#1: Vredenburg to the West Coast Road Crossing.

I walked out of Vredenburg, a small village on the South African West Coast. I was walking on the road's shoulder, on the gravel part.  I watched the gravel under my feet, yellow, orange, black and brown, heard it crunching. I looked up to the open skies of the Boland. Pale blue with slight, high white cloud.  I didn't know exactly where I was going, only that I was going.  I was excited and nervous.  As I walked and looked the color in the world rose, taking on the sheen of travel. 

I stuck my thumb out.  I hadn’t done this for some time, a long time.  Doubts surfaced.  I wondered if I was too old, if it wasn’t appropriate anymore.  I wondered what would happen, going out and away on the road, putting myself in the arms of fate and strangers.  I'd been planning this for ages, talking about it, dreaming about it, but hadn’t done it because I was afraid.  I had begun to think that it wouldn't happen, that I wasn't capable.  Now, walking along the road, thumb out, I saw that all that time of doubting had been in vain, because always this moment had been approaching.  Car sounds rose behind me, grew, then were gone. 

The Way Out of Vredenburg

I began to relax.  I realised hitching isn't hard.  It’s the kind of thing you don't forget how to do.  Not just holding your hand out, but everything; the feeling of not knowing, of going, the mindset of travelling with strangers.  

I didn’t want to turn around and look at what was coming up behind me, right then just listening was enough, wondering who.  Suddenly, a white Cressida pulled off in front of me, dust smoking up from under its rear wheels.  Suddenly, I ran, bouncing left and right under my heavy, red backpack.

Pulling the back door open I remembered a lesson of hitching; always get the door open.  Get in, take ownership, get involved so that they have to take you.  Even though the ride has stopped doesn't mean you're in there.  Be open, show yourself, get it going. 

The back seat was cluttered with stuff.  A suit, unhung, unfolded, a suitcase, a tog-bag, a surfing magazine lying on the seat, I saw everything in less than a second.  My rucksack flew from my hand, onto the magazine and I stepped round, opening the front before closing the back, so that I was always already inside.  I looked into my new lift's face.  White man, early sixties.  My first in years. 

'Hello.'

'Hello.'

He was soft spoken, a light Eastern Cape or Kwazulu accent.  Kindly eyes and skin with a pink glow to it.  On his chin and cheeks was month old, pure white beard, on his wrist he had one of those copper bands, those white boy, white African boy copper bands.    

'Hi.'

'Hello.'

He smiled wider, I was beaming, my doubts obliterated in the rush of this old, beautiful thing that I knew.   

'Where are you going?' I ask.

'Cape Town.'

'I'm going to Namibia,’ I say, ‘I'm going on a mission up to the border.'  I had thought of that before, in random talks, but now it became so, that was where I was going. 

'Oh? I've just come from there,' he says.

I wait.  We start driving.  I know it’s coming.  We’re going to talk.  Wheels turn as he begins to tell me everything:
'I live in the Eastern Cape, close to the mouth of the Kei River, close to Port Alfred.  You could say I've come the long way round.'  He smiles again.  He looks like a Father Christmas in shorts, in summer, driving a rented Cressida and only a month into his beard. 

'I drove up the East Coast a few days ago, Richards Bay, from there to Bloemfontein, Kimberly, Upington and Namibia.  I spent some time there.  Why are you going?'

'I just want to look at it,' I say, 'I think I just want to stand on the border and mark it, point at it, then come back.'

He nods.  He likes that.  His friendly eyes crinkle.  Then he leaves that look and a shadow surfaces from underneath. 

'I'm on a walkabout,’ he says.  ‘I'm 65 and business is slow.  I'm trying to decide whether to retire and chuck it all in, or keep going.'

I can see he's tired, weary underneath.  I tell him I want to write a book about hitching. 
‘Do you know?’  I ask him, ‘what I mean?  What hitching is like?’

 The kinds of conversations, I tell him, that you have with strangers, locked in a space with the country whizzing by and no way to fill the space but by talking. 

‘Have you had them?’ I ask him, those conversations that explode over hours, provinces, memories of them settling on the road? He listens intently, his head stretching forward off of his neck, eyes down to the left, imagining. 

'I think it’s because it’s a finite time that you have,' I say, measuring the time out between two hands, one of them close to his face in our little space, 'we both know that chances are good we'll never see each other again.  It’s a guilt-free, no strings attached conversation.  On a long hitch ride, two could talk about anything, see anything.' 

'Yes,' he says, touching his beard, the smile lines blooming, 'I know.  I do know.'

He prepares, inhales.

'I used to drive a taxi, before my kids, before I was married even.  I was a Psychology student in Durban. I drove people round the docks, mostly, and they thought they could tell me anything.  I used to study them.  I'd sit waiting for a fare parked somewhere, studying my books, and then a call would come in and I'd be off.  I had many experiences.'

'There were lots of prostitutes, they'd rent me for the night and so I'd drive them around from place to place, wait, listen, read, wait, talk.  Sea captains, sailors, businessmen, housewives, at the docks.  I tried to record everything in my mind.'

He shakes his head.  It was a good time, he tells me the best of it.  But he wasn't taking me far.  It was only nine kilometres to the crossing where right and south-east will take you to Cape Town, and left and west to Veldriff and the nearby sea and the climbing west coast up to the desert and diamond country, Pofadder and Springbok. 

As the stop came closer the conversation dried, just like that.  We knew it wouldn't be possible to start another topic, so there was no point, and we became quiet and uncomfortable.  As he slowed and steered off his phone began to ring.  It was the girl in his office back at home, questions about staff and such.  I slipped out.  Putting a hand over the phone he looked at me and smiled.  I waved and walked away.  

I sat down on the side of the road on top of my rucksack and wrote all of this down.   I'm on the R47, what's known as the west coast road, at the turn-off to Vredenburg, about 20 kilometres from Veldrift.  I've had my first lift.  I've done it.  I've really gotten going.  

#2: The Vredenburg turnoff to Veldriff.

A white, double cab Nissan Bakkie stopped just as soon as I started.  That felt good, charmed. I did my same back door front door trick and when I got in saw that this man was older, perhaps in his late sixties, wearing shorts.  We sped off and I began the preliminaries.

'Hoe gaan dit vandag?' – ‘How’s it going today?’

'Ag, redelik.' – ‘Oh, alright.’

He had that grizzled, hard, heavy look.  An Afrikaner I thought, because Afrikaner's generally seem heavier.  But there was something more.  He was shaky in some way, uncertain.  A timid Afrikaner?  It was doubtful, but possible.  He wore steel rimmed spectacles and a hearing aid nestled behind his large, old man's ear. As I watched him I thought perhaps a touch of Parkinsons, a tremor in the hand and sort of a light stutter when speaking.  I tried to relax.  I remembered I had once hitched a lift with a man with Narcolepsy, who told me so while he was driving, saying that he tended to fall asleep around strangers. I had watched as his stranger's foot juddered against the pedal.  I saw that this guy had a glass ashtray stuck to his dash-board, just right of the wheel.
'I like your ashtray,' I said.  

'I keep it there so when I'm filling up I can just throw it in the bin,' he replied, giving me a shy smile as he mimed the throwing of the butts, 'that's why the car doesn't stink.'

I sniffed and thought that although there was a tinge of smoke, it could be much worse.  I noticed that some money had fallen out of my pocket and tried to pick it up, but it fell into a slot around the handbrake.  
I asked him if he'd ever leave South Africa.

'Never.'

'Why not?'

'I'm very happy here.  We have retired here to Veldriff, and this is a wonderful town.  There is so much, more than enough to do to keep you busy.  I'm a member of the boating club, I've got a boat at the marina, and I'm a member of the yachting club, and the fishing and the bowls.  My wife and I have a social calendar that is full to the brim.  But if I wanted I could take it easy too.'

He was warming up just a little now, but still the hesitancy and the tremor were there, the touch of something.

'Another great thing about the town is there are no vagrants.' 
He pointed around outside the cab and I looked.  What I saw was the dry of the west coast bush, the smallness of its little white buildings, their modesty and the flat acres of the open country spreading down to meet with the open sea, and further, the open sky.

'You see it?'

'I don't know.'

'There's no industry.  There's no jobs here.  So no one comes here.  We are a quiet community.'

He was right, it was the outsiders here that had money.  Locals lived as their parents had, only their clothes were different, and their cellphones. 

'Ek wil n boek oor Hitchhiking skryf, oor... die...' – ‘I want to write a book on hitchhiking, about… the…’   
I struggled. I started using my hands a lot, I caved in and used English words like 'psyche' and 'country.'  
He watched me, nodded, then said, 'I get you.'  He said it in English.

Right then realisation dawned.  He didn't have Parkinsons, he was English speaking, struggling to speak Afrikaans.  

'I love the west coast,' he said, 'it’s better than the garden route.  In the garden route everything is there for you.  You don't have to look for it.  It’s right there.  Beautiful.  The rain forest, the lagoon, which is great, but it’s not like here.  Here the land is more essential.  I prefer the ecology here.  These plants,' he sent a hand out and across the empty ashtray, 'have to survive.'

'I think I know what you mean,' I said. 'For me the west coast is special because it grows on you.  It’s not pretty when you first look at it. It takes time.'
As we crossed the bridge into Veldriff, over the widening mouth of the Berg River, he gave me some advice.

'You can take the R–399, that goes from in town, just ahead here...', he said, '...which will take you straight to Piketberg.  Or, there's the coast road that goes all the way up.  Dwarskersbos, Elands Bay, Lamberts Bay, then Clanwilliam.'

'What should I take?'

He shrugged.

'Straight to Piketberg there's a lot more traffic.  You should probably take that.'

'In my mind I had it that I would go up the coast as much as possible,' I say, 'so I'd rather take the coast road.'

'There won't be a lot of traffic, that I can promise you.'

'I don't mind.  I don't have a time limit.'

He nodded and drove.  He was a lanky man, thinner and longer than the first.

'Don’t tell anyone about Veldrift,' he said as he dropped me off, right on the coast road that I was to take, 'we don't want all sorts of people coming here.' 

I laughed then looked for the money I'd dropped in the beginning.  He watched me, wondering what I was doing, rooting in the slots between the seats, moving his hanky aside and seeing his lighter and a spare. 

'I dropped this two rand when I got in,' I said, holding it up. He nodded and I made sure that there was no lie in me.  To end our time with me stealing little bits of change would be, well ... odd. 
I walked away, off into the heat.  I looked around at the west coast.  There was no deep green out there, nothing lush. It wasn't pretty.  Nothing undulated, everything was crooked, cracked. An essential place.   I walked hard, happy to sweat.  The heat reminded me that I was free of every humdrum thing. 

#3: Veldrift to Dwarskersbos

I walked for a short while, perhaps twenty minutes, moving it in the heat, wanting to get gone.  I passed a school playground.  It was break time so the place was swarming.  I watched one boy sitting up alone in the corner of the long fence that went all around the school.  

I tried to take a photo of him on my cellphone, surrounded by open veld and open sky, but he jumped down before I was ready.  Instead I recorded the sound of the place, the screaming of the kids and the silence, the blowing wind and the gravel crunching underfoot.  

I was passing a big, empty housing development. This is the new West Coast.  They are to be found everywhere.  Invisible towns complete with streets and lines and driveways, but no houses, save the sales office at the entrance flanked by massive signage.

The road ahead was hazy.  One or two cars passed and then it happened again.  A white Bantam.  It screamed past at 160, then suddenly it slowed, bonnet tilting forward over its little black wheels, engine dropping down fast, breaklights bright red.  I ran, bobbing left and right, kind of moon hopping with the padded  weight of the rucksack.  A Bantam is a smaller bakkie, a single cab.  I saw this on my approach so I prepared by pulling the rucksack off and getting it into my hand, ready to swing it into my lap as I swung down into the car. 
This man was in his early fifties and definitely Afrikaans.  Short, graying hair, muscular, sunburnt face.  Crows feet at the eyes, hairy and hardy.  He was washed clean but no doubt an outdoorsman, a peering at the weather man.  We began with silence.  Me not knowing, he not knowing. I watched the coastline pass, the holiday complexes slowly emerging from the bush, sand and sun.
Suddenly, surprising me because I had thought that silence would be it, he told me that the temperature outside has come down from 34 to 24, from Piketberg to here.  He was pointing at the digital thermometer on the dash.  I realised he wanted to talk. 

'It didn't feel 24 outside,' I say.

'Thats because you were walking,' he points out. 

'You're right,' I reply.  'What do you do for a living?'

'I'm an architect.  I've got my own business.  I've just been finishing a job in Piketberg.  It's the boring part.  Just checking the finishings.'            

He shrugs and laughs.  I'm not sure I understood what he said.

'Where do you live?'

'In Dwarskersbos.'
He points forward, the next little town coming up to meet us.  They have a caravan park there.  I spent a New Years as a teenager there, once.'Do you want to leave South Africa?'            

'Leave?  Leave here?'  'Yes.'            

'No.  No.  No other country would want me.'
I nod.  He drives.  The Bantam is fast.            

'I keep to myself.  I don't want any partners in the business, I don't open it up.  I just take the work that comes along.  It's enough to keep me busy.  So I'm okay.'  
I nod.          

'But my wife isn't so happy.  She's a psychologist for the schools around here.  The browns and blacks don't want to work.  They make it difficult for her to do her job, to love her job and to do it well.'            

'My girlfriend is a teacher,' I say, 'she just started at a government school, not far from here.   She's been there three months and still has no contract and has not been paid her full salary.'  

He nods.  We drive.  Its a very short distance.  In no time he's slowing. 

*

A little later I'm sitting on the side of the same road, in a bit of shade while I write these notes.  I'm thinking.  The dynamics of hitching are endlessly mesmerising.  There's the initial awkwardness, as the beginning of any time with a stranger, but that time is far less, over much more quickly, because we, the hiker and driver, are already complicit.  We've both already made a commitment.  The commitment isn't to journey together, to simply cover ground together, it's to share together.  This is the unspoken agreement:  We will talk, and we will go where that talk takes us.  A hike is a gift, an unpredictable adventure.  A sharing.            

Behind me there's a house with an aviary in the back garden, against the other side of the fence I'm sitting against.  In the heat, the dry, West Coast heat, there's all manner of jungle-bird sound.  That's what I mean.  Nothing is expected, nothing is predictable.  People are the same.  They'll tell you what you expected them to say, what you would have guessed they'd tell you, but in the moment it'll get you every time.  The telling is real.  The telling is a feeling.  It flows.  It fills, and the detail is incredible.             

I look out at the road.  This is officially the furthest I've travelled on this particular route.  Ahead of me is the unknown.  I know I'm going up to the border.  The jungle birds sing.  The heat is hot.  I'm glad I'm not sitting in my box.    

#4: Dwarskersbos to Grafwater

I'd been walking for a time, perhaps twenty minutes, when an eight ton TATA diesel came roaring up behind me, hooting and flashing its hazards, and then pulled up right close.  My first truck lift!  I ran in the heat, excited at the idea of climbing up high and riding like a king.

Entering the cab I was confronted with Brian, a grinning, fit animal in his mid to late forties.  He wore a white, baggy vest over a pair of comfortable blue shorts, takkies on his feet, a chunky gold ring on his finger and a chunky gold chain on his chest, his olive skin glowing.   He said a genuine hello, happy to share this hot day with me, and we got going.  

I commented on a long train we could both see on its way north from Saldanha.  I told him I thought it was one of the longest in the world, these iron ore trains on their way to Sishen, wherever that is.  Brian said he didn't know, but was happy to learn.  I told him about the book and asked about his views on the country, would he be staying or going, what did he think?  He frowned and said this is the best place in the world.  He pointed a muscular finger at his windscreen, out to the veld and the blazing sun, and said he'd never leave.

'There's no disasters here,' he said, 'look at New Zealand.'
Slowly we began to open up, to figure out how it was going to be with us.  

'I started working at fourteen, and since then I've always worked, I'm a working man,' he said.  'I want to ask questions, and I keep asking 'til I get the answers.  And then I ask some more.'
I begin to relax.  He's bursting with news for a stranger.
'My first job was back in 1973, in a textile factory, in Cape Town. I earned fourteen rand a week. Fourteen. Times were different back then, it was Apartheid. A colored man like me had to make his way in the world. I worked my way up, first a handlanger, a errand boy, asking questions and asking questions, until my boss sent me on a course, and then I became a knitting technician.'

'A knitting technician?' 

'Ja-ha-ha!' he replies, bouncing in his chair and loving it, 'you surprised, hey?!'

'Yes.'
'I was a technician on the knitting machines, keeping them running smoothly.' 

He searches the past, sitting comfortably in his shorts high above his piece of paradise. 
He tells me about his Toyota Corolla, the first car he ever bought back in '79, a beautiful, shining machine for which he paid R3000, all from his hard earned cash, and which today would cost between fifty or sixty, he reckons.
'A machine like you've never seen, and it was mine.'
He met his wife at around that time.  He was the best man at his friend's wedding, and there, on the wedding day, he looked across to the bridesmaids, and discovered his soul mate.

'Ons was smoorverlief. We were sweetly in love, passionately.'  He starts to talk about his wife, and his family, and his eyes shine even brighter. 

'We got married one month after my eighteenth birthday, one month, and then, when I was nineteen, at that time I was earning R1500 a week, I bought myself a three bedroomed house, with hot and cold water, and this was in Apartheid.'
He says it again, feeling it.  
'We got a son and a daughter, and then another daughter.  And then, in '83, '84, textiles changed.  It was the start of the Chinese invasion.  I tell you, I could see it before everyone else.  Suddenly you got clothes cheap, much cheaper than we can make it. The bosses is whispering together, there's less and less orders coming through the machines.  I got out early.  I felt like a bird.  I had been caged for eleven years and suddenly I was free.' 
'The factory,' he says, 'the rountine, it had fucked me up, ja.  It gave me a kuk picture, a wrong picture of life.  Colours was wrong in there, taste was wrong, I didn't know what was fresh air anymore.'
He got himself a code 14 license, the kind needed for trucking, and flexed his wings. 

'I'm happy,' he says to me, shorts and vest and takkies, white teeth and shining, sparkling eyes, 'everyday I see something new on the roads.  I'm free.  I've got no one hanging over me.  No bells for lunch and tea.  I just drive, I take my time.'

'I start in St Helena Bay in the mornings where we load up.  I carry a load of bitumen.  From there I come through to Laaiplek, there I have my breakfast place, there's a spot just by the sea.  I stop and eat a vetkoek or maybe cereal, and then I take a quick walk on the beach, splash my feet, and then I get going.  My boss says I must just drive safe, and get my load on my time.'

He's got the radio on, KFM, golden oldies swirling through the cab, the truck's fan blasting.

'We're fixing the roads all the way from here up to Springbok.  It's a big contract.  I'm with a good company.'

He tells me a little of the history of where he is. What happened was his bosses, two Muslim brothers, had a father who was the owner of the company, a fleet of 3 TATA trucks to begin with.  One sad day the father died, and the boys were expected to take over.  They tried, at this point hiring Brian, and doing their best to service their contracts.  But things were tough, the boys were young and inexperienced, and the demands of trucking and responsibility were heavy for them.
'I talked to them.  I helped them through it.  I told them it's about one thing at a time.  We must just finish this stretch, this contract, slowly, take it slowly.'
And things began to change.  Across the passing of days the boys grew into men, and they became confident. 

'My truck works for about R380 per hour,' he says, changing tack, pulling me into something new, 'ten hours a day, 5 days a week.  That's R3800 per day, R19000 per week, R76000 per month.'
'Now I earn about R16000 per month, so, of course there's maintenance and diesel costs, and after that a coupla thousand that goes straight to the boss, just off this truck.'
'Now.  The bosses are running eight trucks.  That's R608 000 a month, over 6 million a year.  How much is a truck?'
I don't know.
'Around R785 000, new, that's without papers and all that.'
We think about that.
'So?'
'So, what's to stop  me getting a loan for R500 000, getting a truck second hand and paying it off in two years?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing.  I'm saving up.  I got a deal with my boss that when I buy my truck we go into partnership.  Who knows?'

Our talk changes as we pass Elands Bay, a place I've never been.  He goes back to family, the whole point really, the reason he's driving his truck and getting up in the morning.   
'We're staying at a self-catering in Graafwater, and it's a bit kuk. Everyday we fix more of the road, and we moving, each day getting farther from home.  I used to go home on weekends, but now...  it's once a month. How much is it for the diesel home?'
'Wow, I don't know.'
'R3000 per trip.'
'Ja.  So now I'm staying on the weekends and getting the extra R3000 in the pay packet.  But you know what?'
'Uh-ah.'
'We both on Vodacom.  They got a special where you can talk for free as long as it's between midnight and five.  So we stay up and talk and talk.'  

We round the lagoon at Lambert's Bay and then turn away from the coast, now on our way to Clanwilliam, soon to pass Graafwater.  
'I got a grandson, he lives with us at the moment, his Mommy is living with us. This child remembers everything.  He knows all the names of the trucks; tipper, front loader, mixer. I take him driving with me and we play cricket and rugby in the garden, our house is in Macasser.  I love that boy.  Wragtig, he's Grandpa's boy.'

I ask him about love, how it works, and he tells me about Goudini Spa. 
'I took her there last year, in the off season.  Us and two other couples, we rented a chalet.  How much was the accomodation?'
'How much?'
'R4000, and that's accomodation alone.  On top of that I put down another three. I was spoiling her, man.  
We were dancing, swimming, laughing, eating.  I was pampering her.'
He gives a big, Brian grin.  
'She works too, but this is mine (motioning to his truck, his cab).  I spoil her.  I work for us.'  
And so what about love?
'It has it's ups and downs, it goes up and down, that's what I can say about love. Over 33 years of marriage, four kids, the oldest of them being 33, I can tell you that love goes up and down.'  

We're grinding up a hill, halfway along there's roadworks and a stop 'n go.  This is Brian's company working here. Everyone around shouts greetings, waving up to him, he's a hero around these parts.  He sticks his head out and starts chaffing the girl manning the stop sign, asking her if she's tired and telling her to come and sit on Uncle's lap, because he'll make her more tired.  The whole place is laughing.  
He jumps down, lighting a smoke, chatting with his road family.  I watch, suddenly myself again.  I wonder if he's faithful, I wonder, 33 years, all that time on the road.  Of course, it doesn't matter.  Love has it's ups and downs and we're all people and life's a journey.   Watching him I can see that the man is love.  And that in his heart he's still 19, still smoorverlief, still sweetly and passionately in love, with everything.

#5: Between Grafwater and Clanwilliam

Brian dropped me some way beyond Graafwater, I'm not sure how far from Clanwilliam. We said goodbye while he readied to tip his load of stone. He'd offered to take me all the way to Clanwilliam and the N7 but I said no thanks, because at that stage I wanted to walk again, breathe and be free.  I was beginning to discover that hitching like this can be pretty tiring, constantly making mental notes during the conversation, trying to see.  So I was glad to be off on my own, and I started what ended up being a long walk.  

The country around Clanwilliam is famous for its Rooibos, a local herbal bush used as a popular tea.  I saw these now, rows of them in the veld, odd as the bushes are natural and hardy, like fynbos, and don't seem to belong in rows.  The walk was full of idle thinking.  I had a tune in my head, Megadeth's The Killing Road, and I kept air-guitaring it over and over as I strolled.  The weather at that point was dark and broody, certainly threatening rain, and in the distance I saw lighting flash on the plains.  I passed workers in the fields with trucks and wagons and they all waved and shouted and I waved and shouted back, behind an endless backdrop of bruised sky and rolling, open veld, flat topped kopjes and finally mountain and escarpment.  

I reached another stop 'n go and kept going, past the trucks, sedans and suburban 4 x 4's, happy to stroll and play my endless tune, leaving those guys behind. 

This place was full of bitumen, raw tar, the steaming smell of it everywhere, melted, rain threatening. I heard a loud engine whine behind me, louder because of the silence of the empty road, and turned to see a steam-roller churning up the hill, much faster than I thought was possible.  The driver was a man in overalls, a crumpled hat and a big, white smile.  He slowed next to me and I started to run, first trying to unhitch my backpack and throw it on, then realising my best bet was just to grab hold and pull.  I did and I found myself balancing on a thin platform next to him with my pack leaning out over the rushing tar, wanting to  pull me in. 

'Clanwilliam?!'  He shouts, sparkling eyes, a pipe in his breast pocket, around fifty years of age, the engine's screaming all the sound in the world.

'Yes! Namibia!'

'Namibia?!'

'Yes!'

'Eersterivier!' he shouts, pointing at his own chest.  

'Vredenburg!' I shout back. 

He's with the company too, also staying at Graafwater, one of Brian's men but he's much lower down.  A lord among labourers because he can drive the steam-roller, but nowhere near the status of a lorry priest, with his direct line to the heavens, and the bosses.  His name is Samson.  He drops me in the same way he found me, I just jump off. 

*

An hour later I'm standing in front of a sign that reads 'Cape to Namibia Route, N7' and an arrow pointing left.  This is it.  I can feel it, this is tangible.  Above me is the mighty highway upon which commerce and industry roars, night and day, running growth, production and economy up into the hot lands, the sour lands, the delta's and the jungles of Africa.  It's on this mighty road river that men travel, owl-eyed and huge with the power their machines wield, with their solitude and their long, long thinking while the kilometres roll by.  This is the artery of the right hand of Africa, bringing rich blood thudding upwards to her heart.  

I scramble along a worn footbath beside a deep, rocky gully, a beautiful sandy cave dwelling that on another day would be excellent for camping, and finally step over the knee-high barrier onto the N7 herself.  I drop my bag, tired after the two hour hike, and take a seat, collecting my barings for a moment. 

The road roars.  Massive long-haul carriers crush the air as they pass, sucking it right away in their howling slipstream, rocking me back and forth.  I see a little guy walking towards me, along this big road going somewhere.  He's about sixteen, barefoot, torn shirt and shorts.  We talk and he's alive, full of the energy of the road, the twilight, the limitless travel all around.  

'Where you going?'

'Klawer.  Where you going?'

'Namibia.'

I give him an apple as he walks away, freer than me, not even a bag with him, no piece of fear.  I stand and stick my hand out, once again, and try for the right expression.  It's dusk, so there's a bit of serious on the face, a tinge of worry because it feels dangerous. Sunset on the open road is the witching hour, a time when the eyes play tricks, when some have set their lights and others have not, and a hare or a buck or a flitting shadow could come darting into the crunching traffic, causing ripped steel and cart-wheeling, end over end crashes and death.  And so I stand, willing sanctuary, and I watch as mighty truck after mighty truck comes thundering down, as the sun sets on the first day of the hike.  

#6: Clanwilliam to Klawer

I don't have to wait long.  Suddenly a tiny Nissan bakkie stops for me, a fast, bug-like thing, one moment buzzing along then braking hard and pulling up.  I run, as I do I see a little man hop from the cab and yank the canopy door open, then rush round to the passenger door, yank that open and start pulling out bags of groceries.  He flits back to the canopy, chucking the shopping in then darting back for more.  All this as I'm running in the dusk-light, wondering who he might be.

'Yes, now.'
He gives me a harried look, grabbing more shopping bags, in them Pepsi Max, cheese, milk, coco-pops. I try to help but there's not time, he's done it already.  He jumps in and I jump in too, the two of us in the little cab. 

'Worsie.'

'Milton.'

We shake.  He drives, punching the accelerator with a pair of chipped hiking boots nestled in thick rugby socks. 

'Waantoe gaan jy?'

'Lambertsbaai.  Self?'

'Namibia.'

He nods and that's it.  We drive.  I take stock.  It's a new world in this little cab, its right down low, brushing my head, we're sitting about a foot above the road. 

'Ek sal jou op die Wimpy by Klawer aflaai.  Daar's baie karre daar, baie Namibiese karre.'

'Cool.  Thanks.'

'Ek't al baie Namibia toe gery.  Luderitz. Windhoek.  Walvis.  Ondangwa.  Ek ken elke dorp in daai land.  Elke straat.'

'Regtig?'

'Ek't daar gebly.  Lorrie gery.  Maar hulle is poeste.  Hulle wou my nie permanent residence gee nie, so ek moes elke drie maande by n nuwe plek gaan werk, want jy kannie meer as drie maande werk as jy nie n permit he nie.'

'Dis nie reg nie.'

'Ja. Hulle is poeste.  Die government.  Ek het n vrou daar.  Glo jy dit?'

I check him out.  He's sly, suddenly, or sharp. 

'For sure,'  I reply.

'Sy's 23.'

He's about fifty-five.  I'm seeing a colored woman, or a black woman, some conquest happy for cash and a way out. 
'Sy's op vakansie op Luderitz, sy kom nou na my toe, volgende week.  Ek't vir haar gese, gaan hou vakansie.  Maar die mense op Luderitz is konte.  Clique-ey.  Hulle praat nie sommer met jou nie.' 
The woman has a way, I think.  With her tits and her smile she can melt the cliques.  She's got a way in, charming the Germans with her dusky skin.

'As ek kan sal ek daar bly.  Weet jy hoekom?'

'How come?'

'Dis vokken vylig, dis hoekom.  As ek daar is, slaap ek sommer met my vensters oop, in my lorrie, maak nie saak waar ek is nie. Niemand sal jou daar rob nie.'

'Jy ry lorries daarso?'

'Oorals.  Namibie, Angola, dis kuk hoor.  Dis fokkin warm in Angola.  40 grade, 43 grade, die hutte maak jou sommer mal.  Congo, Zimbabwe, Mozambique.'

'Jusis.'

'Ek kannie stil sit nie, my maat.  Ek het al probeer ophou.  Ek het al ge-retire.  Op my plaas.  Ek sit daar vir dae, een dag, twee dae, vyf dae, maar na agt dae, moet ek ry ou maat, daar gat ek.  Ek kannie stil sit nie.  Nie vir my nie.'

He drives. 

'Ry is vokkin lekker,' he says.

It's just about dark now. 

'Waar's jou plaas?'

'Op die Karoo.  Beaufort-Wes se kant.'

I've been thinking about the Karoo, not loudly, not even to myself, but it's been there.  Because I've been wondering at my route, trying to work the world out in my mind, and thinking that it might be nice to go through there on my way back down. 

'Weet jy wat die beste roete sal wees, om van Namibie terug Ceres toe te gaan?  Maar, deur die Karoo? Ek wil eintlik deur Sutherland gaan.'

Worsie thinks for a second, one second only.

'Die beste sal seker wees, gat links Vanrynsdorp in, van daar af Calvinia, dan af Sutherland toe.'

Is dit goeie paaie?'

In my mind the Karoo is big and dusty, hot and dry, and there are gravel roads snaking all through her on which a man can stand for days and see nothing. 

'Ja.  Dis goie paaie.  Dis beter om in die aand te ry.'

We drive.

'Daar's nie hutte nie.  En die lorries slaap, hulle trek af, so n mens kan lekker gemaklik ry.  Ek ry altyd in die aande.  As ek kan.'

Night is falling around us, the ride isn't long.  Soon he drops me at the Caltex or the Engen at the turn-off to Klawer and Vredendal.  I get a picture of him.  He's a livewire, a little African, as African as they come. 

I buy two pies at the makeshift shop, the station under repairs, and find a spot of grass in the back to relax on.  Its soft and cool.  I take my shoes off, lie back, dirty and happy.  I see the guy that I gave the apple to, a kid barefoot in shorts and a torn shirt, and give him money for a pie and a coke too, it being sacrilege and blasphemy not to give him some of what I've got.  Out in the open it's easy to be human.

#7: Klawer Turnoff to Springbok

I stayed at the petrol station for a while, relaxing on the grass, reflecting, taking photos of lights  and watching a guy arc-welding as it got proper dark.  I may have used my phone, I may not have.  

At about nine-thirty or ten I got back on the road, walking away from the station as there was another hiker on the open road, a middle-aged, haggard and sad thing.  It was beautifully hot and a privilege to stand out in my country's dark.Cars passed, and after a time a Renault Clio type car pulled off quite a way before me, about thirty or forty metres towards Klawer, stopped then accelarated and came to rest close to me.  I got in. Chris was a young law student going home to his father's farm in the Keimoes area during a study break before exams.  His back seat was piled with dirty washing, everything thrown in.  We got to talking.  He tried his English on me, me my Afrikaans on him.  I told him that my mission was to go up to the border and just stand there, point at the spot that the border is, the actual line, and say 'there, that's the border', before coming home again.  I thought that would be enough.  He says he isn't going up to the border, he's turning off at Vanrynsdorp to go through to Keimoes, close to Upington.  I'm not sure exactly what he means, not being familiar with the country, but I say that's grand, I have no time limit and may as well go up that way.  I ask him of his knowledge of the Karoo, does he know the route to Ceres via Sutherland, because I'd like to see my girlfriend in Ceres this weekend.  He replies that this is the Karoo.  I say yes, but it's just the side of it, I want to get right in there.  He nods and names a string of towns, trying to answer my questions as best he can, but we're both uncertain, and so we drop it.  

'So, what are you going to do with Law?' I say after a silence.
'I'd like to work for myself,' he replies, 'I want to stay in Stellenbosch, I like it there.  I'll probably stay there my whole life.'
I tell him I know what he means, as the other day I arrived in Cape Town after some time on the West Coast, and knew I didn't want to be there.  I had to think faster and of more things at the same time than I'd like. He says he understands.  He's grown up on a farm, his father's wine farm on the fringes of the Kalahari. 
'How's it going with farming in South Africa at the moment? Does your dad want to stay?'
'My father works with the new government,' he replies, 'with creating jobs.  It's tough.  He doesn't get the support he needs.  The colored people that live close to us don't want to work, they lazy.  We use Tswana's that come from the North.  They work hard.   They're the best people.  Really, really the best.' 
I visualise what he's saying, trying to see all the angles, give all of them their due.  'I reckon the reason they don't work as hard is because they're local,' I say, 'they don't have to work.  They've got houses and families to support them, the guys that come from somewhere else have to work because it's all they got.  They can't afford to be lazy.'
'That's interesting,' he says.  'Ja, I suppose you're right.'

We rumble along.

'How old are you?' he asks.

'Twenty-nine.'
'I'm nineteen.'

I watch him as we're talking.  He's big, your classic Afrikaner country boy.  Young, but fully a man, fully used to being in charge of himself and the things he owns.  The way he drives, he understands his power over things, his ability to mould and shape things, to stand firm.  That's something I've always admired, that self-assured way with things, that way that comes naturally.  But he's also more than the stereotype.  There's something in the way he answers me.  He's trying,  stretching himself out to something, wanting to understand more than he's been told he needs to.  He wants to be better. 

'Do you watch cricket?' I ask.

'Ja, ja.  For sure.'

'What do you think of Graeme Smith?'

'He's arrogant,' he says, 'he talks big, but then he chokes.'

'I like him,' I reply.
'Really?'

'Ja.  I worked on a commercial with him once.  I was supposed to look after him, offer him water, food, that kind of stuff.  He told me not to bother with him, he knows I'm busy, I mustn't worry about him.  He didn't seem arrogant.'

'Okay.' 

'I think he's given the team a lot,' I continue, 'he became captain when he was twenty-two.  I think he put his career on hold to become captain.  He did too much too fast.  Now he's a fucking good captain, but he's struggling in his head.  I hope he can sort things out, because he deserves it.'

Chris himself doesn't swear.  
'What sort of commercials do you work on?' he asks. 

'All sorts,' I say, 'but I don't really do it anymore.' 

'I've met Jared Leto, and Nic Cage,' he tells me.  'You know the movie Lord of War?'

'Yes.'

'They shot on a farm close to us.  Nic Cage came driving up in this big, fancy 4 x 4 like he was somebody, speeding on the farm, and gets out and he's surrounded by body guards and goes into the house, never talking to anyone.  Jared Leto was much nicer.  He came fishing with my friends and me at the river.  He just bought his bodyguard with him.' 

'I wonder what it's like,' I say, 'being recognised pretty much anywhere you go, anywhere in the world.  I wonder what that's like.'

The country-side passes.  The dark desert. 

'What is it to you to be a South African?'

He thinks for a second, mustering all his years for the answer.  
'I'm irritated that I'm always penalised for something I didn't do,' he begins, 'I mean, that's the thing that might get me to emigrate.  All this affirmative action. That's racist, not to get a job because of what someone did way back when.  I mean, thirty percent of South Africans didn't know what was happening, they didn't agree with it. All the law that I learn, it's around how the law has changed, and how me as a white man must pay.'

He thinks some more.   

'South Africa, for me, is braaing, long evenings.  My culture is Afrikaans, being with my people.  We like to drink, braai, play rugby.'

'So you think you're going to have problems getting a job?'

'Yes.  Definitely.  They tell us directly.  If you're a man and white don't even bother filling in the application.  One attorney told me, it was at a law weekend, people will promise you certain things, but they won't be able to deliver, because they have quotas to fill.  They'll say to you you'll get a car, and a cellphone, a good job, but they can't give it.  And there's no bursaries for whites.' 

'For me,' I say, 'what I think, generally, is I got more because I was white.  My education, generally, was better, my house, generally, was better.  We didn't have much money when I was growing up, but even if we didn't have much money, I could learn. I had good teachers.  There were only 25, not 40 people in the class.  I was privileged because I was white.  I wasn't part of apartheid, but I still benefited.  My philosophy is I must make work for myself.  But it does affect me.'

I think some more.  He waits. 

'If I do a funding application,' I say, 'I have to make part of it a social upliftment thing.  I did a project with a young black guy from the township. He's got his own theatre company, they rehearse every day, but they didn't know what they're doing, they didn't know how to do it right, but they have passion.  He's working hard, and he wants to learn.  He can't speak English well, he doesn't know how to learn like I know, because my whole life has been like that. So I worked with him, and it felt right.  If I don't do that, I may as well be somewhere else.'

'Ja,' he says.

'The best guy,' I say, 'should get the job so that the job is done the best.  But there is space to somehow make things more equal.  The only difference between the old and the new government is that the old one was only looking after twenty percent of the population, the new one is trying to look after everyone.'

'But...' he struggles, 'Julius Malema.'

'Yes,' I say, 'he is a poes.' 

'He influences so many people to be negative in our country.  Why is he there?  He gets away with everything.  He shouldn't be allowed to be there. And he's one of many.  Unemployment.  There's so much opportunity, just look at the land, but there isn't the space to create jobs.  The government doesn't allow us to work, we can't just get on with it and work, there's too much red tape, too much 'rights'.'

'The ANC's men were soldiers,' I say, 'and now that they have what they were fighting for, it turns out that those soldiers aren't necessarily governors.  The fight's over and now we see that some of then weren't in it for freedom, they were in it for power.'

'Ja.'

'Wouldn't it be great,' I say, 'if someone just removed Malema, anyone who was just after power and was happy to destroy rather than build, wouldn't it be great if we could somehow just force everyone to act justly?  But then, that's the opposite of democracy.' 

'But what gets me,' says Chris, 'is the people on the ground level, they're let down by their leaders, abandoned, but they still vote for them.  If you hit a monkey with a stick he's not going to come back to you.'

We hear a strange sound in the car, some kind of flapping, or something.  Chris looks around.  

'Is it anything you have?' he asks.

'No, I don't think so.' I'm craning round too, trying to see.  'It doesn't sound mechanical.' 

We sit back, quiet as he drives.  It doesn't sound mechanical. 

'Helen Zille hits the nail on the head,' he says, suddenly.  'People don't have food, but the politicians are flying around in private jets?  I want people to do things that make sense, make opportunities for themselves, things that make sense.  The government is not creating these opportunities.'

'I was doing some research once,' I say, 'I went to the civic centre in Cape Town and sat in on a ward councillor's meeting.'

'Okay.'

'There were about five different languages being spoken, and it was amazing how everyone worked together.  There was a guy in charge who kept the meeting on track.  Whenever it went off, say someone from the ANC was attacking one of the other parties, he'd come in and say, come now.  Let's stay on the topic. We're not here to attack each other.  These people don't have toilets. What are we going to do about it?  And everyone accepted that, got together and moved forward.'

'Ja,' says Chris, excited.

'Everyone was working together, it was nothing like the newspapers.  Government is full of good, normal people, working together and getting things done.  TV and newspapers distort things, a lot.'

'I'm going to pull off,' he says, 'I want to know what's making that sound.'

We stop on the side of the highway in the dark, walk in the fresh, night, desert air, and have a look through the back, finding nothing.  We drive.

'So, how come you're going home?'

'To study, it's exams.' 

'Do you stay in a koshuis?' 

'Ja.'

'What's it like?'

'Lekker.  Very lekker.  Everything is nice.'

'And initiation?'

'Ja,' he says, 'we do that.  They don't moer the guys, but there are traditions.  Our hostel was built for guys coming from the army, so we have lots of army traditions. It's good.  When you're in matric you think you're a big shot.  We get guys with these big attitudes, first team boys from the big schools, Paarl Gym, Paarl Boys.  Then they break you down and you don't feel so good about yourself, and you all pull together.  We do it.  We don't want guys there who don't want to take part. I wouldn't do it any other way.'

'I agree,' I say.

'If you keep it firm and fair, it's positive,' he says.

'It's when it becomes cruel,' I say, 'then it becomes ridiculous. I read Rainbow Warrior, Francois Pienaar's book.  He said he also believes in it, but it gets out of hand.  When he was initiated into the Transvaal team he had to get a smack on the ass from each player, but some of them just used it as an excuse to hurt him, to really fuck him up, rather than just do the ceremony.  There's a line, basically, where it becomes something else. Guys start using the ceremony for something else.'

'Did you stay in res?' he asks.

'Yes,' I reply, 'College House, at UCT.  But I didn't have spirit.  I didn't really want to be there.  It was just a place for me to live, I wasn't there to be a part of something.  If I think back, though, perhaps I would have liked to be more involved.'

We're quiet.  He's too polite to judge.  A rabbit streaks across the road.  The engine hums.

'I've done a lot of hiking,' I say, 'It's crazy.  You have the best conversations.  It's always surreal, in a car with a stranger.  It's surreal to think it, but it's not that surreal when you're there, and everything's real.  I've been thinking of doing this for a long time, saying to people that I've got to write this book, I've got to write this book, but I've kept putting it off.  This week, finally, I said, just go, just go, see what happens, let it build from there.'

'When I was in matric,' he says, 'one day we decided to drive to the sea for the weekend, me and my friends from my school.  My parents still don't know about it.  We packed in a case of brandy, just a shirt and one pants each, and slept on the beach.  We met these great people, we had no money, just bought brandy and petrol.'

'Ja,' I say, 'once I hitched to Grahamstown with R2,50 in my pocket.  I had been going for about 36 hours, I was hungry, tired, pissed off, man.  I was walking out of PE, I just had my hand out while I was walking, not even caring if anyone stopped, the roadside was rocky, walking sucked.  A truck stopped far ahead of me, but I thought it wasn't for me, so I just kept walking.  When I finally got there the guy said get in.  He tells me he can see I'm hungry, so he gives me this curry he bought somewhere, still hot, not even opened.  It was the best curry I've ever had. So good.  Those moments only happen when you get out of your normal life.'

'What color people pick you up?' he asks, 'is it mostly whites?' 

'I don't know.  I don't know the percentages.  Probably mostly white, but all kinds, actually.  Color doesn't really matter.'

'Ja.'

'I've been thinking about it lately,' I say, 'I am a racist.'

'Really?'

'Ja.  I judge people according to their skin color.  I have to admit it to go forward.'

'Okay,' he says.

'My friend was telling me this story the other day.  He was at a trance party and there was a dam there.  So he and some other guys are all in this boat on the dam, rowing around drinking with different people around, everyone having fun, getting drunk and all that.  He says they came upon a black guy in the middle of the dam on a lilo, and the lilo's sinking.  Wait, wait, wait, I say, why do you have to say he's a black guy?  What's the point of that?   He gets what I'm saying, but tells me he does have a point, he's not being racist.  Black guys generally can't swim, he says, so he's saying that he thought the guy might be in trouble, because he probably can't swim.  I say that's kuk.  He says it's not.  It's true.  I say that's kuk, because, if he hadn't told me he was black, and had just said the guy looked like he couldn't swim, it would have been the same.  He thinks I've made a good point, but then he says, yes, the meaning of what he's saying would be the same, but would it still be honest?'

We both think about that.  Is it right?

'So, I'm saying,' I continue, 'color doesn't matter.  It's got nothing to do with reality.  What matters is that I'm a racist, it's in me.  So, if I think it matters, and if I want, I've got to change.'

'Ja,' he says.  'Ja.'

We both go quiet.  The dark.  The speeding car. 

'What movies do you like?' I ask him on impulse, not comfortable to sit in silence. 

'Ah... Black Swan', he says.  'Most people said it's stupid, and if I hear people say it's stupid, then I watch it.'

'What did you think?'

'Jaaaaaa... I don't know.  It was good, it was good.  But I like Shutter Island more.  That was hectic.'

'Inception is quite similar,' I say, 'I love all that director's movies.  Christopher Nolan.  He also did The Prestige.'

'Ja,that was flipping good.  Which one was that?'

'The one where he's a magician, he builds that machine, that makes new men?'

'Oh, yes, yes!  Shit, that was intense.'

'Every night,' I say, 'he doesn't know if he's about to die, or kill.  And then the twins.  Fuck, it was insane!'

'Ja.  It was mad.'

We drive. 

'Shit!' says Chris, suddenly, looking all around the road in the dark.

'What?'

'Did you see a sign, for Vanrynsdorp?'

'No,' I say, 'I don't think so.'

'Shit,' he says, 'I think I missed my turn.  Are you sure?'

'I'm pretty sure.  I haven't seen any big signs yet.'

He looks at his odometer.  He knows he's gone too far.  We must have. 

'Ag, so what,' he says, 'I'll just go by Springbok.  I'm going to take you your way now.  Through Springbok, Pofadder, all the way to close to Upington.'

'Cool,' I say, I'm enjoying the talk.  We drive.  It's after 11 now. 

'When did you leave Stellenbosch?'

'About quarter to five.' 

Long silence.  Long, long silence.

'I dont want to be racist,' says Chris, 'as you say, it's just a human thing, but, working with 3000 people, trying to keep them all happy, I get frustrated.  I have the opposite personality as my Dad.  He's good with them, but I get too frustrated.  You feel like you're creating this opportunity for somebody, and a lot of times they're letting you down.' 

'Does your dad know the language?'

'Ja.'

'Did he grow up there?'

'No,' he replies, 'he spoke Zulu where he grew up, in Natal.  I was born here.  He's eccentric.  He's busy with nature conservation.'

'Okay,' I say.

'We didn't get on while I was at school,' he says, 'but it's much better now.'

'Like how?'

'I'm just getting a bit older, he's respecting my opinion.  In the past, if I say it's blue he'll say it's light blue.  But me and my mom was tight since I was little-little.'

'Ja,' I say, 'my dad and I also didn't get on.  But since I was 26 or so, it's a lot better.'

'Our personalities are totally different,' says Chris, 'he paints.' 

'The problem I have,' I say, 'is we're so similar.'

'Oh, ja, that too,' he laughs.  'There's a lot of things I get pissed off with, and then, before I know it I'm doing it myself.'

'Ja, fuck,' I say, 'for me its weird.  My arm is just like my fathers. If I look at my arm, I feel like I'm young looking at my dad's arm.  And he's got this weird way of standing while he's cooking, and I used to think, what a weirdo, but now that I'm older I find I'm doing it myself.  Because it's comfortable, I think because we're built pretty much the same.' 

'I always know who's walking in the house,' he says, 'you learn the footsteps of somebody, like the way they walk.  And, if I walk I sound exactly the same as my father.'

We both laugh.  

'Why did you decide to do law?'

'I decided I was going to do it when I was in grade eight.  I like it.  I don't like injustice.  I know it sounds stupid, but I want to make a difference.' 

I look out the window, and tell him I haven't been up to this part of the country, ever. 

His phone rings.

'It's my dad,' he says, and answers.  'Hallo... Ja. Pa... als is reg.  Ek het verby Vanrynsdorp gery, perongeluk... Ek gaan nou deur Springbok... Nee, ek het n hitch-hiker opgetel, n Engelse ou.  Ons praat lekker hierso.  Nee, ons het gesels toe ry ek verby...'

I watch him as he's talking.  He's got deep roots in this country, he cares about things, he's going to make a life for himself.  I think he won't give up until he creates a life for himself.