Journalist Duncan Guy, on his cycling journey more-or-less along the route of next year's Tour of South Africa, takes a look at what's cooking between Port Elizabeth and Addo.

An elderly man on his morning walk, passing the Nelson Mandela Stadium, warned me that the way to Addo would pass Motherwell, a huge township outside Port Elizabeth.
That didn't bother me. After all, Atteridgeville and Soweto were on the first leg of my journey, on which I am more or less following the route of next year's Tour of South Africa.
I left PE city centre on roads hugging the N2 freeway to Grahamstown, on which I was not permitted as a cyclist. It was sometimes difficult to work out which ones to take as the N2 sometimes seemed to fly in one direction on the flyovers and, after a while, my alternative routes led me in other directions.
With great relief I eventually found myself on Grahamstown Road, and out of the industrial hub in a little lagoon-side village called Swartkops. But the smell of the Eastern Cape's industrial heartland lingered in the air, all the way towards Motherwell, where I joined the R355 that connects Addo with the N2.
The stretch leading up to the R355 from Swartkops was a depressing piece of South Africa. Adding to the industrial stench was an unfitting mix of litter and fynbos. Cattle, presumably owned by people in nearby Motherwell, rummaged through the waste. And it was hot. Very hot.
I pedaled on, wishing for better surroundings.
Suddenly, I encountered a group of happy young men, skimpily dressed and their bodies painted in white from head to toe.
Carrying sticks, they walked along proudly with a dancing rhythm in their walk.
They were youths undergoing the Xhosa rites of passage initiation ceremony that involves the transition from boyhood to manhood, and circumcision. They would have been camping out in the fynbos, away from the rest of the world.
They greeted me with something that sounded like "molo umlun-goose". I had expected "umlungu" (white man) so I don't know where the "goose" came from!
I had been made aware that it was circumcision season the moment the plane I was on from Johannesburg made its approach to Port Elizabeth International.
Huts that initiates stay in were peppered about the fynbos. They couldn't have enjoyed much silence in their solitude with planes landing above them.
Midday heat in the valley after Motherwell forced me to take a rest. I found a rare shady tree among the thorny scrub that covers the hills between PE and Addo.
Presently I was joined by three fellows who were labourers at a brick plant across the way. Full of joy after having received their weekly pay, they set out trying to flag down a vehicle to take them to Addo village, for a weekend of partying.
Speaking a mixture of isiXhosa and Afrikaans, they admired the fact that my bike was a "21 Speed".
A cloud blocked the Sun and I decided to pedal on.
While climbing the next hill an articulated bus passed. One of my hitch-hiker friends leaned out the window and blew a whistle to greet me.
The wind took off his hat, which landed beside me on the roadside.
I carried on in the heat, watching the water levels in my bottles drop by the kilometre.
Back in Swartkops a helpful policeman had said he hoped I'd be carrying sufficient water.
He also said the easterly wind would be in my favour, which it sure was.
The dry thorny scrub gave way to irrigated citrus orchards after I crossed the Sundays River.
I called in at a roadside farmstead to ask if I could fill my water bottles but there was no answer to my knock on the door.
So I helped myself by turning a tap connected to a big, fat plastic hose lying on the lawn.
I glugged down half a litre with one swallow.
It tasted awful: full of chlorine or some or other chemical.
Fair punishment for a water thief!