In the afternoon waiting to pick up this suit, I spent some time at an internet cafe across the cul-de-sac from my hotel, mostly reading news, cricket and sending a couple of emails. Leaving in the late arvo, a roaming street vendor approached me about 50m from La Brazzerade. The street was still busy, plenty of the stalls were still selling things, and there was lots of human traffic about. He had a basket of things taking up both of his hands, like a washing basket would. He starts yapping away at me rapidly in French. When I finally got a moment, I said I couldn't understand him.
He switched to broken, searching English.
On top of this basket was a styrofoam board with holes punched through it. In the holes pairs of sunglasses sat propped up. Some were a little scratched, most just looked like knock offs. "Want sunglasses?"
I pointed to my forehead where a pair of sunnies were perched. In case he missed the gesture, I deadpanned, "I've already got some".
He smiled, "OK OK!" and in putting the board on the ground greater revealed his basket. A length of rope was tied in a circle and on it watches were kept; all showing different times, many scratched to shit and looking pretty secondhand. "Want watch?"
For the second time, I fended off the would be salesman, by gesturing to my own watch, significantly less scratched and showing a time I believed.
He smiled toothily, "OK OK!" Delicately, he put the watches atop the sunglasses on the ground, getting to a collection of small cardboard boxes in his basket. Opening one, he pulled out a bottle of fragrance, half full. "Want perfumes?"
It'd be a cold day in hell that I'd catch myself carrying perfume but I got away with, "no, no woman, no girlfriend, no wife".
The toothy grin persisted, accompanied with a now customary "OK OK!" and he began placing those items on the ground beside the rest of his booty. Now, his basket was mostly empty. He pulled out its last item.
A knife.
Oh fuck.
I took half a step back. It was broad daylight and totally in public. There were dozens of people around, many quite close. I'd so far been reasonably lighthearted with respect to this nonexistent transaction but it had drained from me now, leaving uncertainty and a very real amount of fear. He stepped forward, knife extended, still smiling.
Smiling, as this was probably how he came to obtain these things he was now "selling" and he'd just ostensibly hit jackpot for future sales. I was rooted to the spot. Through the toothy grin came, "want knife?"
I could hardly believe it. Right hand diving into my pocket, I retrieved and unfolded in one motion a knife that Russ had given me last year.
"Nah mate, I've got a knife."
He kept smiling, gathered his things and wandered off, wishing me a good day. I went and found beer to heavily self medicate with.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Senegal: The Suit
While in South Africa, Lars sent me an email detailing his plans to take me to a charity ball themed as a prom while we were going to be in NYC. Part of this email implored me to obtain a jacket and pants in the interim, something I figured might be an interesting thing to do in Senegal.
I mentioned this to Herve whereupon he wasted little time taking me to a tailor. Between the tailor, Herve and I there was an obvious and probably insurmountable language barrier. Furthermore, I suspected he probably wasn't able to actually produce what I wanted. Herve must have realised this also as we left shortly thereafter and he asked again what I wanted.
With a change of tact I said, "James Bond's clothes". His eyes lit up.
He made a phonecall and we were walking again, this time coming to an internet cafe. I was perplexed. Herve and the proprietor talked briefly before pulling out four grainy black and white photos; one each of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, all in Bond suits. I grabbed the picture of Craig and then we departed, this time Herve took me to his house. My being perplexed still hadn't subsided.
We followed the rat race through some claustrophobia inducing alleys, bustling with people, stalls spilling out of side rooms and completed with unhygienic smells. Herve passed through a door on the right which opened into a dusty courtyard. Cats and a couple of roosters played in the shadier corners. The buildings enclosing it looked half finished. One was missing a fourth wall altogether (like only the best Boston Legal episodes).
A few women met us in the courtyard, Herve introduced them as his daughter, wife and mother in law. None of them spoke English so the interaction was very reliant on smiling, nodding and finger crossing. His wife measured me up in a fashion that I would best describe as endorsing a lot of hope and eschewing the carpentry maxim of, "measure twice, cut once".
Herve said she'd be going into Dakar city to get a suit, as to whether this meant tailored, stolen or retrieved from a coffin, I wasn't sure and wasn't willing to traverse the language difficulty to find out. Dutifully, I handed his wife 30,000 francs and crossed my fingers once more. The way I saw it, these 30,000 francs would buy me one of three stories and lessons.
a) Don't be so trusting of people, don't pay in advance and you'll keep your money
b) Be sure of the quality of the product before you part with cash
c) A bit of faith and ~$50 will win you a form fitting super suit in Senegal
Herve said he would meet me at La Brazzerade at 6PM to bring me back to his house to pick up the suit after his wife came back from Dakar. With that in mind, I spent the afternoon divided between the internet cafe across from the cul-de-sac from La Brazzerade (a story in itself) and the bar at the hotel. At 6PM I relocated myself and my beer to the front of the hotel. For an hour and a half I watched two local women (prostitutes) kick, scratch and scream over a client. This was all in a completely foreign language, but it required very little translation. Even here, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I relocated back to the bar at 7:30PM, a little disappointed that I had allowed myself to be swindled quite so easily. Copping it mostly on the chin, I settled in, filling my evening in with drinking, observing shameless Frenchmen and some writing. Otherwise engrossed by my own company, I was a little startled some time later in the night by Herve when he came and sat down at my table. Lighting a cigarette, he said that my suit was ready and he was here to take me back to his house for it. Finishing my beer in a time that would make most students blush, I put my things away and followed him into a now abandoned but just as smelly and claustrophobic maze of alleys.
On arrival, his wife was in the courtyard beaming. The cats, roosters and other women were nowhere to be seen, a young boy instead seemingly in their place. I gave his wife a toblerone bar, left over duty free from Johannesburg. Her beaming smile broadened. Herve retrieved the suit from a hanger on the clothesline in a corner of the courtyard. From ten feet, it looked a faultless replica. From two feet, it just looked faultless.
I tried it on, the fit was perfect. Herve's wife said something in French about being dressed fit to meet the president. This was probably a small exaggeration but I was certainly fit to attend a charity ball in NYC the following week...
I mentioned this to Herve whereupon he wasted little time taking me to a tailor. Between the tailor, Herve and I there was an obvious and probably insurmountable language barrier. Furthermore, I suspected he probably wasn't able to actually produce what I wanted. Herve must have realised this also as we left shortly thereafter and he asked again what I wanted.
With a change of tact I said, "James Bond's clothes". His eyes lit up.
He made a phonecall and we were walking again, this time coming to an internet cafe. I was perplexed. Herve and the proprietor talked briefly before pulling out four grainy black and white photos; one each of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, all in Bond suits. I grabbed the picture of Craig and then we departed, this time Herve took me to his house. My being perplexed still hadn't subsided.
We followed the rat race through some claustrophobia inducing alleys, bustling with people, stalls spilling out of side rooms and completed with unhygienic smells. Herve passed through a door on the right which opened into a dusty courtyard. Cats and a couple of roosters played in the shadier corners. The buildings enclosing it looked half finished. One was missing a fourth wall altogether (like only the best Boston Legal episodes).
 |
| One of Herve's cats, I suspect that this one could entertain itself forever. |
A few women met us in the courtyard, Herve introduced them as his daughter, wife and mother in law. None of them spoke English so the interaction was very reliant on smiling, nodding and finger crossing. His wife measured me up in a fashion that I would best describe as endorsing a lot of hope and eschewing the carpentry maxim of, "measure twice, cut once".
Herve said she'd be going into Dakar city to get a suit, as to whether this meant tailored, stolen or retrieved from a coffin, I wasn't sure and wasn't willing to traverse the language difficulty to find out. Dutifully, I handed his wife 30,000 francs and crossed my fingers once more. The way I saw it, these 30,000 francs would buy me one of three stories and lessons.
a) Don't be so trusting of people, don't pay in advance and you'll keep your money
b) Be sure of the quality of the product before you part with cash
c) A bit of faith and ~$50 will win you a form fitting super suit in Senegal
Herve said he would meet me at La Brazzerade at 6PM to bring me back to his house to pick up the suit after his wife came back from Dakar. With that in mind, I spent the afternoon divided between the internet cafe across from the cul-de-sac from La Brazzerade (a story in itself) and the bar at the hotel. At 6PM I relocated myself and my beer to the front of the hotel. For an hour and a half I watched two local women (prostitutes) kick, scratch and scream over a client. This was all in a completely foreign language, but it required very little translation. Even here, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I relocated back to the bar at 7:30PM, a little disappointed that I had allowed myself to be swindled quite so easily. Copping it mostly on the chin, I settled in, filling my evening in with drinking, observing shameless Frenchmen and some writing. Otherwise engrossed by my own company, I was a little startled some time later in the night by Herve when he came and sat down at my table. Lighting a cigarette, he said that my suit was ready and he was here to take me back to his house for it. Finishing my beer in a time that would make most students blush, I put my things away and followed him into a now abandoned but just as smelly and claustrophobic maze of alleys.
On arrival, his wife was in the courtyard beaming. The cats, roosters and other women were nowhere to be seen, a young boy instead seemingly in their place. I gave his wife a toblerone bar, left over duty free from Johannesburg. Her beaming smile broadened. Herve retrieved the suit from a hanger on the clothesline in a corner of the courtyard. From ten feet, it looked a faultless replica. From two feet, it just looked faultless.
I tried it on, the fit was perfect. Herve's wife said something in French about being dressed fit to meet the president. This was probably a small exaggeration but I was certainly fit to attend a charity ball in NYC the following week...
Senegal: Ile de N'Gor
The easiest achieved on my new to do list with Herve was traveling over to Ile de N'Gor on one of the frequently operating ferries/boats that seemingly moonlight as sieves. Handing Herve the equivalent of $2, he sourced return tickets for the both of us and handed me a life jacket whose best days as a flotation device were probably in the '80s. I'm not a great swimmer but I'd be pretty concerned with myself (or dead) if I failed to make land on either side (400m tops) never mind any one of the dozens of nearer moored boats. Regardless, this nod to health and safety in an African nation - however notional it may be - was both amusing and a little heartwarming; at least they seemed to acknowledge the porous nature of the hull of their vessel.
Ile de N'Gor is very simply a tourist island. There are a handful of hotels, restaurants, bars, markets and homestays aimed at different sized wallets. It can be traversed on foot in under half an hour and reasonably well explored in half a day. It was here that I met Africa YeYe, a man who paints sarongs, makes and plays bongo drums and is more than half a dozen beers in before midday, everyday. Among the five or six of Herve's friends that I would meet, the camps of thought on Africa YeYe's boozing would be evenly populated by people regarding it as tragic or legendary.
For the princely sum of $2, Ile de N'Gor is well worth braving maritime rescue for. It's a little more spacious and less helter skelter than continental N'Gor, I suppose owing to the fact that it's almost exclusively a tourist trap...
Ile de N'Gor is very simply a tourist island. There are a handful of hotels, restaurants, bars, markets and homestays aimed at different sized wallets. It can be traversed on foot in under half an hour and reasonably well explored in half a day. It was here that I met Africa YeYe, a man who paints sarongs, makes and plays bongo drums and is more than half a dozen beers in before midday, everyday. Among the five or six of Herve's friends that I would meet, the camps of thought on Africa YeYe's boozing would be evenly populated by people regarding it as tragic or legendary.
For the princely sum of $2, Ile de N'Gor is well worth braving maritime rescue for. It's a little more spacious and less helter skelter than continental N'Gor, I suppose owing to the fact that it's almost exclusively a tourist trap...
Monday, June 24, 2013
Senegal: Herve
I met Herve on the beach on my first morning and through some broken English he explained he was a guide and asked if I'd like to be shown the village. I agreed to hire him and we headed into the ratrace and maze of bustling and tight alleys. Maybe this was dangerous, certainly it wasn't well informed but I had three days to do something, why not violent be violently coerced into becoming a French drug mule after my organs had been harvested?
While wandering through the alleys of N'Gor, Herve asked how long I'd be there for and what I wanted to do. It was a very transparent effort at drumming up repeat business. I outlined a few ideas of things to do that Lying Planet had suggested, Herve suggested a few others, we worked out a rough itinerary and haggled by writing numbers in the sand and kicking out the more offensive ones.
All of a sudden I had a plan, a guide and presumably someone at least a little invested in keeping me out of trouble.
While wandering through the alleys of N'Gor, Herve asked how long I'd be there for and what I wanted to do. It was a very transparent effort at drumming up repeat business. I outlined a few ideas of things to do that Lying Planet had suggested, Herve suggested a few others, we worked out a rough itinerary and haggled by writing numbers in the sand and kicking out the more offensive ones.
All of a sudden I had a plan, a guide and presumably someone at least a little invested in keeping me out of trouble.
Senegal: La Brazzerade
For the first time in my travels, I was really embracing Lonely Planet's suggestions, pandering mostly to a great deal of personal uncertainty about traveling in Dakar. La Brazzerade got a pretty good write up including some golden words about its grill and ocean side rooms. $60/night after a week of not paying for accommodation was well within my budget so I went for it.
This was a good decision. My room was great, the staff friendly and immensely patient, food excellent and ample cheap beer was at hand.
Relief overwhelmed surprise or suspicion at being able to walk straight in at 3AM to check in and find the bar still open with a handful of locals chattering away. I dropped my bags off and headed back down for a nightcap.
While buying a beer, an African lady dressed to the nines peeled off the main group, stationed herself beside me and asked if I'd just flown in, in near enough to good English. Suspecting that conversation might be scarce in Senegal, I went for it, bought her a beer and spread the word about hoopsnakes and drop bears for as long as half a litre of beer lasts. At the end of it I said I was going to bed and got up and left.
She followed me. It wasn't until I was at my door that I realised she was behind me. Perplexed, I asked her why she was following me.
"For your massage"
She wasn't a guest at all. I was staying at a hotel that was moonlighting as a brothel.
My three days at La Brazzerade were really enjoyable. The bar always had something interesting going on and the grill - as Lonely Planet had suggested - was pretty excellent. However, this all comes with one large caveat. If watching middle aged Frenchmen with fat wallets and fatter guts go on a sex tour of West Africa is going to leave you feeling uncomfortable, maybe stay at home.
Amusingly, it's the hookers that speak the best English here and for the most part, the ones that I've rubbed shoulders with (figuratively) have been good company right up until they learn that I didn't want to shag them.
This was a good decision. My room was great, the staff friendly and immensely patient, food excellent and ample cheap beer was at hand.
Relief overwhelmed surprise or suspicion at being able to walk straight in at 3AM to check in and find the bar still open with a handful of locals chattering away. I dropped my bags off and headed back down for a nightcap.
While buying a beer, an African lady dressed to the nines peeled off the main group, stationed herself beside me and asked if I'd just flown in, in near enough to good English. Suspecting that conversation might be scarce in Senegal, I went for it, bought her a beer and spread the word about hoopsnakes and drop bears for as long as half a litre of beer lasts. At the end of it I said I was going to bed and got up and left.
She followed me. It wasn't until I was at my door that I realised she was behind me. Perplexed, I asked her why she was following me.
"For your massage"
She wasn't a guest at all. I was staying at a hotel that was moonlighting as a brothel.
My three days at La Brazzerade were really enjoyable. The bar always had something interesting going on and the grill - as Lonely Planet had suggested - was pretty excellent. However, this all comes with one large caveat. If watching middle aged Frenchmen with fat wallets and fatter guts go on a sex tour of West Africa is going to leave you feeling uncomfortable, maybe stay at home.
Amusingly, it's the hookers that speak the best English here and for the most part, the ones that I've rubbed shoulders with (figuratively) have been good company right up until they learn that I didn't want to shag them.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Senegal: Arrival
Brevity for Humpy
If someone isn't trying to make money off you here, it's because they haven't met you yet. "Je ne compredes pas, vous parlez anglais?" will get you by and a packet of cigarettes makes it easier.
I don't know if arriving in a totally foreign country at 2am is ever going to be comfortable or a cakewalk but in theory I had this more or less covered. Standing at the back of the line for customs I studied everyone else and deduced that it was all simple enough and not really unlike any other border crossing.
The mistake I had already made was assuming that the rest of the white people who were in all likelihood Frenchmen, would partake in a similar process of entry. However, the French, most of the EU and a host of other countries not including Australia have a bit of a sweetheart visa agreement with Senegal enabling easy transit. I already knew this but at 2am it's possible to take momentary leave of your senses and memory.
While they stopped short of a full dental examination to crosscheck my record, their thorough perusal of my passport and a deeply irritating game of 20 French questions pushed me into surly territory fairly quickly. Getting through eventually, I collected my luggage (now lonesome on the conveyor belt) and began looking for the driver that I had arranged to take me to La Brazzerade, the hotel I'd be staying at.
Of course, he was nowhere to be found.
At about this point an African in a beige uniform took one of my bags saying "taxi" and I gave in. At that moment, someone else picked my other bag up, the first guy had disappeared and we had walked to the departure terminal where we sat and waited, for what I wasn't totally sure.
To fill time in, the guy I was sitting with began asking for dollars as he'd "helped me". I said I didn't ask for help. He didn't stop asking. Geneva once told me, "Cam, silence is golden but duct tape is silver." Well GG, $2 is cheaper still.
The thing I've come to learn about African taxi drivers is that they all know exactly where they're going until their beaten to shit car starts. He stops and asks for directions a few times, gets lost a few times more and half an hour later into a ten minute drive (it's now 3am) we arrive at La Brazzerade.
He had the temerity to ask for twice our agreed price and were his English any better he may have worked out exactly what my thoughts of him and his execution of his duties were.
If someone isn't trying to make money off you here, it's because they haven't met you yet. "Je ne compredes pas, vous parlez anglais?" will get you by and a packet of cigarettes makes it easier.
I don't know if arriving in a totally foreign country at 2am is ever going to be comfortable or a cakewalk but in theory I had this more or less covered. Standing at the back of the line for customs I studied everyone else and deduced that it was all simple enough and not really unlike any other border crossing.
The mistake I had already made was assuming that the rest of the white people who were in all likelihood Frenchmen, would partake in a similar process of entry. However, the French, most of the EU and a host of other countries not including Australia have a bit of a sweetheart visa agreement with Senegal enabling easy transit. I already knew this but at 2am it's possible to take momentary leave of your senses and memory.
While they stopped short of a full dental examination to crosscheck my record, their thorough perusal of my passport and a deeply irritating game of 20 French questions pushed me into surly territory fairly quickly. Getting through eventually, I collected my luggage (now lonesome on the conveyor belt) and began looking for the driver that I had arranged to take me to La Brazzerade, the hotel I'd be staying at.
Of course, he was nowhere to be found.
At about this point an African in a beige uniform took one of my bags saying "taxi" and I gave in. At that moment, someone else picked my other bag up, the first guy had disappeared and we had walked to the departure terminal where we sat and waited, for what I wasn't totally sure.
To fill time in, the guy I was sitting with began asking for dollars as he'd "helped me". I said I didn't ask for help. He didn't stop asking. Geneva once told me, "Cam, silence is golden but duct tape is silver." Well GG, $2 is cheaper still.
The thing I've come to learn about African taxi drivers is that they all know exactly where they're going until their beaten to shit car starts. He stops and asks for directions a few times, gets lost a few times more and half an hour later into a ten minute drive (it's now 3am) we arrive at La Brazzerade.
He had the temerity to ask for twice our agreed price and were his English any better he may have worked out exactly what my thoughts of him and his execution of his duties were.
Friday, January 18, 2013
South Africa: Gordon's Bay, Betty's Bay and Hermanus
My last full day in South Africa was also the first day that we stepped more or less in line with some sort of conventional tourism. The day didn't have much of a plan, in fact traveling to Hermanus was only whimsically suggested the night before after dinner and a (fair) bit to drink. With this change of tact, a flagrant disregard for the GPS's suggestions and very little purpose, this is exactly where you may expect luck to turn south.
What followed was instead one of the very best days of a holiday I've ever had.
We gave up on the GPS at about the Strand choosing to get off highways and instead follow the eastern coast of False Bay from Gordon's Bay to Betty's Bay, putting us firmly in "spectacular coastline" territory complete with a tight and windy road that had the motorcyclist in me beyond excited.
Stopping semi-regularly (once every four or five bays) "wows" were exchanged and shutters hammered. Perhaps it's important to note about now that from Gordon's Bay to Hermanus the patch of road following the coast is signposted as "the whale route" as it surely forms part of the reason why we found a good quality pair of binoculars abandoned at a vantage point we stopped at for photos.
Our good fortune was only warming up.
So it turns out that Betty's Bay is host to a penguin colony. Following a boardwalk we were led past thousands of penguins at various stages in the moulting process. Comical and as occasionally cute as they were, the thing about penguin colonies (in my sample size of three) is that they smell bad. Somewhere between Cliff's room and Cliff's car bad.
By the time we'd arrived at Hermanus (a further forty km) the smell was long forgotten.
I'd actually been to Hermanus before, on the way back to Cape Town from shark diving in Gansbaii in December 2011. Our guide Brian had stopped the bus there to talk a little about the town and let us wander the cliffs overlooking the water before moving on. Essentially, Hermanus is a seasonal tourist town (August - November) for one very simple and wonderful reason, you can watch whales from the pubs and hotels situated on these cliffs. They breach and lobtail so close that were you in the water, you'd be in violation of the maritime exclusion zone around them.
Finding binoculars was lucky but they were really quite superfluous.
Bianka won the whale spotting race, spying some broken water beyond protruding rocks in the bay, maybe 150m from us. I'd actually already seen it and at her pointing it out, dismissed it by suggesting that it was just some surf over submerged rocks related to the protruding ones infront of it.
Moments later I was eating humble pie as a whale spectacularly breached and flopped on its back, right where the broken water was.
I'm also a little ashamed to say that it took maybe forty minutes to discover that a pub over our shoulders offered much the same vantage point and beer.
Our afternoon disappeared into a few hours with whales for entertainment. There were at least three of them, one favouring breaching, another lobtailing (sometimes in concert) and a third most certainly only a calf. With the afternoon winding down and the light beginning to get warmer with the setting sun, we headed back to Paarl on the same route, my hope being that I'd be able to get some photos of False Bay with the Cape Peninsula silhouetted by yellows, oranges and pinks.
We pulled up at a spot I thought best and Bianka spotted a southern right whale calving at the bottom of the cliff while I was looking for a place to have a piss.
We really were stupidly lucky.
What followed was instead one of the very best days of a holiday I've ever had.
We gave up on the GPS at about the Strand choosing to get off highways and instead follow the eastern coast of False Bay from Gordon's Bay to Betty's Bay, putting us firmly in "spectacular coastline" territory complete with a tight and windy road that had the motorcyclist in me beyond excited.
Stopping semi-regularly (once every four or five bays) "wows" were exchanged and shutters hammered. Perhaps it's important to note about now that from Gordon's Bay to Hermanus the patch of road following the coast is signposted as "the whale route" as it surely forms part of the reason why we found a good quality pair of binoculars abandoned at a vantage point we stopped at for photos.
Our good fortune was only warming up.
So it turns out that Betty's Bay is host to a penguin colony. Following a boardwalk we were led past thousands of penguins at various stages in the moulting process. Comical and as occasionally cute as they were, the thing about penguin colonies (in my sample size of three) is that they smell bad. Somewhere between Cliff's room and Cliff's car bad.
By the time we'd arrived at Hermanus (a further forty km) the smell was long forgotten.
I'd actually been to Hermanus before, on the way back to Cape Town from shark diving in Gansbaii in December 2011. Our guide Brian had stopped the bus there to talk a little about the town and let us wander the cliffs overlooking the water before moving on. Essentially, Hermanus is a seasonal tourist town (August - November) for one very simple and wonderful reason, you can watch whales from the pubs and hotels situated on these cliffs. They breach and lobtail so close that were you in the water, you'd be in violation of the maritime exclusion zone around them.
Finding binoculars was lucky but they were really quite superfluous.
Bianka won the whale spotting race, spying some broken water beyond protruding rocks in the bay, maybe 150m from us. I'd actually already seen it and at her pointing it out, dismissed it by suggesting that it was just some surf over submerged rocks related to the protruding ones infront of it.
Moments later I was eating humble pie as a whale spectacularly breached and flopped on its back, right where the broken water was.
I'm also a little ashamed to say that it took maybe forty minutes to discover that a pub over our shoulders offered much the same vantage point and beer.
Our afternoon disappeared into a few hours with whales for entertainment. There were at least three of them, one favouring breaching, another lobtailing (sometimes in concert) and a third most certainly only a calf. With the afternoon winding down and the light beginning to get warmer with the setting sun, we headed back to Paarl on the same route, my hope being that I'd be able to get some photos of False Bay with the Cape Peninsula silhouetted by yellows, oranges and pinks.
We pulled up at a spot I thought best and Bianka spotted a southern right whale calving at the bottom of the cliff while I was looking for a place to have a piss.
We really were stupidly lucky.
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