2600km. Winter. Alone. On the back of a motorbike, thundering through the cattle-piss and burnt plastic, backwaters of the Northern Cape and Free State; tracing the life-story of a friend and subject of my journalism.
2600km. Winter. Alone. On the back of a motorbike, thundering through the cattle-piss and burnt plastic, backwaters of the Northern Cape and Free State; tracing the life-story of a friend and subject of my journalism.
Episode 1: Cattle piss and burnt plastic
Early August 2013, George, Western Cape.
The supposedly warm-end of winter, or so my rudimentary research suggested.
I fetch the bike (my father's) from the local mechanic, excited to feel all the little niggles taken care of as I let her rip down the main road, visor open. Eyes watering at 100km/h.
I have owned and ridden some form of motorbike since age 15.
I make sure all possible precautions are taken in the event of rain. Electronics wrapped in cloth and plastic. My meagre gear in leather or canvas bags. One on my back, two strapped to the sides of the bike. Clothes and camera in the hard-shell plastic top box behind me.
Purposefully making almost no prior arrangements, I plan to make my way to Orania in the Northern Cape, from there to Heilbron and Lindley in the Free State and then by looping arc back to George.
It’s a restless night’s sleep, scenes of angry Boers refusing my entry into their exclusive stronghold, Orania, manifesting in a clammy pillow and salty forehead.
11/08/13 – the day of departure:
Late, jeez I’m never late. I have 800km to cover today.
It’s cold. My fingers almost freeze as I get to the top of the old gravel Montague Pass, winding its way through the Outeniqua Mountains to the Langkloof and Klein Karoo.
8:34am. I stall for a while at a signpost, Amanda’s Grave on the pinnacle of the pass. An ominous sign. A couple of pics later I bounce on to the bike.
With the sun up, but not blasting.
I steadily freeze into the seat as the tunes in the earphones (The Doors) help to clear a foggy morning head.
The unfamiliar terrain of the R62 to Uniondale forces me to pay attention to my driving.
An hour in, I feel my chest loosening as I get used to not feeling my feet or hands. My right, a rubbery claw, gripping the throttle at a steady 110km/h.
Up and away. Past Uniondale, the first snow-capped peaks; “Whoa yeah!” I yelp in my helmet.
I settle in, the bike smooth, a liquid thundering under my bum as the sun warms my now frozen knees…
Read the next episode of Hancu's road trip next Friday in Grocott's Mail.
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Essential kit for a winter journey of discovery:
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And most essentially my biking wear consisting of layers:
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This is what I had to protect me against the elements – oh, and a cheap pair of plastic fishing coveralls for heavy rain tucked into my backpack.
Episode 2: Frozen peaks and dusty towns
I can just start feeling my knees; a sudden drop in temperature. More frozen peaks, hazy in the winter-morning glare. The air seems dirty.
Lootsberg Pass, snow-capped and frosty.
I check my speed as my back wheel slithers on the frost filmed tarmac. My dual purpose tyres struggling to find grip, I reach the top at a composed 70km/h.
I don’t stop.
Grateful for the almost blinding glare of the early morning sun, I descend the northern slopes of the pass.
Not having to bother with frost, I lean into the curves, confident in the performance of the bike.
I make good time, recognising some of the landmarks as I go.
A vast expanse of Karoo runs off into the distance.
The road straight and narrow; a dotted white line counting off my progress 10 cat-eyes at a time.
Aberdeen; petrol and a coke. I don’t drink the coke.
With a bike like mine with a fuel tank allowing close to a 400km range, travelling is structured around every upcoming town.
It’s not a simple from A to B.
Fill up if you can. Stretch your legs often. Check the bike for potential niggles.
Off again, excited to get to Graaff-Reinet, “I can draw some cash, take a whizz and go.”
A quick drive with no beats (I have to save some cellphone battery life).
Without earplugs or music the high-pitched whistle of knobbly tyres on dry tar has a mind-numbing, meditative effect; perfect.
Graaf-Reinet; cash from a rickety ATM and wild stares.
Black, white and coloured faces ogling me. “Confusion on their part or mine?”
Not wanting to leave the bike unattended, an open invitation to ransack my meagre gear, I wind out of town at a respectable 60km/h.
I feel more confident now.
30km out of the town I choose a roadside picnic spot for some lunch; my sarmies are scrumptious, washed down in two gulps of coke.
I take some pics while I pace about trying to get some blood to my knees.
It’s too cold to sit on the concrete bench.
Consulting my road atlas, the GPS service on my phone refusing to cooperate, I check the route to Middleburg.
I check tyres and strapping.
One of the bags has come loose, meaning I have to take the entire load off and repack the bike.
A tedious 30 minute endeavour.
“Die son trek water.” [The sun is drawing water]
Up the hill, over the koppies to Middleburg. An easy 80km to go.
It’s warm now and the tracks are blasting. An unfortunate turn-off gets me into a dodgy, unattended truck-stop yard…
Episode 3: Fruit, buckteeth, petrol and a chat
Easy going, it’s warm and the tracks are soothing (Plastic beach – Gorillaz) as I cover the last mostly dead straight 70km to Middleburg.
Nearing the town, a jumbled mass of RDP and warehouses, an unfortunate turn-off gets me into a dodgy unattended truck stop yard.
Back track, into town. Petrol and a chat.
Apprehensively eating an over-ripe apple, I dish out my remaining fruit – two pears and a banana – to a couple of unemployed old men, making some small talk.
By this time, I haven’t spoken to anyone other than the petrol attendants on the way. I need human interaction.
The men give me some directions to Hanover, calling me “klein-baas,” thanking me for the fruit.
This makes me feel uneasy, the legacies of our collective demon, Apartheid, still manifesting itself so clearly. 20 years on…
Lighting up and offering me a drag of his rolled smoke, James, the older of the two men, urges me to get going.
“Dit gaan reën klein-baas, jy moet laat waai…!”, [It’s gonna rain young man, you gotta get going..!] he says, gesturing wildly through a puff of acrid smoke.
He sits down smiling, steadying himself on his mates shoulder.
An abrupt end to a sudden conversation.
Returning to my bike – having kept a wary eye on it throughout the conversation – I fiddle with my bags, struggling with a contingency plan in case of rain.
The clouds squatting dark and heavy, the promise of rain in the smell of wet dust in the air.
No solution found to making things 100% waterproof I resign to the prospect of wet clothes.
Looking up, my hair over my face, Jacques the bucktooth biker appears; heavy leather jacket, lapels laden with badges of rally’s and bike meets.
J: “Waar gaan jy heen?” [Where are you going?]
H: “Hanover” I lie, don’t want to scare people off.
J: “Oh, dis nie te ver nie. Ek hou jou nou al die hele tyd dop, jy lyk soos ‘n pel van my – hy’s van die Kaap – hy’t ook sulke lang hare.
Ek dog toe ek kom sê sommer hello.” [Oh, that’s not too far. I’ve been watching you for a while now, you look like a friend of mine – he’s from the Cape too – and also has long hair. Just thought I would come say hello.]
H: “Hello.”
J:“Waar kom jy vandaan?” [Where do you come from?]
H: “Ek’t van George af gery vanoggend.” [ I drove from George this morning]
J: “Jissus!”
H: “Ag nee, dis nie te erg nie, ekt gou gestop vir petrol. Die Kawasaki’s is mos lig op brandstof, maar swaar op olie.”[It’s not too bad, I just had to stop for some petrol and an oil top up. Kawasaki’s are light on fuel, but drink oil.]
I say pouring the thick golden liquid, checking the amount against the little line in the side of the tin container.
By this stage I have done 480km, just over a tank’s petrol and my first oil top-up. I add 175ml of high grade mineral oil.
J: “Ek ry ook ‘n Kawa, ‘n 1000cc.” [I also drive a Kawa, a 1000cc]
H: “Lekker.”
We chat on, asking what he does in Middleburg. All I get is a flustered,
J: “Fokol”
Gearing up, I say goodbye as he warns me of some, “hectic potholes” that I never see.
De Aar.
Hanover.
Episode 4: Apocalyptic weather
Heading off into a heavy Karoo sky, very little coming at me or passing, I miss the Hanover exit.
5km later I stop. The stupid GPS not responding. It’s getting darker, heavy clouds hanging ominously overhead.
A pressing heaviness in the air, I’m trying to outrun.
I finally plot the route and turn back. Hanover, a stop and go, now furiously pushing myself and the bike against the howling cross wind on my right.
To no avail, I slow down as big sloppy drops splash on my head, battering my helmet. My gear keeping my torso warm, my head a little sheltered egg bobbing by at 90km/h. I hit road works in the rain and duck into an empty truck stop, manoeuvring bike underneath the concrete overhang. My bags are wet.
Putting on my all weather coveralls I chat to the little boys at the stop, happy to reply to their barrage of questions. Ten minutes of cowering in under my temporary shelter, and I’m released, a string of cars trailing.
Fifteen minutes in and I start seeing flashes on the horizon; I consider stopping for a pic, but it’s raining too hard.
I notice an increased darkness as I barely distinguish a sign, 'Orania 40km', through the gloom.
Now I’m chasing lightning. Running off in brilliant blue streaks on my left, the little farm fence a mental barrier against a terrible prospect…
And then the ice starts dropping – a mild hailstorm pelts down – my little black-plastic egg-head clapping as the ice hits me. Stinging my legs.
My body snug in the heavy biker’s jacket. I feel insulated, but not for long.
Into the thunderstorm; wet.
Cold, the side wind at least 60km/h, testing me. I push on uncertainly keeping the needle on 110km/h. It’s harder to maintain.
R389, small towns with no visible inhabitants. The carnage of long forgotten truck bodies rusting on the roadside in the now deep dusk gloom, the ice and rain having passed.
I was a mere straggler caught in the fray… My soggy boots and frozen fingers – with what feels like needle pricks in my legs – the remnants of a trying few minutes.
‘Orania’ – the signs starts appearing as I make out the sun setting straight in my line of vision. Blinded, I carry on. 20km – I’m almost there.
But not quite yet. The wind having persisted, gathered in its wake an enormous cloud of red dust. My front wheel heading straight into it… It’s a rough three minutes, seemed like an hour, and I’m out.
Sand in my teeth. I feel like a camel.
Finally I see the sign – Welkom in Orania.
It’s deathly quiet as I free-wheel into the town.
Episode 5: Orania; finding a bed; close scrutiny; the end of day one
Rolling down the little hill into the town a weathered sign greets me in the half light.
“Welkom in Orania” – in peeling, white letters on a fading, orange background.
This dot of a town hugs the R369 tightly for about a 500m stretch. A lifeline of goods and services, forced to either pass through or stop at the meagre little petrol station on the left.
Here the legend goes that non-white truckers don’t stop for diesel or the bathroom. Ever.
It’s Sunday evening, 6:30pm. No movement. No lights are on. Everyone is at one of the five churches in town – the population being just over a 1000.
I find the information office and call the number on the window. No answer.
It’s cold, I’m done and the more I look at the floor of the little patio, I get an urge to call it a night and curl up in my sleeping bag.
Fatigued delirium I suppose.
A few minutes of stomping around in the now freezing darkness, cursing the lack of atheism in the town.
A Hilux with the combined illumination power of four lighthouses blinds me. And stops.
A tall, handsome man in what looks like full military regalia gets out. Smiling, he shakes my hand.
“Hello, ons het u eers more verwag.” [Hi, we only expected you to arrive tomorrow.]
I had called ahead to check whether the town readily lets outsiders stay a night or three. They do. But I didn’t book a room, just gave them a heads-up that I may be passing through.
Now, I’m here.
It’s a bit of a scuffle to get some of my bags and gear off.
We go into the office. His wife offers microwave popcorn. I decline. He makes some calls, but everywhere is full…
“Full?”
“Alle akkomodasie is bespreek.” [All accommodation has been booked]
I’m close to ripping up floorboards; the only room left is in the local hotel at R750 a night. That’s close to two tanks of petrol…
I think he senses my desperation and the need to keep my bike and belongings locked up. Another round of phone calls.
We have now been in the little office for about half an hour.
He has a place for me; but apparently the lady is approaching 90 fast and lays down the law. To everyone. It’s a R160 a night. So I say yes.
In a town with a population smaller than my high school, you wouldn’t expect an escort. Or would you? After giving me the directions, he jumps into his space-rover, Hilux bakkie and closely follows me – a slight hoot if it seems like I may stray from the path – to the gate of the little cottage.
I struggle off the bike – hopefully for the last time today – and wait for him to open the farm gate leading into the property.
Episode 6: A marshmallow mattress and two rusks
Orania in the daylight, smoke clouds and the OK Grocer
I struggle off the bike – hopefully for the last time today – and wait for him to open the farm gate leading into the property.
An ageing lady opens the front door to a rectangular, three-room prefab house. Stooped, hands wrought by the aggressive onslaught of arthritis, she shakes my hand and welcomes me in.
It’s gloomy; a desk lamp in the corner casting shadows – people make do with little here. Quick introductions and my escorts leave.
It’s me and the old lady.
With nothing much to say and both of us tired, she shows me to my room. After a round of profuse “vreeslik dankie vir alles tannie,” [thank you very much for everything auntie]I close the door and unpack.
The mattress is a marshmallow under my tired bones…
Day two… 12/08/13
Last night, I passed out early; a mixture of exhaustion, nine hours in the saddle, a couple of warm beers on the back porch of my little room and basically no food.
It must have been 5am, a hoarse rooster letting rip every 45 seconds. It’s excruciating stuff. I’m warm, but stiff as I lie in my sleeping bag. The mattress swallowing me, it’s pretty uncomfortable.
There are few early morning noises, just some traffic and birds. I expected some wild shouting at least, but not too sure why…
Not tired, I lie-in and figure out the day, wild thoughts mulling through my half-awake brain.
“It’s gonna be tough,” I say, as I ready myself for a heavy day.
Up around 7.30am. Shower and some strong-ass coffee. Get dressed; I opt for the denim shirt and black skinnies. They must deal with it.
I take my time to get going, dressed. Two rusks later, I head out.
It’s a mission getting the bike started, the winter frost white on the seat. With a considerable change in altitude the carburettor struggles to get the fuel mix right.
Leave the choke open for too long and run the risk of flooding the thing – run starting a bike this size in a place with only one hill, a daunting prospect.
Eventually the spark takes, thumping away in a cloud of smoke. Disturbing the peace…
It’s quiet; where are the people?
I do some exploring, sliding around the little town on the bike. Get a little lost and go buy a toothbrush and paste at the under-stocked OK Grocer – on the other side of town. Empty shelves, a lack of toilet paper and toiletries in general. A great big heap of potatoes and Simba chips dominates the right hand corner of the gloomy shop, though.
The funny looking chap behind the till, apprehensively responding to my silly comments…
I need to locate breakfast.
Episode 7: Ora’s, breakfast and a background check
Afsaal Kafee for breakfast; I’m the only patron.
It’s either here or the newly upgraded hotel bordering the Orange River; sloping lawns and steep prices catering for the “ex-pat Afrikaners” who live in the city and come to escape in expected luxury.
I opt for the little café hugging the main road, nestled next to the single pump fuel station.
The menu offers every possible version of a “Plaas Ontbyt” [Farm Breakfast] imaginable and little else.
I order the most inclusive for 55 Ora – they have their own currency here.
It’s basically R55, but the notes are only valid within the town confines and resemble Monopoly money.
A dumpy waitress, probably my age, brings me a huge plate of food: eggs, baked beans, wors, toast, bacon, mushrooms.
I make quick work of the food, eyeing the few passers-by while I sip my coffee.
The black truck driver lets his colleague, a wiry white guy, do the work as petrol is delivered. He passes the paperwork on a clipboard through his window.
The pump owner presiding over the scene in the doorway of his auto shop gesturing unheard instructions…
I pay in Rands – it’s interchangeable here – the waitress refuses to accept my generous tip, smiling politely as she returns the money.
On the bike and off to the town hall; I need accreditation.
While I wait to see the person in charge of giving me some official status – one of the town’s many religious leaders – I make an appointment for a tour of the town.
A few questions from a warm, smiling middle-aged man.
A signature and five more minutes and I’m handed my new Orania access card.
As I leave the cosy gloom of the building I glance over the card.
It stipulates my dates of arrival and departure as well as my ID number and somehow my academic background and status as journalist.
I only gave them my ID number on request.
I never disclosed my occupation as a student let alone my year of study – yet the card clearly and correctly states all the information.
As well as my own Orania ID number.
News travels fast. Background check?
With no gear strapped to the bike, my camera notepad and pen in a bag slung across my back, it’s a treat to have some freedom.
The back wheel feels light and the throttle way more responsive.
I have an hour to kill before the next scheduled town’s tour.
A little unsettled by the possibility of a google search for “Hancu Louw” by a couple of exclusive, could-be right-wingers, I rev the bike and let rip.
Tracking the perimeter of the town I pull the throttle back on the open gravel, my tyres gliding loosely over the ruts.
I park off on a little hill overlooking the town.
It’s quite beautiful here; dry greys and yellows sharply contrasted with the line of green running alongside the river. A natural and historic border.
It’s almost time to meet John for the tour.
Hopping on the bike, I open the choke halfway (a prerequisite to starting a Kawasaki KLR 650) and press the electric start expecting two electronic engine winds and the glorious thump and whirr as the pistons start bouncing. Nothing.
Three more tries and still nothing.
Episode 8: A slight pickle, desperate acrobatics and propaganda
There’s no way to kick-start a Kawasaki KLR 650.
The electric start is refusing to cooperate as I overlook the little town basking in white, winter-morning light. I need to get back for my tour of the town with John.
The bike has no kick-arm. A failed electric starter means run starting the bike…
For those unfamiliar with “kick-starting” a motorbike; it refers to kicking a ratcheting lever on the right hand side of the motorcycle creating enough compression to start the engine. The larger the engine the harder it becomes.
All bikes are different, an experienced rider can start his bike in one smooth kick, while inexperience may lead to a wobbly thigh, a sweaty forehead and severely bruised calves. I have permanent nerve damage on my right calve from slipping while starting my smaller Honda XR 200 R in the rain.
Refusing to acknowledge the pickle I may be in, I press the little red button channelling all my frustration through my gloved right thumb. Nothing…
Six minutes till I need to greet John with a smile and handshake. I don’t want to be late, lest I piss-off the natives.
Some came past me on a little ATV Four-wheeler – a common sight in the streets, children on the back carrying meagre shopping bags hanging limply over the sides as an overweight parent navigates, trailing a cloud of smoke. No one wears helmets here.
I hop off, walk around the bike steadying it with my left arm. Standing on the right, gloves gripping the handlebars I push off and start running.
Large loose stones crunch under my boots as I try to keep the front wheel straight. Using the gentle slope of the hill back into town, I gather some speed, dip my head and push hard for another 10m. Glancing down, I locate my footrest (a little metal bar 7cm long and 3cm wide), make a considered leap, my left foot landing on the mark as I sling my right leg over, slam down my bum and engage the clutch. Jerking my right foot up, I slot into 2nd gear and let the clutch go. My back wheel locks, sliding in the gravel, a violent jerk–rodeo style–as the compression hits and the bike starts as I pull the throttle back revving…
I meet up with John, leaving the bike parked outside his office and getting into the colourful Orania branded Panelvan, fitted with two-way Radio and GPS.
The tour; boring and rehearsed. Nine different building styles, even a “boxed house imported from China. You simply fit the various panels together,” says John eagerly sharing feel-good information, hammering on about progress.
Twenty years of Orania, and a population of close to a thousand; a flourishing Afrikaner nation.
The whole thing stinks of propaganda. Sitting in silence we drive out of “lush suburbia”, heading for a cloud of dense red dust swirling in-between a grove of trees.
Episode 9: Pecan nuts, vetkoek and an insider’s perspective
“Pecan nuts are one of our main exports,” he says bringing the van to measured halt.
I get out, following John, who’s firing off rehearsed farming facts over his shoulder as we head into a cloud of rumbling red dust.
The noise stops and dust settles slightly.
Through it I spot two sunburnt farmers busy collecting their harvest.
Smiling I shake their rough hands with a “goeie more oom,” [good morning sir]although I suspect they are coasting on the fresh side of 30.
A tough landscape, green pastures clinging precariously onto red earth.
A brief stop at the processing plant.
A collection of locals – of all ages and degrees of sunburnt deterioration – sorting and packaging the nuts.
The tour carries on, I’m bored and I think he can sense it.
Hastily we venture into the “poorer” part of town, skilfully dodging my questions relating to income and wealth distribution.
Finally released from the confines of the vehicle and it’s driver, I say a hasty good-bye ridden with the profuse repetition of, “baie dankie oom” [thanks so very much sir], happy to see my bike safely where I left it.
Anticipating another “run start” ordeal I turn the key and press the ignition expecting the overwhelming silence of electronic failure.
But to my toe-writhing surprise, there is power. The bike starts first try.
Lunch; an enormous, “vetkoek met kerrie mince” and tepid bottled water.
“Die yskas is stukkend vandag, maar die Mikro werk,”[The fridge is broken today, but the microwave oven is working] she says wringing her rough wrinkled hands dishing mince into my vetkoek.
She is old; her partner is way older – weathered with tired eyes.
Happy to chat, the women share their thoughts on the town with little apprehension. They ask only my name.
They are unhappy; big money has changed the place.
“Ons voel nie meer altyd so tuis nie” [ we don’t always feel too welcome], she says shaking a mop of purple hair, tattered jersey hanging limply on her disproportionate frame.
Paying with my newly acquired Ora’s (the local currency) I gather my goods on the verge of saying thanks and goodbye.
A wild looking fellow, nose hair protruding furiously – almost horizontally – lining up with a bushy brow, walks in.
No hair on his head though, a faded blue cap shading his ears.
Hands stained by decades of grease gripping a tightly folded 10 Ora.
A packet of Lays and a coke. He buys a loaf of brown on credit before introducing himself as one of the “wit kaffirs” of the town, urging me to make sure I get my “graaf en koevoet likseëns” [shovel and pickaxe license]before moving to the town.
Steering me out of the little shop, fingers clenched around my shoulder he gestures for me to sit down on a plastic lawn chair.
“Kom ons gesles gou sommer, ek’s juis op lunch,” [let’s have a quick chat, I’m on lunch] he says plopping down across from me.
Episode 10: Guns, ideology and irritation
Mashing through my kerrie mince vetkoek, I listen to *Petrus rambling.
Mostly about how dangerous the cities have become, necessitating the ownership of a weapon – he calls his gun a pyp [pipe]– holstered, he gives it a slight touch every time he mentions it.
Mainly a one way conversation, I chew and nod as he imparts more knowledge.
It is clear what he is afraid: of change, of people unlike him.
We shake hands as he makes haste to the next hole he has to dig.
I remain seated, happy to enjoy the winter sun a while longer.
Across from me, a group of ageing women sit reading outdated copies of Huisgenoot, smoking in the sun.
All wrapped-up in tattered jackets and dirty scarves.
Their greeting a collective raspy “hello”, the direction of their eyes making it clear that they are not here to answer any of my silly questions.
As I walk back to my room I feel their eyes trailing me.
This place is rotten with nicotine stained fringes and leathery skin. 2pm.
I have an appointment with Jaco Kleynhans, the managing director of Orania.
Keen to make my legs work a little, I ditch the bike and walk the 2km to his office on the “better side of town”.
He’s younger than I expected; somewhere between 30 and 35.
Educated at the University of Pretoria.
Nestled behind his desk, a lean man wrapped in heavy clothes.
I find myself at times almost buying his version of Orania.
He’s good at pitching his story, but looking out of his stiflingly warm, princely furnished office, I see an elderly couple stagger past.
Cold and dreadful, shopping bags hanging limply from a walking frame.
“Orania die droom word waar” – [Orania, the dream is realised] a cynical refrain I repeat in my head.
It’s almost two hours later – not counting the 15min Orania promotional video I was made to watch – and I’m struggling to stay awake and feign interest in what I have by this stage labelled ideological bullshit.
I manage to squeeze in some of the more touchy questions.
He’s happy to answer, but it’s rehearsed and I have to read between the lines to get a sense of what’s going on.
The officialdom seems apprehensive to chat to me; just like John, Jaco is an expert at colouring his version of the truth a “happy” Orania orange.
Three hours of recording and a plethora of notes later, I leave the warmth of his office irritated and confused. I spend the afternoon thundering around on the bike, feeling angry and restless.
I drive a few kilometers out of town to escape the gloomy atmosphere, enjoying the responsiveness of the unburdened bike.
I take a couple of pics.
It’s all drab and dusty. I see few kids. Just three little girls running around in their sisters’ oversized matric farewell dresses.
They run off before I can get a good snap, but it’s a heart-warming sight.
* A wild looking fellow, nose hair protruding furiously – almost horizontally – lining up with a bushy brow, walks in. No hair on his head though, a faded blue cap shading his ears. Hands stained by decades of grease gripping a tightly folded 10 Ora.
Episode 11: Old faces, and a historical koeksister
The bike seems to have forgotten its starting glitch – I am forcing myself to. Sundown and some pics at the various monuments.
A semicircle on a koppie; busts of Afrikaner heroes presiding over the little “Volkstaat”.
The statues – all relocated to Orania – were taken down by local Municipalities across the country. An attempt to move into “the rainbow nation” and lessen the burden of the Apartheid legacy, I suppose…
I take the bike down a little singletrack, about 50m further, enjoying the challenge of navigating large loose stones.
Another monument, revering the Irish who fought alongside the Boers in the second Anglo-Boer War; four spires standing resolute in the afternoon sun.
Do the Irish even know about this thing?
Slightly baffled by this little jump back into a history I’ve in many ways been trying to deny, I sling my leg over the bike and thud off.
It’s chilly in the waning winter sun. My last stop for the afternoon: the Koeksister Monument.
A 1.8m tall concrete koeksister arbitrarily sprouting from the dry red earth. It was made by the women of Orania, erected to honour the role of Afrikaner women in the struggle for independence more than a 100 years back.
The streets empty, but for the occasional rusted bakkie bumping along, usually piloted by bearded men.
Back to my room.
My eyes watering in the cold air… The three room prefab house, shaded by a massive blue gum, looks cold and uninviting as I jiggle the bolt for the picket fence.
Tannie Desiree – my host – knees draped in blanket, parked right in front of her little gas heater, offers me tea.
Sipping strong, milky Earl Grey in halflight – a little desklamp in the corner the only source – I warm-up in the cat scratch-post arms of a threadbare '70s couch.
Slowly I start feeling my toes.
She tells of the early days: she arrived in Orania after trekking around the Free State and Northern Cape with two truckloads of goods.
Looking to open a guest house in the platteland. She visited 16 towns on her journey, when she reached Orania it had just been bought from the department of Water Works by a group of “concerned Afrikaners”.
27 inhabitants striving to tame the then-derelict workers compound.
“Daai was harde tye, klippe kou,” [those were tough times]she says. She’s 88 and officially one of the last living trailblazers of Orania.
"The difference is that I stumbled upon the opportunity,” she says in perfect Queens English. 8pm – after declining numerous offers of a “homemade” supper I extract myself from the couch, bidding the old lady in her slippers farewell; promising to say goodbye before I leave in the morning.
It’s supper time and I have two options…
Episode 12: Brannas, conversation and the smell of kaaiings
Supper and beers at the Afsaal Kafee – the same spot that offered the hearty boere breakfast two days earlier.
It’s different in the dark; “OPEN” buzzing bright red over the lintel.
I sit down alone; across from me a group of five trucker-types are laying into “Brannas en Coke” (essentially a triple brandy splashed with coke).
I order a homemade kudu burger from a jovial fellow, well on his way to winning the apparent race to pour the next glass of “brannas”.
The meal doesn't disappoint.
I keep myself entertained listening to the ramblings of my neighbours, having racked-up their triples scoring well into the double digits.
They love big engines, have all been abroad to places like Australia, the US and Mexico, but came back to SA, because things aren’t the same there.
Their conversation relies largely on the flow of lewd sexist jokes, interspersed by tales of travel and the engine capacity of almost anything that relies on one.
Their language a mess of Afrikaans, farming jargon and pop-culture colloquialisms.
PT-shorts or heavy denims, big dusty leather boots and two-tone shirts wrapped in ex-SADF military greatcoats: standard dress in these parts.
They enjoy golf.
“It’s like sex you know, you don’t have to be good at it to have a whole lot of fun,” the one guy barks at me across the room, laughing.
Crunching away at the last garnishings I saunter over and take a seat at the edge of the gathering.
No introductions, so I simply listen and add a little quip here or there.
I like bikes and bikes have engines; we end up talking bikes.
Mostly myself and two guys, the other three happy to discuss tractors, I think…
One by one, the “manne make moves”, to their bakkies.
It’s takes a while for each to actually go, an awkward dance between the door and the steps leading out.
One would be in the door, ready to go when a comment is passed, next moment he’s clutching the back of his seat chatting away.
After a few minutes, a longer pause and, “jissus ouens ek moet nou ry. Maryke gan my moer…” [jeepers guys I need to go. Maryke is going to assault me].
One by one I shake their big hands as they all make off into the dark.
My seat by the fire making relocation seem a challenge; reluctantly I pay and make slow progress to the door.
The jovial fellow inviting me for breakfast the next morning.
On the bike and off, my headlight illuminating a little patch gravel ahead of me. It’s disorientating driving in the dark like this.
In my room I’m greeted by the thick smell of kaaiings being cooked-out on the stove; a slow process of frying animal fat off the meat and bone.
The smell, nauseating. The kind of smell that attaches itself to your person, I can feel it sliding down my airways.Greasy…
6am, freezing, the smell lingering in my sleeping bag.
During a quick shower I go through the lists in my head. The routine of getting dressed for a full day of riding.
Off to Lindley – 500 km to go today…
Episode 13: Anxious driving, deserted roads and everlasting cold
Loaded and ready, the bike idles in the morning air, heating-up while I bounce around it. I am cold, my toes and fingers especially.
I bid my final farewell to my host – wrapped in a magenta nightgown she happily accepts my payment for the three nights – a little goes a long way here.
Making sure my earphones are secure I slip my helmet over my head, pop on my sunglasses and straddle the bike, now nicely warmed-up.
Bigger 4-stroke engines like the KLR’s need a good few minutes to get going; piston’s thumping smoothly before you can thunder off…
Making one last round of the town, I bid the place a solemn “till next time,” from the safety of the bike.
I’m off and out around 8am; not lus for the 500 km ahead. I’ve barely reached the outskirts of town and I’m already gatvol.
Following some advice, I take the first turn-off to make my way over the Orange River.
Apparently the road is closed for traffic – repairs in progress – but Jaco (the CEO of Orania) suggested I take the shorter route regardless.
It could potentially save me 80km.
Dodging the road signs and barriers, I cross the Orange river, a single-track bridge spanning the historical divide.
It’s freezing – as usual – around these parts when stuck to the back of a motorbike.
Pushing to cover some ground I set my front wheel to the dotted-white line.
It’s dead straight and deserted, letting rip I drive into a lazily rising sun.
No traffic for close to 80 km.
I did see some people around Luckof/Relebohile.
The towns here have two names and two populations, 20 years on.
Koffiefontein; I slow down and merge back onto a frequented road.
No pics today – the anxiety to cover 500km of unknown terrain keeping my bum to the seat.
The prevailing smell; cattle piss and burning plastic.
Every little plattelandsedorpie signalled by the sight of massive grey grain silos towering into the cold blue sky quickly followed by the smell of cattle and burnt grass.
Little towns, surrounded by sprawling townships.
Rows upon rows of tin shacks numbering five times more than the run-down remnants of colonial settlements; a depressing affair…
I opt for the “back roads,” steering clear of national routes till close to Bloemfontein.
It’s quite a shock to be merged into city traffic. The N1 swallowing me, stuck between two huge trucks.
The Free State is damn ugly in winter and by the time I reach Bloemfontein I’m cold and overwhelmed.
Navigating through the city centre I make for the outskirts; I need petrol, an oil top-up and food.
No water at the Shell stop; so no coffee. I fill-up an almost empty tank and add some oil.
Yogi Sip and off I go, 250km to cover before I can let my jittery bones rest.
Episode 14: Free State for real, N1 driving and Bikirus
Bloemfontein to Lindley – 250km if you dodge most parts of the N1.
Up until now, I’ve kept to back-roads – it’s easier on the bike – but for the next 60km I have to jostle for position; big SUV’s blundering past me, while trucks angle me into loose gravel collected in trecherous heaps in the yellow line.
I’m stressed.
Things are a little harder, the crosswind keeping me suspended at an awkward 65 degree left hand angle.
My mind wanders at times, but the wind and Fokofpolisiekar in my earphones draws my attention back to the road.
I make the turnoff, leaving the carnage of the N1 behind; I’d rather navigate potholes than speeding yuppies and disgruntled truckers.
The landscape changes (more mielies and grass) as I carry on, heading north east like my ancestors.
A couple of similar small towns dominated by Pep and Bottle stores.
I push through, no stopping every 100km this afternoon; I need to get there before people start locking their front doors.
Sunlight fading fast I spot a bullet-holed singpost, Lindley, 10km.
Putting my head down I haunch my shoulders and push the bike for a final little hurrah – 130kph till I see the little town nestled in a Free State valley.
I need a bed and somewhere to leave the bike safely.
Following the first handpainted B&B sign I spot, I navigate the gravel roads, littered with plastic packaging.
“Bikirus B&B” a disarray of homemade art, rusted metal and wooden shapes littering the small yard.
Oom Adri opens the heavy farmers’ gate on a spring hinge – a plaas invention – and shakes my still gloved hand.
Ears ringing from the last two and a half hours of non-stop driving I yell, “Het Oom vir my slaapplek?” [ Do you have a bed for me?]
“Askuus?” [Pardon?]
I’m yelling, jeez Oom are you deaf? “Hallo Oom, het Oom vir my slaapplek? Ek’s yskoud en honger en ‘n bed sal gaaf wees.” [Hi, Sir. Do you have a bed for me, I’m frozen stiff, hungry and somewhere to rest would be wonderful.]
“Ja broer kom, ry in. Ek maak gou als reg vir jou.” [Jip, come in, I’ll get things sorted for you quickly]
The price is right; a rectangular room, with a door dividing the kitchen and bathroom.
Little TV perched precariously on the fridge stocked with Stoney ginger beer.
I watch what they watch I soon discover.
A friendly couple – they seem unsuited to the mood of the town – genuinely interested in why the hell I’m thundering through the Free State.
They have a grandson my age.
Unfortunately exhaustion and a lack of blood – and heat – in most of my extremities sours my mood; luckily they aren’t too pushy and let me be after the usual barrage of introductory questions.
Now to find a beer and supper.
Episode 15: Early evenings in Lindley
By now it’s become routine; I can get it all off in under three minutes.
Unloading the bike, after almost a week on the road is like building a puzzle – a rather easy one at that.
Getting dressed – or undressed – is a ritual by now.
Slipping on all the layers starting with a vest, piling-on cotton and fleece, long-johns and denim and my leather boots.
Jostling about until it all settles before I strap myself into the heavy biker’s jacket.
I like to think of it as my armour.
It’s early evening and already temperatures are nearing zero; I need all the protection I can bear.
Struggling to start in the cold and at these altitudes, the bike shudders to life after a few tries.
I keep the choke open for at least five minutes, letting it warm-up properly before taking her out slowly.
The farm gate slamming shut decisively as I leave.
My heart is set on cold beer and hot food.
However this is Lindley, a speck of a town hugging the northern slope of a little valley in the Free State; gravel roads and Eskom electricity till 11pm.
5:49pm. Most of the shops are closed for business, although I can see glimpses of families having dinner inside some of the stores.
The only franchise, an OK Grocer.
I find beer in a can at a rather alarming price, but my thirst and the friendly lady behind the till encourage a handover of fast declining notes.
A haphazard collection of shapes and faces gather behind the high steel-framed counter; all too happy to chip-into the conversation.
They heard my bike; their dad/uncle – depending on who’s talking – rides bikes.
For a fresh plate of hot food, one of the teenage girls behind the counter recommends the Sports Club down the road.
Walking me out the door she waves her skinny arms gesturing about 200m down the sloping “main strip”.
Stashing the beer in my camera bag, I freewheel down the hill.
Warily I park the bike on the sidewalk.
I unload the little valuables I posess, but my tool kit is still strapped to the back; just in case.
Through the wooden gate, hanging limply on rusted hinges, into a dusty courtyard.
Slipping through sliding doors open at a crack I breach a smoky bar, wood everywhere; the omnipresent smell of stale beer and old men.
All four look back as I walk up the step.
“Hello’s” all round.
I sit down next to a tall skinny guy; eyes shadowed by dark circles and encroaching eyebrows.
Sunburnt, but unhealthily so.
A rough beard, grey and curling back into his neck.
“Waar kom jy vandaan?” [Where do you come from?]
“Ek’t vanoggend in Orania gery.” [I left Orania this morning…]
“Oh so jy was daar by die hectic wit dudes.” [Oh, so you spent some time with the hectic white dudes?”
Reaching into the depths of his heavy leather coat, he reveals a limp cigarette, lights-up exhales and smiles; recommending the
“400g plaas steak and chips.”
Episode 16: A T-bone, Ooms and barside banter
Lindley Arms and Sports Bar, 7.30pm
It’s smokey in here; stifling.
Voyager Gold reigns supreme.
I place an order for a 400gram T-bone and chips, the dumpy waitress behind the bar nodding eagerly.
She must be around my age; but older.
Tired clothes and eyes.
Ordering a R11 Castle I rest my elbows on the bar letting the four Ooms talk over my head.
The skinny guy next to me asks a few questions.
Happy with my answers he starts mapping his life story.
Trucking and fridge repairs pay the bills.
The remainder of the cash is spent here.
He used to ride bikes, “but they’re damn expensive and fuck, where am I going to go on my own?” he says in clumsy English.
The conversation flows easier as the “birre” (beers), as he calls them, keep coming.
Eventually I’m part of the banter being flung across the bar.
The four Ooms are in high spirits, KWV brandy and Tab doing its work.
Most of their talk covers the hardships of being white in the Free State.
I sit and listen to them comparing recent trials and tribulations; whining on about the demise of Afrikaner nationalism and the lack of, “goeie fokken hande”(good farm hands).
They will never leave their land though.
Two young Pakistani guys – I walked over to check their heritage, first generation traders in SA – walk in and greet Gert, shaking hands briefly.
Gert’s the skinny guy on my right.
He never formally introduces himself, but I connect the dots and put faces to the names being flung across the room.
Expecting negative action of some kind I instinctively tense-up, ready for some explosion from the left of the bar – where the Ooms are gathered.
Nothing.
The two pay a R5 deposit and collect pool cues from the girl behind the bar.
The clink of R2 in a slot and 16 balls thunder out in the corner of the room, Cartoon Network on the screen against the far wall.
For the little girl – the barkeeps’ daughter – running about, half eaten rusk in her hand, I suppose.
Relieved I sit back and take another R11 from my wallet, asking for a Black Label this time.
No tips tonight.
My food arrives as Gert lights up another one.
He grumbles in a husky voice, “nou gaan jy ons almal fokken honger maak.” (now you’re gonna make us all fuckin’ hungry).
He wears soft white leather gloves, one at a time.
As we chat he puts one on for a few minutes and takes it off covering the other hand.
This continues the entire night.
One hand covered, the other not, but never for longer than seven minutes at a time.
Beered and fed, head reeling with the rancid mix of stale smoke and boisterous conversation I take off around 10pm.
Tired, head crammed with all the day entailed.
Shaking hands all round one of the Ooms thanks me for the rain I’m supposed to be bringing from the Cape.
I laugh and hop down the stairs, anxious to be alone.
Heilbron tomorrow.
I fall asleep fully clothed, some bad television humming low in the background.
It’s pitch black and icy as I look through the window trying to locate the source of the wild crowing a rooster is making.
Too dark, I can’t even see the bastard.
Eyes swollen, toes cramped in my boots I picture a range of horrible deaths the bird could suffer at my hand, drifting off despite the noise.
Episode 17: Bloody lips in Heilbron
8:23 am.
I need to get to Heilbron today; to go chat to some friends of the person I’m researching.
I’m beyond gatvol.
Quick coffee, oil and petrol before I circle the town, just to warm-up the bike, letting rip on the fresh surface of the dirt roads.
The bike responsive under my now permanently numb bum.
On the tar I find 110km/h and stick to it relentlessly.
Passing the morning traffic in a thundering almost-blur of maroon and black.
I make quick work of the two “stop and go’s” along the way, sliding past traffic right to the front of the gate.
Blitzing off, as soon as the attendant starts twisting “Stop” to “Go”.
My only competition a tired looking mazda, trying to keep up.
The rest drive bakkies or trucks here. Heilbron – small and dusty.
In the grip of winter.
I meet up with Anita Scheepers, family friend and teacher of my research subject, and follow her through the dusty streets to OJ’s diner.
It’s gloomy inside, little groups huddled over breakfast and coffee.
She sits down as I struggle to release myself from all my layers; it’s a 80 km drive from the much smaller Lindley to Heilbron.
It’s largely a farming community with some light industry in the area, the town relies on the national road thoroughfare for year round business.
Evident in the astounding number (I counted 13 whilst driving around) of little private take away shops around town; large red Coke sponsored billboards screaming names like, “Super-Easy Take-Out”, “Mike’s Eatery” and “Mamma Mia’s Kitchen”.
Bright red hair gelled wildly, short spikes sticking all over the place, Scheepers smiles and orders a cappuccino with cream.
I do too.
Light leather jacket and high heels, she now works on the management staff of a local factory after leaving a teaching job at the Eendracht Volkskool, when her youngest child finished matric.
Midway I smile to some comment and my dry cracked lips burst; bright blood everywhere.
On the napkin, my shirtsleeve, my hand.
I do my best to cover it up and carry on, apologising profusely.
She laughs and shrugs it off, taking a sip of her coffee.
She drinks four sugars and mixes the sweet cream into the watery coffee; horrid stuff.
Packing away the recorder and snapping a quick picture, we shake hands.
I’m off, with some shaky directions, to find some boer monuments scattered around this place.
Many battles were fought here, apparently people still pick up old slugs and other memorabilia on some of the old battlegrounds.
It takes me about 45 minutes of idle driving through fringe suburbs and stopping to ask a group of schoolkids before I find the gate.
Rusted off its hinges, sign faded beyond recognition.
Apparently few people still go down this way.
Pushing the bike through a gap in the fence, I hop on, looking forward to some off-road driving with the prospect of no traffic.
Episode 18: Crossing the Free State
It’s a quick drive, about 25km on a severely rutted dirt road.
Farms on both sides, some cows and shacks.
Vechtkop Battle Monument and Museum – closed on a Friday morning.
The rusty farm gate locked with a heavy chain and padlock.
Two horses stand guard down the grove of withered bluegums.
Depressing stuff.
I navigate some veld and rubbish to get a closer look.
A monument and some buildings.
No sign of life.
I make it halfway up the koppie – the site of the battle – and give up.
With little information on the place it seems like a waste of freezing daylight.
Retracing my route, I slide past Heilbron on an early turnoff and head back to Lindley.
Uneventful drive home; quick stop for some fruit, yogurt and a slice of soggy lasagne from the OK Gorcer.
I fall asleep after my haphazard meal, and four Stoney ginger beers.
I like the tingle of the ginger in my throat.
6am packing with the rooster making persistent efforts to bombard the neighbourhood with his barbaric screeching next door.
Quick shower; today I head for Middleburg.
A long drive down the Freestate, the Lesotho border lies ahead.
7:23am bike loaded and coffee hastily slurped down.
Snug in my riding gear, I pull the bike out from the shed, bringing the heavy load around clumsily with already frosty fingers.
I hop on, open the choke halfway and press the ignition.
Click-whirr…
Oom Adri walks out to say goodbye.
I hop off, worried, and shake his hand.
“Dankie vir die plekkie oom, ek't lekker gebly.” [thanks for the place sir, I had a good stay.]
Smiling he shows me the fishpond – 6cm of water, frozen solid.
“Dit was koud gisteraand” [it was cold last night]is all he says.”
Wandering around the garden he watches me struggle to get the bike to start. He’s a bike man himself, Honda Goldwing in the garage.
He suggests I check the anti-freeze.
Frozen solid.
No chance of getting the thing to start before it warms up properly.
9:45am.
It’s been a couple of anxious hours of watching SABC, pacing up and down and moving the bike around the garden to get the most sun on the engine.
I plop myself onto the seat and give the ignition an apprehensive push.
Halfheartedly at first, the bike fires, and turns. Increasing speed, the bike splutters in half-frozen carb-flooded life.
Keeping the choke slightly open I let it idle.
10 minutes and some easy, yet smokey revving later I’m satisfied.
Oom Adri opens the gate for me as I slide out onto the dirt street.
In the valley the smell of buring plastic is overpowering.
I’m only released from the stench as I crest the hill, a bustling bus-stop signalling the turnoff to the township, a large one judging by the dense cloud of smog hanging limply in the morning winter sun.
Lady Brand; first port of call.
The road there whizzes by in a blur of parched yellow pastures and potholed backroads.
I’m frozen stiff as the first sign for Lady Brand comes into view.
I’ve never been this cold.
Not even on my first snowcapped first morning.
Episode 19: Ladybrand to Middleburg in the cold
I started getting worried when I the fingers on my left hand started refusing to pull the clutch-lever all the way back.
The woollen inners were doing little to keep the frost out of my thin leather-kevlar summer gloves.
It’s just after 1pm as I roll into an icy-grey Ladybrand. My hands, knees and feet stiff and swollen from the cold.
Struggling to bring the bike to a halt, I find a patch of sunlight at the Caltex.
Almost falling-off the bike I have to resort to using my teeth to get the gloves off; hands like claws burning under the lukewarm water in a crusty restroom.
I work down very milky coffee from a machine while the bike is filled-up with oil and petrol.
Tired and gatvol, I take my time to get all my limbs back into my gear and onto the bike as a group of older street vendors noisily discuss the bike and my situation in a mix of broken Afrikaans, English and SeSotho.
Feeling much to ‘bedonnerd’ at the cold and the price of petrol and a cup of bad coffee, I ignore their provocations.
Sliding the visor down, I thunder through the busy main street onto the R26, snaking it’s way down the Lesotho border.
Out of town – the foothills of the Drakensberg on my left shoulder feeding frosty air into my boots – I let rip, quickly getting the bike back to 110kph.
Hobhouse; Wepener; Zastron; Rouxville; stop in Aliwal North.
It's warmed-up a little and the road is quiet as I work my way Southward.
Having resigned myself to the cold, I now focus my energy on battling the mounting physical and mental fatigue.
Increasing crosswinds and dead straight roads aren’t making it any easier; I constantly keep the Gorillaz, The Doors and Blink 182 ringing in my ears.
211 km to Middelburg.
A straight drive, on just over half a tank.
The wind blowing fiercely from my right forcing me to lean into it, my right knee dangling toward the road.
Tiring stuff to keep the loaded bike balanced.
45km outside Middleburg a couple of traffic cops break the monotony of the afternoon's riding.
I present the necessary documentation while one circles the bike. Our quick few words mostly swallowed by the howling wind.
They send me off without incident, suggesting I get myself under a roof before the rain starts.
It’s dusk as I roll into the little town; Middleburg, big drops falling on my hands and knees as I drive through the little suburbs, looking for accommodation on a Friday afternoon.
