I had a wedding in Joburg; a work of art to see in PE; friends in Chintsa to bid farewell before they packed for Perth and a little farm to visit in Swaziland. I also had a sportsbike that didn’t do much more than filter between lemmings in steel boxes (Honda CBR 600F4i for you petrol heads.) And, since I was going to Swaziland, there was the lure of the legendary “22” not much further north – a racy 22 km stretch of biking tarmac – as if the thought of those twisties wasn’t enough to lure me.
Knowing there would be long stretches of straight road ahead it was a little hard leaving some of my favorite rides behind – up the Stellenbosch road following the sweeping curves towards Boschendal and then over the Franschoek pass – but soon I was riding the R62 enjoying the setting sun that painted the Little Karoo orange, complemented by Leonard Cohen in my earphones and a speed that kept the wind noise in my helmet just low enough to savour the lyrics. That speed rapidly dropped when my fuel gauge showed reserve thirty k’s from Ladismith and so I crept into town after an hour of bicycle pace, just reaching the filling station in time for the bike to cough and die. The time was well spent though, contemplating the sunset and just how stupid I was for speeding by that filling station in Montague, a mistake I did not make again.
The rest of the 62 towards Humansdorp was sublime, an early morning ride, twists and turns through short passes then long stretches between cattle farms and green pastures, the sun rising before me and not a soul on the road – not even the cows were startled by the growl of the bike and it was James Taylor in my earphones; perfect early morning road music.
A stay in PE with my friends Duncan and Natalie Stewart, was rounded off with views of Duncan’s latest sculpture. Gracing Donkin park along with five other pieces from a selection of artists commissioned by the city, Duncan’s work takes its form from a stream that used to run through here. It is a reminder of the scarcity of water and is an organic, cascading ensemble of pipes that play watery melodies in the famous PE wind, a wind I came to know well the next day as I left PE leaning into it as if I was on a MotoGP bend for 70 kilometers. This was soon aggravated by rain and thunderstorms and even though I chased the clear skies to the east I was forever on the edge of the storm and found a new appreciation for the speed at which weather can travel.
Reaching the coast north east of East London, I arrived in Chintsa, drenched despite my rain gear and grateful for the beer Richard thrust into my hand. Staying with him and his wife, Leigh, was wonderful and we enjoyed the company of Gill Smulders that night, chatting over the work they had been doing as part of “Friends of Chintsa,” a group of families who make it their mission to help the community of shack dwellers over the hill.
The next day Richard took me around to see the projects they were involved in such as a clinic they had gathered funding for and a soccer field they were building. Among other things, they had refurbished a Land Rover that was functioning as a computer training station, provided uniforms for the local netball squad and were giving surfing lessons to the young boys of the community. Needless to say, they were doing their bit and Richard and Leigh were committed to returning to Chintsa every year after their move.
Leaving the slightly more content shacks of Chintsa I took the R26 toward Bloem’ wondering how many other communities in South Africa approach their little footprint in the same way? The road ahead was a mix of open planes and curving bends leading me up to the Highveld where I knew the road straightened after Bloem’ becoming a monotonous stretch of head behind the screen speed, and so I savoured it this stretch, even the frequent rain storms which were stunning because of the grand view I had of their formation, their only victim being a truck carrying potatoes that had tipped on a bend spreading its contents on the road for the locals to harvest.
A victim of another sort was a man in Stutterheim who showed me his prosthetic leg after meeting a taxi on his Kawasaki. Spooked after that encounter, no matter the sunny and dry conditions, I kept an even pace until Bloem’, then the monotony of the highway to Jozi got the better of me and it was head down and eyes on the horizon in anticipation of the Jozi skyline. I shudder at the thought of that road for when I dismounted stiff and numb in Jozi, my uncle Andy, a biker of repute, pointed out that my rear tyre was worn all the way down to the wire. A little further or a little faster and it could have all been different.
My amateur status was growing with each mile rather than subsiding. I took the bike to into Moss Kaye’s for a new tyre thinking I would be embarrassed, but was instead shocked to see the number of bike tyres in similar condition on their trash heap.
A long break in Johannesburg was highlighted by my cousins wedding – a spectacular affair that could well have been in Tuscany judging by the venue, Shepstone Gardens, which remarkably was only one block away from the gritty Jan Smuts Avenue.
A few spins around Jozi visiting friends and wearing in the new tyre, and all the while the 22 calling – not a healthy thing considering my rising amateur status and I thought I would have to make the 22 more of a sightseeing trip. But first, the farm in Swaziland.
I had been volunteering for Operation Smile as a photographer. Op. Smile is an NPO that helps kids with cleft palates by providing free surgery, and I had photographed a little girl called Tegugu and her mother on their last mission in the Eastern Cape. They had travelled all the way from Swaziland by bus to be there and I thought I would pay them a visit to get a perspective on how they live.
The journey down through the mists of Mbabane, which lies on a gently sloping escarpment, then on through the lowlands at the base of the hills, was breathtaking. Towns and villages become fewer as I headed north hugging the foothills of boulders and long grass and soon there was only the odd bus stop serving scattered subsistence farmers. I found the butchery which signalled the location of their village and, after a trek up a hill, I caught site of Tegugu’s mother on the other side of a rusty gate. Her smile was dazzling and I was equally happy to see her again. Her child, Tegugu, was healthy and her mouth was clean and completely free of infection.
My admiration for her mother is huge as she seems to tackle everything with a smile. Her and her husband are very poor but were incredibly proud of their little parcel of maize, a bounty if one considers that they plant at the top of a rocky hill where the soil is thin and strewn with rock and stone. This is their income and sustenance. They cannot afford to top up their phone. Getting Tegugu to the clinic by bus is an exorbitant expense. They were too proud to accept the few Rands I offered them, but I managed to convince them it was for Tegugu and I left feeling humbled and fortunate to know them a little better. I am determined to help them some more.
Now, I steered north for the 22. I had no idea just how good it would be. It is part of a stretch of road between Sabie and Hazyview made up of exquisitely curving bends as the road snakes along the contour of green hills. I rode the 22 up, down and back again at a speed that – although riding just within my capabilities – left me gibbering into my bug spattered visor. I rode it down and up once again after a dose of caffeine at the Woodsman Café, a bad idea as it hardly calmed my nerves.
However, my fantasy of competing in the Moto GP was quashed when I was buzzed by a couple of serious players who used every inch of their rubber and disappeared around a bend just as fast as they had appeared.
I was humbled once more, but what impressed me most was, even at a speed some bikers would only consider good for sightseeing, every part of that tarmac was a complete and utter joy. The road seemed to be made for riding of any speed as if the engineer who had designed it owned a many and varied collection of two wheel toys. A pensioner on a turn of the century Indian would love the 22.
I thought I would be sad to leave the 22, but the road south to Nelspruit was a revelation of even faster, longer, sweeping bends. As was the road to Barberton and then on toward Badplaas along which I did slow down to take in the wonderful views – periodic glimpses on a 200km two-way rollercoaster, dangerous only because of the runaway Fortuner carriages – the “Beamers of Mpumulanga”.
I was appalled by these drivers, many with families or friends in the car – children bouncing around in the back without seatbelts. Tailgating and overtaking on blind corners seemed to be the norm and it left me wondering how those drivers managed to afford such luxurious, powerful vehicles when their brain capacities were clearly the equivalent of Fiat Uno’s.
There were other such idiots on the road South through KwaZulu and the Eastern Cape, but putting that aside I cannot express the wonder of that road leading all the way back to Cape Town. I was familiar with the routes having lived in Natal and travelled through the Transkei often enough by car but with the exposure of the bike and the many routes one takes through passes and valleys as you cross the likes of the Tugela, Kei and Fish, it wasn’t hard to tap off the speed and simply enjoy the incredible vista’s. Closing in on Cape Town, the Garden Route stretch had been such a joy I was tempted to turn back and do it all again, but my aching backside demanded rest.
It endured long enough for a burn along the coastal road between Hermanus and Strand, and finally Chapmans Peak formed the curtain to a wonderful trip curling its way along the steep cliff face that dropped into the cold Atlantic.
It felt good to be back, it felt better to have experienced more of the country with the exposure one gets on a motorcycle. It brings you that much closer to your environment – makes you more aware of what’s around you. There is so much you miss in the cocoon of a car and, once used to it, even the rainstorms become exhilarating – you are a part of the elements.
Most people are averse to bikes because of the safety aspect and one can’t blame them with the calibre of drivers out there, but keep a keen eye on the road and ride within your limits and where you thought the road was familiar, you’ll discover another road, and another world.
