Cast of Characters: The Racist (Rapist?)

I’ve been sitting on this tale for a while, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to forget it. There are some stories that are both comically hilarious and horrifying, the type that can only be told from a distance and with time, the type that need some water under the bridge to clear out the muck. This is one of those.

It was the second to last day of my ride from Cape Town up to Botswana. I’d been at it for eleven weeks and had racked up 3500km in the saddle. I could practically see the finish line as I rode into the tiny South African town that would be my last stop before the border.

It was the “blink and you’ll miss it” type of place that populates the scrub land of the Limpopo province: a gas station, a few houses, a bar. There was one hotel, a place to stay for the game hunters and safari “adventurers” who come to this part of the world looking to shoot something.

Had I known that a friend of a friend knew the owners of the hotel, I could have enjoyed a quiet, peaceful night at the end of the road, but that wouldn't have made a great story, now would it? Instead, I met Dick. In this case, the names have been changed to protect the innocent, namely me in case this psychopath ever comes across the blog of a cyclist he once met on a lonely stretch of road. I needed a place to stay, was willing to camp, and he was more than accommodating. Told me to follow him back to his camp, a hunting resort a bit faded and past its prime.

Turns out looks can be deceiving. Dick owned 16,000 acres of land, scrubby lowveld pushed up against the Limpopo River and the border with Botswana. It was a massive game reserve, cut out of the bush for the enjoyment of wealthy patrons looking to bag one of the big five. I say wealthy, but Dick assured me that he had clients from every walk of life, including the type of blue-collar Americans who have always dreamed of a big game hunt, to follow in the footsteps of Hemingway. A policeman, a firefighter, the type of guy who saves his entire life for one trip, a chance to wake up with the African sun and shoot an elephant in his pajamas.

How it got in his pajamas, I will never know.

As I settled in and found an out of the way spot to sleep, I was greeted by a massive dog, more horse than canine, who bounded over and nearly tackled me in its good-natured stupidity. It was an Irish Wolf Hound, honest to God as big as my mountain bike.

“What’s his name?” I asked, ruffling the dog’s ears and trying my best to stay on my feet.

“Kaffir.” It dropped like a lead weight.

“What?” Dick had just let loose one of the no-no words in South Africa. Kaffir was what the most racist whites used to call blacks in the apartheid era. It’s equivalent, if not worse, to hearing your hillbilly cousin Cletus drop the word nigger. I thought he was joking. He had to be joking. He was just trying to get a rise out of me, right?

“There’s another one around here, a Great Dane named Gorra Ou. See, we called the blacks kaffir, and they called us that.”

Alright, well at least he was an equal opportunity racist, right? Maybe he was just trying to take the sting out of those words, maybe he was opening up a critical dialogue in a small town about the pernicious, lingering effects of racism in rural South Africa.

Or maybe he was just a massive, unapologetic, whack job racist. I have got to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt in these scenarios.

I can say that now. Benefit of hindsight, I guess. At the time, I had no idea what I was dealing with. It was my last night on the bike. My trip was nearing its end, and I was just grateful for a place to camp.

I had dinner in the bar. Dick was drinking. Heavily. As I cut through kudu and pap, he told me a bit about himself. He’d been a hunter all his life. Back in the 80s, he used to travel to Europe quite often, building a rolodex of clients for high-end safaris. He had a diplomatic passport back then, you see.

I thought that strange. Why did a hunter have a diplomatic passport during the most sanctioned years of apartheid? His own countrymen couldn't travel to Europe due to the travel restrictions, but here he was cruising around the continent looking to expand his business.

“I've worked for Kofi Annan. He had a game park in CAR (the Central African Republic). I've run a conservancy for Bill Gates. MUAMMAR QADDAFI SAT RIGHT HERE AT THIS BAR.” He was drunk now. He’d had several gin and tonics while I sat nursing my beer and eating my dinner. He bought me another beer, then another. Chastised me that I couldn't keep up.

“Yes, Colonel Qaddafi. It was a sad day when I learned that that man had died.”

Maybe for you, I thought, but not to the thousands of people who suffered through decades of autocratic rule.

Dick was in with the apartheid government. He had the diplomatic passport, and, I suspect, he had a military background that went far deeper than the average South African man of his generation.

Every man of a certain age in South Africa has a military background, and one of the most interesting conversations you can have with anyone forty or older is to ask them about their military service. Under the apartheid government, South Africa had one of the most elite military fighting forces in the world. A universal draft forced every adult male into one of the world’s most severe training regimens. The sanctions imposed by Western governments forced the South Africans to develop their own home-grown military industries. The government pursued a strategy of near-total war in the region, supporting guerrillas in Angola and Mozambique, keeping a firm grip on Namibia as a buffer against hostile black governments in the region, hunting down ANC activists operating as far afield as Zambia. I later heard that Dick was a sniper. It wouldn't surprise me if, with his professional experience, he hadn't spent time hunting people instead of animals.

Over the course of several hours, while Dick continued to drink and continued to berate me for not keeping up by drinking myself into unconsciousness, I heard the most vile, disgusting trash ever to come out of one man’s mouth.

"With all your traveling, you haven't forgotten your heritage have you?" He said it with a sneer that I knew would get me in trouble.

"Umm...I'm not sure what you mean by that."

"Have you ever dated a black woman?"

"I have."

His disgust was more than evident.

I heard how the blacks had ruined everything. How the niggers and the kaffirs fucked everything up. How they were lazy, and stupid, and violent. He had examples. to support his case from nearly every country on the continent, and unfortunately, there was no way for me to get out of this one-sided conversation.

Then my parents called.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You will never believe where I am. This guy is crazy. He’s fucking crazy. Like wow. Like I can’t even describe the crazy that’s coming out of his mouth. He’s racist. He’s vile. I don’t want to talk too loud, because I’m afraid that if he hears me, I might not make it out of here alive. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

I was gone an hour. When I came back, Dick was nowhere to be seen. I could relax. I tried to speak to his ex-wife, who hung around and helped him with the business. They had a daughter, but their marriage hadn't worked out. They were “differences” between him and her.

Dick called me. He had made me take his number earlier and beep his phone. He knew people all over the continent, and could be a great help if I ever needed it. Still, I hesitated to answer.

“Finish your beer and come to my room.”

What?

“Finish your beer and come to my room.” It was all he said before hanging up.

Well there’s no way I’m doing that. I texted my friend Jade, who has quite a bit of personal experience with vehemently racist South Africans: “If you are genuinely concerned, either don’t sleep, or wake up before dawn and get the fuck out. Make sure he drinks heavily or is tired enough to pass out bigtime. The dog, too. Whatever you do, don’t disagree. Just humour him. You don’t necessarily havet o agree but they feel threatened when you come across as a ‘kaffir lover.’ Or even sympathiser. Make sure your shit is packed and ready to pick up and fuck off. Otherwise, just swallow the nausea, smile, and be a dumb American tourist.”

I sat milking the beer for all that it was worth. Ten minutes went by. My phone rang again.

“Finish your beer and come to my room.” He was more insistent this time. “It’s in the main house. The bartender sleeps outside my room, just pass him by and knock on my door. But come now.”

There are times in your life when red flags are flying high and bright, when alarm bells are going off in your head, when you can’t see for the flashing of warning lights. And yet…you ignore it. You explain it away as temporary insanity, you're being unreasonable. He can’t be that bad, right? This is all in my head. I’m being paranoid.

In times like this, listen to that paranoia.

I finished my beer. The main house had a green light above the door. This was not my Gatsby moment. There was nothing beyond that door that represented anything for me. It was not my "orgiastic future receding year by year before [me]."

I entered the house. The bed outside Dick’s room was empty. The bartender wasn't there. He wasn't asleep. I had no one to witness the full-on crazy about to hit the fan.

I knocked on the door. “Come in,” Dick called. I turned the handle, the door swung open, and there was Dick, naked as his name day. “Ohp, sorry, I was just in the toilet,” he giggled, as he tip-toed like a cartoon character to the bed and covered himself with a sheet.

This is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my life.

He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, lying on his back with an arm behind his head.

Correction: THIS is the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my life.

“So tomorrow, I’ll take you out hunting. We have to go find a certain buffalo. Then we’ll go fishing in the afternoon.” He was taking long drags from the cigarette. I was very conscious of the creepy, naked man fully three feet away, covered only by a satin sheet. How much time do you have to spend in a room with a naked man before you can make an excuse to leave? I don’t want to be rude after all.

Wait...why is appearing rude my greatest concern?! I’M UP FOR A BUGGERING, AND APPEARING RUDE IS MY GREATEST CONCERN?!

“You don’t have to sleep outside tonight. There’s a bed here in the house. It’ll be cold out there.”

There is no way in fuck that I am sleeping under this roof. No way in fuck. NO WAY IN FUCK. This whole experience has gone from racist creepy to fucking disturbing in nearly every way possible. “I don’t mind the cold. I like the fresh air.”

“Well, you can suit yourself, but if you get cold in the middle of the night, you’ll have to come sleep inside.”

NO WAY IN FUCK. I excused myself and nearly ran for the safety of an open-walled canvas tent. There was no way I was being caught without an escape route.

I was gone by dawn. The mosquitoes tore me apart that night, but there was no way I was staying even an extra hour longer than I had to. My biggest fear was that he would get in his truck and hunt me down on some lonely dirt road, my screams for help unheard in the wide, open savanna.

It turns out that my fears were justified. Some conservationists, who knew Dick personally, told me that he was a character best avoided. He’d offered on several drunken occasions to sell them his bar for one night with one of their male volunteers. People had been drugged in that bar. One of their friends had died in a car accident after leaving Dick’s place. The sheriff never investigated. Dick owned that town.

That night was my worst experience in South Africa. Everyone always asked me, “Aren't you afraid of the crime? Don’t you know that there are people who would slit your throat for a phone, let alone a shiny bike like yours? Haven’t you had any close calls?” I can honestly say that my last night in South Africa was the closest I’d ever come to being a victim, and it wasn't at the hands of a murderous thug in a crime-ridden township. It was more Deliverance than Do the Right Thing.

There’s still a lot of prejudice and tension in South Africa. People would often open up the topic of race with, “I’m not a racist, but…” Usually, these conversations were based around ignorance or generalizations more than any personal hatred. “You have to realize that there are good blacks and there are bad blacks.” That was a common one that I heard, especially in the old Boer/Afrikaaner heartland.

Everyone’s a little bit racist sometimes, myself included. We all have ingrained prejudice. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Dick was on another level though. He took racism and distilled it down to its most hateful and vile.

I've met a lot of people on my travels. Most are good. They’re positive and kind. They open up their homes and welcome me as one of their own. In his own way, Dick did absolutely that, but he also represented a darker side of humanity, one that’s full of pain, anger, and hatred.

In a way, Dick is the other side of the coin to Chris, who I've written about in the past. Both men who had to respond when confronted with the reality of apartheid and institutionalized racism. They were offered a chance to accept or reject the reality of their time. Chris rejected apartheid and all that it stood for. Dick accepted it and even became its standard-bearer, with his diplomatic passport and his high-rolling clients. Times changed. Chris enjoys a quiet retirement with his wife and his art. He’s happy, one of the most positive people I've ever met. Dick still has his business, but I can’t say that he’s happy, and he’s definitely one of the angriest people I ever met.

I don’t know if I can draw any firm conclusions from that. Easy come, easy go. You reap what you sow. These trite colloquialisms get us through the day, help us to make sense of life. Maybe they’re true. I’m not sure. I’m just happy that this is a story I can tell as a distant memory, an experience that, for better or worse, I will never forget.

Cast of Characters: The Mad Cop

"Bicycle! Bicycle, Bicycle, BICYCLE!!!"

He called me over, a huge ox of a man. He'd been buying me beers all night, for no apparent reason other than that we'd spoken briefly the night before. 

"I expected you to be in Bethlehem!" I should have been, except I'd decided to spend an extra couple days in this dusty border town trying to fix the brakes on my bike on my own. I'd succeeded. 

"I'm a good cop, not a bad cop." He kept repeating this, in between occasional shouts of "Sieg Heil!"

I could not make this up if I tried.

He pulled me over, bought me a beer - Carling Black Label, the strongest bottle in the fridge, 5.4% they'd sold it in quarts in Lesotho - he bought a Castle Lite for himself. It appeared as if he'd already had several himself before he got to the bar.

"You tell your friends in America, you met me, the best cop in Free State. Seig Heil!" 

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

He pulled up his sleeve. Tattooed on his meaty forearm was a swastika, black, encircled in blood red. He could wrap his hand around my forearm. It would have taken both hands for me to get around his.

"It's for the gangs. You wouldn't know me four months ago. I had long hair. Long, long hair. My wife is an attorney. I was undercover, in the gangs. Thirty-four years! Ask anybody in Free State, they know me. You come to Ficksburg again, you look for me, or I'll fucking kill you."

What the fuck, how did I get here?

Well 'round here baby, 

I learned you get what you can get

So if you're rough and ready for love,

Honey I'm tougher than the rest.

The song had already played four times consecutively. The big man kept shouting at the bartender to play it again, he'd tip him fifty rand, one hundred. 

Springsteen's "Tougher Than the Rest"

"My best friend, the reason I play this," he shouted, "he was a biker like me. He played this song, and he left on his BMW. He was in a crash. He died." He's shouting like he has to explain this to me, like he's found some kindred soul because I'm on a bike, my brake was buggered and he'd had a similar problem with his motorbike. 

"I've killed 23 men. Shot them." He makes a gesture with his hand, universal for a pistol in any language. "Maybe that's why I'm mad. I'm a good cop. Not a bad cop."

"You're a mad cop."

"I'm a mad cop, not a bad cop. I hate corruption. You come to Ficksburg, you stay at mine next time, or else I'll kill you."

The bartender starts up Springsteen again, the fifth time in a row. Each time, the big man raises his beer, smacks the bar, takes a swig, and remembers his friend. "You know why I like this song? My friend, before he died, he played this song, got on his motorbike, and went off into the night. He played this song, and then he died. I've performed 500 post-mortems. You know post-mortems?"

"Autopsies."

"Autopisies. Him over there, with the beard, I performed the post-mortem on his father. He was killed when he was undercover in the gangs. You know I was 34 years with the gangs. I'm 54 now, but my grandchildren. They could kill my grandchildren. My wife has threats. She's an attorney. They say they'll kill her. I was 34 years undercover. I have eleven tattoos. The gangs. These drug gangs. I've put my friends in prison. Yah. Eight years for cocaine. My friends in these gangs. I was undercover for 34 years. I killed 23 men. Maybe that's why I'm mad."

He buys me another beer. This is all a lark for him, a cheery sadness, a convivial drunken joke remembering the past. "Until four months ago, hair down to here. I was in the gangs. I was undercover. Now I'm not. They could kill my grandchildren."

"I should be a major. Instead of a warrant officer. The new South Africa. I have 34 years undercover. They finish with you. Thirty-four years undercover, but they don't care, so you become an alcoholic! I should be a major, but it doesn't matter. I killed 23 people. Shot them. Maybe that's why I'm a bit mad." 

"BICYCLE!!! AMERICA!!! I'll see you on the road tomorrow!" He had tried to give me a lift to Bethlehem four times already. I needed to ride. "I'll see you on the road tomorrow, America." Someone cackled in the background, pool balls cracked and sank into various pockets. 

Springsteen is playing again. He smashes his hands on the bar, lifts them up, remembering his friend, lost to a song and the night. "I'm not in the gangs anymore. I got out, four months ago. It's dangerous, these gangs. But I'm a good cop, not a bad cop. You tell your friends in America. Tell them about me. Tell them about the best cop in Free State. It's not John Wayne. Tell them you met the best cop in Free State."

"Tell them about me. I'm a good cop, not a bad cop."

"I'm a mad cop. Tell them you met me. Tell them."

Cast of Characters: The Artist

Truth be told, this one could probably have been titled any of the following: The Artist, The Soldier, The Rebel, The Radical. Chris was one of those guys you meet that seems to have done it all and maintained a great sense of humor throughout an adventurous life. 

I met Chris and his wife Adelaide in Stanford, just outside of Hermanus, on my third day of riding. I pulled up to the farm stall for second breakfast, something that's become integral on days where I'm hitting upwards of 100 kilometers in the saddle. Before I'd even taken off my gloves, let alone dismounted, I was approached by an older couple, sweet as molasses, as they were leaving the shop. Where was I going? Where was I from? Such an adventure! Best of luck to you!

The conversation lasted less than five minutes, but within that time, I had an invite to stop and stay the night in Groot Braak River, halfway between Mossel Bay and George. They'd make sure I had a solid breakfast if I came through. It was about 400km away, but it was on my route, and they'd love to have me. 

I was floored. I had their address and their phone number and I hadn't even left the saddle. Who were these people? Why would they invite a complete stranger to stay with them after a two minute conversation? Were they planning to harvest my organs?

I arrived in Groot Braak about two weeks later, but the vagaries of the road being what they are, I did not have a chance to stop and spend the night with Chris and Adelaide. I did, however, pull Chris away from his work for an hour or two for brunch at one of his local haunts, a place so local that the only menus were printed entirely in Afrikaans.

Chris runs an art gallery, or, rather, Chris is an artist who sells his work through his gallery. But he isn't the typical artist that one is likely to find among the various hippy communities dotting South Africa's Garden Route. You know the type, the ones who sell various trinkets that only serve to clutter up your living room when you get home and realize that you wasted a few bucks on crap that you don't really want and never would have bought if you weren't on vacation. 

Instead, Chris paints beautiful works like these:

 

Chris's background in art stretches back to his youth, when he was one of the most daring up-and-coming artists in South Africa. At the age of 27, Chris's work was on display in 24 countries across world, including the US and Europe. 

At the height of his critical acclaim, Chris was approached by the Broederbond, Afrikaans for "The Brotherhood," a collection of the most powerful men in South Africa. These cultural, political, and economic elite were the architects of Apartheid, and they ruled almost every facet of South African life. 

They made Chris an offer typically unheard of for someone of his age, to join the Broederbond and gain access to South Africa's inner circle, the power brokers, the movers and the shakers, the godfathers. It was an offer he couldn't refuse.

But refuse it he did, and within months, his artistic career was over. He was blacklisted in South Africa, and the government made sure that his work couldn't reach the outside world. Chris told me, "Their attitude was one of, 'If you aren't with us, you're against us.' And that was it. I was out, and there wasn't anything I could do about it."

Like nearly every other South African man of his generation, Chris had been forced into military service, becoming a part of the behemoth that made up what was at the time the world's fourth best army. Many forget, or perhaps never fully realize, that South Africa, under apartheid, came as close as any government ever has to fully realizing an Orwellian vision of control and coercion. The army was one of the central pillars of the old South Africa, and every white man of a certain age was drafted into the machinery of oppression. 

Chris was no different, and it was in between marksmanship training, stick fighting, and jumping out of trucks eight to ten times a day that his rebellious spirit and his opposition to the Apartheid government grew. 

It wasn't that he couldn't handle military life. Indeed, he excelled at it, gaining notable recognition for his skill with a rifle. But the artist's spirit was strong within him, and he never lost his critical detachment from the powers that be. 

So when the Broederbond came knocking, he closed the door.

Chris would eventually go on to work for the government, in the Ministry of Information, rising high in the civil service, but on his own terms. As the political thaw that represented the end of apartheid was working it's way through the system, he happened to run into Cyril Ramaphosa, one of the ANC's most powerful figures in the transition and the current deputy president of the ANC, a man who has since gained immense wealth in mining, real estate, telecoms, energy, and banking. 

Chris, documents in hand, not knowing who he was speaking to, naively asked, "What happens to my position when the new government takes over?" The response? "Your previous service will be commended, but there will not be a place for you in the new South Africa."

So Chris jumped before he could be pushed, moving with his wife to Groot Braak to make a go of it with the career as an artist that he had let go so long before.

And it worked. Chris and Adelaide have lived very happily in Groot Braak for a number of years now. By his own admission, Chris doesn't make much, but it's enough for the lifestyle that they cherish. And that, according to Chris, is the most important thing in life: to lead the life that you want to lead. To live simply and appreciate what you have. 

Despite some of the hardship that he's faced in career and in life, Chris maintains a positively brilliant, or perhaps brilliantly positive, view on the world. He laughs easily and readily, a high pitched, infectious guffaw that carries its own vim and vigor. He's keyed in to many of the hardships faced by his fellow citizens, both in South Africa and throughout the world, but he somehow maintains an energy and an enthusiasm for life that is admirable beyond description.

While writing this entry, I keep coming back to the word life. Every adjective related to Chris: life, life, life. Perhaps that's what Chris represents for me. He's continued on and is doing what he loves in the place he wants to be. I think there's little more that one could ask from the world.

Plus he bought me breakfast. Small victories.

Cast of Characters: The Kid

It's the people you meet along the way that really make the journey, whether they invite you into their homes or whether you just meet for moments at a time between points A and B. I'll try to write up a few as I can. Here's the first of what I'm sure will be a series:

The Kid:

I rolled into Swellendam about ten in the morning. Time for second breakfast, something that's become pretty common on a trip where I'm burning in the realm of 6000 calories per day.


"Where are you headed?" - a tow-headed boy who could have been mistaken for Opie Taylor, sat on top of a red mountain bike.

Botswana.

"Whoa, that's far."

Yep.

"You got tubeless tires? That's important because there's lots of thorns here in South Africa. You should get some of these fingerless gloves though. I don't know about America, but here in South Africa, your hands will sweat real bad."

Cheers for the advice, kid. What's your name?

"Carl."


Now, I just have to say, I love the discrepancy of kids named Carl. It's the juxtaposition of a youth with an old fashioned name, like meeting a 78 year old Billy. Not Bill, Will, or William. Billy. It says something about an older guy's personality when he's committed to a nickname he really probably should have dropped in high school. But unlike a retired Billy, Carl didn't choose his name. He's just Carl.

And he's thirteen.


That's a good age. (I lied. Thirteen is a terrible age. Acne, growth spurts, awkward boners, there is nothing good about thirteen, but what else was I going to say?)

"Ya, it's okay. I go to school, way back that other way, on the other end of town."

By this time, we were moving, cycling slowly through the small town, as Carl gave me his personal guided tour.

"Are you Catholic? No? But Christian? That's the church there. It's really old. And over there is where my friends and I meet when we want to go swimming. Up at the old dam there's really good swimming, and we go after school sometimes. You want to go up to Barrydale? Well there's a hard pass and an easy pass."

Which is the easy pass?

"I don't know. But you should make sure to watch out for baboons. There are leopards too in the mountains but you really have to be careful with the baboons, especially if you're carrying food. I found that out the hard way. There's the road for the old dam, if you wanted to go swimming."

Found it out the HARD way? I had to know more, but the more Carl spoke, the more mesmerised I became. I thought I'd been transported to Andy Griffith's Mayberry, except it was real and everyone had a South African accent. I half expected Aunt Bea to walk by at any minute.

Is anyone getting any of these references, or did I watch WAY too much Nick at Nite as a kid? The point is, that the simplicity that exists in the Andy Griffith Show or maybe Leave it to Beaver still exists in the small town life in the Cape. It's bizarre, a world that you think can't possibly exist, and yet here it is, personified in a thirteen year old boy. You end up thinking, "This is too much. It's too idyllic. There have to be bodies buried here somewhere."

As we approached the edge of town, Carl stopped, turned his bike, and called out, "Okay, I'm going back now. Good bye."

Is that the N2 up there?

"I don't know."

Weren't you supposed to be showing me how to get back to the N2?

"I'm pretty sure that's it if you keep going up that way. See ya!"

See you around Carl.

I didn't want to look back, for fear that all of that was a dream. That the town didn't exist, and that Carl was nothing but a figment of my imagination. I mean, who names their kid Carl? He had to have been a piece of a dream.

Or maybe not. Maybe Carl is making a comeback in the name game. I can only hope that's the case. It'll give me a good excuse to start thinking up insane names for future children. Maybe something like Chester or Mabel. Martha or Calvin. Or maybe just Carl.

Carl - who rode his bike up and down the one street in Swellendam.

Carl - who went swimming down near the old dam.

Carl, who found out the hard way not to play with baboons.

What an odd kid.