"Africa's large problems are largely large Africans"
– PJ O'Rourke

There can be few pleasures greater than driving at sunset across the surreal emptiness of a Botswanan saltpan. As far as the eye can see in every direction is nothing, nothing but blushing sand to the curving horizon. Even more fun, however, is belting golf balls from the roof of the Land Rover, blasting them recklessly high and wide into the great oblivion.

It was a welcome break from the road. Beneath shooting stars' silent endeavours we slept close to the steady warmth and eerie flickering of our campfire, comforted by the light yet aware that it made the vast darkness all around even more impenetrable. At first light I sneak quietly away from the glowing embers, careful not to wake Ziggy and Arno so that I can greedily hoard the sunrise all to myself. I sit hunched on the cool grey sand eagerly awaiting the sun which, ever the showman, seems to delay his arrival on stage for as long as possible. A roaring Humphreys sneeze rips through the aura of mystical silence. Time for some breakfast.

Back on the road and alone once again I award Botswana the title of 'Most Boring Country I Have Ever Cycled Through'. Still, I don't suppose Botswana wins many awards for anything so she should be grateful for the recognition. Nothing but flat, unchanging bush for hundreds and hundreds of kilometres. The flat terrain had its advantages - my bike no longer has any brakes at all and I am only able to change gear using a toothbrush.

Nothing but a ranting headwind for company. That's like calling a migraine 'company'. Day after day the sky sat deep and heavy with rolling fat, grey harbingers of inclemency (clouds!). What should have been a gentle four day triumphal procession into South Africa turned into a ghastly five day long beasting thanks to the wind. There was a nice symmetry to this ordeal (which consoled me not one bit): my arrival in Africa all those miles ago in Egypt was in identically miserable circumstances to my approach to the final country of the continent [see Final Middle Eastern Report].

But if you can hold on for long enough you'll get there in the end. And so eventually I found myself crossing the Limpopo River into South Africa. It was a great (and greasy grey-green) moment! It has been six years since I left South Africa at the end of my Gap year and it felt very, very good to be back. For almost a year I had been looking forward to this moment and the anticlimax was inevitable: no cheering crowds of hysterical blondes to welcome me, no gentle sunlit freewheel all the way down to Cape Town. It was just bloody windy. On top of that I had no money for the next three days and only two loaves of dry bread to eat. Does that make my salvaging of two abandoned gravel-covered marshmallows from the roadside any more excusable? I fear not!

The Afrikaaner stronghold of Potgietersrus reminded me once again of what an odd country this is. Large men in long socks and Under-13's sized rugby shorts. Amusing haircuts and large moustaches. Thriving First World alongside struggling Third World. The weird, weird, juxtaposition of genuine warmth, hospitality, kindness, Christianity and yet an invariable propensity for beginning sentences with "I'm not a racist but..." My ride through South Africa will be a fascinating yet upsetting one.

I was heading for Jane Furse, the small town where I had taught for a year between school and University. I looked around eagerly, wondering what I would remember, looking forward to recognising people and places for the first time in a whole year, looking forward to not having to ask directions.

Jane Furse lies in the heart of Lebowa, one of the scrubby, barren Homelands where black people were dumped to make even more room for the white population in the fertile parts of the country. Life in Lebowa is hard, very hard, even in these post-Apartheid days. You rarely see a white face in Lebowa. And even though I was more at home here than anywhere in the rest of Africa I was more afraid to bush-camp here than ever before. The blacks in South Africa have been abused so grotesquely that I felt I could scarcely hold a grudge against anyone who decided to kill me and steal all my stuff. I hid very well that first night. Yet, like nearly everywhere else in Africa, I encountered nothing but laughter and warmth riding through the Homeland.

Arriving at my old school was wonderful; to meet old friends once more and wander around memory lane. It was also intriguing for me to see how my perceptions have changed from being an 18 year old single-handedly saving the world to a cynical old 25 year old who has almost cycled the length of Africa.

Only a couple of thousand kilometres to go now! Cape Town awaits!

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