Once again, it’s our turn to stop. We—the northbound traffic—are required to wait patiently while the southbound traffic comes through on the single-lane section of the road where repairs are being done. Average wait time: 20 minutes, says the sign. Oh, how we become enslaved by our own inventions! I am very hot, sweating copiously in a thick motor-cycling jacket with quilted lining (which seemed appropriate early this morning), matching trousers, gauntlets over nylon inner gloves, huge boots that come nearly to my knees, a balaclava, and a full-face crash-helmet. My default outfit is vest, shorts, and bare feet! I urgently need to be re-gruntled.
I go through the familiar routine once again. Change down from fifth to fourth, wave to the flag-wielding person at the side of the road, change down to third, to second, and, finally, to first gear; flip up my visor; creep to the front of the queue of seventeen cars (yes, I counted them) which have arrived before me; apply the front brake; at the last minute put both feet down to make sure that I avoid the ignominy of dropping my heavily-laden bike in front of all these people; reach back with my left foot to put down the side-stand, which automatically kills the engine; turn off the ignition.
Finally, I can stiffly get off the bike and revivify my atrophied legs. I raise the jaw-protection part of my modular helmet and unzip the front of my jacket. I can’t risk removing my helmet and gloves because I don’t know how far we are into the twenty minutes, and I need to be ready to move the moment we get the signal. I feel much hotter than when I was riding.
Some people keep their engines running—presumably to keep the air-conditioning going—and, in the process, increase my intake of noxious fumes. Others have climbed out of their cars and are indulging in one of South Africa’s newest pastimes; chatting to total strangers in the middle of the motorway somewhere in the boondocks. I remain next to my bike. I don’t feel like talking.
“Jissie, oom! Hoe ver het oom gery? Waarheen ry oom? Is die motorfiets nie swaar nie? Oom is seker baie fiks” (Afrikaans: Gee, uncle! How far has uncle ridden? Where is uncle going? Isn’t the motorbike heavy? Uncle must be very fit!). My fourteen-year-old admirer has suddenly materialised from amongst the waiting cars. I guess he has seen my “CA” registration, which proclaims that I come (proudly) from Cape Town, and is marvelling at my being in the Northern Cape, so far from home.
In order to interrogate me, he has walked past a famous-name four-by-four vehicle that looks like a block of flats on wheels. It has jerry-cans and gas cylinders on the roof, a winch on the bumper, a shovel and an axe strapped to the back, and three of its windows are almost failing in their function as fenestration because of the enormous amount of stickers on them proclaiming that this behemoth has been to all the prime 4x4 destinations on the continent. Strangely, it is in "show-room condition". I doesn't look as if it has ever been off the tar.
Its proud owner, decked out in an immaculate khaki bush jacket, long shorts (with knife-edge creases!), enormous boots, and an olive-green Fidel Castro cap, is standing with his wife/girlfriend, who, contrarily, is wearing a boob-tube that doesn’t reach her navel (I guess that's why it's not called an abdomen-tube), shorts that look a bit like a belt, and pink flip-flops, adorned with plastic daisies, which only partially conceal her bunions.
His pasty office-complexion contrasts sharply with her tan, which makes me wonder if she usually lives in a sun-bed. Her sun-bleached hair is pulled back into a saucy pony-tail, giving an illusion of youthfulness. His image is completed by a selection of hardware attached to his belt—Leatherman, lock-knife, compass, altimeter, water-bottle, satellite phone, kitchen sink. She dangles a small sling-bag, with pink flowers painted on it, from fake-nailed fingers. A silk flower protrudes seductively from the bag; I think it's a chrysanthemum.
Nonchalantly, they lean against their trailer, which is large enough to provide garaging for a compact motor car and a small motorbike. He gazes heroically toward the distant horizon, reminding me of great explorers; she chews gum, reminding me of dairy farming.
Why has my interrogator walked past these heroes of the pathless plains of Africa, and their mighty machine, in order to talk to a hot, smelly, and tired old man on a yellow motor-bike? I don’t know, but similar events play out at most of the stops. For some reason, long-distance motor-cycling seems to carry with it the mystique of knights of old on their chargers. It seems to place you, reluctantly, in some kind of hero status which means that you are never short of people who want to photograph and interview you.
Before you think that I’m being negative, let me hastily add that it’s actually quite fun—being a hero for a few moments—and it makes the twenty minutes in the sweltering sun pass quite quickly.
Finally, the traffic controller swings the sign from STOP to GO and I fire up the engine of my doughty two-wheeled steed, let out the clutch, and proceed cautiously to the next date with my admiring public.