For the first time on our journey, Dom and I did not see the sun rise on day 5. We woke to the sounds of Ash packing his bags and rearing to get out of dodge. He had already shat, shaved and showered and was encouraging us to do the same, before the hippies showed up. Perhaps the fear is ingrained, he would not say. Unfortunately, our host had chained our bikes up for the night, so we had to wait for her to arrive regardless. When I emerged from the bathroom she had arrived, and Ash was on his way out with all his worldly possessions slung about him.
We found him sitting beside his bike playing snake on his phone, fully packed and ready to go. We only had 280km ahead of us today, however, we needed at least four hours for we were about to enter the Transkei. The N2 was alright, all we had to do was survive the minibus taxi drivers with a penchant for overtaking busses and trucks on blind rises and mountain pass bends, all with 22 passengers on board, as well as the Transkei contractor trucks, who race between their building sites and the various Build-It‘s at breakneck speeds, regardless of whether they have a three tons of PPC cement on the back of their two ton GoNow trucks.
It was with a sigh of relief we exited the N2 onto Main Road, the dreaded stretch of tarmac intended to take us back down to the coast. We had read horror stories online about tourists who had become stranded after nose diving into one of this nefarious roads’ immense potholes, having to wait hours for support to arrive. Dom and I needed to fuel up quite desperately, as our Sportsters have a range of around 230km, and we had done 208km to that point. Fortunately there was a dodgy petrol station right as we got off the N2, so we pulled in and gassed up. That is one thing the Potbelly Adventure Boy Bikes have on us, range, but we’re working on it.
And so we set off down fury road, Boss Gareths’ head on a swivel as he searched for the first open shebeen. Our iron horses galloped deftly between the rim destroying potholes, and there were precious few spots where we actually had to reduce our speed to safely pass through a series of unavoidable craters. Shortly, we saw the Boss turn off the road to what was immediately identifiable as a typical Transkei shebeen, simply because it was regular building decorated with immense SAB boards advertising the various beverages on offer. A cinder block house, the front end was converted to serve customers; furnished with an incredibly old but functional pool table, surrounded by enough plastic chairs to supply a small wedding. The barkeep greeted us through a set of heavy burglar bars, fitted to keep rowdy revelers with ill intentions out of his stock and loot. He seemed happy to see us, the only patrons in his establishment. To be fair, it was around 10am on a Tuesday morning.
The Boss generously paid for our Black Label quarts (750ml, they don’t do dumpies) and we made our way outside to suck them down. Ash wasted no time, and as Dom and I nursed ours, he returned his empty to the barkeep, got another and took a few business calls.
We felt close. Close to one of the most anticipated stops of our journey, close to a short sojourn from the ongoing push. We had factored in a rest day for Coffee Bay, as it was a destination each of us looked forward to for some very similar but also very different reasons. The Boss gave us a look to move it along and we sucked back the warm bit at the bottom of our bottles, handed him the empties which he returned and we mounted up for the last push.
The potholes became less, but were replaced by multiple series’ of speed bumps every few kilometers for which car or bike, you have to slow down to just about a dead stop to ride over. Eventually, the tar turned to gravel and a few kilometers later we trotted into Coffee Bay. We had been advised to stay at the backpackers, as your belongings tend to go missing when camping in this small tourist town. We checked in at the almost deserted Coffee Shack Backpackers. Because of the availability, we were informed could upgrade from the dorms to our own rondawels for an additional R50 per person, and jumped on that.
The rondawels were on the other side of a small estuary, which would mean having to go back up to a bridge and come back down. However, the tide was out leaving only a small stream running from the estuary into the ocean. Of course the adventure boys, with their knobby tires and high ground clearance laughed and told us they’d see us on the other side of the crossing “whenever we finally arrived there”. Dom and I took this as one personal affront too far, and accepted the challenge. We watched the Boss easily ride across the river bed on his Canary, lose a bit of traction on some loose stones on the far side and then pop up a bit of a ridge onto the road on the far side. Next it was Dom’s turn, a fair amount of wheel spin on the loose stones and then a little too much power on going up the ridge almost saw him put Thunder Iron on his side, but he saved it and puttered up to the rondawel to stop next to the Boss. I followed; for some reason I still cannot fathom I stopped on the loose stones, dug in a little trying to get off resulting in an offroad ‘burnout’ but walked Comanche over them and up to the steep little ridge, which I managed fairly easily after being able to watch two of my comrades tackle it first. I was delighted to see in our footage that Ash, who followed last, nearly put his 1190 down coming up the ridge too. So there you have it, the Sportster is equal to the Ballie bike off road.
We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in the ocean, enjoying excellent meal after excellent meal, sucking back beers, indulging in ‘sandwiches’, cookies and fending off drug dealers. By the evening we were so relaxed and rejuvenated it was decided we would not hang around for an extra day and rather push on to Port Edward, my childhood holiday town just on the other side of the Mtamvuna river, the original border between KZN and the Transkei.
We couldn’t leave Coffee Bay without visiting the famed Hole in the Wall, a mecca for hippies and stoners from all over South Africa. So early on Day 6, we jumped on our bikes and ventured about 15km back down the coast to the popular landmark. As soon as we parked we were inundated with young gentlemen offering to guide us on the perilous journey to the famous rocky outcrop. We politely declined three to four hundred times and after we’d shaken the last of them a couple hundred meters later we continued in peace. We emerged to the spectacular sight situated off one of the most beautiful beaches in South Africa. A massive outcrop of rock running parallel to the shoreline, creating the aforementioned wall, and smack bang in the middle of it, from years of hard work by both the oceans waves and the outgoing tide, was a hole! We sat in peace for a few minutes, admiring nature at work. Then Dom pee’d into the wind, complained that his jeans were wet and we made tracks back to our motorcycles.
This would be the day we separated for the first time on our trip. The Secunda boys, claiming they wanted to open their bikes up a bit but really just wanting the opportunity to find more shebeens flew off ahead. They are able to do this because they can stand up comfortably on their already unattractively tall bikes, making them somewhat akin to giraffes on the road which in the Transkei can be very useful as both livestock and wild animals tend to loiter on the roads. I had a reality check of my own when rounding a bend at about 110km/h, a vervet monkey strolled out of a bush in front of me. He looked me dead in the eye as I missed him by mere centimeters, and in that moment, in his beady little eyes, I could see he did not give a flying fudge whether either of us lived or died. We met up briefly at a Sasol garage where we all enjoyed heart burn inducing peppersteak pies on the pavement, and then they were off again.
Naturally, this led to them missing the turn off of the N2 which took us back down to Port Edward. They continued on to Kokstad and then came down to Port Edward from there, which allowed Dom and I to arrive in Port Edward well before them and settle in at the infamous Mothers Pub for a couple of ice cold Black Labels. By the time they finally arrived we had already bought a case of quarts and all the supplies required for dinner, so we allowed them the time to quickly suck back a beer and then rode over to my uncle Ronny’s (different Ronnie to the sex shop one) house where we had a small reunion with my family that live in the area that evening.
If ever you’re looking for an example that this whole Covid thing is no joke, look no further than my uncle. Once spritely and with a lip on him that could tan the hindquarters of a pig, his bout with this irritatingly persistent virus has left him on the ropes, and while he is still recovering almost a year later, it will still be a long time, if ever before he is back to his former self.
Next week in the final entry of our cross country adventure, I break down on the highway, Dom’s cousin takes us in, the Boss tries to set fire to my Harley and Ash sucks back a few more beers. Stop by for the final chapter on Bronco Iron.
The uncle Ronny Dom replying to his binnet Happy to be back in Port Edward The view from Mothers Pit stop in the Transkei Fueling up bikes and ourselves What have I walked in on Post ‘river’ crossing The ‘river’ crossing Homeostasis acheived Horses grazing, riders socializing
Rueben your writing is observant eloquent and a delight to read!
Thank you Uncle JT Snr!