Chapter 19
South Africa.
We’re finally here.
This side of the post looks proper modern.
I don’t like modern. It implies organisation. Organisation is my enemy. It means bureaucracy.
I head to Immigration. It’s schmicko. Proper tidy.
I wait my turn and then front up to the woman behind the counter and hand her my papers.
She leafs through my passport. Doesn’t look up.
“When will you go back to your home country?”
“What the fuck is it to you??” Doesn’t get said...
“I don’t know.”
She looks up; I'm not sure she gets that response very often...
“O-kaay...”
She gives me back my passport.
“Ok?”
“Ok.”
Fuck...
Done.
No paperwork.
Poor girl’s job must be mind-numbingly boring...
I’m in.
I jump on the Shrike.
We pull out of the post, but get waved down by the cops on the way out.
They want my passport.
Leafing though.
“Where will you stay?”
“In hotels.”
I think they were after a location, not a smart-arse answer...
I’m sick of the fucking questions though.
The cop's cogged that I’m not going to be putting up with any shit. He hands me back the passport and I’m in, in. Properly in.
That’s it.
No more borders.
Never, ever again.
Straight away it’s a huge improvement over Namibia. But, really, that’s just saying it’s a huge improvement on a sensory deprivation level of nothingness. Which isn’t setting the bar all that high.
It’s weird. They must’ve decided that where the hills start is where they’re going to draw the border between the two countries; the road's immediately gone from dead flat to a little hilly, a little green. Things to see. A bit of colour.
The roads are still gun barrel straight though. The slight tailwind of the morning has turned into a hard headwind, and it's absolutely bitchin'.
It doesn’t take long till I’m exhausted. The constant buffeting of the wind makes it feel like I’m going twice as fast as I am; I've even got to get a bit of a tuck going.
The road just goes on and on and on.
I feel like I’m making no progress. I don’t think I’m going to get to Springbok. But there’s nothing between here and there. Absolutely blank on the map and on the landscape.
I feel the desperation drip in, building with my fatigue.
And on and on it builds as the road slowly crawls past.
I feel like I'm treading water...
I take a break, and walk it off.
But it doesn’t help.
The closer I get to Springbok the more frantic things become.
I’m terrified that I’m going to melt down before I make it there.
I was always hoping that when I got to South Africa I’d have a little relief.
With nothing to do, nothing to worry about except getting the miles done. I could be in Cape Town in three days. I could relax a little.
A little respite.
But that’s not going to be the case, apparently.
I grind it out. With ten clicks to go till Springbok it’s getting late in the day, with the sun disappearing behind the hills. And I’m knackered.
Absolutely spent. And as my energy depletes my anxiousness rises. Till I don’t think I can deal with being on this bike anymore. In my head anymore. I have to get out. I can't do this.
I’m swooning in the saddle. So woozy it’s getting dangerous. I can’t sharpen my mind. I can’t control it...
And then I’m here.
Springbok.
Suddenly the infinite time collapses and feels short again.
I scope out a place to stay...
Accommodation options are thin on the ground. One place has no rooms for me. The other place, a hostel, looks like it should be open, but, after pushing the buzzer forever it’s apparent that it’s not open. With no way to call them I’m wondering if I should jump that nasty looking gate and have a snoop around inside.
Nope.
I wait it out. There’s not much else to do.
I don’t want to get on the bike again.
After a long half an hour I’m rewarded for my patience. A big heifer rocks up. She seems shitty to see me, like it would have been easier if there was no business today.
Don’t worry, love, I’m not thrilled to be here either.
We head inside.
It’s shit.
I’m the only one here.
Zero anything.
The place is just a big shed with beds. All I can think of is how fucking cold it’s going to get tonight, and that bedsheet is so thin...
But, beggars can’t be choosers.
Once shacked up and with nothing to do I go to write something.
I write the date, the place, and then the line “Well, here we are! Made it to the end country”… and then, a complete meltdown.
From tired to insane in seconds.
Like I’m not only about to fall off the bed, but fall off everything.
Utter terror. Full blown fight or flight response. Fizzing adrenaline. The overwhelming urge to run to somewhere safer. Anywhere that's not here.
I’m losing my mind.
I’m going to write about it.. I hover my hand ready to write. And... I’m going to be sick.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
What happens on the other side of this?
I can’t write a single letter. To write anything would be to admit it. To admit it is to make it real. And I can’t do that. I can’t. What would happen if I did?
The irreversible is the terror. The utter fear that something is going to happen that can’t be undone. Ever.
I leave.
Walking.
Out of the hostel. Fleeing.
I walk and walk and go get something to eat. Distract myself. And things start to get a little more normal.
I can’t keep doing this.
I’m not going to make it...
And it happens, again...
I hate Springbok.
It’s not at all like I expected. I expected - and wanted - a big modern city. Like my home, or maybe a little smaller, but something like that.
This is a town.
Maybe not even that...
A couple of main roads and some streets. That’s it.
But I can’t leave.
I’m shitting my pants that I’m going to crap out like I did last night, but on the road.
I came good last night, after a while. If you can call this “good”, which it’s not. But it’s taken its toll, it's done it’s damage. I need to give my brain a break. It can’t take much more. I can feel the doom coming.
So, I take a long, long walk.
I head to the top of the mountain whose valley this "town” sort of sits in like a bowl.
Takes a good hour.
To greet me at the top is a monstrous phallus of a monument as big as I am tall, carved out of stone. What it’s doing here is anyone’s guess...
I take a photo, and future me is scathing; when it comes time to go back through the photos of the trip - many years from now - I reckon I’m going to be disappointed in my choices; hardly any photos of Africa, zero humans, just weird stuff. Giant monument to cocks makes the cut.
I head back to town.
Eat lunch.
Spend the afternoon looking for things to distract myself with and find nothing. This joint is just a hole.
I head to the hostel and I can’t write. I can’t read.
I stare at the ceiling for a few hours.
Then sleep.
Break: Achieved.