But before I get too comfortable with this cool beer in my hand, let me start with the journey thus far. Because the journey after all, is what it’s all about.
I was glad we packed the booze bakkie the previous night because I overslept a little on Thursday morning. I say booze bakkie and not support vehicle because the bakkie contained mostly beers, ice and fold up chairs. No tools, fuel or tyres would be allowed on the back of it and Rika, the driver, would meet us only at the campsite every evening.
And so I met Butch and KiLeRSA at the one-stop next to the highway at exactly 7:15am.
Together we zipped through the mountain and took the first dirt road available around the Brandvlei dam outside Rawsonville.
We passed through the towns of Robertson and Ashton and met up with the rest of our party in Montagu.
Our posse was now 9 persons strong: KiLeRSA (Hein), Butch (Christof), LuckyStriker (Cyril), Zanie (LuckyStrykyster), Mango (Irene), macduff (Ernie), RenedianCanadian (Rene), Gravelmad (Malcolm ) and Phillip.
After a nice strong coffee we saddled up and rode out of Montagu with tangible excitement. In less than 5 minutes our happiness turned to dismay when we discovered that the gravel road out of town was closed. Where once stood a bridge there was now only a heap of rocks ending most abruptly over the Kingna River.
The trip did not hinge on this one section of road and we could easily continue on the alternative R62, but it would be such a shame to miss the Ouberg pass and chicken out just because of a destroyed bridge.
And so we walked the r iver and planned our path. First to cross was Gravelmad on his XT followed by macduff on his. The rest of us stood by just in case someone dropped his or her bike on the treacherous rocks. It is perhaps ironic that the farm on which we were is called ‘Helpmekaar’.
Rene’s heavily laden Dakar beached itself on a submerged boulder. Gravelmad and Butch were quick to heave it free. On the far side of the river a thick sandbar had to be negotiated before we had any hope of rejoining the road on the other side of dense reeds.
I went next. The GSA seat is so high that my feet rarely touched ground. Only when I passed jutting rocks could I prop myself up and plan the next trajectory. I learned from previous water crossings that speed may look impressive, but it is ultimately reckless and stupid with bikes of this size.
All eyes were on Mango as this was her most serious bit of technical riding thus far, but she handled it with style despite the KLR sliding and bounding over the wobbly boulders.
A bunch of guys were waiting to lend a hand. After a hard shove she sped away from us in a big spray of water. She hopped over the bank trailing long streamers of green muck and a resounding cheer from the guys.
Not ten metres down the road was another crossing. This time a muddy pit. I ploughed through first, trying to better Mango’s impressive exit with some tail sliding and mud flinging.
Phillip went next but the XT decided to do a little sightseeing and the guy nearly disappeared into the reeds, never to be seen again. He got things back under control in the nick of time. Much to the enjoyment of the onlookers of course.
Whoa there horse!
“Hey Phil! Where the hell you going?!â€
We crossed the Ouberg pass at around 11am and had a few more splash-throughs.
macduff thoroughly enjoying himself
Just like other large birds, KiLeRSA looks rather awkward on the ground, but truly magnificent once in flight.
Soon we encountered an electrified gate with big game fencing. A sign sporting pictures of lion and elephant warned us to close the gate behind us and under no circumstances to leave or vehicles.
“Well that’s just great†I said to myself. I never stopped to ask what the others thought about our new found situation and just looked about nervously when I saw more signs warning of buffalo, rhino and giraffe. It was a great little two-track road but we never saw any big game… perhaps we were riding a little too fast…
About 35km before Ladismith we turned north along a looping detour on our way to the delectable Seweweekspoort. A beautiful gravel road takes you through majestic cliffs of layer cake. We made several stops to admire the views.
A Brief History:
Construction on the poort started in 1859 by 108 convicts under the whip of a Mr Woodifield and Mr Apsey. The pass is 17km long and follows the course of the Huis River through the Great Swartberg Mountains.
Seweweekspoort is reportedly named after a Berlin Mission Society preacher Louis Zerwick, who toiled at God’s work in the area.
All ow me to quote a rather long winded Dr William Atherstone, a respected geologist who travelled through the poort in 1871:
“…the most wonderful gorge or mountain pass I have ever beheld. For twelve miles you travel bare walls of vertical rock, in parts 3,000 feet high, twisting and twining as the mountain stream winds through the flexures and curves of the mountain chasm, crossing and re-crossing, I am told, more than thirty times; in parts so narrow there is scarcely any room for the river and the road â€" yet an excellent wagon road has been made through it with comparatively little expense; and, certainly, nowhere in the Colony have I seen so wonderful a pass â€" a clean zigzag cut through the whole thickness of the rock formation of the range from top to bottom.
When once you enter, no appearance of exit is there for two hours and a half; but you are constantly meeting new scenes, over which quartzose cliffs, curved and fractured in every direction â€" now red vertical sandstone, with flexures and arches jammed together in inexplicable confusion, as if jammed together laterally by prodigious force â€" at the next turning, gentle ripple-like rock waves, with blue slate â€" and high overhead, bright-yellow lichened crags, making the neck ache in an attempt to look up at them, with a small chink of sky over head; shut up in front and behind, with green trees â€" keurboom and wagenboom, aloes, and succulents nestling in the rock fissures high above you. How few know of this extraordinary mountain gap!â€
All these remarks â€" even the last sentence â€" are still true today. 130 years after the pass was built it still looks almost exactly the same as in Dr Atherstone’s day
From there we rode on to Calitzdorp to do some shopping and have a surprise encounter with the booze bakkie. It had a flat tyre and the ladies quickly changed it with some belated help from the guys.
The tyre was cut and could not be plugged. Fortunately there was a garage nearby and a tube was fitted in no time at all.
After repairing the bakkie we rode up the twisty dirt road past Calitzdorp dam to Kruisrivier. It was a magical road through green hills with tall aloes. Children waved at us from their colourful houses as we meandered past.
I rode in front since I had the route planned on my GPS. Around every corner flocks of ostriches jumped up and ran the length of the enclosures in panic. Time and again the excitable birds would calm down and look at us the moment Gravelmad reached the scene. We joked the whole weekend that the ostriches found something profoundly attractive in him.
RenedianCanadian appeared to enjoy the trip too. I thought the ride must have been pretty boring to someone as well travelled as he, but he genuinely seemed to appreciate the views and roads.
We arrived at De Hoek campsite at 5:40pm, just before the sun disappeared behind the Swartberg Mountains. That evening we listening to Rene’s travelling tales. Well into the midnight hour the topic of Round-the-World riding was exhausted and we switched to the history of the world before things naturally digressed to sex, drugs and rock and roll.
We got little sleep that night what with KiLeRSA’s nocturnal noises. Gravelmad’s brilliant idea of waking everyone at 5am claiming it was already 8 didn’t help much either.
We said a tearful goodbye to our booze bakkie again, this time stuffed to breaking point with every piece of luggage and gear we could possibly squeeze in.
Breakfast in De Rust was particularly good and I heartily recommend ‘The Plough restaurant’. Great coffee and a decent amount of egg in each omelette.
Gravelmad was doing an impression of a perlemoen.
Hemmed in by the mountains, De Rust, 35km northeast of Oudshoorn, is a drive-through town on the N12 cutting between the Garden Route and the N1 to Joburg. Every shop along the main road sells something. From curious, art, to tea. It is a lovely little town where Afrikaans is the only language spoke with the exception of restaurant staff. KiLeRSA tried some high English on one waitress and the poor girl almost fled in terror.
You have not yet enjoyed your bike if you have not ridden the innumerable curves of Meiringspoort. The tarred surface is always immaculately maintained and the towering cliffs defy description.
We made a quick stop halfway through to visit the waterfall.
A little His tory:
The Great Swartberg Mountain was considered completely insurmountable until in 1800 when farmer Petrus Johannes Meiring crossed it through a fissure in the range.
In due course, he and his neighbour Gerome Marincowitz from the other side of the mountain started work on a private bridle path.
In 1854, the famous road builder, Andrew Geddes Bain, his son Thomas Bain and various other dignitaries explored Meiringspoort through the mountains.
Bain was unimpressed by the route and suggested the fissure near Toorwater, 50km West, be opened up for a shorter and easier pass to the North. Fortunately for us he was overruled due to long term logistical matters.
The budget for constructing the pass was so low that novel ways of construction had to be implemented. One such money saving device was to set the bush on fire and then pouring river water on the heated rocks, splitting them like glass. Thereby removing the cost of dynamite and clearing the pa th from foliage in one go!
Eventually the 16km pass was completed in 223 work days at a cost of just £5,018.
The road crosses the river 21 times and each bridge or drif has a name.
In the 150years since its construction the road has been destroyed by floods several times. Each time it has been rebuilt and every time it looks a little different. There is little resemblance to the original road carved out by Meiring and Marinkcowitz but the beauty of this special poort remains.
Just before Klaarstroom we turned off the tar and took a seemingly never ending road that bounded lazily over the toes of the Swartberg mountain range.
Up and down, up and down the road flowed in a deadly straight line.
Just when I felt like nodding off I realised my speed was far into the three digit range. As if to drive the danger home the road cheated and suddenly threw up a deep puddle that had most of us locking the rear wheel in cold sweat.
When the last of us passed through the water unscathed there was an audible groan. We were a little disappointed no one had fallen or at least crashed into the puddle at full speed. Cruelty is boredom’s evil sister.
Finally we arrived in Willowmore and joined up with Rika and the bakkie. From here it was only a quick hop to the Baviaans. Through the narrow portal we went, avoiding huge mountain tortoises and scaring up hissing cobras. The inside of the kloof was like a private world closed off from the rest of the country, and we rode through it li ke invading aliens.
And so here I am sitting on a stone bench surrounded by strangers and yet not strangers. Michnus offers me a cold one and I shake hands with Metaljocky, wino and many more. I know each and every one of the guys well enough to immediately fall into conversation once I place the face with a name.
We laugh about the cruelty of the little water crossing right before you enter the camp. What kind of sick puppy makes you ride through a river when you can already see the tents and beers on the other side?
All of us are introduced and the beer already there almost finished. I decide to go out to the road and search for the booze bakkie.
What I see instead is my good friend Ama ride-ride steaming through the water towards me. Close on his heels is Mrs Ama charging through the axle deep water like a crazy person pushing up a huge wave in front of her.
Seeing me on my bike displaying well toned muscles in a tight fitting t-shirt must be too much for her sensitivities because suddenly she goes down in a tremendous splash, momentarily disappearing in the murk.
I immediately rush to her aid… stopping only briefly to take out my camera, switch it on, take a few pics, switch it off, and pocketing it again…
Just then the booze bakkie rounded the corner too and our spirits instantly soared.
Unfortunately we packed rather impulsively when we left De Hoek this morning and all the booze is right at the back behind and impenetrable wall of luggage and tents.
Now the kuiering really starts. We eventually convince our fearless leader to go cover his jockeys with some trousers and he thump-thumps his way to an open camping spot on his dirty KLR.
Each of us peek through the foliage to take note of where his tent is, so that we in turn can camp far away from that dangerous location.
Wood arrives together with plastic chairs and we welcome new arrivals one by one as they enter the campsite and make their way over to the warm fire and cold beer.
It is a great night and most of us keep the home fires burning for the late arrivals still rumbling in after sunset.
Groenie and Gideon are the last to arrive tonight and to greet them are Butch, Clockwork and Briv. All three slurring badly while trying to be hospitable despite complete loss of balance or direction.
It is a brand new day and small groups of rider head out in various directions to explore the multitude of paths, tracks and roads in the area.
A few of us sleep as late as we can but the thundering Katooms and Kawasakis make it impossible.
We share our campsite with other campers in 4wheel drives and jokingly pity them the noise of the departing bikes and raucous behaviour predicted for tonight. Our words are not even cold when the first of them start taking down their tents. At least a few of them congratulate us on not behaving like typical bikers, revving our engines into the wee hours.
Bojangles has a problem with her Corsa. She struck a rock coming into the kloof and ripped a hole in her sump. A search for appropriate tools start and Groenie is on hand to give moral if not quite technical support.
I’m embarrassed to say that I am one of the many guys with a beer can glued to my hand at the fireplace while Rika, the booze bakkie driver, repairs the little Opel.
The damaged sump is quickly spirited away to be repaired at the farm workshop and installed again a while later.
Later in the hot afternoon the guys start filtering back to camp with amazing tales of water crossings, mountain climbing and 4x4 tracks high up in the mountains. No one can say that Saturday is a day wasted and everyone sits down with a huge grin relating his own particular activity of the day.
Tonight is prize giving. Magazine subscriptions are given out, courtesy of our kind sponsors. Rene donates a beautiful calendar showing pictures of his awesome Round-the-World journey thus far. SW-Motech sponsors both a tailbag and a tankbag as main prizes. Kaboef is beside himself with joy as he takes possession of the tailbag and spends the rest of the evening bragging to everyone who cares to lend an ear.
KiLeRSA gives a heartfelt speech to thank us all for co ming and making the forum a success. We feel a bond that reinforces the closeness we already experience through our computer keyboards.
Four prizes are also given to the biggest mouths/funniest behaviour over the weekend and the recipients are Groenie, Gideon, Clockwork and Gravelmad. They entertain us for hours with a thousand and one uses for their Big Foot side stand discs.
The tequila bottle soon makes the rounds and everything from Rugby to parenthood is discussed.
In the morning it is time to say out goodbyes. Everyone feels sad that it was such a short weekend and no one really wants to go home. I express my disappointed that I could not spend more time with the people I admire on the forum and we all promise to do it again next year or sooner.
One by one the bikes leave the campsite in a loud of dust. Some elect to stay another day and others head off in a direction that will keep them on the road for at least another day before ha ving to return to a life of work.
I throw all my gear in the booze bakkie and my wife decides to keep Rika company on her solitary ride back to the Cape.
Now it’s playtime through the kloof and on the many dirt roads on the way home.
I push the bike hard but responsibly, getting airborne on a few driffies, scratching the bash plate here and there as I rumble across the rolling landscapes. Every now and then I pass other forum members and we greet and wave eagerly for old time sake.
Near Oudshoorn I come to a river again. Not terr ibly wide, only about 20metres or so. The problem is that the riverbed consists of sand without any gravel for the wheels to bite into.
I check out my options and decide to go for it despite the rather humorous insistence of the GPS to “Make a U-turnâ€. At first the water seems shallow but the bike starts to dig into the thick sandy bottom. It takes liberal throttle twisting to get the bike screaming out the other side. Fantastic!
I take every single dirt road alternative to the R62 and discover amazing roads through the koppies.
In Oudshoorn I stop to buy my wife a souvenir but unfortunately the curio shop at the crocodile farm is closed.
And on to Rooiberg I ride with that feeling only you, dear reader, can know. I really love my bike and the joys it gives me. The wide open sky and the brilliant road make my life just that little more special. I have many things to be thankful for but this here, right now, is the reward of all those days spent behind a desk.
Suddenly I find myself back on some of the roads we took on Friday on our way to the Baviaans. My aimless explorations were leadi ng me back to that beautiful road between De Rust and Calitzdorp. Although I generally prefer not to do the same road twice, I don’t hesitate to ride this route again. It as well worth it.
And so I come to the end of my story. A total distance of 1400km through scenic landscapes, past friendly people and picturesque towns.
I made no new friends. They were my friends even before I shook hands.
My name is LuckyStriker and I went to the Bav Bash!
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