Back in Disneyland

Apologies to those of you in South Africa who put a candle in your windows and sat up o' nights, waiting for a visit from the Hogga. Especially my old mate Peter in Durban, who came the closest of all to that rare treat - but for some unanswered e-mails we might well have shared a whisky or two. Next time for sure... anyway it was a whirlwind visit, prompted mostly by a job interview in Johannesburg and the need to supervise my unruly family, providing magisterial advice and helping them refresh their golf skills. And, incidentally, a good opportunity to introduce a new friend to my crazy relatives. She survived well I must say, although I had to watch her closely at Howick Falls when I am sure the notion of a swift leap and an end to the interminable Hodgson family discussions on immigration must have crossed her mind.

Not that the discussions were anything unusual of course. I have been annoying my family with this topic for almost a decade now and in fact have pretty much given up on trying to persuade them - but this time the advent of Dad and his gold mine at the end of the rainbow in Mozambique sparked a lot more debate. He has the endearing habit of multiplying theoretical gold ounces by the latest gold price and then delivering the total in a basso profundo voice ..."hundreds of millions of dollars"..., missing the point that the aforementioned ounces are still way underground and need a few millions to extract them. I was narrowly prevented from shoving him into the Falls by the presence of too many witnesses and the possibility that he may be right this time.

Still it was a good trip. Apart, that is, from the torture we suffered at the hands of the bunch of palookas running Joburg airport. Cunningly named "Equity" or something similar, they mainly seem to consist of a bunch of overall-clad victims of the bite of the tsetse fly, drifting somnolently around and occasionally shrieking to each other in various forms of vernacular. Our ordeal started on landing, when we had to sit in the plane for 20 minutes while some idiot, no doubt confused by the arrival of SAA on schedule, looked high and low for the aircraft steps. When these finally arrived, allowing us to escape the plane and the miserable 31 inch seat pitch that SAA crams passengers into, we stood on the tarmac in a huddle, whipped by an icy Highveld winter's wind and 5 degree temperatures, while the clowns on the ground went into shock at the realisation that we also needed a bus to get us across the airport to the terminal buildings. Another long delay and mild hypothermia, and then we had the unmitigated joy of standing for an hour and a half in the baggage carousel area waiting for our luggage, while goons drove little tractors around and hurled our suitcases about with malicious glee.

My European guest was still in shock when we finally escaped the airport, beating back the mass of touts, taxi drivers, mendicants and general layabouts that infest it, leaping into our rented Toyota and arriving on the R24 on a Friday morning when all the homicidal maniacs were obviously on their day out in their cars. A blizzard of hooting, tailgating and fist shaking Joburglars behind us, we arrived in Rivonia to check into our B&B and have a long overdue shower.

By the time I had nipped up to the Pick 'n Pay in Rivonia for some supplies, returned aghast at the deterioration in the suburb in the last few years and headed off to Joburg central for my job interview, we were almost ready to head back to London. Two hours in Friday rush hour traffic after the interview didn't help I must say and I decided to decline the job offer despite it being very good by SA standards.

Thank God that Natal was experiencing a beautiful winter. The South Coast was great, the Berg was awesome and we decided that I need to construct a lifestyle that will allow me to work in the First World and have extended holidays in SA. Three months a year will be perfect to spend with family back there, but I guess I have been in the UK too long now to go back to being a second class citizen amidst such chaos. I like the safety and structure in England, although the weather can be toxic. So consulting here in good old Blighty it is then, with extended trips to the Kingdom of the Zulu to see the beautiful Berg again - unless of course Dad really strikes it lucky and we become the next Oppenheimer family...