Leaving Swakop

The bus left at 07:30 and the driver found me sitting on the curb, bags packed and ready to go. We did the usual pickup from various hotels and guest houses and as the mini bus trundled around the quiet and empty streets I noticed all the shops which I’d have liked to have ambled around if I’d had the chance. There was Big Daddy’s Fashions for Women, Speedy Sports and my personal favourite The Deep Chic Boutique. The mini bus over flowed with towering and stocky Germans and I found myself back in the same seat squeezed tightly up against the window. This time, however, I was keeping a very firm grip on my purse. As we drove through the outskirts of the town, through the industrial estate and out into scrappy desert I thought about the last five weeks and decided it had been probably the most unfulfilling and disappointing holiday I have ever had. What I needed, I decided, was a holiday to get over my holiday. Deciding where I was going to go was as good a use of my time over the next few hours as anything. Warming to this new purpose I produced a map of the world in my head and diligently erased the African sub-continent. After this trip I had no intention of ever renewing my acquaintance with Africa again. Africa and I were done. Finito. My new edited version of the world made me feel remarkably better and still left me oodles of choice. More than I knew what to do with. But I decided my baseline criteria was clear - I wanted beach, palm trees and sunsets as standard and Mai Tais on tap, preferably delivered to my recliner along with chilled towels and a smile by a young and handsome waiter who didn’t look as if he was going to mug me. I wanted a bed you could lie in sideways and still not touch the edges if that was what took my fancy and I wanted breakfast cooked by someone else and served until midday with 27 different ways to have waffle. Langkwai sprung to mind or Mauritus or perhaps the Seychelles. Wherever it was I intended it to be a long, long way from Africa.