Where there's a will, there's a way

Walkabout

With nothing better on offer and a serious need to clear my head, and no obvious light at the end of the tunnel. (It had been switched off until further notice), I said my goodbyes to mom and my sisters and hit the road, planning to see as much of my own country as possible.

I’d already traveled Natal’s interior, including the Drakensberg, visited our coasts, north and south, along with the Orange Free State and Transvaal, so I headed south, aiming for East London. First stop, Port Edward, or more correctly, the Wild Coast Sun, in the Transkei. I had a bit of spare cash at the time, so I spoiled myself. I’m not a gambler by heart and always remember my mom’s very sage advice, her three golden rules.

1. Love them all and marry none (wish I had paid closer attention)

2. Never trust a man who wears white shoes (no trainers in those days, only tennis shoes)

3. Many a man has been ruined by a slow horse and a fast woman (thank f**k I had no real penchant for gambling)

But ‘bollocks,’ I was at a casino and there was f**k all else to do. I won a little, lost a little. In return, free booze all weekend and I’d won enough to pay for a hotel room.

From there, I headed for Umtata. A beautiful city in its glory days, but now you could smell it from miles away. Another African tragedy. I wasn’t going anywhere in particular and ended up in Queenstown, home to the Hexagon hotel, which claims to have the biggest breakfast selection in the whole Southern Hemisphere, serving anything from whole roast chickens, through 32-ounce steaks.

On the outskirts of East London, l hooked up with Charlie, chairman of a local motor-bike club, and a genuinely all-round good guy. Big, fat, long hair, lots of beard and covered in tattoos. The epitome of a biker, except for the fact that he was still living with his mom, but at least he looked the part. I hung out at the clubhouse, shot pool, and yup, you got it, drank lots of cold beer all day long. We’d go for long rides, with me being the only biker b***h not wearing a skirt. Tell someone who gives a f**k.

East London’s a great place. It’s a river port with the Sunshine coast to the south and the Wild coast to the north. If you’re lucky, and it’s a clear day, you might even get to see whales out in the bay.

I’d been on the road for a couple of weeks before meeting Verna, a single mom, with no real prospects, and sexy as can be. We hit it off big time, so l dragged myself away from Charlie and moved in with her and her grandmother.

Their flat immediately reminded me of my mom’s place. Nothing special, a bit old and grimy, but at least we had our own bedroom. It was a weird, if not totally surreal, situation. No one was working, I was running short on cash, but Verna was horny as all hell, and we didn’t really care as long as we were having a good time.

Verna had a beautiful little daughter whose dad was a professional musician, but coloured, so he had to run for the f**king hills when he found out she was pregnant. Cross-colour / race relationships were completely taboo. He’d end up in jail if he was caught. What a wonderful f**king country.

We had some great times but with nothing really going on and no job prospects, time to cut the strings and ramble on. Verna was f**king livid. Charlie wanted me to stay. I could hang out with the Club for as long as I wanted, but it wasn’t really my thing. I was through with Verna anyway. You can only get so much of a good thing, so time to move on.

I found myself in Grahamstown, a small city full of older teens and young adults, mostly studying at Rhodes University, famous for producing inventors, thinkers, writers, and academics.

I was in a Lady’s Bar, remember, women weren’t allowed in men’s bars, chatting up a very attractive young lady, somewhere in her mid to late twenties, and on a winner. After several drinks, she invited me up to her room, and I was so f**king pleased with myself, until I woke up the next morning.

She was gone, and so was my wallet and my watch. But it gets even better. When I went downstairs to the reception, it appeared that the little b***h had vanished into thin air, nowhere to be found, and she hadn’t paid for the room. F*****k! You’re not going anywhere, they’ve informed me, not until the room’s paid for. What the f**k was I supposed to do now? I was a stranger in a strange town, and I didn’t know anyone.

I tried to explain my predicament, that the f**king b***h (sorry, lovely young lady) had done a midnight flip, after stealing my most prized, real gold, Dunhill watch, and my wallet too, but my pleas were falling on deaf ears. After a few very frustrating hours, they allowed me to make a call, so I called Charlie. East London was the closest place to Grahams Town (well, closer than Durban).

Charlie thought it was funny as f**k and promised to ride up to Grahams Town and help me sort my s**t out. So, for me, it was back to East London and the bikers, until l could sort out my bank account. It took a few days and then I was off again. East London’s behind me and again, with no end destination in mind, l figured, ‘what the f**k’, I’m going wherever the next free ride’s going, and ended up on the outskirts of Graaf-Reinet, gateway to, ‘the valley of desolation’, in the Karoo. Australia’s outback comes to mind.

For all its barren splendour, I was still a beach boy at heart, so off to Port Elizabeth where the beach stretches for forty km’s in any direction. I spent a couple of days there, but with nothing to keep me, I hit the road again, heading for Jeffrey’s Bay.

Jeffrey’s Bay is / was a world-renowned surfing beach. Surfer dudes would travel from all over the world just to be seen there. Full of beach bums, who’d come to pay homage to the tubes. Everyone was young and looking for a good time, so the place was real casual. The laid-back attitude, down to its surfing culture. Something which had been very carefully nurtured since the early 1960s.

Plettenberg Bay, the scenery is mind-blowing, but it’s a sleepy little town without much on offer, other than some of the best beaches to be found anywhere.

As always, it was onwards and upwards, that’s my general idea anyway. I zig zagged all over the place and ended up Beaufort West, back in the Karoo, where it’s easy to feel completely isolated, but in a good way, a bit like being the only person on Mars. Unless, of course, someone else is there as well. Then you’re just another person (I know, pretty deep for me, but hey, what can I say?)

As before, I prefer the beach, so I headed for Knysna, and Knysna’s something else. It’s in a league all of its own. The Knysna Heads (the cause of despair and disaster for the many ships trying to pass through) protecting the dangerous entry into the lagoon

Dolphins are everywhere, seals and whales too. The lagoon’s a sight to behold, beyond description, and the Yellow Wood forests surrounding it are still (or were still) inhabited by elephants.

This is it. I’d decided that I wasn’t going anywhere after this. I was determined to find a job and to settle in, forever (but forever is a very long f**king time)

I met a few of the locals. I was friendly and easy-going. They took me in, accepted me as one of their own, and sooner than I could imagine, I was offered a job as a caretaker for a small hotel and jumped at the opportunity. The pay sucked but it came with free bed and board, which worked just fine for me, and so I settled in for the long haul.