Departing Port St Johns along the Mzimbuvu river

We climbed over 2,000 meters today, a climb we exceeded only twice in the Andes (both times in Ecuador). We started at sea level and reached an elevation of just over 1000m. The road tends to wind along ridges between steep valleys.  The shoulder is full of broken glass, even in remote areas far from towns. A bottle tossed from a passing car exploded on the pavement nearby. Is this done so often as a cheap thrill that an entire day’s ride is covered with multicolored granules of glass?  Towns are 30 to 50 km apart, but there are houses everywhere with villages clustered on hilltops. People are often walking along the road, or standing or sitting alongside it. In the afternoon groups of kids walk home from school in different colored school uniforms. Some run alongside of us laughing, and a few flee in sheer terror.  The scent of marijuana fills the air here, and other market towns along the way, as this is the region where it is grown.

Villages clustered on hilltops.

A typical rondavel in the Transkei.

Two men were overly helpful while I withdrew cash from an ATM at the Utracity truck stop in Mthatha, capital of the Transkei. Only later did I realize they were trying to steal my card. A polite well-dressed man who used the ATM before me insisted on showing me how I needed to reinsert my card to close out my account. I wanted him to back off and did not appreciate his assistance, nor that of another helpful man after me who also wanted me to close out my account. But that got me wondering “Did I really need to do something to close out my account?” Both men had gotten a grip on my card, trying to show me how I needed to insert it, but I would not let go. Since they were so polite, it would have seemed rude to get angry with them. But as I cycled away it became clear that I was the target of a scam. Perhaps they watched me enter my PIN and just needed to snatch the card and run. I felt foolish for not figuring it out right away. But if I had, and the situation turned ugly, what then? A Dutch tourist was stabbed in Port Elizabeth today; and I have this story to tell with a moral: Do not accept help from strangers when using an ATM.

Passing by a woman walking along the road.

The Jungle Monkey hostel's pool & bar in Port St Johns.

Two oxen pulling a wagon in the Transkei.

Qunu, the hometown of Nelson Mandela, starts with a click of the tongue on the roof of your mouth, a popping sound. A tsk sound, like calling a horse, begins the word Xhosa, the language spoken here in the Transkei. We are staying in a rondavel, a traditional round home in the Jonopo Cutural Center. Karl, a veterinarian who works in this area but lives elsewhere, is also staying here. Over beers, we asked him why so many white South Africans warned us about traveling through the Transkei.   Karl, who is white, said it’s sheer ignorance. He feels safer here than in the rest of the country.

Sydney plays with his wire truck near our rondavel.

We climbed up a mile (1632m) as the hills and headwinds slowed our entry into the Transkei. We stopped at the tourist information at the Kei river that used to be a border post when this was a Bantustan homeland. South Africa created theses “independent” states to alleviate international sanctions for apartheid. Lesotho and Swaziland are independent nations that have never been part of South Africa, which surrounds them. The UN never recognized the newer “independent” black homelands. We got info here out about the budget hotel we are now staying in. We thought it would be cheaper than the B&Bs or guesthouses in town, but at $67 (incl bkfst) it’s the most expensive place we’ve stayed. No other white people were eating the buffet special in the hotel restaurant tonight, with the other patrons speaking Xhosa, a language full of clicks.

Driveway to Buccaneers Backpackers hostel

More people are stopping to talk with us as we get further from the tourist areas. Almost everyone feels obligated to warn us about cycling through the Transkei, the Xhosa homeland where Nelson Mandela is from. We stopped in East London for directions to a bike shop, and Lynton gave us directions and his phone number in case we ever needed help, while Julie visited with a woman on the street who kissed her hand as we left. We are staying at the Buccaneers Backpackers set in a wild coastal forest with views out over a lagoon to the sea. A delicious Xhosa feast is the Saturday night special with free breakfast Sunday morning, so we decided to take a rest day here (our first in eleven days). We met young Dutch doctors Angelika and Merta who work at a rural hospital in the Transkei. Angelika took out the stitches (from my skin biopsy) with my Swiss Army knife. Emails from the Stellenbosch doctors said that all my test results were negative.

Dunes between the beach & lagoon at Chintsa.

A Vervet monkey was hit & wouldn't get off the highway.

I ushered him off to the shoulder with my bike.

Friendly kids in Kiwane location.

The road headed inland, away from the coast, though an area where a million blacks were resettled as a result of apartheid’s Bantustan Homelands policy in the 80s. When Julie’s chain came off a truck driver stopped to help, saying “This is a very dangerous place. You shouldn’t stop here.” He insisted on escorting us for the next two kilometers because “these people will snatch the bags right off your bikes”.  We stopped at a store soon after he left us and were surrounded by friendly children. We’re staying at a B&B owned by liberal Africaaners Terry and Malcolm.

Two older girls rushed over to get their photo taken, too.

Julie gets a hug.

Officer Mkoko tries out my Cruzbike.

We had lunch in the tourist town of Port Alfred, the center of the 1820 settlers from England. The rural B&B where we planned to stay was closed for renovations, so we backtracked 6 km to stay in a nice affordable guesthouse at a restaurant with big game mounted on the walls. The British South Africans seem to feel superior to the Africaaners, who feel superior to everyone else. The mixed race Coloureds and Indians consider themselves above the Blacks, who make up 70% of the population. This is still very much a class-based society, almost twenty years after the end of apartheid.

We left Port Elizabeth through a huge industrial area in barren land used as a garbage dump. A new wind farm is being built, along with a new access road that is now traffic free (local traffic only…and us). We somehow put on 25 km more than expected and ran out of daylight again on a 115k day we thought would be 90. It was not quite as dark and scary as arriving late in Storms River. While stopped in town for a cold drink, we asked a local guy, Mat, about accomodations. He offered to put us up for free. Why we refused his offer I know not why. We said we planned to stay at a B&B and he took us to one. After negotiating a price still too high for us, Mat said “Next time, take the offer”. The B&B is owned by conservative religious Africaaners Betty and Fanie

The old highway (R102) is a pleasant alternative for cycling.

I’ve been thinking about the voyage of the Dove, that Robin Lee Graham sailed around the world alone from age 16 to 21. National Geographic articles that I read as a boy must have influenced my decision to cycle the world. He sailed along this coast while his girlfriend motorcycled these same roads that we are now cycling. She could not join him on his sailboat, except when docked in port, because he had to sail alone for the record. This scenic coastline is divided into tourist regions. From Cape Town they are called the Overberg to Mossel Bay, then the Garden Route to Storms River, the Sunshine Coast to East London, the Wild Coast through the Transkei to Port Edward, the South Coast into Durban and Zululand from Durban to Swaziland.

We cycled on the old highway most of today, too, as it paralleled the new N2.  A nice tailwind pushed us in to this surfing town early enough to do laundry.  The Seattle family we met five days ago is also staying in our hostel and they took us out to eat.

Valerie Tarico gave us a copy of her book, The Dark Side.

The new Bloukrans bridge high above the old R102.