rkd123

We stop twice. Involuntarily in Calitzdorp - I am fined for doing 73 in a 60 zone - and voluntarily at Ronnie's Sex Shop, about 60km before Barrydale. It used to be called Ronnie's Shop, before some wiseass added the word Sex to the slightly uneven red lettering on the whitewashed wall of the tiny little building. There is nothing else but scrubland that extends in all directions until breaking like a static spiky olive-grey wave against the gravelly base of the Langeberg mountain foothills that line the road at a watchful distance. Inside Ronnie's it's cool and dark. The walls are covered by graffiti black felt tip marker. Werner the barman throws me an Artline and says "Make your mark." Zen Arcade joins the spaghetti swirl of names, dates, epigrams and swear words. Eugene was right about the beer - the Black Labels are ice cold. Refreshed, half an hour later, we're back on the road.

We join the N1 at Worcester, one of the worst places in the world to try to hitch a ride. Before I know it. we're thundering through the De Toitskloof tunnel. We arrive at JP's house in Kommetjie, near Cape Town, around 9.30pm. We manage a video and chat before sleep wins out.

Saturday 9 December 2000
A beautiful sunny morning. Andy missions in Boogie, I relax with my acoustic guitar on the wooden sundeck, surrounded by greenery. After a visit to the flea market, for cheap sunglasses and a black sunhat, we have breakfast at a little café off the bricked plaza behind the market, then it's off to Oudtshoorn via George. Climbing up the switchback road through Three Passes, now taking the N12 Oudtshoorn road, off the N9. The semi-desert shimmers in the unforgiving heat. We are deeply thankful for the icy cold beers in the "fridge" (my insulated rucsack). Yet, the terrain is anything but tedious. On both sides of the undulating road, unusually shaped rocky outcrops are densely surrounded by succulents and Jurassic-looking bushes, interspersed with tall aloes and haphazardly draped with solid blocks of blooming purple, yellow and pink flowers.

Arriving mid-afternoon at the Rock Art Café we meet Rob, who co-owns the club. In the 34 degree heat, it takes only 10 minutes for my arms to burn bright red. We have a choice of two stages outside or the stage inside. We opt for indoors - a smaller more intimate venue. A slightly smaller Saturday night crowd pitches, fatigued by Friday night's excesses. We get under way with the first of three (!) sets. Used to playing a maximum of two sets, we add an extended version of Ode, unveiling a brand new version of Jammez (for the first time live since its appearance as an instrumental in the old Gringolene repertoire) and jamming on a new song (presently under construction). We kick off the third set with a space-blues jam, which goes down very well. In fact, the small but lively crowd loves it. We round off with a repeat of Summer Sun, specially for Rob. Afterwards, we get trashed with Nathan, who has a local band called Boy, and his fellow players, then it's back to the house of Eugene and Rose - the founders of the Rock Art. Putting up visiting bands at their own expense in their own beautiful old house, they are true friends of South African music and the best kind of

Friday 8 December 2000
A soft, but insistent 5am rain is falling. I'm on my way to meet James, we pack and repack the van and his car, till both are bursting. By 7am Andy Iain and I are on our way, the van lurching and shuddering on the slippery highway, struggling for traction. The shocks are shot. By the time we stop in Bloemfontein for breakfast, my silencer has developed a hole and now sounds like a V8. Noisy, obnoxious, I like it.

We drive on... arriving in Knysna at 7pm. En route we have christened the van Boogie and developed incurable third world accents. At the Tin Roof Blues club, we are not thrilled to have been double-booked with Saron Gas, due to a previous contract. Nonetheless it works - there is a good turnout. No time for a soundcheck, but playing through SG's bass rig (a small Trace Elliott combo), the sound is punchy. The tiny wooden stage bounces every time we hit a downbeat and keeps switching James' pedalboard off! The audience, reticent at first, soon warms up. By the potboiler end of Trash people are really excited. Afterwards, compliments flow. So does the beer. After chilling with some new friends, we go upstairs to the club and catch Saron Gas. Their onstage energy is excellent, they are tight and aggressive and the audience loves it, moshing till the wooden floorboards are humming. Sadly, their music is utterly derivative. Based on their earlier contract, Saron Gas pocket the entire door takings. Nice one, guys. However, graciously acknowledging the mix-up, the club does pay us a minimum for the night.

Time to go. Andy, Iain and I take a drive to the shores of the Knysna lagoon. Seaweed fights and more beer in the near-full moonlight. Then a slow drive through the up-market suburb of Leisure Isle, shouting and furiously revving Boogie's pseudo-V8 at the speed bumps. Eventually we wind our way up the steep hill to our wooden chalet and pass out.