The tales of Hansi, Book One

The sun sets on Mozambique and rises over South Africa. We wake up with endless tarmac stretching ahead of us, countless possibilities, but we already know. A roadtrip is not something you experience once. It's something that goes on and on and on, and even when it's over it still goes on in your head, and than it goes on to the next roadtrip. From the last roadtrip we were on in the country of the long white cloud, we brought Hansi. Or his name, at least, and gave it to our car, a baby Chevrolet Spark Lite. We picked it up three weeks ago at Kruger international Airport, just outside Nelspruit, and have been rubbing our arses against its seats ever since.

A giant crack in the earth, red ground like open flesh and dry bushes dressed in their autumn colors. Sun-baked earth and the miles of air beneath our tingling feet and the abbys. We get a taste of what flying could be like, breathing in a view that belongs to the Lord of the Rings. Blyde River Canyon opens up like a gentle mouth, blowing us away rather than trying to swallow us.

Sometimes we watch the South African horizon float beside Hansi's windows. We see mountains wrapped up in clouds that seem to disappear into nothingness and think, if the world was to end somewhere, this would be the place.

One of the most surreal experiences of this journey has to be driving our tame city Hansi into the wilderness. After a night spent in our tent listening to the odd warthog lurk around in the dark, the daylight shines though the clouds on a brave little buddy making its way through gravel roads, surrounded by zebras, more warthogs, wilderbeest, and the strangest antilopes one could imagine. One of them being again a sight belonging to the Lord og the Rings. We finally give Hansi some rest and dismount our destrier on four wheels to sit in silence and admire two sleeping hippos mirrored in the quietest lake since the calm waters of Buggala island. The whole world seems doubled, and as we drive away we're not sure on which side we are anymore.

Lesotho's an undisturbed spot of truly chaotic african life. Yet, as soon as we leave the towns behind the sounds fade away, choked by the presence of majestic mountains. Up on the top it's bitter cold, but minds forget to shiver when they flutter somewhere near the top of the world, or what feels like it. You end up wondering how all those mountains and all that hight can fit inside your eyes, or your mind.

How can all that past fit into a painting on the rock, or in the traces left after dinosaurs. We look up at the negative footprints of beasts millions years old. They hang from the ceiling like huge stone spiders and it's like being underneath the waters surface, looking up at hulls of a pirate fleet, only those ships have long since sailed. As long gone as the hand that drew orange and red lines on a rock fivethousand years ago. Still, the secrets of their nameless gods linger in the walls, the animal headed warriors still smell of the spirits of nature, and of fight for survival.

There we are, sipping seawind and poking at the sun on our plate. The air is hot and lingers on our shoulders like an overloaded backpack. The noise, the traffic, the crowd, everything bursts like a giant soap bubble when we cross the gates of the Gardens of Durban. It's a calm, distorted fairytale where Uncle Scrooges lurk in a shallow pond and plants pretend to be artworks. Well maybe they are. The smell of newly cut grass is like nothing else in the world. It's summer, over and over and over again. It's been summer for almost six months now, we realize.

We follow the thin, remote arms of the Wild Coast as they stretch out to hidden pearls more or less overrated. Chintsa takes our breath away. At least for a few seconds at the night of our first arrival, when menacing grunts are produced by unknown monsters in the forests. In the morning we find our tent surrounded by clumsy little pigs and curious monkeys. We're hidden by our own walls of clothes hung up to dry and by the wood itself. We're in an invisible, secret castle. Down on the beach horses trot and the wind whips sand into our clothes and salt on our faces. The bay curves like a soft spoon, a light fog dripping towards its end. Everything is silent, though something is happening in our minds. It's the wheels still turning, the hunger still burning. If you can't get behind your own life get behind the driving wheel. On, and on, and on.