Sometimes daring girls with tiny waists and deep cleavages wrestle in it wearing nothing but skimpy swimwear – not because they necessarily enjoy it, but because they get paid for it (not to mention that it is a winner in the, well … titillation stakes).
Children make cookies with it, and barbels lie in it to get them through a drought. We’re obviously talking about mud here … treacherous, lovely, slippery mud.
It has also been used for centuries by poets and moralisers to describe the dark and dirty side of life. Celebrities and politicians are always having their names dragged through it, and who can forget your mother’s stern warning against “undesirable” associates: If you roll around in the mud with pigs, you become a pig yourself.
Morality and filth aside, mud is something that can strike fear into the heart of even the most hardened off-the-beaten-track traveller. Experts reckon it’s the cause of most dents and dings on four-wheel-drive vehicles on dirt roads.
It comes in many forms, they warn in travel guides and on the internet. And it would be wise to keep an eye out for it – you don’t really want to find yourself blundering downhill in the slippery stuff.
Once your vehicle hits the wrong track or starts sliding to and fro, it’s just about overs kedovers. The steering wheel then becomes merely something to hang on to while you wait for your vehicle to come to a halt – and the best you can do is hope that it doesn’t land up on its side or against a tree.

One of my first tastes of what can happen when vehicle and mud meet was in the so-called Bokkie Park outside Mthatha (Umtata in those days) where I went to school.
My pals and I “borrowed” my mom’s Volkswagen Beetle one Saturday morning to go driving around in the park – not so much to admire the scenery, but you could be reasonably sure you wouldn’t bump into a traffic cop or a loose-lipped family friend in Bokkie Park.
It was one of those days when the old Transkei is covered with a blanket of soft grey rain, the type of rain that really brings out the rolling green hills… and leaves shiny dirt roads promising carefree fun.
Country roads give you the space to learn to drive from an early age. You even learn how to let the car’s rear go in a corner, and then pull the whole bang shoot straight with a nifty interplay between steering and loud pedal.
Pah! Tell that to mud and he will laugh in your face. Only too soon we ended up a good few metres off the road against a snapped aloe, gasping for breath and wide-eyed with fright, while trying to regain our composure.
Fortunately, those old Beetles were still made of the right steely stuff, and after a quick wash in the backyard everyone could enjoy the unsullied sleep of the innocent that night.
But I have treated mud with respect ever since. We made a deal to at least be civilized with one another should our paths cross again.

Through the years, dirt roads retained their allure and when I could eventually reconcile my love for motorbikes with dirt roads, everything was just dandy. As much as I love them, though, the two road surfaces that still leave me slightly apprehensive are sand and my old chum, mud.
For sand, bikers usually have more than enough advice; you can trust in the mantra of “Stand up, look up and open up”, for example.
However, it is a slightly misleading rule, because novices especially reckon the “open up” bit means you have to keep on turning the pig’s ear until you are flying over the sand at dizzying speeds. Which is a terrifying prospect that defies the instinct of self-preservation.
Does this theory contribute to making one a better rider on sand? Only if you have an unshakable belief in it, because in the end, the successful sand rider is the guy who has his head screwed on the right way.

Armed with all the knowledge, knobbly tyres and new progressive suspension on the front of the bikes, three pals and myself recently went on a trip that would veer through southern Namibia.
To protect my travel buddies, they will have pseudonyms − say Peter, John and Chris. And to protect the bikes’ manufacturers, the makes (all different) are also not mentioned.
The new knobblies and suspension are for the sandy stretches that we would encounter along the West Coast and in Namibia. My inner convictions about my abilities in sand aren’t unshakeable, but like the rich man in the Bible, I am willing to squeeze through the eye of the needle to join the journey.
We leave Cape Town in the rain, but no one is too worried, because it doesn’t really rain further north than the Piekenierskloof Pass between Piketberg and Citrusdal, does it? Besides, the first stretch is tar only.
However, at Clanwilliam it’s still coming down and when we turn off at Garies onto the dirt road to Hondeklip Bay, it’s raining cats and dogs. Inside the crash helmet I’m encouraging myself: The sand should at least be firmer after the rain, and surely it won’t become mud in this area.
But guess who will have the last laugh …

John is the first victim when he neatly and without great drama drops his bike on the roadside. Nevertheless, he and his bike are soon back on the road.
I’m right behind Chris when his bike veers to one side, then wriggles to and fro, faster and faster, before man and machine take leave of one another in a whirl of crazy movements. The luggage takes off in all directions. Fortunately, no one is hurt and, after Chris and I wrestle his bike up, the safari slides on.
Peter’s bike is the newest, and its rider the most competent among our motley crew. I can’t tell whether it is the knobblies or the new springs, but I feel increasingly at ease, and later I’m hot on Peter’s heels.
In contrast to sand, mud feels more intuitive, more like something for the sensitive soul, I pat myself on the shoulder. When something starts sliding, you simply lay off the juice a tad, and when you feel the back wheel kicking against more solid ground, you open it up a little.
On top of it, I also have a nifty trick that I am fine-tuning. When the bike starts sliding, I push my backside into the air and to the rear − almost like a Bushman hunter who has momentarily lost the spoor.
It’s not pretty and I wouldn’t want to send a photograph of it to a special girlfriend, but it’s damn effective.
But, as in all good stories, pride comes before a fall, and all too soon I’m lying in the selfsame mud. I’m trying my damndest to stand up to force the bike up in the sludgy mess, but the rich man can’t get through the eye of the needle because he’s sliding all over the show in the mud.

In the group, it’s only Peter who stays mounted until we reach Noup’s fishing cabins where we are overnighting. But the next morning the mud continues taking revenge on us for our insolence in daring to ride it.
First Chris’s bike won’t start. Everyone is ready with advice and hands-on help, but we suspect mud is the offender. Out of sheer frustration, someone suggests we pour a bucket of warm water over the engine just to ensure a clod of mud isn’t stuck somewhere. And wonder of wonders, it starts.
Then Peter presses his starter, but his bike, too, remains mute. As with Chris’s bike, it’s off with the saddle and covers while we fiddle with all sorts of parts, with more ignorance than wisdom.
Pour water, we chorus eventually, and it also starts up.
But the memory that remains with me most is that night at Noup, when we reflected on the day’s events. The fire was crackling comfortingly, there was food in the pot and grog in our mugs.
“Driving in sand is better than mud,” Peter commented. “At least you can stand on the pegs in sand, open up the throttle and shout, ‘Attack, attack!’ With mud you never quite know what to do.”
“Throttle control,” John said. “Mud teaches you throttle control.”
We sipped from our cups and reflected deeply. Steam rose from our riding gear that was draped everywhere – in front of, above and next to the fireplace. The boots stood in puddles on the floor.
It’s Chris who broke the silence. “The thing about mud,” he said contemplatively, “is that you have to ride it without it noticing you’re riding it, because then it gets angry.”
Indeed, Chris. One doesn’t mess with mud.