Sharki and the Naked Travellers: Fawlty Tourists on Wheels

By Valma Muir

Travelling with one’s partner in a campervan for a year provides an excellent, if not gruelling, test for newly married couples; it amounts to “couples therapy” on wheels but without the therapist. Not only does one learn a tremendous amount about one’s partner but also about oneself. There are a few endeavours that couples should avoid; three that come to mind are wallpapering, navigating, and being in each other’s company 24/7. After travelling for a year with my partner, I can say with absolute authority that putting up wallpaper with one’s partner is nothing short of life-threatening. Navigating and constant companionship did put us to the test a few times but fortunately there were no casualties. None that I noticed.

Think “Fawlty Tourists on Wheels” and that would accurately sum up our year-long meanderings in Sharki, our trusty wannabe 4x4 campervan that took multiple terrains in her 2.8-litre stride.

If one has a year to spare, I highly recommend throwing caution to the wind and embarking on a zero-itinerary adventure with an open mind, a strong stomach and your very best friend at your side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781528993722

Valma Muir

Valma Muir was raised and educated in Southern Africa and she relocated more recently to the Isle of Man. Her interests and careers have spanned both creative and technical disciplines and the cornerstone of her approach to life is based on curiosity. She is very close to her three adult sons, Kai, Joshua and Blake; and is inseparable from her two cats, Coco and Monty. Travelling remains one of her greatest passions. Although she is no longer married to Kobus, her partner in Sharki and the Naked Travellers, they have remained firm friends, dedicated parents and have enjoyed many a travelling adventure together.

Book preview

About the Author

Valma Muir was raised and educated in Southern Africa and she relocated more recently to the Isle of Man. Her interests and careers have spanned both creative and technical disciplines and the cornerstone of her approach to life is based on curiosity. She is very close to her three adult sons, Kai, Joshua and Blake; and is inseparable from her two cats, Coco and Monty. Travelling remains one of her greatest passions. Although she is no longer married to Kobus, her partner in Sharki and the Naked Travellers, they have remained firm friends, dedicated parents and have enjoyed many a travelling adventure together.

Dedication

To Kobus, my fellow traveller.

Copyright Information ©

Valma Muir 2023

The right of Valma Muir to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528993029 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528993722 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks and gratitude to my sister Alison and brother-in-law George for all their support regarding the publishing of this book.

Prologue

Sharki and the Naked Travellers is a light-hearted anecdotal book about a year-long journey with all its moments of unpredictability and hilarity. Woven into the story are philosophical undertones, impressions and inner thoughts.

Travelling in itself broadens one’s horizons, but when undertaken with one’s partner, it has an influence on the relationship; an additional cementing of seeing the world through one’s eyes as a couple.

People all over the world may speak different languages, have different cultures and hold diverse beliefs. However, we all feel, we all have hopes and dreams, and if one embraces a deep sense of humanity when travelling, the rewards are truly wonderful, life-changing and in our case, highly entertaining too.

Chapter 1

On Our Way!

We watched with fascination as the British Airways steward expertly unlocked from the outside, the toilet from which the alarm buzzer had sounded. Being positioned in the front row of economy and adjacent to the loos, we had prime seats from which to observe and enjoy any small drama that could relieve the boredom of a long-haul destination flight.

Slowly, the old duck from three rows back emerged looking pale, shaky and slightly embarrassed since she had thrown up at various intervals and in various places and had finally managed to lock herself in the toilet. Now it couldn’t have been the dinner that had caused her little turn for the worse, since all the remaining four hundred and fifteen passengers were in the best of health and spirit. Nor could it have been turbulence to blame since we were enjoying the smoothest passage possible. This was confirmed by the captain from the flight deck as he rambled on in that typical gravelly pilot’s voice about altitude, cruising speed, perfect flying conditions etcetera, none of which anyone showed any particular interest in. It is only when one hears ‘jammed landing gear’ or one notices a swarthy shifty-eyed passenger armed with a box cutter that what the captain says suddenly becomes enormously interesting and significant to one’s well-being. But now, I am digressing.

Now for those who are susceptible to queasiness, I suggest you skip this part of the story.

Having confessed to the fact that too much free on-board wine was the reason for her condition, her hands flew to her mouth in absolute horror as she turned to the kind air steward and announced that her false teeth were missing! She couldn’t possibly greet the family in London with a toothless smile, now could she? In the silence that followed, all eyes swivelled to the air steward and his mortified expression clearly revealed that all his training and experience could not have prepared him for this moment. A little omission in the training manual; missing false teeth were not listed under ‘f’, ‘m’ or ‘t’. Obviously, he was seriously contemplating a swift career change but this could not happen until we reached Heathrow. So there was nothing for it but to grit his teeth in true British style and do what had to be done.

Now this is what I would call in-flight entertainment; I found myself watching a mini hospital soap drama unfold as a stewardess handed her colleague a pristine set of ice tongs after he had retrieved the used sick bag from the toilet. Their eyes met momentarily and meaningfully as happens between surgeon (steely blue eyes) and theatre nurse (heaving bosom), as he turned to save yet another life hanging in the balance. At this point in time, my husband turned a darker shade of green, groaned as he closed his eyes and turned up Vivaldi through the headphones. I couldn’t help but notice the small beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.

The future of everyone’s dinner was held in the balance as the tongs disappeared into the depths of the white blotchy bag. At thirty-five thousand feet, on the 30th of May which just happened to be my birthday, not even the most ardent of travellers would have wanted to have been on Flight BA 055 from Johannesburg to London, as the offending, smiling dentures emerged to the delight and lone applause of Mrs Merlot. At this point, I just could not resist nudging my husband who on opening his eyes to a row of pearly whites being swivelled around in a cocktail glass with little bits of carrots whirling around, clapped his hand over his mouth as he gagged accompanied by a simultaneous sense of humour failure, which you will note as the story progresses, is a general tendency of his. Why is it that no matter what one has consumed, throwing up always seems to produce carrots? A complete mystery.

It would transpire many years later at a dinner party where everyone was exchanging in-flight horror stories that our hosts Beverly and Francois recalled a flight (they remembered that it was at the end of May but could not pinpoint the year) where Beverly’s father had ended up sitting next to a very talkative old lady on a British Airways flight from Johannesburg to London. The thought of twelve hours of non-stop jabber-jabber, prompted the man understandably to ply the old dear with glass after glass of wine with the intention of silencing her. And here she was, seated in the crew seat opposite us… suitably silenced.

So why were we on this doomed flight—doomed in terms of any further consumption of food and beverages for those who had witnessed a sweet little old lady playing ‘down-downs’?

This does not bode well, stated my husband, Kobus, as we discussed our forthcoming year-long trip abroad with a delightful passenger called Marlene who came from Stonehenge and who was sitting next to my husband. Here we had saved for three years to be able to embark on the journey of a lifetime and it kicks off with our celebratory champagne sitting in our throats, threatening to relocate.

Valma, this is only supposed to happen in the movies, he added grumpily. I guess he should know since we had decided to break from our budding careers in the movie industry for a year—a ‘do now or never’ decision that would result in the most adventurous and highly entertaining year of our lives to date.

We watched the kind air steward help Mrs Merlot back to her seat and after fussing over her with extra blankets and pillows, peace and quiet eventually descended upon the cabin. The lights dimmed and we then spent the next six hours assuming multiple contorted positions, desperately trying to find some measure of comfort in order to get some much-needed sleep.

If ever one walks through the dimly lit cabin in the middle of the night on a long-haul flight, it looks something like an Olympic Yoga competition. Human bodies are definitely not meant to bend and twist the way they do. At the time of paying for a flight ticket, an economy ticket seems so much more sensible than splashing out on a business class ticket. It is amazing how one’s perspective radically changes at three o’ clock in the morning when attempting to avoid dislocation whilst endeavouring to find a position that does not entail personal injury. No wonder they firmly close the curtains between economy and business class; one could become quite violent witnessing such affluent comfort.

To add insult to sleeping-sitting-up injury, the crew seem to know the exact moment when one finally falls asleep through sheer contortive exhaustion and with sadistic vigour, they snap the cabin lights on full bright, bellow an unbearably cheerful good morning salutation over the address system at maximum volume resulting in a collective levitation of all the passengers. Not done with their in-flight fun, they then shove a sulphur smelling powder-based omelette under one’s nose accompanied by an ice-cold roll and butter so hard and frozen that re-moulded, it could be used as a bullet. The contents of the thimble size milk pots are so insignificant and ultra-skimmed that the desperately needed morning cup of tea becomes only marginally less black no matter how many pots one uses. Dirty muddy water like the Limpopo River in full flood comes to mind. And do not make the mistake of asking the cabin crew for extra milk from the jug they stash on the service trolley; they slosh so much milk into one’s tea that one now has iced tea. Sigh. The challenges of the long-haul destination traveling.

When one boards the plane, one looks neat, tidy and definitely human. By the time the crew have finished shocking their passengers awake, (not to mention the shocks one receives from the static blankets) the assortment of wild hair, dishevelled clothing and scary wide eyes is like a replay of One flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. And of course the crew glide past everyone looking so immaculate and perfectly made up (male crew included) that one wants to sob into one’s diminutive paper-covered pillow.

This particular morning was no different. However, the excitement of our imminent descent into London Heathrow assisted in suppressing the revengeful thoughts that were surfacing in our groggy minds. Kobus and I exchanged excited looks, turning our attention to what lay ahead of us.

Our adventure had begun!

Chapter 2

London and Preparations

As the engines spooled down, the door of the cabin swung open to greet us with a rush of freezing cold air and a magnificent view of the Concorde parked alongside on the tarmac. A gentleman, whose dark complexion contrasted with swathes of seemingly endless yards of a white turban, glided towards us on an automated tentacle of Terminal Four, his toothless smile turning our stomachs. Understandably, we were a little sensitive to missing teeth. He proceeded to greet us in a perfect Cockney accent, which would have made Enoch Powell proud of the British Empire. We bade our new friend from Stonehenge goodbye and stepped forth into the milieu of Heathrow airport.

The next few weeks were a rush of preparation for our journey to Europe. There was a sleeper campervan to find, cooking utensils, bed linen etcetera to purchase, maps and phonetic dictionaries of numerous languages to obtain; all this while we soaked in the magnificent city of London with its history, stage shows and captivating culture.

Kobus alluded only once to the military-like fervour that I applied to our preparations which challenged even the most famous of expeditions; it was a wise choice on his behalf and definitely preferable to a court martial. I was on a mission and much like facing the threat of an approaching Roman army, he chose the route of least resistance and simply joined the ranks, fell in and marched forth to conquer. And the focus of our campaign? A stretch of road not far from Waterloo Station (how apt) informally known as the Campervan Headquarters where used campervans were bought and sold. Rows and rows of vehicles of all sizes, shapes and models lined the street, a motoring bazaar of hagglers and tire-kicking haglees intent upon deal victory.

Step aside, Wellington; this is my domain, my natural habitat, the perfect forum to showcase my tactical skills. I slowly paced up and down in front of the troops (okay, wannabe salesmen), eyes narrowed as I examined each vehicle like they were the Cavalry on display. Kobus maintained a discreet distance in case anyone thought that he was possibly associated in any way to this self-appointed commander-in-chief. This suited me perfectly. I was about to turn on my heel for a third fly by when suddenly all the noise and commotion ceased; I experienced a dizzying moment of clarity and certainty; possibly even destiny. And there it was.

There was Sharki.

It was love at first sight; our chariot, our ship, our magic carpet, our palace on wheels that was going to transport us to far away magnificent places and whisk us to heaven and back. Okay, so we are talking about a sleeper campervan but this was no ordinary campervan. This was our new home; this was our mobile nest; this was domestic bliss on the move. This was Sharki…named as such because the exterior colour was best described as a combination of ‘shit and khaki’. Kobus endeavoured to steer me to other less pricey vehicles but my mind was made up.

Turning to him I said, ‘This is the one!’ He raised his eyebrows, sighed and looking slightly wary replied:

Hmmm. The last time you said that, look what happened.

True. Allow me to explain. Rewind to seven years earlier.

It is the first day of college and all the new students are gathered in the main auditorium for enrolment. This amounted to nothing short of a military roll call after which we would be addressed by the Dean and introduced to all the lecturers who would endeavour over the next three to four years to expand our fertile minds in preparation for our triumphant entry into commerce and industry. The only fertile thing that was going on was all the males and females eyeing each other out, and commerce was the last thing on our industrious minds. The lecturers looked bored beyond words and by the time the Dean had finished his speech, the pecking order of the jocks and the nerds, the sirens and the frumps was fully established.

My name had been called for Art Year 1 after which I was scheduled to complete another three years of Photography. I had duly put up my hand and a tick was put next to my name. Done. I’m in and accounted for.

As I settled back in my seat to observe the talent, I happened to glance at the entry door to the auditorium, and it was at this moment that I experienced a totally life-altering event, a defining moment that no one else was aware of or privy to; a moment