RtPNamibia2009 exceeded my expectations.  It was adventurous, a dramatic epic event in a truly romantic setting.  From the outset, I did not want après-finishing to be anticlimactic.  It was undoubtedly going to be the start of my return to the real world: but the thought was there that it should be as far, and for as long as possible, a continuation of this wonderfully indulgent Safari.  I do believe that I am quite good at that – being wonderfully indulgent, is my thing.  Ask around, people who know me well, will confirm.   

After a week of intense, personal, experiences in the heartland of wild Namibia, I knew that a degree of panache would be needed at the end to keep up the momentum.  And I knew: that once I had checked into the relative-luxury of a room with a bed dressed with bed-linen in Fish Canyon Lodge, where we would have a Grand Celebratory Dinner: where arguably, I had for one night the most luxurious bed for hundreds of miles - and there are not a lot of beds in that part of Namibia, I know this to be true, because in the grounds of the Lodge they had already set up tents for us.  Yes, more tents, with cot beds inside, for the large numbers of RtP runners checking-in – I however, had 'The Bed': and I knew: that once I had frolicked in a hot shower; savored the first real meal for a week; sunk a carafe of good red wine; and smoked a fine Cuban cigar alongside a bright wood fire under the African night sky: I knew that I would not be content to climb wearily back onto the long haul coaches, in the late night hours, for another ten hour drive to Windhoek to catch the big jet plane that would fly me out of Africa.  No – that would not do.  Instead, I was going to relax into that big bed for unlimited hours of sleep.  I was going to waken only when the dawn was ready, and shone for me a warm and welcoming glow on the outside world.  I was going to leisurely breakfast on a meal cooked by others – and then sit for a moment to contemplate, with a big grin, all that had gone before – then, and only then, was I content to contemplate leaving Africa.     

To achieve this après-race sojourn, I would need a plane to catch up with my itinerary.  A plane small enough to fly from the airstrip on the doorstep of the Lodge and to meet up with the big South African jet arriving later that day at the International Airport at Windhoek, hundreds of miles away, to pick me up.  It was arranged: a tiny Cessna would fly me, and a few like-minded others, from the gravelly airstrip, a jeep ride away.  Very ‘Out of Africa ’ I thought, and deserving of the close shave and thorough clean-up and bodily overhaul enjoyed earlier in the day.  Now without beard, and back into ‘Indiana Jones - give me a gun and I’ll shoot something - garb’; with expedition gear stowed in the wings, or stuffed around the seats of two other like-minded racers also ensconced in the tiny plane: I was ready to fly.  With the sun now high in the sky, we were to fly to Windhoek on two, tiny, wings; with one engine; one propeller; and one pilot – all perfectly in keeping with this great adventure.  But, because ‘This Is Africa ’ – the ‘TIA’ factor that is intrinsic to things African, came into play.  The starter motor would not engage. The pilot, familiar in the ways of TIA, climbed out, unscrewed the engine cowling, tapped discreetly the starter motor with key, then with a wrench: each time trying to start the engine, to no avail.  Repetition became increasingly heavy-handed, until a nadir of bloody-great blows with a handy rock picked from the desert floor indicated to all, that this plane was not going to fly – which, in a way, was a great relief.  It seems to me that if you are going to fly, then a necessary comfort is that the machine operates seamlessly and with a great deal of self-assurance.  I like the planes that fly me and my family, to exude a certain, aeronautical arrogance.  My wife puts it better: she likes her planes to be big, the bigger the better, she takes confidence in lots of pilots on board, and lots of engines, and delights in the sheer bulk of a plane with huge wings.  That it can barely get off the ground and is a living testament to the miracle of gravity-defying flight is entirely ignored.  ‘Clearly if it is that big, it must fly very well indeed’ is key to this way of thinking.  My plane was very small - in allegiance with my wife’s thinking - it currently had me worried.   Anyway, on a little gravelly airstrip somewhere in Namibia, another element of TIA came into play – the part that says ‘there’s always another plan’.  In this case, another charter plane nearby.  A bit bigger, two engines for a start.  Pilots conferred, a plan was engineered, some luggage was tossed out, to be picked up later, and we managed to stuff ourselves and essential gear, into it the remaining space in this bigger, therefore better, plane.  Finally, in a spray of gravel and sand, we flew from the Canyon, lighter in baggage than upon arrival, but now loaded with memories. 

We flew for hours across the dramatic, lunar-like wilderness that is Namibia, and, because of TIA, our pilot, on a whim, landed us on the huge runways of the International Airport, parked up his plane like a little sports car, somewhere convenient to him, and guided us informally through the formalities of an international airport.  Mostly by waving to his mates, pointing to us, and sticking up his thumb.  Then we were there: back into the air-conditioned world of wide-bodied jets, and the greater universe of global jet-setting.  Pretty much “Out of Africa’, at least the millennia-old Africa that we had enthusiastically crossed.   

The rest of the homeward journey was a retreat from new frontiers conquered: the inevitable return to the safer, saner, world we routinely frequent.  The fun was not entirely finished, however.  En route, an over-night, lay-over in Johannesburg was fully spent to good effect on a full-on steak dinner, washed down with the best of reds from Stellenbosch, in company of my good friend, and life-adventurer, George: who is currently seeking fame and fortune in South Africa. TIA meant that the steak was of unknown heritage.  I believe it was related to Antelope or some such Game.  It tasted fabulous: which is a bit of an easy win, really.  Anything cooked in a kitchen, served on a plate, and eaten with cutlery, would taste fabulous after a week of dining on reconstituted, freeze-dried expedition food.  George is a complex man of many interests, and even greater passions for things scientific, pre-historic, of art, and of women. In this latter context, George is the last true romantic on earth.  A man who irresistably loves beautiful women.  Please under stand, George loves beautiful women, first, and foremost, because they are simply that: beautiful women.  He is not a predator.  It is merely that in their company, art takes place.   It is like watching snow fall. They are drawn together.  You cannot get a sheet of paper between them such are the kindred sprits.  Both are better people when together.  I have seen this happen.  George is of my generation: at a younger age I can imagine it was like watching lightening strike.  He tells me that it has been a life long fascination.  George can turn up unexpectedly in Hong Kong with nothing, go shopping in a Wanchai street market, and then arrive unannounced at a party he has heard about on the Peak, captivate bemused host and hostess on his arrival, and then he will simply be the most elegant man in the room.   Then, there is conversation with George – always a delight: better than an Oscar Wilde script.  Whilst immersed in another elegant theory, another explanation on an aspect of science, or prehistory, or art, or of the fascination that is women; he has a tendency of dropping into the dialogue, in a self-effacing manner, a bombshell of a statement taken from the ‘life-of-George’: something that takes the breath away; that stops you in your gob-smacked tracks.   An example of a ‘George-ism’, and my current favorite: ‘my ex-wife never forgave me for letting Saddam Hussein take her hostage.’  It is easy to like George.  Why I am telling you all this?  Well, the truth is, the good food and fine wine, excellent conversations with George and so forth, was not the main event of the evening for me.  No, the real reason for recounting all of this, is that it provides a benchmark for you to gauge the extent of my real true delight that evening: I was wearing my Church's desert leather boots.  My frayed feet now being sufficiently recovered for real footwear – or so I thought.  You might recall in an earlier article (“Getting to Off”) how I envisaged my return to Hong Kong . . . ‘with a sprightly step, a wry smile on my face, to say to whoever enquires, “it was good fun, very good fun.” And go to work’. . .  well, you can now add to that, . . .‘standing strong and true, and wearing shoes’. . .  It did occur to me that I might have been better off in those boots than the technological marvels that had contributed to the grief that were now my feet     

The next day it was no longer the case – ‘still stiff, swollen, and sore’, was my thought on waking and wriggling my feet: I anticipated that they were likely to swell even more on the 13 hours of low-pressure flight to Hong Kong – so I wore the ugly Crocs with red socks.  And swell they did.  I had not expected to bring TIA back to Hong Kong , but I most certainly did – big time.

Cathay Pacific’s CX jet touched-down at 8am, getting me into the office for 9.30am.  My staff threw a ‘welcome home’ party, which was fun.  By 11am, I was at my pre-scheduled, routine appointment at the Adventist Hospital .  With the intent, merely to get the field dressings on my heels and toes changed. Then the TIA effect: I don’t know who was the more surprised: my Doctor, by the state of my un-bandaged feet: or me, by the fact that by noon, I was confined to a hospital bed, hooked up to IV drips with a diagnosis of Septicemia in both feet.  IV-antibiotics throughout five days and, in the meantime, a saline drip for re-hydration, were prescribed.  The latter issue, I am convinced, was not a TIA vector but more likely related to the amount of free-flow champagne drunk the night before in CX business-class.  A cohort of us, RtP racers, was on board; and we drank, ate, drank some more; in unison, and in relative silence, we were a bonded brotherhood of warriors, who did not need to speak to communicate - and then we slept like the waking dead – we were tired.   

My daughter tells me that the three-way telephone conversations on that Tuesday, between my Doctor: my wife in England and my daughter in Singapore , was whether the hospital would need to amputate a toe or two.  An anecdotal exaggeration I am sure – and probably a conspiracy of women to keep me grounded, as otherwise I might do something stupid due to their over-active perceptions of my misplaced sense of bravado.  Believe me, I wasn’t going anywhere: it was scary, and I was focused on the rot going on, in my extremities.  My right ankle on the Tuesday was ‘Granny-sized’, swollen, puffy, and with that cellulite finish that goes with something bad, bubbling in the flesh, underneath the discolored skin.  My toes were a bluish shade of grey with brighter highlights coming from rank-smelling yellow pus oozing from a toe or two, when squeezed.  Not a pretty sight: they smelt considerably worse than they looked.  My explanation that the ‘athletic relaxation tights’ I wore on the plane were clearly too tight, did not raise much of a laugh from the gawking crowd of nurses now gathered to watch.  Normally, they just stick thermometers in my mouth and needles in my arm, but now they sensed that there was real fun to be had, at my expense, over the coming week. 

In that week, my Doctor took off three toe nails that concealed hotbeds of festering flesh – that itself was not a problem, but I can tell you it hurts like hell when they stick a big needle half an inch into your toes to administer anesthetic - two jabs per toe.   It’s a ‘Catch 22’: a case of first needing an anesthetic to first kill the pain made by injecting the anesthetic into the toe to kill the pain – if you see what I mean.  I am not complaining.  I realize that the number of toe nails lost, are, to RtP Racers, the ‘Oak Leaf Clusters’ to an RtP Medal of Honor.  I am six lost – that is indeed, quite a result for a RtP first-timer.

Anyway, in truth, the Doctors and Nurses were kind, and caring, and generally lovely to me.  They unshackled me from the hospital bed after five days and gave me ‘Smartie’ tubes of assorted antibiotics to eat for a week.  My Doctor and her nurses clearly think I cannot be trusted to take care of myself. They insisted that I reported each morning for dressings to be changed and to receive a general dressing down on how to take better care of myself.  I understand that these ‘tut-tuttings’ are considered to be therapeutic by the medical profession.  Certainly my wife and daughter do similar when giving any form of assistance to me after a misdeed on my part.  In any case, I am grateful that they made me better.

There is a problem though.  In the face of this tangible evidence, of what is now construed to be my unbelievable recklessness in taking on the challenge of RtPNamibia2009, I am not expecting a lot of support from my wife and daughter to the notion of doing another race – in fact, I believe that my wife has instructed our family lawyer that legal documents are to be drafted to prohibit such actions.   She has suggested that maybe I should buy a Harley after all.  This is clearly a sop to my wounded pride over the negative support to the idea of a future adventure; but it is not a bad offer. 

Nowadays, a week or two later, I am in good shape, wearing shoes, running again as a matter of fact, and feeling great – and fondly remembering my time in Namibia.  Would I do it again – absolutely?  Will I do it again – don’t know.  There was a great deal of novelty in the first time – the unreasonableness of it all is forgivable in a first time – a second time around would be more prosaic.  There is, however, potency in endorphins when mixed with a desert-sky full of stars.  It is a hugely addictive cocktail of delight and I know that the craving is there, quietly gnawing within me.  

For the moment, I am still enjoying the warm after-glow: not of a sense of achievement, others did so much better than I.  No, the glow comes from the satisfaction of knowing that I was there, at that moment of time, I was part of that great adventure, that it is now a part of me.  It is what I lived, for a moment in my life. 

Certainly, something more will be required in the future – I am still a fan of what is, for me, absurd.

Now out of Africa, this is a good time to thank so many people who encouraged me, made me laugh, and generally enthused me with the sheer joy of being alive, throughout the preparation, and the completion of this venture; and in doing so, we did good for others.  I am delighted by the many, and immensely generous pledges, made to Foundation Theodora and their Clown Doctors in the name of my journey.  The total is still rising, and today approaches HK$ 200,000.  It is an impressive sum of money – well done to you all – thank you. 

That is that, then.  This blog from me, for RtPNamibia2009, is also finished.  I have enjoyed writing for you.  Thank you for staying onboard for the whole of the journey.  I hope you were as entertained as I, by the whole thing.  Bon Voyage.