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.