Day 13 - Whiteriver - Belfast - Return - (300km)

Twas nice to "lie in" for once though we were still up relatively early. This was an exciting day for me as I was going to hop into and soup-up a Toyota LandCruiser for a trip into real Africa. Unfortunately Betty would have to be hauled up into the dry for the next few days, but God knows the girl needed a rest. I'm sure the previous day's 570 odd km was a PB for her.


The two girls side by side. Spot the difference? (hint: Betty is on the right).

Now the Cruiser bakkie was certainly a very capable thing, renowned for its feats of strength, endurance and reliability. Though not strictly comfort. Adriaan Smuts Snr, a keen camper and adventurer was well aware of this, so got a custom built canopy made up in order to house all the little luxuries of life a middle aged man may expect to follow him around wherever he may roam on holidays. The canopy however was on the family farm near Belfast, a cool 150km away.


The beautiful Smuts beef farm between Belfast and Dullstroom. Altitude 2000m.

So off to the farm we went - a beautiful holding right at the top of the Highveld - and promptly began to assemble the canopy above the bakkie's bed. A tricky operation. The thing was hung inside an old tractor shed, suspended from some sort of block and tackle device, and had to be lowered in a vertical manner onto the 4 corner posts of the bakkie bed - milimetre perfect. The trickiest part was reversing the vehicle under the frame into the exact location. She was hard up against the wall and even the slightest scratch was not an option. Anyway, much cursing, broken nails, trapped and bloody fingers and tyre marks later we got it mounted. With a 75L water tank and 2 x 75L petrol tanks inside. Oh and an enormous battery pack that weighed half a ton.


Canopy on - finally. Only 3 knuckles left unskinned after the operation.

After a quick drive around the farmlands and handrolling the heavy old Massey back into the shed we got back on track to Whiteriver. We were in the mood for work and loving it so we powered on through lunch and kept on going with the packing. Next into her was the most essential and valuable item in our possession: two Engel 40L freezers. These freezers, which would reliably keep our rumpsteaks and G&T ice at a steady -18C for the next week, were an absolute godsend and a miracle of engineering. And I didn't even know such a thing existed. Talk about posh! After filling the water tank and stocking the kitchenette (the rear left hand panel, above) with plastic cutlery and crockery, steak knives, a tin opener, red wine glasses and champagne flutes we began filling the aluminium racks inside with ammo boxes full of essentials. One full of 4x4 tools and spares, one full of clothes each, one of snorkelling gear and around 6 others which we'd fill with food and drink the next day. By dusk we were done with all the hardware aspects of the packing, leaving only the consumables for the next day. We had surely earned our bit of supper out in that heat so upon nightfall we lit up the braai and seared some dandy sirloins that were lying in the fridge. The one or two Windhoeks that accompanied the steaks more or less evaporated once they hit the tongue. There's really no other pleasure in the world like it.
After some digestion, and a little hesitation, we went down to the Mango Lounge in town. Perhaps one of White River's two to four pubs, and with 6 customers inside, the busiest in town this night. We took a drink and that was it. Company wasn't great (loudmouth 1st year college students) and to be honest we weren't the most talkative either what with the fatigue of the day. My God was I glad to haul my little legs into leaba that night.


Packing the Cruiser - see if you can spot the following: LandCruiser, 2 spare wheels, awning, roof tent, camping chairs, cooler box, several ammo boxes, fold-out kitchenette, Rhodesian Ridgeback, Jack Russell, some Hairy Thing, Cadac gas tank and skottel, binoculars, socket set, snorkel gear, camping mat, Engel freezer, Christiaan.

Day 12 - Mtunzini to Whiteriver (570km)

So, time to hit the tar again! Must say I was getting a little nervous and antsy having slept in the same bed for four consecutive nights. Up at 0600 so with Betty packed and ready to roll. On the road by 0700. By gum it was humid. We took the N2 going North heading towards Pongola but pulled into Swaziland just short to take the border crossing at Golela. It was quite an uneventful drive to the border I'll say, slow and long to match that. Poor Christiaan was a little worse for wear after a brief battle with a swarm of bees that pelted into the windscreen at an early stage.


Aaaagh! I'm covered in bees! Covered in beeees!

Things began to hot up though once the heavily armed SA border cops came into view. Despite already being drenched in sweat, I noticed that dreaded, cooling "fear sweat" that you only get a few times in your lifetime creeping up on me and creeping down my lower spine, goosebumping as it travelled. You may have experienced it if you have ever tried to buy bottles of Alcopop during daylight hours on Paddy's day when grossly underage and there's plenty teachers lurking about. Or if you've ever knowingly had 103ml of shampoo in your hand luggage while queueing for the scanner at JFK airport.

Why, one may wonder, was I a little jittery at a a standard African shed of a border crossing? Well, a grand scheme had been set in motion - one which, like all grand schemes of yore, had been hatched the previous night over a few alternate snifters of rum, brandy and whiskey. Talk had turned to the renewed popularity of Mozambique as a tourist destination among South African holidaymakers. Indeed, it was well reported that on the 23rd and 24th of December the queues at the border to get into Moz stretched over 17km long. Around 25km long at its worst. So we would aim to avoid such delays, obviously. But how could we ensure a smooth passage on our side, assuming when we cross over the lines are a lot shorter? Make sure everything's in ship-shape obviously. Give the bureaucrats very little or no excuse to detain us for more than STRICTLY necessary (10-20 seconds I reckon). Easy so then - just make sure our visas are in order. Not a problem - South African citizens can pass freely between any SADC nations, no visa required. But lo! - I'm not South African! And if memory served me correctly (from my travels 1.5yrs previous with Derry agus POK) a visa cost around R1000 just for passage into Moz. And another R500 odd for Swaziland. A little outrageous for a transit trip?...yes, we all agreed. What's more, I could not determine whether or not a visa could be obtained at the border or if one had to apply at Nelspruit. Guide books and internet clashed on opinion here. As did suggested opening hours of the embassy - some saying it only re-opened on 3rd Jan - entirely ruling out a Moz trip. A little unfair, wouldn't you say? Yes, yes, of course, yes. Thay all agreed. Racist against Europeans even. Yes, crazy, unfair... Pass the rum. Yes, terrible really.

It did not take much more of this sort of lubricated talk before we unanimously agreed on the only logical solution. I would not, nay - I could not possibly travel as an Irishman into the neighbouring states. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare! Not to mind cost an arm and a leg. No, no, the only solution was that I travel as a South African - a hearty white well-built Afrikaans speaking gentleman of a boer of a South African. Slán go fóill Padhraic O' Connor, en baie welkom Adriaan Smuts (Jnr)!
In fairness, the resemblance was uncanny. Adriaan was only 8 months my junior, roughly my height and weight and build and sported a fine head of silky brown hair with blue eyes. And what's more, he didn't need his passport over the coming month. Great.


Absolutely uncanny: both passports were almost identical in dimension.

So, the first test was upon us! Would some fat little woman behind the counter really take a long hard look at our faces before contrasting with those likenesses on paper? Well, no. She didn't care at all really. Nor the the short fat little woman on the Swazi side. In & out. The first Face/Off test passed with flying colours.

At the SA customs side of things the officials were quite keen on the wooden sea chest in Betty's trunk and her contents got a good gawping.Interestingly the engine was inspected and the engine number was phoned in to check for authenticity. To be honest I hadn't a clue if she was a former getaway car or not so I was nervously curious abut the result. In the end I was relieved to find out that the engine wasn't hot, if you will**.

15km down the road into Mswatiland and a uniformed chappie at a roadblock insists my right rear reverse light and brake lights are blown. I rebooted the system and jumped out for a look by which time the problem seemed to have sorted itself out, luckily. Fortunately he didn't realise my International drivers licence was 1yr out of date. Luckier still he didn't ask for my (Adriaan) passport which had a slightly odd looking photo inside.

Anyway, belted on without issue in this notoriously relaxed country. Quickly realised that LRP was non-existent, so had to make do with unleaded til we got back into SA. Bang in the middle of the wee Kingdom we pulled in by a sugar plantation for a spot of grub leftover from the night before. Lovely toasted sandwiches (actually braai broitjies - a staple Africaans food - toasted cheese, tomato, onion and Mrs Balls sandwiches done on the braai) and a right load of lambchops, all heated up on Betty's now warping 80°C bonnet. Perfect.


Toasted sarmies griddled to perfection on Betty's bonnet

Not much ever really happens in Swaziland and to be honest not much really did happen during our c.200km transit trek. Plenty mealies, sugar and fertile earth as far as the eye could see. Thankfully we eased our way through the exit border post without any issues and popped out not too far from Nelspruit. After a long long long day on the road and a few kilos of sweat lighter we reached the Smuts family residence in Whiterivier.


From l to r: Adriaan, Christiaan and Garmin, the short lived and quite unnecessary GPS system aboard Betty

Following a well deserved and crucial kip and shower combo we headed down to The Keg & Java at 17:00 for a few scoops. Quite the goldmine here and the epicentre (or only centre) of Nelspruit nightlife it appears. Here we met up with good ol chums Thea and Boeta from Stellenbosch - Van der Stel Rugbyklub stalwarts - and now proud parents of a bonny babby girl. With the little one in the care of granny they were only delighted to get out of the house and join us for our "one or two" sups. Needless to say we left the joint at 02:00 a little worse for wear.

The noggin was a little soft the next day alright but blame there lay squarely on the amphibious army that annihilated the eardrums at the Keg the night before. It's pretty bizarre when you have to shout at the fellow next to you just to make your point heard above the din of ten thousand frogs. I'll be in no rush back to the place after that eerie encounter.


Feckin' Frogs. Click to play.




**I think that's one of the better engine-theft based puns I've ever seen published.

Day 11 - Mtunzini Sun 26th December

Up again very early for the final instalment of what turned out to be one of those "24hr tummy bugs" I've heard so much about. Later in the morning we took the boat down to the lagoon for another bout of messing about. This time we towed a 7'6" surfboard behind the RIB with the intention of wakeboarding but none of us could pop up so we resorted to kneeboarding the surfboard. A lot more responsive than the softer bodyboard. At one stage I nearly lost a couple of knuckles behind the bád. I came off and began to retie the handle (a stick of wood) onto the towrope using a tried and tested slipknot. Unfortunately Adriaan Snr was in a rush to get going after some verbal abuse from a nearby fisherman, so he floored it assuming I was ready. My fingers were in the slipknot at the time however, not the baton, so I was dragged behind the craft for a spell, forefinger and middlefinger first. Glub glub glub. Very painful, but no lasting damage save for some missing skin.

Back ashore I took it relatively easy on the Zamalek as the tummy was still giving me the evil eye, though I sensed it was improving. We amused ourselves for sometime watching Adriaan Jnr fashion a small sailboat (something akin to an Arabian trading dhow or even a White Nile reed coaster) out of an old cuttlefish bone, a solid twig and a fresh green leaf of some sort. Waist deep for an hour he finaly got the thing running downwind for a few steady metres. Thrilling viewing actually, kind of like watching children erect a colossal sand fortress just inside the limits of the tide.


Tharrr she blows. Finally.

Again the heat drove us back home at around lunchtime. The recovery of our craft up the local slipway was delayed due to livestock cluttering up the car park. In any Irish slipway the offenders are usually hordes of sheep, cattle or D4 children. On this occasion we couldn't manage to shift a stock of bored looking zebra(s?) from by the trailer.


Warning. Zebra Crossing ahead! (hyuk hyuk!)

Back home for lunch. I'm assuming we braaid something - the memory's already waning. After a quick siesta Christiaan and I went to the beach for a bit of a splash in the pleasantly large, strong and warm waves of the Indian Ocean. A great ould splash, and a good beach to boot. Was a nice change from the placid waters of the lagoon of the past few days. After some time gleefully swallowing sand and saltwater we headed home for a spot of supper. Indulged in a healthy number of Richelieu and flat Cokes as digestifs - was keen to stay off the fizzy beers for a spell longer. Dinner wrapped up early and all six of us spent a good long night shitehawking around the table and solving imminent world issues, as must be done after so many Cape to Rios.

Day 10 - Mtunzini Sat 25th Dec

Hooray! Christmas. An unpleasant and unwelcome start to Xmas day this year. Bright and early it was drizzling outside with dodgy looking clouds looming. To make matters worse there was an unorthodox and hurried trip to the leithreas at 0530, that although not too unsatisfactory in itself forebode of less-than-desirable visits to come later that day. A gastric harbinger of sorts.

In any case I was up well before the rest of the gaff and began a lively but humid stroll to the local Catholic Church. I was overdressed for the weather in my shirt, shorts and flip flops and was dripping with sweat upon reaching the pews at 0800. The kind of sweat that does not dry and continues to seep - no, run once you step indoors. A veritable cascade from between the shoulder blades down the hollow of the spine and deep past the leather of the belt.


Tiny Catholic Church, Mtunzini.

Mass was uneventful really - a small congregation of maybe 40 or 50 in a small ground-floor chapel. Mostly locals with a very even racial make-up. Things ran a little differently from a typical Irish mass (and perhaps had some Anglican flavour to it) in that we had to sing from the hymnbooks ourselves at certain intervals. Being the only non-regular here and first-time hymnster, the whole affair really was a proper Mr Bean "Halleluuujah!" job, peering over into my neighbour's (a tiny ould black nun) hymnsheet.
The priest was a jolly bald blackman, who really didn't look too unlike Jacob Zuma I must unfortunately note. He was quite the booming orator though, keeping the congregation hanging onto his message simply with clever play of vocal tones and sweeping hand gestures. So powerful was his voice and smiley his demeanor that his harsh lisssp and pronunciation impediment* passed almost unnoticed.

*(Note - a very bizarre impediment where he used the "ch" sound for any word ending in "d" or "t". The death of Jesus Christ thus became The deach of Jessuss Chrisch.
Lech uss greech one another was another gem.


Post-mass pre-breakfast Cornetto. My God was it muggy out.

I walked home after mass, just missing the rain, and back to another great breakfast braai-up with the Smuts's, who were now up. I reckon it was the first time I had fresh watermelon for Christmas.


A grand Xmas brekfast on the stoep.

A long nap after brekkie ensued (up to around 1300) whereafter the leithreas was revisited, this time in a more dramatic fashion.
We passed the mid-afternoon the way I guess most families do at Christmas - by drinking too much and playing boardgames.


Sizeable pot-plants: The Raffia Palm, which grows for 20 years, fruits once and instantly kicks the bucket.

At one stage we took a drive to see the local patch of Raffia Palms that apparently housed the very rare Palmnut Vulture. The palms were enormous, with the largest leaves of any plant in the world (up to 25m long). In fact I had run among these colossal Calameae a day earlier without once looking up to see what they were. We also took a showery walk around the protected mangrove swamps at the lagoon, having a laugh at the strong-armed fiddler crabs and the stalk-climbing mangrove snails.


Delights of the mangroves: A matrix of (shy) Fiddler Crabs' holes and those crazy climbers, Mangrove Snails

After a fairly long but entirely unsuccessful drive around the parish looking for a pub to have a few drops in we headed back home, a little wearied after the afternoon of humid sweating, dodging showers and looking at things. Back home the lads got as many braais going as possible for the meat while I browsed through the stockpile of SA 4x4 magazines that Santa had kindly brought the men of the family. Here I gladly spent an hour or so with my beverage reading the details of Eric Jackson's record breaking 1963 London to Cape Town run in a Ford Cortina - a 13 and a half day record which would remain unbroken until 2010. Mighty stuff.

A dinner of braai-roasted leg of lamb and a side of gammon was served at sundown. Absolutely delectable meat - nothing beats a braaid roast. Again, a Christmas dinner reminiscent of those back home - roast spuds, good meat and plenty red wine. Another bout of family rivalries ensued after dinner in the form of Pictionary and the South African favourite "30 Seconds".


The gang: Smuts folks, Smuts brothers and one missus. And me.

After fruit cake and custard and maybe a brandy we were all well and truly stuffed. Wrecked, we all retired early - even before midnight I'm sure. Faced with ever-challenging bowel activities I had to resort to catching up on these here memoirs while flitting to-and-from the kakhuis.
Merry Christmas to all!

Day 9 - Mtunzini Fri 24th Dec

Took a short run through some jungle this morning - plenty green thicket, mud, vines and palms. A complete change from any terrain I've tackled yet. Was back before 0800 but was completely sopping wet with the early morning temperature and the cruel humidity.

We were on the lagoon by 0830 I'd say, having towed and launched the 4.8m RIB with twin 25HP Mercurys. She comfortably fit all 6 of us (2 Smuts folk, 2 Smuts broers, 1 masie and me) and our kit. Still had to do a bit of hide-and-seek with 2 bodies though as the nasty park ranger was about and our craft was legally considered overloaded. We took a spin around the weaving lagoon for a bit before finding a tiny spot of sand on the mangrove embankment to park our craft and our arses on. Adriaan, elder brother of my rugby chommie Christiaan got the braai going within seconds of landfall. The Black Labels didn't delay in making their inevitable and already awaited appearance.


Braaiing, boating and beering. Christmas Eve 08:30. Nice.

We'd a lovely rasher/sausage style fry up on the braai - just the job to get the day going. After some more Zamalek hydration we fashioned a tow rope behind the RIB and busied ourselves with towing one another around the shop on a bodyboard. Mighty craic.


Messing about.

After a good morning of fun on the water and in the mangroves we were safely back home by 1300 in order to escape the midday heat. While the others took a nap for themselves Christiaan and I spun to Richard's Bay (about 40km away) to have a few festive dops with old college friends and acquaintances, Theuns and Donald, and a few other unknowns. What should've been 3 Christmas Eve drinks there turned out to be some greater multiple of that, and much merriment was made. I really took to the "hubbly" as the hookah or shisha is known here. It should be pointed out to European readers that only (typically cherry or apple) flavoured tobacco is smoked during this extremely popular Uni student pastime, as opposed to the slightly more illicit tobacco variants that are sampled in and around rural Ballydehob.


The lads enjoying their Zamalek, basket of grapes, hubbly pipe and chamois cloth. Richard's Bay.

We eventually laboured back to Mtunzini after many a gruesome "college days" yarn was spun, feeling our way through the dark and heavy night with skyward brights and non-existent dims on the borrowed Nissan Livina. Still though, home safely. A quick chop braai and a few brandies and into bed by 2300. Wrecked.

No chimney here so quite excited about what Santa will squeeze inside the braai lid tonight...

Day 8 - Durban to Mtunzini (472km)

In spite of grand early morning ambitions it was around 11.30 before I shifted Mike (my willing passenger for the day) outside and into Betty. Some dawdling! Mike had just bowled and written off his own small car during the year on some high speed dirt road venture to and/or from some legendary Grahamstown party or another no doubt and was in the hunt for a new vehicle. After much sweaty spinning around dodgy Durban alleyways and lanes in one of its industrial zones we finally found a seller he had located on Gumtree the night prior. He was offering a beautiful metallic charcoaly greeny 2008 1.4L Corsa bakkie - the best looker on the market in my eyes (post 1989 in any case). She was mechanically sound - could hardly hear her breath in the underground car park - but was going at a questionably low price. It transpired that she too had been written off recently, rolling and crushing the left pillar and pushing the roof sideways across the right of the car. Somehow yer man straightened it out and beat out any dents, changed the front wing and did a lovely respray job. It was a great car at the price but I wasn't sure if any insurance companies would touch it and how it would affect resale if she made it that far. In any case Mike threw down a deposit there and then - love at first sight.


Mike, Tracey and Betty share a happy moment in Empangeni

After some difficulty in escaping Durban's pre Christmas traffic we finally made it to the N2 going North. It wasn't a very long or difficult drive to Empangani (the hometown of Mike's lovely lover Tracey) but it certainly was the sweatiest one yet. The cab hovered at a steady 35°C with both windows open and cool air on. Add to that Durban's notorious humidity and Betty Bakkie's non-porous grey pleather seats and you've got some very wet boys. Could have renamed her Betty Swollocks for the day, gan dabht!

Anyhow dropped Mikee off at his missuses in Empangeni before heading back South to Betty's (semi) ultimate destination: Mtunzini. I had only popped my honking head in the door for a few minutes at the Smuts' stronghold before I was whisked away on a delectable sunset booze cruise on the Siyaya lagoon. Absolutely stunning spot.


A murky shot of the Siyaya lagoon, Mtunzini

Black Label in hand, bats and warm dusk air through the hair, two Mercury outboards whirring in the background and a braai to look forward to back home. Who could ask for a better start to the Christmas holliers?

Day 7 - In Durban

Was nice to wake up and not worry about getting on the road asap. Or at all. Still up at 06:30 though, a combination of routine, bright light and humidity. After brikky-brek Mike and I took a drive to the foreshore to check out uShaka Seaworld & aquatic theme park. Sitting in a jam in 35°C heat for over 30 mins to get into "car park B" didn't bode well for us nor Betty, so we pulled a slow U-turn and parked along the beachfront instead. After thoroughly locking everything away and out of sight in Betty's sea-chest, we went for a highly regulated swim between red and yellow flags and whistle blasts on Dairy Beach. The water was as delightful as all the rumours put together - a far cry from frigid Western Cape waters.

Betty's sea-chest, passenger cushions and tool bag. And an interesting bumper sticker advertising the Athlone Muslim Community (previous owner).

As a sign of defiance against the teenage Zulu "lifeguards" in oversized rashvests we ran to the end of the fishing pier just beyond the break, leapt off and struggled our way ashore amidst the heaving swells, avoiding the barnacly piles along the way.

After an elevenses beer or two in the nocturnal hotspot "Joe Cools" we feasted on Chicken Breyani, dhal (delicious lentil stew) and chicken kharai (a great, oily curry) with plenty of naan in the Copper Chimney right across the road. Durban Injuns at their finest. And for half nothing too (well, lunchtime special).
Back home for a relaxing afternoon's read of Platform by Houellebecq. In the evening Mike's bro and cousin and I went to the nearby VirginActive gym with the my intention of gaining access by feigning interest in gym membership. I eventually had a pleasant but short-lived row on the Concept 2 following a thorough back-office interrogation and promotional spiel from gobshite branch manager Roland "This is the best fucking gym in all of Durban my man, I tell you no lie. The fucking best" McPunjab.

That evening after a feast of lasagne we stayed in and watched the impressive lightening display from the stoep instead of hitting the town for some fancy dancing like we had planned. What a grand storm it was. After some chinwagging with Mike and a showing of "Prince of Persia" on the laptop (which, admittedly, was better than expected. A visual treat.) I dozed off to sleep, ready for my old nemesis the N2 the next morn.

Day 6 - Port St Johns to Durban (367km)

Port St John: Cute colour-matching rear view mirror accessories. No real prizes for guessing what dash it belongs to.

Woke up this morning sore and tired and truly not in the mood for a run. Would have enjoyed a repeat of yesterday's saunter, but it wasn't going to happen. Betty, too, was sluggish crawling out of the muddy driveway, as it had rained overnight and was still very humid outside. She really doesn't like a damp night, and twould be a good 20mins before she'd start firing properly and pull away cleanly. In addition the front left brakepad was stuck (ish) and scraping away for the first few km until it snapped loose again. I did manage to nick a copy of Roddy Doyle's Barrytown Trilogy from the hostel's bookshelf though, which put me in something of a better mood for the day.
The trip over the hills to Port Edward was a nice winding ride on relatively smart and quiet roads. The towns however were complete havoc. Flagstaff, Lusikisiki and Bizana were chockablock, leeway only offered to the bravest of drivers. After being stuck in Bizana for 30mins I let loose my inhibitions (namely my paternal protectiveness for Betty's front wings) and wrangled my way through a parade of beat-up Isuzus and Hilux's's.


Popular Chine shop, next to the (pony?) cobbler and the hair saloon, somewhere in the Transkei.

Eventually wound my way down the hills of the Transkei into the pretty Port Edward - the first major civilised settlement inside KwaZulu Natal (KZN). Scarcely using my brakes now as the whole vehicle lurches and vibrates when I brake too heavily. So at least one pad is completely shot.
Stopped in Maria's café for lunch - peri-peri chicken livers in a paprika cream topped with scrambled eggs on toast. The livers certainly needed more peri peri, paprika and perhaps a tomato base wouldn't go astray. Pulling out of Port Edward I noticed the indicators had blown again. So I picked up a handful of 15A fuses (as prescribed on the fusebox lid, confirmed by Haynes manual) , slotted one in its defunct predecessor's place, and kept motoring.


Maria's peri-peri chicken livers. Not spicy enough, but eggs were grand. 2.4 out of 5.



Betty, Munster.

8km later I pulled into a tiny village (basically a cluster of about 5 shops) called Munster, named after the wee river flowing adjacent. After the mandatory photos and biltong here I pulled away, again without any indicators. I little concerned, I pulled in and spent an hour dismantling the steering wheel console, opening up headlamp fittings and truffling under the hood for some loose wires that might be shorting. Five burnt out 15A fuses later I took the easy option and just swapped with a 25A fuse elsewhere in the fuseboard. An effective permanent temporary solution.

I endeavoured to take the scenic coastal road R102 to Durban, though far slower than the freeflowing (and tolled) N2 that runs parallel to it. This worked well for most of it until I wantonly took a wrong turnoff leading me in the opposite direction on the N2. The next turnoff was 20km down the line, and me running low on LRP. So, basically, 40km wasted. And an extra tollgate. No harm in any case. I had me a new sound system to keep me company, the homophobic, homicidal, hypocritical and wildly entertaining rantings of Buju Banton setting the tone.

Arrived in old friend Mikee's (parents') house in Westville, suburb of Durban, just after dark. I was absolutely honking after such a muggy, long drive. My appearance and odour contrasted in every possible way with the lavish and smartly decor-ated manor I had set foot inside (his mum being a celebrated and revered interior decorator). Was good to meet Mike after 2.5yrs. We last lived together in a 28ft boat (aptly named "Scruffy") with two other men in a condition that almost constituted squalor. Cramped certainly. Our nightly bed rota worked on a "first come first served" basis.
The gaff we now shared, and in which he now lives, almost ridiculed our previous relationship.
I still had to sleep on the couch, mind.


Plush interior at the Davies' residence (above) contrasted somewhat with the "lively" conditions we lived in aboard the 28ft (or was it 26ft?) Scruffy, in a grubby boatyard in St Maarten, 2008. Pictured below are Matty, Mikee and I. Note the essentials at hand: salt, jar of inedible jerk sauce, WD-40 and plastic cups of warm Castillo rum ($2.50/700ml). Photo courtesy of The Pole.


Was, again, shattered after the day's hot motoring and the dozen or so Amstels that immediately and hurriedly followed it.
In my bedroom/tv room couch I was treated to the tail end of Spring Break Shark Attack which seems to be doing the rounds on SA television before sliding into slumber halfway through History Channel's Secrets of the Samurais.

Day 5 - East London to Port St. Johns (313km)

Up at 06:30 in order to sample Fran's legendary home-made muesli before hitting the road. They really have hit the nail on the head here with regard to a unique guesthouse experience. All sorts of homemade foodstuffs - muesli, sweet chilli sauce, biltong, droewors, jams, chutneys etc - that vary regularly to keep regular guests guessing. Left the B&B at 0750 and the rain began belting down at 0800 just as I was pulling on to the N2. Really, I couldn't see a damned thing. Cars were bowling over left right and centre on the N2 like so many skittles.


What's that sign say?

The rain thankfully eased after half an hour. Not much to report on until the Shell station at the Bridge over the River Kei, where I tucked into a Shamrock chicken pie at 0900. Decent, meaty. I bit much bay leaf maybe though.



Mmm. A Shamrock pie (top) and an ingenious improvised locking mechanism on the door at the Gents jacks in the Shell station. Look carefully and you'll spot 3 different types of wire and one cable tie acting in unison.

Lots of steep hills today, and I've an inkling that my brake pads are no more. At least my clutch is fine (well, no worse than usual), unlike those belonging to a host of crocks parked up at the same petrol station, by the smell of things.


Steering completely shagged? Don't have a 13mm spanner? Take a nap! Twill sort itself out.

Another uneventful spell to Umtata. Well, several dozen near incidents, but that just constitutes a standard day's driving in the Eastern Cape. Butterworth, Payne and Umtata were chaotic, with my hand playing a more active role on the horn than the steering wheel. Dodge the cars and aim for the pedestrian, that's the name of the game here. I doubt these towns have seen a busier day all year. Yessir, we truly are in the Transkei now - real black Africa somehow nestled snugly within the borders of RSA.

Wayside hotel in chaotic Butterworth. Unintentional tongue-in-cheek marketing.

From Umtata to Port St Johns (off the N2 now) most traffic was 160kph minibus taxis or 40kph clapped-out bangers with missing door handles and bailer twine holding the boot down. A tricky combo to weave through on these roads. Anyway, got to PSJ without much fuss, early too. Pulled into the quote unquote "legendary" Jungle Monkey backpackers and unpacked Betty amid a cloud of herbal white smoke, swathes of mozzies and a cacophony of toucan and parrot cries. The gaff really does deserve its "hippy heaven" status.
Quickly popped up the tent and shot out for a nice muddy hilly run over the steep head that separates "beach#2" and "beach#3" here. Went over and back a couple of times for the craic amid the gawping disbelief of the local lads who thought I was daft to be running the hills. One boyo saw it necessary to shake my hand in celebration/admiration/repulsion for some reason.

Less than responsive company on my trail run. Poor bugger.


Local goat-herding trail in PSJ at the top of the head...

..that turns into slushy muddy rainforest at the base. Great running, if a bit stanky.

Also went for a very quick dip, first time this trip, beach #2. Nice water. Later that evening I walked to "town" to one of few restaurants, "N.E.W.S." for an enormous feed. My favourite, mutton curry stew, served with about a kilo of pap. I love the bland white stuff, but how do these locals put away so much of it? I felt embarrassed not finishing my plate, as I'm sure the Sisi gathering my dishes tucked away a similar amount for breakfast this morning.


Gargantuan plate of mutton curry stew, already half eaten.

It's dark now in the backpackers (or in EU "hostel") and I'm listening to a jam session/evening entertainment live on the mini-stage. It's not the tightest jam, but certainly not the worst. In fact it still is grand enough, with backpackers jumping up to play guitar etc every now and again.
Time to turn in I reckon - I don't have the desire or energy to sit in a bar drinking beer and talking shite to predictable complete strangers. My God, what has become of me?
Time for leaba, 2230.
What would the real Padhraic say about all this?
...

PS, I have never before seen, or never again wish to see, so many infected donkeys, dogs and goats by the roadside, stinking and bloated, hooves pointing up to the sky with rigor mortis. Good ol' Transkei.

Day 4 - In EL

Spent the day relaxing for a change, and how nice it was. A late start, had a fry-up at around 0900. Walked the McColes's doggies on the Blue Bend Beach afterwards and marvelled at the steep sand dunes we used to sled down and horse around on way back in the early 90's. At 1100 we dropped Fran and mum back home while McCole and I went for a "sightseeing drive". We took in plenty sights, sounds and smells of the EL seafront from many a beach bar, including the notorious Buccaneers with its perennial sticky floors and hops-scented tabletops. Around 5hrs later and a number more pints, Afghani war stories and semi-censored tales about the 80s in Lesotho, we were back at the B&B. An extended siesta was called for in the mid-afternoon which reached right up until suppertime at 2000.
Some godawful schmaltzy xmas flick with the over-aired Vince Vaughan followed supper, succeeded by another early night. The last few days of Le Mans style driving and the midday booze-up musta really taken it out of me.


My bed-chamber for two nights in EL. Fancy out.

There's a lot to be said for this "early to bed early to rise" craic, especially when you start to reach my age.

Day 3 - Knysna to East London (606km)

Another early morning run today - very pittoresque indeed. Ran half of the Featherbed trail (that what I did in July) and back again across the famous choo-choo train tracks that disect and bisect the saltwater lagoon. I stupidly left my camera in the tent; the view really is quite something from the Heads. Packed the tent and just before hitting the road I checked the oil & water situation for the first time. The oil was practically bone dry save for some sandy tar stuck to the bottom of the dipstick. Filled the oil again and decided to keep something of a more regular eye on her status. As for the water we haven't lost a teaspoon since leaving Stellies. Recently my friendly local "for you, good price" mechanic Hassim replaced the waterpump, cambelt driving it and fluid as she was spitting out coolant through the expansion tank overflow pipe. Following this rather costly exercise she was still overheating to an extent. We took a look at the old waterpump - perfect condition - so that wasn't the issue then. After much head scratching Hassim suggested I change the pressure cap (basically, a fancy bung) on the water (expansion) tank as a last shot, as the rubber on the existing one was all chewed up. One R45 pressure cap later, problem solved. Ah well, live and learn. The simplest, most glaringly obvious solution is typically the correct one, in all aspects of life. Best not to flatter oneself with the notion that your case will be an exceptional one. At least the timing belt is changed now (well due) and he threw on a fan belt for free.

The mercury hit around 35C inside the cockpit en route. Doesn't make for the easiest driving conditions.

So with a clean bill of health we set off from Knysna in more muggy heat. Roads were a bit quieter today and consequently I was averaging a bit more per hour. After a number of consecutive hours of steady 3500RPM whining in top (4th) gear, I pulled into Humansdorp at around midday to give my ears a break and refuel. Before pulling back onto the deathly N2 I noticed my indicators didn't tick tock when I signalled to pull out. So spun around and back to the garage, jumped out - only one of the four indicators worked. Luckily I was parked adjacent the only motor spares store for 100km around, one which would close in 20 mins for the rest of the weekend. What timing! R4 and 4 fuses later I had 3 working indicators of 4. So I quickly prised open the rear-light hatch to replaced the last blown bulb before Midas closed. The filament seemed fine but the bulb refused to stay in its socket. One big lump of white Blu-Tack later the bulb was stuck more soundly than ever before. Four working indicators and I was back on the road.

Some say you can fix anything with Duck Tape and cable ties. In an old bakkie, a lump of Blu Tack really is the only true saviour.

Passing through industrial and industrious Port Elizabeth I pulled into landmark Greenacres Mall for an hour. A silly move considering it's the largest mall in the Eastern Cape and twas the Saturday before Christmas and yesterday was payday. Silly silly move. Anyway I treated myself to an early Christmas pressie of a stereo sound system for Betty as I was getting a little hoarse and depressed singing to myself over the revs for entertainment sake. It should also help me stay awake a little easier in the heat. The mega sound system comprises a dinky MP3 player (yes! POC has gone digital!) and a pair of dinky but surprisingly powerful Shox stereo speakers. Dinky is the word here.

State-of-the-art stereo sound system. Note the speakers on the dash and portable digital media player clipped to shorts. The eagle-eyed reader will spot the luxurious legroom, afforded by the "one position fits all" bench seat.

Much dilly dallying and not much ground gained. Outside of PE lies possibly SA's finest Padstal and pieshop, Nanaga. Incredible pies, really, that you can watch the locals handcraft in the kitchen behind the counter. Went, of course, straight for the muttoncurry. I couldn't enjoy my pepper steak pie dessert as I had a crampy tummy after eating that bad Swellendam biltong all day long and nothing else. Threw away the Adam's Apple that was a brown bag of old meat to avoid any more temptation.

Culinary treats at Nanaga Farmstall. Click on the top picture for a high res image, available for download and use as your Desktop Background.

It got dusky early tonight, around 1700ish, thanks to a blanket of purple clouds that drew the sky closed. A frighteningly majestic lightening storm ensued at around 1800 and entertained me all the way through to East London, 2.5hrs later. My what cracking lightening! The rain was unwelcome however as I don't have the fullest confidence in my brakes and the windscreen was uncharacteristically greasy for some reason. Vision seemed to be better off without the wipers. Arrived in the dark at Blarney House B&B just in time for a small braai - chicken, roast spuds, carrots and pot bread. Lovely. Plenty of Windhoek Draughts (the new bottled lager from Windhoek, certainly superior to any gassy SAB beers) were knocked back as the McColes and I caught up on our 16-odd years amiss.

Day 2 - Hermanus to Knysna (454km)

Early start - woken by Frank on the way to some bachelors golf party at 06:40. Lovely day out so got up meself at 07:00. Popped on the tekkies and ran along the foreshore going westalong for some time. Nice 50min run, perfect temperature. Interesting signs along the route you're unlikey to see in many other countries. Back to the house and shaved off the all-powerful "snorr" for the 1st time since the 1st Nov.

Trust no -one! and Super Snor (soon to be no-more)

Pro-Nutro and a steak sarmie for brekkie, on the road by 09:00.

Pulled off again 1km down the track into the dirty industrial zone of Hermanus. "Sea and Shore" contractors were casting unique half-dolosse for use on the world's most miserable inaccessible inhabited spot, Tristan de Cunha, before the whole harbour gets washed away next winter. We at CSIR recently conducted 1:42 scale physical modelling for the breakwater repairs, so I had something more than a passing interest in these oversized concrete blocks. The boats and cranes on the island can't cope with 10T dolosse (which they definitely need) so they're being shipped out from Cape Town in halves and stitch-cast together ashore on the island. A world first, apparently. Anyway, twas interesting to see a dolos casting yard. The boss/foreman was Adam something or something Adams. A 62 yr old hard nut, ex SA triathlete who still does the excruciating Cape Epic every year, as the oldest competitor. Bizarrely, went to school in Midleton back in the day.


Didn't stay long and belted on to Caledon via the majestic Hemel-en-Arde mountain valley road. I took it before but completely forgot it was mostly dirt. Poor girl got a bit of a shock. Betty also picked up her first ever hitchers at the base of the pass and dropped them out at the top. Two old boys, toothless weather beaten 50/60yr old grape-pickers. Very grateful, especially with the cushions they found in the back to ease the journey. Betty laboured and struggled with the extra weight though - it sounded at times as if the tappets were knocking against the bonnet and trying to get out for a bit of fresh air. Won't pick up hitchers again in hilly zones, methinks.

Average drive down from Caledon to Swellendam where I had a burger in the Milestone Cafe. Picked up biltong next door following the cafe owners recommendation... "we're very pedantic about our food quality here". Needless to say, it was pretty average to poor biltong. Arrogant gobshite. Bit of a faster haul from Swellendam to Glentana where I met ex-housemate Francois and his new fiancee Helimari(?). Didn't delay them as they were in the process of moving house. Good to catch up - a genuine gentleman. And did well for himself with the missus. Good work!
Pulled into Knysna for the night, threw up the tent in the car park of Lake Superior backpackers.

Hemel-en-Arde valley drive and Camping in a muddy car-park for a nominal fee

Seems an enormous extended coloured family have booked out the entire hostel. Small bit loud but no harm meant sure. Finished a ham salami garlic chilli avocado anchovy mozzarella and tomato calzone at my favourite Knysna eatery "Persello", which fellow athlete Chris Baret and I frequented during the Knysna Oyster Festival in July. Before hitting the hay I marvelled at how 100% of the words on my handpainted tablecloth were misspelled.

Brrrr! Chilly Tomatoe


Fashion Selector Beauty Shop, just round the corner