Long Ride to Freedom

Day 520

Milage 37,752 (60,403 kms)

“It always seems impossible, 

until it is done” 

Nelson Mandela

Sunrise on the Orange River

The contemplation of doing something is often more difficult than actually doing it. There are mornings when I stare at my maps pondering the ride ahead and the complications of facing the unknown but, once I am on the bike and moving forward everything seems to simply fall into place. As I near the end of my journey and reflect on how it all began, including the trials that have tested me along the way, I sometimes need to remind myself that, as difficult as my journey has been, it pales into insignificance when I look around and see the struggles faced by those who inhabit this vast continent. I could never have imagined how this trip would evolve and I often wonder what I would change if I had to do it all over again but life is too short for regrets. Changing the past is a trick I have yet to learn, I can only reflect, try to understand and grow through all the experiences that have led me to this moment. Worrying about the future feels like a fruitless waste of energy, challenges will arise and I will meet them, give them my best and hopefully triumph but, if I don’t I will try to look upon them as opportunities to better equip myself for the next time, as John Lennon once said, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” 

Wild camping in Lesotho

After almost a week in Lesotho I decided to return to South Africa via the Maseru Bridge crossing near the capital. Reports of the military ‘coup’ that had engulfed the city appeared to be little more than groundless rumors, there was very little evidence that the ‘popular uprising’ was anything more than political maneuvering by the elites, other than a few plumes of smoke rising over the modest city skyline the region appeared peaceful, people were going about their business as though it was just another day. The current Prime Minister is involved in a power struggle with the former head of the military and the old king. Neither side will make the needed compromise required to break the impasse to the detriment of the country they all claim to love so much.  Leaving Lesotho was effortless, a cursory glance at my passport by the border guard was followed by a casual wave and I was on my way. Entering South Africa, for the second time, proved to be somewhat more difficult. On my first entry the immigration officer had mistakenly given me only a thirty day visa (I was entitled to ninety) and this was just about to expire. On this attempt the immigration officer was unwilling to let me enter, claiming that my initial visa had almost expired. I had expected there to be a problem after my visit to the immigration headquarters in Johannesburg where none of the officials could give me a definitive answer as to how to resolve the initial mistake. In preparation for this I had arrived well fed and hydrated with a positive attitude and a big smile. Thankfully the guard on duty agreed when I asked her to consult her superiors and she disappeared with my passport while a long line of patient travelers began to gather behind me. After thirty minutes she reappeared and promptly stamped my passport with an additional sixty day visa. Together with the large crowd that had gathered behind me we all breathed a collective sigh of relief and I was on my way yet again. After the rough roads of Lesotho it was great to open up the throttle on my bike once more and speed across the flat boundless plains of the Free State. By lunch time I had arrived at South Africa’s judicial capital, Bloemfontein, stopping briefly to eat and refuel. With plenty of daylight left I decided to push on towards the Northern Cape province stopping for the night at the small city of Kimberly. 

After the portage on the Orange River

In 1869 a large diamond was discovered on the slopes of a small hill, or koppie, where the city of Kimberly lies today, within a month 800 claims had been staked on the hillock and soon the hill became a deep hole as the frantic digging began. Today, Kimberly is the site of ‘The Big Hole’ which claims to be the largest hand-dug hole in the world at a depth of 240 meters. Almost 3000 kilograms of diamonds were extracted from this mine consolidating the fortunes of men like Cecil Rhodes, Barney Barnato and the De Beers brothers. Today the De Beers corporation still retains a monopoly over the world’s diamond market. From Kimberly I continued to ride west into the barren Kalahari Desert, a sparsely populated region of acacia tree dry savannah and rocky red dunes. I’d arranged to meet my friend Lynn in the small town of Upington close to the Namibian border before embarking on a four day canoe trip down the Orange River with the Warriors Program, an organization that takes students on their gap year and introduces them to a world of adventure activities while building confidence, fitness and environmental awareness. After consulting guidebooks and local rafting companies the chief facilitator felt that a couple of extra hands would be useful should the whitewater prove to be too challenging for the group involved. In the end it turned out that the river was well within the capabilities of all those involved but it was a pleasant four days as we floated through the spectacular Orange River valley completely removed from ‘civilization’ accompanied by the sound of our paddles slicing through the river’s surface and the songs of a seemingly endless variety of birdlife. Each night we would find a suitable beach on the Namibian side of the river, taking time to explore before camping under the stars. 

Row, row, row your boat...

After four wonderfully peaceful days on the river in the company of some inspiring individuals I returned to my bike and resolved to push south towards the coast through the Great Karoo, a semi-desert area occupying a vast swathe of the central region of South Africa. It’s harsh climate have left it virtually uninhabited, hot days were followed by bitterly cold nights and I was glad of my warm sleeping bag at the end of a day’s ride. Huge distances separated small townships as I kept to the minor dirt roads that criss-cross the severe territory, telegraph poles were often topped with the large thatched nests of the sociable weaver bird and lonely skeletal windmills attempted to suck moisture from beneath the earth, their vanes spinning wildly in relentless dry wind. Parts of the Karoo have been tamed and hardy shepherds would tend their flocks scraping what nutrition they could from a land that offers little. On my second day I underestimated the distance to my final destination and as night fell I found myself deep inside the Karoo’s southern mountains, the endless ridge lines turning deeper shades of orange, pink and purple as the sun set behind me. With little idea of how much further I had to go I decided to push through in the hope of reaching a town where I could find a warm bed and a hot meal. As the darkness consumed me I rode into the narrow tunnel of dim light created by my filthy headlight, floating the bike atop the loose sand and gravel, trying to maintain a high enough speed where the undulations of the rough road seem to even out for a smoother ride. Frequent patches of deep sand would occasionally try to pull my bike off course but I resisted trying to over react, gently twisting the throttle to power my way through, hoping to find solid purchase on firmer ground. After a seemingly endless couple of hours of exhausting concentration I finally reached a tar road and the town I had hoped for.

Prince Alfred Pass

After my reckless adventure through the Karoo I felt as though I deserved a treat so I checked into a comfortable hostel in the busy town of Beaufort West. The following day I set out early to avoid any more night riding, choosing the coastal town of Plettenberg Bay as my next destination. My route took me south into the Little Karoo through a vast expanse of empty desert, providing little protection from the strong cross winds that buffeted my bike. As I approached the Cape Fold Mountains that separate the inland region from the ocean I entered a series of twisting roads that carried me up and over the ridges and into the lush coastal region along the spectacular Prince Alfred Pass on a dirt road that was supposedly closed because of flood damage. I passed several signs advising me to turn back but I presumed I could ride through any washouts or, at worst, turn around. I encountered a few narrow spots where the road had recently succumbed to heavy rains but work was well under way to repair the damage and I was able to make it to the coast, blue skies and turquoise waters revealing themselves as I descended out of the clouds. The small resort town of Plettenberg Bay proved to be a comfortable stopover enabling me to catch up with some good friends who lived in the area. After a few days in  Plettenberg I continued west and for the first time on my journey I began to see signs for Cape Town, my destination was getting closer. The coastal road wound its way through lush forests alongside beautiful empty beaches but I felt reluctant to cover the last several hundred kilometers that would complete my trip so I pulled into the quiet town of Mossel Bay to break up the last leg of the ride. 

Knysna, on the Garden Route

Mossel Bay is a sleepy little harbor town on a stunning section of the Garden Route, it is home to many artisans and surfers where the numerous beaches provide endless opportunities for riding the powerful waves that pummel the coast. It is also the place where the first Europeans landed on South African soil in 1488, Bartolomeu Dias and his Portuguese crew stopped briefly here while trying to establish a trading route to India, they refilled their water supplies from a fresh water spring before being repelled by natives under a hail of stones. In the center of the old town there stands a gnarly, twisted milkwood tree where sailors would deposit their mail inside an old boot in the hope that a ship passing in the opposite direction would collect it and carry it home. Known as the Post Office Tree it is still in use today and a boot shaped post box has been installed under its low hanging branches. 

Mossel Bay coastline

From Mossel Bay it is less than four hundred kilometers to Cape Town, if the roads are in good condition, which they invariably are in South Africa, I could ride that in a few hours but I have a growing sense of reluctance to see this journey end. Each day, as I near the destination that once seemed so far away, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of foreboding, anxious that I will stumble when so close to the finish line. I have yet to discover the source of this uneasiness but I suspect it may be related to my reluctance to relinquish the freedom I have acquired since this odyssey began. It will soon be time for me to pack my gear for the final time and go back to work, I plan to sell my bike and gear to raise the funds to begin the next chapter in my life and saying goodbye to a motorcycle on which I’ve had so many incredible adventures will not be easy. I’ve always thought I couldn’t become attached to material things so these feelings have surprised me. Perhaps there is someone out there who wants to take this bike on its next adventure.

The Final Frontier

 Day 506

Milage 36,337 (58,139 kms) 

The roof of Africa

Waking early to the sound of birds greeting the new day is one of the simple pleasures of life in a tent. As the sun slowly rose and the world filled with light I quietly rested longer than usual, letting the significance of my new location settle in. Just south of the Limpopo River I was now inside South Africa and Cape Town, my goal, was within reach. As I packed my tent and loaded my bike I prepared for the short drive to the nearby city of Johannesburg and a visit with an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for many years. Traveling south, I tried to ignore the grinding that had grown significantly as my chain and sprockets far exceeded their intended lifespan, I knew I could find replacement parts soon and I hoped the ones I had would hold out for the last few hundred kilometers. A broken chain at high speed can cause considerable damage as it whips into the engine casing so I tried to take it easy but, entering the fast flowing traffic of South Africa’s motorway system made that difficult without becoming a hazard to myself and those around me. By early afternoon I had successfully reached the home of a dear friend who I had worked alongside many years ago in Chile. For the next week, Lynn and her delightful mother, Joan, opened their home to me, showering me with overwhelming hospitality as I set about finding the parts I needed to put my bike back into reasonable running order. 

Uhuru gets an overhaul

Finding spare parts in Africa has been a constant headache and it felt odd to have so many choices when it came to locating what I needed in Johannesburg, the last time I had access to any kind of motorcycle dealership was in Egypt and somehow I’d made the parts I was carrying last this long. A few simple phone calls to nearby suppliers left me with an extensive list of options. I began with the BMW stores but, as always, their prices caused me to reconsider, confirming my belief that BMW stands for ‘Break My Wallet’. The bearings I required, four in total, could all be found at a local specialist store for the same price that BMW wanted for one. All in all I was able to find everything I wanted for a third of the price that I had initially been quoted by the local BMW dealership. I then spent several days in Lynn’s garage dismantling my bike and slowly rebuilding it before taking it for several test rides. Once all the worn parts had been replaced it felt like a brand new machine and became a pleasure to ride once again, I’d almost forgotten how smooth it could feel to have everything working the way it should. This continent has been hard on the bike but it has out performed all of my expectations, handling the tough conditions with an ease that is only limited by my own questionable abilities. 

Time to play

It wasn’t all work and no play while in the city, Lynn introduced me to several charismatic members of the Exploration Society of Southern Africa (ESSA) and with them I had an opportunity to kayak on one of the local rivers just outside the city. Even though the water was low and it wasn’t the cleanest river I’ve ever been on it was great to be back in a boat, floating down a river in a kayak has always struck me as one of the most unique ways to experience a region and this was no exception. The days flew by and I soon realized that the thirty day visa I’d obtained at the border upon entering wasn’t going to be long enough, Lynn’s extensive knowledge of her home country soon had me thinking that there is much more to see than I had thought. When I’d first entered the country it had been late in the day after a tiring ride and the immigration officer had asked me how long I planned to stay. I’d asked for the maximum time allowed and he stamped my passport with a visa valid for one month but, some time later, a quick internet search revealed that Irish citizens are entitled to a maximum of 90 days. At the time I’d had no idea, this is the 38th country I’ve entered on this voyage and I certainly don’t know the regulations for each and every one, if an immigration officer tells me that the maximum stay is 30 days then I tend to believe them and plan accordingly. While in Johannesburg I made a quick visit to the local immigration department located in the heart of the notorious Central Business District (CBD) and was told by two senior officers that the only way to correct the mistake made by the border guard was to revisit the place I had crossed and exit the country. I’ve always had a strong desire to visit Lesotho but rumors of a military coup were making me revise my plans. With the refusal of the immigration officers to offer a more practical solution I resolved to rethink my decision and alter my route to include the ‘Kingdom in the Sky’.

No swimming for me

With all of the maintenance to the bike completed I decided it was time to move on but, a last minute phone call from a member of the ESSA group caused me to reconsider my next stop. One of their members had suffered an injury just before departing on a five day hike through the Hluhluwe-iMfolozi wildlife reserve and he was willing to sell me his place for half price. Opportunities like this do not come along often but I have retained the flexibility on this trip to seize them when they do arrive, I jumped at the chance to join the hike and set out for the east coast the following day. The ride to the coast took me through the Mpumalanga region and into Kwazulu-Natal. Avoiding the main highways I kept to the twisting back roads through rolling hills and fertile, sugarcane farmland, a thick haze filled the air as farmers burnt the last of the Winter’s growth in preparation for this years planting, it added an eery edge to the atmosphere as I passed by long forgotten battlefields from the Anglo-Boer wars. The ride took longer than I’d expected and it was after dark by the time I reached my destination. I spent a few days on the coast in the little town of St Lucia which lies within a unique world heritage site that contains five ecosystems home to over 90% of South Africa’s natural crocodile population. At night hippos roam the streets (I almost rear ended one on the motorcycle) and a healthy population of sharks inhabit the estuary so I decided to postpone my plans for a morning swim.

Unicorns do exist

After a few days the rest of the ESSA group arrived and we set off into the nature reserve for our five day ‘primitive’ trek. Carrying everything we needed in our backpacks we joined our local Zulu rangers, Nunu and Nantabela, and entered the untamed bush. Leaving behind our cell phones and watches we slipped into a peaceful rhythm of rising and sleeping with the sun, quietly walking through the park so as not to disturb the local wildlife. Hluhluwe-iMfolozi is Africa’s oldest wildlife reserve, established in 1895 to protect the Southern Black Rhino from extinction it has enabled its residents to thrive but the threat of poaching is still a major concern. Each day we would rise at dawn and follow our guide over the rough terrain, relying on his keen senses to help us spot the animals that were all around us. By noon, while the sun was at its hottest we would find shade, eat a simple lunch and rest until the air cooled, resuming our hike before finding a suitable camp for the night near the dry river bed. Digging several feet into the cool, damp sand would expose the ground water, filtered enough to drink untreated. As darkness fell a fire was started and our guides would begin preparing a a basic dinner as we rolled out our sleeping mats and prepared to sleep under the stars. Throughout the night we took it in turns to stand watch and keep the fire burning to discourage any nocturnal visitors from coming too close, on the third night, halfway through my shift, two male lions came within a hundred meters of our camp, one of them roaring loudly to announce his presence. The roar of a lion awakens something instinctual within all of us and several tense minutes went by before they finally moved along. The reserve is home to the Big 5, elephant, buffalo, lion, rhino and leopard and of these all but the leopard made an appearance on numerous occasions throughout our five days.

Lion prints next to mine

Returning to civilization afterwards took a little adjustment but the sense of serenity that had settled upon each of us is still with me. It will stand out as one of the highlights of my trip to date. I’d left my bike outside the park and was relieved to find it still standing when I returned, the park staff had warned me that elephants like to wander around the complex at night time causing all kinds of mischief. I packed my belongings onto the bike and took to the road headed roughly in the direction of the infamous Sani Pass which leads from South Africa into Lesotho. When I had shared my plans to enter Lesotho with a fellow traveler I received warnings not to underestimate the difficulty of entering via the route I had chosen. I found a quiet backpackers at the base of the pass to spend the night as poor weather had shrouded the mountains in thick cloud, if I was going to attempt this at least I wanted to enjoy the views. The Sani Pass climbs through the Drakensberg Mountains reaching a height of almost three thousand meters before piercing the border of the mountain kingdom of Lesotho. Finally the weather cleared and it was time to leave, with bright sunshine breaking through the clouds I put on my warmest gear and pointed my bike uphill. At the base of the pass I exited through the South African border post where they questioned whether or not my bike would make it to the top, leaving me feeling more apprehensive than I already was, how bad could it be? The dirt road got gradually steeper but the new rear tire I had fitted while in Johannesburg handled the loose gravel with ease providing me with spectacular views of the valley below. An hour after starting I was at the top feeling euphoric even as strong, bitterly cold winds pummeled the summit. 

Top of the Sani Pass

I found myself a strange land, a unique island of mountainous plateaus nestled in the middle of South Africa, a beautiful anomaly amidst a region of modernity, where locals lived in artfully constructed, round stone huts with thatched roofs and traveled on horse back wrapped in thick, warm, brightly colored, woolen blankets. In the east of the country the military coup that was taking place in the capital, Maseru, was virtually unheard of amongst the people I spoke to. I spent several days driving through the country, wild camping alongside crystal clear creeks, rising in the cold light of dawn to continue my slow progress west. Before I’d entered Lesotho a friend had asked if I had a GPS, they snorted derisively when I told them I didn’t possess one. It wasn’t too difficult to navigate though, there aren’t very many roads to chose from but asking directions proved to frustrating at times. At one point I was having trouble locating the town of Thaba-Tseka, I was sure I had the right road but on three occasions I asked a local how far it was, the first person I asked told me it was twelve kilometers, after an hour a stopped again, only to be told my destination was now twenty kilometers away and on the last occasion I was told it was thirty kilometers away. I eventually reached the town but it was only on the following day.  

Close encounters

I will return to South Africa via the western border of Lesotho, I’ve been invited on a four day canoe trip down the Orange River which borders Namibia. As my trip nears its end my emotions are mixed, like a coin flipped in the air, at times I want it to last forever but there are days when I feel ready to see it end. South Africa has changed since I was last here sixteen years ago. The noble ideals upon which the ANC swept to power have been gradually replaced with a kleptocracy, fattening the few at the expense of the many. Money intended to support and improve the country’s infrastructure disappears into the pockets of thieves and hypocrites until the pot runs dry and upturned hands are, once again, presented before the unscrupulous World Bank, the IMF and predatory foreign investors. The brave cadre of freedom fighters, or terrorists, depending on which side you supported, are strangely quiet and the current leadership maintains some questionable beliefs. The president, while defending a rape allegation from a HIV positive victim claimed that showering afterwards would prevent him from catching the virus. In a country racked by the plague of AIDS a senior health minister advised the general public that a diet of onions and sweet potatoes could help cure the disease. With leadership like this at the helm I can only wonder what course this country will take. For the chosen few conditions in this country have improved beyond their wildest dreams but, for the majority, little has changed.