RSA Part 3 - The final road to Cape Town

Once away from Port St. Johns and towards Port Elizabeth we entered what’s known as ‘The Garden Route.’ It was easy to see how it got its name as the view was just breathtaking. Deep gorges, mountains etc etc filled the landscape and although not great onboard my now very rattley bike it was just a pleasure not to have to constantly watch out for pedestrians and animals on the road as before. Much like at home, looking along the sides of the road for speed cameras. With the lack of our GPS yet another chance meeting from a helpful local guy who had a mate with a bike place. We stopped in pure luxury at a sort of business complex and shared several beers with our new friend Iain who filled us with laughter over his tales of mistakes made in his life, along with his advice for us...
Next up on the late rides into the sun was a place called Wilderness. Now hugging the south coast we stayed in a lovely little B&B in more luxury. We then met another Canadian guy named David who impressed us with his one year, 75,000km (13k more than me) tales of his round the worlder onboard his GS1200 which was at BMW for repair. Next up was a visit to the southern most tip of Africa the famous 'Cape Agulhas' where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet.
With many pictures on the SD cards we then headed off to a cosy place named Pringle Bay, accepting an invite that we’d received earlier for a place to visit and stay. Here lived Bernie Becker, a hugely interesting and knowledgeable man. Yet more great hospitality was received by us as a lovely two nights were had just enjoying the place, eating with the locals, relaxing and trying to absorb some of Bernie’s vast knowledge on many subjects. Great times.
So then... Cape Town. A few days late but safely we rolled into town. Backpacker’s accommodation found and bribery of the car park guy completed we could finally start to unwind. After a few beers the following day Mick’s girlfriend Beatrice joined us as too did...BJ! The intended final picture of me and Mick together with Table Mountain looming large in the distance never happened so instead it has to be just the four of us, in an Irish pub, with beers and all happy for different reasons.
So that’s it then. As before, no real emotions from me although I have to say I’m pleased to have finally finished and to be heading home. I’ll finish this in the same way that I finished my New York entry and hope that when/if it’s continued the man in the pictures isn’t too much older than the ones in these...

RSA Part 2 - Dinosaurs in the mountains

Having taken advice from Werner and Alan our new planned route to Cape Town should be extremely scenic. And what a start as we turned off the motorway and headed into the areas Nottingham Road and Rosetta in what could have easily passed for England in autumn. However, a reminder of where we were soon presented itself during the evening in our hotel. We hooked up with a fellow hotel guest, a great Belgium guy named Lesley who was in Durban on business and chose to trek/hike on his days off in the nearby Drakensburg mountain range. Despite talk of this lunacy a nice evening was being had by us over dinner but several times we overheard the old married couple who owned the place speaking to our young black waiter and waitress in such a way that is just not acceptable in Europe. After four or five instances of what amounted to verbal abuse the young waitress effectively resigned as she made for the door in tears. We’d found them both very professional and whatever the problem was she was still our waitress and so deserved her tip from us. I motioned for her to wait just before she left by the main door in order to arrange her tip but as I was doing so the old fart re-emerged from out the back and seeing her still in his hotel he continued to abuse her. What we’d been hearing during the evening became more and more unbelievable and was actually quite upsetting and this was the final straw. Livid, I got up and tore into the owner and a huge row ensued in front of everyone in the bar and restaurant. Mick, at this point outside having a smoke heard the commotion and came in to find me in full flow and despite trying to calm everyone down was just used by me (as Lesley was) as back up for how disgusting we found the whole thing. Had the old man been nearer my age then things would’ve have certainly gone right off but sadly as will be the case it’s probably changed nothing and a new victim will soon have to take his and her shit on a daily basis.
Trying to forget this sorry episode we rode off the following morning alongside the stunning Drakensburg mountain range which marks out Lesotho’s eastern border. We then met and shared a lunch with two nice South African couples on GS1200’s and made our way to Port St. Johns on the south coast which was a sort of hippy/backpackers (actually that’s pretty much the same thing) hang out. More importantly though it signals us having officially crossed Africa all the way to the Indian Ocean. Now all that’s left is to head west along the coast a final 1600km to Cape Town...

RSA Part 1 - Afrikaans hospitality

Country number nineteen and the final one...South Africa. Lesotho may have taken that final title but alas time is not with us and so SA it is. After our late border crossing we made Zeerust, a small town 230km west of a waiting Werner in Pretoria. A pleasant stay was cheaply had at a B&B that was managed by an Afrikaans version of Basil Fawlty. Slept, fed and WIFI’d, us and the bikes were then pointed east where we reached Pretoria and finally met Werner. Bike/travel chat, nice food, beers and more chat then followed. Amongst the chat was the very recent news that my original travel companion BJ was some 3000km north about to cross into Angola. Seemingly he’d a last minute change of mind and set off a couple of weeks after me. Either that or he just wanted to ride solo. Or he doesn’t like me..! Anyhow, after two nights of this we wished each other well at Werner’s BMW Motorrad dealership, under the eyes of the usual GS owners who were probably shocked at the sight of two properly used non GS’s having made such a trip as ours, despite next to none of them venturing outside of their own country, as usual. Next up after a short ride was Johannesburg for what was supposed to some quick bike repairs and a night out but after a random meeting with a local nutter called Alan we began what turned out to be a monster two day drinking session with him and his friends. During this gradual liver poisoning exercise we also met two young guys (that also knew Werner, coincidentally) Lee and Renato who took a more savage approach and bought me a ‘Flaming Lamborghini’ as it was my birthday. Good times initially but several hours later...bad times! As for Alan and co, the more time we spent with them and the more we learned about them the more odd it felt. All far right Afrikaans and ‘pwoper naughty’ as some may say, it was clear that although extremists if they were your friends they would do their upmost to look after you, which they certainly did. Their tales of violence, guns and corruption were without doubt true but to be fair they all seemed to be based on protection of their property/family/business which seems fair enough to me.

Botswana

After my earlier SWS strop over my carnet being stamped in the DRC it turns out that only one stamp is required for entry/exit from the Southern African Union so Botswana was possible after all. Following a fairly steep compulsory purchase of road tax and insurance we were into our penultimate country of Botswana. Not too much to report here other than the highlight being a one night stay deep in the Kalahari Desert which saw me putting Noels earlier braai lessons into practice and cooking up a feast. The night sky is also worth a mention as the remoteness and something else that I don’t know seems to be responsible for a superb view above after sunset. Having no local money and having ticked off the Kalahari, the following day we avoided the hundreds of horses, cows and donkeys that seem to live next to or on the road whilst riding a big 700km and made the SA border just after dark for our final border crossing of this type before the final 3000km or so final leg to Cape Town. As a footnote, my bike Des is still making a knocking sound from his engine which started way back in Gabon and was attributed to poor quality fuel. Now on BP/Shell/Total 95 Ron, the noise still remains and so it’s clearly more serious than our first diagnosis. Less serious, but slowly growing is a list of minor faults of worn components including a very thin rear sprocket with several teeth chipped and a rear tyre that would now be replaced if the bike was in the UK. Plan A is to nurse him over the finish line and assess mine and his future plans...

Namibiaaaaaahhhh

“You need to experience the lows to enjoy the highs” as they (whoever they are) say. Well up until the Namibian border I think it’s pretty fair to describe our trip as the following \______________ Only Morocco is worth recommending as it’s European i.e. everything works and it’s enjoyable being there. Now however, at long last I can add a / to the end of that drawing of a golf club on the floor. Namibia is wonderful as appears to be any of the Southern African Union states of Botswana (more later) Zambia and SA. The long list of what’s terrible north of here doesn’t apply at all anymore. Food, Roads, Climate, Malaria, Service, just about everything is in the good column. Er no that’s not good Malaria, it’s just crossed out. Having just made the border as it closed and with sore bums our first experience of Namibia was...a Wimpy restaurant! Much gorging of banana milkshakes, burgers, chips and coffee later we checked into a German styled motel for a beer and sleep. I should point out that Namibia is a former German colony so much like SA, things work. The native people here seem very different to their neighbours above in a way that I really can’t describe. Religion doesn’t seem visible at all unlike the extremism it seems to hold in both Christianity in the Central and Muslim in the North and West. Neither does there seem to be a tribal thing going on where elsewhere it’s their tribe rather than country that is the big deal. Days two and three were spent at Ongura game reserve lodge just outside of Etosha National Park. And what a treat it was too we had about the best food we’ve ever eaten, a guided drive around the National Park which was full of giraffe, lions, impala (and these three were before we’d even got into the main national park, they were where we’d ridden our bikes the previous day!) Kudu, oryx, zebra, warthog, buffalo, elephants, birds and others. Still with a rear inner tube that was either flat or fine we rode a short 100km to Tsuneb in order to buy and fit a new tube and sort out this problem once and for all. Fifth puncture repaired and new tube fitted we met Noel (UK) and Reka (HGY) who were on a slower, longer trip like ours but in a thirty year old trusty Land Rover. We ended up spending the rest of the day and night with them and camped together with Noel demonstrating his Braai (SA BBQ) skills as we munched on steak, salad, red wine and marshmallows. Big yum, good times. As expected, after crossing into Namibia it’s a different world and without making a massive list of what’s now good it’s easier just to say that we’re having a fantastic time here. It’s definitely a place worth coming back to and spending a month or so in a 4x4 whilst also taking in its eastern and southern neighbours. The feeling of space is nice as with a population of only 1.9 million you really can get away from it all. Although because of this Windhoek was incredibly quiet and so after a couple of nights at a backpackers place we headed east the 1500km to see my friend Werner for a few beers...

Angola - The illegal days 6-82

OK not 82 days but it felt like it...Finally off the terrible tarmacless Michelin mapped tarmac road we rolled into Angola’s capital city of Luanda. Again, my imagination of Brazil sprang to mind as we passed the shanty towns built on mud cliffs with the remains of previous ‘homes’ still visible within the mud slides of the past. Overall the place looks pretty grim however there is clearly some money floating around as the odd new huge 4x4 or pickup truck is spotted amongst the heaving lorries and blue and white taxis. Either down to a severe diversion in town or just plain African traffic the journey into and in Luanda during rush hour was about as bad as it gets, the sort where if you have even the slightest amount of sympathy for someone trying to pull out your full fuel tank will be empty before your final destination of 5km away. Thankfully aggressive city riding is a speciality of mine and aboard big Des with Mick in toe we managed to growl and bully our way through the traffic at a decent pace. Maybe a little too decent actually as just after we’d made the road sellers jump from between the lanes whilst trying to sell their wears a concerned Mick gave the old whirly blue light sign above his head and gunned it. A quick check in my mirrors confirmed a very close and fast moving blur of main beam and flashing blue lights and so with a twist of the wrist we were off on a five minute crazy adrenaline fuelled scream through the traffic at quite frankly silly speeds. After turning off from a main road we stopped between two parked cars to ponder our next move which with some help from a helpful local turned out to be camping for the night at a private compound which was exclusively occupied by some very friendly Brazilians who were probably oil or bank workers. The following day’s riding was a total opposite what we’ve had to endure since mid Gabon. Having had some advice from a couple of weird, no make that just Germans who were on their way up, we rode the open and mostly empty tarmaced Michelin tarmac road southbound and for the first time ever in Africa there was...a nice view! Distant mountains and rolling hills covered in shrubs much like Andulucia in Spain helped pass the hours as we headed towards Lobito. It was about 20km before there that we stopped to chat with ‘Tom’ an experienced solo rider heading along our route but northbound. After the usual quick story swapping and photo is was agreed that we’d all head back to a nice roadside restaurant that Mick and I had just passed to enquire about the possibility of camping and beers. Permission granted and a great night was spent just being guys and talking about guy things whilst drinking cold beers and even sharing some steak! Very good times. Up at 6am and after witnessing the mass slaughter of around sixteen chickens by the kitchen staff right next to where we were packing up we wished each other very well and headed off in different directions. It was both horrifying and fascinating what we’d experienced and we couldn’t help but feel very sorry for the poor creature as it seemed to have an idea of what was about to happen but was pretty helpless with regard to changing the inevitable. Still, like us it was Tom’s decision to do this so on his head be it...
Whatever happened to the Christians all of you will not be thinking? Well it seems that divine or childish decisions are of no importance if you get lost and reach the wrong borders on the wrong day. They’ve now overtaken us along a slightly different route but have been riding the same road as us now down to the Namibian border albeit a day ahead of us. Reports of the final 100km of bad roads forever reached us and as we approached we were keen to finally end the nonsense that is off road riding. As expected I made it to tarmac first but not without discovering a four inch nail protruding from my rear tyre. Bugger. Mick finally arrived and the start to a total disaster over tyres/inner tubes and his compressor began. Without wanting to recount the whole ongoing (and I’m now two days into Namibia) story it was/is a right old mess. Somehow though after what was about eight hours of blood, sweat, hunger and pain we limped over the Angolan/Namibian border having rode the final 120km through a head wind away from what we’re told is ‘proper Africa.’ Hallebloodyluiah.

Angola - Hard but happy, the legal days 1-5

On the far west of Europe lies a small country called Poortugal. Nope, I didn’t spell it wrong it’s just that the current name hasn’t been updated yet. What is it about the former great empires? I mean OK the UK and France whilst today not holding a fraction of their previous colonies at least have some standing in the world. But Portugal? Mateus Rose, Ronaldo and Nandos are all that they seem to have offered the world along with a bloody difficult language to understand. Someone who sat far nearer the front of their history lessons than I did will need to tell me why they chose Angola of all places to colonise as like many things that tend to go on the ‘I’ll have to look it up’ list I’ll forget/won’t be bothered. So how is this newly oil rich parent of Cabinda with its perfect new roads? To use the phrase that my Granddad had used in describing how a very young Ian and his cousin Paul had behaved during a trip into London to see Star Trek...”Bloody awful.” First up is the extreme poverty level of which we’d not seen thus far coupled with the children repeatedly shouting the only English word they know at us, it being “money money money.” I very much doubt that they’re abba fans, more likely they’ve been told the myth of some white traveller who passed through the land in ancient times leaving money in his trail. The other thing that isses me off is when they slap their belly, then mouth and then finally put their hands in the air, in sort of like a heads, shoulders, knees and toes with a ‘Y’ from the YMCA a dance. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally heartless (only almost) but I really hope that one day when they’re hungry and there’s no white traveller to beg to/blame they’ll ask the parents why it is that they have to share a meal with their nine siblings. This country either has a very low life expectancy level or is going to have serious problems in the future years. When passing through the small villages the amount of children they contain is staggering. During a stop for a drink I asked the French speaking shop keeper how many children per family is normal and he replied ten and he was right. Catholicism, that’s what else the Portuguese have offered the world. Fearing that this is starting to sound like an advert for the BNP I’ll move onto...the roads. Oh dear. We’d both heard reports that the brilliant road building Chinese had been called in a few years ago and so to that effect we really were hoping that finally, finally us and our bikes could end the battering we’d been taking since what now feels like forever. Wrong. The route down from the frontier slum of Noqui was hardcore. The 180km single lane track was by far the worse we’d had to endure. Sand, gravel, wet mud, deep water puddles and steep rocky gradients were of course very slow going with more waiting for Mick on his totally inappropriate bike. Several times it went over, once in a huge puddle which made water enter his starter motor and delayed us further until we finally managed to get going again. In truth, this like many of the bad roads could’ve been completed in half the time were it not for all the waiting but my mood has changed into more of a Dunkirk spirit now and despite the waiting, hunger and extreme need for a wash I’m actually quite happy as we approach Luanda at the end of our five day visa allowance. As for Mick well, he seems to think that for every day the traveller overstays in Angola above the five day entitlement an increasingly large ‘toy’ is inserted er, somewhere and apparently any overstays of more than three days result in the supersize ‘toy’ having to be unlocked from the cabinet in the immigration office by the director as he’s the only one with the key...

DRC's Dodgy Roads Continue...

After a good sleep we were awoken around 6am at the Yema border by somebody sweeping and tidying the place up. Within an hour it became fairly clear what had happened the day before. It appears that due to it being a Sunday, although the DRC (Congo Kinshasa) side was lightly manned it was not really fully open for business. I guess that for the few workers that were on duty on a Sunday is was a sort of stand down day where they do little other than just try to pass the time. I can relate to that...
The Monday was very different though and we were finally stamped in at 10am by the efficient officials and even offered a personal apology for our delay from the director of immigration. It seems as if I’d suffered a bought of SWS (Spoilt Westerners Syndrome) just because things hadn’t been like they are at home. Silly boy, we’ve actually been very fortunate thus far with these types of things and I think I’d forgotten that.
Onto the ‘shocking’ road we rode and pretty nasty it was. Deeply rutted soft sand made for an unpleasant ride but things slowly improved with neither of us dropping our bikes despite a few saves along the way. At the end of the day the way ended up being some 80km north on the wrong road after missing the turn off to Matadi where our Angolan border crossing awaited! Bang... ”Hello Mate, delivery for Selios Kebabs?”(Do keep up!) We were then helped out by a dodgy policeman who took us to a local Auberge (Hostel) and after a quick beer and money change we walked into the town in search of food. It was quickly apparent that the place we ended up was way out of the way and rarely saw tourists or maybe even white people. No problems though as we ate goat and bread whilst being stared at by the locals, whilst mostly ignoring the immigration guy that had turned up seemingly wanting a cadeau (gift/bribe) but not really sure how to get one out of us. After retracing our steps (spins?) the next day we found our missed road and sign that actually looked more like a statue than anything else! Plus the ‘better’ road on the map was initially worse, there was no sun (shadow) and of course no GPS. Excuses over and we made it to the border with no chance of getting to Namibia in the remaining three and a half days, especially after we ran into difficulties getting out of the DRC. We were held up by slow immigration and health checks (inoculations) but more so after a row with the customs officers who were after our Carnets for our bikes which hadn’t been stamped into the country on entry. This was not good news as although now able to get to SA it meant that with only three pages left our intended reroute through Botswana would be out. With a missing Mick I decided to speak Czech which I hoped would’ve sent them away indefinitely looking for a French-Czech translator but after some persistence I told them in very broken English that we were leaving the DRC so they didn’t need to worry. I’ll never know if my ploy would’ve worked as a smiley handshaking Mick then appeared from immigration and immediately greeted them in English! I quickly went for a bit of ventriloquism and we moved onto playing the stupid European game...which went spectacularly wrong (or right as we did look stupid) as an eagle eyed customs officer spotted Mick’s distinctive yellow Carnet document in his half open pannier!! Carnets stamped and whilst still dirty and hungry we left the DRC in hope of better roads and food in Angola...

Grand National déjà vous on day one of the five against the clock...

I’m not a gambling man. I’ve tried it but the uncertainty of a big race always seems to mean that only one thing is certain – failure. As I sit here in my tent in no man’s land officially in a Tom Hanks situation as per the film ‘The Terminal,’ my brain is telling my right hand to get ready to empty my trouser pocket of its betting slip and with the assistance of its opposite number, tear it up and throw the remains upwards like confetti. The reason for this is that like the horses that I’ve seemed to back we’ve fallen at the first. The 07:30 ‘I Need Some Steaks’ five furlong steeple chase was delayed until 08:30 on grounds of laziness but despite this we passed through what I suspect is a slightly Brazilish Cabinda. Cabinda is a province of Angola and those of you that may have accidently selected a news channel whilst hunting for Eastenders or caught a glimpse of the front page of a newspaper on the way to reading about what the stars had in for you on that day may have noticed that recently the Togan national football side was attacked and the coach driver killed while passing through during the very recent African Cup Of Nations football tournament. That’s not an ‘Oh look at me I’m brave’ statement, it’s more an introduction into the country Angola and its separatist province of Cabinda. Formerly a Portuguese colony and now seemingly oil rich, Angola doesn’t seem keen on tourists, begrudgingly only offering five day ‘if you really must but hurry up’ transit visa. Somehow Mick and I were granted a double entry visa which gave us the now taken option to pass through Cabinda before making a short journey through Congo Kinshasa and then into Angola proper. That’s all fine but the five day visa in reality becomes only a four day visa as the clock starts ticking when in Cabinda, assuming that you make it all the way to the Angolan border on day one. Plus we've reports of the possibility of a $100 per day fine for slow goers. Things start well as despite the first use of our Carnets whilst entering Cabinda due to the Angolans being far more organised and switched on then their African counterparts probably due to American technology and investment (there’s plenty of oil here), we’re in and the clock’s ticking. A couple of hours later at 14:30 having ridden across perfect new tarmac we reach the Congo Kinshasa border at Yema. It’s here where the old nag lays, with the blue Land Rover now approaching with the marksman/vet/stableman onboard checking that his rifle is loaded. Things appear to be terminal as a farcical situation has developed whereby not only are we the only people to have tried to use the border all day but we’re also told on arrival on the CK side by the dozen or so I don’t know what they’re actually doing and neither I suspect, do they, that their ‘chief’ is the only person that can stamp us in and he’s 28km away at home as his car isn’t working. So therefore, having been stamped (ushered?) out of Cabinda we have to wait in between countries until he arrives “maybe around eight tomorrow morning.” What a joke. Worse still though is that during a 3km walk with an immigration guy for some nonexistent water I’ve just seen what lays ahead on the 80km ‘improved road.’ Shocking. “And they’re screening off the fallen injured horse as we speak...”

Congo Brazzaville

With a trip such as this I suspect that everyone reaches a point whereby they just want to, if not ‘pass the post’ then at least get near it and end the suffering. If I’m totally honest I reckon that for me that point was reached as far back as Senegal (week two!) but for Mick I think that even he’s now finally joined me in becoming tired of the constants: police check points, feeling filthy, being hungry, being thirsty, being tired and of course the mosquitoes. Actually, a quick word on the old mossies...despite me getting eaten alive in the Gambia I seem to have benefitted from the times that I’ve shared a room or just been around Mick as he must be the only person alive (or dead) that they seem to go for rather than me! Right now he looks like a chicken pox/measles and any other spotty disease that I can’t think of sufferer rolled into one! I shouldn’t laugh...OK, just a bit then. The other thing that he’s finally joined me in being tired of is the explaining who we are, where we’ve come from, where we’re going etc etc etc etc. It wouldn’t be so bad if the people that we talk to understand the geography of their continent, but they don’t. For a long time now while Mick has liked to ‘play with the kids’ (a pastime in Denmark I understand) I’ve preferred to just chat with the shop keeper in my best and improving French. Feeling update complete and the Congo Brazzaville was up next. So called ‘Brazzaville’ as there’s actually two Congo’s with the other’s capital being ‘Kinshasa’ and hence, Congo Kinshasa, The DRC, or formerly Zaire if you’re of a certain age. The ‘Earth Road.’ Oh dear. Despite me looking at the map and telling myself that cooler, happier times aren’t far ahead now it may well be true if my companion was riding something similar to the motorcycling equivalent of a Sherman Tank as I am instead of a sports tourer on road tyres. Frustration is the only word that comes close. On what was a five day ride of about 400km, like on the ‘improved road’ in western Nigeria, I rode a bit and waited, waited and waited. Frustrating, as despite a pretty painful border crossing I suspect that me and Des could’ve got to the intended border town of Pointe Noir in half that time. And as I mentioned, tired of the constants I just want(ed) to press on. At the 200km mark Mick’s rear puncture and sheared sub frame bolts along with a Laurel and Hardyesque following day attempt at borrowing the village drill in order to repair the damage didn’t help at all. The second 200km saw more Chinese expertise on the huge PN to Brazzaville project help slightly although the loose surface still meant for two days averaging 20kph! Finally we rolled into Pointe Noir too late to enter Cabinda as with only a five day transit visa, every hour really will count once the passport is stamped. The half day in Pointe Noir was spent getting clean, prepping the bikes for the five day blast of 2900km and eating/drinking on the street and actually quite enjoying the cooler temperature and relaxed feel of the place.

Gabon

Next up was Gabon which was one of the countries that I’d pin pointed as very humid, deep jungle territory and probably bloody hard to cross. And very tropical it is too but not quite as humid as I thought it would be. As for the route let me introduce...the Chinese! The Chinese are here (and further south) in a big way. My guess is that they have secured a massive infrastructure deal in return for the oil and mineral trade which will surely follow. The first 75% of the route through Gabon was about as good as I’ve ever ridden. Hundreds of sweeping bends on perfect fresh tarmac through the rainforests meant for a great couple of days on the bikes. In addition, the roads here are virtually empty except for the huge Chinese logging trucks. I’m not sure about the “people are more and more friendly” line anymore as to be honest it really just depends on who you meet and where. Two following riders on a different day could have a totally different opinion of ours. Almost to make that point, the day after crossing into Gabon Mick was confronted by a drunken guy that wouldn’t leave him alone. Avoiding the huge temptation we just cleared off out to avoid what would have no doubt become an ‘incident.’ The same evening though we met and shared a few beers with a lovely guy named Valentine who really impressed us with his knowledge, kindness and potential. I wish him very well but rather suspect that he’ll make a name for himself sooner rather than later. Back on the road then and after the obligatory photo at the crossing of the equator point the hourly mileage rate started to drop as the road surface deteriorated and the distance to the next border began to drop. With a trip such as ours there’s always much discussion on the best route to take in terms of security and the road conditions. Mick and I decided on taking the supposedly less secure traditional route through the rebel/bandit areas and follow the ‘Earth Road’ 250km south once at the Congo Brazzaville border while the ‘Christians,’ still on a similar timescale as us opted for the newer, supposedly safer alternative eastern route. A divine decision or a childish choice?