Shenanigans on a Bike - By Leana Niemand
West Coast Winds and Kindness
159 South
Africa (3)
717 Kilometres
– 15 Days
8
February – 4 March 2022
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Chapter 1 - Homeward Bound
Bangkok,
Thailand – Cape Town, South Africa
After
two long years in Thailand, where the borders had remained stubbornly closed
since March 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I was finally Africa-bound. It
felt like a long-awaited escape, and the idea of returning to my home soil
stirred something profound: anticipation, joy, and a gnawing uncertainty. Would
I even make it off the ground?
Eventually,
I did. The flight was dreadfully long, but descending into Cape Town felt like
a homecoming wrapped in jet lag and joy.
Cape
Town Interlude
Cape
Town greeted me with its usual vibrancy—sunlight bouncing off Table Mountain,
the scent of the ocean filled the air, and the comfort of my sister Amanda’s
cosy abode felt comforting. I indulged in local cuisine, sipped lovely South
African wine, all before visiting the bike shop to gear up. The thrill of
cycling in Africa pulsed through me again. I could hardly wait.
Pedals
and Pals
Ten
days after my arrival in Cape Town, I finally pedalled away from my sister's
cosy abode, eager to hit the open road. On my way, I swung by my friend
Caron's, and together we tackled the stretch to the main road. Our laughter and
stories filled the air until she returned home, promising to meet up later with
my sister and me in Yzerfontein.
My
sister, Amanda, was all in for the adventure—just not on two wheels. She
preferred the comfort of her car, which turned out to be a lovely way to spend
evenings together after my bike rides.
The
West Coast Road stretched ahead, a monotonous ribbon of asphalt. It felt a bit
daunting with the traffic zipping past, though most drivers were surprisingly
friendly, blasting their horns and waving as I pedalled on. I made a pit stop
at Route 27, a quaint little farm stall and restaurant brimming with homemade
delights. The warmth from the people there was heartening, and after a
delightful chat, I hopped back on my bike, eager to continue to Yzerfontein.
The
distance was short that day, only 60 kilometres, allowing me to arrive early.
Amanda was already in camp, and we took advantage of the daylight to swing by
the supermarket to stock up on essentials. Later that afternoon, Caron arrived
and we set off to gather supplies for a barbecue. I couldn’t resist picking up
a chair to make my camping experience more comfortable—definitely a luxury I
wouldn’t want to haul on my bike.
But
then, without warning, the weather turned icy, sending a shiver down my spine
and a realisation that hit hard: I hadn’t packed for the chill. Ah, the joys of
adventure!
Friendship
and family, woven into the road.
Waking
up to a biting chill and the grey promise of rain, I couldn't shake the feeling
that venturing this far south might have been a mistake. Nevertheless, I
unzipped the tent and brewed myself a steaming cup of coffee, all while
reorganising my panniers, which seemed to have turned into a chaotic jumble.
Around 10 a.m., I set off from Yzerfontein, the thrill of cycling towards
Langebaan energising me despite the dreary weather.
The
ride to the West Coast National Park felt ethereal—twenty windy kilometres flew
by to where Caron, who had kindly pre-paid my entrance fee, awaited my arrival.
The landscape was stunning, and our chatter filled the air as we pedalled
along, taking a delightful break at a quaint restaurant for coffee and milk
tart. Caron's generosity during our stop truly warmed my heart—thank you, my
friend, your kindness does not go unnoticed.
As
we rolled into Langebaan, the lagoon sparkled like a Caribbean jewel, its
tranquil beauty banishing any lingering worries. Amanda was already at the
campsite to greet us, ready to whisk Caron off to her car while I tackled the
shopping list at the local supermarket. By evening, we gathered around the
crackling fire for our nightly braai, savouring the flavours of the day.
Cold
winds as a foreshadowing of challenges
In
the morning, we took our time packing up, waiting for the dew on our tents to
dry, before setting off around 10 a.m.. Caron headed back home, and Amanda took
the picturesque route to Laaiplek, while I tackled the forty-kilometre ride.
With the wind at my back, I sailed through the landscape, reaching the campsite
just as my sister pulled in. The short distance was a blessing, especially
since my bike's off-road tyres were a priority for the questionable roads
ahead. With the bike shop in Langebaan closed on Sundays, and the one in nearby
Vredenburg similarly unavailable, we decided to stay put the next day.
Life
in these coastal towns is refreshingly quiet, but after a little exploration,
we managed to find a spot to grab a bite. The next morning greeted us with an
unusually still, misty dawn, coaxing us to stay in our tents until the sun
bathed the camp in warmth. We took full advantage of the laundry facilities
before Amando whisked us away to Vredenburg in search of those elusive off-road
tyres.
To
our delight, we stumbled upon a well-stocked bike shop—success! I snagged two
off-road tyres and treated myself to a camping table and bowl for washing
dishes—luxuries I rarely indulge in. A surprise visit to Pat, a friend from my
running days, in Elands Bay filled our afternoon. We spent a delightful
afternoon reminiscing and feasting on her delicious snacks, feeling completely
spoiled. By nightfall, despite the howling winds, we crawled into our tents, warmed
by both the food and friendship.
Chapter 2 - Iron Giants and Ancient Echoes
Elands
Bay Cave
The
wind whipped across the barren West Coast, carrying with it the smell of dust
and salt. I had been riding for hours when a cluster of children appeared at
the roadside, their arms flailing in excitement. Their laughter rang out as I
stopped to take a few photographs, their joy infectious in the desolate
landscape.
From
the doorway of a weathered farmhouse, a woman emerged, a baby balanced easily
on her hip. Her eyes were cautious but kind.
“Mevrou,
waar gaan mevrou heen?” she asked softly.
“I’m
cycling to Namibia,” I replied, still catching my breath.
She
tilted her head, sympathy etched into her voice. “Oh… gaan mevrou daar werk
soek?” For her, the sight of a lone woman on a bicycle, panniers bulging with
worldly possessions, could only mean one thing: desperation, the search for
work.
I
nearly burst out laughing, the absurdity of it catching me off guard. “Nee,” I
said, smiling, “ek ry sommer net.”
She
repeated my words—“Ry sommer net”—with a weary shake of her head, as though the
idea of travelling without purpose was both incomprehensible and enviable.
Perhaps, in that moment, she measured her own life against mine and found it
not so bad after all.
As I
pedalled away, her voice lingered in my mind. That brief exchange, so ordinary
yet profound, revealed the gulf between our worlds: hers, rooted in survival;
mine, propelled by curiosity and freedom. And right there, amidst the wind and
the waving children, I fell in love with the West Coast.
My
ride zig-zagged along the Sishen–Saldanha railway line, an impressive
861-kilometre heavy-haul marvel. I had my sights set on the service road, a
shortcut that promised to save me from a long detour. This remarkable railway
line links the Sishen iron ore mines to the port at Saldanha Bay. Colossal
trains, devoid of passenger traffic, transport a staggering 100 million tonnes
of iron ore each year!
I
marvelled at the sight of the enormous wagons, each carrying 100 tonnes, in a
grand spectacle of 375 wagons. That’s right—these colossal trains are powered
by ten robust locomotives, stretching an astonishing 4,000 metres long, making
them the longest production trains in the world. It’s hard not to feel awed by
the sheer scale of it all.
Seventy
kilometres later, I reached Elands Bay, and found that Amanda had already
claimed a stunning spot for camping. After setting up my tent, we eagerly set
off to explore the nearby caves. Elands Bay Cave, rich with history, has served
many purposes over the millennia. Archaeological evidence hints at a
fascinating tapestry of human life, with people residing there between 4,400 to
3,000 years ago. The rhythm of hunting and gathering echoed in that cave until
the 17th century AD—a testament to the enduring human spirit, etched in rock
and time. It felt incredible to connect with such a profound part of our past.
Following
the Oliphant’s River
We
woke to a beautiful, wind-free morning, and I felt reluctant to pack up. Eventually,
I got going, and my route took me inland over hills that offered views of vast
stretches of nothingness, featuring only a lone farmhouse in the valley. This
is indeed a sparsely populated area. The road stretched for miles ahead, adding
to the area’s desolate feel.
Eventually,
my path veered back to the ocean and Lambert’s Bay, from where I opted to cycle
along the service road along the railway line. In hindsight, this wasn’t such a
great idea. The road slowly deteriorated, becoming rutted, corrugated, and
sandy. It took all my concentration to keep going. The poor bicycle took a
hammering, not to mention my electronics. In the process, I lost the bike lock,
the mirror and the phone holder, and the odometer gave up the ghost. These
items weren’t designed for rough roads. Neither am I, for that matter! LOL
Fishing
villages & Benguela Current: Nature’s rhythm shaping
human livelihood.
After
eighty punishing kilometres of rutted sand and corrugated track, I finally
rolled into Doringbaai. The village was a scattering of houses clinging to the
wind, but beyond it lay Strandfontein—a jewel perched above the icy Benguela
waters. My sister had already found a campsite and, mercifully, a cold beer. As
the sun bled red across the horizon, the bay shimmered with deceptive calm, its
beauty masking the ocean's bite. The cold water along the West Coast of
South Africa is attributed to the cold Benguela Current, which flows northwards
from Cape Town to Angola. The prevailing southerly winds produce upwellings of
water from very deep in the ocean (200-300 meters) that move in line
with Earth's rotation. Hence, the icy but nutrient-rich water. Thus, it is no
surprise that the primary source of income for coastal villages is fishing.
Chapter 3 - Into Namaqualand
The
Road to Bitterfontein
The
day dawned wind-free but misty. Wanting to take advantage of the favourable
conditions, I hurriedly packed and got underway, leaving Amanda to pack the car
and clean up the campsite.
I
was in no mood to take the service road and repeat the bumpy ride from the day
before, and therefore, opted for the route to the dreaded N7.
En
route, Amanda’s car appeared like a familiar beacon. She slowed just long
enough to hand me a cold drink and a packet of jelly sweets. Such small
luxuries—sugar fizzing on the tongue, condensation dripping down the
bottle—felt like gifts from another world.
My
route traced the Olifant’s River, its winding course breathing life into the
valley. Vineyards stretched across the soil, heavy with grapes destined for
wine and raisins. Fields of watermelon, beans, potatoes, beetroot, and pumpkins
unfurled in orderly rows, a reminder that even in this harsh land, abundance
could be coaxed from the earth.
The
road, however, had its own temperament. A sudden hiss announced a flat tyre,
but the sealant held true, sparing me the ordeal of replacing the tube. I
pressed on, the pavement eventually surrendering to dirt and hills that rolled
me toward the highway.
Sixteen
windy kilometres later, Bitterfontein appeared—a settlement so small it seemed
to cling to the edge of the desert. Amanda had already discovered a curious
gem: the Art House, a cottage brimming with character. The town’s lone shop and
petrol station had closed early, but the woman who greeted us offered what she
could—a generous bowl of French fries and a salad fresh from her garden. We ate
gratefully, the taste of salt and earth grounding us in this unlikely oasis.
Encounters
with strangers: Shared humanity across borders.
As I
left Bitterfontein, the landscape stretched out before me, reminiscent of the
Australian outback—though thankfully less harsh and expansive. The sun blazed
overhead, casting dark shadows as I pedalled onward.
Along
the way, I had the pleasure of meeting Henk Horstink, a fellow cyclist from the Netherlands, who was making his way from Windhoek to Cape Town. We shared stories and
laughter, bonded by our mutual love for cycle touring.
Later,
I encountered Tania and her husband, who were returning home from the
mesmerising Kalahari Desert, also known as the Kgalagadi. Their tales of the
vast, sandy expanse were enchanting, and our conversation flowed effortlessly
until they offered me a pack of dates—a sweet treat that added a lovely touch
to my ride.
The
road ahead was lonely and hilly, affording me plenty of time to savour the
dates as I rode. Before long, I approached the small settlement of Garies.
Here, Amanda had discovered a charming little cottage for us to rest, as the
campsite was unfortunately closed. The promise of a cosy night in a quaint
setting made the day's travels all the more rewarding.
Milky
Way scene: Cosmic perspective
As I
biked away from Garies, the sun climbed higher, which cast a warm glow on the
landscape ahead. The journey to Kamieskroon was undulating, each rise revealing
breathtaking panoramas of stony hills and a ribbon of road stretching into the
distance. It was an exquisite stillness, occasionally broken by the soft rustle
of a dassie darting into its burrow or the deep rumble of a truck speeding
past.
On
the downhill stretches, I felt a carefree grin spread across my face, a pure
rush of joy in the wind. But as the hills rose again, that smile would
sometimes falter, replaced by the rhythmic effort of pedalling uphill.
Thankfully, the slopes were gentle, allowing me to glide into Kamieskroon with
a satisfying rhythm, greeted by the charm of this serene town nestled amidst
the stoic hills.
Amanda's
message stated that she found Kroon Lodge, a delightful campsite, which we had
all to ourselves. When I arrived, I found a hidden gem offering beauty and
tranquillity. As evening fell, we gathered around a crackling fire—Amanda
barbequed, while I happily indulged in my simple bread and cheese sandwich,
savouring each bite under the starry sky.
As
the night deepened, I lay in the tent, gazing up in awe at the brilliance of
the Milky Way, its countless stars shimmering like tiny diamonds against the
velvet night. I knew I was home when I saw the Southern Cross twinkling down.
Place
names as metaphors for adversity and hope.
It’s
an immense pleasure to emerge from your tent in this barren landscape at
sunrise. However, the nights can be cold, and with a chill in the air, I drank
my coffee, enjoying the peace of this unique area.
The
scenery remained unchanged from the previous day, and the road stretched far
into the distance over stony hills. Place names screamed adversity and hope. One
couldn’t help but feel sorry for the people trying to make a living in this
desolate and unforgiving part of the world. Still, a strange air of calm
prevailed, and I enjoyed the ride up and over stony hills, with views of
desolate valleys.
By
the time I rolled into Springbok, Amanda had sent a message stating she was at
the Springbok campsite, where she had booked a comfortable chalet. Good thing,
too, as we’d a few things to sort out before crossing the border into Namibia,
only 115 kilometres away.
Springbok
Logistics: Preparing for Namibia
The
following day, we did laundry and shopped for items we might need later; I found a new bike lock, a chain, a tube, two spare tyres, and sealant. In addition, we
stocked up on beer and crisps, as those are two things I don’t want to run out
of. Hahaha. The main reason for stopping in Springbok was to get a COVID-19 PCR
test before crossing into Namibia. The lady at PathCare informed us that the
test takes up to 2 days, and it would be easier and quicker to conduct at the
border. We were delighted with this news and returned to the campsite.
Chapter 4 - Namibia Beckons
PCR
test chaos: Frustration, humour, resilience.
Getting
underway early was due to my fear of encountering a headwind or intense heat
for the 120 km ride to Vioolsdrift, but neither materialised. Barely 10
kilometres outside Springbok was the turnoff to the mining towns of Okiep and
Nababeep. Okiep is the oldest mining town in South Africa. By 1870, it was the world's
richest copper mine. Today, their glory days are long gone, and they are now
only two sad-looking settlements.
Midday,
I met up with an Italian cyclist, and we chatted nonstop to Vioolsdrift. The
road to Vioolsdrift shimmered in the midday heat, the Orange River glinting
like a silver ribbon between two nations. By the time I reached the border, my
legs were weary but my spirits high. Namibia was just across the water,
waiting.
The
South African side was straightforward—stamps, smiles, and a wave through. On
the Namibian—to our shock and horror, we learned they stopped testing at that
location that day! I felt sorry for the chap who accompanied us, as it was his job,
but he was unaware of the new arrangements. No amount of explanation could
change their minds, as the person conducting the test wasn’t present. We’d no
option but to return to the South African side.
After
much deliberation, Amanda and I opted for a night at the overpriced Vioolsdrift
Lodge.
In
the morning, Amanda drove us back to Springbok, where PCR testing was only
available between 2 and 4 p.m. My word, what a performance! Eventually, we
returned to PathCare, where we waited in line on plastic chairs. The process
became a jovial affair, and we learned the purpose of each one’s visit. The PCR
results would be emailed, and there was thus no reason to hang around. Finally,
we returned to Vioolsdrift, where camping was at Kwelanga, a lovely spot on the
Orange River.
Crossing
the Orange River: Symbolic passage into new terrain.
As
we wrapped up our chat with Katy, the vibrant owner, I felt a mix of excitement
and anticipation for the journey ahead. The dirt road loomed before us, a path back
to the border checkpoint, but this time we were armed with our PCR tests,
ensuring a smooth passage into Namibia.
Our
first stop in Namibia was a quick pit stop at a petrol station, where we
grabbed a SIM card and fuelled up with a hearty breakfast. After that, Amanda
headed towards Aussenkehr, while I savoured the final moments on the blissfully
smooth paved road. The stretch along the Orange River was a feast for the
eyes—lonely yet breathtakingly beautiful, with the rugged landscape unfolding
like a canvas painted by nature itself.
As
Amanda explored the area, she stumbled upon a lovely resort, perfectly
positioned right by the river. It was idyllic, but there was a catch: the
internet connection was practically non-existent. This meant she had to make
the trek back to find me and share the details. The little hiccup only added to
the adventure.
The
lodge featured a pool and a bar, and the sunset was spectacular as we lit a
fire for a barbecue.
The
Orange River shimmered. The road ahead was dirt. Africa was calling, and I was
ready.
