Ever since I was a child I have always questioned the majority and taken a contrarian point of view. Part of that is down to the fact that I just like being awkward, but part I think that this is down to the fact that early on in my life I saw how afraid many people were to challenge the opinions of those with some degree of authority. The bigger and stronger boy(s) in a group of friends would state something as fact and all the others would agree whether that or not it was obvious that the statement was false. It always puzzled me, especially when the statement was patently untrue, and I usually challenged the speaker. Of course, this never helped me to win friends or teams of admirers. But I did earn some grudging respect when my challenges were eventually proven valid.

With regards to Covid, I was very much of the opinion that it was grossly over-hyped and that the best solution would have been to simply let it rip. I have little doubt that the number of deaths would have been no greater, or not much greater than they actually were, bearing in mind that a lot of deaths were recorded as being caused by Covid, even though the link to the disease was, at best, tenuous. Certainly, the consequential damage to a range of areas including the economy, the ever popular ‘mental health’ syndrome, actual physical health, education and so forth, caused by lockdowns, self-isolating, mask-wearing, vaccine programs, policing and authoritarianism and general pig-headed stupidity far outweighed any good that those measures may have achieved. And yes, it was obvious from the outset that this would be the case. Anybody who denies that is not just the case but entirely foreseeable, is, in my opinion, a liar and/or a fool.

With the Russia-Ukraine war, the speed at which the entirely uneducated, uninformed and foolish followed the lead of those in authority, who to a voice condemned Putin’s action, made it clear to me that everything was not so straightforward. A bit of investigation made it obvious that there most certainly was some justification for the act of aggression. Despite everything that western leaders and the media have said about the wrongness of the invasion and the inevitable defeat of Russia, it seems increasingly likely that after nearly 2 years of fighting tens of thousands of lost lives and untold infrastructural damage, Russia is likely to win the war and Putin will get what he wanted. All of which could have been avoided had the West listened to his perfectly justified grievances concerning the treatment of Russian natives in Ukraine and the invitation for Ukraine to join Nato. But America’s military-industrial complex needed an enemy to justify its warmongering. Not just any enemy. It had to be big enough to be a threat and create fear amongst the plebs, but not so big that the Wast (America) could not defeat it if it came to full scale war. China is too big and would probably kick the butt of US/NATO and so China can pretty much do what it wants though it poses a far greater threat than Russia every could. North Korea is too insignificant. But Russia, she is the Goldilocks of enemies. If one thinks about it, it is a bit odd that the West has such a thing against Russia. It is a European, Christian civilization with great art and literature, that has never really posed a threat to Western Europe, though the opposite is not true. The communist era was an aberration, communism being what it was, but the US was as guilty as the Soviets were for the Cold War. Russia had suffered horribly at the hands of Germany and it was quite understandable that they wanted buffer states to keep NATO at a safe distance. The ‘bomb’ gave America the bravado to threaten the USSR and threats of aggression lead to threatening responses. The arms race that ensued kept America rich.

As for the Middle Eastern wars to which the neocons are so enamoured, they are a herd of “milch cows”. They just keep on giving. Long may they continue.

And this takes us to Palestine. I know that I am probably a lone voice crying out int the wilderness so, I am just going to say this. Generally speaking, I do not endorse the killing, torture abuse and kidnapping of people, whoever they are. Inevitably there are moments when any of those actions are justifiable if it is for the greater good. Though the question of what is the greater good is usually pretty subjective. To put it simply, yes, I would kidnap, torture and possibly kill someone to save the life of my child. But by the same token, I would fight to defend someone who was being abused without justification. And revenge, is never, ever justification.

With respect to the actions of Hamas on the 7th of October, there has been a considerable number of allegations about the horrific nature of their behaviour, or rather I should say alleged behaviour. Because it is becoming increasingly clear that many of the more egregious accusations lack any evidence whatsoever. I do not condone the Hamas attack but having seen and learned more about the way the Palestinians have been treated by the Israelis since 1945 and how they continue to be treated, I can understand why they came to that decision. Sadly, for the Palestinians, it will backfire. Not only will Israel’s military retribution be great and vast numbers slaughtered, but they will lose evermore of their land and they and their descendants will be destined to live as refugees under even harsher conditions than which they have been accustomed to the last 75 years.

What has been happening in Palestine, is many, many times worse than the way that blacks suffered under apartheid South Africa.

I am attaching a number of links to various videos. Watch them. And read the Controversy of Zion by Douglas Reed. It can be found as a free download on the web.

I had arranged to meet Mark in time for lunch. I reckoned on the journey taking me 4 hours. I would not be able to go fast for two reasons. I did not like exceeding 100 kph on dirt and with no chance of refuelling, I would need to make sure that I had enough fuel to make it all the way. So shortly after 08.00 I said goodbye to Andrew and Linda and set off. In an effort to make sure I had enough petrol, I filled up with fuel at the last garage leaving town.

It was a bright, sunny day and I got to start enjoying the countryside. The road turned from tar about 20km out of town and I proceeded on a very decent gravel road, travelling at about 80-90 kph. I was still up in the high plateau and there was a fair amount of vegetation. Occasionally there would be a sign pointing to a farm and I thought there could be many worse places to live.

Eventually, I started to descend through rocky passes with twists and turns. Although there was virtually no traffic, I did pass a car or two coming in the opposite direction and that meant that I had to be very careful going round corners. I also came across a cyclist, heavily laden down with panniers, who presumably on some mammoth tour of the country. I did not envy him one bit, though it did rather diminish the scale of my rugged adventure.

Speaking of rugged, there are some things they just don’t tell in the magazine articles about touring through Africa. What is about to follow, is not for the squeamish. For safety and comfort, it is necessary to wear specialised clothing when riding a motorbike. Apart from boots, gloves and a helmet, I wear a jacket and pants of synthetic material. These have thick padding at the shoulders, elbows, knees and hips, greatly restricting one’s movements. When answering the call of nature, taking a pee is a bit of mission in that there are so many zips involved, it is something of a battle to find the right one. However, all that is mere child’s play when compared to what is involved in relieving one’s bowels. All the padding in the trousers, coupled with the restriction of the boots, mean that it requires some deal of manoeuvring to slide the pants sufficiently far down the legs before one sits down on the loo. Add a sense of urgency to the proceedings and it becomes a fairly stressful event. But, what happens when you are miles from civilization? How does one deal with such matters? I can assure you, it is not as easy as you might think.

The urge to make a pit stop had been growing for a while. I had been looking for a suitable spot, but nothing had appeared that offered sufficient cover. After all, even if there is little traffic, it only takes one passing car to see….

(This journal was written in 2009. I am not sure why, but  I never finished it. Maybe I will endeavour to do so, but time will have taken its toll on my memory.)

It was still early when I awoke in the half light. One can survive almost any hardship if at the end of the day, or the start of it, there is a hot shower to be had. In this case the shower water was both hot and plentiful. Having taken care of my ablutions, I set up my camp stove and put a mess tin full of water on to boil.

There was no rush to get going as I only had about a 4 hour ride into Windohoek where I would be staying with friends. As they would be working, there was not much point getting there too early. Between mouthfuls of hot sweet tea and bites of a rusk, I unhurriedly went about the business of collapsing and packing my tent and sleeping bag. As I drank I pondered deep thoughts and eventually I came to the conclusion that tea stewed over a gas stove using powdered milk and drunk out of a tin mug, is better than any other you will find elsewhere on earth. God it tastes good. Funny thing is though, it’s a bit like drinking Ouzo in Greece. It tastes much better there than it does at home.

It was after 09.00 by the time I mounted up and left the camp site. I first needed to fill up with fuel and then I was on my way.

The terrain was beginning to change as I proceeded north. Hills with trees and grass growing, made a break from the flat, bad lands that I had been through the day before.  I had not been able to make contact with Andrew and Linda for a couple of days and I did not know where they lived, but I did have a work address. Luckily my atlas carried a map of central Windhoek.

It is not a big town, but a busy one and there was a fair amount of fast moving traffic. It is commonly observed by Zimbabwean visitors, that it bears a strong resemblance to Salisbury, pre 1980. It is clean and tidy and pretty without being spectacular. The big difference being perhaps that in Windhoek the cars are modern. Not a Renault 4 or a Datsun 120Y in sight. A large complicated road, i.e. one that suddenly prevents further access without warning, glorified under the name of Robert Mugabe Boulevard. I somehow had to cross this to get to my destination. When I did eventually walk into Andrew’s office, he was greatly surprised as he said none of the locals could ever find it. As he still had work to do, he said he would show me to his home and leave me to relax until he and Linda got home a bit later.

Andrew is an architect and a native of Namibia. His wife Linda is from SA and a teacher. They had been tenants of mine a year earlier in Cape Town and had suggested I visit them on my way through. Little did they know how readily I accept such invitations.

Later that evening over a couple of beers or more, Andrew told me 3 interesting facts about Namibia. Despite the recession elsewhere, the country was booming. There was such a lot of building going on that architects were being recruited from SA, where they could not find work. While Namibia is a source of much mineral wealth, so is Angola but the port of Luanda is not up to scratch so many goods come to Walvis Bay from where they are shipped around the world.

Secondly, the Chinese were flocking to the country like you would not believe. The population of Namibia was only 2 million, but there were 300,000 Chinese in the country. They were investing heavily in Uranium and copper. Apparently China is going electric. They build roads, dig mines, erect buildings and do it using all their own workers. No native Namibians are involved. Even the cleaners are Chinese.

The third fact, was that Namibia is the second biggest consumer of Jaegermeister in the world (after Germany, presumably). Actually, that in itself is not particularly interesting. Jaegermeister tastes like cough mixture. It is drinkable, but I would not want to make a habit of it. But what it does emphasise is the strong Germanic link between Namibia and its erstwhile colonial master, Germany. Much of the white population is German and many of the businesses are controlled by them. Their legendry efficiency helps explain why things work so well in Namibia compared to the rest of Africa. Things are not perfect, but it would be churlish to whinge too much.

Windhoek is located in central Namibia in the Khomas Highland plateau area around 1,700 metres (5,600 ft) above sea level. In early August the sun shines hot from a clear sky, but in the shade it is very cold. One is torn between wearing a warm jacket and then having to remove it once out in the sun.

Many of those who live there seem to have a connection with the countryside. They either own game farms or know people who do and spend much of their free time out in the bush. They know about driving in the desert and how and when to lower tyre pressures and other tricks of survival.

On Friday evening Andrew and I went to the ‘legendary’ hangout called Joe’s Beer Garden where we both had a couple too many beers and the inevitable Jaegermeister. From there, via a Steers Burger bar we went to join Linda and some friends for a few more beers. Goodness it was cold. They are quite rugged people these Namibians.

Next day, I had a bit of a tour of the place and they took me to see a building site that Andrew was working on; a home for some friends which they were building on a new development a few kms out of town;  pretty with some nice views.

Across

9. General disgust when leader leaves the platform. (5)

I am riding along on a quiet empty road. There is a smile on my face. Life is good. And cold. Fifteen minutes later, the sun has risen, but it is no warmer. That little gap between my trouser cuff and my boot is letting in the chill-factored air. I am going to stop. Its not that I am a wimp, its just that it is silly not to get oneself totally sorted when one is riding across a continent. Right, my gloves cover my wrists and my boots overlap my trousers. My lapels are covered by my helmet.  I have about 90 minutes to ride until the border. Maybe less. The world becomes gradually alight. Hillocks are the geographical feature of the day. Small shrubs, are there big shrubs, are scattered across the veld on either side of the road. Tussocks of yellow grass sit listlessly in the still air, belying the speed at which I am travelling. I am not speeding. Well not so as you would accuse me of being a hooligan, though possibly I am breaking the speed limit. I am heading north. The road is empty and straight and flat. The rising sun is somewhere in front of me. Who is anal enough to remember exactly where the sun is at any given time?

The border is getting closer. The hillocks give way to hills. Understandably perhaps, tussocks do not give way to tusks. Signs denote my pending arrival. I slow down as buildings appear and directions point me to the border. The Orange River. Have you ever wondered about the connection between the Dutch House of Orange and the fruit that gave name to the colour, or the colour to the name? So have I.

Park the bike. Show my passport. A Khoi San woman is not comfortable with the computer that she needs to enter my details. Her colleague shows her what keys to press. She logs in. Her colleague calls me to the next booth. The Khoi San lady picks her nose and sits down. Cultural diversity and jobs for all. Yay.

Across the Orange River into Namibia. Name, address, passport, some tax or other. Time change. It is one hour earlier here. Back on my steed and head for the first fuel stop on the outskirts of town. A town that rejoices under the name of Vioolsdrif. Only 8 litres. A cup of coffee and I am back on the road. The B1 towards Windhoek.

We all know that Alaska is covered in ice. Norway, as Douglas Adams explained, is a land of fjords. Brazil is all jungle. Sweden is full of nude models, some of them female. Those are comfortable truisms. Namibia has always been one vast desert as far as I was concerned. The maps always made it clear that this was the case. No need to question. But let me tell you just how stark the comparison is between South Africa and its northern neighbour on either side of the river. Namibia is completely and utterly barren. A wastescape from an obscure planet. It is flat. There are no Lawrencesque sand dunes. No camels or any sign of life. Just a few rocks scattered here and there and then dull, flat earth. Sandy coloured but no sand. I did not need a map at all. A sheet of sand paper would have been just as useful.

The road is flat and straight and smooth. My plan for the day is to view the Fish River Canyon. If it appeals, I will find a camp site and spend the night there. I have a choice. The shorter route, appears according to the map, to be gravel road. The longer route involves gravel too, but less of it. I decide on the latter option. If I find the going too tough on gravel, I will at least have made progress towards Windhoek if I have to turn back. Mile after mile. The road is so straight and flat. Not a car to be seen. Strangely, I see a pedestrian. A tribesman walking placidly along the seemingly endless strip of macadam. Going where, coming from where, I cannot imagine. The world is desolate.

An hour and a half later, a sign appears. Turn left. Stop. Breath in, breath out. You are now leaving civilization, ha, the irony, and entering the unknown. Any form of accident could have serious repercussions, for nobody other than me. It’s a gravel road. 90 km on gravel. How will I manage? What happens if it gets really bad after 60 km? Will I turn back? Right boys, lets go for it. 30kph. Not too bad. 40 kph. Ok, I can do this. 60, 70, 80. Oops, bit of a wobble through that bit of sand. Need to be careful. 80 is ok. I will hit habitation in an hour or so.

Ai Ais is marked. Signs of life appear. A car passes me. Namibian Parks. I must surely pay a fee. Nothing in Africa is free, especially if God given. There is a gate, but no attendant. There are few buildings with cars parked outside. The sign indicates the direction to the Fish River Canyon. Am I supposed to check in? Others appear to be doing so, but nobody is directing me. Oh well, I need to stop for a pee, I may as well go and pay and check that I all is ok. I pay my N$50, or whatever the fee is. The Khoi San man is not really bovvered.

I set off again, Damn, the road is suddenly seriously corrugated. I am bumping along like you cannot imagine. Try going slowly. No good. Speed up better, but it can’t be good. Oh what the heck. Go fast. Suddely the corrugations are gone and I am flying down the road. I can see the look out point.

The Canyon is big. It is the second largest canyon in the world. Some people ‘walk it’. I just looked at it. After 5 minutes there is not much left to do, so I got back on my motorbike and drove to my next destination.

But seriously folks, as I keep saying, its all about the journey. I find a place to fill up. Families, German tourists, with loaded up 4x4s lounged around as their vehicles consumed litre after litre of fuel while I waited my turn. The road goes straight, to the left of and parallel to a railway track. Then zig and zag. Cross the track and now I am riding to the right and parallel to it. Tar road ahead. Turn right and head back towards Keetmanshoop and the B1.

At Keetmanshoop, I feel that I have achieved something magnificent. I have travelled over difficult terrain in a dangerous environment towards a specific destination, thereby fulfilling an ambition and I have made it back to civilization. Not quite as you might know it mind, but we are talking in relative terms here.

The last stretch is only another 300 km towards Hardap where I will camp for the night. There is a dam in Hardap with a pretty camp site. It has been recommended to me. But I take the view that it is getting late and I wont be sitting around enjoying the view, so I stop just short at a place called Mariental.

The camp site is modest but adequate. I am the only person there when I arrive at about 5 pm. I erect my tent in solitude, which is important when you are not completely confident about what goes where. It is damn embarrassing when others watch you struggle to stick the correct rod through the wrong orifice. Tents seem to have far too many orifices.

After a shower, a meal of the most delicious pot noodles and a glass of whiskey, I am ready for bed. Two other vehicles have pulled in. One of the campers is a tour operator who has just dropped off a group of Norwegians in Cape Town and is heading back to his base in Windhoek. He had been in Zimbabwe. It turns out we knew some people in common.

Into my tent, sleeping bag with two liners. Balaclava on my head. I know it is going to be cold. It is.

6 Across:  Capture vagrant, male to be put away (4)

I always have a wonderful feeling of excitement and anticipation when I set out on a journey such as this. An adventure into the unknown does not fill me with dread as it does with some people, but rather with huge optimism and exhilaration. I do not become afraid of things that might go wrong. I do not expect them to. Things will always turn out right. And as I rode off, I felt that I had broken free of the bounds of conventional life, if not permanently, at least for a few weeks. I was no longer ordinary, I was extraordinary.

The Wednesday morning rush hour traffic was of little consequence to me as I sped my way out of the city suburbs, north west, along the N7. Though I was wearing the inner lining of my riding suit, the cold wind would I knew at some point start to make itself felt and I would need stop to allow myself to warm up. But for now my own adrenaline was doing an admirable job.

While planning this trip, I was often asked why I did not go by car. Unless you have been on a motorbike, it is difficult to explain the thrill of riding one. A car is a sterile cocoon in which you sit numbly watching the miles roll by. You are detached from the environment, distracted by the car’s interior and its petty comforts. On a motorbike, you are at one with the road. Every kilometre counts and every one is a pleasure. You feel the buffeting wind, and every bump along the way. You have no roof over your head, or panels to block your view. You are the environment. The rapidity with the bike responds to your commands gives you a feeling of immense power and control. Slow moving traffic is not a problem on a motorbike, it is an opportunity for further satisfaction and you do not have to be a daredevil show off or a maniac, terrorising other road users, in order to feel the thrill.

The west coast of South Africa is very different from the east. Whereas the former is warmed by the Mozambique current sweeping down from the equator providing rainfall and a comfortable climate, the west is chilled by the Benguela current, driven by the South Easterly Trade Winds  which bring cold water from the bottom of the ocean to the surface and which flows northwards from Cape Point up towards Angola. There is little rainfall and the countryside is barren in comparison.

By the end of July, spring is on its way. I had been told that the flowers of the Western Cape, were beginning to come into bloom. There are a magnificent sight and well worth the journey from the city. Acres and acres of gently rolling hills are covered with the most gorgeous and brightly coloured petals. I was anxious to see them again, having done so four years earlier, but sadly the day was cold and overcast and without the sunlight they were unwilling to display themselves to maximum effect. (The photo below is from an earlier visit to the area.)

The road took me through the wheat growing districts of Malmesbury towards the aptly named Citrusdal where huge orange groves produce millions of oranges destined for the markets of Europe and the world. But first I had to climb the Piketberg Pass. It is a glorious sensation riding a bike through the bends of a well cambered road, leaning from side to side as if guiding your own personal roller coaster. As one climbs higher and higher, the view of the plain below spreads out like a vast patchwork quilt.

I stopped at Citrusdal for fuel and for what Americans demurely call a comfort break, but which we, in my army days, used to call a piss parade. A cup of coffee and a doughnut added to my overall feeling of wellbeing. I had discovered in the 6 months that I had been riding my bike, that I needed a rest and a stretch every couple of hours or so. It did not need to be more than five minutes, but if I am making good progress and am ahead of schedule then I am comfortable taking longer. That is the difference between biking and driving. On a bike, the journey is the thing, whereas in a car, the destination is my goal. The sooner I get there the better and I seldom stop anywhere longer than is strictly necessary.

I pressed further north, crossing off in my mind the names of the towns and villages that I passed: Cederberg, Clanwilliam, Vredendal, Vanrhynsdorp, Nuwerus, Bitterfontein, Garies, Karkams, Kamieskroon and finally Springbok. As I progressed, the agricultural heartland of the Western Cape gave way to the bleaker terrain of the Northern Province. Vast rock formations, brown boulders of strange shapes defined the passing landscape. Every so often a forlorn sign would indicate a track that must lead to a remote farmstead, a vestige of those early Trek Boers who set out from the Cape centuries ago in search of grazing land for their cattle, only to discover that they should have gone north east rather than north west; right out of the front door, rather than left. But the people of these parts are hardy, simple and resilient. They know to help each other and do so willingly and happily.

Further breaks along the way saw me arriving in Springbok by mid afternoon. My plan had been to camp at a big site attached to a large motel on the outskirts of town. I approached my destination with some misgivings. The terrain was bleak, flat and devoid of any natural shelter. A cold wind was blowing and I saw that site was deserted. The motel itself was drab and uninteresting. I made enquiries about staying there, but it was so unattractive I decided to head for the bright lights. The road took me into the main street of a bustling little country town. Shops, garages, estate agents, chemists lined the street. I enquired at a cafe if there was a backpackers lodge. Sure enough there was one, not 50 yards back along the street from whence I had come.

The lady at the desk was a friendly Afrikaans woman, who chatted with me about my trip. She gave me a few pamphlets about the area. Once checked in I was shown to a large converted garage built from corrugated iron with 12 bunk beds and a kitchenette at one end. My hostess opened the garage door at the far end and allowed me to wheel in my bike for safe keeping. I was the only guest. I removed my panniers and the rest of my gear and made myself a cup of tea. Then feeling invigorated once more, I decided to go and explore the town and its environs.

This is what the brochures say about the town.

‘Springbok is the capital of Namaqualand. It takes its name from the large herds of springbok which used to pass through the arid valley to drink water from the spring. The herds were driven away when copper resources were discovered near the small settlement. In the middle of the last 19^th century, the area started to be mined, and a railway line to the coast was built for the transport of the ore. The railway line has been dismantled long ago, but the old steam-engine can still be seen in the mine museum of Nababeep, some kilometres out of Springbok. There one can also visit one of the last remaining working copper mines. Most of the mines in this area were closed down.

Springbok is the centre of the wildflower region, and each year in spring the town experiences a great invasion of tourists. Then the small camping site is booked to the last spot, and the visitors stream into the Goegab Nature Reserve. Even out of season, this nature reserve offers an interesting insight into the unique plant world of Namaqualand.’

On my way back into town, I stopped to do a bit of shopping for my evening meal which I cooked over a somewhat dodgy gas stove. After supper I had a long phone call with a dear friend who had been very ill and was now on the road to recovery. Her illness was such that she had not been able to speak for the past four years. This was the first proper conversation we had had since then.

After a shower and a glass of Scotch, I climbed in to my sleeping bag and made an attempt at my crossword puzzle.

There are stages in the life of a man when he will question whether he is still capable of fulfilling some of the dreams and ambitions that he had held when he was a younger person. I have always wanted to make a long journey on a motorbike but have never been able to make that wish come true. When I lived in America I had wanted to ride from Alaska to San Diego. When living in England, I had dwelt on the idea of cruising through Europe to Turkey. Here in Africa, there were a number of jaunts that appealed to me. Eventually I decided that I was actually gong to make such a trip through parts of southern Africa. So, in December of 2008, I bought myself a motorbike, a bright yellow Suzuki V-Strom 650.

Originally I had hoped to go as far north as Uganda, but when I began to plan the journey in more detail, I realised that it would be impractical for a number of reasons. Some of these included the fact that I would be making the trip on my own and I would not be able to carry all the supplies and spares that I would be likely to require. Motorbikes need to be serviced far more frequently than cars and tyres need to be changed at shorter intervals. Getting spares once outside South Africa or Namibia was going to be tricky. Carrying all the parts with me would have left no room for personal gear such as clothes food and camping equipment. I could have arranged for parts to be delivered to certain locations prior to my arrival, but that would have committed me to specific routes and timetables. I was anxious that I should be able to flexible with regards to my itinerary and if there was a reason to hang around in any one given spot or make a diversion I wanted to be free to do so.

My motorbike, a Suzuki V-Strom 650 is considered dual purpose with regards to an on-road off-road capability but the reality is that while it manages well on maintained gravel roads, it is not really cut out for thick sand. Perhaps I should admit that even if it were, I am not cut out for riding through thick sand. Although I learned to ride a motorbike as a boy and had ridden one for a while back in the 1980s, I have never owned one before and this was going to be my first real expedition. So I am not as experienced a rider as I would like to be and at my venerable age my reactions are not exactly lightning fast.

I also concluded that while it would have been one thing to keep riding in a single direction, I was going to be making a round trip and however far north I got I would still have to ride all the way back to Cape Town and inevitably I would be covering the same or similar ground twice, especially in countries were good roads were few and far between.

Thus I changed my route so that it would take me from Cape Town to Namibia, along the Caprivi Strip into Zambia, briefly into Zimbabwe and back to Zambia, north to Tanzania and then across into Malawi, down along the lake into Mozambique, Zimbabwe again and down into South Africa. I would spend more time in some places than in others but I reckoned on the whole trip taking me about 8 to 10 weeks.

While I planned to visit and stay friends along the way, I was going to be camping as well staying in back packer lodges. There is nothing like going back to basics to make you appreciate the finer things in life.

In the midst of all this planning, which I freely admit had been going on for a long time, my friends here in Cape Town were beginning to raise their eyebrows. As far as they were concerned, I was all talk and no action. Eventually I was invited to a lunch party at which the hostess announced, somewhat to my surprise, that it was a farewell celebration in my honour. Now I had to go.

A date was set and I began to let people on my route know approximately when they could expect to see me. Some research on the internet led me to discover that there was any number of places for me to stay at. The question was whether or not I would need to book. I enquired from an agent who dealt in these matters and he insisted that I would be mad not to reserve my camp sites while travelling through Namibia. They would very likely all be full, it being holiday time, and I should not take the risk of being turned away. Namibia was a big scary place. I did not know the country, having only been there once before, by yacht, and so I was inclined to take him at his word. However, booking would have forced me to keep to a specific itinerary and I had no intention of doing that. So, in the end, I decided to do nothing but rather to try my luck. Having said that, I did contact one or two places directly who assured me that they would be able to find spots for me, even if they were full.

Deciding what to take with me was always going to be an issue. Space was limited. I had two panniers, a top box and small back pack. I reckoned that I would keep my tent rolled up on the seat behind me, fastened with bungee cords.

I discussed with a chap in the motorbike shop, what spares I should carry with me. He explained that while I could take all sorts of equipment from tyres, to brake and clutch handles, fuses, oil filters etc, there was a good reason to take as little as possible. He reasoned that if I broke down, it was unlikely that I would be in a place where I could fix the motorbike myself. I would not have the tools and in my case, I would not have the skills. He also said it was no fun touring laden down with equipment. It would hamper my progress. So, in the end, all I took was a puncture kit to repair my tubeless tyres an oil filter and some chain lubricant.

I bought a small gas stove, the type we used to use in the army long aeons ago, and a pair of mess tins. I would be able to buy food along the way, but I thought it would be wise to take enough for three or four days. I decided that pot noodles were the answer. They would at least mean that I would not starve. A bottle of whisky, some water bottles, tea, sugar and powdered milk, a first aid box, and a couple of torches helped fill my luggage space.

Documentation included, a yellow fever certificate, police clearance for the motorbike (to prove it was not stolen), an AA carnet to allow me to take the bike in and out of the various countries, registration certificate, passport, driving licence(s) and ID card(s). I took a few thousand rand in cash, but was confident that in most places I could supplement this with my ATM cards; more easily in some countries than others.

With regards to map reading, I looked into the idea of getting a GPS, but the one that was recommended for motorbikes, i.e. waterproof, was too expensive. I concluded that, I was unlikely to be going anywhere that would be too far off the map, so I decided to rely on a road atlas of central and southern Africa.

Clothing was going to be limited, but considering that for most of the time I would be wearing my riding gear, I would not need too much: a couple of pairs of shorts, a couple of pairs of jeans, several t-shirts, several pairs of underwear and socks, some deck shoes and a jersey. I would be travelling in the winter and it was likely to be cold in the evenings, certainly in the more southern parts. I had done a couple of nights camping earlier on in the year and had discovered that my sleeping bag was not going to be warm enough. I had the choice of buying a new one or getting some liners. I opted for the latter. In doing so, I discovered what a rip off is the camping equipment industry. There was also a possibility of rain, so I had a rain jacket.

The bike was capable of travelling between 300 to 400 km (180-240 miles) on a single tank, depending on how fast I was going, 100- 150kph being the range. I was happy to sit at about 110-120 for most of the time though inevitably I would go faster from time to time, and so worked on the basis of aiming to fill up every 350 km or so. Of course, petrol stations are not always situated to suit the needs of the biker, but I was confident that I would be ok.

My cell phone would not work out side South Africa, but I had a UK sim card which allowed international roaming. Moreover, in some countries it would be possible to buy local pay as you go cards.

For intellectual stimulation, I bought a book of Daily Telegraph Cryptic Crosswords. There were likely to be occasions when I would be alone in a camp site with long hours to kill. I thought this might be a good opportunity to learn a new skill.

Eventually, I was ready to go. So, at 07.30 on the 29^th of July I set off on my adventure.

Across

1) Disturbed lad’s behind, should be coaxed gently (10)

I have not significantly changed my views of Dawkins in the intervening period, but articles and attacks such as this and the one that occurred on Radio 4 last week, where he forgot the full title of Darwin’s ‘On the Origin of Species’ does incline me to soften my opinion of him. Some of those attackers are so fatuous in their methods that it must be extremely tiresome for him.

Essentially, what the article says, is that Professor  Dawkins bears responsibility for the sins of ancestors, some of whom were slave traders and owners. The writer, one Adam Lusher, even suggests that Dawkins must possess slave-owning genes. As Dawkins points out, in his rebuttal here, even if there were such a thing, after 7 generations, he would only have 1/128^th of that slave-owning ancestor’s genes in him. Even the Bible only condemns descendants for the sins of their fathers to the 4^th generation: “a nice example, incidentally, of biblical morality”.

I continue to stand by what I said in my original post, but I do believe that these silly assaults on Dawkins are beginning to backfire, in much the same way that his overly enthusiastic attacks on religion and its adherents backfired. I think that he has realised that a calmer approach might achieve better results.

On his own site, Prof Dawkins says that it is only because the direct patrilineal line links him to his ancestor that his connection was identified. He told Mr Lusher that it is very likely that most people inBritainare descended from slave owners and indeed from slaves themselves. I know that I am – from slave-owners that is.

I won’t bore you all with too many details, but one of my ancestors, was a fellow by the name of Bryan Blundell, who founded the Blue Coat School in Liverpool. Much of his fortune came from trading slaves in the 18^th century. Another was a Scotsman by the name of James Crokatt. He went off to Charleston in South Carolina where he made a fortune in trading slaves and indigo. He returned to the UK in about 1750 and bought a huge home, becoming a pillar of society. His son was painted by Gainsborough.

For those of you who do not know, indigo is the blue dye used to colour denim jeans. Perhaps Lusher was correct in his assertion about our inheritance since I own several pairs myself.

Here is my 7th great uncle 1st on left.

One such comment referred to Lord Salisbury, who as Prime Minister at the end of the 19^th century, had bent over backwards to avoid war, not just with Germany, but with the US as well. I was reminded of a comment I had recently in a book, Churchill, Hitler and the Unnecessary War, by US Republican Pat Buchanan, an excerpt of which is here. Surprisingly, for a Republican American of Irish extraction, Buchanan is very sympathetic to theBritish Empire and the benefits it brought to the world. It is worth reading the excerpt, just to hear what he has to say about, and how critical he is of American icons, Thomas Jefferson (‘all men are equal’) and Woodrow Wilson, (‘the right to self-determination’). What he said about Lord Salisbury also took me by surprise. He describes Salisbury as an appeaser, though rather than being critical, he admires him for it.

“In the summer of 1895, London received a virtual ultimatum from secretary of state Richard Olney, demanding that Great Britain accept U.S. arbitration in a border dispute between British Guiana andVenezuela. Lord Salisbury shredded Olney’s note like an impatient tenured professor cutting up a freshman term paper. But President Cleveland demanded that Britain accept arbitration—or face the prospect of war with theUnited States. The British were stunned by American enthusiasm for a war over a patch of South American jungle, and incredulous. America deployed two battleships to Britain’s forty-four. Yet Salisbury took the threat seriously: “A war with America…in the not distant future has become something more than a possibility.”

“Isolation is much less dangerous than the danger of being dragged into wars which do not concern us. Lord Salisbury,1896.”

Now there are many who will describe Pat Buchanan as a ‘right wing, religious anti-Semitic bigot’ and with some justification. He ran for President when I was living in theUS, and I watched him on various TV programmes, so I have some sympathy for that view. But at the same time, he does have the courage of his convictions and is not afraid to say what he thinks, some of which definitely needs saying. Most recently, “If Kagan is confirmed, Jews, who represent less than 2 percent of the U.S.population, will have 33 percent of the Supreme Court seats. Is this the Democrats’ idea of diversity?”

In any event, I went to Buchanan’s Wikipedia site where I read more about him. That took me to a spat that he had with columnist William F Buckley, an interesting chap himself and from there to H L Menken,  also worth reading about. Mencken it was satirised the famous Scopes Trial, which he called the Monkey Trial.

Seeing how the Chariot carries few, if any creationists, I am sure that you will all have heard of the Scopes Trial.

“Scopes Monkey Trial—was a landmark American legal case in 1925 in which high school science teacher, John Scopes, was accused of violating Tennessee’s Butler Act which made it unlawful to teach evolution.”

Given the nature of it, one can understand why it was open to satire. What I did not know was that the whole thing had been set up to test the law and that it was the prosecutors who were the instigators, not because they agreed with the law, but because they wanted to have it repealed. That was one reason. The other was that they hoped the publicity of such a trial would bring fortune to the little county.

“In Dayton, the Hicks brothers were regulars at the F.E. Robinson Drugstore, where the town’s professionals often gathered to socialize and discuss the issues of the day. In May 1925, the Hicks brothers and other regulars became involved in a discussion over an American Civil Liberties Union advertisement seeking a challenge to the Butler Act, a recently-enacted state law barring the teaching of the Theory of Evolution. Realizing the publicity such a case would bring to Rhea County, the group— who would eventually become known as the “drugstore conspirators”— decided to engineer a case that would test the constitutionality of the Butler Act. The group recruited local physics teacher John T. Scopes— a friend— to admit to teaching the Theory of Evolution. One of the conspirators, George Rappleyea, swore out a warrant for Scopes’ arrest on May 5, and charges were filed the following day.”

The prosecution won the day and Scopes was found guilty as had been their plan. They now hoped that the case would progress to the Supreme Court which would bring even more publicity to the town. However, the presiding judge had made a technical mistake. On the defendant being found guilty the judge had issued Scopes with a fine of $100. On appeal, the new judge declared that only a jury can issue a fine higher than $50 and since the judge had not consulted the jury. Thus Scopes escaped on a technicality. The new judge went on to state that since Scopes was no longer living in Tennessee, it was no longer in anybody’s interest to pursue the case further, much to the dismay of those seeking to have the law overturned.

So where does Sue fit in? Well, one of the ‘drugstore conspirators’ and a co-prosecutor was a man, yes, a man called Sue Hicks. He was a fine lawyer who prosecuted over 800 murder suspects.

“Hicks’ oddly feminine first name may have inspired the song, “A Boy Named Sue”, which Johnny Cash first performed in 1969. The song’s author, Shel Silverstein, attended a judicial conference in Gatlinburg,Tennessee— at which Hicks was a speaker— and apparently got the idea for the song title after hearing Hicks introduced. While Cash said he was unaware that Silverstein had any one person in mind when he wrote the song, he did send Hicks two records and two autographed pictures signed, “To Sue, how do you do?””

The song does contain the line, ‘Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July’ so there does seem to be truth behind the theory. I have been to Gatlinberg. It is the most tacky town on earth, though set in a very pretty part of the Appalachian Mountains, a stone’s throw from Dollywood!

Hicks was named by his father in honour of his mother who died in childbirth. He maintained that it was not given to him make him tough as is the reason given in the song.

Let me provide some examples.

The case of a South African teacher in New York came to my attention over the weekend. Barry Sirmon, who had fled South Africa during the apartheid years, taught for 11 years at the very liberal, Ethical Culture Fieldston School in Manhattan. Renowned for his jokes the purpose of which was to make fun of stereotypes and thereby destroy them, he was popular with most students and teachers. In October, a couple of black kids joined the class. Sirmon made the obviously ironic remark that he might have trouble telling them apart. It was ironic because though both ‘black’, they were of very different shades. The comment was reported and Sirmon was asked to resign. He refused saying he done nothing wrong and was subsequently fired.

The two big stories in England are very different, but the both rankle.

The sheer stupidity of the John Terry case defies belief. I don’t really care whether Terry used the word black when he called Anton Ferdinand a ‘something c**t’. That Ferdinand or anybody else should take offence at the adjective rather than the noun is mind boggling. It is bad enough that he should take offence at all. Insults are bandied around the sports field all the time. Footballers make mistakes. They know the laws of the game and that for example a handball or other foul inside the box leads to a penalty. Yet these offences are committed, as are fouls elsewhere on the field. In most cases they do not deliberately set to commit the offence, rather they occur in the heat of the moment. Football authorities know this and thus unless it is deemed deliberate or cynical, no further action is taken. Even when a yellow or red card is shown, the police do not get involved. Watching a press conference last night I was horrified by the way Terry was banned from making any comment on the subject. I cannot help feeling that if I was him, I would have let rip and bugger the consequences.

The more serious case is that of Stephen Lawrence which has reared its ugly head again. I recognise that the police very likely did screw up the investigation, deliberately or otherwise and that those suspects were probably guilty, but the endless attention given to one racist murder, white on black, as against the long list of black on white murders, really angers me. The investigation into police practices at the time, found them to be ‘institutionally racist’. Fine, they must clean up their act and move on. But the efforts to find those suspects, who have already been found not guilty continues with an intensity and publicity not shown to other cases. If this coverage is supposed to make me more sympathetic to Lawrence, or his parents or British blacks in general, it is not. It is having the reverse effect. I don’t suppose that matters too much as I do not live there, but I suspect that it is having the same effect on other white people too and is therefore backfiring. That pisses me off too.

Then there was the ridiculous case of Tiger Woods’s former caddy, who referred to his former employer’s black arse. The outrage that this comment caused around the world just goes to show how pathetic society as become.

In this country we have the ANC Youth Leader, Julius Malema. Most of you will have heard of him. He is currently suspended following an internal investigation by the ANC in which he was found to have brought the party into disrepute following his advocating regime change in Botswana. In case you do not know, the president of that country is of mixed race. His father was Sir Sretese Khama, the country’s first president, while his mother was an English woman, Ruth Williams. Ian Khama is one of the few SADC leaders to openly criticise bad leadership inAfrica, especially that of Robert Mugabe. By default, therefore, he is not a friend of Julius Malema.

However, further to those charges were charges of racism. Malema has, at a public forum, accused all whites of being criminals. He has called Helen Zille, leader of the opposition, a cockroach and implied that she slept with all the male members of her shadow cabinet. He continues to sing the song, ‘Kill the Boer’. He swore at and racially abused a white BBC journalist. There is no question that he said those things, but strangely he was found not guilty of being a racist. Yet, everyday we read of whites who have to resign from their jobs for using mild expletives. A popular sports presenter was fired recently because he referred, in private, to a black colleague who refused to repay a large debt, as a ‘kaffir’.  Our friend Julius Malema, recently referred to Indians as ‘makula’ which is the Khosa word for ‘coolies’. I have very little doubt that he will wriggle out of this one.

Some years ago, the world was outraged by the case of 3 white Texans who dragged to death, behind their vehicle, an elderly black vagrant. It was a truly horrible murder and those men deserved their punishment. One has already been executed, one is on death row and third is in for life. It was not just Texas or the US that was horrified by this event, it was the whole world. Murder of this nature is shocking.

So can somebody please tell me why nobody gives a rat’s arse to the racial murders that amounts to genocide, that is taking place in South Africa. Please look at this article and tell me what you think about it and what needs to be done.

Genocide