Today’s missive from day 1 of our African adventure has the surreal nature that only road trips deliver. We left Pretoria and passed through the old Western Transvaal on magnificent roads. Smooth, excellent tar and beautiful scenery.

The wealth generated by the mighty Bafokeng nation was evident, especially in the areas from Marikana through the Rustenburg area. Here the right-hand side of the road is dominated by massive massive mine dumps that one could safely assume are lifeless, wildly toxic and slightly radioactive and evidence of man’s plunder of the riches of the richest seams of platinum, gold and other precious metals. The left-hand side of the road is miles of neat little blokkies housing, each house with its obligatory satellite dish looking like little white dartboards on the side. No massive squatter camps here. Only neat suburbs interspersed with the South African mall every few kilometres.

No crap here. Only progress and the massive delivery of the spoils of capitalism to the vast labour pool used by the mines. This is the evidence of the power of the Royal Bafokeng nation. The rest of South Africa would do well to follow their example. All the towns were neat and clean and the roads pristine and well maintained. 

This then made way for the beautiful bushveld of the far western (old) Transvaal. The world of Herman Charles Bosman. Here we stopped at Groot Marico at the sole restaurant in town. Wag ‘n bietjie. Here it got a bit surreal. Mark in the support bakkie drove into a dusty overgrown parking lot and stopped unexpectedly. I was right behind him and was a little slow, caught unawares. 

I braked suddenly and stuck out my foot. A combination of the top-heaviness caused by having my magnificent wife on the back (although it has to be said that top heaviness in her case is a normally extremely attractive thing) and my dead leg from 300km of riding caused the bike to stagger just those 5 degrees too much. My leg, which was numb, gently folded, and the two of us found ourselves lying on our sides with a vast BMW still running between us. In front of a small group of alarmed-looking boers arriving for Tuesday lunch, Rickey Louw’s and Coke. Thank goodness for protective clothing and crash bars. An embarrassing and slightly inauspicious start to our visit. After lifting the bike with everyone’s help we settled in for a cold beer in this slice of Afrikana. 

Large boers accompanied by bottle-blond stout wives arrived at regular intervals in a horde of white double-cab bakkies. Some were with the obligatory nymphet daughters with quivering lips and tresses of blond hair looking around hopefully for potential mates. They all sat at a U-shaped bar sponsored by KWV (unsurprisingly) in the blast of free-standing large air conditioners, drinking brandy and Coke for the men and ciders for the ladies.

Four TVs on the wall showed sport, with the Proteas game dominating. The interior was classic dark with sleeper wood furniture. Afrikaans humour dominated everywhere. And friendliness, with one and all greeting the strange visitors warmly. The signs on the loo reading “mielie meal and koekmeel”. Don’t eat here. But the beer was great and the slice of social life priceless.

Oddities en route. (Photo: Supplied)

Groot Marico itself has two streets. Long and dusty. Dominated by farming supply stores. And a butcher/ice cream shop selling vast tubs of ice cream for R5 and smothered with fresh strawberry sauce for R15. Undoubtedly the best-value bowl of ice cream in SA, especially in 35-degree heat. 

All the way to the border post was exquisite bushveld. A family of vlakvarkies crossing the road ahead of us, having appeared from the bush, causing some alarming sharp braking.

The border post of SA: Super relaxed and a stamp from a friendly cop. Waved through, we arrived at the steely efficiency of the Botswana side. You would swear we were entering Switzerland even though we were passing through in transit. Eventually the obligatory road tax was paid and we were on our way. SA’s border controls seem, by contrast, rudimentary at best. No wonder our borders are so porous. 

Botswana is weird. Dusty road leading to Gaborone filled with a combination of state-of-the-art firms and factories and small, dusty semi-informal businesses. One can see these are hustlers. We settled into our comfortable (and costly with the strength of the pula) hotel and were invited for a game drive and dinner by my friend Marcello. 

Five minutes from town we found ourselves in Paradise. Surrounded by animals, we watched the sun go down from a mountain overlooking the vast dam that supplies Gaborone with water. Magical. With drinkies.

We arrived at his home. Everything from Italy. A kitchen that would not look out of place in a three-star restaurant. His beautiful wife at 6 ft 3 inches, an elegant Amazon. Exquisite furniture and art. A python outside. Hey, it’s Africa. 

And inside, a feast prepared from the finest ingredients brought in from Italy. And meat from the vast herd of Bonsmara on the farm. To go into the menu and the chefs and white-gloved waiters would take too long. We drank Lismore wine, Tignanello 2015 and finished with Yquem 1995.

That should give you the idea. Fok. Africa is surreal. DM

Published with permission from Forti’s daily Facebook diary on the road. Fortunato Mazzone is Boss of the Forti Group of restaurants.