No mountain too high

I should probably be writing about something serious like our finance minister's second attempt at making a budget speech, but I can't, because I'm trapped in the Drakensberg.

Whatever.

Since Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife runs this camp, the Wi-Fi is about as dependable as Cyril Ramaphosa's promises. This means I can't do any research, which is just as well given that the internet has become a repository for lies and deception.

I didn't want to come here. I'm a sea person. If I stray too far from the ocean, my inner compass spins out of control and I can't be held accountable for my actions.

The Bad Green-Eyed Woman insisted that I show her some Bushman paintings. I told her we don't call them that any more. She arched an eyebrow. "You don't call them paintings?"

Once the confusion had been cleared up, I showed her a few photocopies of San art I keep to remind myself that I'm not the only one who can't draw to save his life.

Apparently this wasn't good enough. She wanted to see the real thing. This is the problem with people from Europe. They come to South Africa thinking they can hop on public transport and be whisked to their destination within a few minutes. When I told her we'd have to go to the Drakensberg, she suggested we take a bullet train. I said I'd rather take a bullet than a train. I explained that our railway system had been destroyed by an organised crime outfit known as The Government.

"Then you shall drive me there," she said, indicating that I should refresh her wine glass. I refreshed her memory that I wasn't her servant and went off to pack the cooler box. "And I want to go to Lesotho," she shouted after me. I slipped in an extra bottle of Havana Club.