Can you still hitchhike more than 2000km without your face ending up on a milk carton?
There was time when a dirty, dreadlocked wanderer could hit the highway with his thumb in the air and best leg forward, and easily hitch a free ride from a lovely couple in their air-conditioned sedan. These days the mere thought of standing by the roadside at the mercy of strangers makes my sphincter tighten. Now I am really not being melodramatic: South Africa has more assaults, rape and murder per capita than anywhere else on this planet, with over 200 sex crimes and 50 murders taking place everyday.
Why then, you may ask, would two guys well aware of the dangers involved decide to hitchhike from Cape Town to Durban?
Well we have always believed that fear stifles our growth as human beings. It prevents us from embracing life and adventure. From embracing each other; it keeps us in our boxes. We were feeling a little claustrophobic in our box and needed to taste some excitement.
It was also the World Cup and international press were slating our beloved country; sensationalised horror stories about pangas, snakes and terrorists, scattered with adverts for team coloured bulletproof vests. We wanted to show the world that South Africa isn’t a warzone; that altruism and the spirit of Ubuntu are still alive, that there aren’t rapists and paedophiles hiding under every bridge. Plus we were broke and wanted a holiday.
I have to admit terror was brewing in stomachs when we left Cape Town, with nothing but our backpacks, a bottle of water, a couple of signboards, and a can of pepper spray.
A friend dropped us off at a highway petrol station near Strand and, trying to keep the images of Moses Sithole, Cedric Maake and their other serial killing friends as far from our minds as possible, we headed down the on-ramp and into the great unknown of being a thumb-jockey.
We had our thumbs in the air for about half an hour, when a little bakkie pulled over. The owner Gert, a middle aged bar-owner hailing from somewhere near Port Agulhus, offered us ride. I spent the next two hours, scarf wrapped tightly around my neck lying on the back of the small pick up enjoying the view as we meandered along the glorious coastal road to Hermanus. Gert was travelling home, but taking pity on us, drove 20 km out of his way and dropped us off somewhere near Caledon.
As we jumped out into the grey fog, we met our first fellow hitchhikers: a woman with two small children. It was cold, they looked tired and feelings of guilt started to creep into our heads. We were doing this for fun and adventure, while others did it out of necessity. My wife had given me a giant Bar-One and a bottle of fruit juice, which, at the time, I decided the family needed more. I had no sooner handed out my only supplies when a car pulled over, promptly picking them up, and sped away leaving us in the cold.
We stood on the side of the road, in the drizzle, for more than three hours, thoughts of caramel and nougat weighing heavily on our minds. The sun was crossing the sky and the idea of spending the night next to the highway in the rain held no thrill. We decided to walk towards the nearest grubby village. About 3 km up the road we encountered a group of policemen setting up a speeding camera. We stood 100m away from them, hoping that cars would be forced to slow down and get a closer look at our witty signs and puppy dog eyes.
It seemed to work, because about 5 minutes later a silver hatchback called Lola pulled over. We jumped inside and met Cedric, a French student from the Congo studying in George, who was more than happy to drive us all the way to the Wilderness, the first stop in our journey.
We spent the next three hours discussing life, football, the interconnectivity of the universe, arriving early that evening in Paradise, a 48-hectare property with nothing but a forest, a little cabin, an abandoned caravan and a view that would make the gods spit with jealousy. We spent the next two days sheltering ourselves from the rain and cold, huddling around a fire and sharing stories with our host Jacques, a friendly hermit who has had an array of jobs including soldiering in Israel, driving a bus load of hippies from London to Kathmandu, selling veggie burgers at trance parties and currently a chainsaw-toting tree feller.
On Tuesday morning there was a little break in the rain; we dashed out onto the road and were picked up in a matter of seconds. The driver of this vehicle was funny, flippant and had a scathing distaste for Gareth Cliff. Chris told us that he was a journalist and apparently rather famous. At first we were convinced that he was conning us into some elaborate joke, but he took us to his house in Knysna and showed us piles of articles, CD’s and interviews. He was a music journalist, one of the founders of the Vrye Weekblad, had a skit show called Not Quite Friday Night and dabbled in a blues band called Die Radiators. Chris regaled us with us his stories and views of contemporary South African culture.
After a cup of coffee he drove us into the little township outside Knysna, where we would spend the next leg of the trip with a group of Rastas. Chris dropped us off in Judah Square, slightly miffed that he had to return his rental car and couldn’t stay to hang out with the friendly Rastas and us. The damp grey weather continued and the next few days were spent indoors around a fire, feasting on Sista Leah’s lentil stew and Brotha Ras Mau Mau’s garlic rolls.
The day we left Knysna, the sun broke through the fog, drying out our damp bones and refuelling us with the desire to continue our journey. All the gears in the universe seemed to grind in sync because our day went flawlessly. Two elderly women stopped to give us each a pie and a coke; we made it to Jeffrey’s bay in four hours, obtaining rides from a Suburban Cape Town family, a group of Israeli friends and a carload of German students.
The Germans were on their way to the football and needed a place to stay. We shrewdly suggested Ubuntu Backpackers, the destination for our next stop over. They didn’t need much convincing, and we had secured a lift right to the backpackers’ doorstep (avoiding the 30 km walk from the highway). The Sunshine Coast held on its title and not much else was done for two days, but a bit of surfing, much chilling and consuming a large number of beers.
A few short, blurry days later, we were standing on the main road in Jeffrey’s for about an hour when a taxi pulled over. Since we had started this trip a number of taxis had pulled over and we had to explain that we had no money and were hitchhiking, to which most responded with a guttural exclamation and drove off shaking their heads. We slumped over to this particular taxi, prepared for the same exchange. But when we told Milton our story he told us to jump in and join him to Port Elizabeth; he enjoyed the company. Milton stopped for 4 other hitchhikers and declined payment from any of them. He further refused to drop us off on the side of the highway and drove us right to where we were spending the next four days: the industrial hamlet built on broken dreams, Sidwell.
Most of the residents in Sidwell (10 km from Port Elizabeth city centre) look like they have been kicked in the face by life, the universe and everything else. Old men with packets of empties slung over the handles of their crutches, shuffle to the liquor store at 9 am on a Monday morning, while five-year-old children sporting ‘weed leaf’ earrings zigzag between them to buy molasses for their hookah pipes. Despite the veneer of hopelessness, we found most of its inhabitants to be incredibly warm and friendly. We stayed in the urban community for four days, reuniting with our old friend Duryn, a former “techno-Nazi” now helping in the upliftment of rural communities, while the neighbour’s children stole gigantic avocados for us from a nearby tree.
On our way out of Port Elizabeth we came across a stretch of road scattered with No Hitchhiking signs. Confident in our luck thus far, we thought it would be amusing to get a lift next to these emblems of authority. We stood for about two hours and soon our funny idea started to feel rather stupid. Just as we were abandoning the notion, a van pulled up and a cloud of smoke discharged out into the fresh morning air.
Two old guys with the names like Keith and Snowy muttered through their cigarettes that they would take us to Grahamstown for R10 each. At that moment we were in no mood to negotiate and hopped into the windowless rear of the foggy van. We lay down on mattresses of bubble wrap hugging the ground, employing your traditional safety strategy during a house fire. Just before we both suffocated from carbon monoxide and nicotine poisoning, we arrived in Grahamstown.
The next four days were spent at the National Arts Festival, apparently the second biggest of its kind it the world. We hung out with lecturers, artists, drunks and madmen and felt very much at home.
We left Grahamstown, four odd and colourful days later, exhausted and feeling helpless at the empty roads of the Eastern cape that lay before us. We met a whole family of hitchhikers who had made it all the way here in a day, but after a few hours even they gave up and started to walk ahead. We were just about to call our hosts to ask them if we could stay one more day when a silver car stopped in front of us.
Cokisa, a 27 year old Xhosa restaurateur, greeted us with “What the F*@# are you boys doing?” She welcomed us into her car and sped off towards East London. Cokisa was one of our favourite rides and grew to be very comfortable with us. She left us with her car-keys at a rest stop, took us to meet her family and gave us a tour of her home city.
We stayed two nights in Cintsa, just outside the city at Buccaneers Backpackers and had our first tastes of luxury. This budget accommodation sports a pool, volleyball court, two wicked bars and probably the best food I have ever eaten. That night we partook in some drinking games and learned how to funnel a beer through a vuvuzela.
The morning that we planned to leave the little resort, we met a British couple that offered to drive us directly to Coffee Bay. Danny and Laura had recently decided to break away from their suburban life in Wimbledon and were travelling down Africa. Having heard mythically romantic stories about the Transkei, the four of us eagerly awaited this bit of paradise.
Instead of Utopia, we encountered children trying to sell mushrooms and hashish, packs of stray dogs (followed closely by thrown stones) and drunken teenagers trying to bum cigarettes. It seemed that Coffee Bay was determined to sell tourists an “authentic African Experience” at a reasonable price. Slightly miffed at what this previous South African gem had become, we left the very next day.
We hailed over a bakkie, just after sunrise and jumped in the back, which was loaded with cases of empty bottles and two happy looking boys. The car flew down the pothole-filled road at a speed I had never experienced before. Cows, children and stray dogs started to blur into each other.
Our driver stopped at a nearby town and we climbed off and put our thumbs in the air. We stood there for about 2 minutes when a familiar car pulled over. It was our British mates, Danny and Laura, who apparently also did not enjoy the vibe and decided to head on towards Umkomaas, directly en route to where we were staying for the night.
We said good-bye to the couple on the side of the highway (just outside Port Shepstone) and walked from the road, through a sugar cane plantation, along a railroad and eventually made it to the Mantis and Moon Backpackers in Umzumbe. This is the place where Shaka and his crew destroyed a tribe of cannibals; now it is seaside vacation spot adorned with giant houses with beautifully manicured lawns.
Three fun and totally carefree days were spent at the Backpackers: playing blackjack, bobbing about in a Jacuzzi and throwing ourselves off Oribi Gorge (highest rope swing in South Africa).
We head out one sunny morning for our last big hitchhike. It was a rather sad time; it would be the last time we got to meet interesting strangers, and the adventure was winding down. We got rides from four bakkies and made it to Umdloti in almost no time at all. Our last ride, and elderly man called Malcolm, added the cherry to the final dessert. He was a man who exuded both wisdom and gentleness; he left us with the simple thought that the only way to dispel fear in South Africa is to “find each other again”.
So, not only did we manage to hitch 2000km without our mothers bursting out in to tears whenever they took the milk from the fridge, we had a pretty epic holiday. We saw the country, saved hundreds of Rands on petrol and proved that just because we are on top of the world’s crime charts, not all South Africans are murdering savages; actually we are generally good Samaritans. The only regret of the trip is that I wasted R70 on a can of pepper spray that never left my bag.
