Tuesday 14 January 1997 - Day 1

I didn't need the alarm to wake me. From outside came the sound of cows demanding to be milked, but I wasn't asleep. Gareth was. Nothing keeps him from his sleep.

I woke him. "Today's the day!"; I said, excited but afraid too.

We dressed in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts, and then, sitting on my bed in our riding gear, we prayed together.

The bikes were already partially loaded and we mounted them before the sun rose. Both started first kick (which I will take as a propitious sign!).

After a week of rain the day was beautiful - blue blue sky, weak early morning sun and fluffy semi-transparent clouds like looking at thin ice from under water. The bikes sounded healthy although, as usual at the start of a long journey, I listened with heart in my throat to every change in engine note like a parent at the bedside of an ailing child.

The dirt road after the turn off from Himeville was good, damp from the rain but firm, and the XT's rode as if they had been designed for just this - dirt roads, the blue mountains of Lesotho looming out of the clouds ahead!

Riding the bikes as loaded as they were, however, was not going to be easy. I was only too well aware of our lack of thorough testing. On the rough, the bikes, particularly mine, proved to have a disconcerting propensity to want to lie down! Fully laden, we would be carrying about 90-100kgs plus ourselves and, although we have spread the load as far forward and as low as possible, the back wheel still carries the lion's share.

Now usually an off-road bike, so long as the front wheel is held steady and straight, will tackle almost any terrain with enthusiasm. The back wheel can flap and bounce about, try to overtake the front wheel, whatever, but so long as the front wheel is straight and has grip, the rear usually knuckles down and follows obediently after. Not the loaded XT's! The slightest degree off vertical and, instead of slipping sweetly back into place, the load merely tries to fling the bike onto its side and pitch the rider - me - along with it! Most disconcerting. I have to watch the bike like a hawk.

Unfortunately for me, a few kilometres along the dirt, well before the Lesotho border, we hit a stretch of that smooth, wet, yellow clay that motor-cyclists dread. Immediately my front wheel slipped out; I tried to counter but all that did was fling the load over the other way and after another and more exaggerated slide I was off! My left leg, caught under one of the Jerry cans, was wrenched quite badly and the knee immediately started to swell. Gareth was ahead of me and disappeared around a corner. I managed to extricate my leg and desperately tried to get the bike up before the backup party - who were following to bid us farewell at the top of Black Mountain Pass - arrived, but the damn thing was too heavy for me to pick up! The madly photographing group arrived, much to my humiliation, to see the bike ignominiously on its side, Jerry cans scattered across the road and me attempting to walk as if I wasn't hurt. Then Gareth appeared from around the corner having missed me behind him and destroyed the last of my tattered dignity by having to kick-start my bike which had decided to sulk!

Disconcertingly, Gareth claimed that his bike wasn't slipping: was it the tyres - he had Michelins and I had the cheaper Kenda -, or was it an indication that I was losing my touch, that age was catching up with me at last? Was I kidding myself that, at 45, I could do this trip?

Furthermore, disturbing noises had been coming from my bike on the way to Sani Pass, accompanied by jerks and hesitations; I just KNEW it was a slipping clutch and wondered whether it would be possible to make it up the pass without anyone noticing. There was no way I was going to abort the start and head back to Pietermaritzburg to have it repaired! The ignominy of it! The shame! I would soldier on blithely and get the repair done quietly further on where no one would know us!

At the border Gareth said loudly, “Your chain's slipping - didn't you hear it?” which put the final nail in the coffin of my dignity. I left him to tighten it while I sorted out border formalities. He has his uses!

The pass itself was tricky but not impossible. Whilst riding up, the nostalgia within me was strong - so many wonderful holidays had started from there; so many memories. And this might be the last time we will see it...

We rode on through mist, winding our way along the rutted track up and over the Drakensburg Mountains and into the Kingdom of Lesotho.

By now the sun was up, the sky so deep blue it was almost purple and just sufficient chill to the air to keep me fresh. Final farewells at the top of Black Mountain Pass and we were on our way, Gareth and me, alone. The continent of Africa ahead suddenly seemed very big.

Suddenly I was struck by a dreadful pang of loneliness. In Wales over Christmas we had been with family; in Creighton over the last few days we had stayed with friends and now, suddenly, I was alone. Yes, I had Gareth, but my aloneness was caused by something else. It was the lack of a home with a wife, the familiar comfortable surroundings, the predictability of it all, that I felt so heavily. I missed Glynis and our home so badly it was like an ACHE. (Isn't it sad that the realisation strikes one so strongly when one is apart and when together things are so much taken for granted?)

The Lesotho roads were beautiful - smooth dirt and well maintained; so different to many years ago. I remember in the early days having to dig the Land Rover out of a large water-filled pothole it had slipped into, wedging itself against the bank; standing on the bumper while Glynis drove to help with traction; driving at walking-pace over tracks which looked more like the rocky beds of rivers...

We stopped at Mokotlong for petrol, parked our bikes alongside tethered Basotho ponies and donkeys loaded as only donkeys can be loaded throughout the world. A small crowd of blanket-swathed Basothos stood about in silence, watching.

Then on, riding a little faster into the afternoon as our confidence grew, but conscious of the deceptively smooth roads covered in places with a loose layer of gravel on which the tyres slip like riding on marbles.

We lunched next to a river - crystal clear and so fresh that afterwards we stripped off our clothes and bathed, watched with interest by the occasional passing herd boy or man on his pony, going somewhere within the purple anonymity of the mountains that surrounded us. The river was cold, all about us the sound of running water, green young wheat, smells of cow dung and damp weeds, toadstool huts, mountains and more mountains! Truly God's own country. The valleys are warm but on the ridges the wind buffets us as it always does in Lesotho.

As each familiar spot passed, rich in memories - a camp site here and a lunch spot there; there we had to wait for a flooded river to subside and here we were washed out by the rain - again my thoughts turned to Glynis who shared all these special moments with me and the children over the years, and I was sad and lonely.

My bum, back and knee were aching by the time we reached the Katse Dam turn-off. The dam, when completed, will fill for hundreds of kilometres with a blue ribbon of water these stark valleys and change forever the precious remoteness deep in these mountains. We stopped briefly to look over the already filling valley then rode on into the setting sun before finally leaving the road and setting up camp on an exposed and blustery ridge. The sun quickly faded behind dark clouds and the air has become cold.

We have travelled 325ks and are tired. Despite the bath in the river, our bodies and clothes are dirty and covered with dust. Tent up, sleeping bags laid out, I boil water for tea while Gareth takes off his tank to look for the cause of an annoying oil leak which seems to be coming from his steering head bearings. Oil has also been forced into the glass cover of his temperature gauge and the waterproof covers of our sleeping bags have rubbed through in places. All this after just one day!

Sitting alone in the calm shelter inside the tent with my cup of black tea, Gareth tinkering with his bike outside, again there comes upon me a feeling of such profound loneliness that it wrenches at my gut.

I want to go home.

Now. Straight away.

When camping in the bush or on the open plains of the Magadigadi, this was always our special time - Glyn would make tea and we would sit and savour it while the aches died away and the air cooled towards evening. Then, clean and fresh-smelling from a bath in the bucket, we would sit in front of the fire and have our traditional sherry in the bottom of a mug, and the peace of the evening and the companionship of each other would fall upon us.

Here, now, I am dirty and sore and alone. And Africa is such a very big and frightening place. Why, I could be sitting at home now in front of the TV, warm and comfortable and secure. 320ks and 1 day! Only another 19 680ks and about 4 months to go!

The reality and the dream are always so different. Why aren't I just an ordinary conventional person who reads about adventures instead of doing them?

Supper of 2-minute noodles and tuna cooked by Gareth, black tea and in bed with a book to read by candle-light. Not really so bad after all, but still lonely in the pit of my stomach and just a little scared!

Day 2

I woke at 5.30 after a good night. Rested until 6, thinking about the day ahead, the trip ahead, and then made tea. Outside was a calm Lesotho dawn, with the cries of herd-boys and the clonking sheep-bells across the mountain slopes only serving to emphasise the stillness. Smoke from distant cooking fires rose straight up and the sky was a clear pale blue.

We tried to make breakfast with an obstinate and sulky stove. Can't complain, though, the instructions said DON'T use leaded fuel which, of course, we were using. I hacked thick slices off a slab of home-cured bacon - a going-away present from our friends - and par-cooked them then made the foolish mistake of adding two very runny eggs. After about 15 minutes and still a milky mush in the bottom of a luke-warm pan, I started packing up while Gareth worked on the stove. When finally it was 'ready' I could only eat a mouthful before feeling very sick. I couldn't swallow the salty mush in my mouth and spat it out behind the tent, trying to keep my fear from Gareth. (He told me later that he too was feeling sick. My sickness, I think, is worry about the enormity of the trip; Gareth thinks he is getting flu.)

But, as always, once packed and bumping along the cattle path which led to the road, my spirits soared and I praised God for the beauty of his creation and the wonder of being alive! Riding motor bikes in the wilderness does that to one!

Part of my lifted spirits is, without doubt, the fact that we have finally decided to change route leaving out Botswana and Namibia and heading straight for Zimbabwe. The road I had hoped to travel in Botswana was one Glynis and I drove on our honeymoon - a wilderness of a road, two sandy tracks through the Kalahari for about 400ks. But on studying the map I see that it is now a tar road so most of the adventure of it has gone; and although Namibia is a wonderful country to tour, the distances are vast - long straight flat tar roads, hundreds of kilometres long. But the most compelling reason is that, were we to take that route, we would in a way be going backwards to go forwards and really I need to make even the semblance of ground covered to the north. (HORROR - what if something were to happen and the trip had to be aborted before we have even got out of South Africa! At least get beyond the Tropic of Capricorn and, even better, the Equator so that if the unthinkable happens we will be seen to have made some ground! Then also, the threatening spectre of the Saharan heat - what will it be like? How will the bikes cope? Will we, loaded as we are, be able to ride over soft sand? Up to Kenya should be the easy bit; thereafter a daunting unknown.)

We reached the Katse Dam wall by 8 and paused to take a photo showing the rapidly filling dam; a Basotho horseman on his beautiful pony presented himself in front of the lens with a wide smile and a formal pose - just the perfect touch to make a special photo! Then on, following a newly-built tar road which snaked up and down steep mountain passes - a biker's delight! - hard right, foot scraping the road just a touch, then hard left then back right, the bikes happy and not trying to lie down all the time (or else we are getting used to the unfamiliar weight).

Through the border - the South African side already degenerating into 3rd-world sloth and filthy ablutions.

We stopped at Bethlehem for lunch - neither of us hungry but we ate from a sense of duty. Whilst sitting, dirty and tired, at our cafe table, Gareth asked me how far to go to Heidleberg where we hoped to camp. I added up just over 200ks. I saw his face fall and he admitted to feeling rather sick. And again the enormity of what I have taken on came over me: day two and Gareth is sick. What will I do if he becomes seriously ill far from help? What will HE do if I become sick? Is it wise to take a seventeen-year-old on such a demanding journey?

The responsibility hangs heavy on my shoulders.

What would I do if I lost him, if he died? How could I tell Glynis?

We decided to go on a little further to Frankfort where we are now camped next to a river, the tent pitched on newly-mown grass under the shade of a willow tree. Tea is made and a few clothes washed and we both feel better.

After a lie down Gareth and I went over the bikes. Although the engines sound healthy there have been a few little problems over the past two days: loose engine side cover stud, loose chain, oil leaks. My speedo stopped working today and with it the milometer. Fortunately Gareth has been his usual reliable self, happy to whip out the tools and attack the problem. So far all have been sorted out, but I do hope these teething problems stop soon - I wouldn't like to have to sort out two "problems" a day for 90-odd days!

A glorious evening: Cape Turtle doves 'how's fathering', hadida's screaming at the setting sun, the still water of the dam in front of us and tinned savoury mince and vegs for supper!

During the night, as we read in the stillness of crickets, an owl hooted above us. Wrapped in our sleeping bags we paused to listen in the flickering half-light of candles...

Day 3

Supposedly a cake-walk day - the 200ks to Half Way House began with a flat rear tyre on Gareth's bike, discovered as we set off fully packed and laden from the camp site. How can a brand new Michelin tyre fitted with a new, double-thickness enduro tube be punctured after two days' riding? If this is going to happen on tar, how will we cope in central Africa?

We hand pumped the tyre and rode to the local dealer just around the corner, unpacked, wedged a Jerry can under the engine and removed chain then back wheel which we handed to the experts - a thin piece of wire had penetrated the tyre and tube! After a two-hour delay we were off again to suffer the traumas of negotiating the freeway through Johannesburg. (Gareth's first drive on a freeway - illegal on his learner's license - and he had to do it on a loaded XT! Traumatic stuff but after an overshoot and a quick U-turn across the flow of traffic and through a small gap in the central reserve under a bridge(!) we reached Half Way House at about 12.30 where we are staying with friends.

I am very concerned about Gareth. He is not well - he has a sore throat which I am trying to treat, and the sun has penetrated a small gap between his helmet and goggles and has burned the tip of his nose. Although I am older I think I am more resilient and I don't want to push him too hard. I keep trying to get home to him that he must tell me how he is feeling and if he needs a break. But Gareth, at the best of times, says very little. The burden of the trip has given me a bad headache; the going is so painfully slow and the distance so great.

920ks so far.

Day 4 (6,1% complete - big deal!)

I woke in the early hours to the sound of thunder and a flickering against the curtains. A strange sound was coming from outside - rain. Heavy rain. It had a depressing set-in sound.

After breakfast it was still pouring down so Gareth and I donned our bright yellow plastic cover-alls. We looked like a combination between spacemen and arctic sailors!

The electrics on Gareth's bike are playing up - they only work when the bike is running. Another worry.

On the freeway to Pretoria we were snug and dry, the very cheap all-weather suits working well. A bakkie slowed next to us and a young man leaned out the window. "Where you from?'' he shouted.

"Ixopo," I called, wishing I could have said Wales.

We seem such frauds - all kitted up and looking the part, spare tyres, Jerry cans, water containers - like tourists on 'safari' wearing camouflage gear and leopard-skin hat bands - but really we are only a good day's straight drive from home in a car!

"Good luck!'' he shouted and drove on.

Later, in Pretoria, another car drove alongside us and another young man put his head out the window and shouted, "Good luck!''

Strange how good it made me feel. Why should they wish us luck? Perhaps they were earnest young men yearning for adventure and saw in us kindred spirits, their called good wishes an attempt to link their psyches with ours.

We found the British Consulate easily. I left Gareth with the bikes and walked in. Inside it was cool and impersonal. My riding boots clacked over the smooth tiled floor. I asked for the Entry Control Officer, expecting/hoping to be told, "This way, sir, he'll just be a moment -'' and then a cosy chat, perhaps a cup of tea, stamp in the passports and away.

Instead I was given a ticket - No. 36 - and motioned towards a door. Large bare room; many bored-looking people, rows of seats. Number on the wall machine said 13. Took a seat. Waited. Looked around. Set my stop watch. Yawned. At four minutes, still 13. Went outside to get Gareth. Took about ten minutes; back to the room. Still 13...

Said Hi to the young man sitting next to me and observed jokingly that we might as well go and have coffee somewhere. He replied, using many adjectives beginning with 'F', that I could order and consume a Big Mac and chips and STILL have time! He had No. 16 and had been sitting since 8. It was now 9.30. Quick calculation (the wall machine still said No. 13) and Gareth and I decided to take our chances at Dover! We had given up 15 minutes to political correctness and now we were heading NORTH!

Filled up with petrol and Gareth noticed that his rear brake lever adjusting nut had stripped. What next?! His bike seems to be falling apart by the hour and we are only in Pretoria! Bought two nuts from the garage, quick cup of coffee and out.

The weather was overcast but dry and glorious to ride in. We were soon out of the suburbs and heading along a straight road across flat acacia-dotted country. The bikes purred. My spirits rose. Signs to Warmbad and Nylstroom and Potgietersrus flashed past. They brought back such good memories of holidays to Botswana.I wished Glyn and Jem could be here to share them.

And so we rode all day, from 8 in the morning, with stops about every hour and a half for this and that, until 5pm. Everything was glorious. The bikes put their ears back, shrugged off minor ailments and said cheerily, "We can do this all day -!'' and they did.

2.30 and Pietersburg - half way to Zimbabwe from Pretoria where we were going to stay - and we said, "We're feeling strong! Let's do another quick 100ks and sleep tonight at Louis Trichardt! We can be at the border by 9 -!'' and off we went.

We paused at the plaque marking the Tropic of Capricorn for a photo and were saddened that so many idiots, desperate for some tenuous immortality, had felt the need to spray their names on the natural cluster of boulders which surround it.

It rained in spells throughout the day and we would pull to the side of the road, whip on our yellows and be off again. We could see the heavy showers ahead and watched the bright ribbon of road dodge between them, great dark clouds dragging a pale gauze of rain. A strong side wind was blowing, buffeting the bikes about. Trucks too tried to brush us off the road, treating us with contempt. They will pass leaving about a metre space and then, before clearing the bikes with their trailers, gradually pull in. On your left, the edge of the road, sometimes a nasty drop which can have a bike over in a jiffy; on the right, thundering wheels, chest height and half an arm's length away. Needless to say, the truck always wins.

Passing trucks are interesting in another way: as they get within about two metres of you, first there is a brief and disconcerting suck back followed by a tremendous blast which pushes you violently away. This is immediately followed by a strange period of calm as one enters the bubble of air travelling along with the truck. The bike immediately accelerates because there is no head wind, as if it is trying to race. A quick tap off, reducing speed, allowing the truck to get ahead. Then the back wheels rush past; a brief hiatus, still caught in the bubble of dead air and then, suddenly, mad shuddering buffets of wind, left, right, top, pummelling you and the bike as nature struggles to fill the vacuum. During this time you try not to fall off, lose the road or get caught beneath the passing wheels. Keeps one awake!

We swapped bikes for an hour or so today and noticed interesting little idiosyncrasies: Gareth's bike seems to rev 1000rpm slower (unless the rev-counter is out), runs 8 degrees C cooler and covers about 60ks per tank less than mine. Its engine rattles and clanks a little - probably loose timing chain and worn cam shaft, but nothing too serious, we hope! She's very willing. My bike, all told, is tighter, smoother and, in terms of mileage, much younger, although they are both 1981 models. Still, time will tell...

Then, as the afternoon waned, the road narrowed, more potholes appeared, a dead goat lay on the side of the road and pinpricks of rain touched my cheeks. Ahead, dark clouds massed over the hills of Louis Trichardt.

There is a feeling, at last, that we are on our way...

It is dark. Gareth cooks supper in the light of a candle while rain taps urgently, in sharp little pocks, on the nylon overhead. Inside, it is comfortable and cosy...

Day 5

It rained all night and we woke damp and even wet in places. There are small leaks in the tent which we will need to look for and seal. Gareth's throat is still sore.

We were off by 7 into thick mist and rain. After a few kilometres, we stopped to take the hiking mattresses off the front carriers because they obscure the lights and I discovered that my headlight doesn't work. Gareth rode in front, barely visible through the mist, over the mountain range under which Louis Trichardt nestles and down the other side into patches of blue!

At the Zimbabwe border we were descended upon by four "facilitators" offering their services. These are young men who buy the official forms (handed out free to us) from the officials and "facilitate" your passing through customs and immigration for a small fee. A kind of acceptable bribery, if you like. I chose one to facilitate and appointed his friend to guard the bikes. He quoted R50 at which I burst into hysterical laughter, patted him on the back and told him what a good joker he was. He said to pay him anything I wanted.

Then followed the whirlwind. He removed from us our passports, bike papers and whatnot, and filled in all the forms for us in an indecipherable scrawl. He declared, in writing, that we had nothing of value to declare to customs, no cameras, radios or alcohol and only "personal clothing". I pointed out to him that, actually, we had a camera and a radio. "No problem!'' he assured me, passing the form to be signed. And no problem it was! I paid him R20 and he asked me for a little more to bribe the policeman. I gave him another R2.50. Back in the car park our guard was on duty, attempting to look efficient. No problems. Whispered conversation between the two. Our 'guard' then informed me that our 'facilitator' had complained to him that we had not paid him well, that we were, in fact, stingy swines!

"What!'' I cried, anguished. "I paid him R20 for 20 minutes' work!''

At which our facilitator looked sheepish and smiled. The two had done a deal to split the proceeds and he had told his friend, the guard, that I had only paid him R10! So much for honour among thieves!

We were into Zimbabwe. A blustering day, heavily overcast, wind ruffling the long grass like cat's fur. Bulawayo 330ks. It was a lonely road, but not unfriendly. The cool weather and the long green grass and the straight road were welcoming somehow.

A flat land, covered with green scrub bushveld, goats and baboons - wily creatures both. They pause on the side of the road, look left, look right, look left again before crossing! But no people, no shops, no farmhouses. In 100ks we saw one man walking along a fence, 3 women sitting next to a stream and a boy on a donkey cart. Nothing. Where are all the people?

By mid-afternoon the weather turned ugly. Throughout the day rain had pricked our faces intermittently and we had worn our 'space suits'. But now it was mizzling steadily with a harsh wind blowing. We had been riding for nearly eight hours, were tired and getting cold. The thought of putting up a tent was not a happy one. We were wet, tired and with Gareth's throat I thought the expense of a hotel was worth it.

The Plaza Hotel, Bulawayo, is a seedy joint where middle aged women, who lounge on the verandah with drinks in their hands, evoke tired images of prostitution and the men look like book makers too knocked about by life to make a deal. We walked through the bar terrace to the office, managed to scrape up enough South African rands to pay the bill and toted all our stuff up to the room. I think anything left on the street would be gone in 10 minutes. 4 beds, 2 rooms, deep bath with worn enamel. Shivering, we spread all the wet stuff, including tent, over the 2 spare beds to dry and lay down to the chorus of drunken patrons watching a soccer match below our window. On the TV we could watch a country and western singer or a country and western singer or a C&W singer, but at least they had 3 channels!

Later from the balcony which overlooked the street we watched two drunken men fight on the pavement below...

After dark, washed and warm, we investigated what was to be had for supper. Fish and chips. In the bar lounge we were jostled by noise and the smell of stale beer. I felt uneasy. “Hope we live through the night!” I commented jokingly to Gareth.

A black man from an adjoining table leaned over and introduced himself. His name was Sylvester. “You now, I'm more Rhodesian than Zimbabwean -” he said, mock conspiratorially.

His friend was Steve and we joined them. Talk was quite difficult because of the surrounding noise and accents, but they said how happy they were in Zim, how they wouldn't go to South Africa if we paid them, what with the violence. Zambia, they felt, was a backward country. Kenya, Steve said, was good, just like Zim, because the British had been there a long time too!

The breakfast menu on the wall offered:

TOASTS WITH JAM;

SIGIMENTS OF FRUIT

CORNFLAKES WITH MILK.

Gareth and I ate and talked in relaxed camaraderie - discussing the bikes, the day gone by, our hopes and plans for Zambia and Malawi. We plan to go slower, take side roads if possible, explore more, swim in the lake...

The waiter came with the bill and asked, "How was the taste?''