A Sticky Situation

 This story first appeared in the Sunday Times Travel Weekly

A massive cold front is sweeping across the Western Cape and in a brief gap in the clouds I notice that snow has accumulated on the peaks that ring Franschoek.  “Let’s drive up to the top of the pass to check it out,” I suggest to my wife.  I’m feeling delicate after a friend’s birthday party in the town the night before and I want to postpone the inevitable jostling with European tourists in faux- French boutiques.

On the pass it’s three and half degrees outside and I know the wind is gale-force because the rain is falling up the mountain slopes.  On the straighter sections of road I steal glances at the view of the valley which, even in the Cape storm, is a beautiful patchwork of copper-leaved vineyards.

At the top I pull onto the gravel shoulder and we catch a glimpse of the snowy tops before the cloud envelopes everything again.  It’s then that I realise I have a desperate urge to go to the loo and it’s not going to be a quick behind-the-car job.  Never mind, I know there’s a convenience at the start of the hiking path so I drive the short distance down the gravel road and park.

I pull my rain-jacket on and dash to the little brick structure, hood up against the whipping sheets of rain.   It’s with relief that I find the long-drop, eco-loo hygienically tolerable, if almost pitch-black inside.  The relief only lasts until I stand up and reach down for my trousers and I hear the horrible muffled thud of something falling into the hole. 

For a few seconds I stand frozen, semi-crouched, until the curses subside and I’ve established that my wallet has fallen out of the unzipped chest pocket of my rain-jacket and into the darkness of the eco-loo.  Raise and lower the seat three times to flush – says the sign. Hands on knees I stare into the dreadful abyss.  After last night my stomach is in no state to deal with this and a demolition team is crashing around in my skull. 

At the bottom of the black hole I can make out only the slightest hint of something white.  It could be the old receipts sticking out of my wallet.  Or it could be something less pleasant.  I toy briefly with the idea of reaching down, but no, the thought of what I may lay my hand on deters me.  Maybe I should just flush it away and cancel my cards and depart with some of my now well and truly shredded dignity intact.  No-one need know. But my driver’s licence is down there and without it I can’t get my flight back to Johannesburg tomorrow.  Nope, I’m not putting my arm down there.  I realise I’m getting a cold behind so I pull up the trousers and start to devise a plan.

Back in the car my dear wife – I love her so much – keeps a straight face as I explain how I’m going to get out of this sticky predicament. 

Down the pass we go to the supermarket in search of some tools, my fingers firmly crossed, hoping that no-one will go in there after me and add to the mess I’m in.  In the check-out queue I convince myself that the women ringing up the braai-tongs and torch knows exactly why I need them.  I try to act normally. 

Then all the way up the winding pass again, windscreen-wipers beating as furiously as my temper.  I park the car and head back into the tempest hoping with all my heart that no-one is watching me as I scuttle across the car park in the horizontal rain with my newly acquired wallet rescue kit and a plastic bag

The operation is mercifully quick and soon we’re heading back down the pass.  For once I’m looking forward to those boutiques full of scented soaps and aromatherapy candles.

Ngepi Camp,Caprivi - Quirky, crowds, though worth a visit

On the sandy road  into Ngepi Camp we find ourselves in convoy.  There’s a nearly full parking lot and a queue at the reception desk.  European tourists sit around the bar playing with their gadgets on the free wi-fi and drinking Tafel Lager.

The possibility of disappointment recedes as we find our campsite.  Although we are quite close to our neighbours they are quiet and friendly.  It’s my own prejudice, but being here in this popular camp feels like following the crowd.  It's quirky signs and open air bathrooms attract tourists from all over the world. Including ourselves.

It’s still a pleasant place and a makoro ride goes some way to restoring my equilibrium.  No rattling two-stroke engine powering our cruise.   Just the tinkling of the great Kavango river as our bows creased its surface.  Christopher is our guide.  His manner reflects the calm languid river he grew up on.  He’s tall and calm and speaks with the slow easy authority about the ways of the river.  He knows the birds by sight as well as sound.  Several African skimmers sweep low down the centre of the river. He points out the Green Backed Heron with its delicate yellow facial markings, the Pied, Giant and Malachite Kingfishers.  I learn the difference between the Little and Greater Egrets

We give hippo’s a wide berth.  Sitting at water level increases the feeling of being part of it and the sense of vulnerability.  We’re two boats and even when there is plenty of water between us and the hippos both paddlers increase their tempo until we are a way past them.  The crocodile basking in the day’s last rays of sun is deemed safer.  We glide up to it so close that the paddler, if he wanted to, could reach out and touch it with his paddle.  As we draw nearer my wife’s muttering becomes louder and more concerned, then the animal slips quickly into the water and disappears below the surface.

As we are about to pull up to a sandbank for sundowners some teenaged boys are polling their boats home.  They cut the corner of a wide bend and then suddenly take a sharp right turn back to the bank they were originally hugging.  They’ve spotted a pod of hippos in the centre of the river.

*

Sunset at Ngepi.  Egyptian geese fly in a silent V torwards the west where the sun is glowing an unbelievable crimson as it closes the gap with the horixon.   Hippos belw and snort and grunt to each other.  I can see the tips of their nostrils and ears breaking the smooth fast flowing surface of the Kavango River.  A pair of fish eagles call to each other.  Doves coo and other unidentified birds twitter deep in the trees as they settle for the night.

The temperature is comfortable now, down from the earlier winter’s heat of 33 degrees.  My three legged-pot bubbles above the coals of hard, heavy wood and a beer sweats in my hand.

White Karoo Christmas

“I can’t stand that drive,” a friend said when I told him I was about to drive back to Cape Town, “It’s so BORING!”  After more than a week in Johannesburg I was feeling a familiar creeping claustrophobia.  A feeling that grows imperceptibly at first then starts gnawing at the edges of my nerves.  The constant traffic sometimes crawling and frustrating, at other times racing aggressively to goodness knows what vital destinations.  Gradually the avenues of twelve foot security walls and meals in shopping malls and overlooking car parks pick away at me until I need space and views in huge dollops.

Like being transported through a sanity portal of infinite space, the drive through the Karoo to Cape Town is a slow, easy transition from the frenetic energy and constant movement of Gauteng to the easier pace and soothing views of the Cape.

I understand how people enjoy the rush of South Africa’s economic powerhouse.  I feel it when I’m there.  I enjoy it too, for a short while.  It’s a place where all the positive energy of South Africa focusses,  like the dot of hot light formed by a magnifying glass under the summer sun.  But it’s not my place.  So I enjoy a slow cruise down the N1.  I fill, like a sponge, with the magnificent Karoo light, the drab green scrub, the huge sky and vast horizon.

I’m seldom bored for long.  A flaming sunset, clouds towering high into a sky that is almost unbelievably blue, a thunderstorm of immense spectacle, this is a place where nature reminds us that she rules.

Just before Christmas I headed home, sitting behind the wheel enjoying the landscape I’ve come to love so much when I was hit by a series of thundershowers.  At times I had to slow to forty kilometres per hour, so ferocious was the rain storm.  At one point I arrived at a section of road that had just been visited by a passing hail storm.  For two hundred metres the road looked like it was under ten centimetres of snow.

Is driving through the Karoo boring?  No.  Never.

Thoughts on Cycling

As a cyclist of many years I’ve decided to compile a list of things newcomers might take not of.  Some are obvious, some are preferences and some are purely my own prejudices.  Any other cyclists out there, feel free to disagree or to add your own thoughts.   I’ll add the ones I agree with to the list.

1.       Wear something bright or visible. 

The jury is out on what makes you visible in an urban setting.   All the different background colours on a busy shopping street make it difficult to stand out.  When I used to commute in London I always wore a day-glo workman’s vest (cheaper than specialist cycling shops).  The reflective strips are very effective in the dark.

Out in the countryside I wear a nice bright top or if I’m touring, strap my day-glo vest onto the back of my carrier.  Your Tour de France replica gear isn’t always going to do the trick.

2.       Lycra gear is for the Tour de France and elite cyclists.

Ok, a slight exaggeration.  A good pair of padded cycling lycras are a good investment if you intend spending more than an hour and a half in the saddle.   They’ll make life more comfortable if you’re riding off-road too.  If you’re going to spend many hours in the saddle, I’ve found gel padding more comfortable than foam.

 I once did the whole Argus Tour in a pair of joggers  - remember those polyester running shorts in the seventies?  My backside was fine. I was twelve and I managed it in five and a half hours, including a puncture repair.  So lycras don’t make you go faster, see?

Apart from making a fashion statement and spending a fortune, you’re not benefitting by wearing a branded cycling team shirt.  If your shirt says you’re an elite rider, your paunch vehemently contradicts it.  Technical fabric is good, especially for longer rides.  Though a normal t-shirt is adequate.  When I go touring I prefer a long-sleeved collared hiking shirt.  It’s light, cooler than a cycling shirt, dries quickly.  Best of all it keeps the sun off my arms and neck.

The point is this:  you can wear what you like to ride a bicycle – check out the Dutch. Don’t let the lycra brigade put you off cycling.

3.       Don’t ride in the gutter. 

Whether in the city or out in the countryside, take your space on the road.  I take at least a metre.  I’m of the opinion that you are more visible and command more respect from car drivers.  They are forced to change their line slightly and are less likely to push past you dangerously close.  If you have a bit of room on your inside you’ll have space to escape to without crashing onto the gravel if some idiot does try to brush past. 

On a related matter, keep an eye on the state of the road edge and the shoulder.  If, as happened to me in Namibia several times a day, an oncoming car overtakes and you have to duck off the road, you’ll know whether it’s an easy exit or you’re likely to crash!  You can plan accordingly.

4.       A bicycle is a vehicle.

Obey all the rules of the road.  That includes stopping at traffic lights.  If you don’t, you can’t demand the respect of motorists.  And signal when you’re turning, dammit!

5.       Don’t duck into bus stops and lay-byes.

 It may seem considerate to motorists but it then becomes difficult or even dangerous to re-enter the stream of traffic.  Claim your place on the road, you are as entitled to it as any other road user.

6.       Invest in the best lights you can afford. 

At dusk, dawn and at night, the better the lights the more visible you are.  Keep batteries fresh.  The number of cyclists I’ve seen riding with puny lights and/or nearly flat batteries is frightening.  A token light is as good as useless.

7.       Helmets. 

All in all wearing a helmet is probably the safest way to go.  Some cycling lobbyists argue against wearing them, saying that there is no proof that they prevent serious injury.  They also claim that motorists take more risks around cyclists wearing helmets because they assume a high level of proficiency.  This may well be true. When I’m cycling in the city, I feel safer in a helmet.  For most of my tour of Angola I wore a sun hat.  I calculated that the risk of sunstroke was probably higher than a head injury.  And it was much more comfortable.  I’m against legislation in this regard and pro-choice.  We need to encourage cycling, not discourage it by over-regulating what should be an easily accessible form of transport and exercise. 

I’ll still sometimes wear a sunhat.

8.       Use your bike for short everyday trips.

It’s a vehicle not a mobile gymnasium and it’s cheap to use.  I go to the shops on mine. Suburban roads are quiet and safe. There’s always an alternative route to the busy main roads.  Take time to find them.  It’ll save you a fortune in petrol and gym membership.  And remember:  you DON’T have to wear lycra!

9.       Single file.

I’m not in favour of riding two abreast on the road even when it’s quiet.  I’ve heard principled arguments.   Like,  two abreast still takes up less space than a car.  But from a safety point of view I’d advise single file.  “Teams” out practicing together may have a case if there is a big enough group to present a presence on the road.  In South Africa I still think this is dangerous.  Particularly as these training “teams” often seem to act as if they have all the protection of a Tour de France escort and attack the leader without a glance over their shoulder at the traffic situation.  I’ve been surprised on more than one occasion behind the wheel of my car by a group of these “elite” riders.   Dangerous, stupid, selfish and potentially fatal.

10.   Car drivers are homicidal maniacs.

Well, not all.  I’m one too. But as a cyclist, it’s safer to make this assumption.  If you assume everyone behind the wheel of a car is a homicidal idiot out to kill you, you’ll live longer.

11.   Be a cycling ambassador

The other thing about motorists – those who aren’t also cyclists that is – is that they are all one-eyed selfish creatures.  They believe the road belongs to them and that cyclists are a hindrance to their god given right to get from A to B in the fastest possible time.  Don’t give them the ammunition to reinforce their anti-cyclist prejudices.  Obey the rules and be polite towards them.  They don’t know any better.