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.