Of tickets, planes and broken bones

Scroll down to 'Many rivers to cross' and read upwards. Might make a bit more sense to you...

Right then. Still can't walk, this could be serious. Well, I can't put any weight on my right foot at all. This is an issue when you have to cart your luggage around an airport. And when you're hoping to spend 10 days walking/driving at your destination, having a serviceable right foot is a distinct advantage. Putting this aside for one moment, there are more pressing issues as it turns out that I'm supposed to have a paper ticket for my two flights (via Jo'burg to Cape Town). They can see that the tickets have been paid for. They can see that I have paid the departure tax. They can see my whole itinerary, and for good measure I have the original that they sent me. They know I am who I say I am, because they have seen my passport. So what extra information does a paper ticket have, I ask? You need a ticket, they say. But why, I ask? Because you need a paper ticket, they say. This continues for some time. The upshot is I have to buy another ticket, for US$201; I'm just grateful I didn't have to pay in Zim dollars at the official exchange rate, that would have really hurt. I just hope I can claim on my insurance.

All this pain was countered by being plonked in a wheelchair and wheeled past all the queues right onto the plane, where they organised a P.A.U. to be ready for me in Jo'burg. A what? A passenger assistance unit; essentially a truck with an enclosed platform and a lift that carts cripples between plane and terminal. Bloody genius. I ought to hurt my foot more often. Whizzed past more immigration queues to the SAA desk to try and sort out my ticket issue. A very familiar conversation ensued, but I was too darned weary to argue. This time the flight was only 75 quid rather than 100. Curiously, this is less than the original total of 220 that I paid when I booked the flights. Ho hum.

So, I gets to Cape Town and am sitting on the right side of the plane so get a glorious view of the city and Table Mountain as we come in to land. It's 1pm, 27 degrees and not a cloud in the sky. I feel very emotional coming back here, and not a little frustrated that I'm going to have difficulty getting about. Get whizzed past all the queues again and out in to the taxi rank. The taxi takes me to my hotel (after much fucking about I must say - why am I paying for this bloke to drive around lost), who confirm that they have no record of my booking and no space. So, I go walkabout to try and and find somewhere to stay. Oh no I don't, because I can't bloody walk. The lady who runs the place is lovely though; she goes up and down the street trying to find somewhere for me and eventually comes up trumps. Then, just as I'm about to go off, they get a cancellation and I've got myself a nice little crash pad, for half the price of the room I 'booked'. Now that's sorted out I can finally get myself to a hospital to get my foot X-rayed. I was going to go to Groote Schuur, where Christiaan Barnard performed the first heart transplant, but my helpful lady suggests the Christiaan Barnard Memorial hospital which is nearer and a lot less busy. So... one taxi ride and four hours later, it's confirmed that I haven't broken my foot (hard cast and six week recovery), but I've bruised it badly which is merely a crepe bandage and 2 weeks recovery. And some hardcore anti inflammatory drugs. Most importantly though, I get some crutches so I can get about.

When I broke my left knee aged 11 I had wooden crutches that you stick under your arm pits and hold onto, ie, you can spread the load between your armpits and your wrists. These new crutches are them metal ones where you have to take all the weight on your wrists, or more accurately, the palms of you hands and your wrists. I went out to get some food at about nine, but although the restaurant was about 400 yards away, it took me 20 minutes to get there because I was in agony. Clearly the people who design these things have never used them, and as for the people in healthcare who choose them for their patients, make them use them for a day, then we'd see a change I think. I'd like to take one of these crutches and shove one up their arse, which, I must say, would be considerably less painful than actually using one of the fucking things.

Sitting in the restaurant I got really down, as I had thought that whatever the outcome of the x-rays, at least I'd be able to get around on crutches. To spend so long looking for somewhere within walking distance of the centre of town, only to find I can barely hobble ten yards is depressing, made even worse by the steep hill I'm on. Maybe I was just tired and hungry; airline food is not the best for filling you up and I'd risen at 5, so I stuffed in my burger and chips then hailed a cab to take me the 400 yards back home to bed. Maybe things would look better in the morning.

And so they did. Already I can feel the improvement in my foot. If I could get a taxi to the V&A Waterfront shopping centre/attraction/hangout place, maybe they would have wheelchairs for use by crutch victims. And so, here I am, sitting in a web cafe, with a wheelchair at my side, having bought myself a new phone and camera; last time I was here I had no camera and I'm buggered if that's going to happen this time. Just for the record, Cape Town is stunningly beautiful. I keep having to pinch myself when I look about; the weather is fine and I'm just thrilled to be here. If my foot keeps improving then I'll be able to walk, or at least drive, by the end of the week.

Life is good.