Day 549
Milage 39,047 (62,475 kms)
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| Cape Town sunset |
My year and a half long voyage from Cork, Ireland to Cape Town, South Africa has finally come to an end, at least in the physical sense. For years to come I have no doubt I will relive the journey many times, torturing anyone foolish enough to give me a chance to bore them to death with tall tales of my bravery and resourcefulness as I overcame the tough conditions and impassable roads of this ‘dark continent’. The adventure finished without fuss or fanfare on a quiet Sunday afternoon after I had exhausted all possible alternative routes into Cape Town, stretching out the last few kilometers for all they were worth. The end brings with it a confusing clash of relief, happiness and melancholy and I am still a little surprised that I even made it. When I began planning this trip over four years ago it appeared almost overwhelming and the potential risks seemed to far outweigh the possible rewards, the large maps I had pinned to the walls of my apartment in California often looked too vast to contemplate, but they served to remind me each time I entered my home that there was more to this world than the four walls that contained me. On reflection I have to admit that I now think it was easier than I had expected it to be, as challenging as it was when things weren’t going to plan I kept reminding myself that time only moves forward, solutions present themselves eventually and as tough as it seemed in the darkest moments there was always a light at the end of the tunnel. Now that I have achieved my goal I feel as though I didn’t challenge myself enough, I could have made it harder. I will miss the feeling of sitting astride my motorcycle, its solid comfort so familiar it felt like an extension of my body, when I would reach a state where riding no longer required any physical effort and minimal thought, there were times when I truly felt at one with this machine. I have achieved my dream, I have transformed my ‘silly idea’ into a solid reality but it has left me thirsting for more, the curse of the gypsies is upon me.
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| Enjoying a beer at Africa's most southerly point |
From the quiet fishing town of Mossel Bay I hugged the coastline, following the tips I had received from local bikers, the road clinging precariously to the rugged cliffs like a winding black ribbon of asphalt snaking through the lush green vegetation, separating sea from shore. Before long I began to encounter signs for ‘The Most Southerly Point in Africa; Cape Agulhas’ and by early afternoon I was cruising into the tiny village of Strassbaai looking for a comfortable place to spend the night. A young Greek couple I’d met many months before in Sudan had suggested a quiet backpackers seven kilometers from the Cape and when I pulled in the owners immediately made me feel at home. I had planned to spend only one night in the area but the hospitality of my hosts and the wild, rugged seashore, reminiscent of Ireland’s west coast replete with blustery winds and white washed cottages sheltering under heavy thatched roofs, cast a spell over me that was hard to break. I’m glad I spent a little more time in the region, it allowed me to lose an entire morning sitting at Cape Agulhas contemplating the significance of my location while enjoying a delicious bottle of locally crafted stout from the nearby Fraser’s Folly brewery.
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| I must have taken a few wrong turns |
After two days at Africa’s most southerly point I decided to continue west towards Cape Town, delaying my arrival by one more day with an overnight stay in the busy surfing town of Muizenburg Bay. A few wrong turns along the way took me through the heart of one of the Cape Flat’s many townships, a sprawling shanty town of temporary structures patched together with cardboard, tin and plastic, a poignant reminder that South Africa still has a long way to go to redress the imbalance created by years of apartheid. The poorly maintained road that cut through the heart of these dilapidated homes provided a fascinating glimpse into the lives of its inhabitants, an old man with stubby white hair, cloudy eyes and weathered skin sat smiling and toothless on an upturned beer crate, his head cocked to one side as though trying to identify each of the thousand voices that filled the air. Hordes of dust caked children in ragged clothes chased home made footballs through the narrow alleys that separated the shacks, screaming with delight each time they touched the ball, there were no apparent rules that I could decipher, just a frantic pursuit interspersed with dramatic tumbles that would have seen a professional footballer writhing in agony, without hesitation these children would pick themselves up, ignore the fresh coat of sand clinging to their sweating bodies and continue the game. On many of the corners a shabeen, an improvised drinking den, would be keeping most of the younger men occupied with cheap alcohol, each shack pumping out its own conflicting music preference testing the limits of their sound systems until all that remained was a distorted roar beneath a pounding rhythm. Even though it was still early afternoon many of these young men were already drunk, stumbling blindly into the road ahead of me, glaring at my bike with unfixed gazes when I dared to use my horn. And then there were the women, quietly gliding between the streets and houses, often with the distinctive bulge of a newborn just visible beneath tightly wrapped colorful fabrics on their backs, always bearing a load, a sack, a bucket or a package, either gripped firmly in strong hands or balanced perfectly on top of their heads. Occasionally, through the open door of a roadside shack, I would steal a glimpse of the world within, heavy darkened pots bubbling over smoky charcoal fires on immaculately swept dirt floors, glowing coals fanned brighter as fragrant steam escaped through porous walls. It felt as though I had stumbled into a part of South Africa that I wasn’t meant to see.
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| Cape Town |
I eventually reached Muizenburg Bay and stayed briefly along the waterfront, lulled to sleep by the gentle hush of distant crashing waves. From the beachside resort I hugged the coastal road to Cape Point National Park, weaving my way south along the rocky peninsula. I spent a peaceful morning riding between the deserted white sandy beaches before hiking up to the redundant lighthouse atop the highest point. In perfect conditions it can be seen for many miles but an error in the choice of its location sees it shrouded in mist for the majority of the year. A second lighthouse subsequently replaced it several years later on a lower point. From Cape Point I turned north for the last time setting my sights on Cape Town at the foot of the iconic Table Mountain, by early afternoon I had reached my goal but I couldn’t resist riding a little further around the bay to a point known as Table View for the classic photo of the city dwarfed by its most recognizable landmark. It was early evening when I finally resolved to find a place to stay for the night. With a tent I normally find it unnecessary to make reservations but each place I stopped at was either full or they didn’t offer camping, it proved to be quite serendipitous because when I finally did locate a place that could satisfy my simple requirements I made some fortuitous encounters. Another Irish biker, Maurice Raleigh from Mullingar, had just arrived at the same time and was about to embark on an almost identical journey on his DR650, going in the opposite direction, to the one I had just completed.
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| Cape Point baboon |
While trying to locate a nearby motorcycle store I had the good fortune of bumping into a local tour operator who invited me back to his nearby home, Mouton van Zyl, who runs South African tours through his company Moto-Adventure, kept me entertained for the rest of the day, inviting me back the following evening to meet more members of the local motorcycle club. Through Mouton’s contacts I met many of the local riders and my evenings were soon fully booked with invitations to rides and braais (barbecues) all around the Cape area. The hospitality I received from relative strangers was both overwhelming and humbling confirming my belief that bikers are some of the nicest people on the planet. Days were consumed with rides along some of the most stunning roads on the continent. A morning spent with an old friend, Kate Allan, who just happened to be passing through her home town, saw us exploring the more interesting parts of the city before hiking to the top of Table Mountain. My plans to sell the bike seemed to be progressing well, I’d advertised it online with Gumtree and had been getting a lot of promising enquiries until one afternoon, after a great ride over the Franschhoek Pass with Rob and Hanlie Reinecke, when I returned to my hostel in Cape Town. I’d parked it briefly in the street and on trying to restart it to move it inside the place I was staying it refused to run. The battery appeared to be flat so after pushing it inside I began exploring possible causes hoping the alternator, which I had replaced previously, wasn’t the cause of the problem. As it turns out, it was the alternator so I had to put my plans on selling the bike on hold, I’d hate for someone to sell me a motorcycle that wasn’t in good working order so I certainly wasn’t prepared to do that to someone else. Another adventitious encounter with a biker I had previously met in Kenya led me to a local shipping agent who was willing to crate my bike and send it on to my next destination. With time running out I decided to hand the motorcycle over to Wolfgang at CD Shipping in the hope that I would see it again some day. It came as a relief to know that I wouldn’t be saying goodbye to my trusty bike just yet. With only a couple of days left in Cape Town I decided to get in touch with an old friend from my days at university in Scotland and my African adventure ended in the warm company of Shaz and her wonderful family.
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| On top of Table Mountain |
After a frantic final day of rushing around tying up loose ends I finally boarded my plane and bid farewell to a land that has taught me as much about myself as it has about the people who live here. I have had a truly incredible experience and I am more aware than ever of how fortunate I have been to complete such an amazing odyssey. The generosity of the people I have met along the way has left me with a deep sense of gratitude for all that I have received, it was often those with the least who were willing to share the most. As much as I tried to travel with an open mind I carried with me prejudices and preconceived ideas about the people I met along the way, on every level these were challenged and reformed into a more realistic impression on the world around me. I’ve always been struck by our tendency, as individuals, to judge those around us, to make assumptions based on fear and ignorance about what the people are like in the next village, province, country or continent. I’ll never forget something I experienced on a previous motorcycle journey through North, Central and South America. On leaving the USA, I was advised not to trust the Mexicans and told they were ‘thieves, drug dealers and murderers’. While in Mexico I encountered some of the most generous hospitality I’ve ever experienced but as I approached the southern border I began to hear warnings about the people of Guatemala and at one point I was advised not to trust them as they were ‘thieves, drug dealers and murderers’. The pattern often repeated itself throughout that journey and as I entered Africa I began to hear it again. In my limited experience I have found that we are all more alike than we are different but it suits the agendas of our leaders and politicians to falsely elevate ourselves through nationalism or patriotism while irrationally fearing those around us. We are all of the same origins with the same basic needs, beyond the physiological requirements for survival we want to feel safe, we want to feel like we belong, we want to feel loved, we want to feel valued, we want to feel as though we are contributing. Across the broad spectrum of individuals I encountered along the way I found these simple needs to be common amongst all of us. The only trouble I have had on any of my journeys has been from those who wear a uniform, police, military, border officials, etc. It seems as though donning a uniform robs us of a little piece of our humanity.
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| Good night from Africa |
I’m often asked whether or not I felt threatened or in danger at any point along the way and other than a few close encounters with some interesting wildlife I cannot think of a single moment when I felt uncomfortable or exposed. Although I was traveling by myself I never really felt alone. My vulnerability as a solo traveler seemed to make me more approachable, each time I would pull over locals would invariably come towards the bike and give me a warm welcome with open smiles and easy laughter. I feel deeply indebted to all those who helped me along the way and there were many times when I genuinely needed that help, I simply could not have completed this journey without the support I received and I hope that, one day, I am able to pay it forward. I’m already putting together a rough plan for my next motorcycle journey, perhaps riding across Asia on something a little less reliable, the true adventures only happen when things go wrong. For now, it is time to return to work, unfortunately these trips don’t pay for themselves. I am returning to New Zealand for the foreseeable future to join the pioneering adventure tourism entrepreneur , Chris Russell, on his next exciting project. Once upon a time this journey was nothing more than a dream, I hope that through this blog I may have inspired some of you to realize that dreams can come true.
Cork to Cape by the numbers
39,047: miles ridden, 62,475 kilometers.
3000: approximate liters of fuel used equivalent to 792 US gallons or 659 UK gallons.
1: number of crashes, this occurred in Nairobi, Kenya where I lost control trying to avoid hitting the rear end of a mini-van.
3: number of punctures, all from the roads in Kenya, two in the front, one in the rear.
9: number of tires I’ve used along the way, 4 on the front and 5 on the rear.
39: number of countries visited.
1: number of dead Slovenian sheep used as a seat cover.
1: number of times the seat cover has been washed since leaving Slovenia.
7: number of ferries taken.
18: number of times I’ve dropped my bike, primarily as a result of deep sand, slick mud or fatigue.
6: number of times I got pulled over by the police.
1: number of speeding tickets I received.
33: number of books read along the way.
