Greetings, friends. I’m writing this from the ‘war zone front-line’ in isolation.
Which, I guess, is some kind of bubble.
I picked up in the SMS ‘talk’ column of last week’s Herald that a reader Mandi Knee thought we were living in some form of Lower South Coast ‘bubble’.
Taken in the friendliest of spirits, Mandi. Yes, we are trying to make the best of it, too. Visitors from overseas are, and always will be, welcome.
ALSO READ: Fidler in the Hood: Life as we know it may never be the same
Just so happens that these jolly foreigners were trapped here through no fault of their own.
Anyway, better to be caught in a South Coast bubble than caught out by a South Sea bubble. On with the show.
Readers may recall that German visitor, Horst Mohr was due to fly home three weeks ago.
We said our ‘auf wiederseh’ns’ to Horst, but with the proviso to come back soon.
That’s when Horst’s troubles and woes started.
The coronavirus kicked in, leaving Horst stranded.
A week, holed up in a Durban hotel on standby, came and went as all flights to the outside world were cancelled.
Brother Deric Mohr brought Horst back to Southbroom, to kick his heels, awaiting news and instructions from the German embassy in Pretoria.
Three weeks later, Horst got the call: ‘Be at the embassy the next day: you will be flown out tomorrow night, Friday, 3rd April. You must get here under your own steam’.
And that’s when Deric’s trials and tribulations really kicked in.
First, a permit was needed to drive to Pretoria.
Margate Saps was on the ball, the permit issued there and then.
The Mohrs’ spirits were high.
Deric left in the wee hours of the morning and drove 800km to Pretoria to deliver Horst to the German embassy.
He was among 150 other stranded German visitors, all anxious to go home.
Six buses were laid on to take the ‘refugees’ to Oliver Tambo airport in Johannesburg.
The two brothers said their goodbyes (yet again), with Deric immediately wanting to get on the road to go home.
Sighs and relief all round.
But then Deric had to face another slight problem.
At Heidelberg, Deric had a ‘close encounter of a third kind’ in the form of a Saps road block.
“Permit.” The cops were very short on chit-chat.
Deric handed over his permit.
“This is invalid. It is in the name of someone else, one Horst Mohr,” the policeman said.
Deric tried to explain that he had obtained the permit 24 hours before, in order to get his brother to Pretoria.
It cut no ice.
“You must go back to the German embassy in Pretoria and get a new permit.”
It was 6.30pm on a Friday night.
The thought of adding yet another 300km round trip to the 800km of the journey wasn’t worth thinking about and Deric stood his ground (in his car, of course) and demanded to see a senior officer.
A Saps brigadier, a woman, listened to the story.
“Follow me to Heidelberg police station,” she said.
Two hours later, Deric obtained his new permit to drive home to Southbroom.
He had a decent night’s sleep in Harrismith and the next day finally arrived home, some 1600km and 36 hours later.
Welcome home, Deric. You have lived to tell the tale.
The good news is that Horst is safely home in Germany.
In the words of poet Robbie Burns, Horst: “Will ye no come back again?”
See you, and stay well.
Rob.
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