VI. God's Plan.

5.6.18

The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. In my case, through the bleak dystopian cycling world I now live in, the true object as well as deliverer of these three evils has been Dominika: my bike. In actual fact the bike is not just a simple object, but a blunt instrument of my own misery. The bike is no longer Dominika, my wide-hipped Kenyan princess that I ran away with into the tropics of Africa, as so many other Europeans have done all over the continent. Unlike the wrinkled and rich Italians on the coast of Kenya, who keep at least one African mistress, I have given up my one and only Dominika. Only figuratively, as we are still married in the sense that all my money, energy and time is spent on coaxing the old girl down the road. The bike physically and mentally has been the giver of great suffering. I write this retrospectively, and it has taught me much (some) humility, patience and generosity (to many many mechanics). One of the most significant of all it has solidified my belief that Mann can plan; but only God decides.

Nil Desperandem Christo Duce. As each seemingly unfixable bike problem has arisen I have met many generous souls and great mechanics, as well as some not so good mechanics – for example the ones found outside Lusaka, who I would like to see turned into boerswurst and roasted on Lucifer’s eternal braii. There has been a fair few since the last write-up, the boys at the engineering yard in Livingstone, Nick, Eben Snr/Jnr, and Hal - a special thanks to Hal and the Ebens, both did it for God’s work and my own enterprise. How I met all these people, plus many more, is a peregrination and a half, so take a seat and read on.

After delaying one night to get my saddlebag bracket welded back together, I finally set off from the iconic Livingstone through to the border of Botswana. Lord knows how many kilometres I have done since this point as I write this just beyond Keetmanshoop, South Namibia, but this is where I left you all (my single-figure readership). I set off in the dark (5am) with a head-torch, crossed on the ferry, got my feet wet into Botswana and then swept down through the Elephant Highway to Pandamatenga. This was all done on a packet of jelly babies. No-one can divine when game might magically appear, my eyes constantly peeled in all directions, in constant lookout for extreme wildlife. Locals do not setup shop for supplies along these empty roads. Nothing for to see on this day, instead it was a long arduous attack on the roads and the next day promised no respite albeit a higher chance of some elephants. At the end of that day, I heard news of Daniel (Danish Jesse Pinkman) again and that he was only narrowly in front me even with a day’s head start! I slept foetally in my Toys ‘R’ Us tent with smug satisfaction.

Dominika, still named thus here, had been singing and the idea of 200kms the next day, and with the promise of elephants, was going to be child's play - and it was for 150 odd kms. I had been playing Faro with the bag bracket as it had already half broken during my crossing into Botswana (not the newly welded part), but where it is screwed to my seat - only then for it to fully break. No problem I thought, then balancing it with some wire and bungees, this is foolproof, surely it would last 50kms past any roadside elephants. With chutzpah alone holding it together; it was not enough and suddenly there was a louder more permanent sounding noise. This time the bike frame itself had broken leaving the bag bracket completely unsupported and untethered to the rest of the bike. I was dead in the water, crag-fast, prey and soon to be roadkill; so I pushed my bike to a nearby radio tower before finding a lift to Nata. I was picked up by some very German Germans, Ben the driver had by chance cycled from Cyprus to Cape Town and I jumped in the back. The grandpa of the group in the front seat did not push his seat forward so I endured an irksome but necessary lift. Next to me was Franz or Hans, who looked like an extra from ‘Vikings’ and proved uninterested in anything and soon we fell into a German silence. Fast-forward an incredibly forlorn day of being driven around searching for a tic-welder until I was eventually told that the nearest one was in Maun. Hold the expostulation, as I had to get a bus to Maun, yes another one - it was a crushing few hours and took everything to thank God in his wisdom to cripple my bike at this moment as later and only a few kms on from the breakage we saw elephants - painfully, as it wasn’t on my bike…

The late-night bus to Maun was terrifying, with broken lights that had a strobe effect and a driver with a sense of divine-right of safe passage for him and his passengers. I made it to the safe harbour and terrific hosts Mark and his partner Ali Flatt. This encomium cannot compliment them and their great help enough. I arrived In Maun exhausted with a broken bike and left them, after considerable effort and time completely recharged and the bike fixed up. It was here that I was first introduced to the Saffer farmer phrase of ‘making a plan’; and plan we did. They quickly introduced me to the best mechanic south of the Equator, Hal Duffie - an ex Rhodesian airforce engineer and a leather coated free spirit. We covered many a topic during his master class of how to ‘make a plan’ with just the scrap in his yard to refashion my brackets for my saddlebags. His family moved to South Africa from Newcastle Upon Tyne, Howay, after suffering huge losses in their shipping business from the Napoleonic Wars. They sold their last ship and settled just south of Durban. After chewing a lot of fat, the bike was fixed and all was jakeloo for the next morning to set forth. This was no ordinary plan it was God’s plan.

I made camp in the bush, with the heavens as my roof, brambles and burrs as company. I thought I heard some gamey noises as I fell into a slumber and awoke to two cows looking in at me. From here I made the huge shift to the Namibian border clocking well over 200kms, my first ‘daddy’ double hundred Alastair Cook style, and passed through the last portion of barren and desolate bush of Botswana. Just before crossing the border, I stopped at one of the many lay-by picnic spots for a late luncheon, seeing two cars already there thought 'hello' to some sympathy food. As soon as I was off the bike I was given a hearty Christian greeting by Uncle Mac and two other christian attendants. I wanted a quick lunch (and maybe some of their tasty looking snacks) but as we got talking I realised this was going to be difficult. Mac chewed my ear off as I took out my meagre picnic, and eventually he got to the big question of ‘what my relationship with the lord was?’ ‘He has abandoned and forsaken me to live a life of purgatory on a bike’ is what I wanted to say, instead mumbled something about being raised an Anglican, and nihilism… I finally sat down as they left, but to my great honour they jumped back out their cars to ask for a prayer! The four of us formed a square with hands on shoulders next to my bike and Mac, now ensconced gave the longest and slowest sermon I’ve had to date. It was righteous. Not a snack had been offered to save my soul, as I took my first ravenous bite when they left, the overly avuncular Mac boomed back to me and summoned me over. Crisps, chocolate? Nope, it was just a bible he wanted to give me and not even a King James.

The prayers saw me out of Botswana, but were not enough to stop 5 punctures en route to Gobabis, Namibia. Someone had also decided that my top 3 gears were no longer of use to anyone least of all me, so I grinded my way there through the prevailing East to West winds of Namibia. Botswana now completed with mixed feelings as Dominika’s antics sadly took much of the glow of riding through a spectacular country. I had been picturing myself riding past elephants for some time and to be cruelly taken off the bike at the crucial moment left me embittered. Dominika no more, just a bicycle and a seat designed by sadistic chaffage lovers. (There were many other bike issues far too tired to write them all down here).

Gobabis was my first delicious taste of Namibia and the country has not disappointed since. Like much of west Botswana and the eastern part of Namibia, the landscape is largely huge swathes of bush divided into great ranches for game and beef. Gobabis, the eastern capital of Namibia, is the meat capital of the country and I stocked up on some of the best biltong I have had the pleasure of chewing on (chilli chutney flavour). The road from the border to Windhoek (the capital) is called the Trans-Kalahari Highway, which sounds exciting and exotic, it lived up to it. The road is so straight that inanimate objects appear as tiny dots on the shimmering horizon painstakingly appearing as cars or trucks to zip by you in a sudden rush of wind. The roads are so straight that they are causing problems in government and designs have been made to snake them as people keep falling asleep. I regularly saw pumba and baby pumba running off as well as some giant Oryx jumping a fence off in the distance - this was the ideal tonic to the strong headwinds as my head swiveled taking in the extreme geography either side of the road.

As I have moved further through Namibia, the whole country I’ve seen so far (bar the North) reminds one of Indiana Jones, it’s like Raiders and The Last Crusade. There are even Nazis still living here, the Furher’s birthday is toasted, so I was told, in some remote towns. Mostly, they are OAPs or dead, but this all gives the place an uncharted feel - very Hergé. If I was a Nazi (careful), I could not imagine a better place to stash some war plunder. Who knows? Maybe the Russian Tsar’s amber room could be stored in a hollowed out dune, somewhere in the shifting desert.

My mood and relationship with the bike has greatly improved as I was able to fit a new cassette in Windhoek and have since had 4 memorable days clocking 220, 190, 160, and again 150kms in enjoyably and relative sanguine fashion. This was all in a row with just one puncture - now, with a day to go to the South African border! The arid Kalahari - or should I say Tatooine complete with binary sunsets - part of which I have been passing through for the last week, took a steep upturn in the last day and suddenly I was on the moon; the south of Namibia has given me probably the most scenic rides since Tanzania. Namibia’s people also have the inherent generosity of the continent that I have been so fortunate to discover in almost all places I have visited, but there is something distinctly African and special about Namibia. The people mostly speak a Khosian dialect called Bantu, worth a listen/youtube/google with its curious clicks and other bizarre noises. Click click knock knock. The population of Namibia is small compared to the big boys of Kenya, Tanzania and Malawi at 2,5 million and the people have very large characters. Politely, they are big boned. The size of your wallet is very much reflected on the size of the person. Its old school, almost medieval - to gorge lavishly is to show where the money sits. Proper steak, boerswurst, biltong and much more is always on the go; with waists reflecting diet accordingly. Who am I to judge? With my own previous diet of overcooked chicken, beans, rice and ugale/nsima - if it was to be found or else it has been wearisome canned food. So to find myself in a country that do not just have an egg for breakfast, but go the whole blessed way with bacon, sausage, bread, fruit, cereal etc as well as the biltong for my roadside lunch and then steak for dinner has been a cause for celebration. Hallelujah. The net result is that I have actually put on a few kilos since my exit from Nairobi and my disproportional tan is now married to my even more disproportioned legs.

I will see you all at my triumph through Cape Town with Table Top Mountain looking on as I am christened Alexander Africanus. God willing.

6.6.18

The next day after writing this and feeling like life was good, I had a sharp reminder of the fallible nature of man compared to our heavenly father’s almighty grip over us. Life was getting too easy and I was getting complacent thinking this was not so difficult after all. Tailwinds finally having flipped from naggingly in front of me, to my rear and a steady but not steep decline. I was burning rubber and enjoying the terrific Star Wars scenary. A New Hope for Dominika and myself? Alas, the empire was to strike back in the form of a doubly long stretch cattle truck cutting a rare corner.

In an incredibly intense fraction of a second, I went from enjoying Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks thinking has there been a better record made to being hit by a huge force of wind so strong that my bike was nearly lifted out from under me. The next moment I was chewing grit. The front wheel was buckled and my left-wrist shot. My dreams of converting to a left-arm chinaman are finito. It was another cruel twist of fate and my options were scarce as I was in very wild territory. Both, the bike and myself are fine (ish) - nothing permanent, he says weeping. It was the closest I’ve come to thinking sod it and pushing the bike into the nearest canyon - of which, there were many nearby. I was crushed.

What actually happened? It was simply the wind and a truck driver I don’t think saw me. I had the hill and the strong tailwind with me and the truck passed incredibly close cutting the bend bringing with it a torrent of contrasting air straight from the windbags of King Aeolus. Our laws of motion were certainly not balanced; think priori incantatum. It was a very unfortunate as well as fortunate moment, the truck was just a couple of meters from me and it could have been very different, however I will make it to Cape Town on this bike. God wills it.

7.6.18

Now in Springbok, South Africa need a day off to rest my wrist and to watch the first test in Johannesburg. Deus Vult