[From Riding Round in Circles, originally published: 17/07/2018]
A few weeks ago, in anticipation of my trip to Rwanda, I went for a tetanus inoculation. No, no story there—I don’t faint or perform about injections. I just relax my muscles as much as possible (there’s nowhere for the juice to go, so flexing your muscles in panic just makes it hurt more). A tet injection is not a requirement for African travel (not like a yellow fever one), but it’s about 15 years since my last one. Given my penchant for going barefoot—and for standing in fresh cow-pats to warm my feet on cold winters’ mornings (exothermic reaction in the poo)—it seemed like a good idea to have a booster. It was done by a nurse at a pharmacy near my home. She was a “clenched” nurse. You know what I mean? She seemed to disapprove of everything.
Having practised as a community nurse myself for about 10 years, I am not about to sling off about nursing (a profession which I hold in high esteem), but there are some nurses who don’t quite make the grade on my Polyanna Scale of Sister-Sunshine-ness. This was one of them; an old duck, probably about ten years younger than I, she seemed determined not to smile. She stuck to her guns throughout the whole encounter. Despite my most fervent efforts at bathing her in charm, her face remained an SFZ (smile-free zone).
She was punctiliously correct in addressing me—admittedly, not in my mother tongue, but that’s my fault, not hers. I initiated the interchange in Afrikaans; she just followed suit. Somehow, I felt as if I were being judged. Maybe that’s just my paranoia. There was a hastily in-drawn breath (a sort of sotto voce gasp) when she detected a tattoo (gasp!) on my upper arm. She must have already observed the one on my foot. Double skande! Besides, the injection goes into the deltoid, so why was she staring at my biceps?
She asked me why I thought I needed a tet inoculation. I elected not to mention the moo-poo (considering her clenched-ness), but I did tell her that I was planning to ride my motorbike to Kigali. She—rather unprofessionally, in my opinion—told me that she thought I was mad. She opined that no one should ride a motorbike alone! It sounded like a biblical injunction; I could actually hear the bold italics. I suspect that she might also be one of those people who think that no one should ride a unicycle solo, and that nothing should ever be attempted for the first time.
I elected not to “waste my sweetness on the desert air”, so I didn’t try to defend myself. I didn’t mention that I have already done 63000 kilometres alone on a motorbike; and survived. Instead, I just fired a radiant—but unrequited—smile at the SFZ and flexed my tattooed biceps brachialis.
But it got me thinking… again. Why do I ride solo? I think I know perfectly well why, but it’s a good idea, now and then, to revisit the topic and to swing into apologist mode.
It struck me that, for considerably less than this sortie is going to cost me, I could buy a return air ticket to Kigali, book into a good hotel (Mille Collines, perhaps?), eat and drink well, and just relax. I could then return to Mzansi and consider Rwanda as “done”. But I knew that, somehow, that wouldn’t be enough; I didn’t want just to tick it off. Although flying is the safest way to travel by air, I prefer the joy of motorcycling.
When I got home, I did a bit of web-surfing and waded through an awful load of that stuff that I use to warm my feet on winters’ mornings, but I didn’t really encounter anything that served to answer my question adequately.
I suppose, if my name were George Leigh Mallory, and someone had asked me why I choose to do solo journeys, I could just say, airily, “Because they’re there”, and be quoted ever thereafter as though I had said something really profound. I guess I’ll just have to make an effort to address the question myself. Here’s an attempt, which I doubt is exhaustive. On the up side, it is my opinion, not someone else’s.
- It satisfies a deep-seated need for adventure
I’m not trying to claim this as normative for the whole human race. In fact, it gives me some rather disturbing thoughts. Adventure, as a concept, has traditionally been seen as the realm of the idle rich. I’ve never considered myself to be part of the idle rich, but, in truth, relative to most of the other seven-and-a-half billion, I suppose I am. Through no fault of my own, I am literate, well-educated, well-nourished, healthy; I have a steady income, and I have leisure time. If you don’t know where your next meal is going to come from, it might be difficult to see much prospect for adventure, or any attraction in it. - And yet, such is the nobility of the human spirit that, whatever the socio-economic situation, in any community there is always someone—usually judged as “crazy”—who wonders: “What’s on the other side of that hill?”.
Somehow, doing it alone feels more “adventury”. - You learn to balance independence with interdependence
Without doubt, you learn to be independent. It’s all up to you; when/where/whether you go, where/whether you stay; what/when you eat; from whom do you flee, etc. In fact, it comes as a bit of a shock when you return to the “real” world and find that some people think it’s not very socially acceptable if you unilaterally make all the decisions, or elect to take lunch at midnight.
On the other hand, there are times when it’s really great to be part of the human race. When I took Linny II up the Sani Pass, I hit ice five times. And five times the lack of friction, forward momentum, and talent—combined with a disappointing absence of miracles—resulted in the bike going down. I was fine; I just stepped off. Five times, people in 4x4s stopped, helped me lift the bike, held it steady while I remounted, and cheered when I got going again; a kind of Amish Bike-raising Ceremony. No man is an island. - You can do whatever you like, whenever you like
This is a point that I have often made in defending my solo status; no arguments! If I wake up in the morning and feel like taking a day off from travelling, it’s easy; I just do. No debates. No arguments. No one getting the hump. Over the last six years, I have ridden (on a motorbike) over 800 kilometres on one day and fewer than 50 kilometres on another day without having to persuade anyone else that it was a good idea. I’ve also sometimes just stayed in one place an extra day or two because it seemed a good idea. - You come to understand the need for self-discipline
Following logically from the last point; I also recognise that I cannot take days off indefinitely. I have set out upon a quest which I plan to complete. I have to learn to balance the no arguments days off with dutiful days of pressing on. There have been mornings when I have lain in bed, listening to the rain, and wanting nothing more than just to lie there and vegetate (I don’t sleep much, but I can lie and read for eight hours at a stretch, and then come back for more). But, with my itinerary embedded firmly in my mind, I’ve known that I must get up, load the bike, and get moving; so I do. I suppose that’s self-discipline. - You become aware of your skills and your limitations
I thought, aged 59 (some years back), that I knew myself pretty well. I think, in truth, that my wife knew me better than I knew myself; but she is no longer with me. Having been part of a married ‘team’ for thirty-three years, I had to set out upon a new adventure—getting to know myself (not always a pleasant experience). Suddenly, the navigation, the cooking, and the packing were entirely my job, rather than being shared (not that I cooked often). Although it was tough going, I discovered that I could do certain things that I had always believed I couldn’t. For example, I found that, although the meals that I prepare are generally boring, they aren’t fatal (yet). - Your stories are unique
I have had some amazing experiences which, I’m sure, would not have happened if I had been part of a team/gang/platoon. No one else can claim the same experience. Of course, there is an obligation to be honest (there’s the self-discipline again). I’m trying to write a book about my experiences, but it’s a slow process. I’m not a disciplined scribe. - You become a better problem solver
I’ve dealt successfully with all manner of crises on my own, but I must admit that, in 2014, when the fertilizer really hit the windmill, it was great to be able to contact my children for help (my bike was hit by a bakkie (ute, truck) forty kilometres from the home of my elder daughter and her husband). If you’re curious, you can read all about it here: * - You become a good interrogator
Google maps is great, but it’s generally easier to give advice than to act upon it. I have learnt that, although you might have a plan for where you are going to ride, the best way to find out about the route is to ask someone who has just done it. Often these people are sharing your overnight accommodation.
You learn that some people can be somewhat subjective in their descriptions of what they have achieved, so “we rode at 140kph” often translates into “we tottered along at 40kph”. Since water-boarding is not yet an acceptable interview technique for people enquiring about routes, you quickly improve your discernment and the ability to identify cow-pats. Unlike in the cold-feet experience, when researching a route, the cow-pats are to be avoided. - It helps you to stay young at heart
I choose to stay in backpackers’ lodges, where most of the other guests are less than half my age and—increasingly—less than a third of my age. I am refreshed and encouraged by the enthusiasm and idealism of the young people. I find that many (most?) people my age cannot relate to what I’m doing, whereas young guys just accept it as normal. I also enjoy that young people don’t think I’ll be interested if they tell me about their current cholesterol level or their new blood-pressure medicine. - You meet more people
As someone who is not the most gregarious person on the planet, I find this quite amusing (at my expense). Comfortable though I am with my own company, when I’m on the road I frequently go out specifically to find someone to chat to. It’s great to meet someone from a different country/culture/language group and just have some fun. And, of course, they just might have some information about the road you’re planning to ride the next day. - You pick up new languages quicker
The best way to learn a language is not from books, but by talking to people for whom it is a mother tongue, and through immersion. If your inability to speak a language is standing between you and getting something to eat or drink, or not getting shot, you’ll learn surprisingly quickly. - You come to appreciate your own company
Since my wife died six years ago, I have lived alone. I cannot imagine travelling with anyone else, apart from my children. If I were to take any other travelling companion, I suspect that I’d end my trip prematurely in the police cells! - You get pushed out of your comfort zone (and that’s a good thing)
Oh, yes! If comfort 24/7 is what you need, then staying at home is probably your best bet. - It’s fun!
My first option would be to have my wife with me, and to travel as part of a duet. We did plenty of that in the happier days. Since that is no longer possible, I have to say that I have had an unbelievable amount of fun in my solo adventuring. I cannot think of a better option, whatever the clenched nurse might think.
To conclude; I’m not really trying with the evangelical fervour of a new-born vegan to persuade everyone to go out and travel alone, but I want to encourage those who would like to, but feel a bit nervous. Don’t let other people’s negative input dissuade you.
As Amelia Earhart said:
“There’s more to life than being a passenger”.