Newsflash!

 Departure Date

I've just heard that expedition to Cuito Cuanavale is likely to be leaving in the first week in April.  It had been pushed back from the 14th  of March to the second week in April.  Suddenly I've got much to do in final preparations.  Like going to the travel clinic to get those shots.  I've been putting it off but the needle phobia will have to be overcome!

Book Contract

If you haven't already heard by other means or sources, I have signed a book contract with Random/Struik to write a book about the Journey and related issues.  I'm excited and daunted

I will write more about the final planning and arrangements before I head off into the bush.

Fresh and ready for the Road!

A Short Bike Tour in the Eastern Cape

A female kudu clatters loose rocks as she lopes from her shady spot under the clump of thorn-trees.  I watch her, beautiful and graceful, sorry that I’ve disturbed her and sent her into the heat of the day. 

I’ve stopped for a break on another thigh-burning climb, sun ricocheting off the asphalt.  I’ve replaced my empty water bladder with another and I suck on the mouthpiece.  The water has a sour, spicy taste.  It’s been baking on my carrier in the sun for three days.   I’m annoyed that I was too lazy to fill it with fresh water before I left Riebeek East.   I decide not to risk drinking it.  Instead I choose to nurse my bottle of Game for the next two hours until I get back to Bedford.  It’s a long time to last on three quarters of a litre in temperatures of over thirty degrees, but it seems better than getting ill while still on the road.

The morning started on the gravel road out of Riebeek East and then through the gates into the game reserve to take a short cut which would save me over 20 kilometres.  A warthog and her young kicked puffs of dust behind them as they sprinted, tails held high like stiff little flags,  away from the man on the bicycle.  A herd of impala grunted their warnings and sprang high in the air as they ducked into the cover of the bush.  The morning clouds had burnt off before I’d even swung my leg over the crossbar.  Sweat dripped off my nose.

The gravel road leads me up into the kloof and through dense indigenous woods.  When I finally reach the summit I’m rewarded with views of the plain below, Salisbury Plain. The distant Winterberg guard the north.  My journey will take me to their feet.

The road from Grahamstown to Bedford is a quiet one.  Thorn bushes encroach onto the tar and every now and then I swerve grudgingly to avoid a puncture.  I’m conscious of my dwindling water supply and also of my need to eat.  On the first two days of the tour I hadn’t eaten enough because I discovered that getting my panniers open was difficult with the tent and sleeping bag strapped on top.  I suffered for my laziness.  During the final 10 to 15 kilometres my energy hopped over the barbed wire fence and skipped off into the fields leaving me as weak as a baby.

On the final day, to solve the snack problem, I strapped my bum-bag onto the top of my gear and filled it with snacks.  Now the problem was finding a shady spot to have a food break.  The thorn-bushes seemed to grow from the bottom, leaving no space for me to get underneath.  The mid-day sun cast no shadows.  I sit next to my bike scraping at the bit of shade cast by my panniers.  Curious drivers stare as they speed by.  Some even wave.

I see more animals: A mongoose or three sprint across the road, springbok graze in the distance.  Angora goats scatter from the fence and cattle gaze thoughtfully at my slow progress, their cud-chewing is in time with my cadence as I battle up yet another long slow hill.

15 kilometres from my destination I come across a big old pine tree.  I lie in the long grass and welcome shade, all but draining the last of my game.  I enjoy the old pine’s cool hospitality for ten or fifteen minutes before I push on.

The four day tour was instructive.  I’ve learned that I need to cut down on my already minimal kit.  Less weight equals easier kilometres.  I’m still not eating enough on the road, I need more snacks.  I need to take some breaks rather than hammering along for hours on end, particularly on longer days.   Oh yes, I mustn’t forget to check that all my kit is securely attached:  retracing my route for a couple of kilometres to retrieve aforementioned bum-bag was tedious.  And painful!

What kind of man? A note to some of my school-teachers

You told me, Miss Teacher, that I needed to be a man. But what kind of man did you want me to be?  You mocked and humiliated me at six years old, because men play rugby, and I refused.  Did you want me to be a humiliated man? 

Maybe you wanted a man compliant, who would cram himself into your narrow ideal: A rugby playing man.  Not the moffie* you named me in front of the kindergarten class.

Stop crying, you said. You can’t be a man if you cry.  What kind of man would that be?  A man who denies his sadness and his fears?  A man ashamed of his own tears?  A small man, emotionally stunted like the rest.  Incapable of expressing anything but gruff stoicism, the unacknowledged suffering – even to himself – poisoning his life in so many unconscious ways.

Mr Teacher, you caned me when I did something you thought was wrong.   Did you want me to grow up like you, with the view that beating a child is a good way to impress your views on him?  I would check the welts and bruises to see how long they would stay.  Up to three weeks I discovered.  If a parent beat a child like that today, they would in court charged with child abuse, for assault.  What would that teach me about being a man?  That if we disagree on how things are done then physical violence is a good way to solve the dispute.  I didn’t know it then, but I know it now, that your definition of manhood was narrow in the extreme.  Physical power trumps all: in the classroom, on the rugby field.  On the battlefield.  Institutionalised violence started early back in the 1970’s.

And what of you Miss Teacher?  You were very young and still a Miss.  I wonder now what kind of man you chose to share your life with.  I hope a man who is caring, a man who holds you when you cry, a man who can share his sadness and his fears;  his tears.  A man, I hope, who was strong enough to rise above the narrow band of being you tried to instil into the young boys in your care.  A man who solves his disputes by listening and sharing, not shouting and beating.  For if the latter is the case, you might be as miserable as I was when you and your kind tried to beat me into your constricted mould.

There was some value to all of this.  I was able to take the bullying of army life:  by suppressing who I was and what I felt and by keeping my thoughts in check.  I’d learned to tough it out and take the pain, all the way to the battlefields and back again.  Then I spent the rest of my life learning that I am much more than all that.  That the beating, fighting, killing and pretending to be ok with it all kind of man is not the only way.  There is a fuller, more whole kind of masculinity, I discovered, which requires me to be stronger, but in a different more compassionate way.

Replanted in the fertile soil of the freedom I created for myself, I grew beyond what Miss and Mr Teacher had in mind.  In spite of you I grew into a man.

*Moffie – derogatory word similar to “queer”

Into the War without a Barrel - A lesson in kit maintenance

With my trip to Angola only a month and a half away I’m in the process of evaluating my bike and my kit.  I thought I’d share this memory of taking a defective, yet very essential, piece of kit into Angola with me in 1987.

I crossed the border into Angola knowing that the barrel of my rifle was bent.  It had been that way for months.  I think it had been slammed in the heavy door of the Ratel, probably during the confusion of a night exercise.  I first found out when we were on a shooting-range near Tsumeb when I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t even hitting the target.  There were literally no holes in it!  I was normally a good shot.  Then I noticed the dust kicking up way to the left.

I should have taken the rifle to the tiffies but didn’t because I feared the consequences.  I could have been charged with negligence or something.   So I rolled into a war-zone with a rifle that was as good as useless.  Dangerous even.  I was part of a mortar team so my rifle spent most of its time clipped into the holder next to my seat in the Ratel.  I didn’t care.

Weeks later, when all hell was breaking loose around me, machine-gun rounds crackling overhead, tanks blasting away at our armoured squadron and exploding mortar and artillery rounds beating the wind from my lungs, I wished my barrel was straight.  The order had been given to pull back for a regroup.  But one of our vehicles had crash-landed into a deep FAPLA bunker and needed to be towed out.  Suddenly the rifleman Ratels were flying past us and we were the front line.  Fully expecting the FAPLA infantry to come bursting through the bush, I cocked my rifle, bent barrel and all.  Every fibre, every nerve ending, every part of my being was screaming at me to get the hell out of there.  But our buddies were stuck in the bunker. 

The incoming fire was intense so getting out from behind the relative safety of our armour plating to attach a tow-bar was a terrifying prospect.  Instead, our driver Gary, rammed our vehicle into the back of the other Ratel with enough force to push it out of the hole.  Then, kicking sprays of Angolan sand into the air he u-turned 18 tons of armour, flattening trees in the process, and raced, engine screaming, after the rest of our battle group.

We regrouped and went back into the attack.

Interview with BBC World Service

My radio interview with Matthew Bannister of the BBC's World Service is available on podcast.  Click on the link below.  Download the Outlook programme and click on the edition of the 17th of Jan. It headlines a Burmese Girl Band, but I'm the middle of three interviews.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/podcasts/series/outlook

Newsflash: Returning to Angola with Umkhonto weSizwe Veterans

Following last year's disappointments I’m very excited to be going back to Angola with a group including ex-Umkhonto weSizwe  (ANC’s former military wing)  soldiers.  I’ve been invited to join an expedition that will be driving from Johannesburg to Cuito Cuanavale to attend the opening of a war museum.

I feel very honoured to have been asked by ex-MK commander Patrick Ricketts to join this group.  This opportunity fits well with my aim of adding to the dialogue in South Africa about the effects of conscription and the legacies of the apartheid wars and what we can do as a society to heal the wounds from past conflicts.

I have found it fascinating talking to Patrick about his experiences in MK and I hope that being with this group will enable me to meet other ex-combatants from PLAN (SWAPO’s military wing), Cuba and, of course, Angola.

Joining this group simplifies my entry into Angola and will enable me to see parts of Southern Angola that would be inaccessible to me on the bicycle.

From Cuito Cuanavale I will cycle back to the Namibian border as originally planned.

We leave sometime in the middle of March.