Crossing the bridge is an ordeal

 I guess I shouldn’t complain too much that it took five weeks to “get connected” because this connection works at such speed that Lewis Hamilton would be impressed.  At last I can browse the plethora of motoring sites across the globe and not be irritated by time-outs and incessant involuntary disconnects. But I digress.
Packing up a house you’ve lived in for a quarter of a century is not fun — it’s an ordeal I’d wish on very few people — and climbing into your car to start a 2 600 km journey is not done without a sense of some trepidation as to what lies in wait at the now infamous Beit Bridge border post.  I’d heard so many nasty stories about delays and incompetence at this crossing point that I’d given serious consideration to going via Plumtree and then heading through Botswana and on to Mafikeng. 
I wish I’d gone this route as the scene that greeted us at Beitbridge was a sight for sore eyes and subsequently, a test of endurance.  In 38 degree heat, we found ourselves at precisely 1120 hours at the tail of a queue stretching  some one kilometre down the road from the so-called admin buildings.
The road from Harare was pretty awful in parts but not quite as bad as it might have been a few months ago.
However, whatever the condition of the road surface, it’s inexcusable that painted markings are almost totally absent.  No one in authority should be ranting on about road safety when the basic elements that help promote the preservation of lives are conspicuously absent in the first place.  I refer in particular to centre markings and the provision  (or lack thereof) of double lines which warn of blind rises or hidden curves.  So, reaching the Limpopo in one piece was an achievement in itself but never have I seen a more disgusting environment than that which greets hot and tired travellers at Beitbridge.
Dilapidated verges, crumbling tar and a general filth pervades every  nook and cranny, hardly the environment to welcome any tourist stupid enough to choose road travel as the source of entry into Zimbabwe and hardly the environment to say adieu to those attempting to cross into South Africa.  
Sadly, the aforementiond queue moved so slowly that a new generation of tortoises would have had time to reproduce, let alone cross the infamous bridge.
SA radio stations had picked up on the day’s chaos and somewhat unfairly blamed the problems wholly on Zimbabwe but I’m not sure their news source was totally accurate as the queue on the SA side was also something to behold and was caused to a large extent by the fact that only two of seven customs counters were manned. 
Stories that pensioners receive favourable treatment were wide of the mark and it wasn’t until the clock hands dragged themselves beyond the 1600 hour mark that I was able to say a relieved goodbye to this truly wretched border post and head for the Cape on roads that were free of undulations as well as being very clearly marked and properly signposted.
All was not sweetness and light though as incessant (and fairly expensive) toll booths were encountered throughout Gauteng and the Free State, even in instances where the roads were not genuine double lane highways and in some cases were only of average quality, albeit like billiard tables alongside what masquerades as a national highway in Zimbabwe. 
The other observation I have is that the volume of heavy trucks is simply monumental.
 These leviathans inhabit the autoroutes of France and Germany in huge numbers but RSA runs them close.  Given the inordinate delays at the border, I had decided to press on well into the night when the hordes of trucks became even more irritating and potentially dangerous.  None of this would be of concern if the roads for which tolls had been paid were genuine motorways and not just titivated A roads from yesteryear.
The roads in the Cape were generally better than those in the Free State and thankfully were free of tolls.  Nonetheless, I was utterly infuriated when in the middle of the Karoo, somewhere between Hanover and Richmond, a traffic officer leapt into the road from behind a large bush and hauled me over for doing a lethal and unforgivable 134 km/h.
 I reckon the other side of the moon has seen more activity than this part of the Karoo so quite what is achieved with speed trapping in that location is beyond me.
 As I’ve said many times before, the prime purpose of speed trapping is to raise revenue and here was one of the best examples ever.
 The fact that I was not permitted to pay the R200 fine on the spot is doubtless an attempt to curtail back handers, but I can tell you that the time taken to fill out the ridiculously complicated “admission of guilt” form was enough to raise my blood pressure even further.
My ill-luck turned out to be good luck for the driver of a black BMW heading in the other direction at an estimated 180+ km/h as the laser gun was withdrawn from the firing line while all the bureaucracy was being dealt with in my case.
I mentioned earlier that I departed Beitbridge at around 1600 hours on what happened to be a Thursday.  It may come as something of a surprise for you to be told that I arrived in Cape Town at 1245 on Friday.
 Not far off 2000 kms separates these two distinctly different points on the planet which tells you that a rather special car is needed to despatch such a vast distance in such a short time.  The car in question is a Mark 5 Golf GTI equipped with VW’s simply stunningly effective DSG gearbox.
Over the years, I have done the Cape/Zimbabwe (and vice versa) run some 50 times but never have I  experienced such a wonderful balance of performance, stability and economy as this Golf offers.
 The oft-acerbic Jeremy Clarkson is on record as asking whether anyone really needs a bigger, more luxurious, more powerful car because the GTI is such a consummate all-rounder.
I agree wholeheartedly, especially when the car features the now much-copied DSG gearbox which really does offer all the best features of a manual and an automatic gearbox and none of the disadvantages.
 For the record, the  heavily-laden 2.0 litre turbo-charged VW averaged a smidgin over 9 litres/100 kms over the total journey distance of 2600 kms and didn’t consume a teaspoon of oil.
Early observations
While it’s an absolute pleasure to drive on billiard smooth roads featuring a much less abrasive top surface, and therefore substantially reduced road noise generation than is the norm in Zimbabwe (pot holes excepted), it doesn’t take too long to find out why RSA has one of the worst accident and death rates across the globe. 
The good roads and excellent lighting and markings count for nothing when the standard of driving is so low.  Common courtesies are as rare as a bank in Harare without a queue, tailgating is common place and lane discipline on the motorways is appalling.
 It would matter not if an eight lane highway were to be built because you could be sure that at least half the drivers would stick like glue to that outside lane.
Further, it is plain to see that the utterly ridiculous application of a 60 km/h speed limit on virtually every road that is flanked by more than one building per square km, is the cause of enormous frustration for drivers.  Seriously, you spend more time trying to keep your speed down to 60 km/h than you do concentrating on your surroundings.
 All the while, “people in authority” are using the radio stations to urge motorists to adhere to posted speed limits as though this simple act will eliminate all accidents and deaths. 
It was also very soon evident that “vendors” and beggars populate traffic light-controlled intersections in their scores and there’s no escape in shopping centre car parks where touts pretending to look after your car constantly lurk with the intention of relieving you of a coin or two. 
 I find this “invasion of my space” to be intensely annoying yet the urban authorities who are doing an undeniably good job in maintaining the roads and surrounds, do absolutely nothing to rid the suburbs of these leeches.  They’ve also clearly got no idea about the effectiveness of roundabouts in promoting better traffic flow compared with traffic lights, the majority of which are red for much too long, thereby creating artificial tailbacks compounded by drivers delaying when the lights go green.
 I guess you can’t have it all ways, but my word, it is a pleasure to pull into a service station and “fill ‘er up”.