001 CYCLE TOURING SOUTH AFRICA & LESOTHO

 

Pedalling Through Kindness

 A Journey Across Continents

Photo by Grant Webb

SOUTH AFRICA & LESOTHO

1,767 Kilometres – 34 Days

27 March - 4 May 2007

PHOTOS

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 VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

Pedalling Through Kindness: The Start of a Journey Across Continents

 

EPILOGUE

Every great adventure begins with a bold leap of faith. Mine began with a garage sale that escalated with the speed and precision of a runaway shopping trolley.

One moment, I was selling a few things to “lighten the load.” The next, I had sold my business, my house, my cars, and—judging by the state of my panniers—my last remaining grip on rational decision-making. By 27 March 2007, I owned little more than a bicycle, a tent, and a wildly optimistic belief that “fitness” was something you could manifest through positive thinking.

I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of a long, distinguished career in making questionable choices and being rescued by kind strangers who clearly had more faith in humanity than I did in my quads.

I thought I was setting off on a long bike ride. In reality, I was pedalling straight into a two-decade masterclass in humility, wind management, and discovering the surprising number of ways a human can smell bad while still being offered help by strangers.

This was the start. The panniers were too heavy. My confidence was too high. And the world was full of people ready to fill my water bottles and occasionally save me from myself.

 

 

THE START OF A LONG BIKE RIDE

Packing up

On a perfectly ordinary day—one that had no business becoming the prologue to a life-altering saga—I set off on a journey that would reshape my life and my glutes. On 27 March 2007, Ernest and I said goodbye to our loved ones and pedalled into the unknowns of Africa. Well, he pedalled. I had “unfinished business,” which is a polite way of saying I was still signing paperwork and discarding possessions like a contestant on a minimalist reality show.

By the time I finally arrived in Kleinmond that evening, I had shed half my belongings and most of my illusions about being prepared. Ernest, meanwhile, had spent his day cycling, drinking beer, and losing his backpack—containing all his valuables—because he put it down to order a takeaway. Fortunately, the fish-and-chips shop owner was a better human than either of us deserved and drove all the way to the campsite to return it. This was the first of many random acts of kindness that would keep us alive.

We were “fresh off the boat,” as they say—except there was no boat, and we were more “freshly clueless” than anything else. But the excitement was real. The naivety was realer. And the packing? That was a disaster that would repeat itself daily for the foreseeable future.

 

OVERBERG WINDS

Where the Southeaster tested us, and strangers filled our bottles

We set off on a short, gentle ride to Hermanus, a town famous for whales and, apparently, for relatives who feed you. Ernest’s sister Olga and her friend Donovan treated us to lunch, which was lovely and also the last time I would feel truly clean for several weeks.

After lunch, we cycled to Dave and Kathy’s holiday flat—an oasis of luxury that made us question why we ever thought camping was a good idea. It was the perfect place to rest, recharge, and pretend we were rugged adventurers while enjoying indoor plumbing.

The next morning, we left far later than planned for the 50 km ride to Gansbaai. This would have been fine if the route hadn’t led us directly into the notorious Southeaster—a wind so fierce it should come with a warning label and a complimentary therapist.

Stopping at the Birkenhead Brewery in Stanford was, in hindsight, a poor tactical decision. Leaving the brewery and cycling into near-gale-force winds was like trying to pedal through a hairdryer set to “vengeful.”

By the time we reached Gansbaai, I was convinced my tent would take off with me inside like some kind of budget hot-air balloon. Walking to a nearby restaurant required us to cling to each other and lean into the wind like two drunk penguins attempting a tango.

That night was a test of survival. The wind howled. The tent flapped. I questioned every life choice that had led me to this moment.

Morning brought a slight reprieve, so we packed up quickly and “hopped” on our bikes—though in my case, “hopped” is a generous verb. The wind was still determined to send us back to Hermanus, and I was equally determined not to cry in public.

The dirt track from The Dam to Bredasdorp was a masterpiece of sand, corrugations, and despair. I crawled up the hills, questioning the wisdom of this trip, my life choices, and the structural integrity of my thighs.

By the time we reached Bredasdorp after 100 km, I realised that embarking on a long bicycle journey without training was, in fact, idiotic. But I had already sold everything I owned, so turning back wasn’t an option unless I wanted to move into my panniers.

The next day’s ride to Swellendam was hilly, hot, and filled with sheep who stared at us like we were the entertainment. Ernest, in a moment of brilliance or desperation, jumped a fence and filled our bottles from a sheep trough. I pretended not to think about what else sheep do in troughs.

After a mere 70 km, we reached Swellendam, where I collapsed at a corner store like a Victorian heroine in need of smelling salts. A Coke revived me enough to reach the campsite, nestled beautifully beneath the Langeberg Mountains.

The following morning, I woke refreshed—proof that the human body is capable of miracles. The terrain was steeper than I remembered from driving it, and my loaded bike felt like it was carrying a small anvil collection. But the scenery was breathtaking, and the solitude was peaceful.

By midday, we reached Heidelberg, where I immediately chose a Cape-Dutch guesthouse because I deserved walls, a bed, and a brief break from pretending to enjoy camping.

 

FAMILY, FOOD & KINDNESS:

A Mother’s Tailwind

Leaving Heidelberg, we were greeted by locals who were so friendly it made me wonder if I’d wandered into a tourism advert. One kind lady even offered us accommodation in Still Bay. We declined — not because we’re rude, but because my mother lived there, and mothers outrank strangers with spare rooms.

At Riversdale, a petrol attendant asked whether our hydration packs were filled with oxygen. Honestly, not a bad idea.

We climbed hills with names like Skerpkoppies (“Steep Hill”) and Langhoogte (“Long Hill”), which felt unnecessarily honest. Eventually, we reached Still Bay, where my mother welcomed us with macaroni cheese — my favourite. She has made me a separate vegetarian meal for thirty years, despite thinking vegetarianism is a phase I’ll grow out of. She never complains. She just cooks. That’s love.

The next day was spent explaining to locals why anyone would bike through Africa twice. They looked at me the way one looks at people who lick batteries for fun.

 

THE GARDEN ROUTE: Beers, Birds, and Hot Cross Buns

Tailwind-assisted, we left Still Bay for Mossel Bay, cycling through ocean views and pristine vegetation. At the campsite, fellow campers greeted us warmly, then interrogated us like border officials: Where are you from? Where are you going? Why? I realised I only had answers to the first two.

We continued along the Garden Route — 300 kilometres of pure beauty and occasional suffering — stopping in George to greet Julian, then Wilderness, where a fellow camper gave us six beers and refused payment. A hero.

We cycled back to camp in the dark after wine, which is not recommended by any cycling authority, but we survived.

Rain arrived the next morning, giving me an excuse to stay in my sleeping bag and listen to louries gossiping in the trees. My sister Amanda visited, and we spent a lazy day together.

The next day brought storm-strength winds on the way to Knysna, but Amanda saved us by transporting our panniers. Knysna welcomed us with food, tourists, and a cricket match that South Africa was losing, so we left before the heartbreak.

We climbed out of Knysna the next day, pannier-free again thanks to Amanda, and continued to Keurboom strand. People kept offering to charge our iPods, feed us, or house us. I began to suspect we looked more pitiful than adventurous.

Storms River was a delight — lush gardens, friendly hosts, and my friend Nico arriving with Coke and hot cross buns. Bless that man.

 

EASTERN CAPE: Tailwinds, Tragedies, and Laundry That Could Kill a Man

A glorious tailwind pushed us to Jeffreys Bay, where we camped, ate pizza, and handed our laundry to Riekie, who bravely took on the biohazard that was my clothing.

The next day brought a slow, rural road to Colchester, where we arrived late and rain-soaked. We stayed in a tiny bungalow, which felt like the Ritz after the day we’d had.

The morning brought sunshine contrary to the weather forecast that had predicted rain, as we pointed our bikes towards nearby Paterson. Soon after, the route veered off from the N2 and onto the N10, heading inland. My legs felt too tired to continue, so I decided to call it a day at the small settlement of Paterson.

The only campsite was in George and Helen’s backyard, next to the Red House farm stall—a charming spot if you enjoy being supervised by chickens, ducks, and a committee of geese who clearly believed we were trespassing on their property. I’ve never been judged so harshly by poultry.

While in this area, it’s impossible not to mention the tragic life of Saartjie Baartman. Born in 1789, orphaned young, widowed by violence, and later taken to Europe under a dubious “contract,” she became a spectacle for wealthy voyeurs fascinated by her steatopygia. Her story is heartbreaking, and the exploitation she endured—both in life and long after death—remains one of the most disturbing examples of colonial objectification. Her remains were finally returned home in 2002, far too late, but at least with dignity. A sobering reminder that history is not always ancient.

The next morning, we fortified ourselves with roosterkoek and coffee at the farm stall—fuel powerful enough to make us believe we could conquer the Olifantskop Pass. The climb was steep enough to make me question all my life choices, but the views at the top were spectacular. Rolling hills, endless sky, and giraffes who looked at us like we were the strangest creatures they’d seen all week. Monkeys added commentary from the trees, probably mocking our cycling technique.

We pedalled into the Blue Crane Route, a birdwatcher’s paradise boasting 350 species—349 of which refused to pose for photos. Our next stop was Middleton, where we found a guesthouse inside an old railway station. The restaurant was run by enthusiastic youngsters from the Noupoort Drug Rehabilitation Centre, whose warmth and hospitality made the place feel like home. Dinner was delicious, and the staff’s energy was contagious.

Night, however, was freezing. I crawled into my sleeping bag wearing every item of clothing I owned, including things not normally considered sleepwear. Still, excitement from the day kept us warm enough to drift off.

We left early, dreaming of breakfast. Cookhouse—smaller than Paterson but big enough to fry an egg—delivered. Unfortunately, a headwind the strength of a personal vendetta slowed us to a crawl. By the time we reached Daggaboersnek, we were moving at the speed of continental drift.

At the top, a farm stall appeared like a mirage. A friendly couple from Cradock recommended a cosy farm cottage 25 kilometres ahead. Fuelled by hope and sugar, we pushed on and arrived just before sunset. Our host, Elza, welcomed us with fresh milk, bread, cheese, and fruit—basically a hug in edible form.

The next morning we set off for Cradock, a town with history stretching back thousands of years to the San hunter-gatherers. But like much of South Africa, it also carries the scars of colonialism and apartheid. The story of the Cradock Four—Matthew Goniwe, Sparrow Mkhonto, Fort Calata, and Sicelo Mhlauli—was especially sobering. Their 1985 abduction and murder remains one of the darkest chapters in the struggle. The memorial in Lingelihle honours their courage, but the weight of the story lingered with us.

We sought lighter spirits in the town centre, where a gusty breeze and quiet streets greeted us. Lunch revived us enough to visit Cradock Spa, four kilometres out of town. The place had seen better days—possibly in the 1970s—but the sulphur pools were warm, soothing, and smelled only mildly like rotten eggs. Therapeutic, they say.

The next day we returned to the spa for more soaking, then cycled to a nearby village for essentials. The internet café was inside a hair salon, where the connection moved at the speed of growing hair. Still, we managed to send a few emails.

The following morning dawned clear again—apparently the weather forecast had given up entirely. Ernest got two flat tyres, but we eventually rolled into Hofmeyr, a tiny Karoo town with three dirt lanes, one paved road, and a B&B called The Pondokkie. Joey and Derick welcomed us warmly, and we spent the evening watching TV. The South African cricket team actually won, which felt like a sign of cosmic favour.

After breakfast, Derick sent us off with a newspaper and a packet of fudge. Fuelled by sugar and optimism, we sailed through the hills toward Steynsburg. Dark clouds loomed, but we pressed on and reached the town—established in 1872 and still modest, peaceful, and charming.

The Redefin Campsite was a gem: green lawns, braai pits, and a covered area perfect for repairing tubes. The storm held off long enough for us to admire the dramatic clouds—then arrived all at once. We scrambled to secure our tents, but the rain beat us to it. Moments later, the sky cleared as if nothing had happened. Africa’s weather has a flair for drama.

Morning brought sunshine again, and we cycled to Burgersdorp, slightly larger and founded in 1869. Locals were friendly—one woman even gave Ernest a discount on beer, which he accepted with the solemnity of a religious blessing.

The Dam campsite was shaded by enormous trees and clearly once a popular recreation area. Now it was a little run-down, but Andries, the caretaker, assured us a new hot water cylinder had arrived. Hope springs eternal.

We pitched our tents under cover this time—city dwellers learning fast. Cape Town’s winter rain had not prepared us for Eastern Cape thunderstorms, which arrive with the subtlety of a marching band.

Eager for the hot springs in Maletswai, we set off early. I remembered the spa as beautiful. Memory, it turns out, is a liar. The facilities were dilapidated, rusty, and peeling, but the mineral water was still warm and soothing. We soaked, then cycled into town for food. Spur delivered its usual reliable comfort.

Storm clouds chased us back to camp, and we pedalled like fugitives. We made it into our tents just as thunder cracked and rain poured down.

The next morning we soaked again in 34°C water, then attempted to buy camping gas. But it was Sunday in a conservative town, meaning everything was closed except the sky.

A tailwind carried us toward Zastron, nestled beneath the Aasvoelberg and home to rare Cape vultures. The campsite was idyllic—lush lawns, giant trees, birdsong, and hot water. After days of storms, flat tyres, and sulphur-scented pools, it felt like paradise.

 

LESOTHO

Borders dissolved in voices calling welcome—and in Ernest’s ability to move at the speed of continental drift.

Ernest dragged his heels, which is to say he moved with the enthusiasm of a man being asked to run a marathon in flip‑flops. By the time we finally left Zastron, it was already past ten. Our first stop was the tourist information office, which—because this is South Africa—was also a printer shop, a bike shop, and possibly a place where you could get your chakras aligned if you asked nicely. Ernest, tired of fixing punctures every 14 minutes, bought sealant in the desperate hope that his tyres would stop behaving like leaky balloons at a children’s party.

We were only 30 kilometres from the Lesotho border, so we rattled along a gravel road toward this tiny mountain kingdom. Lesotho, covering 30,355 km², is the only independent state in the world entirely above 1,000 metres. Over 80% sits above 1,800 metres, which explains why my lungs immediately filed a complaint with HR.

After crossing the border, Ernest immediately spotted a pub—as if guided by some ancient, beer‑seeking instinct—and insisted on sampling a Maluti Beer. With legs now made of wet cement, we continued toward Mohale’s Hoek. The dirt road carried us over hills and past villages of mud huts with thatched roofs. Children ran through the fields shouting “Dumela, dumela!” with the enthusiasm usually reserved for spotting a rare bird or a mildly confused circus act.

Mohale’s Hoek tempted us with the Monateng Hotel, which had clearly seen better decades but redeemed itself with ice‑cold Maluti beers. Dinner was pap with marog and beans. Eating pap with my fingers was an experience that confirmed I would never survive on a reality show. Pap and marog may not be my favourite, but give me samp and beans and I become a competitive eater.

The next morning, we pedalled via Mafeteng and Van Rooyen’s Gate back toward South Africa. I was sad to leave Lesotho—its people were warm, its hills endless, and its charm undeniable. Ernest, however, seemed determined to cycle through Africa at Formula 1 speed, and cracks in our partnership began to show. Children continued sprinting across fields to see what two “whities” on bicycles were doing in their neighbourhood, probably assuming we were lost, confused, or both.

Wepener had no official campground, so we splurged on a guesthouse. It stretched my budget like a cheap pair of leggings, but the place was gorgeous: huge garden, beautiful rooms, lively bar, great food. I was very glad we didn’t bypass Wepener—and so was my inner princess.

 

THE FREE STATE PROVINCE

Decisions, headwinds, and the slow unravelling of a cycling partnership.

As we headed toward Dewetsdorp, I debated whether to push on to Bloemfontein or detour into the village. Dewetsdorp surprised us with lodging, and the owner even gave us a discount after hearing about our adventure. We looked dishevelled enough to qualify as a humanitarian cause.

Arriving early meant laundry time and catching up on the cricket—unfortunately, the South African team was having a day so bad it should’ve come with a warning label. We sought comfort in food and stumbled upon a tiny restaurant serving unexpectedly delicious pizzas. Small towns really do love ambushing you with charm.

We left at dawn, bracing for another day of headwinds. The wind did not disappoint. It slapped us around like we owed it money. By lunchtime we slunk into the Backpackers hostel in Bloemfontein. Ernest found a bike shop to straighten his rim—an early sign of the mechanical saga that would follow him like a Greek tragedy.

 

GOING SOLO

Sometimes the hardest part of a journey is the person you’re travelling with.

After an extra day in Bloemfontein, I made a decision: Europe. By bike. Alone. Ernest and I had known each other for over 30 years, but cycle touring together revealed differences so vast they could be seen from space. I realised that touring, like sailing, requires a very specific compatibility. You can work well together on a yacht but fall apart on land—or vice versa.

I booked a flight to London and felt a mix of sadness, relief, and excitement. The world was still waiting, and I was ready to meet it on my own terms.

Before leaving, I met up with my friend Rita, who had just won both the 100m and 200m at the Master’s Athletics Championship. I was bursting with pride. Speedy Rita indeed.

Then came the train station. It was deserted, filthy, and unsettling—like the set of a low‑budget apocalypse film. The train was delayed by two hours, giving me plenty of time to pace, glare at my watch, and question my life choices. When the train finally arrived, I practically dove into my compartment.

The train itself was lovely—modern, clean, friendly staff. A complete betrayal of the station’s aesthetic. The next day we rolled into Cape Town right on time. I spent the following days boxing my bike and repacking panniers, buzzing with anticipation.

 

ONTO THE UNITED KINGDOM

The saga of the bicycle and the airline.

After countless calls to SAA, I confirmed I could take my bicycle as luggage. The quoted price, however, suggested I might need to sell a kidney. My essentials weighed 25kg, the bike another 25kg, and my stress levels approximately 400kg.

At the check‑in counter, I braced myself. Card in hand. Soul prepared. And then—miracle of miracles—the fee was a tiny once‑off charge. I nearly hugged the staff member.

EPILOGUE

In which I survive Africa through sheer stubbornness and the kindness of strangers.

I battled winds that tried to yeet me into the next province, drank water from sheep troughs like a dehydrated goat, survived thunderstorms with the subtlety of Hollywood explosions, and watched my laundry develop a personality of its own. Children shouted “Dumela!” as if cheering on a confused circus act wobbling past.

And somehow—I kept going.

Not because I was brave. Not because I was strong. But because the universe kept sending people who rescued me from my own questionable life choices.

The world was still waiting. And I was pedalling straight into it—helmet askew, panniers rattling, dignity long gone, and absolutely no idea what chaos awaited me next.