Riaan Manser - Around Madagascar on My Kayak

Chapter 1

I was home, alive, and bound by the non-negotiable promise I had made to Vasti never even to entertain a thought of another lengthy (and dangerous) journey

My kayak trip around Madagascar grew directly out of my long slog around Africas coasts on my bicycle in 2004 and 2005, and so it is worthwhile starting this story by describing the end of my circumnavigation and how it led me to the dangerous and exciting coasts of the greatest of Africas islands.

The crowds had gathered in force at the Cape Town Waterfront that Friday afternoon in late November 2005. Many were there to welcome me back, because thousands of newspaper readers had followed my progress around Africa through the newspaper columns I had sent back at various points. But Im sure a sizeable number of the spectators were there mainly to see for themselves whether I actually existed.

I would even venture to say that some came along to see not myself but the bicycle on which I had pedalled 40 000 km through 33 countries, including some of Africas toughest and most dangerous

I fell into the clutches of the TV crews the second I had crossed the finish line and the Africa trip had become history. What I really wanted to do, first and foremost, was wrap my arms around my long-suffering girlfriend, Vasti, who had taken every step along with me in spirit, but what I got was a camera crew and an interviewers microphone in my face as soon as I came to a halt. This was their moment, not mine.

Things were a little less hectic at the media conference my main sponsor, Windhoek Lager Light, had laid on in the adjacent Nelson Mandela Gateway restaurant, lubricated by generous stocks of their famous beer. This sort of media attention was new to me, and while I might have looked comfortable with it all, it was a different story inside myself. I even remember worrying a bit selfishly, perhaps whether Windhoek Light would consider it worthwhile to sponsor me on a future project. But it wasnt long before I was mentally pinching myself every five minutes or so to confirm the reality: I was home!

Earlier I had made a conscious decision not to be over-emotional about the end of my two-year journey, because I did not believe the moment deserved that sort of attention. After all, any journey has to end sooner or later, and almost every one of the 808 days of my travels through Africa had served up its adventure, some of which were fun and others much less so.

The bottom line right then was that I was home, alive, and bound by the non-negotiable promise I had made to Vasti never even to entertain a thought of another lengthy (and dangerous) journey like this again, ever.

We had been offered free accommodation for the night in an ultra-luxurious Waterfront hotel, but I declined. Of course I declined! I had not slept in my own bed for over two years, and simply could not wait to get back home to our house on the Gordons Bay mountainside with its majestic views of False Bay.

My homecoming was both sad and sweet. One of my dogs, Murphy, had died while I was away, but my Boxer, Jester, my first-ever pet grey-muzzled now, half blind and totally deaf was waiting for me. She probably didnt know who the hell I was, but that didnt matter. I knew who she was.

What was the first thing I did when I got home? Thats my business but actually time was blurred for a few days, although I will say we spent it at home, for the simple reason that Vasti and I had no money for going out.

The scary fact of the matter was that we had no idea where the next months rent would come from. The monthly allowance from Windhoek Lager had ended that very month, my bank account was empty and Vasti was still doing her articles at a firm of attorneys. Yet we were not in serious panic mode, although we were certainly concerned.

I reminded Vasti of my long-standing conviction that opportunity would always be there if only we took hold of it, and that somehow I would always be able to feed my family even if it meant, in my best friend Troys colourful phrase, shovelling shit. And to be truthful, the need for some energetic shit-shovelling was looking and smelling more and more like a certainty.

My life has always been a mixture of good and bad fortune, and just then good fortune struck in no uncertain terms. My clothing suppliers for the Africa trip, First Ascent, surprised me with a R5 000 bonus, which thank heavens not only took care of the rent but sucked the desperation out of me when I had to negotiate with three large South African publishing houses about producing my story in book form. Desperation is not a good companion when you are negotiating lets face it, even with a bad cold most of us can smell it a nautical mile away.

The temporary lack of desperation gave me some control over my life as I sat in a seaside coffee shop talking details with a constantly smoking Joe Cocker look-alike whom almost any writer would recognise instantly as the renowned Mr Jonathan Ball, of Jonathan Ball Publishers.

Thanks to that respite, I was able to turn down Jonathans offer of some immediate financial relief in exchange for the manuscript I had just presented to him. It wasnt easy saying Im OK when I wasnt really OK. But I had changed so much in the time I had spent away from reality that the last thing I wanted was to fall easy prey to one of the bigger of the seven deadly sins, greed. And so the following week I signed up with Jonathan a decision which I am happy to have made.

As if I did not have enough dream stuff on my plate, there was more to come, additional evidence that dreams do come true; that thoughts you scoff at in jest because they seem too much like fairy tales might be only a whisker away from coming true. Ask me I know.

While I had been cycling through Senegal I had made contact with the Nelson Mandela Childrens Fund to investigate the possibility (yes, I can hear you scoffing already) of meeting with Mr Mandela on my return to South Africa. I had only completed about 12 000 km at that stage, so I wasnt too surprised when Zelda, Mr Mandelas PA, came back to say that he had taken the difficult decision to step out of public life and dedicate his time to his wife, Graa (whom he had married in 1998), and his children.

Of course I understood, although I was very disappointed. So you can imagine how I felt one evening when I got a call to say that Mr Mandela had expressed the wish to meet me. Jeez, I was floored!

I was at a friends house to watch the short TV documentary piece about my bike trip, and just after it finished I started receiving call after call from people I knew, congratulating me on my effort. There were so many calls that I missed plenty of them, but I was sure that most were from friends who would most likely call back later or the next day. Then suddenly Vastis phone began to ring and she immediately interrupted me to say I needed to end my current call and take the one she had received.

It was Seamus, producer of the documentary we had been watching, and he didnt waste any time on greetings or how-are-yous. Where have you been? he wanted to know.

Ive been here, watching the story on TV, I replied, not adding the top question in my sub-conscious, namely: Why do you ask?

Mr Mandela just watched your story on TV, Seamus blurted, and wants to meet with you. When are you next in Joburg?

Dont joke with me, Seamus, I replied, then had second thoughts. Are you serious?

Of course Im serious, dont I sound serious?

Now I realised that Seamus was telling the truth, and there were tears in my eyes. Nelson Mandela wasnt just a legendary political figure, he was the man who, above all, instilled in us the belief that we could do what we had always been convinced we couldnt do, that we could share our awesome land and live together in peace. My initial reaction was that I didnt deserve to spend time with this great man. Compared to him, what had I done, really?