To get our minds off the cock-up with the bike we visit the Hector Pieterson Museum in Soweto. In June 1976 the children of Soweto, in their school uniforms, walked to a local police station to hand in a petition against plans to make the language of education Afrikaans. They wanted to learn in English. It is the iconic photo of young Hector Pieterson being carried away from the scene with his hysterical sister at his side that became the face of the Soweto uprising. There are so many harrowing stories, like the one of Lily. The little girl was walking with her mother and aunt when they came across the police. They turned and ran. Lily was shot in the back and died.
I’m lost in my thoughts. I feel ashamed and embarrassed to have been a white policeman. I couldn’t be a member of this police force. Where was the justice for the victims?
We also visit Nelson Mandela’s home, which is now a museum. Madiba as they call him here (his clan name) is revered by black and white alike. The street is a unique one — the only street in the world where two Nobel Prize recipients lived. Bishop Tutu lives just down the street.
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Monday morning and the bike is still in Jeddah. The airline’s webpage says it left London two days ago, not five days ago as we’d been led to believe. I’m ropable. The bad news is there isn’t a flight out of Jeddah until tomorrow. It better be on that plane. Even if it is, it won’t clear customs until Wednesday, so we extend our stay yet again.
We finally get the bike on Wednesday afternoon. What a palaver.
It hasn’t been damaged in transit, but it won’t start. After using jumper leads to crank over the battery I remember that pesky kill switch. I forgot I used it — again.
Back at the hotel everyone is keen to see the mystery bike we’ve been talking about for days. At last we can get on the road. It feels a little like leaving home when we finally ride out the gate.
First day on the road and the rear drive seal is leaking again. BMW’s head office suggests we contact BMW Hillcrest near Durban. This is the eighth time and we’ve only ridden about 300 kilometres since the last fix in London.
The people at BMW Hillcrest are so helpful they even organise a B&B for us for the night. There’s another Aussie at BMW, David Gow from Brisbane. This lanky biker is heading into Central Africa and is hoping all the troubles that kept us from the north will be resolved before he gets there. BMW fix our bike for free, as a warranty job. They’ve been so helpful, Dave and I do the good Aussie thing and buy them a case of beer. Thanks.
Shirley: Everyone warns us of the drivers here. They don’t obey red lights or stop signs. Walking back to the B&B from dinner we see it firsthand. A tow truck hurtles down the road, crashing a red light. A few seconds later we’re walking through the service station when another tow truck comes through the servo and just misses Brian. He then screams up the road, does a U-turn and races through the same red light — now even redder. They’re obviously on their way to an accident, but could’ve created another on their way there. It’s a disgrace. We really need to be careful.
There are some harrowing sights along the roads here, very reminiscent of South America. Donkeys and dogs wandering along the roads are hit by cars and left to rot. There’s one dead donkey on the side of the road and its mate is braying mournfully. It’s doing my head in, and then we see a van with a live goat tied to its roof. The poor bloody thing is terrified. We pass a ute with four goats jammed into a space where one would fit comfortably. I just shake my head in disbelief.
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We’re at the beach and Brian thinks it would be a good photo with the bike on the sand. No doubt, but it would’ve been better if the bike hadn’t got bogged past the drive shaft! We have to get a couple of locals to lift the bike out of the sand. He’s obviously overwhelmed with the beauty of this area and not the practicalities of the sand drift. Good one, Brian.
The Garden Route is one of South Africa’s best-known roads and it doesn’t disappoint. The gentle curves that hug the majestic coastline make this a magnificent ride. The wide beach and gentle surf of Jeffreys Bay is tantalising.
It’s frustrating that they don’t do lookouts here, but we pull onto the verge and get a magnificent view of the coastline. It’s breathtaking. Enormous bays, beaches and pine forests. It’s a truly beautiful place. The only things that detract from Mossel Bay are the power poles. Modern life leaves its mark.
Further around the coast we stop at Cape Agulhas where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans meet. This is the southern-most point of South Africa. Brian can’t resist riding the bike along the walking track to get right up to the marker. No one seems to mind in the slightest.
The clear, blue seas and white sandy beaches are splendid. The water looks appealing but there is a monster that lurks here — the great white shark. There are shark watch spots along the cliffs. Different coloured flags indicate the shark watching conditions. The water is so clear you could see the sharks, and two days ago a 2.5 metre great white was seen here. Despite this, people are swimming.
Further along the coast at Gansbaai you can pay good money for a boat trip where you get into a cage dropped into the water while the crew on board tantalise the sharks with burley. We pass on that. It seems quite awful to attract the sharks like this, just for a show.
Brian: It’s Christmas week and we’re in Cape Town, the Mother City. Last year we were in South America, this year South Africa. Don’t worry Shirl, next year we’ll be home.
We take a boat from the Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island where Madiba was held for 18 of the 27 years he was imprisoned before becoming the father of the new South Africa.
The tour of Robben Island is split into two parts. One is the old prison and the other the leper colony that operated here. What we came to see was the prison where political prisoners were held. Former prisoners conduct these tours. Our guide served eight years for being a member of the ANC, then an outlawed organisation.
He tells us of life in the prison without telling the stories of the hard times. The tour is all about looking forward. He mentions warders coming in with dogs but doesn’t say what the dogs did or how the men were treated by the warders. We visit the cell once shared by 32 prisoners and the single cell where Nelson Mandela was held in isolation.
Political meetings were held here every day and they spent hours making handwritten copies of every law book they could borrow so all prisoners could read it and not just those registered for study. If the copies were found the warders would destroy them which must’ve been heart-breaking for the prisoners.
Robben Island is dry and desolate. Prisoners could see Table Mountain and Cape Town but never visit. Today former political prisoners and warders live side by side, running the museum.
Shirley: Christmas Day and we get together with Dave, the Aussie we met at BMW, to visit the Cape of Good Hope. We’re not the only ones who think this is a good idea. There are at least 50 cars queued up at the gate and they’re being directed to park and take the shuttle bus to the point. Not us, we can ride to the top and the special motorcycle park.
There’s a sign to mark the spot, of course. There’s always a sign. We queue up with all the people who want their photo taken and when it’s our turn we ride the bike out. No one objects, in fact, a few of them offer to take photos for us. Here we are again at the bottom of the world, but on another continent.
Brian and I share a bottle of champers for Christmas with a dinner of ham sandwiches, cheese and biscuits. Brian produces a lovely black scarf for me. He’s had it in his pannier for ages. What a dreamboat.
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We see a very different side of South Africa in Fraserburg on the Karoo Plateau in the Northern Cape. It’s a very picturesque area but Ronel, the white woman who owns our guesthouse, tells us of the red necks in the area: the farmers who won’t send their children to the local school because black children attend, and won’t hire black labourers. She’s an interesting woman, very disparaging of the extremists and the rightwingers and compassionate about
the coloureds and blacks.
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New Year and we’re in Botswana. From Francistown we ride along the Kalahari Highway, across the top of the Kalahari Desert to Maun. It’s hot, damn hot.
From our base in Maun, near the Okavango Delta, we go on our first game safari in the Moremi Game Reserve. This is what we came to Africa for — the animals. Joining us is a family group from Canada, Kay and David with their two young children, Lachlan and Bracken.
It’s still dark when we leave the hotel in our open-sided safari truck. The canvas roof will protect us from the sun and the staggered seating means everyone gets a brilliant view. There are a couple of rules: don’t get out of the truck in the game reserve, and no talking when we’re near the animals. As dawn breaks it’s obvious Lachlan, who’s four years old, is more intrigued by Brian than our surroundings. I’m sure it’s his beard, which has a life of its own now.
We’re not even in the game reserve when we have our first sighting — giraffe.
When we get to the gate, after 90 minutes on an extremely bumpy road, Brian discovers his glasses have been bounced out of his pocket and are on the track — somewhere. At least they were just the cheap magnifying glasses. His good prescription glasses broke in the UK after being replaced in Chile. His teeth and his glasses are becoming expensive items.
There’s a sense of anticipation in the truck, except for Lachlan who can’t help but stare at Brian. Finally he gets the courage to ask his mother why Santa is on safari. Brian leans over and whispers conspiratorially in his ear, ‘It’s after Christmas and I’m on holiday’. Lachlan’s eyes are as big as saucers. I wonder if his friends will believe him when he tells them Santa goes on safari in Botswana for his after Christmas holiday!
Brian: Like everyone who comes to Africa we hope to see the Big 5: lion, elephant, rhino, Cape buffalo and leopard. It’s all about luck, really.
There are herds of impalas in the reserve, but they’re so common Oti, our local guide, doesn’t even slow down for a photo, let alone stop. They’re exotic for us Aussies, but not here in sub-Saharan Africa.
We see more giraffes, adults and some babies. We drive very close to a herd of zebras including some very new babies. They give us a cursory glance continuing on with their objective for the day — eating.
Oti says there were lions near a lake yesterday, but they’re not here today. We drive on, constantly on the lookout. A rock can look like a resting lion. A zephyr of wind will sound like elephants moving through the undergrowth. Anthills and logs can be misconstrued for something interesting. Whenever someone thinks they’ve seen something, Oti stops and backs up to get a better look. Safaris are all about patience and perseverance.
There are birds galore. We’re not twitchers so we’re not really sure of their names but there’re brightly coloured pink ones and elusive blue ones as well as stork and hornbills, ducks, herons and hawks. We spy disgustingly ugly vultures devouring what is left of a dead hippo. It’s all truly amazing, but it’s not the Big 5.
About 20 pairs of little ears and eyes are peering at us from a lake. The hippos are as intrigued by us as we are by them. The big bull is enormous when he pushes himself out of the water. Others yawn as they resurface. Hippos don’t actually swim; they walk along the bottom. They’re fascinating creatures, but one of the most dangerous, and known to attack without warning.
All the Big 5 elude us for a couple of hours until we spot an elephant way off in the distance. Even then it’s clear how massive he is.
We see warthogs, a couple of wildebeest, water boks, and other antelope including kudu that have zebra-like stripes.
Oti breaks the ‘don’t get out of the truck rule’ at a 500-year-old Boab tree so we can stretch our legs. The trunk is scarred from elephants rubbing up against it, but there are no elephants around today. Oti tells us to stand still if we see something scary and call him. That might be easier said than done. He says he has a gun but isn’t allowed to use it because it’s against the law to kill animals in the game reserve.
At the ranger station where we have lunch the other guides tell Oti about a lion spotted about 1.4 kilometres away around an hour ago. It’s hot and the lions rarely move about at this time of the day, so there’s every chance he’ll still be there.
We load up and head out. Rules are broken so we can get within about 30 metres from him — a huge adult. The lion doesn’t even look up. He’s dead to the world, snoozing in the midday heat. He looks like a huge version of our cat, Emily, with his paws curled up.
We’re pretty lucky to see two of the Big 5. We were warned that sometimes you can come to the game reserve and not see any.
On our way out of the park I spot a bull elephant in the bush, but it’s heading away from us. Oti moves around to give us a better view. This is incredible and then it just gets better. We turn a corner and there’s another bull, a couple of females with three small elephants of various ages including a very young one. How wonderful is this.
It’s been a great day.
Shirley: We’ve been taking anti-malaria medication for a few days now and it’s making me squeamish and very sensitive to the sun. I’m getting burnt even wearing sunscreen. Brian’s getting feverish. We’re not having the nightmares that so many people talk about, but we feel lousy. We’ll keep going with it, even though we’re not seeing any mozzies.
Back on the bike the road north is a bit potholed and there are heaps of cattle, goats and donkeys on the road — situation normal.
We cross into Namibia and the road takes us through a wildlife sanctuary. We ride by zebra and impala. It’s all very exciting. As a rule we can’t take the bike into the game reserves because the carnivorous animals will see us as a food group.
After riding down a tricky sandy track, we spend the night at a lodge overlooking the wide, fast flowing Okavango River. Watching the sunset over the river, a hippo seems to float by. It’s quite a sight. Then the clouds open and the rain buckets down. We’re worried that the bike is going to fall over as the ground gets wetter and wetter — shades of Tikal — but the bike remains upright, parked next to our traditional mud hut.
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The road through Namibia to Zambia takes us into the Babwata National Game Reserve. There’s no problem riding here, where people live in the reserve alongside the animals. On the roadside there are traffic signs warning of elephants. Yeah, sure. Just as we’re talking about how unlikely it would be to see an elephant Brian spots one and then another, just standing on the side of the road.
The two young bulls are quite close and don’t seem too perturbed by our presence. They’re magnificent creatures — and bloody enormous. I get off the bike to try and get a shot of them with the bike in the foreground. I tell Brian if they charge to ride off and I’ll fend for myself. He insists he’d stay because my insurance isn’t worth anything. Nice. I do manage to get a couple of shots and we are rapt — what a great start to the day.
We ride on and stop at Kangola and get talking to a young Namibian who works at a uranium mine. He’s university-educated and passionate about his country and its future. He’s dismayed by the government, the lack of welfare services and the increasing high levels of HIV which, he says, is out of control. He doesn’t paint a very positive picture.
Brian: At the Zambian border there are people everywhere. The local truck drivers help us with the forms we need to fill in and attracting the attention of the official who needs to stamp the carnet. It takes very little time to leave Namibia.
But Zambia — what a difference. It’s like riding into our worst South American border post. It’s bedlam. There are trucks everywhere and the offices are a mishmash of shacks, old caravans on bricks and sheds.
We head to what we think is Immigration and a man runs beside us, but he’s not a fixer, he’s a moneychanger. He knows something we don’t. We get the 450 Botswana pula we have left changed to Zambia kwacha, and get rid of the last 10 Namibia dollars. The kwacha is undergoing a revaluatio
n — they’re dropping the three zeros off the currency so 20,000 become just 20. We get old notes and need to get our heads around a currency at a time when the locals aren’t even used to the new money.
In immigration we pay US $80 each for a double entry visa. This way we can go to the Zimbabwe side of Victoria Falls without having to pay to get back into the country. To get the carnet stamped we have to pay 50,000 kwacha (US $10) to process the form. This is unheard of.
They know how to charge here. We have to pay a road safety tax of US $10 as well as third party insurance. There’s no kwacha left and the moneychanger is hovering. He’s obviously worked out we don’t have enough local currency for all the charges. Instead of changing more money we pay the insurance with 510 South African rand (about $50) for a six-month policy and a local council tax.
We’ve got 200 kilometres to ride to Livingstone and it’s pouring. The road has potholes big enough to swallow the bike. I do my best to dodge them as well as the cars, trucks and buses constantly veering drunkenly from one side of the road to the other. It’s a really awful ride and I’m glad to get to our hotel, the Zig Zag. I’m absolutely spent.
Shirley: We’ve come all this way to visit Victoria Falls. It’s always been Brian’s dream and I hope he’s not disappointed.
Inside the park, the baboons seem friendly but we know they can be vicious and may have rabies so we keep our distance. Signs warn visitors against feeding them but this doesn’t deter the cheeky primates from stealing anything they think might be food or an interesting trinket. We’ve been told a great story about a baboon stealing a woman’s purse and taking it high into the trees where it proceeded to throw all her money, credit cards, airline ticket and passport across the jungle.
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