I downshift in anticipation of the sharp left-hand corner at the bottom of the hill. But I don’t brake, letting the engine-braking slow down my already sedate momentum. The empty road sinks down into a narrow cliff. The last time I have been on this road I was a teenager, almost two decades ago. Then I had the same bewilderment at the rugged cliffs and oceans of flaming flowers as far as the eye can see. Back then, the road was a treacherous gravel path that took me into an unmapped corner of the country.
The anticipation throbs in my chest. The excitement of the unknown urging me on. Isn’t this what biking was invented for? Me, my machine, and a beautiful, empty strip of tarmac seducing me further away from civilisation. I am truly happy, and the last time I felt like this, I was on a bike on a similar ride…
The corner at the bottom of the hill arrives, and the road takes me into a deep ravine. The sun sits low in the west, so the long shadows appear dark and ominous. I seem to remember a stream that crossed the road back then. Does the stream still run? Would they have built a bridge now?
I lean my VFR lazily into the sharp bend, the well-known whistling of the gear-train for the cams reassuring me; it’s all right. We’ve come this far, nothing can go wrong now. I blip the throttle, and smile at the V-four engine’s deep bass drone reverberating through the cliff. If any baboons were grooming themselves in the middle of the road just out of sight around the corner, they should be gone now.
The narrow cliff suddenly opens up into a small valley. Yes! Not only is the stream running wide and strong after the recent rains, but it is flanked by an explosion of fiery flowers. And yes, yes they have built a low bridge, on which I stop. I hurry my helmet off, involuntarily sniffing at the aroma of wild daisies, fresh water and moist soil that fills the valley.
It is silent, except for the burble of the stream. I stare at the little oasis in bewonderment, knowing what a blessing it is for this dry world. Apparently the winters have been dry in recent years, and this is the first time the flowers are in such extravagant bloom.
I have chosen an opportune time to revisit Namaqualand. The countryside is lush and green, rivers and dams are full, but mostly; the fields are carpeted in thick layers of the bright daysies the region has become world-renowned for. In many ways, it is a coming of age for me. I always wanted to journey here by bike. And now I finally did.
They have christened the little stream. Next to the low bridge a roadside board proclaims its name, Ezelsfontein. I wonder how many maps will show it. I spent a long time marveling the flowers, stream and rock formations, before the road beckons me back.
I have to see how far the tar goes. I remember a spectacular mountain pass further ahead. I cant wait to see it.
And I didn’t even plan to be here. I took a ride out of Springbok in the late afternoon, killing time and taking in the luscious winter scenery. I noticed this road, the R355, that was once dust and stone, and is now freshly tarred. I followed it out of curiosity, and it is turning out be the best afternoon of my trip.
It is with some reluctance that I start the VFR and leave this little haven. But the call of a new discovery around the next corner is irresistible.
Most of Namaqualand is crowded with tour busses, SUV’s and caravans, and even groups of touring and trail bikes. But this road is seemingly still a secret. There are no vehicles except me and my VFR. It makes the ride even more sacred and pleasurable. I bet the rabbits around here have never seen a motorcycle before!
It is a steep climb out of the valley, and soon I am at the summit. The view is wide and far, and I stop to drink it in. The road snakes down and I realise it is the beginning of the mountain pass I anticipated. A few long sweeps and I suddenly get to the view I remembered that left me stunned almost twenty years ago. It does so again. It arrests me for an hour; the haze at the end of the world begging me to leave it all behind and just keep on riding forever.
What I see unfolded beneath me is the coastal plain that Spektakel Pass, as it is called, will take me onto. It is the rich mining fields of De Beers and a true wild west. Of course, I cannot resist, so I eventually go down the pass. But the sun is almost setting; soon I will have to turn back to Springbok.
A handful of houses are thrown together at the foot of the mountain. This is Buffelsrivier, named after the river that slinks across the flat plain. I stop every few minutes, drowning myself in the flowers and the green, rolling hills. Donkeys, goats and cows graze unperturbed next to the road. For nine months of the year this is a dry, dusty desert, but right now it is eden. And only because the winter rains was so good, which does not always happen every year.
To my astonishment, I notice a big airplane seemingly grounded in the middle of nowhere. Then I notice the refreshment store nearby, and on closer inspection, I see a rough landing strip parallel to the road. I refresh on some fruit-juice and the woman behind the counter informs me it belongs to the owner of the shop who commutes to Cape Town with it. Sensible chap. The little shop must earn him a lot of money…
It is time to turn back. I want to go on, but the road switches to gravel. But my bike is made for smooth tar, so my trip goes back the other way.
A sign warns me that I cannot get to Kleinzee without prior arrangement anyway. Kleinzee is a diamond mining dorp about 100km away that houses migrant workers from all-over. Even further on, cold and misty Port Nolloth awaits, infamous for it diamond smugglers.
I could always take the turn-off to Kommaggas. A passing truck driver informs me that the road is tarred right into the obscure little town, about 20 minutes away. But that means coming back after sunset.
So I turn around and rev back up Specktakel Pass, running wide through the empty corners at will. I have the setting sun behind me now, and grab fistfuls of throttle through the fast sweeping bends. In no time I am braking down the steep decline into Springbok.
But I have more to look forward to. Tomorrow I am taking the N14 national highway to Pofadder. It is empty, wide, long and straight. I always wanted to clock my bike on that road. I have never seen the top-end speed of my bike.
Yes, as a biker, I am truly coming of age in a daisy-carpeted Namaqualand.
