(English Translation Below)

Dag 46: Lomé na Accra, Ghana
 
Dis 500m se ry vanaf die Seaside Hotel waar ons geslaap het, tot by die grens. Ons parkeer reg voor die deur van die klein geboutjie waar ons moet paspoorte en motorfietspapiere wys. Buite drom die geldwisssellaars en self-aangestelde grensposhelpers rondom die motorfietse saam. Een of twee hang rond op die deurtrappies. 'Sir I can see you're a good person, please let me help you through the border.' Ons is nou al deur genoeg grensposte om te weet dat blote oogkontak genoeg is om, vanuit hulle perspektief, 'n bindende kontrak daar te stel waarvolgens jy moet betaal vir die feit dat hulle met jou gesels het, vir jou gewys het waar die doane-kantoor is, na jou motorfiets gekyk het. En betaal jy een van hulle, verskyn daar nog 43 wat ook help kyk het.
 
Ons paspoorte word gestempel en ons saal op. Daar is twee toutjies gespan om te keer dat mens nie oorry Ghana se kant toe nie. Hulle laat sak die eerste een. Ons ry stadig tot by die volgende een. Die toutjie bly styfgespan. Die toutjie-laat-sakker spring vinnig op, loer by 'n venster in agter hom, roep iets. Wys vir ons om te wag - iemand wil met ons praat. Ons weet wat dit beteken: Iemand daarbinne wil geld hê.
 
Net toe kom drie netjies-ge-uniformde Ghanese polisiemanne aangestap. Are you Dr. Cooper and Dr. Oosthuizen? Ja, sê ons. Hulle stap die Togo-kantoorjie binne, sê iets vir iemand, en die toutjie sak.
 
Ons is 'n paar weke gelede deur Ghana se Adjunk-minister van Onderwys genooi om oor ons reis en wedervaringe te praat by 'n hoërskool in Accra. Hy het vir ons polisiebegeleiding gereel vanaf die grens. So vir vier ure lank ry ons tot by ons blyplek in Accra, begelei deur 'n Polisie-Toyota met vier gewapende polisiemanne agterop, en twee voor! Karre en vragmotors gee links en regs pad, die blou en rooi ligte flits, en ons ry soos twee prinse op pakmuile die stad in.
 
Day 46: Lomé to Accra, Ghana
 
It's only 500 meters from the Seaside Hotel where we stayed to the border. We park right in front of the small building where we need to show our passports and motorcycle papers. Outside, money changers and self-proclaimed border helpers surround the motorcycles. One or two loiter around the doorsteps. "Sir, I can see you're a good person, please let me help you through the border." We've been through enough border crossings to know that mere eye contact is enough, from their perspective, to establish a binding contract where you have to pay for the fact that they talked to you, showed you where the customs office is, or watched your motorcycle. If you pay one of them, another 43 appear who also claim to have helped.
 
Our passports are stamped, and we mount. Two ropes are stretched across the road to prevent us from crossing into Ghana. They lower the first one. We drive slowly to the next one. The rope stays taut. The rope-lowerer quickly jumps up, peers through a window behind him, and shouts something. He signals for us to wait. We know what this means: Someone inside wants money.
 
Just then, three neatly-uniformed Ghanaian policemen approach. "Are you Dr. Cooper and Dr. Oosthuizen?" Yes, we say. They enter the Togo office, say something to someone, and the rope is lowered.
 
We were invited a few weeks ago by Ghana's Deputy Minister of Education to talk about our journey and experiences at a high school in Accra. He arranged police escort from the border for us. So, for four hours, we ride to friends of ours' house in Accra, escorted by a police Toyota with four armed officers in the back, and two in front! Cars and trucks give way on both sides, the blue and red lights flash, and we ride into the city like two princes on pack mules.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 45: Cotonou na Lomé, Togo
 
Daar breek 'n storm uit net toe ons wil ry. Ons wag. Gesels met Yasmina, die plaaslike motorfietsklub se raakvatter en organiseerder. Sy vertel ons van Benin en Togo, wat eintlik een land moes wees, maar deur die Europeers verdeel is. 'Gee my 'n liniaal, en 'n plek om te staan, en ek verdeel die wêreld.' Op plekke loop die grens reg deur mense se huise. Sy vertel van 'n ou wat sy huis as grenspos gebruik. Jy loop vanuit Togo by die agterdeur in, sit 200 Wes Afrika Frank op die tafel neer, en loop by die voordeur uit Benin in.
 
Toe ons vertrek, ry Yasmina en twee ander motorfietsmanne saam. Gaan wys ons die bronsbeeld van die eerste en enigste vroue-koning van Benin. Stigter van die gevreesde Amasones, 'n groep vroue-krygers wat in hierdie geweste geheers het lank voordat hier landsgrense was. Daar is iets vasberade en vreesloos in haar oë. En ek kan sien hoe dit in Yasmina weerkaats. 'n Baken van vrou-wees in 'n wêreld waar mans in beheer is. In sterk kontras met die gedweë onderdanigheid wat ons tot dusver gereeld op ons reis teëgekom het.
 
Ons ry. Die pad Togo toe is eersteklas. Ons wil-wil die storm van vroeër inhaal, wat beteken alles ruik vars en skoongewas. Die strate ís ook skoon en die verkeer ordelik. Dan, skielik, die grenspos. Wat 'n verfrissende ervaring! Jy stap in 'n ordentlik-instandgehoude gebou in, gee jou paspoort vir die Benin-beampte wat jou uitstempel. Dié gee die paspoort sommer aan na die Togo-persoon langs hom wat jou hulle vorms laat invul, en instempel. Twee grensposte in een!
 
Ons geluk hou nie op nie. In die hoofstraat in Lomé is daar blykbaar 'n KTM/Husqvarna werkswinkel. Dink nou net as ons vandag sommer die motorfietse ook kan diens! Ons soek-soek, kry die plek. John, in sy geel T-hemp en stil glimlag, ontvang ons. Ja hy kan die olie vervang. Ja hy kan dit vandag nog doen. Ons wil nog beduie maar besef skielik ons is in die hande van een van daardie bekwame, plat-op-die-aarde mense wat die wêreld aanmekaar hou.
 
Die aand gesels ons oor Afrika, hierdie reis, ons onderskeie geaardhede, en hoeveel ons nog het om te leer.
 
Day 45: Cotonou to Lomé, Togo
 
A storm breaks out just as we are about to leave. We wait. We chat with Yasmina, the local motorcycle club's enthusiastic organizer. She tells us about Benin and Togo, which were supposed to be one country but were divided by the Europeans. 'Give me a ruler, and a place to stand, and I'll divide the world.' In some places, the border goes right through people's houses. She tells of a guy who uses his house as a border post. You walk in from Togo at the back door, place 200 West African Francs on the table, and walk out the front door into Benin.
 
When we depart, Yasmina and two other motorcycle enthusiasts ride with us. They show us the bronze statue of Benin's first and only female king. The founder of the feared Amazons, a group of female warriors who ruled these regions long before there were national borders. There is something resolute and fearless in her eyes. And I can see how it is reflected in Yasmina. A beacon of womanhood in a world where men are in control. In stark contrast to the submissiveness we have encountered so often on our journey.
 
We ride. The road to Togo is first-class. We are almost catching up with the earlier storm, which means everything smells fresh and clean. The streets are clean, and the traffic is orderly. Then, suddenly, the border crossing. What a refreshing experience! You walk into a well-maintained building, hand over your passport to the Benin officer who stamps you out. He hands the passport to the Togolese officer next to him, who hands you their forms to fill in, and then stamps you in. Two border posts in one!
 
Our good luck continues. Apparently, there's a KTM/Husqvarna workshop in the main street in Lomé. Imagine if we could get the bikes serviced today too! We search and find the place. John, in his yellow T-shirt and quiet smile, welcomes us. Yes, he can change the oil. Yes, he can do it today. We want to point out to him where to open what, but suddenly we realize we're in the hands of one of those capable, down-to-earth people who hold the world together.
 
In the evening, we talk about Africa, this journey, our respective ways of being, and how much we still have to learn.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 43 en 44: Abeokuta na Cotonou, Benin
 
Vandag verlaat ons Nigerië. Eers weer die stukke pad oorleef waar mens rondom en deur slag-putte sukkel en koes vir aankomende verkeer. Soos met enige pad grenspos toe, raak dit al hoe besiger hoe nader die hek kom. Motorfietsies, malende mense en stalletjies langs die pad. Diere aan toue.
 
Ons word in die laaste vyf kilometer voor die grens twee keer gestop deur manne met gewere. Vrae. Paspoorte. Kan ons vir hulle ietsie gee asseblief?
 
Ons verligting toe ons deur is, is groot. Benin voel sommer vry en mooi en fantasties en demokraties en skoon en ontwikkeld en rustig. Wys net hoe swaar die ewige op-jou-hoede-wees op ons gerus het. Ons ervaring van Nigerië ingekleur het.
 
Weereens ontmoet twee plaaslike motorfietsmense ons en ry saam met ons Cotonou toe, waar ons vir 'n dag afpak en rus, motorfietse versorg. Die Springbokke wen, ons kan die see sien en ons hoef nie die volgende dag weer douvoordag te begin oppak nie.
 
Hier in Cotonou draf groepe mense op 'n Sondag-oggend langs die strand. Speel sokker. Doen oefeninge. Iets wat ons nog nie tot dusver gesien het nie. Dit voel soos 'n eiland van welfaart waar 'n groterige groep mense dit kan bekostig om nie elke dag slegs te probeer oorleef nie. 'n Lang ry vragskepe lê en wag op die see om een vir een deur sleepbote die hawe binnegeneem te word.
 
Die invloed van ons witbrood-wêreld op ons ganse belewenis is onmisbaar. Net om 'n bietjie te stop en vir 'n dag iets te ervaar waaraan ons gewoond is, is 'n reuse lafenis. Ons besef dat wat ons ookal sien en ervaar en vertel en van fotos neem, bloot 'n reeds-geïnterpreteerde prentjie is. Ons ervaar iets van Afrika ja, maar deur ons eie lense.
 
Day 43 and 44: Abeokuta to Cotonou, Benin
 
Today, we're leaving Nigeria behind. But first to survive another road where you struggle around and through massive potholes, dodging oncoming traffic. As with any border crossing, it gets busier the closer you get to the gate. Motorcycles, bustling people, and stalls line the road. Animals on ropes.
 
In the last five kilometres before the border, we're stopped twice by armed men. Questions. Passports. Can we give them something, please?
 
Our relief upon crossing into Benin is immense. Benin feels free, beautiful, fantastic, democratic, clean, developed, and peaceful. It shows us how the ever-present pressure to be vigilant had weighed on us, colouring our experience of Nigeria.
 
Again, two local motorcyclists meet us and ride along with us to Cotonou, where we take a day to rest and take care for the motorcycles. The Springboks win, we can see the sea, and we don't have to start packing up early the next day.
 
Here in Cotonou, groups of people jog along the beach on a Sunday morning. Play soccer. Exercise. Something we hadn't seen so far. It feels like an island of prosperity where a larger group of people can afford not to focus solely on survival every day. A long line of cargo ships waits at sea to be brought into the harbour one by one by tugboats.
 
The influence of our world of comfort on our entire experience is undeniable. Just taking a break for a day to experience something we're accustomed to, is a huge refreshment. We realize that whatever we see and experience and tell and capture in photos is merely a pre-interpreted picture. Yes, we're experiencing something of Africa, but through our own lenses.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 42: Akure na Abeokuta
 
Die dag begin met 'n mislagie en wolke. 'n Vals belofte van koel weer. Die pad begin mooi: kronkelend in 'n tonnel van groen. Plek-plek palmbome. Dit voel of ons êrens aan die Natalse kus is.
 
Maar êrens dwaal ons onwetend af van die roete wat die motorfietsklub aanbeveel het, en ons beland op 'n pad wat 'n snelweg wou wees, maar nou gebruik word as twee toevallige parallelle paaie waar enige iemand in enige baan in enige rigting kan ry. En die middelman 'n vry zone wat lukraak gebruik word om van die een parallelle pad na die ander te gaan, u-draaie te maak, dood te stop. Dis vreesaanjaend. Karre en vragmotors steek mekaar verby met geen ontsag vir wie of wat van voor af kom nie. Skielik ruik iets nie lekker nie. Dan vang ons oog dit terwyl die verkeer ons meesleur: 'n Dooie mens! Net so laat lê. Moes al 'n paar dae gelede gebeur het.
 
In Abeokuta ontvang die plaaslike motorfietsklub ons weer, wys ons die reuse rots-formasie waar die stad sy naam gekry het: Onder die klip gebore. Hulle wil kuier en ons die dorp wys. Ons wil rus ná 'n lang dag se oorweldigende verkeer en hitte. Dis 40 grade Celcius. Ons poseer alweer vir fotos. Elke moontlike konfigurasie van groepfotos word geneem. Al wil ons mooi saamspeel raak ons glimlagte al meer aangeplak. Wens ons die buitengewone aandag wat ons trek kan ophou.
 
Later plaas Firekiss (die klub-voorsitter) 'n kaart van Wes-Afrika voor ons. Vra ons uit oor ons roete. Sê ons moenie deur Guinea ry nie. Paaie te sleg. Eerder Mali deur na Senegal toe. Of Liberia en Sierra Leone. Ons het nie visums vir een van die drie nie. Sal in Accra moet ambassades besoek vir visums as ons ons roete wil verander. Dit gee ons die naweek om te dink. Ons is nog nie eers aan die Wes-Afrika kus nie en die lang woestyn-afstande en politiese risiko's van Noord-Afrika begin plek kry in ons gedagtes.
 
Maar môre ry ons Benin toe en hoop om 'n plek te kry om rugby te kyk. 'n Oomblik van ontvlugting. Dis die finaal en ons is aan die Bokke se kant...;-)
 
Day 42: Akure to Abeokuta
 
The day starts with a hint of mist and clouds - a false promise of cool weather. The road begins beautifully: winding through a tunnel of green, palm trees here and there. It feels as if we're somewhere on the Natal coast.
 
But somewhere along the way, we unknowingly deviate from the route recommended by the local motorbike club, ending up on a road that hoped to be a highway, but has been relegated to two coincidental parallel roads, where anyone can travel in any lane in any direction. The middleman becomes a free zone used arbitrarily to switch from one parallel road to the other, make U-turns, or stop abruptly. It's terrifying. Cars and trucks pass each other with no regard for what's coming from the opposite direction. Suddenly, there's an unpleasant smell, and our eyes catch it while the traffic sweeps us away: a dead body! Just left like that. Must have happened a few days ago.
 
In Abeokuta, the local motorbike club welcomes us again, showing us the giant rock formation from which the city got its name: "Born Under the Rock." They want to socialize and give us a tour of the town. We just want to rest after a long day of overwhelming traffic and heat. It's 40 degrees Celsius. We pose for more photos. Every possible configuration of group photo is taken. Even though we want to be polite, our smiles feel increasingly artificial. Wishing the extraordinary attention we attract could stop.
 
Later, Firekiss, the club president, places a map of West Africa in front of us. He asks us about our route and advises against going through Guinea. The roads are too bad there. He suggests going through Mali to Senegal or considering Liberia and Sierra Leone. We don't have visas for any of these. We'll have to visit embassies in Accra for visas if we want to change our route. This gives us the weekend to think. We haven't even reached the West African coast, and the long desert distances and political risks of North Africa are starting to take hold in our thoughts.
 
But tomorrow, we ride to Benin, hoping to find a place to watch rugby. A moment of escapism. It's the world cup final, and we're on the Boks' side... (Ons is aan die Bokke se kant...;-)

(English Translation Below)

Dag 41: Kabba na Akure
 
Die motorfietsklub-mense wat ons inwag by die dorpe waar ons oorslaap, was erg ontsteld om te hoor hoeveel keer ons die vorige dag afgetrek is. "You must just keep small money ready. When they stop you, you give, you go." "When you approach the checkpoint, just close your visor so they don't see you're white." "You slow down a little, wave, and then open the throttle so they can't stop you", stroom die advies in. In elk geval, vandag word ons wonder bo wonder net twee keer gestop, en elke keer is hulle net nuuskierig om te hoor wat maak ons so ver op motorfietse.
 
Die pad is weer vol gate vandag. Maar ons ry darem nie ver nie. Net die wete toe ons opstaan dat ons slegs drie of vier ure se ry voor ons het, en nie ses of agt ure nie, is alreeds 'n troos vir ons gemoedere wat gister maar flou was.
 
Skielik 'n waarskuwingsflits op De Witt se elektroniese skerm. Sy traksie-beheer is buite werking, kontak asseblief die handelaar. Hy probeer dit so in die ry weer aktiveer, toe nog 'n noodflits: Sy ABS (gevorderde remstelsel) werk nie. Kontak asseblief die handelaar. Ons stop. Dalk moet hy net sy motorfiets af en weer aanskakel sodat die kontrolebord kan 'reset'. Dit werk nie. Sy verskillende ry-modusse (straat, reën of grondpad) is ook nou buite werking. Ten minste ry die motorfiets nog. Ons stop in Owo om petrol te kry, en hy bel vir Trax KTM in Pretoria. Sien dat die kabeltjie wat van die ABS sensor af loop, effens afgeskuif en aan die agterwiel begin raak en deurgeskuur het. Praat met Rudi by KTM. Besluit om die draadjie te knip en weer te las. Munna, die jong super-motorfietsryer wat ons hier in Owo ontvang en saamry Akure toe, sê hy sal vir ons insulasie-kleefband bring sodra ons in die hotel is.
 
Ons ry. Munna voor. En voluit. Hy is 22 en sy enjin moet skreeu. Ons probeer bybly, maar 'n slaggat teen daardie spoed en ons trip is verby. Skielik draai hy by die Owo Polytechnic College in. Wil vir ons sy universiteit wys. Toe ons stop besef ons hy wil ons eintlik aan sy vriende afwys. Stringe studente kom staan vir fotos saam met ons. Ons smile. Maar hoe langer dit aanhou, hoe meer geforseerd ons glimlagte. Ons voel hoe uitputtend en oppervlakkig dit moet voel om 'n celebrity te wees.
 
Munna bring ons veilig tot by ons hotel. Bring die kleefband. De Witt maak sy kabeltjie reg en alles werk weer. Dis 'n lekker gevoel. Later drink ons 'n bier saam met Munna. Hoor hoe moeilik dit is om werk te kry in Nigerië. Hy studeer Besigheids Administrasie. Wil na Suid-Afrika toe kom. Hy is ook 'n golf-speler. En 'n motorfietsryer. En 'n basketbalspeler (die man is lewenslank). Soos almal van ons is hy opsoek na geleenthede vir 'n beter lewe.
 
Môre tot in Aboekuta want ons is nie lus vir Lagos se chaos nie. Dan Benin. Ons is nou byna 10 000km in ons avontuur in. Nog duisende onbekende myle wat voorlê.
 
Day 41: Kabba to Akure
 
The motorcycle club members who welcomed us in the villages where we slept were quite concerned to hear how many times we were pulled over the previous day. "You must just keep small money ready. When they stop you, you give, you go." "When you approach the checkpoint, just close your visor so they don't see you're white." "You slow down a little, wave, and then open the throttle so they can't stop you." A stream of advice. Anyway, today, surprisingly, we were only stopped twice, and both times they were just curious to hear why on earth are we riding so far on motorcycles.
 
The road is full of potholes. Again. But we don't ride for long. Just the knowledge when we get up that we have only three or four hours of riding ahead of us, and not six or eight hours, is already a comfort to our spirits, which had been somewhat low yesterday.
 
Suddenly a warning flash on De Witt's electronic screen. His traction control is out of order, please contact the dealer. He tries to reactivate it while riding when another emergency flash pops up: His ABS (advanced braking system) isn't working. Please contact the dealer. We stop. Maybe he just needs to switch off his motorcycle and restart it so the control panel can reset. It doesn't work. His different riding modes (street, rain or off-road) are also out of order now. At least the motorcycle is still running. We stop in Owo to get gas, and he calls Trax KTM in Pretoria. Sees that the cable running from the ABS sensor has shifted slightly forward and started to fray against the rear wheel. He talks to Rudi at KTM. Decides to cut the wire and re-connect it. Munna, the young superbike rider who receives us here in Owo and rides with us to Akure, says he will bring us insulation tape as soon as we are in the hotel.
 
We ride. Munna in the lead. At full throttle. He is 22, and his engine has to scream. We try to keep up, but a pothole at that speed, and our trip is over. Suddenly, he turns into the Owo Polytechnic College. Wants to show us his university. When we stop, we realize he actually wants to show us off to his friends. Strings of students come for photos with us. We smile. But the longer it goes on, the more forced our smiles become. We feel how exhausting and superficial it must be to be a celebrity.
 
Munna safely brings us to our hotel. Brings the tape. De Witt fixes his wire, and everything works again. It's a good feeling. Later, we have a beer with Munna. Hear how difficult it is to find work in Nigeria. He studies Business Administration. Wants to come to South Africa. He's also a golfer. And a motorcycle rider. And a basketball player (the man is tall). Like all of us, he's looking for opportunities for a better life.
 
Tomorrow we're going to Abeokuta because we're not up for Lagos' chaos. Then Benin.
We're now nearly 10,000 kilometers into our adventure. Thousands of unknown miles ahead.

(Image source: AJULUCHUKWU BROWN, The Guardian)

(English Translation Below)

Dag 40: Abuja na Kabba
 
Die konstabel swaai sy stok reg voor my in. Skreeu: "Stop! Get off our bike! I said get off your bike! Papers! Take off your helmet!" Skielik nog drie wat naderstaan. Verkeerspolisie. Aggressief. 'n Lang man met 'n AK47 stap nader. Ek groet. Hy ignoreer my. Stap om die motorfiets. Soek fout.
 
Dan roep hy my om saam met hom 'n entjie verder te gaan staan. Ek het die verkeerde nommerplate, sê hy. Dis nie Nigeriese plate nie. Ek weet en hy weet dat logika en rede nie nou op die tafel is nie. Wat wil ek hê moet hy doen, vra hy. Hoe kan ons hierdie probleem uitsorteer? Ek sê hy kan my laat ry. Hy kyk reguit na my: "How much money are you willing to give me to let you go?" Die hele affêre hou omtrent 'n halfuur lank aan. Een grou later 400 Naira uit my petroltenk-sakkie en ek sê ja hou dit. Dis omtrent R9.28. Ons ry.
 
Tien minute later weer 'n blokkade. Weermag. Hulle wil net gesels. Die een gaan roep sy bevelvoerder uit sy tent langs die pad. Hy kom nie dadelik nie. Ons sit in die son en wag. Naderhand kom hy. Geïnteresseerd in ons avontuur. Vra vir De Witt uit oor sy vrou en kinders. Dan kan ons ry.
 
Dis 'n snelweg, maar elke nou en dan kom iemand doodluiters, reg van voor af, in die vinnige baan verby. 'n Corolla. 'n Motorfietse. 'n Vragmotor! Skielik, sonder enige waarskwing, 'n paar klippe oor die pad en 'n stofspoor na die aankomende kant van die snelweg, menende hulle werk aan die pad êrens vorentoe en ons deel nou die pad met die aankomende verkeer. As hulle dit maar net vir die aankomendes ook gesê het, want hulle ry nogsteeds in beide lane asof ons nie bestaan nie. 'n Hele paar keer moet ons heeltemal van die pad af om plek te maak vir 'n kar wat reg van voor af op ons afpeil.
 
Ons stop vir koeldrank en rys. Daar's 'n gatvolgeid in ons. Die padblokkades en aanhoudende verwagting vir geld of goed is besig om ons te vang. Ons gedagtes wil-wil neig na uitsien na Desember by die see saam met ons families, die wêreld wat ons ken, maar ons durf nie. Die pad is nog te lank.
 
Ons besluit om nie deur te druk Akure toe soos beplan nie, maar om in Kabba, wat nog so 80km ver is, te slaap. Dan more net 'n kort entjie Akure toe. Onsself net bietjie skiet te gee. Die trip vat meer uit mens uit as wat mens besef. En as die polisie en weermag en verkeerspolie nie vertrou kan word nie, voel mens heeltemal blootgestel.
 
Ons wil nie daaraan dink nie, maar die vraag dwing homself aan ons op: Is dit waarheen Suid-Afrika oppad is?
 
 
Day 40: Abuja to Kabba
 
The constable swings his stick right in front of me. He shouts, "Stop! Get off our bike! I said get off your bike! Papers! Take off your helmet!" Suddenly, three more officers approach. Traffic police. Aggressive. A tall man with an AK47 steps forward. I greet him. He ignores me and walks around the motorbike. Looking for a fault somewhere.
 
Then he calls me to come stand with him a bit further. He tells me I have the wrong license plate: it's not Nigerian. I know, and he knows that logic and reason aren't on the table right now. What do I want him to do, he asks. How can we solve this problem? I tell him he can let me go. He looks straight at me, "How much money are you willing to give me to let you go?" The whole affair goes on for about half an hour. One of them finds a 400 Naira note in my tank bag, and I say okay yes just keep it. It's about R9.28. We can go.
 
Ten minutes later, another roadblock. Military. They just want to chat. One goes to call his commander from a tent alongside the road. He doesn't come immediately. We sit in the sun and wait. Eventually, he arrives. Interested in our adventure. Asks De Witt about his wife and children. Then we can go.
 
It's a highway, but every now and then, someone comes straight at us, in the wrong direction, in the fast lane. A Corolla. Motorcycles. A truck! Suddenly, without warning, a few rocks on the road and a dust trail to the oncoming side of the highway, indicating they are working on the road somewhere ahead, and now we share the road with oncoming traffic. If they had just told the oncoming traffic, as they still drive in both lanes as if we don't exist. Several times, we have to move entirely off the road to make way for a car that's approaching us head-on.
 
We stop for a soft drink and rice. There's a sense of frustration building in us. The roadblocks and the constant expectation for money or gifts are starting to wear us down. Our thoughts start straying towards December by the sea with our families, the world we know. But we dare not go there. The road is still too long.
 
We decide not to push through to Akure as planned, but to stay in Kabba, which is about 80km away. Just a little breather. The trip takes more out of you than you realize. And if the police and military and traffic police can't be trusted, you feel entirely exposed.
 
We don't want to think it, but the question forces itself upon us: Is this where South Africa is heading?

(English Translation Below)

Dag 38 en 39: Makurdi na Abuja
 
Ons laaglê-dag in Makurdi doen wondere. Die motorfietsklub sorg vir ons. Ons motorfietse en sakke en klere word behóórlik gewas. My tru-spieeltjie wat in die berge afgebreek het, word reggemaak. De Witt se handskerm ook.
 
Tog begin beide van ons voel dat die trip nou lank raak. Ek moet opstaan en pak om te ry, maar voel nie lus om uit die bed te klim nie. Ek dink: As ons goed vorder kan ons dalk 'n week of twee vroeër by die huis wees. Ek sit die gedagte eenkant. Die pad is nog lánk. Dink aan die hier-en-nou.
 
Ons groet vir David en sy klublede, neem fotos, en ry. Snelweg Abuja toe. Steeds, elke 5km, soms elke 2km, stompe en dromme oor die pad. 'n Man in uniform. Ons waai, vandag waai hulle meestal terug en ons ry net deur.
 
Ons het weer nie geëet vanoggend nie. Môre móét ons 'n plan maak om iets te eet voor ons ry.
 
Skielik weer gewere in die pad. Een met die pistool sommer in die hand. Die ander met 'n AK47. Rooi klere aan. Wys ons moet stop. Hulle is die Anti-Dwelm Agentskap en gaan ons deursoek vir dwelms. Kyk deeglik deur die sakke hier voor op ons petroltenks tot hulle tevrede is. Ons kan ry.
 
Skaars 'n halfuur later, op dieselfde pad, nog 'n anti-dwelm soekery. Dié keer meer aggressief. Voel-soek my lyf. My petroltenk-sak. Sien die pyn- en maagpille. Maak 'n groot konsternasie daarvan. Mens mag nie medisyne vervoer nie! Ok ek kan ry. Ek is verlig - bly hulle het nie die sak met malariapille, antibiotika en kortisoon agterin gekry nie. Ek sit my valhelm op. Dis warm. Nee wag! Roep 'n ander een. Klim af! Pak uit jou sakke hier agter!
 
Ek haal diep asem. Moenie kwaad word nie. My hart klop in my keel want in my kleresak agter is 'n klomp medisyne en die voorskrif daarvoor is wie-weet-waar. Ek hou verby my kleresak en begin met die heel agterste sak. Vat dit stadig. Wil hulle uitmergel sodat ek nie my kleresak met die medisyne heelbo in hoef oop te maak nie. Ek loer oor in De Witt se rigting en sien hy is ook besig om uit te pak. Ek wys vir hulle elke item in detail. Kamera. Kompressor. Oliefilter. Bril. Lappie. Die einde van die sak se inhoud kom nader. Dit moet stop voor die volgende sak ter sprake kom. Ek vra skielik of hulle besef dat hierdie die slegste ervaring sover op ons 9000km reis, deur agt lande, is? Die kwaaie kyk my half geskok-verleë aan. Sê dis OK. Ek kan my sakke toemaak en ry. Verligting!
 
Om in Abuja te kom is weereens 'n chaos van voetgangers, diep slaggate, vragmotors, tuk-tuks en zoem-ponies. Ons slaap vanaand weer in 'n hotel wat aan 'n motorfietsklublid behoort. Hy laat ons per whatsapp weet daar daar twee yskoue biere, op die huis, vir ons wag. Driehonderd kilometer op snelweg gery vandag en dit het net meer as vyf ure gevat. Gister se laaglê is vergete. Maar ons is halfpad.
 
Day 38 and 39: Makurdi to Abuja
 
Our rest day in Makurdi works wonders. The motorbike club takes care of us. Our bikes, bags and clothes are thoroughly cleaned. My rear-view mirror that broke in the mountains gets fixed. De Witt's hand guard is repaired.
 
Still, both of us are starting to feel like the trip is getting long. I need to get up and pack to ride, but I don't feel like getting out of bed. I think, if we make good progress, we might get home a week or two earlier. I put the thought aside. The road is still long. Think about the here-and-now.
 
We say goodbye to David and his club members, take photos, and ride. We are on the highway towards Abuja. Still, every 5km, sometimes every 2km, there are roadblocks and checkpoints. A man in uniform. We wave. Today they mostly wave us through without stopping.
 
We left without breakfast. Again. Tomorrow we must make a plan to eat something before we ride.
 
Suddenly, more men with guns in the road. One has a pistol, another an AK47. Wearing red clothes. They stop us. They are from the Anti-Drug Agency and are going to search us for drugs. They thoroughly search our tank bags until they are satisfied. We can ride.
 
Scarcely half an hour later, on the same road, another anti-drug search. This time, it's more aggressive. They frisk my body. Scrutinise my tank bag. They see the pain and stomach pills. Make a big deal out of it. You're not allowed to transport medicines! Okay, I can go. I'm relieved - glad they didn't find the bag with malaria pills, antibiotics and cortisone in the back. I put on my helmet. It's hot. Wait! Calls another one. Get off! Open your bags here at the back!
 
I take a deep breath. Don't get angry. My heart pounds in my throat because in my clothing bag at the back is a bunch of medicines, and the prescription for them is who-knows-where. I ignore the clothing bag and start with the tail bag. Take it very slowly. I want to stretch it out unbearably so that I don't have to open my clothing bag with the medicines. I glance in De Witt's direction and see he's also unpacking. I show them every item in detail. Camera. Compressor. Oil filter. Glasses. Cloth. The end of the bag's contents is approaching. It has to stop before the next bag comes into question. Suddenly, I ask if they realize that this is the worst experience on our 9000km journey, through eight countries, so far? The angry one gives me a half-shocked and embarrassed look. Says it's okay. I can close my bags and go. Relief!
 
Getting into Abuja is once again a chaos of pedestrians, deep potholes, cargo trucks, tuk-tuks, and small motorcycles. We stay in a hotel owned by a member of the motorbike club. He lets us know via WhatsApp that two ice-cold beers are waiting for us, on the house. We rode 300km on the highway today, and it took a little over five hours. Yesterday's rest day is forgotten. But we're halfway there.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 37: Bali na Makurdi
 
Ons het ons voorneme verbreek om na elke drie dae te rus. Dis vandag die agtste dag in 'n ry wat ons op die pad is. Of meer akkuraat: ons was vir drie van die agt dae nie op die pad nie, maar in modder en erosieslote oor onmoontlike berge.
 
Ons lywe is seer. Het 7:30 weggekom, sonder ontbyt. Dis nou 14:00, 39 grade, bedompig. Ons stop onder 'n skadutjie vir rus, sweet en warmgebakte water. Nog so 'n uur tot by die Katsina Ala rivier. Dan nog twee of drie ure tot by Makurdi waar die plaaslike motorfietsklub vir ons wag. 
 
Die pad is 'n sif van al die slaggate. Dan skielik weer mooi. Dan weer sleg. Die landskap 'n wydgestrekte vallei wat heldergroen tot in die verte in lê, al langs die berge. Palmbome. Grashutte. Kinders wat in die rivierstrome langs die pad baljaar. Vroue wat klere was.
 
Padblokkade. Can you give us something? Your gloves please. Nothing? OK. You are free to go. Ons ry.
 
Skielik 'n trop beeste wat uit die ruigtes oor die pad bars. Ek mis hulle net-net, maar die klein motorfietsie agter my, wat twee vroue-passassiers dra, word omgestamp. Ek hoor 'n aaklige skraapgeluid agter my. Stemme wat skreeu. Ons draai om, stop. Help om 'n handsak en ander sakke uit die pad te dra. Niemand het ernstig seergeky nie. Net skraapplekke. Die mense dra nie valhelms nie en ry met T-hemde en plakkies, so 'n val beteken gewoonlik veelvuldige beserings. 'n Paar ooggetuies hardloop agter die beeswagter aan die veld in - hy moet les opsê vir sy onvermoë om sy beeste in toom te hou. Dis beter dat ons nou ry.
 
Ons kom by die rivier. Chaos!! 'n Vloedwal van mense stroom oor ons. Skreeu bedrae. Begin die motorfietse stoot en trek na die water toe. Weereens 'n houtboot met 'n twyfelagtige plankie waarteen die motorfietse uitgestoot moet word. Een kantel! Hande wat gryp! Dan is die fiets weer regop en op die boot. Aan die ander kant weer die gedruk en stoom van mense sodat ek en De Witt nie kan praat nie. Almal wil geld hê maar ons het reeds die ou betaal met wie De Witt gereel het. 'n Ouerige man kom rustig tot reg langs my. Go. You are free to go. You paid. Now just go.
 
Net buite Makurdi wag David vir ons. Dan kom Benedict by. Twee groot BMW fietse. Hulle neem ons na nóg 'n motorfietsman se hotel in die dorp. Ons was agt of nege ure op die pad en mens kan dit sien. Die hotelmense help ons afpak, kry vir ons 'n bier, was ons motorfietse, kry ons wasgoed om gewas te word. Wat 'n lafenis!
 
David word as Mr. President aangesprek. Hy's in beheer van Makurdi se motorfietsklub. Hy is 'n chemiese inginieur en besit 'n fabriek wat verf maak. Hy neem ons uit vir die lekkerste vis wat ek nog ooit geëet het: Baber in rissiesous. Hulle noem dit Pepper Fish. Jy eet hom met jou hande van die graat af. Daar's 'n bakkie om in hande te was na die tyd. Ons oë traan van die brandsous. Vanaand slaap ons soos klippe en môre bly ons net hier om tot verhaal te kom.
 
Day 37: Bali to Makurdi
 
We've broken our resolution to rest every three days. Today marks the eighth consecutive day on the road. Or more accurately: For three of those eight days, we weren't on the road, but rather struggling through mud and eroded mountain ditches.
 
Our bodies are aching. We left at 7:30 AM without breakfast. It's 2:00 PM now, and the temperature is 39 degrees Celsius. Oppressively hot and humid. We stop in the shade to rest, drink some warm water, and to sweat. Another hour to the Katsina Ala River. Then two or three more hours to Makurdi, where the local motorcycle club will be waiting for us.
 
The road is a sieve of potholes. Then, suddenly, it's smooth. And bad again. The landscape is a vast valley, lush and green, stretching as far as the eye can see along the mountains. Palm trees. Thatch huts. Children playing in the river streams beside the road. Women washing clothes.
 
Roadblock. Can you give us something? Your gloves, please. Nothing? OK, you are free to go. We ride on.
 
Suddenly, a herd of cattle bursts out of the bush across the road. I barely miss them, but the small motorcycle behind me, carrying two women passengers, is knocked over. I hear a terrible scraping sound behind me. Shouts. We turn around, stop, and help remove a handbag and other bags from the road. No one is seriously injured, just scratches. The people aren't wearing helmets and ride in T-shirts and flip-flops, so a fall usually results in multiple injuries. A few eyewitnesses chase after the cattle herder to give him a hiding for his inability to control his cattle. It's better that we leave now.
 
We reach the river. Chaos!! A flood of people rushes toward us, shouting out Nira amounts. The motorcycles are being pushed and pulled towards the water. Another wooden boat with a dubious plank onto which the motorcycles must be pushed. One bike topples slightly! Hands reaching out! Then the bike is upright and on the boat. On the other side, more pushing and shoving from people. De Witt and I can't even hear each other. Everyone wants money, but we've already paid the guy whom De Witt has arranged with. An elderly man steps up beside me. "Go. You are free to go. You paid. Now just go."
 
Just outside Makurdi, David is waiting for us. Then Benedict joins. Two large BMW motorcycles. They take us to a hotel owned by another motorcyclist in town. We were on the road for eight or nine hours, and it shows. The hotel staff help us unpack, get us a beer, wash our motorcycles, and take our laundry to be washed. What a relief!
 
David is addressed as "Mr. President." He is in charge of Makurdi's motorcycle club. He's a chemical engineer and owns a factory that produces paint. He takes us out for the most delicious fish I've ever eaten: Catfish in chili sauce. They call it Pepper Fish. You eat it with your hands, picking the flesh off the bones. There's a bucket to wash your hands afterward. Our eyes are watering from the spicy sauce.
 
Tonight, we'll sleep like rocks, and tomorrow we're just staying here to catch our breath and rest.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 34 en 35: Van Mayo-Darli na Gembu (Nigerië)
 
Ek dink het nie gedink dit kan só erg wees nie. En ek hoop nie ons kry weer sulke dae nie. Daar is nie 'n pad van Mayo-Darli na Gembu nie. Net 'n sloot, berg op en af, wat só uitgekalwe is van erosie dat die skeure op plekke meters diep is. En dit soms langs kranse wat die einde sal beteken as mens 'n fout maak.
 
Ons het skaars foto's geneem, want met die stoei en konsentreer en voortbeur is fotos neem die laaste ding waaraan mens dink.
 
Op 'n stadium, nadat ek al hoeveel keer geval en met 'n gesukkel en met hulp die motorfiets opgetel het, staan ek op 'n paadjie, 30cm breed, wat oppad is om steil te daal. Links van my die krans na onder. Regs die onrybare erosiesloot wat op 'n stadium die pad was. De Witt is voor my uit en roep skielik oor die interkom: Stop tjomma! Stop! Ek stop en besef ek is bang. Ek besef ook dat bang nie sal werk vir wat nou hier voorlê nie. Een foutjie, een vlugtige kyk na die afgrond, een glips van die wiele in die modder, en die trip is verby.
 
Net toe kom Panyo, 'n Barmhartige Samaritaan, verby. Panyo is een van die vele plaaslike mense wat op hulle klein motorfietsies elke slootjie en lyn oor die passe ken. Wat mense en goedere vervoer op plekke wat jy nie sal glo nie. Hy stop. Vra of ek al dié pad gery het. Ek sê nee. Hy sê, half ontsteld, maar jy kan nie hier ry met daardie groot swaar motorfiets nie!
 
Ek vind myself vasgevang tussen my ego wat wil wys ek kan, want De Witt is nounet hierdeur, en 'n deel van my wat besef ons eintlike doel is om nog vir twee maande deur Afrika te ry. En hierdie is bo my vuurmaakplek. Met De Witt en Panyo en vele ander se hulp stu ons voort. Ons gaan nie Gembu maak voor donker nie. En ons is óp.
 
Iemand ry vooruit en vra die hoofman van 'n klein gemeenskappie, 'n statige, skraal man in 'n lang Moslem kleed, of ons die nag in sy gastekamer ('n modderhut) kan deurbring. Ons word oorval van gasvryheid. Mense drom saam om na ons te kyk. Panyo sê dis omdat ons wit is. Hier kom nooit witmense hierlangs nie.
 
Die volgende dag sal net twee ure wees tot in Gembu, belowe Panyo. Dit het gereen die nag, so die modder is pap. Ek val weer 'n keer of twee, en Panyo ry my motorfiets verder af na die Donga rivier toe, waar die fietse per kano oorgeroei word. Die rivier vloei sterk en ons sien in ons geestesoog hoe die ding kantel en die fietse in die rivier beland - maar gelukkig, met 'n gespook en spartel, kry ons die fietse oor.
 
Nou net nóg 'n paar berge soos gister s'n, en dan's ons daar. Maar 8km van Gembu af, teen 'n byna regaf steilte waar die hele pad weggevreet is in diep erosie-skeure, sit 'n 6x6 lorrietjie was. Sy een voorwiel het afgebreek. Dit blok die sloot en niemand kan deur nie. Later kap twee ouens 'n stuk van die rotsmuur weg en ons besluit om die bagasie af te laai en die fietsie daardeur te wriemel. De Witt ry. Ek stoot en trek saam met vyf ander en ons kry beide die fietse deur!
 
'n Twee-ure rit wat ons vyf ure vat, maar uiteindelik is ons in Gembu. Effens in skok. Maar wonder bo wonder in min-of-meer een stuk.
 
Day 34 and 35: From Mayo-Darli to Gembu (Nigeria)
 
I never thought it could be this bad. I hope we don't have days like this again. There's no road from Mayo-Darli to Gembu. Just a ditch, up and down the mountains, eroded so deeply in places that the cracks are meters deep. Sometimes along cliffs, where a mistake would mean the end.
 
We barely took photos because with all the struggle and concentration, taking photos is the last thing on your mind.
 
At one point, after I had fallen several times and struggled to pick up the motorcycle, I found myself on a narrow path, 30 cm wide, steeply descending. To the left, the cliff below. To the right, the impassable eroded ditch that used to be the road. De Witt was ahead of me and suddenly shouted over the intercom: Stop, buddy! Stop! I stopped and realized I was scared. I also realized that fear wouldn't work for what lay ahead. One mistake, one quick glance at the abyss, one slip of the wheels in the mud, and the trip is over.
 
Just then, Panyo, a Good Samaritan, came by. Panyo is one of the many locals who know every nook and cranny of these passes. They transport people and goods on small motorcycles in places you wouldn't believe. He stops and asks if I've ridden this path before. I say no. He says, half shocked: But you can't ride here with that big heavy motorcycle!
 
I found myself caught between my ego, which wanted to prove I could do it because De Witt had just gone through, and a part of me that realized our real goal was to ride through Africa for another two months. And this was above my skill level. With De Witt and Panyo's help, and many others, we continue. We won't make it to Gembu before dark. And we're exhausted.
 
Someone rides ahead and asks the chief of a small community, a dignified, slim man in a long Muslim robe, if we can spend the night in his guest room (a mud hut). We are overwhelmed with hospitality. People gather to look at us. Panyo says it's because we're white. White people never come through here.
 
The next day will only be two hours to Gembu, Panyo promises. It rained the night, so the mud is like paste. I fall again a couple of times, and Panyo rides my motorcycle to the Donga River, where the bikes are paddled across by canoe. The river flows strongly, and in our minds, we see the thing capsizing and the bikes ending up in the river - but luckily, with a lot of pushing and shoving, we get the bikes across.
 
Now just a few more mountains like yesterday's, and we're there. But 8 km from Gembu, on an unthinkable incline, where the whole road has been eaten away in meters deep erosion fissures, a 6x6 lorry is stuck. One of its front wheels has broken off. It blocks the ditch, and no one can get through. Later, two guys chip away at the rock wall to make the gap wider, and we decide to unload the luggage and squeeze the bikes through there. De Witt rides, and I push and pull with five others, and we get both bikes through!
 
A two-hour ride that takes us five hours, but eventually, we're in Gembu. Slightly rattled. But, miraculously, in more or less one piece.

(English Translation Below)

Dag 36: Gembu na Bali
 
Die teerpad uit Gembu, al langs die Malimba Plato, en dan af met die berge na die laeveld, is aan't verbrokkel, maar voel soos die N1 in vergelyking waardeur ons die vorige paar dae is. Op die plato is ons hoog bo seespieël, so die lug is koel (27 grade), en die uitsigte asem..
 
Padblokkade. Bande en dromme en stokke in die pad. 'n Man in uniform en 'n lang geweer wys ons moet stop. Paspoorte. Wat het ons om vir hom te gee? Niks? Het ons gedink ons kan deur hulle land ry sonder om iets vir die soldate te gee? Ons speel dom en vriendelik en hy laat ons ry.
 
..rowend. Elke nou en dan 'n klein dorpie, wat maar soos baie van die dorpies lyk waardeur ons al is: zoemponies wat toet-toet, bokke, stalletjies langs die pad, wemelende mense wat wuif en roep en...
 
Padblokkade. Die uniform lyk anders. Seker polisie dié keer. O nee, dis doane, sommer hier 200km die land in. Paspoorte. Bekyk die visa aandagtig. Dan die stempel. Waarheen gaan julle? Waarvandaan kom julle? Het julle ietsie vir ons?
 
...breed glimlag. Ons stop om geld te trek. Dadelik veertien mense rondom ons. Nuuskierig. Welcome to Nigeria! Where are you from? With this bike?! Fotos word geneem. Op en langs en agter die motorfiets. Ons voel soos celebrities en dit is ongelooflik uitputtend. Die kitsbank wil nie vir ons geld gee nie, so ons ry verder. Bekommerd omdat ons heeltemal te min Nigeriese Nira by ons het om ons by die volgende groot dorp te kry. Die pad word...
 
Padblokkade. Weer die dromme en bande en stokke. Vier mans in uniform kom pad toe. Wys ons moet stop. Een ou gaan bekyk my paspoort in sy houtkantoortjie. Die ander twee of drie staan hier rondom De Witt. Hoeveel kan hy vir hulle gee om hier deur te kom? Die man met my paspoort kom terug. Wys vir die ander hulle moet laat los. Ons kan ry.
 
...skielik baie mooi. Ons kry uiteindelik dit reg om weer tot by 90km/h...
 
Padblokkade. Twee in uniform. Gewere. Paspoorte. Waarheen? Waarvandaan? Hoekom? OK julle kan ry. Dan skielik drie ouens in gewone klere wat na bier ruik en naderstrompel. What can you give us? Ons ry.
 
Kom by 'n motel. Wil inklok. Doane-beampte verskyn skielik. Paspoorte. 'n Duisend vrae.
 
Die aand sit ons en sweet en gesels en eet iets - moontlik 'n tipe vis hier uit die rivier - en wonder oor Nigerië. Hulle het vir ons slegs tien dae gegee om deur die land te ry en dan weer uit te wees. Dit behoort genoeg te wees, mits als goed gaan. Ons luister Springbokrugby oor RSG, met horte en stote want die internet is stadig. Die bokke wen net-net teen Engeland! Dit gaan goed.
 
Day 36: Gembu to Bali
 
The asphalt road out of Gembu, along the Malimba Plateau, and then down from the mountains to the lowveld, is falling apart but feels like the N1 in comparison to what we've been through these past few days. On the plateau, we are high above sea level, so the air is cool (27 degrees), and the views are breath...
 
Roadblock. Tires and drums and sticks in the road. A man in uniform with a long rifle signals for us to stop. Passports. What do we have to give him? Nothing? Did we think we could ride through their country without giving something to the soldiers? We play dumb and friendly, and he lets us go.
 
...taking. Every now and then, a small village, which looks much like many of the villages we've passed through: buzzing scooters, goats, stalls along the road, bustling people waving and shouting...
 
Roadblock. The uniform looks different. Probably police this time. Oh no, it's immigration, 200km into the country. Passports. Examining the visas carefully. Then the stamp. Where are you going? Where are you from? Do you have something for us?
 
...broad smiles. We stop to withdraw money. Immediately, fourteen people surround us. Curious. Welcome to Nigeria! Where are you from? With this bike?! Photos are taken. On and next to and behind the motorcycles. We feel like celebrities, and it's incredibly exhausting. The ATM won't give us cash, so we continue. Worried because we have too little Nigerian Nira with us to get us to the next big town. The road is...
 
Roadblock. Again, the drums and tires and sticks. Four men in uniform approach. Indicate we should stop. One man examines my passport in his wooden office. The other two or three stand around De Witt. How much can he give them to get through here? The man with my passport returns. Tells the others to stop. We can go.
 
...suddenly much smoother. We finally manage to reach speeds of up to 90 km/h again.
 
Roadblock. Two in uniform. Guns. Passports. Where are you going? Where are you from? Why? Okay, you can go. Then suddenly, three guys in plain clothes who smell of beer approach. What can you give us? We ride off.
 
Arrive at a motel. Want to check in. Immigrations officer suddenly appears. Passports. A thousand questions.
 
That evening, we sit, sweat, chat, and eat something - possibly a type of fish from the river - and ponder Nigeria. They've given us only ten days to travel through the country and then leave. It should be enough, provided everything goes well. We listen to Springbok rugby on the radio, with interruptions because the internet is slow. The Boks just barely win against England! It's going well.