“Do you have a criminal record?” said the very smartly turned-out Sergeant Dlamini at the South African border post. Even I realised that now was not the time to lighten the atmosphere with a bit of idiotic humour.
“No”, I replied in a spinta high tenor.
“Oh” said Dlamini. “You’ve shown up as a ‘hit’ on the Police Database. Are you sure?”
His partner in non-crime—Mokoena—sensing that my second ‘No’ was touched with a modicum of asperity, asked in a conciliatory tone: “Are you sure? Not even a speed fine?”
Sensing that I was on safer ground now (they weren’t accusing me of being an international blood-diamond smuggler or a religious terrorist), I replied a fortiori: “Of course I’ve had speeding fines; I ride a motorbike! But, I’ve paid them all.”
“Do you have the receipts?” asked Dlamini.
“No”, I replied, just managing not to say ‘Don’t be silly, I’m not carrying my entire history on my bike’.
This was starting to feel embarrassing, with about fifteen slavering multi-national tourists observing my interrogation, and wondering—no doubt—if this geriatric biker, resplendent in big boots and black riding attire with a South African national flag emblazoned on each shoulder, might perhaps be another Osama bin Laden, or a reincarnated Dr. Crippen.
I’m not sure where this matter would have ended had not two other people been marched in while we were chatting. They were also, apparently, criminals.
“All right, you may go,” mumbled Dlamini, sounding disappointed, and giving me that look, that only police and customs officers can give, that makes you wonder if you’re not—in fact—an international criminal living in denial.
As I stepped out of the office and returned to my bike I drank deeply of the air of freedom, pleased that I was not in their cosy little lock-up and pleased that the dark forces of the Department of Internal Affairs had not succeeded in thwarting me in my quest to ride up the Sani Pass.
When one of the other ‘criminals’ was also released, he told me that the cops had told him that the new computer system had only been implemented a few days ago and ‘might have some problems’.
I fired up my bike and commenced the ascent from 1500 metres to 2800 meters over a distance of 9 kilometres.
V.I.P.
At the top of the pass, I spoke to many people, including a few tour operators, and, from their feed-back, I realised that it would be foolhardy to continue alone through Lesotho. The consensus was that, after Sani Pass, the roads got worse (not what I had read in my copious research of the route, but I couldn’t ignore these people). With no backup and no cell-phone signal, any small incident that overtook me on the ‘road’ could easily escalate into a major disaster. Accordingly, I resolved, reluctantly, to return to RSA down the precipitous pass. I say ‘reluctantly’, not because I was returning with bad grace, but because I was just plain terrified of riding down that horrible road that had already made me fall off my bike five times. It’s amazing how little control one has when riding on ice. Maybe it's not amazing; it's fairly obvious, really.
When I was about to leave in the morning, I decided to ask around to see if anyone descending in a four-by-four would be willing to take my bags, thus making my bike lighter and—therefore--easier to pick up after the inevitable spill or two. The first person I spoke to, whom I had met the night before when we found that we had mutual acquaintances, not only agreed to take my bags, but offered to take the panniers as well. This gets the bike down to 200kg, which I can lift back up without help after a fall. I asked him to leave my stuff with the police at the RSA border post because I would probably be far behind them, since I was waiting for the ice to thaw as far as possible before I descended.
My trip down felt to me a bit like the voyage of Ernest Shackleton. Suffice it to say that, after my second fall, I said ‘yes’ to an offer by a gentleman who was half my age, twice my strength, and had legs about six inches longer than mine. He said he would ride the bike down the pass for me. He has ridden off-road bikes far larger than Linny II for much of his life, and he made the trip look like the easiest thing in the world. I contented myself with watching his performance from the air-conditioned comfort of his huge four-by-four, skilfully piloted by his wife.
When we re-entered RSA I couldn’t see my luggage anywhere. Trying not to panic, I stood at the end of the line of about twelve people, all waiting to have our passports stamped. Dlamini opened the window of the office and asked me to step inside. Oh no! Not again!
“I’ve got your bags here for you. Pedro asked me to keep them for you”, he said as I entered. Mokoena took my passport from me and stamped it, ahead of the twelve, who were now starting to stare. The two cops and I had a pleasant chat while hoi polloi filed grumbling past the window.
“Right”, said Dlamini when we had finished talking about the royal house of Swaziland, Madiba’s approaching end, and international terrorism. “Let me help you carry your luggage out to your bike”. He picked up the two heavier bags, leaving me with the panniers, which are much easier to carry. He put the bags down next to Linny II, shook my hand and wished me a safe journey.
People are nice.