soul left his body.
Reverend Natalie and myself saw the footage a few days later and it’s clear – Kevin was going to take his life. Why did he choose that exact spot? He had a dog leash, a current refugee permit, a notepad, a basic mobile phone, a C.V. and a bible in his backpack. No jacket. No snacks. No money. His backpack was almost empty.
His only means of taking his life was the single dog leash he had in his possession.
Most houses have solid concrete walls or electric fencing. The house Reverend Natalie lives in, has a fence that was high enough, a means to hook the dog leash, and was in a quiet spot.
The spot where Kevin took his life
We could see from the video footage that Kevin would have found another place to end his short life if circumstances at Reverend Natalie’s house were not conducive to it. He put his bag down across the road. Paced. Looked at the fence. Held up the dog leash to check the height. He sat down on the pavement. He spoke to himself. A lot. Reverend Natalie and I think he was praying. Then he took off his cap and put it beside him on the pavement. Kevin put the leash around his neck but couldn’t quite hook it at the top of the fence. So, he removed the leash and jumped, hooking the dog leash to the top of the fence. He then wiggled between the streetlight and the fence to slide his head into the loop. He jumped down. Kevin could have saved himself. All he needed to do was stand on his tip toes. But he didn’t. He pulled his legs up. Kevin wanted to go. He was tired of life. It took no more than 5 minutes. Movement ceased. It was all over.
SAPS spoke to Reverend Natalie, and I spoke to crime prevention who had seen the video footage. The consensus was emphatic – it was a suicide. No foul play.
I needed to find out how he got to a point of no return.
Reverend Natalie found him still warm and prayed for his soul during the time various departments were outside her house attending to the situation. She promised him a proper funeral.
He was removed by mortuary services about 3 hours after his demise. It’s not the first time Reverend Natalie has encountered someone who has passed on, but one thing she said was – he looked so peaceful. She also said Kevin was thin.
Kevin walking dogs
Kevin was a Congolese national with a valid refugee permit for South Africa. He had no criminal record.
He was 21 years old.
I heard the story from Reverend Natalie later that evening – which led to my emotional Facebook post.
So many people had been in dire straits during Lock Down. Lots of fellow Africans do not qualify for grants, UIF, TERS or welfare in South Africa. Food aid has been politicised with non-South Africans excluded from assistance schemes. Borders are closed. Non-South Africans couldn’t go back home, where at least family or friends would help. And the thing is, these fellow Africans came to South Africa because their home countries were war torn. They came to South Africa for a better life!
Kevin was born to Ilunga Kongolo Lutumba (father) and Mbiya Mufuta Jeanine (mother) in Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of Congo. It’s at the lower end of the DRC close to the Zambian border.
Kevin lost his mother when he was an infant. Kevin’s mother was not his father’s only wife. He had an older wife before her. Kevin was her only child. My understanding is Kevin has 7 older siblings scattered between the Democratic Republic of Congo, Mozambique, and South Africa.
Kevin with dogs
There is confusion relating to Kevin’s early life and it’s a source of much distress to the brother I met. What is apparent is there wasn’t the closest relationship between Kevin and his relatives. Kevin went to live with his mother’s brothers John and Papi Isula. Kevin’s siblings remember him coming to stay with his father for a few days at a time, but they were much older than him. Some had already relocated from the DRC. Contact was intermittent. Infrequent. Kevin’s contact details were not always consistent. At times, he was without a phone.
This experience changed me forever. I have heard horror stories regarding customs and immigration officials before, but you know how it is when someone tells a story. It’s not happening to you and so you laugh, or sympathise, or whatever is appropriate, and move on to the next subject.
The background to this story is that my now husband, at this time he was my civil partner, does contract work in the oil industry. He holds a British passport and his family live in the UK, but he grew up in South Africa and we have a home together in Cape Town.
Banksy’s wall art in London
I travel back and forth so we can spend time together. As a South African passport holder, back then, we were commonwealth members and eligible to come to the UK for a maximum period of 6 months without a visa.
My partner had been working hard in Scotland and had planned for me to join him in the UK. From there we were heading off to Croatia for a few weeks holiday before he went back to work, and shortly after, I would return to South Africa.
Temple Wood stone circle
I duly arrived at Heathrow Airport and we spent a night or two in London with his aunt. Next we flew from Gatwick Airport to Dubrovnik where we had a wonderful holiday. On our return my partner went through immigration via the ‘UK Passport Holders’ section and I went where ‘All Other Passport Holders’ go.
St Pancras Station where the Eurostar departs
As I handed my passport to the woman helping me she asked why I had come to the UK only to leave a few days later. I explained. This wasn’t good enough for her. The questioning went on and on and the more I tried to explain the less this woman would hear me. I asked her what the problem
was. What had I done wrong? Then she became downright rude. She said that I couldn’t come and go as I pleased and she knew “my sort”. She threatened to deport me. To say I was shocked and upset would be a complete understatement.
I’m sorry to say that the situation actually got even worse. I explained to her that my partner would be worrying about where I was. She then told me that . . . . if my partner wanted me to be with him . . . . . he would have married me.
I may come from Africa, which is viewed as third-world by some, but I have never been spoken to like that back home.
Narrow boating on the canals in Cheshire
I was ordered to sit. This woman helped the next person to arrive and ignored me. And she helped the next person. And the next . . . .
I sat there. And sat. And sat.
Eventually my other half realised something was wrong and started looking for me. He made his way back into immigration trying to find me. I saw him and got up to wave and let him know I was stuck and no-one was helping me. This woman ordered me to sit back down.
My husband realised there was a problem, found someone in authority and had a word. The person my husband spoke to came let me go. She suggested I get a multi-entry visa in future. Which I did.
My story is not unique. I know plenty South Africans who have had harrowing ordeals at the hands of the UK Border Control staff. I can’t help but notice that people who hold passports from so called ‘first world’ countries have far less of a problem than those who have other passports.
Covent Garden London
But I have heard even worse stories from people who have traveled to the USA. Being a member of the ‘first world’ passport holders club doesn’t help there. My husband missed a flight because he stood in a queue for so long, despite allowing more than the required time to board his flight. Meanwhile his cousin had a similar tale in a USA immigration queue. Babies were going without their feeds and diabetics were collapsing from waiting so long to move through immigration. Both have vowed never to set foot in the USA ever again.
Which begs the question, why would countries treat enthusiastic visitors with such disdain? I realise that many countries face huge problems with immigrants entering illegally. I understand these immigrants take jobs and benefits from people. But scaring off visitors or family members who come to spend money is hardly the way to go about solving the problem. Many people are too scared to visit the UK or USA because of other people’s horror stories. The balance of power is shifting and many ‘third world’ countries have stronger economies and visitors with money to spend. A debt strapped country could surely benefit from visitors.
I’ve come to the conclusion that there are a handful of people with a little bit of power and they totally misuse it. What would have happened if I had traveled alone, if my partner wasn’t British and if he hadn’t rescued me? I suspect if that woman had her way I would have been deported.
Cardiff Castle
So how did this change me? My partner and I got married. We try to arrive in the UK together. My husband always comes through ‘All Other Passport Holders’ section together with me now. Apparently Brits can enter any side they want.
We also make sure I travel with every possible document and all our travel information at hand so I am best able to answer the questions designed to trick you, even after a 13 hour long-haul flight and 24 hours of no sleep. It is now compulsory for South Africans to enter the UK with a visa but we made sure I had one before they became necessary.
Central London at night
I no longer view the UK as the land of my ancestors. My grandfather and my parent’s uncles on both sides of my family fought in two world wars for Britain. Lives were lost in my family for Britain. Marriages unraveled and children grew up without their fathers who believed they were doing their bit for Britain. But the descendants of these brave men are clearly not welcome in the UK.
Crinan Marina Scotland
I expected that people in a first world countries would be well behaved or at the very least civil and hold progressive views. Boy was I wrong.
I went to India at a time in my life when I needed to make big changes. It was a time to reflect and reassess. I booked a three week package tour with Imaginative Traveller which covered the Golden Triangle. An area that includes famous cities such as Delhi, Udaipur, Jaipur, etc . .
Indian sweets on sale for Diwali – highly addictive and sublime
I arrived in India, did the usual immigration routine on disembarking and went to collect my luggage. The conveyor belt went round and people collected their luggage.
One quirk about Indians is they wrap their possessions in a blanket and tie it with rope. Plenty of those went past, but not my luggage. Eventually there was no-one left in the hall but me. The conveyor belt was going round and round with the last few bags, but my bag wasn’t on it.
Imaginative Traveler had arranged a collection for me at the airport. So much time had lapsed I was worried the shuttle bus would go without me. I made enquiries about my bag and the next thing my bag appeared. I remain suspicious about why my bag took so long to come out – especially after what happened on my last day in India.
Beautiful old buildings
When I finally got out the airport, of course, there was no shuttle bus. Fortunately most people in the cities in India speak English. I went back into the airport to the information desk. They arranged with Imaginative Traveller that a taxi would collect me. I missed the welcome and briefing but at least I was with the tour group.
Someone told me to be prepared for great beauty and harsh poverty in India. They were right. I always thought we had poverty in South Africa but India was truly shocking. However, the rich culture and history make India an absolutely fascinating and enchanting destination.
The Indians are friendly to fault and will follow you
One couple in the tour group had real rubbish luck. They were robbed and she broke her foot on a walkabout. Yip, $#!t happens even on holiday. I managed to avoid the dreaded Delhi Belly for all but the last three days of the tour. I got brave and ate away from the recommended places one night. Big mistake. It’s one way to lose weight.
When the time came to go home, my room-mate and I agreed to share a trip to the airport. She arranged the deal and was I happy to pay half. A really young boy collected us. He asked if I was flying Indian Air and it sounded about right so I said yes. I was flying to South Africa and my room-mate was flying to Australia. Turned out we were going to different airports. Did I question why we were taking international flights from different airports? No, I didn’t.
Colonial legacy – hunting trophies on the wall.
I should have taken out my ticket and had a look. My ticket was actually for Air India. Indian Air. Air India. They sound similar but as I was to find out, they are very different. I thought this guy knew what he was doing.
It soon became apparent this guy wasn’t authorised to drive us. I have no idea how my room-mate found him. At the very first check point there was a hellava argument between our driver and the authorities. I suspect our driver bribed the officer. At every check point after that we went through the same palaver.
Exquisite historic buildings were our accommodation
After he dropped my room-mate this boy was anxious to get rid of me. He disposed of me at the “airport” and was gone for dust.
I quickly discovered this “airport” was closed. There was no-one there except for a guard. Much later I realised that it must be an air force base. What was this kid thinking dropping me there? I don’t think he thought anything and I doubt he was old enough to drive. Who knows if it was even his vehicle? He saw a gap to make money off me. And the officers at the check points were making money off him.
Tourist travel option
Meanwhile I was alone in the middle of nowhere with a flight to catch. I approached the guard to help me. He saw a lost foreign woman alone and a chance to make money. He would only help me if I paid him. Then I saw a tuk-tuk coming along the road and raced toward it with my bags. I asked the driver to take me to the airport. This guy wanted some outrageous sum of money. I opened my purse and showed him what money I had. All of a sudden that amount was fine.
A welcome flower necklace at one of the castles
While we putted along in this tuk-tuk I was having a major panic. I feared we would be late and I feared this tuk-tuk would never even get there. I had no idea where I was or where I was going.
I got to the airport with the minimum time in hand. At check-in they demanded airport taxes. This had not been mentioned by Imaginative Traveller or the travel agent. Both had given me detailed information about India and the trip. I don’t believe that airport tax was actually due. But these guys were adamant they wanted money and if I wanted to go home I had to pay up. It’s not like I had a lot of time to argue. They knew I had no more money and pointed me to forex to change money so I could pay them off. So much for the country that invented karma?
Once on the plane I was relieved to be going home. One other quirk about Indians soon emerged. Apparently it’s not necessary to use the toilet bowl to relieve oneself. The entire room is good enough. Half way through the flight, the toilets were un-usable. No food or drink for me.
Sacred cows roaming the streets
India was a special place where I did a lot of thinking and decision making. Many positive changes in my life came from my time there. But my memories are tainted by the last people I had dealings with, who so blatantly ripped me off. Those dashing, chivalrous, Indian heroes that we read about? Some villainous Indians too I’m afraid.
My advice is only travel India with a well known tour operator. I was fine the entire time I was with the group. Its was my trips at the start and finish where I encountered problems.
For more Holiday Horror Stories you can go to – My Holidays and Trips – at the top of this page to read about other places we have visited.
My maiden voyage on the European canals was when we did the Cheshire Ring in England, 2007. We hired a narrow boat called Ramsdell from – Heritage narrow boats – and began our journey from Congleton where they were based.
The picturesque and tranqil country canals
Canal boats mostly cruise along the canals through the countryside. You pass through pretty villages and it’s all very relaxed and laid back. The only minor effort required is when you move through a lock. Locks are the waterway equivalent of an elevator. To move up, you open a lock, drive the boat in one end and allow the lock to fill with water. The boat rises with the water, and you drive the boat out the other end at a higher level.
Greenie on an aqueduct
It’s the same process going down, only it works vice versa. Once I got the hang of opening and closing the locks that became my job. Things were going well.
The Cheshire Ring has quite a few locks which you manage yourself. Some countries have lock keepers and fixed times to move through locks. On the Cheshire Ring, you can pass through these locks any time of the day although it is not recommended that you cruise at night. Opening and closing a lock doesn’t require great strength but you do need the British Waterways equipment to be able to lift bridges, access water points and open some of the locks.
Moored up after Manchester
Our guide book gave suggested routes and distances to cover and we followed them. Except we did the trip in double the recommended time. The book strongly advised boaters not to over-night in Manchester as there had been instances of vandalism and hooliganism. That meant we would have to do 27 locks in one day. Significantly more than we were averaging. We moored right outside the intended first lock in Portland Basin. We planned to get going with the first lock of the day at sunrise.
Getting ready to knock in pegs to tie up for the night
We woke to a miserable, wet day. It was the last thing we needed. But by midday with 18 locks under our belts, we were looking forward to finding a mooring spot for the night. We were a great team. Or so we thought. Straight after our lunch stop at Piccadilly Basin we carried on in the pouring rain to the last nine locks – The Rochdale Nine. Our afternoon from hell began.
Somewhere on the Cheshire Ring
The rain had filled the canal to such an extent that the locks were overflowing. The water simply wasn’t draining. Manchester has tamperproof gear on each lock. The extra steps involved in removing the tamper proofing made the process complicated, laborious and time consuming. I suspect the tamper proofing may have been tampered with.
The Rochdale Nine are double-width locks. They have larger heavier gates at each end as opposed to single-width gates. Because the gates are so heavy, they have a complicated chain winding system to move them. I could not get the chain system to work.
A really remote mooring
The canal plunges into a dark and gloomy underground area. Lurking there was a chap who was mentally handicapped. He was hell bent on “helping” me. As fast as I was trying to open the locks, he was closing them. I would run back and re-open the lock and ask him not to close them. He insisted on “helping” me. It was hopeless.
Macclesfield Canal
One of us had to drive the boat. The other had to figure out how to open the locks and tell this bloke firmly to leave us alone. There were only two of us. I had never driven a boat in my life.
I had let my husband do all the driving, but now, all of a sudden, I had to learn how to drive, steer and manoeuvre this boat. The other option was to spend the night in Manchester, which wasn’t an option.
The last lock before the end of our trip
We battled our way through these locks in relentless rain. Halfway through the Rochdale Nine my husband figured out that we could pass through the locks by only opening one gate. This helped speed up our transit time. My boat handling improved and we eventually passed through all nine locks by nightfall. We tied up in Castlefield Basin. Both of us were physically and emotionally drained, bedraggled and cold.
The rest of our trip along the Macclesfield Canal which followed from the Rochdale was a pleasure and we took turns driving the boat. I guess had it not been for the Rochdale Nine, I would probably not have tried to steer the boat.
Most holidays turn out well, but every once in a while something goes wrong. And sometimes things go horribly wrong.
My other half and I originally planned to visit Madagascar but we had to change our plans when the country was gripped by political uprising. So we chose to visit the island of Zanzibar instead.
We flew from Cape Town to Johannesburg. The next leg of the flight was to Dar es Salaam. We noticed the Air Tanzania flight changed to Nationwide Air, but we weren’t concerned.
We duly arrived in Dar es Salaam and waited for the final flight to Zanzibar. No one called our flight and we were never issued with a boarding pass. We did ask, but were told not to worry.
When the flight was ready to leave we joined a large group of people on the runway. A pile of luggage was lying next to
the plane and we were asked to identify ours. A group of guys hauled the bags up on the plane. We picked any old seat and off we went on the very same airplane. If I didn’t know better I would say that flight was a free for all.
We arrived at Zanzibar airport outside Stone Town and waited for our shuttle bus. It hadn’t arrived. There was a fleet of mini buses and their operators hanging about offering to drive us to our hotel at exorbitant prices but we had pre-booked and paid for a shuttle bus so we declined. And waited.
We waited forever. It was dark, the airport was closing for the night and the taxi drivers were going home. One bloke asked if he could take us to our hotel. He said not to worry; he would sort out the bill for our transfer with the hotel. We nervously agreed.
He walked right past all the mini buses and on to the most wrecked car I have ever seen in my life. We had grave doubts about this car but he helped us in and off we went.
Our driver required a permit to transport us, which he didn’t have. So first he had to get one. We went to a place that issues permits and our driver disappeared leaving us alone in the car for ages. Once his permit was sorted, we resumed our journey.
The roads in Zanzibar are horrific. This bloke was weaving the car from the far left of the road right across to the extreme right to dodge not potholes, but huge big craters. We passed through countless check points. The permit was scrutinised and the authorities would waive us on.
We had no idea where we were going. There was not a single sign indicating distance or our destination. Zanzibar doesn’t have street lights. And, that’s not all; children, villagers and animals were wandering all over the road. It wasn’t just dark, it was pitch dark.
But our night was far from over. We noticed a burning smell and smoke coming from the engine. The driver kept stopping to have a look. It soon became clear, this car wasn’t going anywhere.
The driver decided he had to find his cousin. He kept assuring us that he would get us to the hotel but first, he had to find this cousin. We took another detour to a village and sat alone in the back of the car – again.
Unable to locate his cousin, our driver gave up. He got the car going and we limped on with smoke belching from the engine. Neither of us had cell phones as roaming hadn’t been invented.
We honestly believed we would never get to our hotel that night. Our fears were also that something more sinister could happen to us in deepest, darkest Africa and no-one would ever know.
The next thing, the cousin drove past, in a great big shiny mini bus. Our driver waved and hooted to stop him. We climbed out of the beleaguered car and into the taxi. Our driver left his cousin on the side of the road with the old car, and took us to our hotel. It’s possible that a cousin could also be a friend in Zanzibar.
True to his word, our driver sorted out the cost of the trip with the hotel. Would you believe the hotel had kept the restaurant open? They served us a really late supper.
I am going to skip the details of our stay in Zanzibar but I will say it is, well it was back then, completely unspoiled. No shopping malls, no entertainment centres and no vendors of plastic tourist tat. We relaxed on home-made loungers, swam in the shallow, warm ocean, ate limited local fare at the restaurant and took moonlit strolls along the beach. Zanzibar is the place to chill and be still.
The day before our return, our hotel confirmed our Air Tanzania flight, gave us a confirmation number, and organised a shuttle bus. All good.
We checked out early that morning and got to the airport with plenty time in hand. I do need to point out that Zanzibar airport has a chalkboard for its flights – if there are any for the day. The parking area outside is gravel and there is no cafeteria inside. It is by far the most rustic airport I have ever been to. As we made our way to the front door a lady told us there was no flight that day. We almost laughed. We had a ticket and a confirmation number, how could she say that?
A few more people arrived for the flight and she told them the same thing. We protested but she was unmoved. When the time for our flight came, and went, we realised she might be right. Now we wanted to know how we were supposed to get home. Another couple also planning to fly that morning had kept their driver with them. They let us share a lift into Stone Town to find the Air Tanzania offices.
Air Tanzania told us – there was no flight. So much for Air Tanzania flight schedules. The next flight out would be later that evening. The driver agreed to collect us and the other couple later.
By now we had spent almost all our money. Meanwhile we had an entire day to kill. I recall sitting on a cup of coffee for hours at one of the hotels. We walked around the dusty city of Stone Town until our feet ached.
The driver collected us at the end of the day and we returned to the airport where a fair size group were all waiting to leave the island. Sitting at the airport I noticed Air Tanzania airplanes on the runway. They did not look good. One plane was lying on its side and the rest were rusting and falling apart. My next fear was actually flying on one of those planes.
Then we saw a Nationwide Air plane come in to land. We were hungry, desperate for a shower and relieved to be going home. Our flight arrived in Johannesburg too late for the last connecting flight to Cape Town. Air Tanzania put us up in a hotel and took care of all transfers and costs. We finally arrived home in Cape Town a day later.
Would I go back to Zanzibar? In a heartbeat. It’s one of the few unspoiled places left on earth. But now I know that first world travel is not going to happen and I would probably do the trip as part of a group.
