Hotel service that is fit for a king

The next time I go to Sun City I'm taking a helicopter and a rosary. I cannot remember the last time I got there before supper, blame it on the ghost that lures me to roads that end up at either factories or cul de sacs.

And Hartbeespoort, still crawling with finger-wagging racists, doesn't make it easier for lost strangers. Instead, as my photographer warned, they would harass me for "stopping and driving and stopping and driving again".

But with my borrowed Mazda 5, I knew we could evade and melt the meanest of hearts. The car has horse-power of a performance car even though it's a seven-seater. It's also quite easy on fuel. In just one full tank we were flying straight through and getting lost and finding our way back again.

Destination Sun City seemed to stretch its arms wide open for us to come and bury our ashen faces and global warming worries.

The Cascades, not far from the main hotel, is nothing compared with the Palace, of course. But the fit-for-a-king service makes up for the decor that has seen better days.

My room was quite standard but I couldn't have asked for a better view.

To my relief the hotel at the Cascades opens till late and the cheerful staff eased the guilt of making them work late.

While my goofy five-year-old was running amok sending my patience into tatters, a chef took one look at her and asked if she was a Virgo. "Her kind is very energetic and playful, just make peace with that," he warned with a smile.

Ubuntu, they have it in abundance at Sun City.

We were invited for the Spring Break that I had seen only on children's television programmes.

After breakfast we headed for the Valley of Waves where it was all happening. I hate crowds and on that Saturday it looked like teenagers had been bussed in by the thousands.

Bums galore, incredible cleavages and six packs were the order of the day. All that fiasco in the midst of unbearable sounds of radio stations and television programmes broadcasting from the venue and merciless sun rays.

The activities, ranging from water amusement games to recreational laid-back activities, kept the teenagers in a state of frenzy.

When their faces started looking suspicious, with some threatening to throw up, it was time to leave.

After bumping into my boss, who was also there with his family, I invited them to join us at the Shebeen by the cultural village. Good, we'll meet later then, said my boss.

After many attempts to access the place we finally spotted the right path and made it in. But we had to sit out with a child who thought we should have ordered her a beer too.

The afternoon was spent lazing in the pool area that seemed like a designated area for pregnant white women in bikinis.

At the Shebeen we were greeted by more teenagers in the tight grip of the devil's mischief. There's nothing worse than a drunken teenager, and I'm sure they smuggled their poison in because the Shebeen doesn't sell alcohol to juveniles.

You would have thought they wouldn't wiggle their tiny behinds at the sound of HHP but, by the looks of things, an alcohol-induced return helicopter trip costs three salaries.