Cycling is a comfortable self-paced way to visit and see the South African East Coast. The 1100km between East London and Cape Town can easily be covered in 3 weeks. The summer winds blow predominantly out of the east, determining a preferred direction. Although the N2 is the most direct route, being a national road it is busy. I instead chose lesser-used roads whenever possible.

From East London to Ncanara I followed the R72. Except for a few short sections and the 100km section through the former Ciskei, the R72 is wide enough to have a shoulder.

From Port Elizabeth to Riviersonderend I followed the N2. For most of the way, it’s a two-lane road with a wide shoulder. For only a short section near the Storm’s River Bridge, does the shoulder disappear. For those preferring a quieter, less direct route, the R102 roughly parallels the N2 for most of the way. Numerous intersections of the two allow the rider to choose the prettier, though poorly maintained, R102 or the more direct and well maintained N2, depending on one’s mood. Near large cities, the N2 is classified as a freeway but whether this means that cycling is prohibited is a question which I didn’t fully get answered. Though locals told me road use laws prohibit cycling on freeways, particularly on tollroads, I rode on the N2, didn’t get bothered by police and certainly didn’t see any cycling prohibition signs.

From Riviersonderend to Gordon’s Bay I followed the lovely R326 through the Overberg region, and the exotically beautiful R44 along the coast through Hermanus and Betty’s Bay. Thought the town of Hermanus is despicably overdeveloped the region between Kleinmond and Gordon’s Bay rivals the beauty of Chapman’s Peak drive near Cape Town.

The N2 between Somerset West and Cape Town should be avoided by the cyclist. Several "incidents" have been reported near Crossroads and the other townships, and I read of a cyclist being killed and robbed near Guguletu in February. Instead, I chose an interior route passing through Stellenbosch, the Cape wine region, R44 from Somerset West to Stellenbosch, then the R304 to the M23 and finally the R102 though Bellville and Parow into Pinelands. The R102 (a.k.a. Voortrekker Rd.) is narrow, heavily used and surrounded by car dealerships and industrial warehouses, and is therefore not the ideal road for cycling. However, with a little road sense and courtesy, a cyclist should have no problems.

Wednesday, 4^th February

East London is a charming, bustling, older town of about 100,000 people. It had recently suffered quite a depression but is coming out of it nicely thanks, in part, to the economic boost provided by the Mercedes assembly factory.

My immediate destination was the first of a string of economical youth hostels aimed at the young, foreign traveler on a budget. The Sugar Shack is right across the street from the East Beach and I immediately felt at home. The manager is a jolly older fellow who very much believes in the live-and-let-live credo. An expansive wooden deck dominates the second floor and an attached wooden turret-like tower provides a bird’s-eye 360-degree view of the ocean. I had only planned to stay for one night, as I was eager to get on with the cycling part of this adventure, but after taking a dip in the 72 degree water, I decided to stay another day. I made the acquaintanceship of an Argentinean fellow named Alfredo who was traveling around the world. His marketable skills were small aircraft piloting and small arms training and dealing. He’d spent some time in Colombia flying a crop duster, but decided to leave after being asked to deliver a package the contents of which was suspect, and then being fired at from the jungle below. The money had been good up till then. While in Mozambique, he’d been robbed of all his money, camera and passport but all the items were luckily recovered by the police. Unfortunately, he was now almost broke and was in need of work. Most of the other residents at the hostel, mostly Australians, New Zealanders and Germans, were surfers doing the surf tour of the South African coast starting in Durban. That night Alfredo and I shared a couple of Guinness at the neighboring bar while watching the local studs doing their studly thing.

Thursday, 5th February

Woke up at 6:30, which for me is very early. I wouldn’t have woken this early by myself, but the sun was so bright, and the sky clear. The day was pretty much spent exploring East London and swimming in the warm ocean. I wandered over to the city library and spent an hour or so reading about the Boer Wars. The library was still and pleasantly warm, the hum of life filtered in through the open windows, and I soon fell asleep.

The hostel kitchen was in the large upstairs room one end of which was occupied by a number of beanbag chairs set up in front of a large TV. A significant collection of American movies on videotape was available for patrons’ viewing pleasure. Two of the titles were the recent "Romeo and Juliet" and "Ransom", neither of which I’d seen. With the ocean and azure blue sky framed in the wall sized picture window and a couple of Castles by my side, I watched movies with fellow hostelers while reclining hedonistically on the bean bag chairs. This sure wasn’t achieving any lofty goals I might have had for visiting South Africa, but the moment felt sweet.

Friday, 6th February

The next morning the incredibly bright sun again woke me early. This would become the norm. The former independent homeland of the Ciskei’s eastern border is about 40km west of East London and it extends about 100km to the west. Neither Ciskei nor Transkei offers very much in the way of services for the cyclist and one must therefore plan stops very carefully. The former homeland of the Transkei extends from Durban in the north to East London in the south, a distance of about 350km. I had originally planned to start the coastal tour in Durban, but had changed my mind. Only one road passes through the Transkei and towns are services are very few and far between.

R72 leads southwest out of town and the only town between East London and Port Alfred is Hamburg, the tiny former fishing village about 14km off the main road. For the first 40km the road is wide and smooth, but near the Ciskei border it narrows significantly and the quality degrades significantly, a testament to the neglect during the Apartheid years. The terrain through the Ciskei is hilly but I like hills so was happy to get a break from the flat land monotony.

When I turned off the road towards Hamburg another unexpected surprise awaited me; the next 14km were unpaved, very rough and washboard gravel. Despite the work required, the riding was enjoyable. The road passed by several small rural settlements, and I seemed to be quite a novelty for children walking home from school in Hamburg.

Hamburg really is a tiny town, with one hotel, a general store, a bottle store, a police station and several dozen residential houses. I headed for "Clive’s Place" a backpackers’ hostel on the far side of town very close to the beach. Clive is a friendly fellow and told me that he’d sold the backpackers’ hostel in Port Alfred, tomorrow’s destination, some years back and moved here because of the unspoiled beauty. I couldn’t agree more. After a quick drive to the general store, courtesy of Clive and his antique VW "kampfwagen", I headed for the beach. What I saw was what I’d been dreaming of finding in South Africa -- miles and miles of white, deserted beaches. The Keiskamma River empties into the sea about 4km south of here. Clive had told me to avoid swimming in the mouth, as it’s the favorite hangout of Zambezi sharks waiting for lunch to swim down the river. I spent hours a few hundred meters upriver playing with hermit crabs; fascinating creatures that claim squatter’s rights to discarded shells. I was surprised to learn that, unlike other species of crabs, they have asymmetrically sized claws. When withdrawing into its shell, the crab pulls the tiny right claw into the shell and uses the "full-sized" left claw to cover the entrance of the shell and defend itself.

On the way back to the hostel I walked up and over the sanddunes shifting under my feet. Wind blowing over the crest of a dune would set up eddies below the trailing edge of the ridge. These eddies undermine the ridge, collapsing it and causing the whole dune to slowly migrate in the direction of the wind. Watching individual sand grains carried by the wind clearly shows the lines of laminar flow of the wind. Placing a rock or other small obstruction in the way would result in an observable perturbation of these flow lines. I was watching nature’s own wind tunnel right under my feet.

Two Indian couples, Naomi, Roy, Gail and Kip, from Durban had checked into Clive’s by the time I returned. We chatted for a bit and together with Clive they left for dinner at the local hotel. I declined to join them and retired early. I woke up at around midnight and was surprised to see Gail at my side looking at me. "What does she want, and why is she waking me up", I thought. I vaguely recall an incoherent and wavering conversation between us; I was still mostly asleep and she was apparently quite drunk. She wanted me to join the others for drinks, and then told me she was concerned about me being all by myself and lonely in South Africa. I think I explained to her that I was neither alone nor lonely and that I was married, but I’m not sure if I actually verbalized my thoughts. A sleepy brain plays games with time, and the temporal relationship between cause and effect gets jumbled. She then left, and I returned to the sleep of the dead. She didn’t mention the event the next morning, so neither did I.

Saturday, 7th February

I wasn’t looking forward to riding the 14km back to R72. The wind seemed to be blowing from a different direction than yesterday as I struggled back up the dirt road. At the top of the first rise I stopped to readjust a slipped pannier. A battered Isuzu pickup truck occupied by a burly white driver and his equally large black passenger pulled up beside me. "You need a ride to the main road?" the driver asked. "Is the Pope Catholic", I thought as I gratefully tossed my loaded bike into back and hopped in after it. Back on the main road, the wind indeed was blowing out of the west, a full-on head wind. It was payback time for yesterday’s delightful tail wind.

For the next 8 hours I struggled into what must have been a 60km/h head wind, stopping regularly to eat and decompress the building frustration. At the Great Fish River I stopped at a roadside cafe, refilled my water bottles and chatted with the owner for a few minutes. "I hope you’re riding that way!" she said, pointing east back up the road. "I wish!" I replied. Past the Great Fish River, which formed the western boundary of the former Ciskei, the roads widens significantly relieving a part of the frustration.

By the time I reached Port Alfred, at 5pm, storm clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon. Like many "resort" towns, Port Alfred is undergoing a real estate boom. Where once were wet lands, now stood expensive houses and hotels, and billboards advertising sectional title units (condominiums) starting at R250,000 were all around. I found the Port Alfred backpackers’ hostel, and luxuriated in a hot shower. It’s always easier to appreciate the positive in a challenging day once the challenge has been overcome; the lovely rolling terrain, the bone white, wind swept, deserted beaches, the satisfied buzzing of ones body after a day’s worth of physical exertion. I was sharing the hostel with a couple of fishermen who were forced to "ditch" the day because the 90km/h winds blowing out at sea prevented them from taking their boat out of the harbor. The incoming storm was responsible for the head wind I’d been riding into all day. Fortunately, they claimed, this storm was unseasonal I should have an easterly tail wind for the rest of the ride.

Later, I walked along the river towards the beach and enjoyed a delightfully greasy plate of fish and chip at a fish house out by the breakwater. The storm was already darkening the sky to the north and the air was filled with the dry, hot, humid smell of light rain falling on dry earth.

Sunday, 8th February

From Port Alfred to Port Elizabeth is about 155km, which seemed a little excessive to try to do in one day. Unfortunately the only town large enough to offer accommodation for the traveler is Alexandria, only 55km away. With a nice tailwind blowing me along, I covered the distance in two-and-a-half hours and arrived in Alexandria around noon.

The Heritage Lodge is the only hotel in town but despite the obvious monopoly it’s reasonably priced and well maintained. I was the only occupant and had the whole top floor to myself. The silence and the aged funkiness combined to create a very Overlook Hotel-like atmosphere. I guess only a Stephen King fan would have had such an impression.

Sunday in a small South African town and everything is closed. Everything except the Carry Away shops, which always sell simple take out meals like sandwiches, curry-and-rice, fish-and-chips, samoosas, etc. Curry-and-rice was my heart’s desire that night, washed down with a liter of ginger ale. Yum.

Monday, 9th February

Storm clouds, threatening rain, covered the sky as I left Alexandria. By the time I reached the N2 junction, rain was falling. Not having any particular desire to get my shoes or cotton clothing soaked, I changed into my Lycra cycling togs, stashed my shoes in plastic bags, and rode with just sandals on my feet. A light, rain was falling but the air was warm and a brisk tailwind pushed me towards Colchester and lunch.

By the time I reached Coega I could see the outline of the Algoa Bay and Port Elizabeth in the distance. The N2 had widened to 4 lanes and traffic had also picked up quite a bit. Riding on the freeway leading into the downtown area was actually quite pleasant, though noisy and smelly. I headed for Humewood, about 6-km further south, where the King’s Beach backpackers’ hostel was located.

Humewood, though quite friendly, has a very 60s beach resort type atmosphere, with rows of concrete holiday apartments and hotels lining the beach promenade. The ocean temperature was significantly lower than in East London which was surprising since the same, supposedly warm, Benguela current is responsible for the ocean temperatures. I assumed El Nino or space aliens were to blame.

At the hostel I struck up a conversation with two German women who asked whether I was a student at Stanford University. I realized I was wearing a Stanford Medical Center Bloodbank T-shirt and made the connection. I explained that I was not a student there and completed their disappointment by telling them I wasn’t a doctor.

Later that night I met Marc, probably the only other touring cyclist in all of South Africa. He was on an around the world trip and had most recently cycled from Johannesburg, taking a bus through the Transkei. He’d been hearing about me since East London (he’d stayed at the Sugar Shack and missed me by one day) and was therefore quite excited to finally catch up with me and trade cycling stories. We agreed to ride together for a few days.

Tuesday, 10^th February

The first 30km of the N2 east of Port Elizabeth is classified as freeway and hence offers excellent cycling conditions. With smooth pavement and a brisk tailwind, we covered the distance in no time at all. A steady rain had been falling since we left PE, but by the time we reached the turnoff to Jeffrey’s Bay the sky had cleared, framing the bay in a deep azure. A screaming descent later and we were in J-Bay. Although a surfing mecca, and Shawn Thompson’s former stomping ground, modern J-Bay is very much a retirement village for cash rich South Africans. I wasn’t complaining too much though. The last couple of days’ riding had been very pleasant compared to the day into Port Alfred. That must have been my "test of endurance" and I seemed to have passed.

That night I stayed at the Island Vibes backpackers’ hostel on the quieter south end of town. Although it’s rather rough and unpolished -- the way I like it -- it’s ideally located on a hill offering a lovely panoramic view of the ocean.

Wednesday, 11^h February

The wind was still blowing out of the east when we reached the N2 junction again that morning. My tires were a little low and since my pump was buried at the bottom of my pannier somewhere, I asked Marc to borrow his. What a mistake that was. I managed to snap the valve off and no amount of pleading would resuscitate that dead tube. After resorting to rooting through my panniers and finding my boxed spare, I received the second unpleasant surprise of the day. My spare was the wrong size. Fortunately, Marc had a spare and I made good use of it after promising to replace it in Knysna.

Five consecutive days of riding with a tailwind was starting to seem unreal and I began to wonder how much longer it would last. Add to that the smooth pavement and this was turning out to be quite the easy tour. How quickly one forgets gale-force head winds and soaking rain. We reached the Paul Sauer Bridge over the Stormsrivier around 2 o’clock. The Stormsrivier gorge is about 100m deep at this point and I wondered what it would be like to bungee jump off it. I was told that official jumping takes place at the Grootrivier Bridge a little further up the road.

The village of Stormsrivier is a tiny, cozy settlement just off the N2. It boasts a post office, a grocery store, the headquarters of Stormsrivier Adventures and the Stormsrivier backpackers’ hostel, and an ANC recruitment office. The hostel occupies two rooms of a long building and the owner lives in the third room. She also owns Stormsrivier Adventures, an outdoor activity organization specializing in white water rafting, black water tubing and kayaking. The whole deal sits on a huge plot allowing for camping opportunities for those who’d rather not spend the night in a cramped dorm room. Even though we were the only hostel patrons that night, we opted for camping and I fell asleep watching the black sky decorated by more stars than I’ve ever seen before. The Milky Way really is milky when one actually sees all the stars making it up.

Thursday, 12^th February

Between Stormsrivier and The Crags, the N2 is classified as a tollroad and the R102 is documented as an alternative. Though the N2 is fairly pleasant to ride on and quite direct, I was yearning for a quite country road even if it meant a little more climbing and exertion. The R102 offers the former and requires the latter as payment. Two spectacular descents take the rider through Bloukrans and Nature’s Valley, passing through some of the last remaining bits of undisturbed indigenous forest on the Garden Route. The associated climbs are strenuous but worthwhile and rewarding. Near Bloukrans one has an unobstructed view of the Grootrivier Bridge a little way down the valley. I waited a while in the hope that someone would bungee off the bridge, but no one did. I emphasize the indigenous nature of the surrounding vegetation because the coastal strip between Stormsrivier and Knysna comprises the Tsitsikamma National Forest. Unfortunately, the name is somewhat of a misnomer since it consists mostly of pine and eucalyptus plantations large portions of which persist in a harvested state. And topping off this ersatz naturalness is a small "Eco-forest" near the R102 and N2 junction. What is an "Eco-forest" one might ask?

Today felt like a low-energy day. I left Stormsrivier packing three cans of curried vegetables and had polished them all off by the time I reached Plettenberg Bay. I stopped at the first petrol station I came across and wolfed down a couple of chocolate bars. While enjoying the second, Marc showed up. He had arrived an hour earlier and had checked out the two hostels in town. I had already set my sights on Nothando because it seemed like the "less traveled" one and was further from the city center. I was not disappointed. The owner is an older woman who owns the two adjoining houses with her husband running a lodging establishment which is part B+B and part backpackers’ hostel. She is very friendly, and accommodating, much like someone’s mother. The place is clean and immaculately maintained which for me is a point against it. I felt like a bull in a china shop, afraid that I might break something.

I was assigned to a room occupied at the time by a couple who apparently had just became "an item" and wanted more privacy than that afforded by a shared hostel dorm room. I must have walked in on an intimate moment of theirs, because the whole time I stayed at Nothando they didn’t say a word to me and fixed me with dagger stares everytime I walked in the room. Fortunately two Italian women arrived the next day forcing the two lovebirds to cool the passions a bit.

Though Potjie Kos was on the menu at Nothando that night, I had a craving for greasy fish and chips again and while the more civilized patrons ate in a formal setting, I indulged my vice with a heaping plate of fried cod and chips. I chatted with a fellow American traveler from Boston who’d broken up with his lover, sold his business and was taking a brief sojourn before embarking on a new direction.

Friday, 13^th February

Plettenberg Bay, or simply Plett as the locals call it, is a fine place for a rest day particularly when the sun is bright as it was today. The water was still colder than expected but walking on the beach was a fine way to spend the day. I found a dead baby Zambezi shark, about 12 inches long. It was remarkably well developed given it’s size and I marveled at how little resistance it’s body applied when I held it by the snout in the water current. Further up the beach I found a couple of examples of a very curious fish. The specimens were between 6 and 12 inches long, with a triangular body cross section and completely covered with a body armor. Fins protruded from cutouts in the armor and gills were covered by tightly fitting armored flaps. Beautiful creatures!

Saturday, 14^th February

Continuing west of Plett, we passed through Knysna, the heart of the Garden Route. Here we met another cyclist, a Frenchman riding a tandem with his 8-year-old son. They’d started in Cape Town and were headed for Port Elizabeth. I empathized with their daily ordeal of cycling into a headwind, but was cheering inside for this meant tailwinds for me. Further down the road is Wilderness, a small vacation resort that isn’t (a wilderness that is) and finally George. My general thoughts on the Garden Route, at this point, is that it’s overhyped, overdeveloped and under-gardened. The Lonely Planet Guide sums it up wonderfully: "... if you depart South Africa without having seen the Garden Route it isn’t a disaster; if you depart having only seen the Garden Route, it might be."

George is a charming, older town with a slower, laid-back ambiance. I found the Sunshine backpackers’ hostel, located in a house with a huge backyard and a swimming pool. The owner’s little dog kept me entertained for hours running laps around the pool and having tug-of-war matches using an old sock in place of a rope. Hard to believe a tiny creature like that could have so much energy.

Two Argentinean women showed up a while later. They’d left Cape Town that morning and wanted to go to Oudshoorn and see the ostrich farm. It was quite fortunate that a while later another patron showed up who happened to be a part time ranger and docent at the same ostrich farm.

Being Valentine’s Day, I called Kathy from a pay phone, though the R20 I had in coins didn’t last very long. I missed her.

Sunday, 15^th February

I’d hoped that the clouds covering the morning sky wouldn’t be dumping rain on us. The night before was foggy and the ground was wet in the morning. Unfortunately, by the time I reached the highway rain was falling pretty heavily. Marc had had an offer from an acquaintance in Mossel Bay to spend the night, and so I was headed for the Mossel Bay backpackers’ by myself. The riding wasn’t all that unpleasant but the rain was cold, and I had to don my rain gear for the first time.

Mossel Bay is a pleasant town and is the site of one of the Sasol coal to petrol conversion plants. The backpackers’ hostel on the other hand is quite rundown and cramped. With 9 bunks squeezed into tiny rooms the experience can be cozy or miserable depending on the occupants. Mine was the latter, due in part to the adolescent behavior of a few of the Kiwi and British cohabitants.

Monday, 16^th February

Rain was still falling quite heavily when I left Mossel Bay that morning, but the day cleared up quite nicely about 50km down the road. Despite the rain, I still had a tailwind, for which I was profoundly grateful. I hooked back up with Marc and we headed for Riversdale. We didn’t know much about the town except that it was halfway between Mossel Bay and Swellendam. It turned out to be quite a pleasant and friendly town. Agriculture seemed to be the dominant economy. Though there were no backpackers’ hostels in Riversdale, the tourist bureau directed us to the Travel Lodge which gave us a "backpacker special" on a double room.

That night I introduced Marc to fried snoek, a bony but delicious fish. We sat on the steps outside the hotel eating our fish and chips and drinking our ginger ales while watching the life of Riversdale go by.

Tuesday, 17^th February

The ride to Swellendam turned out to be the best day yet. We were officially out of the Garden Route and into the Overberg region. The beautiful Langeberg Mountains run parallel to and to the north of the N2 for the entire length between Riversdale and Swellendam. The Overberg is the wheat-producing region of South Africa so as far as the eye can see are "amber waves of grain" with the mountains as a backdrop. The coastline has by now dropped off to the south and I guess without a coast tourists see no reason to visit this area. Oh well, their loss is my gain.

Swellendam is a wonderfully idyllic town. I’d found the place where I want to retire. Back in the 1740s Swellendam was established as the seat of a landrost of the Dutch East India Company and his residence, the Drostdy, is a museum today. Needless to say the town has a historic ambiance well represented by the architecture dominated by gabled houses with thatched roofs.

The Swellendam backpackers’ hostel was a rare find, and probably one of the best I stayed at. Located on a huge piece of property with a direct view of the Langeberg, the facilities are humble, sufficient and lovingly maintained by Stephanie the owner. Marc and I opted to pitch our tent on the huge sprawling property under some trees near the fire pit. For dinner I made linguini with tomato and garlic sauce and we spent the night around the fire passing a bottle of J&B with a pair of Australians pitching a tent nearby us. Unlike most other Ozzies I’d met on this trip, this pair was humble and soft-spoken and like me resented the overboard behavior of most other hostel patronizing backpackers.

As the night drew out, the fire died down and uncountable stars dominated the otherwise pitch-black sky, the four of us got progressively happier and buzzed. We shared stories of our world travels and travelling philosophies. The Ozzie pair smoked hand rolled cigarettes and though I don’t smoke, I had a desire to try one. The last time I smoked was in 1987 and I remember feeling very sick the next day. One would think that the association would be too strong for me to even want to try again. But the fire, the night and the company made it seem all right.

Wednesday, 18^th February

Leaving Swellendam was really tough. It was truly a piece of heaven on earth, but I had to be back in Cape Town by Saturday.

The weather was HOT with very little wind and the surrounding land, which offered very little shade, was covered primarily by ostrich farms and wheat spreads. The topology included a lot of rolling hills and the riding was therefore a constant up and down. The uphills didn’t seem steep, but their steepness was confirmed by the speeds we reached on the downhill side. I was actually quite relieved since the flatness of the coastal route had become somewhat boring.

Though we only covered 61km, by the time we reached Riviersonderend we were both quite exhausted. The caravan park, where I had planned to stay, had closed a long time ago according to a local I spoke with. The only other accommodation in town, the Old Trading Store Guest House had a for sale sign on the door. Fortunately, the owner let us stay. From our second story balcony we had another delightful view of the Langeberg, and the Alpenglow as the sun set to our left.

Thursday, 19^th February

A few kilometers past Riviersonderend we left the N2 and took the R236 towards Stanford and eventually to Hermanus. The R236 was delightfully quiet compared to the N2. We descended rapidly and silently through farmlands until we reached Oukraal, where the road again started climbing up towards the Akkedisberg summit. From the top, while repairing a flat, looking backwards down the valley we’d just ascended through I was reminded of the Road to the Sun in Montana’s Glacier National Park. It was truly a spectacular sight. From there to Stanford was a quick but hot descent. I debated with myself as to whether I should put on my Stanford Bloodbank tee shirt, and wondered whether anyone would notice.

At a petrol station in Stanford, a tiny little town, Marc and I enjoyed a long lunch in the shade. Hermanus was only another 15km down the road so we weren’t in too great a hurry. We watched an attractive young woman with a backpack attempting to hitch a ride back to the N2. She wasn’t having much luck, which seemed very strange to me given her pleasing physical attributes. She did eventually succeed after about an hour and 25 cars later.

Reaching Hermanus was quite shocking and I wasn’t prepared for the sprawled nature of this once beautiful resort town. Deciding upon the backpackers’ hostel that gave the coldest welcome to a budget traveler was not difficult when I arrived at Zoete Inval - I’d found number one. The facilities themselves weren’t bad, albeit mediocre considering the R35/night charge was well on the high end of the range for similar establishments. It was however the inflexible and uptight attitude of the owners, Jan and Marilyn van der Velden, which poisoned my stay in Hermanus. Although the hostel was relatively empty (7 people in a dorm capable of accommodating 14) they insisted that we couldn’t keep our bicycles inside. Even after explaining our desire to keep an eye on our bikes at all times, they persisted. First Mrs. v.d.V told us we’d scuff up the walls and furniture. Now, I’m 33 years old, have been an active cyclist for 15 years, and consider myself an adult who can handle his bike. Besides, at the time of our conversation our bikes were already inside the dorm with no damage done to either bikes or facilities. Then Mr. v.d.V got into the picture, insisting that there’s no space since "many more" backpackers would be arriving later that night. Proof is in the pudding, since on the morning of our departure there were exactly 7 customers in the dorm.

Completing the poisoning of my experience was the hosts’ attitude of running the place more like a hotel and less like a home away from home, even though their brochures claim the latter. In their handbook is the comment "Yes, it’s true we have no TV, pool table or bar. We encourage you to practice the fine art of discussion..." Additionally, although there was a stereo in the kitchen, it was non-functional. The numerous patronizing rules signs completed the picture. The hosts were very glad to take our money, but didn’t want us sticking around too long. Home away from home, eh? Mind you, this attitude seems to describe Hermanus in general. Expensive B+Bs and trendy restaurants abound, but I found no welcoming warmth that would make me want to stay more than one night. The Zoete Inval currently enjoys a monopoly of the backpackers’ hostel market in Hermanus, but as competitors set up shop I dare say customers will vote with their hearts and feet. I certainly wouldn’t recommend a budget traveler waste time in Hermanus and if they do to avoid the Zoete Inval.

Friday, 20^th February

Leaving Hermanus was a pleasure, the fucking touristy, kitschy pit. I do believe that at one time it may have been an amazing place. The old harbor has a certain old European charm, what with the stone ramp leading down to the crystal clear water’s edge and the breakwater built of rough rocks held together by ancient mortar. The rest of the town however was disgusting, over-developed and touristy. Affluent Cape Towners and Gautengers in BMWs and Mercedes abound and even the other five "backpackers" we shared the hostel with were no budget travelers having arrived in a brand new VW microbus; boys in the front, girls in the back -- how cute.

The R43 leading west of Hermanus, delightfully, had a paved shoulder so cycling was a lot more pleasant than on the way in. The R43 between Stanford and Hermanus is narrow, lacks a shoulder, and consequently being passed at 120km/h by harried Gautengers was no pleasure. Until the Botrivier turnoff, the R43 is understandably busy since it is the main link between Hermanus and the N2. Once on the R44 however, traffic virtually disappears and the surrounding country sparsely developed and beautiful. The town of Kleinmond is comparable to Hermanus in its natural setting, but nowhere nearly as pretentious. The real surprise however comes when the R44 turns north and after a quick descent through Rooiels, the first view of the False Bay and Table Mountain across the bay presents itself. The section between Rooiels and Gordon’s Bay is probably the prettiest road I’d ridden on since leaving East London. Unspoiled, hugging the coast and sandwiched between the ocean and the rapidly descending mountains, this section of R44 rivals Chapman’s Peak drive on the west side of the peninsula and the Big Sur coastline of central California.

About 10kms from Gordon’s Bay I flatted for the second time that day and Marc decided to go on ahead. Around 3 o’clock I descended into Gordon’s Bay and the familiar view of the harbor presented itself. Marc however was nowhere in sight. I guess I should have waited or started looking for him, but at that point I wanted to find a place to drop my bike and go swimming in the inviting blue ocean. I found the Le Bay, talked the owner down from R150 to R130, ditched the bike and promptly walked back to the harbor and the beach I remember from my childhood. Being here was somehow a closure to a personal journey. I have pictures of myself sitting on the harbor breakwater rocks with Radka Kucerova, a family friend a few years younger than me. The beach has changed quite a bit. Lots of sand has built up around the breakwater burying some of the rocks. The harbor itself has been transformed from a functional fishing harbor to a yuppie yacht club. Oh well, progress must be made. The familiar GB anchor is still there on the hillside overlooking the town. The town itself has a pleasant ambiance though, exactly what is lacking in Hermanus. And the water is warm. I spent three hours on the beach, swimming and people watching, especially the clumps of teenage girls Angela’s age wearing very tiny bikinis barely covering their shapely, nubile bodies. A Czech family came by, two small boys, parents and grandparents. A strange cycle? One of the boys was the same age as me the last time I was in G. Bay.

Around six o’clock I decided to leave and find a place to eat, preferably with a sunset view. I found the perfect spot about three blocks from the guesthouse where I was staying. It was a spaghetti place and pesto was on the menu. A plate of linguini smothered in the garlicky, basil puree, two glasses of red wine and a sunset. God I must have died and gone to heaven. The only thing which could bring complete closure to this trip, and particularly to this day, would be the warm physical affections of an intelligent, friendly woman. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to wait for that one. What an awesomely great end to this rather spontaneous trip. Tomorrow I’ll be back with Jana and the troupe, whom I miss quite a bit at this point. I guess I’m projecting, but I see my present in Jana and my past in Angela.

Later that night, not wanting to retire quite yet, I perched myself on a barstool at a bar across the street from where I’d had dinner and for the first time in the last five weeks wrote in my journal. Two Castles later, and a double shot of J&B in front of me and I’m buzzing pretty good. The attractive couple next to me is smoking and having an animated conversation. For the second time this trip, I have the desire to smoke a cigarette and bum one off them. Graciously, the man shakes one out of his box and offers me a light. It tastes neither pleasant nor unpleasant but the act of drawing smoke into my mouth and blowing it out is curiously pleasing. Why am I smoking? This sure is a poor substitute for physical affection. Moderation in all things, extremism be damned! Can someone kiss me now please? A warm sloppy one right on the lips, the feel of a warm breast against my chest. Sex? Fuck sex! I feel alive right now. Affirmation? Just a touch. Am I thinking straight? My body’s buzzing and my hand is having a hard time drawing pen across paper. This has been for the most part a solo, spontaneous trip but that’s the way I like it. Am I drawn to aloneness or do I deserve it? Aloneness is freedom, but that kind of freedom can be lonely and loneliness can be narcotic.

Saturday, 21^st February

The N2 is the most direct and quickest route between Gordon’s Bay and Cape Town, but being a little paranoid given what I’d heard about the Crossroads area, I decided on the interior route instead. This involves taking the N2 to Somerset West, climbing the R44 to Stellenbosch, then the R304 to the M23 and finally the R102 though Belville and Parow and past the Maitland cemetery. Here I bid farewell to Marc. He was planning on staying with a friend in Rondebosch and I was headed for Jana’s in Pinelands.

The package which Deon had promised to send down was waiting for me. He actually delivered it personally since he had been down in Cape Town that week. His job with the Department of Arts and Culture meant that he was involved with regional planning for the Freedom Day festivities and President Clinton’s visit. He would be down again the next week so I would get a chance to see him before I left.

The package contained several soapstone and ebony carvings, which I’d purchased in Mpumalanga but didn’t want to haul around with me. But more importantly, Deon had made recordings of several of his favorite African artists and I was eager to listen to these tapes. In particular I enjoyed listening to Salief Keita from Mali, Baaba Maal from Senegal, South Africa’s own Winston Mankuuku, Basil "Mannenberg" Coetzee and Abdullah Ibrahim. Juluka and the Mahotella Queens are also familiar favorites. And finally for Mbaquanga fans, Dolly Rathebe and The Elite Swingsters.

A Cyclist’s distance/accommodation diary
 

Date	Distance	Accommodation	Comments
4,5 Feb.	N/A	Sugar Shack Backpackers, East London	Great place on East beach. Host epitomizes laissez-faire accommodation - do as you want, respect and be respected. Wooden deck and tower offering 360-degree view. TV and collection of movie videos.
6 Feb.	75km	Clive’s Place Backpackers, Hamburg	Pleasant quiet place 200m from the beach on a hill offering a view of the miles of unspoiled, deserted beaches.
7 Feb.	84km	Port Alfred Backpackers, Port Alfred	Pretty sterile place.
8 Feb.	50km	Heritage Lodge, Alexandria	Pleasant old well maintained hotel.
9 Feb.	105km	King’s Beach Backpackers, Port Elizabeth	Undistinguishing place. Owner seemed helpful but manager seemed aloof and uninterested.
10 Feb.	76km	Island Vibes Backpackers, Jeffrey’s Bay	Pleasant place where laissez-faire is the game plan. A little messy but a true home away from home. Located on quieter north side of town with lovely view of the beach.
11 Feb.	109km	Storm River Backpackers, Storms River	Located in tiny village of Stormsrivier, this cozy little place run by the owners of Storm River Adventures is a wonderful, welcome find. Located on huge property making camping a practical option.
12,13 Feb.	66km	Nothando Backpackers, Plettenberg Bay.	Lovely place with warm welcoming manager who has a genuine desire to make a traveler feel at home. However place was too clean and I felt like the bull in the china shop, afraid to move lest I break something.
14 Feb.	98km	Sunshine Backpackers, George	Great place with large back yard and swimming pool. Owner’s little dog is one of the high points.
15 Feb.	55km	Mossel Bay Backpackers, Mossel Bay	Cramped poorly maintained place.
16 Feb.	86km	Travel Lodge, Riversdale	Pleasant hotel; will give a "backpacker" special to travelers on a budget.
17 Feb.	85km	Swellendam Backpackers, Swellendam	Lovely place with really homey feel. Stephanie, the owner, is very concerned about guests’ well being and happiness. Huge property right under the Langeberg, ideal for camping.
18 Feb.	61km	Old Trading Store Guest House, Riviersonderend	An upstairs apartment rented as guesthouse. Was for sale so probably won’t be a guesthouse for long.
19 Feb.	86km	Zoete Inval, Hermanus	Cramped "afterthought" run by people more interested in the income than the needs of their guests.
20 Feb.	87km	LeBay Guest House, Gordon’s Bay	Pleasant guest house with huge rooms.
21 Feb.	70km	Pinelands, Cape Town	N/A

Copyright 1998, Radek Aster