WorldTripping.net - South Africa travel writing and travel articles.

WorldTripping.net - South Africa travel writing and travel articles.,WorldTripping - Simon and Leah tour South Africa by bicycle. Read the S. Africa travel journal. Peruse the online travel articles. It's all about cycling in and around S. A. and traveling by bike.,worldtripping,world tripping,simon,leah,simon green,leah ingham,cycle africa,bike africa,bicycle africa,brighton,cape town,overland,brighton cape town overland,uk,sa,overland,uk sa,uk sa overland,coast to coast, coast to coast overland,cycle south africa,bike south africa,bicycle south africa,travel south africa,traveling south africa,travel writing south africa,travelogues south africa,cycle touring,bike touring,bicycle touring,cycle travel,bike travel,bicycle travel,cycle traveling,bike traveling,bicycle traveling,publishing,publishing online,travelogue,online travelogue,travel writing,travel writing online,diary,diaries,online diary,online diaries,weblog,web-log,web blog,web-blog,blogger,blogging,

"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.

Wild West.

Clouds of wispy flies drifted in from the ocean. We thought a ship was on fire out to sea at first. I wrapped my scarf around my face as we cycled head on into the swarm. Cars swerved and dodged, wipers scrunching hundreds in one go. The coastal route took us past huge industrial monstrosities, sandwiched between the beauty of the Indian Ocean and high sandstone cliffs. Town after town but no accommodation. We reached Stanger towards dusk and were directed to a hotel above a snooker bar. Big Man Dave, as his shirt declared, escorted us around the back to the metal barred stairwell. Gunshots. A man ran through the vacant lot next to the car park behind. He zig-zagged as more shots were fired. I threw my bike against the urine stained wall and dived for cover. Bullets ricocheted around my head. I shouted to Simon to duck but he came in closer down the alleyway. I peeked a look and spotted a second man giving chase, his gun waving. I felt sick and strangely drowsy. Seconds passed and Dave asked if I needed a hand getting the bike upstairs. He was grinning. 'Taxi wars,' he smiled.

Transkei Trails.

A broken chain delayed our journey from Port Edward and meant that we would hit the beach trails late. We had been planning the route with a cycling tour group, set up with funding from an NGO. No-one had attempted the route we we were to drag ourselves along over the following week, bikes packed to capacity. The sand close to the breaking waves was still hard enough to cycle on by the time we reached the trail. River crossings lay ahead and we knew that the longer it took to reach them, the more dangerous the crossing would be. We knew we would definitely have to unload and wade or swim across. If we were lucky, we may find a local to take the bikes across by canoe but this was mere myth and legend in these parts.

The sea glittered and miles of unspoilt beach unfolded ahead. Tiny dots on the horizon indicated life. Scraggy fishermen and rag tag children waved us on our way, not sure if we were real or not. The sand crunched under the tyres and we crisscrossed the seaweed and raced through the waves. Giggling, we tried to outdo each other by cycling faster and deeper into the sea, toppling occasionally and swinging our heavy bikes back towards shore.

By twelve, the sand had softened and we had to dismount. Burning, sweaty and tired we resigned ourselves to the toil ahead. Dragging our bikes, we covered only feet at a time before resting. Water was running low and there were no settlements in sight. The first river mouth had been relatively easy. We had been able to merely take off our shoes and paddle across. The one ahead was more of a challenge. Water swirled in torrents and a tentative toe test had revealed sinking sand. Waste deep, we struggled to carry our luggage piece by piece. Finally, we were able to carry the bikes above our heads, to the safety of the opposite shore. Too late, a Zulu canoist clad in colourful sangoma dress paddled up river. We indicated by our sodden attire that we had already crossed and he nodded before skimming away.

Transkei beach trail. Sikhombe. South Africa.

	Table Mountain.
	Cloud covered the mountain top from view. The backpacker's dog shot off ahead and we followed. We'd chosen the steepest route, hoping to salvage some respect after missing out on a real climb, due to bad weather conditions earlier in the week. I'd looked forward to putting on my sticky boots and chalking up my hands. One day, I promised myself.
	Steps were cut into the sandstone, smooth edged from the passing of feet. Green leaved trees hung over the path and roots poked up between the blocks. Rounding a corner, we leap frogged across a fresh mountain stream and clamboured up and over the craggy overhang. Turning to look, we gazed across at the urban sprawl below, the sea glimmering bright in the distance. The sky cleared above and the sun shone hot on our heads. Simon's heart was pounding again and he gasped. He refused to stop and so we persevered, our legs jelly shaking from the pumping blood and adrenalin. Exhausted climbers smiled as they made their way down. Moments of shade were given by the odd gnarled tree or boulder. Two hours before we reached the final pitch. The dog was panting now, lapping water running down the rock face. The path disappeared behind huge slabs of stone. We emerged onto the plateau, a fresh, cool breeze cooling and tightening our skin. As we looked down, we glimpsed Cape Town, tiny now and framed by wispy, white clouds.

Simon's Ponderings.

Returning.

I did not expect a hero's welcome. I did not expect to be feted or lauded. Too many people had expressed wonderment and admiration regarding our trip, but they had all been foreigners, travellers. The sheer length and scope of our journey had inured me to naive flattery; the semi awake, appreciative of possibility. I had not been expecting the apathy, indifference and banality of the slumbering. For the past two years I had been truly free. If I liked a place I stayed. If necessity dictated, I stayed. Progress was slow, but the progress was mine alone. I was driven by a combination of the two, along with a third guiding desire that drove me towards Cape Town. My compass drove me South, necessity forced me to live where I landed and desire forced to me spend longer than intended in any given location.

The relinquishing of this was a given, I simply could not afford to continue this nomadic lifestyle. I would have to return, and in some sense conform. I was not prepared for a rude awakening.

Life has continued unabated for the souls I left behind. While my eyes were marvelling at Nature's spectacles, others were watching interest rates, property values or soap operas.

The people I left have gone about their daily existence without me, and vice-versa; but to them I had just been 'away'; my experiences less valid than the re-tiling of a bathroom, or a child's progress out of nappies.

A shock too, was the level of implied criticisms and controlling nature of the Fourth Estate. Patriarchal language admonishes pregnant women who drink more than two glasses of wine a week; men should not react to volatile situations; teeth should be a 'Julia Robert's smile'; reality TV cleaners dole out hygiene advice, and my favourite is a feature on the woman who chose breast enlargement over an Aga cooker. All of this topped with compulsory gardening / cooking / property advice.

I have not watched the T.V. yet.

English existence has stubbornly remained the same, yet no one expects me to be different. How could I not be, or am I allowed to be, within limits?

Click to see the South Africa photographs.

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Before here we were in Swaziland. After here we were in the UK.

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