Wallis On Wheels Big Bicycle Adventure

With its two side-mounted outboard engines roaring away the ferry chugs across the River Orange, bringing me to the last country. Unsure of what to expect as I wheel the bike up the sandy slipway, maybe a line of trumpeters playing the country’s national anthem welcoming me, or a line of leggy cheer leaders with pom-poms? No, just an extortionate ferry fee of 100 Rand (£10.00) and then welcomed by the immigration officer, a rather speedy, trouble-free process.  Still in shock and disbelief at being a wanted person by the Namibian authorities I tell the police officer here, his eyes lighting up, asking which country I was wanted in, I explain it was all an error and he’s back to his book.

The Michelin map showed sleepy Sendelindgdrift as being in Namibia, across the river, but was in fact the village I was now in. With a late start to the day and delayed by customs police it was 3pm and with nothing between here and the coastal town of Alexander Bay I decided to camp for the night. Unfortunately with no beer available in the small shop I celebrate my arrival to South Africa with two cans of Fanta, yes two! The campsite here was part of the Transfrontier Park with a small wildlife park close by, baboons running loose around the perimeter fence with signs to keep doors shut and food out of reach, difficult with a tent. With hot showers and electricity available I’m told I can stay for free.

South African currency is the Rand, with 10 Rand equal to about £1.00. Namibia accepts the rand but South Africa does not accept their dollar, even though the exchange rates are the same. Food prices are similar to that of UK with much the same products available, Spar being the main supermarket here. As with Namibia, the main language is Afrikaans, many of the words being spoken from the back of the throat, so when I first heard it in Namibia, with it being an ex German colony, I thought it was German. As with most languages there are different accents and words used that vary from region to region, but most South Africans also speak English.

The following day I head west, along a 60 mile gravel route, with many sandy and washboard sections I promise the faithful bike this would definitely be the last un-tarred section. “Sure, I’ve heard that one before” it replies. The route snaked its way passed craggy mountain peaks and over wide open, wind blown sections, following telegraph poles, mile after mile, tapering into the horizon.

Toward the end of the day the wind had picked up and I was forced into walking the last few miles. On the local map I picked up Alexander Bay had a small note next to it saying “Permit required” and upon arriving I find out why. The complete town was built for the workers and families of the mining industry, so is basically a private town. I explained matters to the barrier guards whom informed me there was no campsite but a guest house, and I could stay there. 3km down the road the town arrives, walking around the small supermarket two men approach me and say “Hello, so you need somewhere to camp tonight?” I ask how much the guesthouse was, at 205 Rand a tad over budget so I suggest I’ll camp. With the strong bitterly cold wind just pitching the tent would prove a problem, let alone sleeping snug. Asking again how much for a room the chap looks at me with sorrowful eyes and says “I tell you what, you can have a room for free, along with the complementary breakfast” - The guest house and its profits were all part of the mining company so no one was too concerned. Cycling off the following day I was glad for the room, dense misty fog, mile after mile. Roller coaster style roads up into and through the fog, then back down out of it. Reluctantly clearing as the winter sun struggled to warm up, like a spring day in blighty!

Port Nolloth was 55miles (87km) south and luckily the wind was in my favor. Eased along at an average 16mph I soon made it there. The town had copious B&B’s, guesthouses and hotels and a campsite. Being out of season I was on my own and with morning temperatures typically at 5’C I decided to try and stay a bit warmer by sleeping in the key-required toilets. With ample space for the bike, bags and mattress it looked ok (another first on my camping list). Later, watching the sun set, a car slowly drives by and both the occupants wave as they head to one of the private bungalows. A few minutes later the driver walks over, introduces himself and asks if I would like to join them for a drink. Sitting in the concrete-molded igloo style bungalow drinking rum and coke I tell Danwille and his wife, Bernice, all about my bicycle adventure. Soon I’m offered use of their spare bed, result! Later he sparks up a fire to cook a traditional South African stew of meat/potato/carrot, cooked in a large pot that was handed down through the family from his Great Grand parents. Soon four of Danwille’s friends join us and we all tuck into the food….and drink! (Danwille is wearing the cap)

Heading back inland, hopefully away from the nasty coastal winds Steinkopf, was next on the agenda. Cold cross / tail winds and cloudy all day so no sun to warm me. I once read there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes, true, yet finding the best combination for cycling fully-loaded is not easy. Wearing a cotton T-shirt to try and keep warm, a long sleeve polyester top and my Gortex raincoat to keep the wind out makes me sweat so not ideal to cycle 60 miles in. Arriving at Steinkopf, now up at 750 metres, damp with sweat, and cold from the wind, I was soon warmed up when the owner of the garage-lodge ushered me in, immediately offering a whisky and warmed up next to a large open fire-place. Minutes later it’s raining. Manwell and his wife said they had seen me on the road just out of Port Nolloth and new I’d be heading to their place here on the main N7 road.…there’s no where else to go!! He gave me free accommodation for the night and dinner, the same meat/potato/carrot stew I had before, along with red wine to wash it down, another excellent show of hospitality.

 

At least the past eleven months map reading skills had paid off. The first sign, to the last town.

Springbok was just 34 miles (50km) from Steinkopf and here I decided to take day off to publish the Namibian blog. With low mileage I was able to start the day later than normal; this gave time for the morning chilly breeze to warm slightly, cycling into a constant cold cross / head wind, few clouds so the sun was out and the sky was blue, quite deceptive as it felt warm when not cycling but as soon as I rode the wind changes everything, a constant force of evil.

Springbok proved to be quant little town, surrounded by scenic mountain peaks, with shrubs, bushes and trees, the welcomed sight of greenery reappearing. The two star hotel was clean, tidy, and reasonably priced, and with a room kettle meant I could top up my depleted caffeine levels! The following day catching up with emails and posting the latest blog. With several supermarkets, banks and shops galore I had all I needed, one thing I bought here that I never thought I’d need - up until the past few days - was a wooly hat! Yes, a wooly hat! Using the hood on my rain-coat made my head damp, and cold with sweat.

 

Walking up an extremely steep concrete path on one of the surrounding peaks to a telephone mast I was able to get good shots of the town below….while being battered by the wind! Fingers crossed the next day would be clear skies and tail winds…erm, who was I fooling??

The town of Citrusdal lay at the foot of the last mountain pass, the Piekenierskloof Pas, rising up an additional 300 metres it gave an excellent view of the next valley area on the other side. 8km from the descent I stayed with the Evert and Erina, the farmer couple I had met at their friend’s Namibian farm, along with Louis, their daughter and Diesel and Kyla, the dogs. Here I also took another day off and Evert showed me how the Rooibos tea plants were grown, a popular tea with Germans and also watched some of his workers dismantling / servicing a field windmill water pump amongst other things. Served with some wonderfully tasty food, wine and beer, continuing to be treated with fine hospitality it was back on the bike the next day. Since dropping down from the Northern Cape mountain range the weather had improved, still fresh in the mornings but clear blue skies were a welcomed sight, with just occasional side winds. Cape Town was just 150km away, the end was drawing close.

Down to double figures now…

Making a phone call to Fred, the Cape Town’ian motor biker I met in Cameroon whom kindly said I could stay at his flat, soon arrives and we drive to his suburb of Fresney, perched at the foot of the Lions Head and just minutes from the beach.

The South African’s love their Braai’s (BBQ’s), having been popular since the 60’s. The correct way to cook on them is by using wood, not charcoal, of which all the supermarkets and garages sell. I’d been in town for only five days and had three of them and two even before I reached Cape Town! Ostriches are farmed in South Africa so this is a popular meat to cook, amongst beef and boerewors (veal).

As the African adventure began with a song, best it also end with one:

Bicycle touring is addictive and each subsequent tour becomes further, like a sportsman naturally pushing his boundaries each time. The next tour has been partially thought but needs to be carefully planned. Before departing for Africa I thought about continuing with it straight away, but with Africa being a tough ol’ cookie and no blank pages in the passport I need to return home for a while. The next phase is Argentina to Alaska, with a slight U.S. ‘blip’. On arrival at San Francisco the blip would commence; firstly eastwards across the historic 13 state Lincoln Highway to New York City, then secondly, to avoid covering previous tarmac in reverse to get back to Chicago, I’d go around the Great Lakes that straddle the U.S / Canadian border to get back there, for the start of the journey back west, on old Route 66. Departing Route 66 at Ludlow in California and heading to / through Las Vegas, to eventually arrive back at San Francisco, to continue the northward journey, to Alaska.