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| David : 1st August 2007 : C&S current location - South Africa Latest info from Simon and Craig : "Amazing, crossed the Orange River in blazing sunshine and then wham, straight into freezing cold weather in SA. Fingers still numb 3 days after climbing Vanrhyns Pass in the rain and wind!" |
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Simon : 29 July 2007 Some distant, hypothetical planet – with a hiccup – Windhoek and BEN Namibia – an Englishman and cups of tea – jumping farm fences – Namibian stamps will do – solitary kokerbome – why it pays to remember a face – this grand cathedral of rock – the exhilaration of finishing and what I fear In Namibia, silence hangs from tall blue skies and time is suspended between broad horizons, the rest of the world remote. It was as if we had taken a wrong turn and cycled onto some distant, hypothetical planet. How can a land so vast manage to be so intimate? And how can such a land seem so empty, yet manage to be so fulfilling?We camped three kilometers short of the border at Buitepos and that next morning shook the ice from the inside of our tents and waited patiently for our water bags to thaw beside the fire. Nights have been growing steadily colder even if the days have remained hot. Over the border the road climbs steadily towards Windhoek, sitting as it does among the hills at over 1,600m. Time and time again along this road we disturbed warthog families that rooted in the long grass, watching them hurtle comically across the plains on stubby legs, tails erect like small flagpoles. We also saw plenty of buck – I think Hartebeest – and passed two enormous, buzzard-like birds that climbed sluggishly on a 4m wingspan, heavy talons hanging below them. Reaching Gobabis on our first night we were a little surprised at all the warnings we received from people passing us by, our first such warnings in Africa. “Julle moet oppas” (you must watch out) they said, referring to the unemployed crowds that we would see outside Spar in every town, but which were always more entertaining than threatening. Later in Keetmanshoop one man in the crowd was so taken by our journey that he took my hand and with a hiccup said so eloquently, like he was quoting a song: “I wish you – from the bottom of my heart – a something, and a something, and a something”. Now I’m still not sure what that something was, somewhere there in the recesses of his mind, but it didn’t matter because he really, really meant it. In Windhoek we visited the team from BEN Namibia and it was wonderful to finally see where some of the shipments of bicycles from Re-Cycle in the UK end up, and how they are then distributed. BEN Namibia is coordinated by Michael Linke, who showed us the workshop where bicycles are prepared for distribution (many are distributed for use by the medical community, particularly in the north where HIV prevalence rates are so high); the welding room where they are making bicycle ambulances for use in rural areas (one of the bicycle ambulances was sprayed in Tibetan colours as it had originally been gifted to the Dalai Lama); and the storeroom where hundreds of frames, spare parts and row upon row of wheels are stacked. Who knows what lampposts these unwanted bicycles might have lain wasted against, no doubt eventually vandalized beyond use. The team of mechanics here is skilled and they experiment with designs, like the double-rimmed wheels for strength on poor roads. While we were there they were preparing stationary bicycles for blind children to ride as they wait for their turn on a tandem. A key feature of the program here is that projects are followed up with field surveys in order to monitor how the bicycles are ultimately used, and how BEN can therefore better its service offering to communities. A series of climbs took us south out of Windhoek, the road twisting through the hills and past yet another dry riverbed. Eventually the landscape opened up and unfolded before us, the endless plains broken by occasional hills and koppies that looked like puddings, perfectly round half spheres. A range of mountains loomed to the side, ridges and gullies like the folds of a thick, crumpled carpet, the folds dotted with scrub and occasional thorn trees. Crossing a small bridge we saw stork nests teetering on a series of telephone poles. Enormous, chaotic bundles of sticks that somehow balanced there. Eventually nearing a series of rocky outcrops we saw that what had appeared from a distance to be brown and dull, in fact glowed with subtle colour: pinks, purples, oranges and reds. Stop cycling for a moment out here and the sudden, pure silence startles you. One morning an Englishman stopped his 4x4 along a particularly empty stretch of road simply to offer us a cup of tea. There was never any reason to stay long or even spend the night in the few towns we passed through, and instead we became expert at jumping farm fences just before sunset. All life in one town we stopped at looking for water and food – the only in over 200km – expired long ago. Take away restaurants, small shops, the pub, even the petrol station were all derelict, windows boarded. There was nobody but a woman and her young son, and she sold lamb chops and stokbrood in the shade of a tree in the old garage forecourt, hoping a car might stop. At another town – Tses – each dusty yard hosts an old car on concrete blocks, tyres long since stolen or sold. Houses of corrugated iron form a rusty, orange patchwork on the hill. At the post office I try to buy postcard stamps for England and Kenya but the woman tells me they only have Namibian stamps. I try to explain that I simply want to send my postcards there and that Namibian stamps will do, but have to give up when we make no progress. From Keetmanshoop we chose to follow the dirt road that leads south from Seeheim and towards Hobas and the Fish River Canyon. I am happiest on these isolated roads, where finding a good line through the sand is more important than hugging the yellow line for safety, and there is no head-on traffic to make you feel like you are going the wrong round a race track. Out here, solitary kokerbome (quiver trees) pepper the horizon, with their old, squat and peeling trunks that sprout twisted fingers from lifted arms. One we saw had been colonised by little birds that had transformed the entire treetop into one nest so that it looked like a giant microphone to amplify their song. For an hour or so we followed a ridge of mountains across the stubbled plains, streaked black like the camouflage of a sleeping, prehistoric beast with a spiny back. We rode through rocky plains, a brown moonscape drained of life where boulders the size of houses leaned gently against each other. Short, steep hills lifted us up and above it all to give us a glimpse of the next wonderland we would ride through, this time the rocks giving way to sage green bushes that thrived near some unseen water source. Occasional splashes of colour – bright yellow, red – caught the eye, alien intrusions amongst the otherwise subtle shades. At sunset the mountains were transformed, throbbing indigo and pink, colours distorted for a moment as we were engulfed in a long stream of dust that followed the one car to pass all day. At the entrance to the Fish River Canyon Reserve at Hobas we were greeted by Richard, a man I recognised from the street in Keetmanshoop where we had chatted briefly. Sometimes it pays to remember a name and a face as Richard is the park warden, and he waived the entrance fee and two days camping were free. I sat in awe on the edge of the Fish River Canyon, this grand cathedral of rock. The little that is left of the river at this time of year was visible below, emerald green pools separated from each other by jumbled white stones, and which at another time of year will run a course together that twists and doubles back on itself repeatedly, cutting ever deeper into the bedrock. Mighty spires twist their way upwards towards the light, while in the corner of some outcrop shadows gather like dark water. Here, the silence – like some grand pause in a heavy sermon - is profound and exclaims this place. I did not want to break the silence as it was my connection to the place, so I simply sat and waited, feet over the edge, for nothing in particular. After a while, the fourteen large Marabou that I had watched gather below spiralled their way upwards on the thermals and drew level. Listening carefully it was possible to hear the sound of the wind passing through their wings. I could never grow tired of this place. Here I found an overwhelming, reassuring feeling of belonging – not so much to those rocks, but to this world. A long, lonely and dusty road carried us through the last of the heat and emptiness and towards the Orange River and South Africa. Along this road we amused ourselves by converting road signs with duct tape: “corrugations ahead” became waves with a fish leaping out; we added a rugby ball to a leaping Springbok sign; others we turned into faces and figures. Right now I am in Vanrhynsdorp, South Africa, sitting out the rain until I meet Craig again on the coast for the final run into Cape Town. Disappointingly, I had to turn back at Calvinia after hoping to make a detour through the Karoo. Here I was defeated by the icy weather and downpours, and then simply ran out of time to make this 900km roundtrip. For now though, I am excited by the thought of reaching the end of this long journey, even though I fear the moment when the exhilaration of finishing dies, that final flush before reality, before normality. |
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