Johannesburg (Part 2) - In sight?

Low-class living in a Soweto 'hostel'.

I moved hostels from the rather run-down hostel, in a northern stronghold, to a locally-run hostel, called Lebo's Soweto Backpackers, south west of the centre of Johannesburg.  Actually, 'Soweto' stands for 'SOuth WEstern TOwnship', as I was soon to find out.

African reggae plays out to the friendly team working at the bamboo-built enterprise.  Dozens of bicycles are neatly lined outside, a line of business for the tourists that the young owner has been offering successfully for years now. Two black girls are on reception and cheerfully check me in.  Dudu,  pretty and quick witted, shows me around and chides me for asking too many questions (as a seasoned hostel visitor I tend to know what I'm looking for). 

It's quite small, crowded and thinly insulated.  This was Lebo's grandfather's property once.  Now a hostel as well as a home, it's decorated in bright colours and the sandy back yard is charming - it houses a small bar, pool table and lounge areas.  Tethered parrots talk to themselves as a pair of golden weaver birds delicately hang a grassy nest from an overhead branch - unperturbed by the humans walking a few feet away.  Compared to the drafty old mansion I've left, this place is delightful.

Part 1 of a modern day 'Ten Commandments', replacing the apartheid regime

Lebo's is located in Orlando West, a lower-middle class neighbourhood of the huge township.  Soweto stretches to the horizon and houses some three to four million people (it's hard to be precise, given the nature of some densely packed areas and the fluctuating population).  Locally the streets are quiet and safe; the small plots meticulously clean.  I walk around for exercise and have a few conversations with the locals - they strike up without prompting, pleased to speak with the white guy, happy enough to talk to the tourist, sharing the warm afternoon sun.

 

I do this again a day later, too, joined by a extrovert lady in her 50s.  Helen has taken the trouble to learn a dozen phrases of Zulu, and to the rapture of the folks we bump into she greets them and exchanges a few phrases.  Her effort conveys respect for their culture and interest in their lives, in a way that camera-clicking along the tourist route never could.  She receives plenty of encouragement and tuition, and I join in as best I can. 

We wander further, into more impoverished areas.  Despite the open drains and shanty building standards, people clearly take a pride in their homes - Helen asks to spend a penny, and returns exclaiming the house inside is much cleaner than our hostel.   External appearances can be deceptive.

Mothers and grannies cross the path to join us and talk; curious lads strike up; old men pause and greet us.  There is a 'village' feel to the place and we wander slowly for a couple of hours.

 A stay in Soweto was an attempt to get deeper into the fabric of the society than the quick two-hour tourist excursion I'd experienced the first morning.  That car tour was a convenient way to transit between the two hostels, but I learnt a little along the way too.

Our driver, George, had immaculate English (as well as five other, African dialects) and made sure we saw the well-to-do areas.  Soweto has a growing share of millionaires - Winnie Mandela's house we passed, for example - and most of them hang on to and use their properties here (even if they relocate to more plush suburbs eventually).

He pointed out the street where not one but two Nobel Peace Prize Winners came from - Tutu and Mandela.  And he left us to visit the Hector Pieterson Memorial and Museum: named after the first student to be killed in the Soweto uprising of 1976.

Slowly, a few jigsaw pieces were falling into place: barely remembered images from the 1980's news bulletins - funerals, fighting and palls of smoke.  At the Hector Pieterson museum, I was able to piece together a very rudimentary understanding of the history of South Africa, and the central role that Soweto played in shaping the modern miracle nation.

I recommend taking a few minutes to read this summary from Wikipedia:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soweto_uprising

Chastened, I followed our guide though slum areas of the township.  There was certainly more than hint of 'poverty tourism' about this - the locals living here must feel like zoo specimens, day after day.  I didn't really enjoy the role of gawping western tourist.  The grotty surrounds were similar to those I'd seen on a tour in Cape Town:  below a certain level of sanitation, proximity, electrical safety and room to move, long term habitation presumably can't happen.  We were looking at that base level of urban living.

 

A day later, at the world class Apatheid Museum, another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place.

I can't try to describe everything in the Apartheid Museum - you should visit if you get the chance.  It was illuminating, disturbing and moving.  I wish I could convey succinctly all the chilling, and inspiring details woven into the museum's displays.  As a British observer, I'm not used to picturing such horrors occurring within 'recent memory', as opposed to, say, the First or Second World Wars that we studied at school - history too far removed from my own life.

I couldn't help but think of the South Africans I'd met over the past month - some of whom must have been in up close and personal to the terrible wrongs wrought across the nation.  Their friends and families losing loved ones.  Comrades serving in the defence forces or the military wings of the ANC or PAC.   How can modern day South African's live peacefully together after so much oppression, violence and bloodshed?  

 It seems that the true answer is: they don't, not yet.  Prejudice is very much still evident in South Africa, and racism is not far beneath the surface if you care to look.  You only have to read a few newspapers, listen to the radio or TV, or speak to South Africans to realise that distrust, corruption and poverty are rife in this wonderful country.  On paper the apartheid regime has been erased, but it will take many decades before the legacy fades, institutionalised injustices are exposed and the see-saw settles. 

I'm hugely ignorant of the depth of history that South Africans themselves understand fully.  And I realise no country is free from the stains I've mentioned above.  Learning, as the issues ring out around me, I've found in Johannesburg a window into this country that I could barely discern before now. 

The peaceful integration of black South Africans into positions of influence in business and politics may continue, and the problems may recede.  I hope so, as  there's much to do.  Racial integration is hard.  Infrastructure, particularly in the cities, is under increasing pressure of numbers; energy supply is under strain; and low-income housing is not being built fast enough.  Actually, that all sounds a lot like the UK right now. 

Once again, the world seems to me a small place and the challenges people face are surprisingly universal.  I wonder what the solutions are?

Johannesburg (Part 1) - It's the fame about Ray

Does this fit with your image of Johannesburg?

At Cycle Technology t/a Cytech & Tours For Africa, there is a huge warehouse full of kit for the aspiring overlander motorcyclist.  Ray Muller has years of experience, and his cheery seen-it-all-done-it-all pedigree gives his words weight.  He and I went over my bike carefully, discussing what needed attention.  Honesty in a mechanic is so very welcome, and Ray is great at telling me where I can save money, where to spend it best, and when to press the warranty button.

For example, regarding new rubber, we opted to change my current tyre set up for a brand I'd used before (Michelin Anakee II).  They have a softer side wall - enabling me to do a solo roadside fit in an emergency using the inner tube I carry.  I'll compromise some off-road capability in return for greater mileage: these should see me back to Europe, he reckons, and I believe him.

Ray and his wife (right) and son (back)

We agreed to check the final drive components and oil, change the worn-out brake pads, try to fix the side stand, relocate the spot lights.  But otherwise, as you expect this late in the game, the bike is well equipped with the modifications or replacements that Ray would have recommended.

We left his two guys busy, enabling me to listen attentively to Ray's recommended routes, tips and tricks for the challenges to come.  He's a seam of gold as far as this is concerned - and so generous.

As advised, I later popped the bike into BMW for warranty work on a slight oil leak.  It's the work BMW did for me in Buenos Aires, which is annoying.  Still, being positive, I'm told the leak indicates merely a an 'o' ring that should have had a revised torque setting applied.  If the oil had been leaking into the clutch system then nasty things would follow.  Here's hoping I'm trouble free on that front.

A couple of days later, Ray is on the mark again - sending me by courier an item I forgot to ask for.  Ever efficient and understanding, he makes it seem like nothing is too much trouble.  He's a champ, that Ray.

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Aside from it's motorbike shops, Johannesburg doesn't excite in me much desire to explore what's on offer.  At least, not when I first arrive.  A city of eight million people, it's the economic engine of South Africa.  However, it's still a young city (gold was discovered here in 1886 - the rush followed), and has neither grand government institutions (that's Pretoria, an hour north), nor the natural beauty of Cape Town or Durban.  So, it's never high on the list of 'must visit' places recommended by the people I've met.  

The reputation for muggings and car-jacking doesn't help, but the danger is confined mostly to well known areas, such as the densely populated Hillbrow, Berea or Joubert Park.  (I'd love to have taken the solo Hillbrow tour a local police officer provides.)  That applies to any sizeable city, too, mind.  In fact, I soon feel comfortable with being here and the more I learn, the more I realise Jo'burg's fearsome reputation is overdone.  Indeed, during the 2010 Football World Cup several hundred thousand foreign football fans visited the city, with not a single noteworthy incident recorded.  Which is comforting.  Still, there's nothing like ignorance to turn circumspection into paranoia.

Beyond sensible precautions you don't need to panic here.  There's no one scurrying across the road in fear, no gangs on street corners, no blare of sirens as the emergency services rush about the city.  No gun shots.  No stabbings.  Not here, not where I am.

Things are quiet and the cars flow without too much trouble around the network of highways and the smooth suburban surrounds.  From any vantage point you can appreciate what a green, well-tree'd city this is.  And, when I do lose my route, everyone is friendly and I'm pointed in the correct direction.  Not that I was so cheerful as dusk fell, I admit.

In a repeat of the rest of South Africa, the contrast here between the rich and poor is very obvious.  There are opulent 'Randlord' mansion houses - built by the rich mine owners - and flashy cars, scores of malls stocked with the latest high end retail brands, boutique shops and luxury goods.  The northern suburbs are full of gated communities, where the material wealth is stored, preserved and flaunted in the same manner as Hong Kong, London, Sydney or New York.  In the international game of keeping-up-with-the-Jones', the flashy folk of Johannesburg - white, black, coloured - lose nothing by comparison.

Yet, there must be more to this city than rich folks steadily piling up wealth and spending time at the club.  It's impersonal here in West Dunkeld, and it's cold too. At 1,753m altitude, the night time temperatures drop so that by day, despite the sunshine, the air is chilly.  Maybe this explains my initial reluctance to get out and about?  More by habit than choice I put my name down for a day trip.  I want to see something beyond the bland area my initial hostel choice has given me. 

It's time for me to go to Soweto - for many, the beating heart of South Africa.

Too cold for tents.

Golden Gate national park

Around the edges of Lesotho, lie some stunning landscapes.  When making my way back into South Africa I'd stumbled into a particularly good example: the Golden Gate Park, so named because of the  sandstone buttresses that dominate the grassy plains.  I wound my way through the park, admiring the sweeping vistas and enjoying the grandstand views as I descended onto the main plains of the Zulu-Natal province.

One night was enough for me in a "centrally located" backpackers that will remain nameless.  I was there for the internet, frankly, but a bit disappointed that the nearest hiking was an hour away!  I had read all the guidebook notes, and still ended up somewhere that didn't suit my plans.  Their 'nickle & dime' manner of handling a captive audience compares badly with the more generous approach of all the other hostels I've been staying in.

I made a quick tour of the Drakensburg area.  There are popular destinations in this region, with titles such as The Giant's Cup, Champagne Castle, Cathedral Peak and The Amphitheatre.  And indeed, there is fantastic hiking and climbing to be had amongst the mountain and foothills.  I was determined to get in amongst it, and chose the Champagne Castle for one night, but camping in -2 degrees tests one's resolve.

I did enjoy a gentle hike as part of my 'exercise' regime.  The regime has softened as my body starts to show signs of wear and tear from fifteen months of biking.  What I really need is a long period of physiotherapy and some regular, orchestrated fitness work.  Meantime, I do the best I can and hope I hold up for a while.

After my dabble with nature it was time to suck up my courage (along with some pollution) and delve into Johannesberg, a few hours up the highway.  This is my last opportunity to carry out any maintenance or preparation on my bike until Nairobi, Kenya.  In between times it will be very difficult to fix major problems, so I had an appointment with the overlanding experts at Cycle Technology t/a Cytech & Tours For Africa.

Here's the most recent mini-map... from Port Saint John to Johannesburg.  Google won't take the obvious route, so you have to ignore the blue lines around the western edges of Lesotho.  My route took me across the eastern side - from about 4 'o clock to 12 'o clock, if you see what I mean.  I doubled back to 3 'o clock to see the Drakensberg.



View Larger Map

MOVIE: Lesotho

Here's a new one, to accompany the rather exciting written blog entry.

I'm trying not to use quite so much copyrighted material, so you'll have to put up with my commentating more than usual.  Still, some people have said they like this style, as they don't have to read the blog!

Can only please some of the people some of the time, it seems :)

Lesotho - a pass master

I convinced myself not to travel into Lesotho.  

A detour, it would add unnecessary mileage when I've barely any tread left on my tyres.  Also, 'The Kingdom In The Sky' is entirely above 1000m so, this being winter, the notoriously poor roads could be snow-blocked, icy or greasy with mud from any melt waters.  They get enough snow to run a small ski resort... 

Coming in from sea level, altitude sickness could be a problem, too:  I had the map open, and noticed that the most plausible route would require navigating the following:

• the Sani Pass (2,874m); 
• the Kotisephola Pass (3240m); and 
• the Tlaeeng Pass (3251m).

The first two of these are only supposed to be tackled with a 4x4 or special permission, and a biking friend recounted a very tough ride up on unladen off-road motorbikes: 'Lots of feet down, paddling... ' he warned.

All told, this landlocked country was best avoided and left for another trip.

Figuring I'd have to be brave or foolhardy to ignore sage advice and my own thorough rationalisation, I put in a full tank of gas and swept off along the R617 towards Underberg and Himeville, busy little gateway towns to the southern Drakensberg, and - oh, my - the start of the Sani Pass.  Naughty bike: look where you've brought me!

Gorge-ous views on the way in...

Ok, well, the weather forecast was very positive, and I'd found a picture of the Sani pass that made it appear no worse, shall we say, than some other rufty-tufty routes I've ridden. By the time I reached the police checkpoint (where two-wheel-drive cars get turned back), I was in good spirits and feeling confident.  'Only 8km to the top?', I repeated back to the grinning policeman, 'Well, that should be easy then - I've got plenty of time'.   And, with Hubris now dancing a jig in the sun, I set off up the gradient.

The road to Sani Top (as it's known) sneaks through a curvaceous valley, softening you up with lumps and bumps but generally just providing distraction from the towering cliffs up above.  The views are 'gorge-ous'.  This incline was steep, but undulating and I never really wondered where the huge altitude gain was going to come from.  At the head of the valley I had my answer:  hair pins and switchbacks led up to the heavens.  I frowned at the rocks and shale thrown loose by the convoys of 4x4s skidding their way down, or gasping their way up.

I found enough grip from my tyres, and enough grunt from my huge Bavarian mountain goat, to slowly climb the steepling track.  It was difficult and, in the thinning air, tiring too.  I was sweating with the concentration and my forearms were aching with the exertion: I had to stay on the pegs and lean into the slope, whilst keeping the front wheel light enough to thread through gaps in the rocks.

I caught and passed the grinding 4x4s ahead of me (nice to know they'd be my broom wagons, if needed), and kept up the steady control of my cylinder heads, whilst all about were losing hair:  the frightening corners gave passengers saucer-sized eyes.

Rocks, shale, cambers, incline, corners... all dispatched with calm efficiency, I felt.  But I didn't spot Hubris until too late:  she was positioned on a corner, just below a little waterfall... where the overflow (and night time temperatures, presumably) had laid a thick layer of ice across the turn-in point.  The ice was dirt coloured, and I had no inkling of it until my front wheel lost traction and started slipping backwards-downwards-and-sideways - which is quite a manoeuvre to deal with when you've got a huge drop off behind you.

With my feet down I steadied the bike - the back tyre had found something to grip, so we teetered a little whilst Hubris tittered into her hands.  I had to somehow get the bike diagonally across four feet of ice, on a 1 in 3 cambered slope, from a standing start; plus, generate enough momentum to get up the rocks steps blocking further progress.   Hmm, we didn't cover that on the Wales Off-Road Skills course, as I recall.

After a game attempt, the Bavarian lay down for a little rest, whilst I contemplated how to get across the ice.  Some of the 4x4 drivers gave me a hand to haul the motorbike upright and across to some solid ground.  Always have a broom wagon, I tells myself.  From there, I launched skilfully up the inside of the hairpin, executed a very tight turn and smoothly continued the ascent. Up, up the last half dozen hairpins and I crested the pass chastened, but proud of my steed.  What a bike!

Good looking blanket, eh?

The time was only 2.30pm, and across the desolate plain the conditions seemed quite benign.  I felt it would be prudent to get over the next pass and back onto asphalt... who knew what the weather might do overnight?  (The forecasters had been very wrong before, I noted grimly.)  So, I added more altitude to the day and set off. 

I took my time with a few photos and movie footage.  I was riding into the low winter sunlight and the scenery glistened strangely - the grasslands appeared silver and patches of snow flashed gold onto my tinted visor.  The goats and sheep, in silhouette on the high verges ahead of me, had back lit outlines that glowed like the characters in the old adverts on TV for ReadyBrek.  

It was beautiful up here - remote, barren and dirt poor... but beautiful nonetheless.

ReadyBrek glow?

With scrabbling tyres I crested the second, Kotisephola Pass (3240m); this time feeling a little breathless with the altitude.  The familiar tingle on my lips and toes reminded me that I'd already taken my last dose of mountain medicine, but as I couldn't detect a headache or any other symptom of altitude sickness I felt reassured.  It was cold though, so I switched on the electrics for some comfort.

I bumped past deserted half-build huts, and these soon became inhabited dwellings.  When I paused for a photo fifteen children quickly surrounded me:  hands outstretched pleading for coins.  I gave them my loose change, but felt sorry that such 'donations' probably do damage to their community in the long run.  On the other hand, I've read that this highlands area of the country is so poor any contribution may be worthwhile at the moment.

A few kilometres down the road I paused for one photo too many.  I shuffled to a halt - worried about a camber that wasn't - and promptly dropped the bike, again.  I swore loudly and started berating myself like Andy Murray used to.  It was such a dumb mistake to make - I'd put my foot down into a hollow and overbalanced.  My embarrassment was compounded when a battered minivan pulled up and the passengers jumped out to help me lift the bike out of the hollow.  Yes, I could have put into practise the proper solo lifting techniques; but better to swallow that pride and accept a helping hand or five.  The locals thought it was a hoot.

I stayed the night in a Farmer's Training Centre at Mokhotlong - as cheap and cheerful as it was cold.  I'm getting used to beautiful star-scapes (this last six months has taken me to many areas with no surrounding artificial lights), and this night was superb - only a sliver of new moon, so the constellations were pin-sharp in their complexity and the Milky Way curled across the sky like a plume of smoke.  I slept like a log.

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Day 2 in the Mountain Kingdom, and I start by fixing a few little knocks and scuffs picked up yesterday.  The delay is deliberate: I want the sun to melt as much overnight ice as possible!  Then, it's off along the asphalt A1 to my last major pass: the Tlaeeng Pass (3251m).

I pootled slowly through the Mokhotlong town centre: it's a trading crossroads really, with plenty of bustle.  Small tin shacks line the road, selling a tiny quantity of goods - a dozen pairs or jeans, say, or just a single tray of homemade jewelry.  Outside the dimly lit, dusty supermarket a few horses stand patiently - they make me feel like I'd ridden into a Wild West movie. 

But, instead of ten gallon hats, the locals are in warmer headgear and - wrapped up against the cold - in full length woollen blankets.  The latter are very important here, signifying many different aspects of local custom.  The original designs (first imported by English traders in the 1860's) have been adopted and adapted, and are now a source of national pride (as well as warmth).  Particular colours or designs have significance: for example, young brides are supposed to wear a blanket around their hips until their first child has been conceived.  Boys get different blankets, corresponding to their stages in life.

The asphalt took me north, away from town.  The sky was clear and the light so very bright it seemed to have burnt and bleached the land.  Up high, I could see vast distances through the thin, clean air.  Yet, the sweeping views were missing trees and topsoil in equal measure: a characteristic of damaging farming practises carried out for decades.  Scratching a living from the thin mountain soil - by  comparison with deep, fertile plains - has brought the local tribes to the brink of starvation on occasion.  They retreat and try to cultivate higher up the hills.  When the summer rains come, I learnt, the roads turn to mud and the rivers wash away forever tons of fertile soil.  Only recently have farmers been taught the long term value of terraces.

I ride through hills lined with huts, and narrow valleys with a few small flocks of sheep or goats.  Some folks just stare, but many raise a hand in friendly welcome as I pass by.  Young guys, sitting out on a road fence or lounging close to their cattle, simply stop talking and watch me take the bend.  I note there are no bicycles or mopeds to be seen, in contrast to almost any village in Asia.

Hardly the fertile surroundings a farmer would pick, I imagine, given a choice... 

Like the soil, settlements thin as the road starts to climb again.  I ride gingerly up to and past the snowline, then follow the signs for an hour until I reach the ski resort.  This mountain has the Tlaeeng Pass (3251m), and by now I'm properly cold - why did I pack away my heated waistcoat this morning?

The terrain is getting rougher, and potholes require careful attention.  On the way down, my self-restraint is rewarded: I get a good look at the ice sculptures hanging off the cliff edges of the road.   Potholes on the apex of bends, and ice sheets in the shadows remind me that this is no place to lose concentration.

Leaving the highlands, I'm struck by the rust coloured grasses and sandstone.  It a different pastel shade from this morning, though I fear the movie won't pick it up.  I ride further, impressed by the picturesque settlements - these are beautiful scenes in their own way.

At last I reach the northern edge of Lesotho, and the frontier town of Butha Buthe.  I've stayed in the country only 24 hours and seen so much already.  I will resist the temptation to circumnavigate the rest of the nation.  Nevertheless, from the 'Roof of Africa Road', as this route has been called, I feel I've gained a valuable perspective.

MOVIE: The Wild Coast, South Africa

Well, here we go...  a movie letting you see more of the landscape described in the last few posts.

Whilst the Garden Route was a wash out, the dramatic interior and swooping coastal routes made up for that.  The Wild Coast, as it's known, is an interesting and involving area.

Not much more to say that that!  Enjoy...

What's in a name?

More coastline than you'd know what to do with...

Cintsa beach beyond the lagoon.  A fine hostel view, eh?

Cintsa is African.  It has an enormous beach - a golden arc of  washed sand stretching so far end-to-end the pony group I was watching disappeared from view.  I was enjoying the sun and eventually decided to brave the waters, too.  Sod the sharks, it was the biting cold temperature I was more worried about.

With a 'shorty' wetsuit, I needn't have hesitated so long - it really was warmer than that day down near Cape Town.  I chatted to a pair of friendly local surfers, who gave me the inside information about the rips and rocks.  Reassured, I had an hour on the boogie board, competing with a cheerful young Dutch chap from the hostel, to see who could be least-worst.  Next time, maybe I'll bust out a surfboard.

Wednesday finished, I was prepared to head inland the next day.  The helpful staff at the hostel gave me some great tips on the best roads to follow, and I was off bright and early Thursday morning to check out the inland plateau, and then back to the coast a bit further up.  The Dutch and Swiss folks I'd met over the past 36 hours were heading in the opposite direction, so we swapped hostel recommendations. 

I felt a little bad to have not spent more time and money in the bar, bonding with my fellow travellers.  I guess that style of travelling was one I followed in my late teens and twenties.  At the grand old age of thirty-ahem I don't get a kick from getting doped up or drunk by night - and it also burns up my budget too quickly.  Of course, the 'best' nights are those you can barely remember, which seems a waste.  These days I'd rather be early to bed and early to rise, hunting a new adventure and leaving the boozing to those who can do it so much better than I can!

Coastal hillsides give a rolling and tumbling route to ride

The N2 heading north east to Butterworth is a good trunk route, but not very exciting to ride.  So, I was set instead on a route roughly parallel, going around the back to Tsomo, Engcobo and Coghlan to Mthatha.  This was to avoid road works, and congestion left over from a birthday party.  Not just any birthday party, I should add - yesterday's anniversary was for Mr Nelson Mandela, who lives twenty miles from Mthatha.  Most, though not all of the people I chatted to today were aware of the auspicious date.

 

It was a remote back country detour, and I soon became fascinated by life amongst the extraordinary spread of rural huts dotted around the rolling hills.   People going about their lives; but lives so removed from my own as to seem remarkable even in the smallest detail.  I spotted so many picturesque images, but I was too indecisive to take proper photos - I couldn't help but think the next few minutes would show me something even 'better', and usually it did.

The huts, some thatched but most now with shiny metal lids, are painted peppermint-chocolate ice cream colours: green and black.  I asked a friendly policemen about this (by way of distraction from the impending ticket he decided not to hand me), and he pointed to the horizon to show me how much easier it was to see the colours against the grassy plains.  In the heat of summer, he explained, the normal white-washed huts almost disappear in the haze.  I don't know if this was the proper reason?  I had guessed the green colour was either an old tribal custom or symbolic of a regional flag of some kind.  Apparently, not so.

By early afternoon I was headed down the R61, through Libode and down to the coast at Port Saint John.  It's rightly described as one of the most scenic roads in South Africa, although I found it a natural extension to what had been a beautiful day's riding already.  Yellow grasslands grew in greenery and with only fifteen kilometres to my destination the landscape had become lush and well-forested.  The rumpled, heaving coastal hills dropped me to sea level as though I was riding down a giant Helter Skelter. 

Another fine hostel by the sea...

The scattering of huts and rural buildings continued, as did the concentration of dwellings around all the urban towns.  Here many schools were spilling out: the school day finishes around 2pm, or earlier, suggesting a very early start.  The kids always look so smart, with two or three different school uniforms in evidence.  I received lots of cheerful waves and in this the teenagers here seem very relaxed and friendly.  Yes, I was riding into a tourist stronghold, but this cheerful welcome wasn't always found in the other countries I've visited on this trip.  It's nice to share a wave with folks, as I cruise through quietly.

Gateway to the ocean, at Port Saint John

I followed a muddy brown river the last few kilometres, and passed between the two 'gates' of Port Saint John - two imposing, sheer rock cliffs that guard the exit of the river into the blue ocean beyond.   After checking into Amapondo Backpackers (again, highly recommended), I followed directions to watch the sunset up at the local airfield.

It's a convoluted journey to find the airfield, even though you can 'hardly miss it', being as it is on the top of one of the giant Gates - the only long, flat spot for miles around.  I discovered another motorbike parked at the viewpoint, and chatted with a local couple,  Marie-Anne and Andy.  It turns out they're each hostel managers.  Marie-Anne runs the one I was staying at, and Andy the one I'm most likely to call at next.  Small world, eh?  

Sunset atop one of the 'gates' of Port Saint John

I took Friday as an 'exercise day' and hiked to the top of the other gate, before flopping in the sun when I reached the white 'trig point' at the top.   (It reminded me of happy hiking days back in Hong Kong, though I wince at how my fitness has crashed since then.)  The view was tremendous; equal to the view yesterday evening - from the opposite side of the gorge. 

Little fella, big view

I could see the misty, lush inland coastal hills, as well as miles of dark blue ocean.  Tracing the line with my eyes, I worked out the next road I'll follow north towards Port Edward and then Durban.  First though, I needed to find a track off this particular mountain.

The day had begun with the sight of gulls plundering a sardine fish ball dolphins had herded into the nearby bay.  For a late lunch I had stumbled upon my own culinary hotspot, the marvellous little restaurant called "Monstrous".  With a glistening, pristine beach and secluded bay, beneath a rickety wooden deck and sun shelter, I was able to relax in the sun and stare out to sea.  Garlic mussels came as a starter, and then a huge crayfish for the main course. 

The hike had given me an appetite.  The filling lunch meant that I ought to go out and do it all over again.  Ho hum.

Today, Saturday, has been a long biking day.  I tracked the sweeping bends between Port Saint John and Port Edward - a three hour extravaganza of clear-sighted sweepers, gradients and cambers.  I had no need of the ipod here - the rich notes of the engine were a grand soundtrack.  The road required plenty of attention, but was more rewarding than whole days of some regional routes.  I filled my boots, and rode swiftly all the way to Port Edward.

A bit further up the coast I caught up with Andy at his own hostel.  I was only around the area for lunch, and then planned to head inland towards Pietermaritzburg.  The land will be at higher altitude and the temperatures colder.  However, as a convenient jumping-off point, I'll be well place for venturing into some more exciting terrain on the way up to Johannesburg.

Stay tuned...   (and check back on the new movie footage I have posted for the 'Little Karoo').

Mirror image?

PS,  Here's a update of the mini map for the last few days:

View Larger Map

Howzit, mabro? Wet.

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.

So I don't.