Home » Zimbabwe » Jane Furse to East London, South Africa (September 30th 2002)

“We are the Pilgrims, master, 
We shall go always a little farther. 
It may be beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, 
Across that angry or that glimmering sea.” 
- James Elroy Flecker. ‘The Golden Road to Samarkand’

Jane Furse to East London, South Africa (September 30th 2002)

Roundtheworldbybike
2005-11-18 11:36:46

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with village chiefs each night. As sunset approaches I turn off the road into a village of thatched, round turquoise huts. The inevitable crowd of shy, staring, giggling children then escort me to the chief’s home where I explain myself and ask the chief if he can find me somewhere safe to pitch my tent. The chiefs I have met have invariably been jovial, wise and welcoming and I enjoy listening to the family discussing me in Xhosa, one of the most poetic sounding of African languages scattered with extraordinary, evocative clicking sounds. These are warm, educational, entertaining evenings and yet these are the very villages I am being warned to avoid.

I ride through the Free State, a province of massive skies, creaking old irrigation windmills, roll after roll of pale hills and occasional farms snuggled inside clusters of dark green trees. I ask a man leaving his home for directions. As he departs he calls into the house. His wife emerges with a vast plate of ice cream cake for me and returns inside. I leave the licked clean plate by the gate and a note with my only two words of Afrikaans: “Dankie! Lekker!” (“Thanks! Excellent!”).

A huge orange bushfire sweeps across the horizon, urged on by a feisty wind. I am almost caught out by its speed and have to ride away. As I turn away from taking photos of this spectacular sight I spot a farmer and his family in a wild panic, rushing their livestock towards safety. I felt so ashamed by my voyeurism and so was deeply relieved as the fire missed their home.

It was the biggest day on my Sporting Calendar but I was in a dead end town. The town’s bars were propping up big Boers in tight shorts with duck-tail hairdos, large moustaches and pistols slamming brandy and cokes. They were all in town to watch a rugby match on TV. I went from pub to pub meekly asking if there was any chance of putting the English football on the telly. Imagine this: you are in ...