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.