Dag 70: Bir Gandouz na Dakhla

(English Translation Below)

Dag 70: Bir Gandouz na Dakhla
 
Dis nog pikdonker toe ons wakker word. De Witt voel nie lekker nie. Die malaria-spook waarmee Ian aan't worstel is, hang nog hier rond, maar ons glo nie dit kan dít wees nie. Wil die naam amper nie noem nie.
 
Teen tienuur sê De Witt kom ons ry. Dalk sal die vars lug hom laat beter voel. Ons pak, groet vir Ian, en ry.
 
Die lug is byna té vars. 'n Koel see-wind wat weer alles skeefwaai. Ons klou. Ek probeer my sit-posisie aanpas om my kop laer agter die motorfiets se windskerm in te kry. Sit my boude so ver as moontlik terug tot teenaan my bagasie. Lê vorentoe met my lyf op die petroltenk-sak. Loer deur die plastiek-windskerm. Die wind wat nou net die bokant van my valhelm kan bykom. Maar my arms is nou só gebuig dat ek min beheer oor die motorfiets het. Die wind merk dit op en pluk ekstra hard aan die voorwiel totdat ek weer regop sit. Dan probeer ek die teenoorgestelde: skuif my boude so ver as moontlik vorentoe, sodat ek teenaan die petroltenk sit, en lê dan met my lyf agtertoe dat my skof teen my bagasie lê. Loer van hier ver af deur die windskerm, my arms nou reguit voor my uit soos 'n Harley-ryer s'n. Dis 'n goeie strek-oefening vir my lae rug, maar die wind weet: 'n paar plukke en ek sal weer regop sit om in beheer te voel.
 
Gelukkig het ons die pad aan ons kant vandag. Behalwe dat hy mooi glad geteer is, ken hy ook die wind se streke. Draai geleidelik totdat hy die wind reg in die oë kyk. Bly dan so vir omtrent 'n honderd kilometer. Reg van voor af is die wind nie so 'n pes nie, maar hy wen steeds, want ons petrolverbruik is skielik omtrent 'n derde slegter as gewoonlik, en die wind weet: die volgende petrolstasie is nog vér.
 
Ons stop 'n keer of wat vir foto's - al weet ons ons kan nie hierdie ervaring vasvang nie. Dis té groot, té wyd, té diep binne ons. Ek het hierdie prentjie in my kop probeer afneem so in die ry: Links van die pad 'n vallei wat strek tot teenaan die see. Elke nou en dan sigbaar deur die happe wat die wind oor eeue uit hierdie kliprantjie langs ons gekalwe het. Die kleure! Ons begin bo: Witblou in die hemel waar die son heen oppad is netnou. Dan ligblou tot teenaan die see se horison-lyn. Grou-blou waar die see nog ver is en al helderder seeblou met wit spikkelperdjies tot waar die branders in lang wit strepe breek teen die strand, 'n kronkelstrepie geelwit. Dan, 'n strook kameel-kleur klipveld wat wegsmelt in 'n blou-swart pan geskroeide modderklip tot teenaan die warmrooi diksand wat hier teen ons moedige grys teerpaadjie beur.
 
Ou wind byt vas. Word ál koeler. Ons stop later om ons seil-baadjies aan te trek om te keer dat ons nie té koud word nie. Dan ry ons Dakhla binne. Soek 'n slaapplek waar ons weggewaaide siele ons weer hopelik kan inhaal vannag.
 
Day 70: Bir Gandouz to Dakhla
 
It's still pitch dark when we wake up. De Witt doesn't feel well. The malaria ghost, which Ian has been wrestling with, still looms around, but we don't believe it could be that. Don't even want to mention the name.
 
Around ten, De Witt says let's ride. Maybe the fresh air will make him feel better. We pack, bid farewell to Ian, and hit the road.
 
The air is almost too fresh - a chilly sea wind that blows everything skew. We cling on. I try to adjust my sitting position to get my head lower behind the motorcycle's windshield. Shift my bum as far back as possible against my luggage. Lean forward with my body on the tank bag. Peep through the plastic windshield, the wind now just tapping the top of my helmet. But my arms are bent too much. Too little control over the motorcycle. The wind senses it and tugs hard at the front wheel until I sit upright again. Then I try the opposite: Slide my bum as far forward as possible, so I'm up against the fuel tank. Let my body lie backwards so my shoulders rest against my luggage. Peep from here through the windshield, my arms now stretched out in front of me like a Harley rider's. It's a good stretching exercise for my lower back, but the wind knows: A few tugs, and I'll sit upright again to feel in control.
 
Fortunately, we have the road on our side today. Besides being nicely tarred, it also understands the wind's tricks. It gradually turns until it faces the wind head-on. Stays like that for about a hundred kilometres. When coming from straight ahead, the wind isn't such a nuisance. But the wind still wins because suddenly our fuel consumption is about a third worse than usual, and the wind knows the next gas station is still far.
 
We stop a few times for photos - even though we know we can't capture this experience. It's too vast, too wide, too deep within us. I take this picture in my mind while riding: To the left of the road, a valley stretching all the way to the sea. Every now and then visible through the chunks that the wind has chiselled from this rocky ridge running next to us. The colours! Starting from the top: White-blue in the sky where the sun will shortly be passing. Then light blue up to where the sky meets the ocean. Grey-blue where the sea is still far and increasingly bright sea-blue with white wind-speckles to where the waves break in long white streaks against the beach, a winding strip of yellow-white. Then, a thick band of caramel-coloured stone-veld melting into a blue-black pan of scorched mudstone up to the thick red sand that pushes against our brave gray asphalt road.
 
Old wind hangs in there. Becomes cooler and cooler. Eventually we stop to put on our wind breakers. Then we ride into Dakhla. Look for a place to stay where our wind-blown souls can hopefully catch up with us tonight.

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