The plane to South Africa offered luxuries such as Amarulla on tap, new release movies at our finger tips and an endless snack reserve so despite the sensible plan to get good sleep in preparation for a very long drive at the other end, we stayed awake, watched movie and after movie with cookies after Amarulla on ice. On picking up the car we were both shattered, grumpy and in no fit state to negotiate new currency, roads, directions and find a bed for the night. Having squeezed ourselves and our bags into the cupcake sized car we were on the road taking short shifts to navigate or drive equally. Fortunately, having negotiated the M25 and M1 for a sustained period of time the road situation would have to be pretty dire to cause us an issue. South Africa's main highways with their wide, clear roads and endless sky meant the journey was easy, in fact a bit too easy. Cruising at 140 kilometres per hour appeared the done thing and so we settled back with one giving the other prods whenever our eyelids seemed a little loose. It was just over an hour into our South Africa experience. A man stands in the road and waves us into the central reservation of the main highway. With hearts pumping we did as we were told as his vehicle had blue lights and his friend had a speed camera.

'Did you know you were speeding?'

Well. Yes we did.

'Did you know it meant a fine?'

Well we did of course but pleaded English-ness.

'I have to take you to the police station to make out the receipt as I have none here"

Hmmmmmm.... You are here to watch people speed with no means of charging people fines for those who do. We looked at the officer. We looked at each other.

"How much is the fine, sir?" I ask

"700 rand"

"We do not have the time to go to the station, sir. Can we pay you directly?" Simon says

"Well, I do not know. That depends"

"How much is the fine if we do not go to the station?" I ask

"You tell me. I do not know"

Simon looks at me. I look at Simon.

"100 rand?"

Deal done. On the road. 120 KPH maximum from now on. Our first Africa experience although we were left desperate to know if we paid the going bribe.

Our aim was the Golden Gate National Park in the Drakensburg and as we entered this small reserve we both felt lumps in our throats. Maybe it was sleep deprivation. Maybe it was the lowering sun shining on the steep escarpment of gold and russet making the corridor of rock glow and lighting the road in front of us like we were royalty arriving. We found the nearest campsite just south of the park. As we heaved ourselves out of the car it was clear we were in no way regal with our eye bags to match our backpacks and a clear sense of desperation/ humour loss. Dyas, our host, was a hospitable and generous chap and after a strong cup of tea and a recounting of our bribe story he was to show us to our shed. It was clear that at some stage he had cleared out the rake and lawn mower and popped 2 beds and a table in there with a candle for good measure in order to cater for the scrounging, low budget backpacker. He looked twice at our eye bags, crossed his arms and said that as he had no booking that night in his 13 bedded farm house we could have that for the price of the shed! I nearly fell to my knees and sobbed but it would have taken too much to stand up again so I thanked him nearly too much, fell into bed and slept....well slept until Simon in an exhausted daze of a sleep woke me up with such an almighty bang I thought we had been shot on our first day! I turned on the lights to find a naked and confused (and bruised) Simon sprawled on the floor who said as I peeled him from the tiles "I'm still asleep. I am still asleep". Yet another bash to his coccyx...

Our next night in the shed was not as bad as first anticipated. With our small hobbit sized dwelling overlooking a shimmering lake, the view alone was worth it. We could hear the torturous calls of baboons in the distance and see stars in abundance. South Africa untouched and already a place where both Simon and I felt happy and relaxed; more so than South America and mostly we decided, due to the language no longer being a barrier.

We moved from Dyas's place and his slice of Drakensburg serenity to the amphitheatre where we were yet again sprinkled by the luck of jammy gits to have a self contained cottage for pennies. Our home was overlooking a vast and sprawling view of a lush green valley, rolling hills all fringed by steep, dramatic pillars of rock. These rocks together formed a wall making for great photos by day and monstrous lightening and fierce thunder at night. Having watched the amphitheatre from afar we decided to walk to its epicentre where waterfalls and a clamber over giant boulders waited. The walk through the canyon along white rocks and aquamarine icy water was easy (saving me from the usual Simon protests. He prefers to throw himself off a canyon than walk up it) and at the end a rope ladder and a series of bolts in rock faces meant we could scramble up and over the cliff face and more lagoons of water...and two rather strapping gentlemen without a stitch on enjoying a splash! Simon made conversation and was able to keep eye contact whilst I took a quick detour and looked up like it was the first time I had seen clouds. Amazing the sights you see on a country ramble in South Africa.

The concept of BBQ in the UK is a casual weekend affair involving charcoal in a bun, food-poisoning and warm mayo. In South Africa though the "braai" is taken very seriously in deed. Each and every accommodation option supplies you with your own braai. Wood is sold in heaps on the side of the road. Every supermarket has a braai section. It is a national institution. Simon now had an excuse for daily pyromania and firelighters, wood and briquettes always stocked we had an evening ritual of preparation, fire lighting, wine drinking, cooking and the final over indulgence as night after night we would cook too much and drink far too much. Bottles of wine were now redundant as the 5 litre boxes had come into their own (well we are on a budget!). It was often the highlight of our day, returning to our little house to spend a night of putting the world to rights over a merlot and fire. When in Rome and all that...

It was hard to leave our little cottage but with the help of the owners we were directed towards Ann and her little cottage in her sawmill estate. She knew our budget and agreed to it so when we arrived we were expecting a room. The house we pulled up at was infact not hers but OURS. A whole house with sofa and terrace, car port and kitchen. It even came complete with two rather fat but very friendly dogs. A ready made home. From Ann's place we explored Monks Cowl in the heart of Champagne Valley with all its waterfalls hidden in crevices of a giant, forest laden escarpment. Simon spied the award winning golf course too. An initial road side peer, ended up with a walk around the first tee which ended up with a chat with Eric who said he would give him reduced fees, free rental on clubs and even a golf buggy thrown in. Too good to resist, SImon and I in our backpacking status ended up on a perfect 18 holes; me driving and Simon losing his balls.

Amongst our days of exploring we had chats with the laundry lady, tea with the restaurant owner, tales with the information desk girl. The community were open and friendly, going out of their way to make us feel like people not rand signs. On our final day Simon needed to fish at the local dam having not had a fishing fix for 4 months. We found a rod, we found bait and so I dropped him off at the crocodile infested waters early one morning hoping I would get him back in the shape I left him.

I spent the day exploring the more remote areas of the valley where rolling hills were peppered with round rondavel houses made of mud and painted bright greens and pinks. Here cows, goats and people walked; where to was always a little unclear but there was a lot of drifting. At school times hundreds of identically clad girls and boys lined the streets like a procession making the long and hot walk back to the hill where there thatched rondavel sat. Here the roads are gravel and potholed, the electricity lines had stopped. The Mama's carried bowls and casks of water on their heads. The children played with sticks and pebbles, running easily over the gravel without shoes. The older children held hands and admired each others brightly coloured sunglasses and MP3 players. The babies hung in towels wrapped around new mothers waists. There is a dichotomy in South Africa where you can be in a bustling coffee shop surrounded by glass domes filled with cream cakes, scones and croissants, indulging in unnecessary sumptuous treats and in just minutes you find yourself surrounded by crumbling shacks housing entire families making their 'pap' over a log fire.

South Africa is unequivocally all the better for Mandela's efforts and sacrifices but although apartheid is over the divide is still tangible. Manual labour, house staff, kitchen staff all, almost solely, manned by the black population whilst the white man owns the significant majority of farms, businesses, Mercedes and golf clubs; remnants of the past where education and opportunity was disproportionately given.

Having come from a country where the multicultural population, where the colour of your skin is not indicative of your education, standard of living, access to opportunity and employment I found it enormously difficult to see the 9% white population having such an ease of living compared to the majority black population walking with no shoes, dancing on street corners for money, working as house maids. For the first time I felt awkward to be white. It seemed that the colour of my skin meant my life was significantly easier and that for some it also meant my views and opinions were also assumed; a casual racism is still present between all races, all colours; racism that has sadly become the norm and is left largely unchallenged. There is still work to be done to destroy the assumptions and stereotypes. There are still wounds to be healed and unity to be accomplished but with as dark a history as South Africa holds and not so long ago either, all people do share the opinion that it needs several more generations for everyone to feel like one nation.

Despite all the woes that South Africa holds, however, Simon and I's first week gave us opportunity to talk to and spend time with all classes, all colours and all ages. Our personal impressions were that whoever we may be and whoever they were the welcome is warm, the conversation is open and kindness is in abundance. South Africa holds many surprises; in its history, in its natural wonder but mostly with the people who call it home.