1982 Israel & Egypt, Kibbutz Grofit Labourer and Sinai Trek

Strong volunteer Manfred wrote, "Arbeit Macht Frei" on his bed foot-board. His father had been a Nazi lager warder, and Manfred did penance for him. Volunteers did all sorts of work, and Moshe shuffled jobs, stopping boredom and kibbutznik volunteer friction. We packed guitar-strings in a guitar-string factory, while kibbutzniks made guitar-strings. I passed welding tools to Moshe. I unloaded girders from a truck with Jacob. We unpacked chicken-house equipment from containers. In date-palm groves, we climbed date-palms, cutting off green spikes on palm leaves, stopping sun-hardened spikes jabbing date-pickers. Leah worked in the laundry, gardens and onion fields.

Some volunteers machine-milked Friesland cows in a dairy. Cattle lived permanently on a fenced concrete-slab, with an iron roof to one side for sun-protection. As there was no grass, cattle were fed lucerne, hay and nutrient pellets. Extra milk was sent to nearby Yotvata kibbutz, which processed milk into dairy products. We drank much yoghurt. Yotvata Hai Bar Reserve preserved desert oryxes, but not Palestinians. When tomatoes ripened, we packed tomatoes at Yotvata, and ate ethane-ripened tomatoes.

Grofit onions and dates were computer-controlled, plastic-pipe irrigated. Jackals chewed holes in pipes and drank fertilised water. (Later in SA, we saw Israeli computer-controlled irrigation- systems). When we worked in the onion packing-shed, sorting, grading and packing onions, we all cried. Leah, allergic to onion juice, cried most of all. There were several onion juice allergies, so toilet rolls for sniffers hung at points along conveyors. Poms laughed at Leah's accent when she wailed, "Mah arse!" when rubbing her eyes. Using an overhead suspended sewing-machine, Leah sewed at the end of the production line, where she received full onion bags, conveyed from a hopper.

Outside the shed where I liked working, groaning tractors tipped onions onto wide, clanking conveyors, where onions bounced along upside-down to a grate, where rotary-blades cut green leaves. Besides tractor-conveyor-cutter-cacophany, a loudspeaker blared disco music. There was only one earmuff-set to protect outside workers. The noisy packing-shed left me with insidious nerve-deafness, which would remind me of Israel for the rest of my life. But I would only realize that years later.

Manfred palletized full bags, then fork-lifted them onto trucks for export. Once Manfred threw Negev sand in the air shouting, "I haf Holy Land saints in my hairs." After work, we boozed Goldstar beer on our stoep. When afternoons lengthened, Leah and I hitched to Eilat, as Egged buses were rare along Eilat Road. Thorn trees and Jericho Roses battled to grow in wadis, which stretched out from valley-wall rock fans.

Across Gulf Waters, we saw ships taking materials to Aqaba for the Iran-Iraq war. Eilat had shops, hotels, Israelis, outcast Arabs, topless sunbathers and troops, as Israel was returning Sinai to Egypt. White UN vehicles whizzed about, bulging with Uzi toting soldiers. At hitching places, soldiers strutted to queue fronts, as lifts for soldiers were a priority over tourist or civvie hitchers.

Marginalized Arab youths, practising their English, were aggressive when rebuffed. If we strolled a street, checked out a bloody street -shambles, lay on a beach, sat on a park bench, Arabs hassled us. Souk merchants said, "Hello, welcome, what's your name? What language you speak?" We spoke Afrikaans or Fanagalo, while discussing prices, to block Arabs.

For our Sinai trek, we loaded barbeque-wood into a kibbutz bus, as there was no firewood in the desert. South of Eilat, down the Red Sea coast, we camped at an oasis, and barbequed under date-palms by a ruined Turkish fort near the coral beach. Bedouin men arrived from a settlement, begging water and food. Their water-truck, which Sinai kibbutzniks filled weekly, was empty.

A barefoot Bedouin woman arrived with her goats. Kibbutzniks gave her nothing. Her nearby tent was black. Long sleeves and collar of her black robe were embroidered red. A black mask decorated with coins hid her mouth, a black scarf covered her head. Her earrings also dangled coins.

Two Bedouin men, dressed in white jelabiyehs and keffiyehs, squatted by our campfire. Smiling- Bedou fanned the flames with his jelabiyeh. Beg-Bedou, unsheathing a curved dagger from his belt said, "Trade my knife for your watch!"

"Sorry," I said, stroking my throat. "We need to catch Egged buses on time... Coffee?"

Smiling-Bedou drew "UN" on sand then said, "Brrrmmm!" and ham-acted steering a car. They didn't know Israel was returning Sinai to Egypt. We explained.

Beg-Bedou said, "Every date-palm owned by Bedouin. These palms - ours." After coffee, we gave them our firewood. They left, and sang under their date-palms, beside their fire. We fell asleep, listening to their camel munching palm-leaves.

We picnicked at dirty Nuweiba port, and admired desert views - red, grey, brown rocks and sand. Dry turds littered town. Israelis were leaving...

We bussed to palm-hutted Dahab and its ganga smoking dropouts...

At Ras Nasrany, we climbed a stony hill. Saudi Arabia coastline shimmered across Tiran Strait. An Israeli soldier strolled up, pointing his Uzi saying, "See Tiran Islands there. They caused the Six Day War. Nasser's Egyptians blockaded Israeli shipping going through Tiran Strait into Aqaba Gulf. Egypt remilitarized Sinai. Israelis took Sinai during that war. Now we must return them to Egypt. For fifteen years Israelis have settled kibbutzim in Sinai. Now we must leave..."

From Sharm-el-Sheikh, on our backspoor to Eilat, our Arab bus -driver swung his speeding bus round corners. Soldiers shouted, "Slow down!" Our driver shouted back, only behaving himself after the biggest soldier strode up the aisle and threatened him. South of Eilat, we passed a ruined castle, crumbling on Farun Island. We spent our last shekels at an underwater observatory on the coral shore. Later, cheap Egged bus fares would enable us to visit other parts of Israel.

Unrest: The Jerusalem Post reported that in SA Treurnicht had left the Nationalist Party, forming his own Conservative Party.

Coda: Two decades later, long after Israel had returned Sinai to Egypt, Arab terrorists repeatedly bombed Dahab, Sharm-el-Sheikh and Eilat.

1982 Israel, Kibbutz Grofit Volunteer

At Heathrow, Israeli customs, suspicious of Leah's olive-green parka, enquired where Leah got it. "I bought it in Earls Court," said Leah. Customs looked skeptical, while issuing our boarding- passes for our 1982 passage from south-east England to south-east Israel. Leah had bought an Israeli army-parka.

At Ben Gurion Airport, Pom Jacob, another kibbutz volunteer asked, "What trees are those?"

"Palms," I said. Jacob had never seen palms before.

Bussing through the Negev, we stopped at a Beersheva cafe, where Moshe our Grofit kibbutz supervisor bought us our first falafels...

At dawn on Eilat Road, Grofit cow-dung smells greeted us. Moshe, Israel born Sabra, showed us our Grofit barracks: "Fourr men perr rroom, fourr women perr rroom," said Moshe. "Boarrd an' lodgeeng frree. Eef you worrk harrd, we'll all geddon." Some volunteers were graduate Poms, who couldn't find jobs in Britain. Others had resigned from jobs, and like us were on a working holiday to play Labourer parts. Moshe issued us navy-blue shirts and longs and brown work -boots, then introduced us to other volunteers: Poms, Germans, Kiwis, Aussies, Canadians, young Yanks - doing maturing kibbutz work. Volunteers were accepted till age 32. Aged 30, I was an older volunteer. Most kibbutzniks were older. Friendliest volunteers were Jacob, Kiwi girls and Pom girls.

Grofit kibbutz was a Marxist collective farm, needing cheap-labour volunteers from capitalist countries to do peasant labouring. Some volunteers stayed for years, enjoying Grofit. Kibbutzim didn't encourage personal wealth. If kibbutzniks liked you, they asked you to join Grofit permanently, but you had to share your wealth with kibbutzniks, like an African extended family. Some Grofit business profits were returned to Grofit businesses, the rest was used to buy goods and services for everyone. Local Arabs worked at Grofit as artisans or builder-labourers, but disappeared at dusk. Arabs weren't kibbutzniks, despite being born in Israel. There was too much spilt blood and hatred between Palestinian Arabs and Israelis in splintered Israel.

Grofit mesa was in the Aravah Valley, part of the Syrian-African Rift Valley: Eastwards lurked a Jordanian police-outpost, below a steep valley-wall. Westwards stood a steep Negev valley-wall. No trees, no grass, just stones and sand. North-eastwards grew date-palm groves, onion fields and casaurina windbreaks. Fields were surrounded by rocks and sand.

Sabras like Moshe bloomed the desert at outcast Arabs' expense, after forcing Palestinians into exile during the 1948 war. Bloody sunsets rivalled African sunsets. Aravah saw middle-eastern and European conquerors come and go. Moshe's joke: "Only meestake my ancestorr Moses made weeth the cheeldren orf Eesrrael, afterr forrty yearrs orf Sinai wanderreengs, was Moses went norrth to Canaan, eenstead orf east to futurre Saudee Arrabeean oilfields."

After the 1948, 1967 and 70s wars, kibbutzniks feared Arab attacks, so had dug permanent trenches around Grofit mesa. Concrete bunkers were buried amongst kibbutz buildings. We heard rumours of Israelis invading Lebanon, which happened in June after we'd left, and Israeli soldiers allowed others to kill Palestinian refugees in Sabra -Shatila camps, and would occupy Lebanon for 18 years.

Jet-fighters rumbling above sometimes rattled Grofit windows. Volunteer barracks were closest to the road entrance. Israeli soldiers were billeted in barracks behind ours, so we volunteers were human -shields for deceitful Israeli soldiers. Further away, permanent kibbutzniks lived in houses and flats. A new kindergarten was built, so teachers could nurture infants during the day while mothers worked. Leah said to Moshe: "Mark and I are married. The London kibbutz agent assured us that married couples were welcome in Grofit. Why're we staying in separate rooms?"

"Eet's a prrob-e-lem," shrugged Moshe, lifting his palms heavenwards, curving his lips hellwards. "I'll orrganize a flat forr you." As the flat never happened, and as Moshe was an arrogant, hands-behind-head, feet-on-desk, while-ordering-you-kibbutznik, we squatted in an army barrack room. Friendly girl soldiers didn't mind. On night-shifts, it was rumoured they spied on Jordan from a radar and radio-listening bunker.

Volunteer work began at 06:30, breakfast at 09:00. We ate in a common dining-room, and did rostered work in a big kitchen. The dining-room was also a weekly movie-room. After dinners, we socialized with kibbutzniks in their maodon - lounge. Work-shy Jacob slacked in bed in the mornings, and played soccer in the afternoons, annoying war-veteran Moshe who said, "You must leave eef yourr poorr worrk habeets perrseest!" Jacob pulled finger. We earned a weekly shekel-sheet, which we redeemed at the kibbutz store for groceries. We worked a six day week, including Sundays, relaxing on Shabbat - Saturdays. Sometimes we stole Shabbat-wine to booze at parties.

Some volunteers came for sex drugs an' rock 'n roll. Jacob wore a "Ganga is Good" T shirt, and was anxious that Israelis might catch him smoking pot, but Israelis ignored or mocked Jacob. One night at a disco in our bunker, while I chatted to Jacob, he slid along a wall, falling against me. If I hadn't caught him he would've hit the floor. We carried him to his room and put him to bed.

David Eidelman, Jewish expat dentist from Durban, befriended us. He lived in Tel Aviv, flatting in Grofit when his dentistry was needed. He enjoyed the Negev and young people. "Why're kibbutzniks so surly?" I asked. "Shalom - shalom - bokertov - erevtov - toda roba... Hello - goodbye - good morning - good evening - thank you, is all I get from them. Moshe's Alsation dog fetching thrown stones is higher on kibbutzniks social-scale than volunteers."

"Volunteers come and go," David said. "Kibbutzniks don't commit to you until you've earned their respect by working hard."

1981 London and Scotland, George House Wildlife and Scotland Trek

George House wildlife watched TV in the lounge, while boozing and smoking dope. Some cultivated cannabis plants in their rooms. A cop-raid caused frantic hiding of dope. Cops found a potted plant on Sam's windowsill. "D'yer know this is cannabis like?" asked a cop.

"Firekin' 'ell. No!" said Sam. "A guest asked me to water it while she toured Europe like." The cop confiscated the dope.

Lingam and Inyoni roomed next to us. As Lingam's betel nuts were soaked in drugs, he was often goofed. "Chew these nuts Mak!" Lingam said. I chewed, then rushed to our toilet, spitting Lingam's nuts out. It was hours before I felt fine again.

One morning, Inyoni flew through GH crowing, "'Elp Lingam's dead, 'elp!..." Lingam lay abed, plastic drug wrappings strewn on the floor.

"Phone an ambulance!" I said. "Get salt and water!" Sam sloshed emetic down Lingam's throat. Ambulance men arrived, removing Lingam: his third suicide attempt.

Besides boozing, drugging, shagging, Lingam sorted out Inyoni with his fists. Once after they reconciled, Inyoni crowed, "I love Lingam's brown cock." One night, a knocking at our door woke me: "'Eeeelp! Lingam's 'itting me!"

Wearing only underrods, I jumped out out bed, threw our door open, and Inyoni rushed in. "Go back to bed!" I told Lingam. "I need sleep. I'm working early tomorrow." Lingam slammed his door. "Get into bed with Leah!" I ordered Inyoni.

Lingam knocked on our door: "I'm sorry I hit you Inyoni. Please come back to bed." We pretended to sleep. "Inyoni I looove you. Pleeease come back."

"Go away!" I yelled. "I need sleep." Afterwards, Inyoni boasted I had the biggest cock she'd ever seen. She should've been in PR. Later I asked: "Inyoni, can you spell?"

"Yeees?"

"S-L-U-T. That's you."

Skate wept on GH dirty doorstep, an empty Jack Daniels bottle bedside him. "My babes has left me," wailed Skate. "My babes has left me..." Skint had fled to Durbs, scared by Skate's payroll thefts. "I'm leaving for Amsterdam," said Skate, packing his bag. He tubed to dirty Paddington on the dirty Circle-and-District line, and hid with friends till cops stopped investigating GH.

Lingam toadied Sam, offering Inyoni's help as chambermaid, as part-payment for rent. Sam agreed, relieved of cleaning duties. Lingam appeared at our door asking, "Have you got Xue's radio and bedside lamp?" We'd borrowed them from Xue. Leah demurred. Lingam backed off, then using Inyoni's master-key, looted guest -rooms, and vanished. Weeks later, Sam caught Lingam in a pub, and punched him.

In the evenings, scrumpie-stupid Duffie knocked on our door asking, "Jayshush, 'ave yer godda loit?"

One night: Knock-knock... "Bugger of Duffy!" I said. "I'm showering.

"What's that?" Leah woke.

"Duffy wants a light." Knock-knock. "Piss off Duffy!"

Knock-knock. I opened the door and shoved Duffy. He collapsed at my feet. I thought of dragging him across the landing to his room. I put my foot on Duffy's stomach. "Jayshush, take yer shite feet orf me eejit! Jashush, 'e's feckin' kickin' me!..."

Sam broke it up. "Firekin' 'ell Mark. If you stay longer in George House, you'll end up in chokey."

Snow fell in December, and enjoying my hotel-work, through my window, I watched pedestrians slipping on pavement ice. I had central heating, food, coffee, TV, a good job. There were morning work-rushes when guests left, and in the evenings when guests arrived. Afternoons were quiet, after Polish chambermaids left.


From snowy Carlisle, we trekked our Freedom-of Scotland Easter train-route. At Fort William Youth Hostel, the manager yelled, "Take yer boo's orf!" We kept them on, while Leah went to the toilet, We trudged through sleety night, and found a B-and-B.

At Skye, we waited in a snowstorm. When a bus arrived, we were wearing all our clothes. Our Kyle of Lochalsh B-and-B hostess, recognizing Leah's hypothermia, sat Leah beside a fire, and fed her hot drinks.

Highlands red deer had descended from snowy heights, close to train tracks...

Shivering in Golspie church pews, we listened to midnight mass with leah's cousin Lillian. Christmas snow covered the ground, icicles shone on a frozen waterfall. When viewing my paternal -grandmother's family Sutherland Dunrobin Castle, we sipped ten-year-old gorse-liquor which Lillian's dad had made.

At freezing Inverness Youth Hostel, central-heating wasn't switched on, so we crawled into our double-sleeping bag beneath a blanket mound...

At Edinburgh Hogmanay, champagne-drunks jostled us on Royal Mile. When they staggered past us again, I stuck my foot out, tripping a drunk. Writhing bodies at our feet disentangled, crawled about, then lurched upright again.

1981 England, London Razzles

< 1981. Leah & Mark Esslemont, Kings Head Tavern, Earls Court, London.


Leah and I browsed museums on my old street-sweeper beat. We grazed Tate Gallery, British Museum and the National Gallery. If we had spare cash, we saw a West End show from cheap gallery seats. Nureyev had the most stage-presence I ever saw. The Mousetrap cast was tired.

After shows, we visited a Chinese restaurant on Shaftsbury Avenue. At George House, Sam's wok cooked us Chinese meals. With Sam and Xue we hunted curries in the Tandoori jungle. We liked Hot Pot, Earls Court cafe, serving French, Italian, Chinese cuisines. McDonald's or Wimpy sufficed, if we were poor. On Sundays, for a beer buy at the Golden Lion pub, we watched girls strip on a central stage.

Once, Leah and I tried sneaking through Savoy Hotel's back door, but were seen by a doorman, who said, "Bloody 'ell. This is the Savoy. If yer wanna visi', go ta reception a' the fron'!"

Another time, I stole soap from the The Ritz Hotel toilet. While I boasted about my handfuls to Kleintjie at the urinal, the doorman walked in and discreetly peed next to Kleintjie. I dumped the soap in a basin, while Kleintjie wet himself.

When GH rooms were fully booked, Sam laid mattresses on the TV lounge floor, so backpackers could sleep there till rooms were available. Bolder backpackers changed in front of TV voyeurs. "While you were working this morning," said Skate, "you missed Joey. Her tits were huge man!"

In Sam's room, girls chattering on couches, I retold the story to Sam and Xue: "...Joey's tits were huge Sam."

"Firekin' 'ell! Joey's on my couch!" Joey froze me out.

Favourite pubs were at Penta Hotel; Denmark, near Gloucester Road tube; Kings Head in Earls Court; Fox in Barons Court. If we left our drinks and went to the toilet, Mavis swigged them. Mavis sneaked into pubs, pestering patrons, until barmen ejected her. I began an argument between two Irishmen, asking one of them, "Please explain the Irish troubles?" They began politely, but soon ignored me, arguing for hours. Next day on the way to work, Leah had an Irish bomb-scare at Victoria Station. Leah and crowds were ordered by station officials and Bobbies to leave.

< 1981. Rhodie Kleintjie & Leah Esslemont with Scotland vs England soccer supporters, Kings Head Tavern, Earls Court, London.


Kleintjie and I frequented a "yaroooing" Aussie pub near Curzon Hotel, Courtfield Gardens, sneaking our six-packs inside. Hidden by the crowd, we drank our beers, stomping our empties on the floor. Kleintjie sniffed: "A kaffir's here."

"Only raucous Aussie here."

"A kaffir's here. I can smell 'em." Kleintjie's nose was still tuned to bush-spooring. At the bar, I spotted Nigerian Joko, London University student, who dossed in GH. He swotted on floor-landings, avoiding rowdy roommates.

I worked as a kitchen-porter for The Prudential. A Polish woman, married to a Cuban, then employed me as a receptionist at a Belgrave Road hotel, where poor Polish chambermaids sent wages back to Poland.

Every day, Cuban's Polish wife collected money and inspected my book-keeping. General Jaruzelski had taken over Poland's government, tensioning up socialism in Poland, so London Poles were jittery.

When I worked night-shifts, Leah came to my office after her work, for free meals. Once, while I cooked a meal in the kitchen, Cuban arrived and chatted to Leah, who told him about SA's beauty: wildlife, flat -crown trees, savannahs, deserts, mountains. When I served food, Cuban upset Leah saying, "You treat blacks like shit."

"In Angola," I said, "your occupying commie Cubans, supporting local commie MPLA, were recently fucked up by SA troopies, helping Savimbi's UNITA. Sneaky Cubans and Soviets in Angola want Angolan diamonds and oil, deceiving yourselves you're saving blacks from SA racists. Where'd you Cubans get your sugarcane slaves from?" Silent Cuban. (Sean Moroney, Editor, Africa Volumes 1, 2, Facts On File, New York, 1989).

See The Ritz.

1981 England, National Trust Volunteers and Rhodie Bush War

George House wildlife included unfriendly, spitting Arabs, wearing white jelabiyehs, and black-white, or red-white keffiyehs, who messed toilets and showers. Filipina chambermaids were scared of entering staring Arab rooms, so Sam's cleaning work increased. Mavis's nightly mutterings increased. "Leave!" said Sam.

"Fook you Chinese bastard!" Sam threw her belongings onto the dirty pavement.

As I continued my wildlife conservation course, I received lectures by post, dissected a London squirrel, and happy-snapped its anatomy for a dissection project. I wrote exams at the SA embassy. Getting wildlife practical experience as volunteer supervisors at a Guildford National Trust work-camp, Leah and I reported to the resident conservator. Our board and lodging was free. Our team ranged in age from eighteen to mid-thirties. Leah supervised kitchen and catering work, while I supervised a male / female team doing dirty bush clearance: mainly hawthorn, using axes, billhooks, saws, sickles, mattocks. We burned cleared bush. Leah and her girl-team harvested wildflower seeds on the South Downs, so seeds could be sown elsewhere, encouraging butterflies. While I babooned up a South Down hill, a coiled adder hissed at me when I nearly handled it. After work we piled everyone into vans, and got pissed in pubs.

Volunteers were school-leavers, students, employed and unemployed. Some did volunteer work for Duke of Edinburgh Award points. We found girls maturer than guys. Some "men" bickered about van-driving and backpack weed-spraying. We privately thought SA okes were maturer, as conscription sorted men from the boys.

At Sevenoaks National Trust work-camp, our supervisor said, "Don' le' volunteer Bob drive the van! Bob can' 'old 'is drink. Las' camp, 'e wrecked our van!" We did dirty farm-building and oust- house maintenance with job-seekers, shop-assistants, receptionists and two motor-biking lady-cop trainees, doing community work, who labelled other girls "common." A Jewish Oxford graduate wittily amused us. Bearded Bob, on the dole, cycled to pubs, and lost his bike, too tight to remember where he'd hidden it.

After pub-crawling one night, driving through a dark wood, I nearly ran over Bob, as he lay asleep in the middle of a lane. We dumped Bob in our van, and put him to bed.

Back in dirty London, Banditoon kept me going with dirty-warehouse labouring-jobs. Leah did clerking at the Law Society in Chancery Lane. Leah did staff cafeteria work at General Electric, then was tea-lady at Dickens and Jones: "Sugar?... No sugar?... Black?... White?... Weak?... Strong?... Lemon?... No lemon?..." At mealtimes, Leah poured hundreds of cups of tea, and Poms were stuffy when Leah poured wrong.

At Smellidick's dirty import-export business, Kleintjie and I unwrapped Bulgarian ball-bearings, threw away wrappers, then repacked ball-bearings with British wrappers. Kleintjie told us about patrols, stitching terrs in ambushes, capturing and bashing terrs in mud-huts. "One night," he said, "I gapped through bush, fetching one of my men, His blood-lust was up, while a munt lay in a path wailing, 'Why yo killin' me Baasie?' My mate hacked the munt's neck with a penknife, trying to find the jugular. He dug his finger into a hole and pulled. Blood everywhere - munt vrekked."

In Smellidick's garden, while quaffing champagne, Kleintjie showed us how to spoor: "Keep the sun to the side of you, behind your shoulder, if you wanna spoor terrs. The sun'll throw shadows on spoor, and signs like broken grass, twigs, leaves, or knocked off dew will let you 'see' the whole picture. Our Rhodie Bush War's over," said Kleintjie. "Your turn's next Mark."

"Ag no man," said I. "Faction-fights ja, but Dutchmen like you won't allow civil war in SA. They'll learn from your Rhodies' mistakes. Puppet Sebe's Ciskei recently became 'independent,' like puppet Transkei and its one million outcasts. Puppet Ciskei's so close to East London's Mercedes Benz plant, Sebe will be an instant Wabenzi." (Jon Murry, et al, South Africa, Lesotho and Swaziland, Lonely Planet, Hawthorn, 1997.)

"Ja your puppet Sebes, Matanzimas, Mangopes, Mopelis are all get-rich-quick tribals. Your whitey taxes pay for that," said Kleintjie. "Your munts with their left hands will beg AKs from commies, then they'll chase you colonial whiteys into the sea, then with their right hands they'll rifle the till, then beg financial and food aid from former colonizers. It's happened all over Africa."

"You'll soon join us with your chicken-run Rhodies eh?" I said. "And my whitey taxes will pay your generous settling-in allowance, paid to whitey immigrants by our Nat government. No other countries help immigrants like that." Kleintjie silenced out: furious.

See National Trust.

1981 Europe, More Eurail

In flat Finland's white-nights and sunny days, we passed lakes, swamps, taiga forests... Near Russia, at Joensuu campsite, we heard Swedes forte-fucking...

At Oulu, on Bothnia Gulf, sitting on a wooden pier, while midnight sun hung low, we heard German campers playing violins and flutes, and sotto voce singing...

At Gallivare, Sweden, beyond the Arctic Circle, we saw reindeer on railway tracks. In northern Sweden, elbowing our way through a crowd, our backpacks cleared a path. We climbed into a first-class compartment, while second class passengers barged through. I smiled at an old lady, who sniffed when I sat next to her. She wanted us ejected. When we waved our first-class passes at the inspector, she frowned.

At Oslo's Bygdoy Museums, we saw Viking ships and Thor Heyerdahl's balsa Kon-Tiki raft and papyrus Ra raft. I remembered, as a boy, making a poinsettia-stick model of Heyerdahl's Kon- Tiki raft. We admired wooden farmhouses and a stave-church at the Folk Museum. I was reminded of Ibsen's Dolls House when we saw a replica of his study. We then strolled amongst Vigeland statues in Vigeland Park...

On the Oslo-Bergen line, snow speckled mountains.... From Flam waiting-room, we saw fjord walls and green water. We brewed tea on our Gaz stove, and kept warm in our sleeping-bags... Our train cog -railed past waterfalls, back to the main line...

Bergen: Summer, but citizens wore mackintoshes, and dogs wore rubber boots...

To Munchen: In a compartment, a Hamburger described WW2, allied -bombing firestorms: "Flames reached the sky, sucking air away, leaving thousands of German civilians dead. After the war, we rebuilt copies of Hamburg and Munchen. There must never be another war."

Customs officials were discriminatory and racist, embarrassing us by leafing through our SA passports, and glancing at other foreigners' passports. When I used my British passport, there was no discrimination.

Munchen Hofbrauhaus: Beers-Cheers-Oooompapa, and sweaty Germans. Leah and I sneaked into Munchen station Super-Loo, past Fat-frau guard. When I was seated, Fat-frau threw my door open before grinning, schadenfreude passersby. "Jy moet betalen!" yelled Fat-frau.

En route to Italy, a Kiwi passenger said, "In NZ, Kiwis are protesting against your racist Springbok rugby tour..."

"Maybe that's because your PM Muldoon encouraged the tour in an election year," I said. "Yet in 1977 Muldoon signed the Gleneagles Agreement discouraging Commonwealth countries, including NZ, playing sport against SA. Why've All Black white teams toured SA for years?" I asked, "Without Maori team-mates, who're anathema to SA racists? Perhaps the real issues are anti-cop thugs and crims amongst real protesters; or Kiwi embarrassment at African countries boycotting the 1976 Montreal Olympics due to your racist Kiwi rugby support of SA; or Kiwi unemployment; or dispossessed Maori protesting about former land-grabbing Pom settlers, after your 1840 Treaty of Waitangi."

Kiwi squirmed.

"You Kiwis haven't sorted out Maori dispossession grievances. Are your self-righteous rugby protesters training future SA black leaders to successfully govern SA?"

Stunned Kiwi. He wasn't the first or last sanctimonious foreigner to bollock us about apartheid.

In sweltering Italy, Leah disliked Italian men leering from street cafes, and lounging against walls, making soliciting remarks. Annoyed, I wondered if Italian men were as uncouth to Italian women as they were to tourists. After frenetic Venice, Pisa, Florence, Rome, on the way to Pompei, we relaxed on the Circum-Vesuviana train...

Tanned men rowed us to Capri's Blue Grotto... At Sorrento we bought an inlay-wood clown-carving to hang on our toilet door...

< 1981. Wooden inlay clown, Sorrento, Italy. Hangs on Esslemonts' toilet door.

Southwards to Reggio, cackling peasant women, wearing black dresses and scarves, admired Leah's wedding-ring and diamond engagement-ring, while fondling Leah's hands. Southern poverty reminded us of puppet Transkei...

After the Sicily ferry, we trekked through WW2 battlefields from Messina to Palermo. Seated on a doorstep, we scoffed pizza, drank wine, and fed polony to a cat...

After the Brindisi ferry, we toured Corfu on a hired 50cc Honda motorbike. Leah burned her calf on the hot exhaust. At a northern lookout, we saw Albania beyond calm water. Leah liked Paleokastritsa's bare boobs...

Greece: After Patras, touts embarked our train yelling: "Byron Hotel in Athens - excellento." Byron Hotel was crap, its toilet fulla shit: piled solid in the toilet-bowl, dribbling on the floor, smeared on walls, door, ceiling. We slept on the flat roof.

Touring Greece, we scoffed souvlaki, donner-kebabs, wine, retsina, ouzo. We saw Peloponnesus sights: Corinth, Mycenae, Nauplion, Olympia, and tanned naked on beaches. Lingering in Greece, we visited Delphi, Meteora and Marathon.

We over-night trained through eastern Italy, through Switzerland to Paris, where motorists accelerated when we stepped off shitty pavements. At a cheap Left Bank restaurant, a waiter placed newsprint on our table, then wrote our orders on the newsprint. Much later, we observed Montmarte artists, while I practised French.

1981 Europe, Eurail Trekker

We avoided Charles's and Diana's mobs-an'-snobs royal wedding. Our 1981 Eurail first-class passes didn't include Iron Curtain countries as the Cold War simmered. We lugged our gear in our two backpacks, and we saw many parts of Europe by hopping onto any European train, plonking ourselves on first-class seats, and waving our Eurail passes at inspectors.

At Chartres Cathedral, France, we lingered under elongated sculptures, and smiled at mediaeval floppy-hats worn by local ladies...

At Pamplona, Spain, accommodation was fully-booked. We hiked from town, and camped beside a bridge. After Running-of the Bulls, tipsy Spaniards staggered about a square, wearing white clothes. Red scarves were tied around foreheads. We watched a procession - clowns with hobbyhorses strapped to their shoulders capered along cobbled streets, laughing, hitting each other and onlookers with big foam-rubber clubs.

In Madrid, a dope-smoking couple invited us to their parents' flat. After a squabble with the caretaker, objecting to foreigners in his building, we went upstairs for a late supper. We met more dope -smokers at an all-night street-disco - blaring music. Next morning, at the Prado there were no lockers, so Leah sat in a park, guarding our backpacks, while Yanks threw frisbees. I looked at Goyas, then guarded our backpacks, while Leah art-farted. We liked Madrid and friendly Spaniards.

Spanish tranvia were overcrowded, slow and dissolute. "Es un problema grande senor," said station ticket-sellers, harassed by clamouring tourists. Yanks irked with loud, demanding voices. If I was rude to ticket-sellers, they spat back my rudeness, then ignored us, serving other tourists. Politeness quickly got our tickets. Like locals, we ate salted sunflower-seeds, spitting husks onto platforms.

Trekking south, our train-driver stopped his train for a track-side pee-chat with a friend, before continuing our trek.

Trekking west, on our Lisbon-bound night-train, squashed eight passengers per hot compartment (second-class passengers crowded corridors), a pissed Yank crunched empty beer cans, while we tried to sleep, wedged between other passengers... By Lisbon Bay, we lunched on a wall. A street-pusher pushed marijuana. "Piss off!" I said.

At Evora we stayed in a hilltop B-and-B. We ignored skulls in a church...

At Seville, we lingered in a pension courtyard, amidst fountains and trellised roses. Sahara winds blew, while we drank wine from our leather wine-bag...

Cordoba: We admired Moorish red-and white-striped arches...

Barcelona was muggy, like Durbs. Trekking north, a hippy-druggie on our train had no ticket, sang ditties, winked at his posy, trying to elbow tourists from their seats. The ticket-inspector bundled him off at the next station. Our Switzerland-bound train was overbooked, and a Spaniard, waving a ticket with Leah's seat-number, tried ousting Leah from her seat. "Piss off!" I said.

A German Swiss official pointed at my spotty jeans and scorned. We ignored the twerp... On Lake Thun ferry, a wine-waiter said, "William Tell really shot an apple off his son's head... In Geneva, we bought Lets Go Europe, so we could find campsites...

On a Rhine cruise, we saw castles and vineyards. Coal-barges chugged along, while riverside trains rattled by. We drank wine on a Moselle cruise...

At Koln, we stared at Koln Cathedral's WW2 bomb-pitted facade, and watched buskers performing for the crowd...

At Amsterdam station, while we perused our map, a cop warned us not to display our valuables, as thieves lurked. At the central Amsterdam campsite, druggies sprawled outside tents, dope-pipes and dope-pouches displayed. Dirty druggies wandered about smoking dope. After a canal-boat trip, we looked at art galleries and Anne Frank museum, and dodged pavement dog shit. Back at camp, we discovered a druggie had stolen our spare pounds and francs we'd kept for later use, stashed deep in a backpack. The scumbag had left our packs looking undisturbed.

We watched tatooists working on Hamburg's Reeperbahn. Leah gripped my hand, while whores scowled and pimps stared. I counted ten tarts in a row, leaning against a wall, dangling thighs in the sun.

Northwards, train services, speed and efficiency improved. Prices also increased. Our Scandinavia trek was, "been-there-done-that..." Scandinavians were clap-board people stifled by welfare-statism. Third World poverty and degradation was foreign to them. At Copenhagen, we ticked off Little Mermaid statue overlooking the harbour. Tivoli Gardens was full of poofy people, paying for sticky thrills.

From Fredrikshaven, we train-ferried to Gothenburg, where buses confused us. We had no local cash. A lady paid for our self-serve -bus-tickets. Her's was the only kindness we experienced in Scandinavia. As foreign backpackers seemed resented, we got glares and hostile comments. Never mind our spending money in Scandinavia. We caught the night-train to Stockholm, where we liked cobbled squares, and Leah liked blonde lady cops.

On the Finland ferry, I wondered whether jellyfish, in Turku archipelago waters, were like Scandinavians - spineless, poisonous, brainless?

See Eurail website.