Rain in the Richtersveld Two.0 - Desolation & Dunes

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We regrettably rejoined the main road after passing the ruin of a once farm house. They had left part of their bakkie behind, which was revelling in the lack of moisture in the area and caught the attention of our photographers. If there are no flowers, we will photograph wrecks.

 

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In the valley, the road once again went through the yard of a farm house. This time it looked like there was someone home. Gus went to ask permission to ride through. We all waited at the gate.

The farmer was very happy to let us through, and thrilled that we had actually asked him. He said previous groups of bikes had just roared through.

It has been said before on this and other similar forums, a little politeness and respect of others and their properties goes a long way. People are generally well-disposed toward adventure bikers, always quick to ask where you're going and where you have come from. It is easy to be courteous.

 

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On the other side of the farmhouse, the flowers were starting to generate a presence.

 

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Slowly the splotches were filling out.

 

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Gus and Jarod were quick to celebrate the flowers' appearance.

 

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We were routing through the Namaqua National park. But just before entering it, we noticed a place that looked like we may be able to get something to eat.

 

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It must have been the only such establishment for a 500km radius, consequently it was filled with families enjoying a peaceful lunch after morning church. Walking up to it, we could hear the quiet murmur of polite Sunday conversation.

 

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Abruptly, the place fell silent. An apparition had walked onto the terrace. Dressed in black body armour and mean looking boots, dark glasses and the prerequisite bandana that every biker gang leader needs. He was also sporting a mean protrusion from his, er, um, crotch area.

Instantly, conversations were clipped mid-sentence. Men looked on aghast, overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy, eyes rapidly darting to see if their ladies had noticed. They had! Leaping over the tables to cover their daughter's eyes, all the while transfixed to this apparition who represented the manifestation of their darkest desires.

Tension hung in the air. Silence could be cut with a knife.

But wait, something's wrong. The prominent protrusion poked out of pink panties.

A dose of confused bewilderment mixed with the tension.

After a moment, a lady whispered to one of the more approachable looking members of this biker’s gang, her eyes not moving from his, er, midriff, “why is he wearing pink panties?”

BECAUSE HE RIDES LIKE A GIRL was the bellowed response.

Palpable relief flooded the area, chuckles reintroducing the returning conversations

Our man took to a bench to sun himself and tried to regain the dignity he had strolled in with.