Biking the 29th - A voyage of discovery - Across South Africa on motorbikes

There are times when destination is unimportant, when travelling is its own reward and movement becomes an end in itself. Old Agus Rots, the karretjiemens we came across near Grootdrink, seemed worn near to dust from too much moving as he plodded the empty roads with his ragged donkey cart.

In Richards Bay, at the end of the long ride, we found a beautiful singer named Tracy in a bar. We asked her to play Yellow Brick Road for us, but instead she played Chris Rea's Road To Hell. Perhaps it was a warning. . . .

Certainly the road seemed endless - from coast to coast along the 29th line of latitude through South Africa's vast interior. But, astride powerful motorcycles with the wind roaring past our helmets, the towns and hamlets became mere interludes along an alluring black ribbon which urged us ever onward.

It began in Port Nolloth. The main road out of town heads east and is as straight as a map line. On either side is nothing but tussocky flat sand edged by faraway hills; Springbok lies straight ahead.

My BMW 1100 RT was going so fast it would probably be an offence to even publish the speed, and I found myself chuckling over a story about diamonds which Grazia de Beer had told me earlier that morning.

She has a little guesthouse called Bedrock, but used to run an eatery called Mama's Italian Trattoria. One day the waitress rushed in yelling that two strangers from up north were beating up her boyfriend outside the chemist. Grazia spied the unfortunate fellow tied, spreadeagled, in the back of a bakkie, which drove off at speed.

It seems the victim had committed the greatest crime of this frontier town - he'd stolen someone's diamonds by swallowing them. The angry pair wanted them back. They went into the chemist for a purgative, but couldn't speak any language the assistant knew so, from their frantic actions, he presumed Immodium was required. It turned the boyfriend's innards to concrete.

The police were notified and found all three out in the dunes, waiting for the reluctant diamonds to emerge. They were all arrested and the last Grazia saw of the boyfriend, by then fed with a stiff purgative, was in a hospital bed surrounded by policemen also waiting for the diamonds to appear.

That's Port Nolloth talk, which is always about diamonds and usually about IDB (illicit diamond buying). We'd spent the previous evening in the cosy Pirate's Cove restaurant trying to guess who the smugglers were.

* * *

The adventure had actually started back in Cape Town in that casual way adventures often do: "Why don't we bike the 29th parallel?"

"Why the 29th?"

"Well, because it's the widest part of South Africa."

Somehow the fact that the line went through Springbok and Pofadder settled the matter. A few months later - on a bitingly cold midwinter day - we were astride three large, sensual machines with our backs to the icy Atlantic and our faces towards the warm Indian Ocean on the other side of the continent.

With the freezing wind creeping down our necks on the long ride up from Cape Town the whole idea, not to mention the timing, seemed crazy. But as the BMWs snaked up the Aninaus Pass towards Steinkopf and Springbok I found myself singing an old favourite of mine from the film Easy Rider: "Get your motor running, back out on the highwaaay, lookin' for adventure, or whatever comes my way. . . ."

This was going to be cool.

* * *
The bikes created a minor sensation outside the Springbok Café. "Juss," exclaimed a slightly tipsy pavement patroller, "where are you guys going?"

"Richards Bay."

"Where's that?"

"Where the sun rises."

He looked impressed.

Jopie Kotze is a legend in this part of the world and his Springbok Café is the meeting place for all manner of characters. We found the man behind a counter strategically placed to allow him a view of his café, restaurant, bookshop and gem collection. He was not fazed by our black leathers and helmets and hauled out a bottle of petrol-tasting mampoer. "It'll keep you warm," he chuckled.

Behind him was a pair of boxing gloves which once belonged to Robey Leibbrandt. Their owner was an Olympic boxer in the 1930s and stayed on after the games in Germany, becoming a fanatical Nazi supporter. He returned, dramatically, by yacht and landed on the Namaqualand coast, making his way to the Transvaal where he set up sabotage units. He was caught, jailed, later released and settled in Springbok, still a hero to many.

On the wall nearby was a plaque to Jopie from the Namaqualandse Boerjode (Jewish farmers) with thanks.

"I'm a man in the middle," shrugged Jopie when I queried his wall display. "I like history and people like me. And I don't do IDB, I do gemstones. For me the diamond is not a pretty rock."

* * *
The N14 from Springbok to Pofadder was almost dead straight. It passed through treeless, seemingly endless scrub desert and was both terrifying and awesomely beautiful. Vehicles on the road were so few and far between that drivers waved to each other reassuringly as they passed.

I edged the bike onto the white line and had the strange sensation of being in a space-time warp. Under a dome of blue on a sea of yellow desert, the black ribbon of road ran like a line drawn from my front tyre to infinity.

The only imbalance was the telephone poles which, because of the absence of trees, served as supports for occasional large nests of sociable weaver birds or roosts for pale chanting goshawks. This sure was a great big country. . .

As we neared Pofadder I became aware of a movement behind some low hills on the horizon: a ghost-like figure seemed to be pacing our movement. I considered the possibility that the hypnotic symmetry was getting to me when the form seemed to solidify and resolved itself into a gigantic full moon rising over the rim of Namaqualand. Like the star of Bethlehem it led us to the little town of Pofadder.

There was room at the inn.

The Pofadder Hotel had doilies everywhere: big, small, square, round. In the winter months, when things are quiet, hotel owner Nella Britz turns one of the lounges into a sewing bee and teaches her staff to embroider doilies.

"They need something, you know," she commented, "there's not much going on here between seasons." Her parrot, Vicegrip, rang his bell in agreement. Even he appears on the doilies, his image picked out in bright thread, and as we set off to the pub to play a game of pool I could almost swear he made the noise of a motor bike. Smart bird.

The road continued out of Pofadder the way it came into it: dead straight. But it was soon relieved by strange dolerite extrusions which looked like giant molehills. They were stark evidence that our continent floats on a liquid magma sea which appears occasionally in millions-of-years-old rock spouts.

By the time we picked up signs for Kakamas the limb-warming alcohol of the previous evening was beginning to take its toll so we swung off the N14 to take a break at Augrabies Falls on the Orange River.

"You are now entering a WARZONE against chaos, crime, laziness and poverty," a large signboard informed us. We rode on, nonplussed, and ordered tea and plates of chips at the restaurant beside the falls. The river was running at a mere five percent capacity, but it still plunged with a mighty roar into the gorge. The Bushmen considered the place to be haunted, and they had a point.

Beyond Kakamas the scenery changed dramatically as the road snaked up through tough-looking hills and past farms watered by the Orange River. I stopped at a roadside stall to buy some dates but I had to ask the assistant where they were: they were so big I hadn't recognised them. I rolled into Upington like a hamster, my cheeks stuffed with their delicious flesh.

* * *

In the past the wooded islands around Upington were strongholds for river pirates, bandits, rustlers, renegades and desperadoes. The infamous Captain Afrikaner had his hide-out there, as did his lieutenant, a Polish forger named Stephanus who had escaped while awaiting execution in Cape Town.

The celebrated highwayman, horse thief, rustler and adventurer Scotty Smith also settled in Upington, where he died of Spanish flu in 1919.

All this seemed to have rubbed off on the traffic cops. One pack lay in wait for speedsters just outside town, another ticketed one of the bikes for touching a yellow line beside a parking bay and our faithful Maui camper, trundling along behind us, received another ticket when a parking meter expired while we sipped coffee at the Wimpy.

The town undoubtedly has its good points, including some BMW enthusiasts who came to shoot the breeze about bikes, but we back-tracked to Kanoneiland to look for a bed and supper. The place really is an island, right in the middle of the Orange River, and was named because of a battle there between river pirates and a police contingent in 1879.

The school on the island closed down some years ago and has been converted into a guesthouse called Cannon Island Tourism. With a braai sizzling and beers in hand we explored the place and, in the school courtyard, found the cannon that had been used to bombard the island during the battle.

Getting up next morning was hard work: it was freezing. Despite good leather gear the breeze cut like a knife - I was thankful the bike had heated handle grips and I blessed its clever designers.

Back at Upington we diverted onto the N10 and near Grootdrink we came across Agus Rots who was making headway behind the steady tow of one donkey and one horse power. He was incredibly thin and wizened and his wagon badly battered.

He didn't seem too sure where he was headed - or even where he'd come from - and when we offered to send him a photo of himself he did not know where we could send it. So we asked his two grandchildren to write down their address, but they couldn't write and didn't have an address. Karretjiemense are the gypsies of South Africa, probably descendents of the Bushmen, and the road is their home. But in the far-flung emptiness of the Northern Cape it seemed a desolate existence.

* * *

At Groblershoop we turned east again and, as the road wound through some worn-looking sandstone mesas, the red dunes of the Kalahari slid across the horizon, glowing in the sinking sun. As we rolled into Griekwastad it was party time. We cut the engines on a hill overlooking the little town and the thump of inchoate rhythm and roar of voices floated up to greet us. Then a throbbing, coppery moon popped up to join in the fun.

At the café in town it was quieter and we found vivacious, blonde Tania, dreaming of a boyfriend in New Zealand. We also discovered the gentle hospitality which was to endure right across the Platteland. We were served coffee and offered food - which was a surprise since most South African cafés are just grocery shops.

Over a large plate of hot chips we discovered that just round the back was The Little Guest House. It was absolutely charming, with en suite bathrooms, lounge and dining room.

Mary Moffat, daughter of missionary-extraordinaire Dr Robert Moffat, was born in Griekwastad in 1821. When the young David Livingstone set eyes on her he was smitten and they were soon married. Poor Mary had a hard life, either trekking across untamed Africa, ministering to the sick or awaiting her husband's return from his travels. It's hardly surprising she turned to the bottle for solace.


There's a museurn in the town dedicated to the lady and it's well worth a visit. In it, among many missionary things under the care of curator Hetta Hager, is a pulpit from which Moffat preached. She says his ghost used to deliver angry sermons from the pulpit until she put a metal gate across the museum door.

We left the town in a haze of windswept dust. The road stretched out languidly across a featureless plain covered with vaalbos and sweet-thorn. Judging from the frequent road signs and black skid marks, the main inhabitants of the area are kudu devoid of road sense. At night these large antelope with pogo-stick tendencies will try to leap over your lights and land right on top of you. I watched the verges with eagle eyes.

In Campbell, a hamlet a bit further down the road, we came upon Livingstone's Church. It had a stark new concrete floor, no pews, bird droppings everywhere and was sadly bare. A plaque outside read: "In memory of David Livingstone, the great African explorer." If the church is anything to go by, that memory is fading. We shrugged, kicked the bikes back into life, and hit the empty road.

Most people think the wind, noise and vibration are the source of the biker's exhilaration. But after 30 minutes of wind you feel no wind, after an hour of noise you hear no noise.

The vibration is slight but numbing. The wind, noise, and vibration seem to cancel each other. And in that vacuum between yourself and what's going on in the surroundings, you hang in limbo, seeing only what you want to see, feeling what you want to feel, cushioned by your thoughts and the transformation of time.

* * *

Kimberley, when it finally appeared over the table-flat horizon, was a bit of a let-down. We decided to visit the Big Hole and hunt up some lunch. The Historical Village has been carefully reconstructed, and the museums were fascinating, but the food at the so-called restaurant was appalling. In fact the whole area had a slightly sad feeling. The hole was, well, big - very big - and there's evidently an even larger one on the other side of town.

I guess we didn't really give the town a chance, but it felt good to get back on the road. Around that time it occurred to me we were becoming road junkies - as bikers often are - the roar of the exhaust and the blur of tarmac being more compelling than any destination.

Motorbikes hardly touch the road and keeping them on it at speed requires intense concentration. With a car-sized engine between your legs a slight spin of the wrist can slam your body backwards as the machine accelerates to speeds seldom considered by drivers of four-wheelers. Bikes are about freedom, speed . . . and flying.

When Boshof appeared, though, it was time to stop. It's a cute little Platteland town among the mealie fields but hardly the place you'd expect to find a first-class meal and elegant accommodation. But both were at hand.

The Gompie Café offered a fine meal and The Boshof Arms Guest House, run by Cynthia and Doug Greig, couldn't be faulted: we even got hot-water bottles. After a gargantuan breakfast the next morning we pulled the bikes onto their lawn for a wash-down. Stroking our iron steeds, we found, was a good way to get to love them.

* * *

From there it was a long leap across the feverishly busy N1 highway towards Bethlehem. Just before the town the implacable Platteland began to heave uneasily and, as we crested a rise, its demise was written clear across the horizon in the jagged mountains of the Drakensberg. The bikes gave a throaty roar of delight as the road dipped and climbed towards Clarens. This was the kind of terrain big touring bikes love.

It often snows in Clarens but we were spared the pleasure. It was freezing cold, though, and it took several sherries beside the fire at Maluti Mountain Lodge to thaw out our stiff joints.

Golden Gate awaited us early the next morning. In the crisp dawn light the road snaked away from beneath our tyres like a long black tongue, leading us into the red, gaping gullet of an immense mountain serpent. The looming sandstone walls glowed with living intensity and a lammergeier, that giant, golden vulture with flaming red eyes, wheeled above us, seeming to watch our every move.

If the Great Sculptor created the Platteland in a moment of boredom and the Drakensberg as an act of passion, she undoubtedly paused in Golden Gate to play.Biking through the beetling cliffs is an extraordinary experience, but connecting up with the busy N3 between Gauteng and Durban was a nightmare. Cars, taxis and road-repair vehicles jostled for position down Van Reenen's Pass and it was a relief to turn off towards Ladysmith and Dundee.

Night was falling as we entered Dundee - it was an unscheduled stop; we'd hoped to get a little further. A cafe owner directed us to the Bergview Lodge which turned out to be a sort of traveller's motel. A high steel gate and equally high wall surrounded the place and at 23h00, we were told, they let out all seven dogs. Buks and Isobel Viljoen welcomed us from behind a long bar.

Perhaps because I was tired, the place seemed slightly surreal, and a post-apocalyptic film on the television a bit later didn't help to dispel the sensation. The room was comfortable, though, with the best shower of the trip. But I fell asleep feeling rather far from home.

* * *

Crossing the Buffalo River east of the town the next day was like skipping between two worlds. On the Dundee side were fenced farms with swathes of yellow grass, on the other was peasant Africa-hut clusters, unfenced cattle, waving children, busy pigs, sleepy donkeys and projectile sheep hurtling across the road.

Driving was dangerous but interesting, and all the concentration brought on a mighty thirst. So did the heat: KwaZulu-Natal was ignoring winter. Stan's Pub in Babanango came just in time.

Stan Wintgens is something of a legend and he claims his pub to be the smallest in South Africa. He's run the place for 25 years and it was certainly the most cluttered I'd ever seen, with 'stuff' ranging from flags and caps to women's underwear and a small wooden rabbi with an erection. The underwear, he explained, had to be taken off in the pub. The toasted sandwiches came promptly and the cider hit the counter cold and most welcome. Stan was fun.

From Babanango the road deteriorated as it snaked down through forest plantations. The giant logging trucks have potholed the road and the yawning traps in the tarmac surface forced us to weave around dangerously at times.

As the sun dipped low we picked our way along a confusion of roads towards Richards Bay. The dream had been to skid up to a beach beside the warm Indian Ocean, throw off our clothes and plunge into the breakers shouting: "We've done it!"

As it turned out all roads seemed to lead to the vast harbour and we couldn't find the beach. We couldn't even find the town until the next morning, and it turned out to be the sort of place that probably looked good on the drawing board of some town planner but had no soul.

To console ourselves we decided to spend our last night at the rather fancy Richards Hotel. The bikes looked distinctly out of place in the parking lot and highly polished luxury cars frowned rudely at our dusty camper.

Inside, the place was more welcoming and we found the beautiful Tracy Payne in full song at the bar where we ordered a round of celebratory whiskys. She had a great voice.

"We've biked all the way across the continent," we called to her. "Sing us a song." The ballad she toasted us with had a fine blues rhythm, but it seemed a little unfair to choose Chris Rea's number The Road to Hell. Perhaps she knew something about the place.

Somehow Richard's Bay wasn't working for us. The next morning, as we picked our way out of town - having abandoned the beach plan - we came upon a crowd of chanting demonstrators. One held a banner saying "We don't approve of conditions." We didn't either, but by then we were confirmed road junkies: the destination didn't matter, the joy was in the travelling.

As we hit the N3 for the final run to Durban we cranked our throttles and watched the speedometer needles climb. It felt good to be back on the road again . . . whether it led us to heaven or to hell.

- republished from Getaway magazine, October 1998. Pictures by David Bristow and Don Pinnock.