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| If you go down to the 'Bay today, you'll be in for a big surprise |
There's not much doing whilst the rain
lashes down. One time I walk to the nearby
headland, to watch the sea throwing itself against the cliffs, frothing and
foaming at the mouth like a rabid hound.
The flecks of spittle mix with specs of drizzle and I hurry home the long
way, already wet and soon soaked through.
Tea for the Brit. I'm warm and dry now, and Mossel Bay
Backpackers is friendly and quiet - I'm their only client this weekend, but
they're still cheerful. So, I'm a bit
sorry to leave on Sunday morning; but, with a break in the weather offering me
a dry exit, I beat a path out to the national highway N2, and put some more
distance between myself and the Atlantic - which is where the storms have been
rolling in from.
This is the Garden Route - a scenic road so
beautiful it's the first place every 'Bok mentioned when I said I was going to
ride in South Africa. The pretty seaside
towns - Sedgefield, Wilderness, Buffalo Bay, Knysna, Plettenberg Bay - are some
of the most picturesque spots you could find.
There's even an oyster festival, surf circuit meet and a half marathon
to pull in the crowds this month. These
were the reasons I waited in Mossel Bay for a few days: there's no point visiting the Garden Route in
the winter rain.
Half an hour out of Mossel Bay a new storm
front descends, which you will appreciate was something of a
disappointment. Rain gathered in my
creases, dripped down my neck and soaked through my gloves. A wicked wind ripped at my gear and gusted my
bike across the road. This wasn't
mentioned on the weather forecast this morning.
Bastards.
I pull in at a few of the above locations,
but there's nothing to enjoy about a barren town, boarded up beach front or
deserted shore. Even the sea gulls have
somewhere better to be hiding. The
festivals are over or postponed.
Nobody's out in this weather.
'Screw this', I figure, 'I need another warm hostel, fast'.
Jeffrey's Bay seemed a good destination: that
chap Gareth was further up the coast and texted back that the conditions were
good and the hostel excellent. It took
me only another ninety minutes and I pulled in at the Island Paradise
Backpackers. Once again, the South
African facilities are outstanding - good rooms, good value, helpful staff,
etc... all as 'standard'. Best of all, the weather is clearing up and a
sunny day is promised for tomorrow. My
gear drip-dries gently in the corner and I decide to stay two nights.
I ran the beach before breakfast, Monday, hoping
to see the famous Supertubes stretch of surf - rated one of the top spots in
the world. A long time buddy was urging
me to get in the water and try it out... but he's either now much better at
surfing than I remember, or pulling my leg.
Cold water, rocks, huge waves and fierce 'local turf' protocols I didn't
understand. I wouldn't even paddle my
toes, I texted back to annoy him.
I watched with honest amazement at the
displays of skill. With a decent swell
left over from the recent storms and the water living up to it's name, long dark tubes were curling along from the
point. Hooked inside, an expert surfer
was making it look... well, not easy... but smooth and controlled, say. There were about 40 other surfers in the
water, but those on a wave were agile at turning sharply and carving crisp
lines to avoid the bobbing bodies of others.
A few tumbled, but at this level (and this close to the rocks) the
mistakes were rare.
I came back later with a camera, but
(wouldn't you know it) the swell was much lower. We're still talking expert level, but hardly
the stuff of surf movies.
Cut to Tuesday morning, and it's time to
scoot off. I raise my eyebrows as I pass
yet another giant billboard: in a mad surfer town housing factories and outlets
for Billabong, Rip Curl, and a dozen other sandy brand names, you can imagine
how they advertise... sheer walls
showing off tanned, toned bodies, and a few bikinis too.
I'm determined to avoid the motorway
whenever possible, i.e. other than through the urban centres of Port Elizabeth
and East London. My reward is that I get
to enjoy lovely, empty roads. Off the
inland plateau, the route climbs and falls over the coastal topography - the
R72 to Port Alfred is gorgeous, for example.
The countryside is becoming more 'African' too, but I'll have to show
you a movie to explain what I mean. It's
something to do with the place names, types of homes and cars and the people
walking around. Or standing around,
which seems to occupy many.
I find it hard to rationalise the sheer
distances walked by the folks I pass. For
example, a patchy line of students, neatly dressed, straggles from one side of
a long hill, over the top and down the other - we're talking miles and
miles. At the end of the line I spot the
school they walk to and from, and I feel guilty at ever contemplating an 'easy'
life. Once again, I'm reminded how cushy
life in the 'developed' countries can seem in comparison.
It's late afternoon when I reach the end of
a track and park up at the Buckaneer's Backpacker in Cintsa. Even by the fading light I can appreciate the
million-dollar view they bought up thirty years ago. Today the hillside is
lush, hiding a plethora of accommodation options - from tents to dorms to
discreet cottages. The dinner buffet
leaves me feeling overfed and almost unable to stay awake.
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