The epiblog.
God, that's a terrible heading.
Now I'm at the ultimate journey's end: Wheatley, Halifax. Home !
Claude picked me up from Heathrow at 8 am and I spent a day and a night at his place in Richmond, which made the whole trip almost symmetrical. The next morning we pedalled through the medieval splendour of Richmond Park. We parted company in Barnes and I cycled on to Kings Cross. Cycling in London is surprisingly easy and better than Halifax.You can ride down the relatively empty bus lanes and dedicated cycle lanes and there is lots more cycle traffic for company. There's also lots of interesting stuff to look at and you can pull onto the pavement to take a longer look whenever you want. Good on you, Boris.
If you leave your bike on the concourse for a couple of minutes at Kings Cross while you get your ticket you get a special mention over the PA system and a police lady will come and give you a friendly telling-off. Grand Central Trains are good with bikes. There is a guards van at the back of the train for bikes and the guard loads and unloads it for you.
Back in Halifax, it's been lovely and quiet in Wheatley since I arrived, as The Gas Board, or whoever it is who relays the gas pipes, has stopped 90% of the traffic passing our house. The road down the valley has been gloriously severed while new, improved pipes are installed. Even the work itself is a quarter of a mile away.
Southern Africa seems a thousand miles away; probably about 5000 to be imprecise, and a great experience is gently receding. It's back to the comfort zone, cleaning windows, sipping beer in familiar pubs, cleaning bicycle chains, enjoying friends and family.
Nick and Rob have done a splendid job keeping my window-cleaning customers happy and the round right up to schedule.
On the news this morning was more bad news from Southern Africa: striking miners dancing for the cameras with weapons raised. This, following the shooting of many of their fellow miners at the Marikana platinum mine a few days ago.
I hope my blog has shown that there is a much more peaceful, friendly and welcoming side to the continent from where our ancestors wandered out. I suppose we are all Africans really.
That is not what I intended to show when I started this blog. I'm not sure what I really intended. A bit of showing off maybe. Sharing a dare. Like the journey, blog-writing was just a new experience really.
Cyclists' Corner
Here are some technical details for keen cyclists.
My bike is a Dawes Galaxy, a classic touring bike that's been around for the last 40 years. It simply gets "tweaked" and modified year on year. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dawes_Galaxy. Also http://www.dawescycles.com/p-20-galaxy.aspx for photos and details of its bits. It's great on tarmac but struggles off-road if the surface is too soft. The tyres are only 1 5/8 inches.
Over the 75 days of my trip I averaged about 60 km per day. Given that I had approx 18 days-off though, the average cycling day was really nearer 67 km, or 42 miles. The shortest was around 40 km and the longest about 150 km.
42 miles per day doesn't sound a lot but over 5 or 6 days non-stop and with 30 kg on board it can be quite knackering. Organizing the food and water for the day and the right clothing for changing temperatures , as well as fettling the bike from time to time , all makes for a pretty busy day.
The climate in winter, the mostly gradual gradients and the quietness of the roads makes Southern Africa a good place to cycle. Rather better than the UK, in fact. On the other hand eating and sleeping opportunities are less good and frequent than in Europe, though good enough.
Dan questioned my "1,000,000 turns of the pedal cranks". In fact it was probably a good few more. I worked it out as follows. Pedal turns, regardless of the gear you are in, tend to be about 1 per second or 60 to the minute. My average speed was about 13kph. Over 4,500 km, this gives approx 1,250,000 turns. Then you have to knock a bit off for free-wheeling. You'd think your knee and hip joints would wear out. There must be some good lube in there somewhere.
I'm grateful to Barry Firth at Firth Cycles in Queensbury who built me a new back wheel for the trip and renewed all the drive. Apart from the collapsing rear luggage rack and about 6 or 7 punctures the bike never let me down. For friendly and expert bike servicing I'd recommend Firth Cycles, which is on the left-hand side, about 200 yards short of the dog-leg in the middle of Queensbury, coming from Halifax. You can park outside the shop. www.firthcycles.com/
End of "Cyclists' Corner".
Finally, thanks for the generosity of people who have sponsored me. I'll be out collecting soon.
To view 125 of the 700 and something photos I took, here's the link...Just click on "My photos" on the next line, even though it doesn't look like a link.
My photos
Thanks again for reading this stuff.
If you've enjoyed it, you might like SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW-CLEANER, coming soon.
On yer bikes !
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Last bulletin from the light continent
It's now Tuesday and I am down in Walvis Bay, the real journey's end. I cycled the 30 something kms from Swakopmund yesterday.
Etymological aside: Walvis Bay is a corruption of 'Whalefish' Bay. Swakupmund is also Germanic and means the mouth of the river Swakup, a dried up sandy riverbed at this time of year. I'm passing on 'Swakup' itself.
It's a busy but unusual road. It runs between a few yards and a few hundred yards from the sea. Immediately inland are some of the biggest sand dunes in the world. They look like the way you imagine a desert when you are a kid: graceful drifts and peaks of pure sand.
You can go on sand dune safaris but I settled for the view from the road.. Also, unusually, it was a grey day. Today was another one to begin with - the sun is out now - and it even drizzled a bit this morning which is most rare for the Skeleton Coast. It's breezy and cool (for here); maybe 18 degrees C. It's almost as if I'm being reacclimatized for the UK. It's certainly not tropical.
Walvis Bay is a bit like Hull with flamingos. Basically it's a large port with all the grotty stuff that goes with a port: lorries, cranes, piles of containers, warehouses, seedy bars etc. It does have a nice side though,overlooking a lagoon where there the thousands of flamingos hang out. Adjacent to this was the original settlement. The oldest building is a small church, prefabricated in Hamburg, and erected here in about 1880.
Last night I got talking to John, father of two small kids, from Durban. He has come to Walvis Bay to ride The Donkey. Eh? Yes, I was puzzled too. He is a keen surfer and, at certain times of year, thanks to disturbances thousands of miles away in the Atlantic, powerful waves are driven ashore off Donkey Point, the far tip of the lagoon, which is just visible from town. Apparently the big waves I saw on Sunday were part of it.There is a lull at the moment but there are more rollers due tomorrow and the surfers are biding their time. Four of John's mates turned up ( another John, Gigs, Paul and Naude) and they whisked me off to Rafters Bar in their Land rover. Rafters Bar is a funny wooden building perched on stilts out on the lagoon. You get to it via a rickety walkway over the water. There was much mysterious talk of tubes and wipe-outs.....A friendly bunch though who love their hobby.
Today I've been shopping for a "tarp" to wrap my bike in and 50m of duct tape. The plan is, to cycle to the airport tomorrow morning, gift wrap my bike for South African Airways, tie my panniers together to make fewer items of luggage, then sit around and wait for my plane at 2 pm. From there it's a hop over Botswana to Jo'burg. A couple of hours later my flight leaves for Heathrow. As they say in Bruges, what could possibly go wrong?
So that's it, journey's end. It's been a wonderful trip for many reasons, most of which you will have read about. But mainly due to the kindness of many, many Africans of various hues, nationalities and languages, most of whom will never read this. But thanks anyway.
I'm relieved it's gone well and ready for home. I'm trying to imagine the relief of Fran Sandham when he got to the end of his year-long walk of the same route.
Even less can I guess how John Rolands (Henry Morton Stanley) felt when, after 999 days, his starving party of 77 people - all native Africans bar Stanley himself, the only other 2 whites having died - staggered into a tiny Portuguese outpost near the mouth of the Congo, having crossed the continent.
He had no maps, no communication with the outside world, no internet, no roads, no mechanical transport, no bottled water, no malaria tablets and no idea what he would find after the first few hundred miles. And then 10 years later he repeated the feat in the opposite direction and by a different route, taking another 3 years.
John Rolands, workhouse lad from North Wales, I salute you. You were one of the greatest explorers.
Not quite done
I've decided blogging is good fun.
So, coming to a computer near you soon.....a new blog: SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW CLEANER.
Anyway, this one is not quite finished. Don't miss the epilogue. I also hope to throw in some photos with a little help from someone with more technical savvy. Thanks for reading.
It's now Tuesday and I am down in Walvis Bay, the real journey's end. I cycled the 30 something kms from Swakopmund yesterday.
Etymological aside: Walvis Bay is a corruption of 'Whalefish' Bay. Swakupmund is also Germanic and means the mouth of the river Swakup, a dried up sandy riverbed at this time of year. I'm passing on 'Swakup' itself.
It's a busy but unusual road. It runs between a few yards and a few hundred yards from the sea. Immediately inland are some of the biggest sand dunes in the world. They look like the way you imagine a desert when you are a kid: graceful drifts and peaks of pure sand.
You can go on sand dune safaris but I settled for the view from the road.. Also, unusually, it was a grey day. Today was another one to begin with - the sun is out now - and it even drizzled a bit this morning which is most rare for the Skeleton Coast. It's breezy and cool (for here); maybe 18 degrees C. It's almost as if I'm being reacclimatized for the UK. It's certainly not tropical.
Walvis Bay is a bit like Hull with flamingos. Basically it's a large port with all the grotty stuff that goes with a port: lorries, cranes, piles of containers, warehouses, seedy bars etc. It does have a nice side though,overlooking a lagoon where there the thousands of flamingos hang out. Adjacent to this was the original settlement. The oldest building is a small church, prefabricated in Hamburg, and erected here in about 1880.
Last night I got talking to John, father of two small kids, from Durban. He has come to Walvis Bay to ride The Donkey. Eh? Yes, I was puzzled too. He is a keen surfer and, at certain times of year, thanks to disturbances thousands of miles away in the Atlantic, powerful waves are driven ashore off Donkey Point, the far tip of the lagoon, which is just visible from town. Apparently the big waves I saw on Sunday were part of it.There is a lull at the moment but there are more rollers due tomorrow and the surfers are biding their time. Four of John's mates turned up ( another John, Gigs, Paul and Naude) and they whisked me off to Rafters Bar in their Land rover. Rafters Bar is a funny wooden building perched on stilts out on the lagoon. You get to it via a rickety walkway over the water. There was much mysterious talk of tubes and wipe-outs.....A friendly bunch though who love their hobby.
Today I've been shopping for a "tarp" to wrap my bike in and 50m of duct tape. The plan is, to cycle to the airport tomorrow morning, gift wrap my bike for South African Airways, tie my panniers together to make fewer items of luggage, then sit around and wait for my plane at 2 pm. From there it's a hop over Botswana to Jo'burg. A couple of hours later my flight leaves for Heathrow. As they say in Bruges, what could possibly go wrong?
So that's it, journey's end. It's been a wonderful trip for many reasons, most of which you will have read about. But mainly due to the kindness of many, many Africans of various hues, nationalities and languages, most of whom will never read this. But thanks anyway.
I'm relieved it's gone well and ready for home. I'm trying to imagine the relief of Fran Sandham when he got to the end of his year-long walk of the same route.
Even less can I guess how John Rolands (Henry Morton Stanley) felt when, after 999 days, his starving party of 77 people - all native Africans bar Stanley himself, the only other 2 whites having died - staggered into a tiny Portuguese outpost near the mouth of the Congo, having crossed the continent.
He had no maps, no communication with the outside world, no internet, no roads, no mechanical transport, no bottled water, no malaria tablets and no idea what he would find after the first few hundred miles. And then 10 years later he repeated the feat in the opposite direction and by a different route, taking another 3 years.
John Rolands, workhouse lad from North Wales, I salute you. You were one of the greatest explorers.
Not quite done
I've decided blogging is good fun.
So, coming to a computer near you soon.....a new blog: SHALLOW THOUGHTS OF A YORKSHIRE WINDOW CLEANER.
Anyway, this one is not quite finished. Don't miss the epilogue. I also hope to throw in some photos with a little help from someone with more technical savvy. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, 12 August 2012
Done it !
Wow! Made it! Another wow !
At 7 am this fine sunny Sunday morning I strutted from my 5-star B and B in Hafenstrasse, Swakopmund, down to the beach - only 100 yards away - removed my sandals, rolled up my tracky bottoms and proceeded to bathe my legs (right up to the lower knee) in the mighty, thrashing Atlantic, just 70 days after a similar, though full-body ceremony, in the Indian Ocean. I then reversed all of the above and went for a large African - a bit like a full English - breakfast.
I planned to do all of the above (apart from the breakfast) yesterday afternoon, except that I arrived after dark, as tired as 10 men, bad tempered and ridiculously hungry. All celebrations were brushed aside while mental and particularly physical needs were attended to. These included a hot shower while drinking a cup of hot, sweet rooibos tea, a Thai meal - what a wonderfully cosmopolitan world we live in - and 8 hours between cotton sheets.
So, 70 days after leaving Dar es Salaam, and approx 1,000,000 turns of the pedal cranks, I managed my African coast-to-coast.
Thanks to Judith, my wife, for giving me an exceptionally long pass-out and for not making a fuss and worrying (unduely) when I said I was thinking of going cycling in Africa. Thanks to Fran Sandham for putting the idea in my head. Fran Sandham walked the route in the opposite direction. (Read his book "Traversa").
The last 2 days
That's "last" in both senses.Friday was pretty straight-forward as I hoped it would be. I left the great, little town of Omaruru around 8 am and I was in Usakos, down the road 50 kms, then turn right for a further 30 km, by mid-afternoon.
The weather had changed subtely. The mountains were no longer sharply defined as if they were 10 yards away. This morning they had receded into a slightly milky haze. I'm not sure whether it was from dust blown in on the recent easterly winds or whether it was a real mist haze coming in on the current Atlantic breeze. You can't know everything, even in the digital age.
The highlight of the day, apart from sitting in a very comfortable chair at the Total filling-station cafe in Karibib, was spotting a family of 7 giraffes. Once again, like other spooked animals, they were running alongside the stock-fence that follows the road. They actually overtook me, only about 50 yds to my left. This is no great feat but they were running over very broken ground and probably doing 20 mph. Their run was effortless and graceful, not at all how I'd expected giraffes to run. You'd have thought it was a slow-motion replay. It only lasted a few seconds but it was an unforgettable sight.
Freezing in the tropics
The last day, yesterday, about which I was naturally excited and nervous, was less of a breeze. In fact it ended in a head-on, pig of a gale.Usakos is a small quarrying town (I think) that sits quietly in the bottom of a broad valley between mountains. Apart from the vegetation, the mountains remind me in shape and size of the the mountains of Snowdonia (North Wales). The peaks are about 2000m but the valley bottoms here are around 1000m.
I left around 6 am, which is first daylight. I swapped a hand-shake for a packed breakfast with the B and B owner, who then unlocked the gate for me in his pyjamas.
Several people, inc the B and B man, had warned me about the 25km hill before the long drop to the coast.
As I left Usakos I noticed with relief that the various "tourist" flags were flapping weakly towards the coast. And for the first time in weeks there were grey skies overhead and some of the peaks were poking into them, again reminiscent of UK mountains.
The hill is not so steep. It's arrow-straight and there are no hair-pins. I could see the sun rising behind me in my mirror as I pedaled steadily up. There were already a few cars on the road. It was a Saturday. The B2 is the main (and only tarmac) road between Windhoek, the capital, and Swakopmund, one of the country's two sea-side resorts.
Brace yourself for a rant....Mercedes doing 90 mph on a two-lane road are bloody annoying when you are out for a peaceful bike ride. Why do people rush around so much? Slow down. Enjoy the journey. Look at the scenery. Don't kill yourself or anybody else. Get there 20 minutes later. You'll never notice the difference. Consume half the petrol. Buy yourself a nice ice-cream. Get there in one piece. Don't scare the shit out of cyclists, hedgehogs, meerkats etc . Sometimes I wish you'd have a front tyre puncture, roll over 15 times, scare the shit out of yourself and never dare speed again Rant! Rant! Rant! Phew! I needed that.....
Where was I? Oh yes. ...I was soon pealing off layers of clothes, helmet, ruc-sac etc and piling them on the back and thinking it was really a bit of a girls' hill.
Half way up though it started getting cool and some of the luggage mountain on the back transferred itself back onto me. It probably took 3 hours to reach the top where there's a desolate shanty town called "Crystal Mountain". Presumably they sell gems, minerals and stuff; I didn't investigate. You can turn off here on a dirt road if you have a suitable vehicle and head for the Spitzkoppe Mountains. I'd seen intriguing photos and paintings of these rocky peaks and I was disappointed that they were hidden in cloud.
I stopped for breakfast at the very top. A couple of articulated lorries drew up and their drivers, slapping themselves to keep warm out in the air, came over to check me out. They had "Maersk" containers on the back and were heading for Walvis Bay. They promised to flash their lights if they spotted me on the way back.
"I could've sworn that was rain" I thought as I peeled a boiled egg. Indeed it was. And the first rain in Africa (for me) for about 7 weeks. Even that was only for an hour in the night. It was the finest drizzle and odd, as I was in a very arid landscape.
Fortified with ham, cheese as well as eggs, I set off down the gentle 100km slope to Swakopmund. The drizzle increased, the wind was now in my face and it was suddenly bloody chilly. There is nowhere to hide on a bicycle, as you know, and after 30 minutes of this I was frozen. My drizzled-up glasses had to come off and I could feel the wet getting through my trousers and giving my knees an icy caress.. What with the wind and the cold, my brain was also losing its concentration. Is it the lack of blood? I began to think how dreadful Antarctic explorers must have felt when their body heat started to drain away while still having to concentrate, calculate and keep moving.
One calculation I did make was, the lower I got, the warmer it would become. And yes, 30 minutes later the drizzle stopped and the air warmed up.. For the next couple of hours I went into confident mode.. There was now an increasing head-wind but that was cancelled out by the downhill slope. I was making 20 kms every hour, a good rate. Swakomund by mid afternoon was on the cards and a triumphant dip in the sea before drinking much beer and bragging about my achievement to anyone who would listen.
70 kms from Swakomund the landscape becomes full desert, brown and yellow sand and stones in every direction. With about 50 km to go, Roessing Mountain appears. It's a steep, rocky peak sticking out of the surrounding sandy plain. On a different day it would have been fun to go clambering around on it.. Not far away is Arandis, a collection of enormous industrial sheds associated with the Roessing Uranium Mine. I stopped here for breakfast, part two.
50 km to go. Piece of cake! There was one last surprise though. I felt tired as I left this stop, the road became flat and undulating, the road surface went irritatingly lumpy and, more significantly, the westerly wind became a gale. Freakishly, those last 50 km were the toughest of the whole 4,400 km. No exaggeration. I'd studiously avoided being knackered since Dar es Salaam. It's just not nice. On this day though, short of camping in a gale in the desert or down the aforementioned uranium mine - probably not allowed - it couldn't be otherwise. The last 50 km of road were mocking, bleak, heartless, ache-inducing, remorseless and so, so chuffing long.
The sun set around 5.30 pm and it was 6.30 before I reached the outskirts of Swakopmund. I blundered around the town before finding a B and B with a bed. I cycled up "the front" in the dark. It probably has some of the dearest property in Namibia and I could hear the waves hitting the beach but I could not see them. Anyway I had other priorities and couldn't give a toss for the symbolic journey's end.
Zzzzzzzz, fart, burp, zzzzzzzz. Phew !
If you have read thusfar, well done. Keep reading, there's a little more to come. Not home yet!
Thursday, 9 August 2012
As I slide down the banister of life.......
There used to be a bit of graffiti in the urinals in the Upper George pub in Halifax : "As I slide down the bannister of life, the Upper George is yet another splinter in my arse".
The above image came to mind last weekend. For Upper George, substitute the town of Otavi. But more of that later. The last 5 days since last writing have gone well, despite Otavi, although I'm getting a bit tired. Can't think why...
I've just arrived in a very pleasant little town called Omaruru, which is about 350 kms from Grootfontein where I last blogged. I cruised the length of the main street and back - there's not much more to the place - and chose a place called the Central Hotel. "Deutsche Kueche" said the sign over the door. It's just like a German boozer. Not surprising, as it was built as a German boozer a little over a 100 years ago.
The rooms are out the back. They are little thatched chalets with all mod cons and set in a lovely garden with a fountain, palm trees, a swimming pool and shady corners for eating and drinking. And all for 300 Namibian Dollars per night. There are 12 and a bit to the pound. That's a lot more than the previous 3 countries but standards are a lot higher here.
After a bite to eat, I asked the receptionist where I could get weighed - I'm looking like someone off the Burma Railway and getting curious - , where I could get a beard trim and where I could find an internet café. The first call at the Apotheke showed that I'd lost 10 kgs in the last 69 days. The barber's was nowhere near where she said. Just as I was looking lost a policeman ran past. People run a lot in Africa. He was going off duty. "Follow me", he said. Santos the policeman, who may be reading this, - Hi, mate ! - is from Walvis Bay but has been posted to Omaruru. As we walked he gave me some handy tips on avoiding a mugging in Walvis Bay. He then invited me into the police barracks dorm ,where his mate had just woken up, while he changed into his civvies: jeans and T shirt. It's an old colonial building in a German style. You could tell it was German from the rock- solid original door and window frames. Strangely he used an abandoned window frame, minus glass, as a ladder to get his T shirt off a high shelf, its glazing bars still strong after all these years. There were several policemen in there and stuff everywhere. From there we went to the barber's and then he dropped me off here at the internet place. So, thanks, Santos. You are never alone for long in Africa...
But back to where I left off in Grootfontein
Last Friday night I retired to the hotel bar/restaurant for a quiet night. After a bottle of Windhoek Bitter and some athletics on TV from London, the lad I'd got acquainted with at the internet café turned up with his fiancée. Petrus is the Grootfontein hooker and likes to talk, especially sport, and drink. His fiancée is very pretty and likes to dance. We had a long session and I went to bed about 10 pm, late for Africa, carefully avoiding the swimming pool. Petrus said if I stayed another day he would have me round to his place for a barbecue. Sorry, Petrus, if you are reading this...I woke up early on the Saturday morning and thought I'd better move along a bit. Thanks for the invitation though.
The ride to Otavi ("splinter in the arse town") was a good one. For the first time in nearly 1000 kms I was surrounded by rocky hills and mountains. The road snakes down an empty valley. It's broad at first but gets narrower and narrower. There were no villages this day, just the occasional ranch and some wheat, maize and sun-flower cultivation. You could shoot a western anywhere along this road. There are rocky bluffs, high hills, cacti, desolation, everything you need. At the end of the valley the road squeezes through a gap to the south and another endless plain opens up. This is where Otavi lies.
Now Otavi could enter an ugly town competition and easily get on the podium. Gold, I reckon. It's dominated by a silo, looks like it's been abandoned then given a reprieve, has wide, filthy, dug-up streets and all the buildings look as if they belong in Soviet Russia. I met a nice Australian couple, Keith and Ann, while looking for a B and B. They suggested I go to theirs, which I did. It was OK and in the evening I joined them and some SA tourists in the bar. Keith and Ann like Namibia so much they have a car planted here. We drank some beer together and watched a ferocious and skilful rugby match from Cape Town between two rival "public" schools: Paarl Boys' High School and Paarl Gimnasium. It's no wonder their national team is so good. "Paarl" is Dutch for "pearl" and also a suburb of Cape Town. It's the place where we watched Nelson Mandela walk out the correctional centre back in 1990 . But I digress....nay, ramble....
About 8 pm I ate a dinner of undercooked chips and, I suspect, undercooked pork steaks. Big ones. Never eat in a dark restaurant. I wolfed the lot without complaining, as I was ravenous. A few hours later, in the middle of the night my alimentary canal started heaving like Mr Creosote's and the rest you don't want to know about. ( For non-Brits, Mr Creosote is a modern-day Gargantua character from a Monty Python film who was monstrously greedy then impressively ill).
I lay in my room muttering and expectorating for much of Sunday thinking the world and my trip were at an end. But things are never as bad as you think and by afternoon I was well enough to mention it to the owner, Sandra, a powerful lady with a smoking habit. She tried to persuade me I might have malaria, especially as I'd come from the north. Maybe I'd been drinking the wrong bottled water. To her credit, she did give me a roll of luxury toilet paper from her own supply, which I still treasure. And she offered to take me to the doc's the next day at her expense and free accommodation as long as I malingered. I think we both knew where the problem lay .
The human body is a remarkable thing and by the middle of Sunday night my head and various other bits had stopped aching and I felt some energy and will-to-live returning. I left Sandra's place at 6 am next morning and headed for the 24 hour Total garage for supplies of sandwiches and water to get me the 113 km to Otjiworongo. I also got some milk which I mixed with the Muesli I carry, for breakfast.
The day began well as I watched the first 3 ten-kilometer signs go by. By 10 am though, the strongest head wind of the trip got up and I was straining to do 10 kph. I was resigning myself to camping part-way to my destination. There is nothing much between the two towns by way of a bed. By mid afternoon the wind slackened a bit and, with about 50 km to go, Otjiworongo was back on. In the end I struggled in about an hour after the sun had set. By then I had my head-torch on and the wind had dropped completely. There is so much reflective stuff on the back of my bike, including my folded spare Schwalbe tyre, which is visible from the moon, that a rear light would be just a formality.
My luck turned. Within an hour I was sitting down to a delicious family meal with the kind hosts of the Bush Pillow Lodge, and their son, on the outskirts of town. The table, the company and the food were immaculate. I sat, depleted and sweaty, at the head of the table and recounted some of my adventures. There was another paying guest at the table. He'd spotted me on the road earlier in the day while he'd been drilling for minerals between the road and the railway. He was a large, jovial fellow and clearly fascinated by my trip. He even filmed me cycling away next morning. If you are reading this, please message me your name and the names of the kind lodge owners. They've evaporated! And I hope you find what you were looking for under the ground.
Day 68
Day 68 starts with breakfast at the Bush Pillow. I meet the two friendly Dutch couples who'd directed me to the Bush Pillow the night before. Like many Europeans they'd rented a Toyota 4 by 4 with tents on the roof and had driven up from Cape Town.
From the diary....."It's a superb day. It's cool but the sky is deep blue and the air crystal clear. There is a cold east wind from Botswana ie the east. So, a side wind for me. Once again I call at the filling station for supplies having decided I won't make Omoruru, the next town, in a day It's 136 kms. and I've left too late. Anyway I'm too tired from yesterday. I feel fine to begin with but soon start flagging. I'm still not eating properly. The scenery is great with scattered hills rearing out of the plain. There are lots of wart-hogs grazing on the road reserve. They scatter in panic when they see me and shoot off wildly under the stock fence and into the bush. You wouldn't want to surprise one in a narrow alley. They are built like prop forwards with huge muscular shoulders and arses and with a fearsome look on their faces thanks to their tusks. And they can sprint.
At one point I spot blood on the road and in the distance a parked petrol tanker. It's time for my good deed for the day though at first I'm nervous. The driver of the tanker calls me over. "You help me, Sir?" He's trying to heave a large dead wart-hog into the passenger side of his cab and failing. It's a lift of a good 2 metres. He's already put a plastic bag over its head. Probably that's where it got its mortal wound and he doesn't want too much mess. The driver hauls on its back legs and muggings gets the job off pushing on its chest and front legs. The chest is still hot and rubbery and its bagged face not far from mine. One heave does it though and I squash the beast the rest of the way by pushing the door to. Some blood trickles down the bodywork. "Thank you, Sir," says the driver making an eating gesture with his hand. At least it hasn't gone to waste.
The first sight of Kalkfeld, 70 km from my start, is of dozens of tin shacks. People are sitting around in the yards, which they share with goats, dogs and donkeys. At least one person waves. Two white people have said negative things to me already about Kalkfeld. It's a cross-roads town where 3 dirt roads meet the tarmac road. It's an impoverished dump of a town in a beautiful, peaceful bit of Namibia. I pull in at a concrete block of a shop at what looks like a ex service-station with no pumps. There are people waiting for lifts and just chatting with nothing to do. I have a Coke wondering if it doubles as a B and B. I know there is one here somewhere. I decide to continue
Over a bridge over a dry river bed I come across the B and B on the way out of town The town is a dump but I have a nostalgia to spend one last night in an African settlement. Most accommodation in the towns in Namibia is white owned with white guests. I check in with Theresa the manageress. It's clean and comfortable enough. It's called "The Spot".
I doze in the afternoon then take a walk in the last hour before sun-set. It's a bit like a township from "Of Mice and Men". I walk past the school and some houses and into the bush. There are lots of kids about in dirty, tatty clothes. Some give me a polite "Hello". I must be a strange sight with my daft hat, baggy shorts and bright red face. They are too respectful to show it though. I come across the town cemetery. Some graves are smart, some just a heap of random stones. There is no one around and I take some photos. I make my way back along a maze of dirt paths and tracks to the main road.
I sit out on the patio and read a bit more of "Mill on the Floss", a book I picked up at least 6 weeks ago. The choice of bookshops and books has been minute so you finish up reading new stuff. Around 6 pm Theresa cooks me a tasty meatball and chips meal. I try a beer but can't finish it. Stomach still not right. I watch Olympic beach volley-ball on the café TV. USA narrowly beat China on Horse guards' Parade in an exciting semi-final. The only other customers are 3 women who share a large bottle of beer and a portion of chips before bidding me goodnight. "
Day 69
More diary......" Night of bad dreams. Also there is a strong wing blowing all night Something in the yard bangs and squeaks all night. Up for 7 am breakfast. Olympic reviews on TV. Away for 8ish Theresa rolls back the security gate for me. The wind is blowing strongly from the east again. It's a fresh one. I'm heading SSW so occasionally I get a slight push. I'm still wearing a pullover, track-suit bottoms and a ruc-sac when I roll into Omoruru at midday. This is a first. I've always been down to shorts and shirt by about 9 am.
The road climbs for 4 or 5 kms out of Kalkfeld. It's only a 65 km day and I'm not feeling especially frisky so I take it easy. After about 30 km I reach a crest and I can see 100 miles to the south, I reckon. The horizon to the south is littered with mountains. The air is clear as can be. It reminds me of the day I climbed a small mountain in Norway and I could see the Lafoten Islands 150 miles away. It doesn't happen very often!
Two eagles soar not-so-high overhead. I think they are looking for road-kill. I keep an eye on the lowest one in case it fancies me. Unlikely, but I've been buzzed by birds before. Scary!
Then some Kudo run alongside me on the other side of a stock-fence some 50 yds to my right. They are in a mild panic and don't seem to have the sense to cut into the bush.
Finally (on the animal front) I spot my first Meer cats. A group of about 7 or 8 run across the road ahead of me. They look like large rats as they run. They disappear into the bush, except for one, which stays behind and stands up on guard to check I've gone. Without that I wouldn't have known what they were.
The last 20 kms is a lovely, ever so gradual descent on a perfectly smooth road into Omoruru, which is visible down on the plain with about 8 kms to go. There is an attractive rocky peak sticking maybe 1500 feet out of the plain to the NE of the town. If I had a bit more time and energy........"
The rest of Day 69 is spent writing this, dear readers.
It's now Day 70, Thursday 9th August, and time for lunch. Greetings to Johannes and Monika from Cologne who shared their table with me at dinner last night and at breakfast this morning. Kommt gut nach Hause.
The coast, at Swakopmund, can be reached in two days from here with luck. From there it's only a cock's stride to Walvis Bay. Swakopmund is about 240 kms from here. The first section will be to Usakos, about 90 kms. The next day would then be 150 kms, which is a long stint, but there is a glorious drop of 900 metres, roughly the height of Scafell. Bring it on!
There used to be a bit of graffiti in the urinals in the Upper George pub in Halifax : "As I slide down the bannister of life, the Upper George is yet another splinter in my arse".
The above image came to mind last weekend. For Upper George, substitute the town of Otavi. But more of that later. The last 5 days since last writing have gone well, despite Otavi, although I'm getting a bit tired. Can't think why...
I've just arrived in a very pleasant little town called Omaruru, which is about 350 kms from Grootfontein where I last blogged. I cruised the length of the main street and back - there's not much more to the place - and chose a place called the Central Hotel. "Deutsche Kueche" said the sign over the door. It's just like a German boozer. Not surprising, as it was built as a German boozer a little over a 100 years ago.
The rooms are out the back. They are little thatched chalets with all mod cons and set in a lovely garden with a fountain, palm trees, a swimming pool and shady corners for eating and drinking. And all for 300 Namibian Dollars per night. There are 12 and a bit to the pound. That's a lot more than the previous 3 countries but standards are a lot higher here.
After a bite to eat, I asked the receptionist where I could get weighed - I'm looking like someone off the Burma Railway and getting curious - , where I could get a beard trim and where I could find an internet café. The first call at the Apotheke showed that I'd lost 10 kgs in the last 69 days. The barber's was nowhere near where she said. Just as I was looking lost a policeman ran past. People run a lot in Africa. He was going off duty. "Follow me", he said. Santos the policeman, who may be reading this, - Hi, mate ! - is from Walvis Bay but has been posted to Omaruru. As we walked he gave me some handy tips on avoiding a mugging in Walvis Bay. He then invited me into the police barracks dorm ,where his mate had just woken up, while he changed into his civvies: jeans and T shirt. It's an old colonial building in a German style. You could tell it was German from the rock- solid original door and window frames. Strangely he used an abandoned window frame, minus glass, as a ladder to get his T shirt off a high shelf, its glazing bars still strong after all these years. There were several policemen in there and stuff everywhere. From there we went to the barber's and then he dropped me off here at the internet place. So, thanks, Santos. You are never alone for long in Africa...
But back to where I left off in Grootfontein
Last Friday night I retired to the hotel bar/restaurant for a quiet night. After a bottle of Windhoek Bitter and some athletics on TV from London, the lad I'd got acquainted with at the internet café turned up with his fiancée. Petrus is the Grootfontein hooker and likes to talk, especially sport, and drink. His fiancée is very pretty and likes to dance. We had a long session and I went to bed about 10 pm, late for Africa, carefully avoiding the swimming pool. Petrus said if I stayed another day he would have me round to his place for a barbecue. Sorry, Petrus, if you are reading this...I woke up early on the Saturday morning and thought I'd better move along a bit. Thanks for the invitation though.
The ride to Otavi ("splinter in the arse town") was a good one. For the first time in nearly 1000 kms I was surrounded by rocky hills and mountains. The road snakes down an empty valley. It's broad at first but gets narrower and narrower. There were no villages this day, just the occasional ranch and some wheat, maize and sun-flower cultivation. You could shoot a western anywhere along this road. There are rocky bluffs, high hills, cacti, desolation, everything you need. At the end of the valley the road squeezes through a gap to the south and another endless plain opens up. This is where Otavi lies.
Now Otavi could enter an ugly town competition and easily get on the podium. Gold, I reckon. It's dominated by a silo, looks like it's been abandoned then given a reprieve, has wide, filthy, dug-up streets and all the buildings look as if they belong in Soviet Russia. I met a nice Australian couple, Keith and Ann, while looking for a B and B. They suggested I go to theirs, which I did. It was OK and in the evening I joined them and some SA tourists in the bar. Keith and Ann like Namibia so much they have a car planted here. We drank some beer together and watched a ferocious and skilful rugby match from Cape Town between two rival "public" schools: Paarl Boys' High School and Paarl Gimnasium. It's no wonder their national team is so good. "Paarl" is Dutch for "pearl" and also a suburb of Cape Town. It's the place where we watched Nelson Mandela walk out the correctional centre back in 1990 . But I digress....nay, ramble....
About 8 pm I ate a dinner of undercooked chips and, I suspect, undercooked pork steaks. Big ones. Never eat in a dark restaurant. I wolfed the lot without complaining, as I was ravenous. A few hours later, in the middle of the night my alimentary canal started heaving like Mr Creosote's and the rest you don't want to know about. ( For non-Brits, Mr Creosote is a modern-day Gargantua character from a Monty Python film who was monstrously greedy then impressively ill).
I lay in my room muttering and expectorating for much of Sunday thinking the world and my trip were at an end. But things are never as bad as you think and by afternoon I was well enough to mention it to the owner, Sandra, a powerful lady with a smoking habit. She tried to persuade me I might have malaria, especially as I'd come from the north. Maybe I'd been drinking the wrong bottled water. To her credit, she did give me a roll of luxury toilet paper from her own supply, which I still treasure. And she offered to take me to the doc's the next day at her expense and free accommodation as long as I malingered. I think we both knew where the problem lay .
The human body is a remarkable thing and by the middle of Sunday night my head and various other bits had stopped aching and I felt some energy and will-to-live returning. I left Sandra's place at 6 am next morning and headed for the 24 hour Total garage for supplies of sandwiches and water to get me the 113 km to Otjiworongo. I also got some milk which I mixed with the Muesli I carry, for breakfast.
The day began well as I watched the first 3 ten-kilometer signs go by. By 10 am though, the strongest head wind of the trip got up and I was straining to do 10 kph. I was resigning myself to camping part-way to my destination. There is nothing much between the two towns by way of a bed. By mid afternoon the wind slackened a bit and, with about 50 km to go, Otjiworongo was back on. In the end I struggled in about an hour after the sun had set. By then I had my head-torch on and the wind had dropped completely. There is so much reflective stuff on the back of my bike, including my folded spare Schwalbe tyre, which is visible from the moon, that a rear light would be just a formality.
My luck turned. Within an hour I was sitting down to a delicious family meal with the kind hosts of the Bush Pillow Lodge, and their son, on the outskirts of town. The table, the company and the food were immaculate. I sat, depleted and sweaty, at the head of the table and recounted some of my adventures. There was another paying guest at the table. He'd spotted me on the road earlier in the day while he'd been drilling for minerals between the road and the railway. He was a large, jovial fellow and clearly fascinated by my trip. He even filmed me cycling away next morning. If you are reading this, please message me your name and the names of the kind lodge owners. They've evaporated! And I hope you find what you were looking for under the ground.
Day 68
Day 68 starts with breakfast at the Bush Pillow. I meet the two friendly Dutch couples who'd directed me to the Bush Pillow the night before. Like many Europeans they'd rented a Toyota 4 by 4 with tents on the roof and had driven up from Cape Town.
From the diary....."It's a superb day. It's cool but the sky is deep blue and the air crystal clear. There is a cold east wind from Botswana ie the east. So, a side wind for me. Once again I call at the filling station for supplies having decided I won't make Omoruru, the next town, in a day It's 136 kms. and I've left too late. Anyway I'm too tired from yesterday. I feel fine to begin with but soon start flagging. I'm still not eating properly. The scenery is great with scattered hills rearing out of the plain. There are lots of wart-hogs grazing on the road reserve. They scatter in panic when they see me and shoot off wildly under the stock fence and into the bush. You wouldn't want to surprise one in a narrow alley. They are built like prop forwards with huge muscular shoulders and arses and with a fearsome look on their faces thanks to their tusks. And they can sprint.
At one point I spot blood on the road and in the distance a parked petrol tanker. It's time for my good deed for the day though at first I'm nervous. The driver of the tanker calls me over. "You help me, Sir?" He's trying to heave a large dead wart-hog into the passenger side of his cab and failing. It's a lift of a good 2 metres. He's already put a plastic bag over its head. Probably that's where it got its mortal wound and he doesn't want too much mess. The driver hauls on its back legs and muggings gets the job off pushing on its chest and front legs. The chest is still hot and rubbery and its bagged face not far from mine. One heave does it though and I squash the beast the rest of the way by pushing the door to. Some blood trickles down the bodywork. "Thank you, Sir," says the driver making an eating gesture with his hand. At least it hasn't gone to waste.
The first sight of Kalkfeld, 70 km from my start, is of dozens of tin shacks. People are sitting around in the yards, which they share with goats, dogs and donkeys. At least one person waves. Two white people have said negative things to me already about Kalkfeld. It's a cross-roads town where 3 dirt roads meet the tarmac road. It's an impoverished dump of a town in a beautiful, peaceful bit of Namibia. I pull in at a concrete block of a shop at what looks like a ex service-station with no pumps. There are people waiting for lifts and just chatting with nothing to do. I have a Coke wondering if it doubles as a B and B. I know there is one here somewhere. I decide to continue
Over a bridge over a dry river bed I come across the B and B on the way out of town The town is a dump but I have a nostalgia to spend one last night in an African settlement. Most accommodation in the towns in Namibia is white owned with white guests. I check in with Theresa the manageress. It's clean and comfortable enough. It's called "The Spot".
I doze in the afternoon then take a walk in the last hour before sun-set. It's a bit like a township from "Of Mice and Men". I walk past the school and some houses and into the bush. There are lots of kids about in dirty, tatty clothes. Some give me a polite "Hello". I must be a strange sight with my daft hat, baggy shorts and bright red face. They are too respectful to show it though. I come across the town cemetery. Some graves are smart, some just a heap of random stones. There is no one around and I take some photos. I make my way back along a maze of dirt paths and tracks to the main road.
I sit out on the patio and read a bit more of "Mill on the Floss", a book I picked up at least 6 weeks ago. The choice of bookshops and books has been minute so you finish up reading new stuff. Around 6 pm Theresa cooks me a tasty meatball and chips meal. I try a beer but can't finish it. Stomach still not right. I watch Olympic beach volley-ball on the café TV. USA narrowly beat China on Horse guards' Parade in an exciting semi-final. The only other customers are 3 women who share a large bottle of beer and a portion of chips before bidding me goodnight. "
Day 69
More diary......" Night of bad dreams. Also there is a strong wing blowing all night Something in the yard bangs and squeaks all night. Up for 7 am breakfast. Olympic reviews on TV. Away for 8ish Theresa rolls back the security gate for me. The wind is blowing strongly from the east again. It's a fresh one. I'm heading SSW so occasionally I get a slight push. I'm still wearing a pullover, track-suit bottoms and a ruc-sac when I roll into Omoruru at midday. This is a first. I've always been down to shorts and shirt by about 9 am.
The road climbs for 4 or 5 kms out of Kalkfeld. It's only a 65 km day and I'm not feeling especially frisky so I take it easy. After about 30 km I reach a crest and I can see 100 miles to the south, I reckon. The horizon to the south is littered with mountains. The air is clear as can be. It reminds me of the day I climbed a small mountain in Norway and I could see the Lafoten Islands 150 miles away. It doesn't happen very often!
Two eagles soar not-so-high overhead. I think they are looking for road-kill. I keep an eye on the lowest one in case it fancies me. Unlikely, but I've been buzzed by birds before. Scary!
Then some Kudo run alongside me on the other side of a stock-fence some 50 yds to my right. They are in a mild panic and don't seem to have the sense to cut into the bush.
Finally (on the animal front) I spot my first Meer cats. A group of about 7 or 8 run across the road ahead of me. They look like large rats as they run. They disappear into the bush, except for one, which stays behind and stands up on guard to check I've gone. Without that I wouldn't have known what they were.
The last 20 kms is a lovely, ever so gradual descent on a perfectly smooth road into Omoruru, which is visible down on the plain with about 8 kms to go. There is an attractive rocky peak sticking maybe 1500 feet out of the plain to the NE of the town. If I had a bit more time and energy........"
The rest of Day 69 is spent writing this, dear readers.
It's now Day 70, Thursday 9th August, and time for lunch. Greetings to Johannes and Monika from Cologne who shared their table with me at dinner last night and at breakfast this morning. Kommt gut nach Hause.
The coast, at Swakopmund, can be reached in two days from here with luck. From there it's only a cock's stride to Walvis Bay. Swakopmund is about 240 kms from here. The first section will be to Usakos, about 90 kms. The next day would then be 150 kms, which is a long stint, but there is a glorious drop of 900 metres, roughly the height of Scafell. Bring it on!
Friday, 3 August 2012
Rundu to Grootfontein
I left Rundu just as it was getting light around 6 am, rode up the chilly high street then turned right on the B8 to Grootfontein. "Grootfontein 254 kms " said the sign. The road is flat, smooth and monotonously straight, perfect for max kms. I reckoned I could do the distance in 2 days. On my map, as good as any map I've seen, there is very little detail, just a long straight road with one settlement marked, which is Mururani Gate, at the border between Kavango Province and Otjozondjupa Province. I'd been told there was a shop and somewhere to sleep , which turned out to be true.
It was my lucky day, 2 days in fact, as the wind blew in gusts right at my back for most of the 2 days. Travelling the other way would have meant at least 3 days pedaling. Long may it blow, as my route is SW for the remaining 600 kms. My first stop was about 10 kms out of Rundu at a police road block. There have been lots, mostly to check the paperwork and condition of people in cars and HGVs. This was my first in Namibia though. Zut alors! I thought, thinking back about a week to the police chappy in Katima who had told me to get a cycle helmet, as they are compulsary in Namibia. This policeman held up his hand and invited me into his tent. "Do you want to see my passport, Sir?" I said putting on my Mr Bean face. He did, but only out of idle curiosity, before giving me a longish lecture on the necessity and safety of helmets. He was only about a third my age and still keen on his work. As an ex-teacher I'm familiar with the concept of the severe letting off so I knew the formalities. I'm not as familiar with the contrite role but I managed and promised faithfully to buy a helmet in Grootfontein. " You might not be so lucky with my colleague at Mururani Gate" he said. Something to look forward to. I refrained from the usual smirking and hooting as I left the tent.
The rest of the day flew by thanks to the tail wind. There were many villages despite the apparent emptiness of the map. The locals mostly herd goats and very handsome cattle with fine, long horns. I had one stop for a Coke at one of the many road-side bottle shops. There I was befriended by a group of teenagers who brought me a plastic chair to sit on (most welcome) and asked me why I was riding around on a bike. It's hard to explain. I usually say something along the lines of..."I'm 63 and it's my first time in Africa. I wanted to come here before I got too old. In a car I would not have met you; I'd have just wizzed by. It's been a great adventure. In Europe we are relatively well-off and comfortable and sometimes get bored. So we need a challenge. All the way people have been friendly and helpful; I'm having a great time." That usually keeps them happy and it's all more or less true.
So, instead of struggling into the huddle of buildings that is Mururani Gate, I sailed in around mid-afternoon. The policeman there didn't give a fig for my lack of helmet: he just wanted to know what I was doing riding around on a bicycle. "I'm 63 and it's my first time etc.....".
There is a lovely little campsite which belongs to the white couple who own the shop. There is a little swimming pool and a couple of chalets which they are living in while a bigger home is being built. They hope to be in for Christmas then they'll rent out the chalets to tourists. They are also farmers.The shop sells burgers, beer and other basics, so I had a decent evening meal and night-cap. They have a son and 3 dogs, one large mutt and 2 Jack Russells. I sat up reading and writing and drinking by torchlight till about 8 pm then went to bed . One of the Jack Russells came to check on me every couple of hours during the night. It wormed its way under the fly-sheet then came to the fly-screen of the inner tent, stuck its pointy little face into that, saw me but couldn't understand why it couldn't get any further. What a sweety!
Yesterday, the remaining 120kms or so, was slightly tougher. The morning kms flew by but by the afternoon the road surface got rougher and there was a slight uphill gradient. In the morning I stopped to take a layer of clothes off about 9am. A 4 by 4 came down a side road from one of the white-owned cattle ranches. "Everything OK?" he asked winding the window down. He was a powerful, blond haired bloke with a beard and busting out of his clothes. We talked for a bit and in the end he came out with the usual: "You are a braver man me. " I told him I'd met with nothing but friendliness all the way and never felt threatened. The perception of danger is interesting. I blame the media. We finished with a hand-shake. My metacarpals are still rearranging themselves. I prefer the black African hand-shake which is much gentler and I've now got the hang of. It's a normal handshake, followed by a thumbs handshake and finishing with another normal handshake. If they like you, they then hang onto you....
So I was approaching "the wall" when I got to Grootfontein. It's a nice place on a low hill overlooking a vast plain. There is an old German fort here dating back to 1895 and now a good museum where I spent a couple of hours this morning. The town reminds me of some of the sleepy, little rural towns in Australia. From the 60s to the early 90s though, when Namibia was still a part of South Africa, the town was an important military base with 200,000 troops based here according to the internet cafe owner.
Ulli, a white German speaker who is a volunteer at the splendid museum, also gave me some insights into life here, past and present. Her grandfather came here in the 20s and set up shops, moving further inland by ox-cart.
Then at lunchtime in the supermarket, when I asked a trio on the next table if they came from Grootfontein, they said, "No. We are the people you spoke to a week ago in the game park". And so they were. Hans-Martin, Mechthild and Kristina from Frankfurt are on holiday here, not for the first time. Unfortunately they bumped into a cow recently and are having to get the damage fixed in Grootfontein.
So, just 600 kms to go and at least 10 days to do them in.
More later.
I left Rundu just as it was getting light around 6 am, rode up the chilly high street then turned right on the B8 to Grootfontein. "Grootfontein 254 kms " said the sign. The road is flat, smooth and monotonously straight, perfect for max kms. I reckoned I could do the distance in 2 days. On my map, as good as any map I've seen, there is very little detail, just a long straight road with one settlement marked, which is Mururani Gate, at the border between Kavango Province and Otjozondjupa Province. I'd been told there was a shop and somewhere to sleep , which turned out to be true.
It was my lucky day, 2 days in fact, as the wind blew in gusts right at my back for most of the 2 days. Travelling the other way would have meant at least 3 days pedaling. Long may it blow, as my route is SW for the remaining 600 kms. My first stop was about 10 kms out of Rundu at a police road block. There have been lots, mostly to check the paperwork and condition of people in cars and HGVs. This was my first in Namibia though. Zut alors! I thought, thinking back about a week to the police chappy in Katima who had told me to get a cycle helmet, as they are compulsary in Namibia. This policeman held up his hand and invited me into his tent. "Do you want to see my passport, Sir?" I said putting on my Mr Bean face. He did, but only out of idle curiosity, before giving me a longish lecture on the necessity and safety of helmets. He was only about a third my age and still keen on his work. As an ex-teacher I'm familiar with the concept of the severe letting off so I knew the formalities. I'm not as familiar with the contrite role but I managed and promised faithfully to buy a helmet in Grootfontein. " You might not be so lucky with my colleague at Mururani Gate" he said. Something to look forward to. I refrained from the usual smirking and hooting as I left the tent.
The rest of the day flew by thanks to the tail wind. There were many villages despite the apparent emptiness of the map. The locals mostly herd goats and very handsome cattle with fine, long horns. I had one stop for a Coke at one of the many road-side bottle shops. There I was befriended by a group of teenagers who brought me a plastic chair to sit on (most welcome) and asked me why I was riding around on a bike. It's hard to explain. I usually say something along the lines of..."I'm 63 and it's my first time in Africa. I wanted to come here before I got too old. In a car I would not have met you; I'd have just wizzed by. It's been a great adventure. In Europe we are relatively well-off and comfortable and sometimes get bored. So we need a challenge. All the way people have been friendly and helpful; I'm having a great time." That usually keeps them happy and it's all more or less true.
So, instead of struggling into the huddle of buildings that is Mururani Gate, I sailed in around mid-afternoon. The policeman there didn't give a fig for my lack of helmet: he just wanted to know what I was doing riding around on a bicycle. "I'm 63 and it's my first time etc.....".
There is a lovely little campsite which belongs to the white couple who own the shop. There is a little swimming pool and a couple of chalets which they are living in while a bigger home is being built. They hope to be in for Christmas then they'll rent out the chalets to tourists. They are also farmers.The shop sells burgers, beer and other basics, so I had a decent evening meal and night-cap. They have a son and 3 dogs, one large mutt and 2 Jack Russells. I sat up reading and writing and drinking by torchlight till about 8 pm then went to bed . One of the Jack Russells came to check on me every couple of hours during the night. It wormed its way under the fly-sheet then came to the fly-screen of the inner tent, stuck its pointy little face into that, saw me but couldn't understand why it couldn't get any further. What a sweety!
Yesterday, the remaining 120kms or so, was slightly tougher. The morning kms flew by but by the afternoon the road surface got rougher and there was a slight uphill gradient. In the morning I stopped to take a layer of clothes off about 9am. A 4 by 4 came down a side road from one of the white-owned cattle ranches. "Everything OK?" he asked winding the window down. He was a powerful, blond haired bloke with a beard and busting out of his clothes. We talked for a bit and in the end he came out with the usual: "You are a braver man me. " I told him I'd met with nothing but friendliness all the way and never felt threatened. The perception of danger is interesting. I blame the media. We finished with a hand-shake. My metacarpals are still rearranging themselves. I prefer the black African hand-shake which is much gentler and I've now got the hang of. It's a normal handshake, followed by a thumbs handshake and finishing with another normal handshake. If they like you, they then hang onto you....
So I was approaching "the wall" when I got to Grootfontein. It's a nice place on a low hill overlooking a vast plain. There is an old German fort here dating back to 1895 and now a good museum where I spent a couple of hours this morning. The town reminds me of some of the sleepy, little rural towns in Australia. From the 60s to the early 90s though, when Namibia was still a part of South Africa, the town was an important military base with 200,000 troops based here according to the internet cafe owner.
Ulli, a white German speaker who is a volunteer at the splendid museum, also gave me some insights into life here, past and present. Her grandfather came here in the 20s and set up shops, moving further inland by ox-cart.
Then at lunchtime in the supermarket, when I asked a trio on the next table if they came from Grootfontein, they said, "No. We are the people you spoke to a week ago in the game park". And so they were. Hans-Martin, Mechthild and Kristina from Frankfurt are on holiday here, not for the first time. Unfortunately they bumped into a cow recently and are having to get the damage fixed in Grootfontein.
So, just 600 kms to go and at least 10 days to do them in.
More later.
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