I had the weekend off, no call. And having just
finished my CaRMS application for residency, I certainly was not going to prolong
this past week’s self-enforced incarceration in JoBurg. Before even getting to
South Africa I had set my sights on the Drakensberg Mountains which physically
mark the border between Lesotho and Kwazulu-Natal province. With two days to
spare, I decided to fulfill my pre-trip ambitions and set my course due south.
Ill fortune would have it that Saturday morning’s
weather featured the best Southern Hemisphere imitation of a London drizzle:
not wet and cold enough to oblige a change of plans but enough to extract a
dissatisfied grunt out of the shriveled mess that was my face at these small wee
hours. But from the previous weekend’s storm riding return to Johannesburg, I
figured that my equipment would dry fairly quickly once out of the rainy
conditions and I therefore stayed the planned course.
The weather-induced grayish tone applied
to the world’s color palette that day improved only slightly coming out of
urbania and into the plains of the Highveld. Sadly, no visual candy to sink my eyes
into. After a few hours’ ride, Shoshy and I made respective pit stops in
Warden; her for fuel and I for food. I had barely sat down to scarf down
(relatively speaking of course) my sandwich and hot chocolate that a local
started a conversation with me. As always with these random exchanges, the
introductory “Where are you going? Where are you from?” questions were asked
initially eventually making way a more natural and individualized dialogue
afterwards. When the local had his fill, he left leaving an empty space for
another to follow in his stead. One after another, a succession of young, old,
male, female, black, or white relayed themselves talking to me until I was
ready to leave.
For someone looking for genuine human interaction and trying to escape the tourist
label, motorcycle travelling is like a magic wand that attracts people and
engages them in conversation. There is apparently nothing better than a dirty
motorcycle and a beard to shed off anyone’s psychological barriers preventing them
from genuinely connecting with you. You stand out and draw attention like a
tourist, but the locals’ primary reflex is not so much to identify you as such
but rather to ignite their curiosity: “Who the hell is that?!” There are no
attempts in trying to squeeze a few bucks out of you from a disguised conversation.
There is only an authentic interest in getting to know you, and the favor is
automatically returned. A motorcycle obviously does not fool anyone into
believing you are not foreign, but it is perhaps a symbol of vulnerability and openness:
that you desire a connection with your surroundings; that you reject being in a
bubble. This amazing phenomenon will keep me on the saddle, tracing my
two-wheeled path in the world’s countries for as long as my body will allow.
Making my way further south still, I
veered off the highway at Harrismith to follow the eastern shore of the
Sterkfontein Dam reservoir. The road construction, or deconstruction rather, offered a tantalizing taste of unexpected
off-roading. While there remained a sliver of asphalt where cars negotiated
dreadful potholes with difficulty, I remained on the more entertaining loose
gravel embryo of a road besides it. The mixed landscape of table top mountains
and green fields on my left and of the reservoir on my right made it more
challenging to concentrate but I nevertheless made it all the way to
Kwazulu-Natal province through the Oliviershoek pass.
A quite appropriately sounding name as
the first sight once in this new province was nothing short of a shock. At the
Free State – Kwazulu-Natal border, the Highveld suddenly drops several hundred
meters thus offering a wide panorama of the plains below and the Drakensberg
chain in the back ground. Enjoying the vistas at a reasonable speed (and I will
deny any other recounting) I stopped at a lookout point to let this surreal
landscape sink in. And that is when I saw it. The Amphitheater: a five kilometer
wide mountain formation rising three thousand meters in altitude; its concave
eastern face forming a vertical cliff over a thousand meters high giving it its
name. This is where I was going. After having a few people speak to me, I
climbed back on Shoshy and headed towards the Royal Natal National Park.
In the parking lot of the National
Park, the ranger began a conversation in the same familiar format: “Where are
you going? Where are you from?” followed by improvisation: “How many children
to do you have?” He watched in smiling
inquiry as I clumsily transformed my attire from motorcycle rider to heavily
clad hiker. I had secured my riding pants and helmet to Shoshy with a cable
lock but still had to carry boots, upper body protections, and backpack
containing the weekend’s essentials. And thus began the hike.
The Gorge hike generally followed the
rocky Tugela River formed by the waters of the falls – second tallest in the
world – bearing the same name. On the return trip, having so much fun boulder
hopping in the proximal parts of the river I lost track of the hiking trail.
Instead of backtracking and trying to find the trail, the idea of hiking down
the river à la Bear Grylls became the new plan to follow. I do not know if this
is an influence from motorcycling, but I basically went off-road hiking. A
couple of minor tumbles and a pair of wet running shoes were the price to pay
for an otherwise wonderfully enjoyable experience.
I returned to Shoshy at dusk,
slipped back my rider’s attire on and drove out of the Amphitheater’s massive shadow.
Night came rapidly after, as is customary in mountainous areas, and the dim
lights of the sparsely populated valley contrasted with the dark silhouette of
the Drakensberg towering above. Now that the day was coming to an end, my only remaining
objective was to reach my pre-selected place to sleep: Inkosana lodge. In the
meantime, I had to negotiate non-illuminated South African secondary roads at
night… which turned out to be quite pleasant. Very peaceful feeling: the
feeling of being at the right place, at the right time thanks to an unknown and
quite incomprehensible “logic of the universe”.
I stopped in Bergville where I had a
very fun conversation with a group of twenty-something year olds who were
particularly preoccupied with making sure I had a pleasant stay in their
country. I finally reached the lodge and surrendered to the accumulated fatigue
of a full day’s activities by sleeping like a rock.
Having arrived at Inkosana Lodge at
night and lacking the energy to stay awake more than necessary, I woke up the
following day in an unfamiliar, yet lovely setting. Out in the flower-bordered
lawn were children playing under the watchful eyes of three lazy white German Sheppards.
The mountains in the distance offered a beautiful backdrop to an already
beautiful pastoral setting. There was a large herb garden available for the
lodge’s guests, a small pool, and a communal kitchen; all of these quite useful
for the hiking clientele often seen here. And everywhere I went: flowers of all
colors, sizes, and scents. I had my breakfast consisting of porridge, yogurt,
fruits, and homemade bread on the lodge’s patio in view of the mountains and in
the company of the lodge’s owner Ed. The lodge was his life’s work and I was
perhaps selfishly glad he had indeed chosen such a life.
Our conversation eventually turned
to music and how I had hoped to go to a concert of the Drakensberg Boys Choir,
a world-class singing ensemble not far away from the lodge. But unfortunately
for me, their concerts are held on Wednesday afternoons making it quite
difficult to reconcile with my work schedule. “Then why don’t you go to their Christmas
concert on December 8?” asked Ed. My heart skipped a beat at the sound of this
incredibly well timed opportunity. December 8 will be my 27th
birthday and a concert with the Drakies would
mark a much better way to celebrate than getting drunk in a nameless bar in
JoBurg. Although the latter option can be quite fun too, it pales in comparison
to a concert of this caliber.
Ed gave me a few off-road itineraries
to sample before heading out. I thanked him and left with the knowledge that I
would see him again two weeks later. With
these plans in mind, I chose to listen to choir music for the morning ride. It
was windy that day making the ambient noise cover some of the softer sung pieces;
however, this allowed for an amusing effect when a particularly beautiful
landscape coincided with a louder sung Major chord.
At the top of a hill overlooking a
valley, I stopped to put extra layers on and simply to appreciate what nature
was offering me this day. While enjoying the very same musical selection that you
are (possibly) presently listening to I do not know what came over me, but I
just could not stop it. I started crying like a baby. Most likely overwhelmed by
what I was seeing and hearing, this sensory overload was almost painfully
blissful. I love travelling.
I stopped for a quick bite at the Mouse
Trap deli in Rosetta. One of the customers noticed my gear and started talking
to me as he was also an off-road motorcyclist. He suggested a few trails and wished
me good luck on my upcoming challenge: the Sani Pass. This road is the only land
connection between Kwazulu-Natal and neighboring Lesotho as they are separated by
the Barrier of Spears that are the Drakensberg Mountains. The Sani Pass is like a test in off-road technique and is officially limited to 4x4 vehicles only. To access it
from Rosetta, one must travel through seventy kilometers of unpaved roads. This
was an easy decision to make.
The road leading to the Sani Pass is
dotted by villages that seldom see strangers. I felt privileged to catch a
glimpse of these remote locations while getting waved on by children playing in
the “street”. The stretches between the villages marked unbelievable mountain
landscapes coming in and out of the low lying cloud canopy overhead. Wild and
domesticated animals infrequently bothered by inexistent traffic roamed the
trail adding to the unique character of this experience. The hard packed
surface allowed decent cruising speeds and the large width of the road exhilarating
power slides when visibility permitted.
I finally reached the foot of the
Sani Pass; a sign confirming the legal obligation to use 4x4 vehicles in plain
sight. With a large smile, I began the ascent. This smile grew wider and wider
as I gained in altitude and as I passed slow moving jeeps. The trail is quite
rocky but wide enough to allow the careful selection of an optimal driving line.
Four-wheeled vehicles do not have this luxury and therefore have to deal with
all of the road’s imperfections. The slick metzeler tires performed well enough
but certainly lacked grip during certain climbs. There was only one small water
crossing. I stopped at the Lesotho – South Africa border quite tired: I had
done off-road climbs before, but not ten kilometer ones. Apparently, more
challenging sections laid ahead but not having been given the proper ownership
documents by the motorcycle rental company, I did not want to risk getting
stuck in Lesotho. I snapped a few pictures and began the long return trip to
Johannesburg.
On the six hour trip back home, as
night descended upon me, I began once more using my cold fighting motorcycling techniques.
In essence, it is a surrender. Long rides in cold weather are much more
comfortable accepting the cold
instead of fighting it. One must try to resist the instinctive muscle
contractions and concentrate on limiting shivers as six hours with muscle aches
and shaking would feel like an eternity. One must also avoid frequent stops. It
is difficult to achieve and maintain this passive cold acceptance and each pit stop
resets this zen-like condition causing new fits of shivers and muscle aches as
you return to riding after a break.
I finally reached Johannesburg which
welcomed me with a panoramic sea of light. The first man made beautiful sight of
the weekend. After eight days riding a motorcycle in South Africa, I had
covered two thousand four hundred kilometers. I love travelling.
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