.
And so off we drove!

The four of us, happily on our way to Zimbabwe for the long awaited family wedding / holiday. Not the usual four, not the Fantastic Four… no. Actually there was only three family members plus an imposter. Irish Joe. I suppose he wasn’t really an imposter because he was invited.

Let me explain. Irish Joe is a GPS device - one of those mobile gadgets programmed with millions of maps and linked to some particularly clever satellites somewhere in space. When you tell them your destination they keep track of your route and nudge you in the right direction by way of a recorded voice.

 I borrowed him to replace my son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything, including directions) as the latter was unfortunately unable to join us on our merry adventure, due to his studies in The Mother City.

So why would I, a male with the impeccable sense of direction that our gender has built into our chromosomes (next to the “never ask for directions” DNA strand) want to have a talking machine lovingly nicknamed ‘Irish Joe’ as an extra companion?

Isn’t it obvious?

Whilst I realized that driving two thousand four hundred kilometers each way in the company of Mrs Ed and The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) would provide the perfect opportunity for family bonding, I knew it would also mean I would be outnumbered two to one. You would understand my conviction that having absolutely no male accomplices for a two and a half day drive, not to mention the potential ear-battering with female conversation, would turn my mind to mush.

In short, I had visions of being brainwashed into using terms like ‘Cerise Pink’, or needing company to go to the toilet, or worse still, stopping and asking for directions.
Aside from his brilliant accent (“Torn lerft, droive aboat two hondred meetres, den torn roight”), ‘Irish Joe’ had a good sense of direction and, thankfully, didn’t feel the need to yack all the time. He spoke only when necessary and seemed to remain cool, calm and collected in the face of adversity. You must understand how refreshing this is when driving with two stress-demented women.
“Where are we going? Which way do we turn? What if we get it wrong? What if we end up in Soweto and there’s an uprising?” shrieks one, instantly heightening the hysteria of the other.
“What if this road leads to Hillbrow and we get caught in a drug deal? How do we REALLY know where to go? AAAAARRGGHHHH !!!! WHY ARE THESE CARS GOING SO FAST? PLEASE STOP AND ASK FOR DIRECTIONS!!! PLEASE PLEASE! THAT CAR IS FULL OF HIJACKERS I JUST KNOW IT!.....”

“Torn Roight” suggested Irish Joe calmly.
Actually I knew that – we were just leaving George at the time.

  And so on we went. With my intuitive sense of direction mentally guiding us (and Irish Joe verbally adding his confirmation) we passed through Oudtshoorn, Meiringspoort, Beaufort West - the town that aliens (surely) invaded (we stopped there to buy some ‘emergency shoes’ ((don’t ask)) and met an average of three weird people per second – surely that breaks even the Sedgefield record?) and the numerous other places en route to the nasty metropolis of Jo’burg.

As we entered the capital Mrs Ed hit extreme panic – and continuously screamed demands that I hand our car keys over to every person she deemed to be a potential hijacker. When I mentioned that this might be difficult at our current speed of 120km per hour, she lay on the floor in the foetal position and groaned. By that time The MCM had started chewing her toenails, having eaten her fingernails down to the quick as far back as Bloemfontein.

 We finally arrived at our stopover in Edenvale – a house belonging to a friend who was out the country at the time. His domestic servant opened up for us as soon as she could pull herself out of the clinging arms of Mrs Ed who was hugging and kissing her more than a little passionately, sobbing uncontrollably about how good it was to be alive.

We left at 4.30 the following morning (working on my passengers’ theory that even hijackers would be in bed at that time) and headed on the long trek to Beit Bridge.

 Miraculously, passing through the border post was reasonably easy. It seems that whilst those on the South African side have perfected the arrogant air of indifference to such levels I suspected they may have been involved in the training of supermarket till operators, their Zimbabwean counterparts have taken up a whole different angle. I think it’s called “We smile whilst we fleece you.”

With big friendly grins they helpfully relieved us of copious amounts of US dollars for anything the Mugabe regime could think of. There was Carbon Tax (we can’t mention that in front of the Edge-mobile, she would be so offended); bridge toll fees (the alternative route looked most unappealing, and there were crocodiles swimming in it); visa charges (“Sorry sir, (happy smile) I see you have a British passport (grin grin), that means you will have to pay a gazillion dollars more than anyone else,”); Some sort of extra car insurance (“We have taken it out on your behalf, sir. That will be another $65, but you can pay in Rand at a rate of 10 to 1 if you wish. Anything to be of service of course!”), and all sorts of other extra things, so that by the time we drove off we felt exceptionally well loved, though lacking 50 % of our entire holiday fund.

We were worried. The stop had totally confused Irish Joe, the poor lad:- Mrs Ed had mistakenly left him on when she hid him in her handbag (fearing theft out of the Edge-Mobile whilst we were queuing), and all the rushing from pillar to post at the border had obviously stressed him totally. He had inadvertently blurted “Expected arroival’ toime tree howers” whilst the customs man was asking if we had anything to declare, and “You hiv gaan tooo farrrr!” as we handed over a wad of notes for eyelash tax (or something like that).

And now it seemed he was choosing to remain silent. No matter which way we turned, there wasn’t the slightest of Irish squeaks. After a while we forgot all about him, such was the excitement of rediscovering Zimbabwe… and swerving for potholes… and being EXCEPTIONALLY nice to the policemen at the numerous road-blocks.

Our arrival in Harare, what seemed like a hundred hours later, brought mixed emotions. The flood of memories as we passed the stomping grounds of our youth, the pump of adrenaline as a group of three taxis, all carrying around 76 people as well as various mattresses, bath tubs, building materials and goats, headed towards us on the wrong side of the road (the drivers all smiling pleasantly and waving as we headed towards certain death) and the anticipation of seeing the extended family all gathering at my brother’s modest, three bedroom home for his son’s wedding.

We eventually reached his house, somehow unscathed other than badly frayed nerves. As we drove up the driveway Mrs Ed had calmed down enough to say
“So tell me again, how many of us are staying at the house?”
“Well there’s the UK family, there’s five of them, the two others from SA, the three of us, the Zim family of seven, then there’s the other friends from UK who have come up for the wedding, plus my nephew’s wife-to-be, and her family, and a couple of their old varsity mates from Cape Town, so that makes twenty seven, not to mention the six cats, the three dogs (plus the new puppy) the orphan Vervet monkey, the barn owl with the broken wing, the hawk, the parrot and the kittens my sister in law is looking after for animal welfare… oh yes, and the mice they breed to feed the hawk and the owl…..”
“Torn arrind,” buzzed Irish Joe, suddenly awake.
“Too late,” I laughed as my brother rushed out to meet us, “We’re here and we’re staying….
“That’s right,” said my sibling, enveloping me in a huge bear-hug  - I noticed he had a new and rather large addition to the family wrapped around his shoulder and waist – it looked like some sort of python. .