“Okay, so do we take the right or the left fork, boet?” I asked my co-pilot, David Lowe, who was looking as dazed and confused as I was after our previous evening around the campfire.
Needless to say, he didn’t know; and it was only after much clicking in an Afrikaans dialect I didn’t understand, and animated gesticulations from a helpful farm worker, that we made our way through a nest of labourer’s huts and onto the perimeter track our hosts had told us about. In fact, they’d even drawn a helpful little map, but we were having problems deciphering how to get onto the track as the result of the intelligence-minimising effects of a good hangover.
Once on the track, though, things went pretty smoothly. With the BT-50s tyres…